Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"Alright now, that's enough. You'll get fat on me," she huffed and wiped her hands on her skirts to clear the juice. The headshake that indicated disagreement made her chuckle.

"You're spoiling him, you know that? It's just a damn horse," came a voice from behind her, playful and gentle.

"He's not just a horse," she grumbled over her shoulder, still smiling and rubbing Cricket's long neck, "He's my baby".

Hosea shuffled to stand next to her, briefly joining her with the petting. "Looks like a horse to me."

She gave him a side-eye. "I trust this horse with my life. Can't say the same about most people."

"My dear," the old man sighed, a bit out of breath as the heat of the day prodded the cicadas to begin singing, "You spoil a man like this, he'd take a bullet for you, too."

Cricket shook his neck and swiped his long tail. The sunlight ran over his dark mane as his muscles shivered. He was undeniably ordinary as horses went but beautiful and as strongly bonded to her as she was to him.

"You off for work?" Hosea coughed to the side.

"Yes." She squinted up at the bright sky, assessed the angle of the sun. "I should probably get going."

He nodded absentmindedly. Several lazy minutes passed as Savigne gently rubbed and massaged Cricket. She liked Hosea and didn't mind being around him for long spells of silence (although he was the chatty sort so that didn't happen often). She also had a soft spot for him because ultimately he was the reason she was here.

Saint Denis, where she worked, was growing as fast as an ant hill and the incoming crowd had pushed the price of lodging up to ridiculous heights. The only options there were roommates and after repeatedly coming home to mountains of dishes in the sink or muddy boot prints in the hallways or a bunch of rowdy “guests” drinking and celebrating the occasion of the day in the living room, she had decided she was done with roommates.

That was easier said than done and what followed had been two disappointing weeks of walking out of rooms blotched with mold or cockroach infestations, rooms in distasteful neighborhoods, rooms where the asking price made her take a double take at the number, rooms with no windows or even washrooms in the building. She had reluctantly widened her search to outside the city, drifting further and further away until she found herself in Valentine. Here, the majority of her choices were older women who were looking to rent out a room and the only thing less desirable than rowdy roommates was some old spinster spying on her or nagging her to come to church on Sundays.

Savigne had been practically at the end of her rope the day Hosea had overheard her talking to people about lodging options.

"Young lady, I say we have an opportunity here that benefits us both!” had been his grandiose introduction. “I’m camping nearby with friends. If you stay with us, me and my friends can make some money and you can save some."

“A camp?” had been her stupefied question. She had heard of tent cities where lower income folks came together for convenience and the safety of numbers. Some of these eventually became villages and towns, others picked up and migrated like birds, circling around cities where there was work opportunity.

“Consider the selling points!” was his generous smile.

“Such as?”

“Well…easy to move in. Easy to move out if you don’t like it. No contracts. No rules or regulations. No stupid curfew. No one will bother you or tell you what to do. Cheaper than a room in any city!”

Savigne had initially turned it down. But once sparked, the idea had lingered. After another three days of fruitless looking, she had begun to wonder what Hosea's arrangement looked like. Three days after that she had convinced herself that there was no harm in inquiring further. So she had left him a message at the Valentine saloon to meet the following Sunday.

She grinned when he walked in, dressed up in a nice suit, the red carnation bright and pretty on the lapel of his gray suit.

"Meeting a lady is serious business," he said as he ambled over to her table.

"Thank you for coming," she smiled.

"But of course!" he waved an arm. He waited for her to sit down first before he sank into his own chair. There was some small talk about the weather and each other's health before she cleared her throat:

"I don't want to take too much of your time. Is the offer you made still valid?"

"It's valid," he said. It was subtle but she heard the hesitation in his voice.

"But...?"

"No buts," he recovered but before he could continue, the man behind the bar came over. "Beer for me. And for the pretty lady here..."

"Lemonade is fine."

"It's just that...I haven't embellished the details as much as I should have." he mused as he pulled out a pipe from his inner jacket pocket.

"Please do," she laced her fingers on the table.

"Well, me and my friends have been together for a long time and I guess it’s fair to say that we're an odd bunch."

"Odd how?"

Hosea coughed a little and stuck his pipe into his mouth without lighting it. "I would say, odd because we're a little old-fashioned."

Savigne gave him a long, suspicious look. "Are you a religious commune or something? I heard about the Chelonians around here."

"Jesus, no, not that odd! We have...different views of the world order and society."

She blinked at him owlishly until he decided that she was one of those people who needed straight on answers. "We're outlaws," was his sheepish addition as he sucked on his pipe.

Her initial impulse was to get up and walk out. Instead, to her own surprise, she found herself inspecting the mild mannered man sitting across from her. He was older, polite and well spoken - a stark contrast to what she had read about outlaws in books who were gangs of burly men with big mustaches, yeehawing and shooting at the sky.

"You're criminals?"

"See that's where the different view comes in."

"So you're not criminals?"

"Only to those who deserve it," he said as a smile tugged the corner of his lips. "We take from the rich and give to the poor." There was a pause and a grimace. "Well...we used to anyway."

"Like...Robin Hood?"

He sighed and looked out the large window they were sitting next to. "Sounds more convincing when Dutch tells it," was his weak mutter. A long moment passed before he turned to her again. "Young lady, I won't fool you. We are what we are. But first I must underline that we ain't bad people." When her look of skepticism deepened: "Consider the selling points!"

"What are the selling points?" was her astonished question.

"Well…being outlaws, we're crafty! Have to be clever to be in this business, right?” The crease between her eyebrows indicated that she didn’t understand the relevance of this, so he pushed: “And, due to the line of work we’re in, we have a lot of guns." A twinkle ran through his eyes. "That means guards at all times at the camp. So you could say protection is top notch. If you think about it..." a finger rose in the air, "...if you stay with outlaws, you will avoid outlaws."

She couldn't help the chuckle that fell from her lips. "How does that work?"

"Who will rob an outlaw camp?" was the amused hitch of shoulders.

Her chuckle turned into a chortle and he laughed with her as the beer and lemonade arrived. She waited for the man to walk away and ran a finger over the condensation of the cool glass, her intrigue slowly starting to outweigh her alarm. Under normal circumstances, it was madness to even contemplate it. But the circumstances she was in – tight budget and shit roommates…well let’s just say that it warranted a deeper discussion before dismissal.

“You seem like a nice man,” she said as she took a sip from her beverage. It was tart and watery. “But why would a woman go stay with a band of outlaws? Sounds pretty dumb.”

“Aha!” he exclaimed and scraped his chair closer to the table. “Glad you pointed that out. Because see, we ain’t the usual kind. We have women and children with us.”

“Really?” she blinked.

“Yes ma’am,” he straightened, seemingly proud. “Now, I’m not about to try to sell this lifestyle to someone like you – someone with a proper, honest job who works for their money. But life isn’t so simple, is it my dear? People fall on hard times and we all do what we must. It's a tough world out there on your own, I'm sure I don't have to tell you that."

A silence set in as she weighed this. Objectively, it was a phenomenally bad idea and Savigne had some of those under her belt, so she knew a thing or two about bad ideas. Subjectively, Hosea didn't seem the kind to hold her at gunpoint and rob her and it was only a temporary solution. And more importantly, cheap.

"How much would this cost me?" she said as she crossed her arms and leaned back in her chair. "Considering the risk, I expect a bargain."

The notion of haggling seemed to revive the old man. "Good point," he straightened, eyes glinting with mischief. "How about...eighty dollars a week?"

She snorted. "I can get a room in Saint Denis for that money!"

Hosea beamed as if he had felt the twitching of a fish on the line and hummed with mock consternation. "Good point. Seventy-five." When her eyebrows rose: "Did I mention the excellent security? Guards on lookout all day, every day?"

She gave him a gaze from under her brows. "You did mention that. Forty."

"Forty! A meal in Saint Denis would cost you more!"

"I know how much meals in Saint Denis cost," she grinned.

He huffed in good humor and narrowed his eyes. "Sixty-five. I might have forgotten to add that our location is excellent. The view alone will stun you. And it's close to Valentine here, so you won't be in the middle of nowhere."

She bit her cheek and tilted her head. “That is a plus. However, a tent is a vast downgrade to a room. Forty-five.”

“I would argue a tent is far better for the summer! Open, airy and light! Sixty."

“I will have an added expense of a bath in a city..." she trailed, giving him a side eye.

“Which is why god, in all his wisdom, made rivers and lakes. Fifty-five.”

“Rivers and lakes are for fish. Fifty and we have a deal.”

"God damn it," he slapped his knee with exaggerated fluster and she laughed like a child. "Fine. Fifty."

His hand was soft and warm when she shook it and she ignored the voice in her head that she had just committed to something exceedingly dumb - even by her standards. Outlaws or not, fifty dollars a week was a steal! Her mind went over the numbers and her heart fluttered at the amount of money she was going to save over this summer.

"How much time do you need?" he asked.

"I will have to buy a tent and some other stuff. How about we meet here in two days at six?"

"You won't regret it," was his gentle response.

"Days are getting longer. It'll be lighter when you return," he interrupted her train of thought.  

Neither of them said much after that. She was relieved that the short, dark days of winter were behind her. The ride was long but in the summer it was bound to be pleasant and a lot less stressful. The only downside was that people stayed up later and later in camp as the weather warmed and sometimes it tended to get noisy. But she had moved her tent to the furthest possible point she could without leaving the sight and security of the camp, almost all the way up to the edge of the clearing and usually was too tired to be bothered by the laughter and the music anyway. Most days she just came in, brushed and fed Cricket, wiped the grime and sweat off with soap and water, then just crawled into her tent and collapsed on her bedroll.

"Can you tell Dutch that I will pay my weekly rent tonight when I return?" she quipped as she pulled herself up and adjusted her position on the saddle.

"Is it overdue?" he squinted up at her, his hands still petting the horse's neck.

"No, of course not," she snorted.

She raised her hand in farewell and Hosea watched her go. God, how young she was! His own youth felt like a distant memory; an ancient, immemorial land – foreign and exotic. Sometimes he closed his eyes and tried to remember the feeling of waking up refreshed, awash with energy and eagerness. The lack of back pain. Joints all nimble and oiled. Lungs endless, heart strong, head clear. He tried to remember running, his muscles taut and springy. The good, healthy ache after.  

He sighed and ambled over to the fire to retrieve a coffee mug from the pile of washed dishes. The coffee was dark and bitter. These days he could only have a single cup. Another thing to remember – having coffee whenever he wanted, several times a day without his heart going into palpitations and his stomach churning. He unfolded a discarded newspaper from yesterday, trying to find the spot he left off at for his morning routine. He didn't get far before a shadow fell on him.

"Morning, Dutch," he said without looking up.

The other man sank into one of the chairs around the dim campfire and lighted his cigar. Cigars: another luxury that neither his stomach, nor his lungs enjoyed these days.

"How are you, Hosea?"

"Doing well enough, thank you. Weather is warming up, my bones are happy at least."

"That makes two of us," Dutch mumbled around his cigar, throwing the matchstick into the fire. "Isn’t it fun, getting old?"

"Hilarious!" was the dry retort. “Miss Ricci wanted me to tell you that she'll pay her rent tonight."

"Why, is she overdue? I admit I haven't checked the ledger in a while. It depresses me.”

"No. I think she's just reminding us that she never was," chuckled Hosea.

"So – vanity?" mused Dutch.

You’d know a thing or two about that, wouldn’t you? he thought but merely replied with: "Nothing so sinister, I think."

"Likes to put the rest of us in our place," grumbled a third voice, making both men look up. "Like she's better'n'us."

"What bit you in your sleep, Arthur?" he looked up, shielding his eyes.

The third man, surprisingly silent in his approach for his large frame scratched his days long beard, squinting around the camp as he pawed for a clean mug. "I ain't blind," he said after a long minute, "Don' know why she thinks we gonna run out the carpet for her over $50 a week."

Hosea hummed and changed pages. Youth was all good and well but old age gave you something that youth never could: a certain kind of sharpness. Young Hosea would have thought nothing of it, but old Hosea found it amusing that, despite barely interacting with her, Arthur was increasingly irritated by a woman who slept at the other edge of the camp and kept to herself.

He wet his thumb and turned another page. "You ask me, it's a steal. She merely sleeps here, doesn't bother anyone, doesn't eat our food or require our help. She pays on time…” He side-eyed the younger man who sank to sit between him and Dutch. That pasty skin was the mark of a hangover and unfortunately too common as of late. “Also I don't know when you got rich boy, but $50 a week for letting a woman sleep in her tent at the edge of the camp is pretty nice. I consider that $200 a month my contribution to the box."

Arthur grimaced and Hosea ran his tongue over his teeth to hide his smile.

"You won't find me saying no to money," Dutch sighed, eyeing the coffee pot. "It's more than what some of the ladies contribute."

"They contribute more'n that," Arthur groaned with an undertone of displeasure. "Can't be easy, washin’ Uncle's underwear."

"Don't know why you're so sour on her,” Hosea pushed, pretending to read the paper.

"Don' care one way or another," Arthur growled. "I just see the way she turns her little nose up at us, is all."

“Does she now?”

Somewhere from behind them, Molly whined for Dutch.

“Gentlemen,” was Dutch’s apology tinged with mild exasperation before he rose and stepped away.

“You tellin’ me you don’ see that? How she slinks in and out like we lepers?” Arthur padded his shirt for his cigarettes.

“She’s just cautious with her trust. As she should be. Did you forget who we are, son?”

“Why she here then if we so vile?”

Hosea shrugged. “Cheap and safer than being alone.”

“Oh so we safe enough for protectin’ but not safe to mingle.”

Hosea pursed his lips. “Why do you care what she thinks?” was his mild question.

“Who says I care?”

“You wouldn’t yap about her if you didn’t.”

A defensive roll of shoulders. “Ain’t yappin’. You was yappin’ when I arrived.”

He gave Arthur’s profile a look from under his brows. “You have a point,” he conceded.

“Damn right I do,” was the grouchy response.

To be this young and dumb, Hosea thought wistfully. He probably shouldn’t, but the opportunity to get under Arthur’s skin was too good to pass. “She’s actually really nice if you bothered to get to know her.”

A sarcastic huff of disbelief. “Got better things to do.”

Like what – drinking yourself stupid? “If you say so.”

“I say so.”

Hosea sighed to himself. Another thing folks didn’t tell you about getting old was that it made you more melancholic, more prone to bouts of regret. He felt the familiar bite of guilt as he sat there next to his adopted son and worried about his emotional stiltedness. The man was steadfast, loyal, fearless, and formidable. But with that came a certain density, a rigidity. Like dirt that had baked into bricks under years of drought, now impenetrable to water.  

“She say something to ruffle your feathers, son?”

A grunt of contempt. “No. She stayin’ well clear of me. As she should.”

The heart of the problem, the real reason for all this bristling. So obvious to Hosea but ironically so obscure and opaque to the speaker himself.

“Well it’s temporary. A few months at most.”

A grumble of “Here’s hopin’.”

"We ready with these yet or d'ya wanna replant the potatoes?"

Savigne didn't give her mind, focused on her task of adjusting the food just so, pushing the green beans gently apart. "I will let you know when we're ready, Susan," she murmured, the tip of her tongue resting on her upper lip. "Food needs to look good too, taste isn't enough."

Susan rolled her eyes, pushing a strand of her hair behind her ears. "How 'bout it needs to be warm? Cause I think that's definitely important."

"It's plenty warm. It needs to look pretty, like arranged-like but without looking too arranged-like.”

"That makes no sense."

"Don't hurt your head over it. I got it," Savigne sighed as she eyed the plates one last time. "They're ready."

Susan grabbed the plates with an exaggerated huff, throwing them on her tray. Savigne looked on with sour disdain as some of the ingredients shuffled out of their perfect positions.

"Don’ know where you think yer workin’, but this here is just a steakhouse. Ain't nobody gonna notice," Susan mumbled as she headed to the stairs to the dining room.

"People notice unconsciously!" Savigne yelled after her.

"Girl got a point," Luther grumbled from beside her as he flipped the steaks. "This ain't no fancy place. Just steaks and potatoes."

"It's steaks, potatoes and vegetables. And it's fancy enough."

He clicked his tongue.

"See, you have no imagination. I read in this magazine that Europeans fret over this stuff."

"That so?" was the incredibly disinterested groan.

"They have this steakhouse in France, I saw a picture of the plating, Luther, by god, you could call it art! They even cut the steak all nice and tidy…"

"Cut the steak? The hell kinda place is that?"

She gave the beans a stir and went over to mash the potatoes. "A place for rich folks, that's what."

"Rich folks, huh?" he plucked the cigarette out of his mouth and gave her a long look. "What d'ya know about rich folks? Youse here with me." A moment later an amused addition: "And poor enough to mingle with outlaws."

"Nothing wrong with sleeping in a tent!" she hissed, quickly looking around the kitchen to make sure they weren't overheard. "And keep the outlaw bit to yourself. I told you, it's a temporary arrangement. I'm saving money."

"If it's money you need why not join ‘em? Bet they make more in a week than you do in months."

“Not my line of work,” she shrugged as she took the beans off the stove. "They're not bad people but...as a matter of fact, they are bad people," she conceded lamely. "You know," she whispered with some heat, “I'm pretty sure they robbed a train not that long ago. A damn train! I heard them talking about it."

"That so?" Luther’s eyebrow curled up. "Sounds excitin'."

"Yeah well not if you are a passenger, I bet."

"Say, do they 'ave bounty on their heads?" He asked suddenly, contemplative. "Could turn 'em in and make bank."

"Please!" She tried to act as if this option hadn’t occurred to her before. Truth is, the gang had been nothing but nice to her and the idea of repaying that kindness by sending them to jail for money was repulsive. She thought of Hosea and Jack and Charles and Mary-Beth. "If the law wants to chase people, they will have to do it on their own dime."

A few weeks later Savigne was in Valentine because it was Sunday and it was her bath and leisure day. Most folks would go to church on Sundays or spend it with family so she had the day off. She went to Valentine early for her usual routine and it was a pretty enough day - bright and warm, nature sprouting around her like slowly unfurling fireworks. She rode through the knee length grass and stopped to watch a herd of horses play in the distance. She took out her binoculars and followed eagles roam in the sky. She liked the city well enough and had never really lived outside of a city, but the countryside was growing on her. At first the quiet, open spaces seemed intimidating and full with possible danger. But since she had started to live with the gang and grown more comfortable riding outside of the city, she had come to like the tranquility.  

She took her long bath, dropped off her dirty laundry and picked up her basket of clean clothes that she had dropped off last week to be washed and pressed, exited the hotel...and watched men galloping away with Cricket in tow.

Savigne dropped her basket.

She was rooted to her spot for a few moments and then stupidly ran a few steps after them as if to follow, then stopped again when they rode out of sight. Her mind went blank and she started to hyperventilate, twitching with helplessness. Her intended cry of alarm was a weak, inaudible croak of "Help!"

She gulped to get more air into her lungs and doubled over, hands on knees. Dark spots danced in her vision. Breathe, breathe, breathe, don’t pass out, ohmygodCricket!!

She shot up straight and the dark spots intensified. DO something!

Her head swiveled around in a panic. There were some folks walking about, but like most Sundays, the town was quiet and calm. She didn't know anyone here except Bill, the receptionist of the hotel she just had a bath at. He'll know what to do! She managed to get control of her limbs back again and was stumbling back to the hotel entrance the when doors of the saloon across the street swung open and Arthur Morgan sauntered out into daylight.  

Normally a man she would avoid, today he looked like an angel sent by god. She ran up to him instead and noticed his eyes give her a flicker of bored recognition.

"Mr. Morgan!" she panted, arriving by his side as he kept walking, "W-wait..."

To his credit, he did stop.

"Th-they took…took…my horse!" she stammered between gulps of air.

His face was as unreadable as ever but he did turn to look in the direction she was pointing.

"Who?"

"I don't…know," she panted, "Men! C-could you..."

"No."

The curt response stunned her speechless. Not even a "I'm sorry" or "That's too bad, but…" or "Calm down miss" - just "No".

She blinked at him with disbelief and watched his halo - probably a mirage of her lightheadedness – dull. “But…”

He walked away as if the conversation was over.

"W-wait," she gasped and ran after him. His pace was casual enough, but he was a lot taller than her and she was half running to keep up. "Hold on a minute, damn it!" She instinctively grabbed his arm and he stopped, his face still turned away from her. The tension was immediate, electric and sobering. She swallowed and slowly retrieved her hand. It had felt like holding a tree branch, the muscles of his forearm like wound rope under his shirt. She made a mental note that he was a man who didn’t like being touched.

"Please!" she begged. "I'll pay you!"

"Can't pay me enough to hold out my neck for an old horse, ma'am," was his growl as he slowly turned to lock eyes with her under his hat. Arthur's azure gaze had always made her uncomfortable and she had always been the one to look away first in the past, but given the circumstances, she found a reserve of courage and held the eye contact.

"Just name the price!" she waved an exasperated arm as she felt the sting of tears in her eyes.

"Don' want money." was the bored response. 

The moment held for a breath or two before she pressed on: "What then? I'll owe you!"

"Owe me what?" was the lazy question as Arthur finally slightly turned her way. Up close, he seemed like a small mountain, towering over her with those wide shoulders.

She craned her neck and shielded her eyes against the glare of the sun. Her frustration throbbed in her temples and there was an overwhelming need to tap her foot that she stubbornly resisted.

“I don't know? What do you want?"

He looked at her for a long time and just as Savigne was about to repeat herself, she was hit with an understanding. Even she, as obtuse as she often was, gathered the unspoken answer. A wave of heat crept up her neck and fanned to her cheeks. She opened her mouth to speak, swallowed and tried again, feeling like all her confidence was melting under that heavy gaze.

"Seriously?" she heard her own voice, weak and shaky, "What the hell do you take me for?"

Arthur merely shrugged but didn't divert his gaze. "Y'asked." Then another smug addition of "Ma'am."

Savigne opened and closed her mouth like a fish out of water, caught off guard by this bizarre development. A bold man was nothing unusual, but this man? Arthur Morgan wasn't lecherous like Micah or flirty like Sean – he was quiet and reserved. All she had sensed from him in the rare moments they had crossed paths had been a profound lack of interest. He was more away than around, and until this moment she had been convinced that he probably wouldn’t have recognized her outside of camp.

Now here he was, suggesting something that pushed a cloud of heat right into her gut.

"You're jesting, right? It's not funny if you are.” He straightened and crossed his arms. “That horse is my...please Mr. Morgan! I'll do anything to get my horse back!"

The cowboy took off his hat and scratched his neck, gazing in the direction the thieves had disappeared. He looked like a man with all the time in the world while the seconds ticked by like church bell gongs in Savigne's head. She waited with baited breath, not sure what it was she was waiting for. She should be offended. Hell, she should be outraged.

"Don' wanna make that promise to a man like me," he offered finally, donning his hat again. Another look at her, "Cause I will collect."

The warmth in her belly pulsed ominously and she swayed on her feet, confused, excited, repulsed all at once. "I..." she stuttered, glancing down the road, "…listen...I know you're a decent man, Mr. Morgan..." she ignored the slight jump of his eyebrows, "I think you're just...trying to…embarrass me?"

"Am I now?"

God, why did it have to be him? Why couldn't it have been Charles who would have gone after those thieves in a heartbeat and would have never asked for anything in return?

"Can you please, please, please bring him back? I really love my horse," she croaked, wiping furiously at her eyes. Her brimming eyes had no effect on him whatsoever.

"Sure" he said in that southern drawl of his and she dared to exhale with relief. "Once you make yer promise."

"Unbelievable!" she hissed, suddenly furious enough to forget her trepidation. She stepped up to him, resisting the urge to burrow a finger into that big chest. Arthur didn't move a hair, just looked down at her like she was a bug. "You should be ashamed of yourself!" The smell of alcohol wafted her way although he didn’t seem drunk at all.

He gave out a long breath through his nose, touched his hat with another maddening "Ma'am" and started to walk away with that lazy gait.

Savigne followed despite herself. "Well, wait a minute, are you seriously just going to..."

He walked on, unfazed as if she was a buzzing mosquito. Two steps, three, four...

He’s just toying with you, her inner voice drawled. He’s one of those men who think it’s funny to make a woman squirm, that’s all.

Her eyes crawled over his broad back and the slim hips and the long legs. The heat in her gut flared up and she swallowed with a click in her throat.

Not hard on the eyes, is he?  

"Fine! I promise!" she yelled after him and to her relief, his steps stilled.

A moment of silence. "Promise what?" he said over his shoulder.

"I...ugh...whatever. I promise whatever!"

Arthur turned back to her, still maddeningly casual, still relaxed as if her horse wasn't galloping away while they stood here doing nothing.

"Whatever?" His tone was low, his eyes sharp as ice.

"Yes. Whatever you want."

To her relief he walked back to her. She craned her neck to gaze up at six feet of muscle, feeling like a child in his shadow.

"Ya sure? ‘Cause if you renege on me, woman..."

"I won't," she cut him off. It was damn embarrassing to have given this man what he had asked, she wouldn't suffer any further chidings or threats. "Just...he must be a million miles away by now!" she whined, trying to kick him into gear.

Arthur squinted at the bright sky as he weighed her offer. And then, as if it was just a simple business transaction and not an indecent proposal at all, he nodded at her once before whistling for his horse.

A relief so deep washed over her, she had to bite down a sob. Just a joke, she thought. It’s just a joke. He’s a brute who enjoyed putting you on the spot.

She watched him climb on his horse and adjust on the saddle and took a deep, shaky breath as he rode away without acknowledging her again. Her hands were shaking and her legs felt weak. She walked back towards the hotel, gathered her dropped basked, then just fell into a chair on the veranda, gulping air. Her mind furiously tried to justify what just had transpired. Of course it was a joke. No doubt a man like that enjoyed making a woman feel small and helpless, he was the type.

Asshole, she thought and wiped the hair off her wet face. Hope you fall and break a leg. After you return my horse.

Chapter Text

Arthur rode on, instinctively checking on the trail now and then. The road was well traveled but the more recent tracks stood out, especially those that implied a fast pace. He wasn't worried about losing Cricket or the men even if they went off the main road as he knew this area well enough and already had a guess where they were taking the horse. He was not a valuable horse and the thieves who stole him were probably just desperate to load him off at the first stop. There was a horse fence nearby that paid under the table for horses without papers. At worst, he would catch up with them there.

His mind went back to earlier and the ghost of a smile tugged at his lips. Losing that poker game had been irritating, but his annoyance had been promptly blunted when he had stepped out the bat doors and fate had decided this was the day Princess Ricci would be humbled into a stuttering mess. Too long had she been gliding in and out of camp, nose turned up, eyes judgmental, confident that the weekly scrawl of her name into the ledger allowed her the best bits - protection from bad folk but also insulation from the people who did the protecting.

When he had made the suggestion, he had fully expected to be turned down. She wasn't the type: too timid, too proud, too proper. The plan was to have her trudge back to camp devastated and desperate while he retrieved the horse. So by the time he returned with Cricket in tow, she would be thoroughly cried out, humbled and shamed. Feeling deeply indebted to him, she was likely to be on her best behavior from that point on. Perhaps she would even approach him to mend fences. Of course Arthur Morgan's pride wasn't that easily soothed, so the idea was to rebuff her and ignore her amicable attempts at camaraderie.

Hosea would say it was a childish and petty plan, but Hosea was too enamored with her and incapable of seeing her for what she was: a snob.   

Alas, things went a bit differently because to his deep surprise, she had actually accepted.

Why, he couldn't fathom. Maybe she saw through his ruse. Maybe, as silly as it sounded, the horse really meant a lot to her. Or maybe... 

He dismissed that last exercise in thought. It was obvious to him that the woman liked him as little as he liked her. 

But now there was a fork in the road.

He scratched his beard and ruminated on his choices.

She was pretty enough. Up close he had noticed a slight upward slant at the corner of those almond eyes that he hadn’t seen before. Her dark lashes were long and full. A strong nose sat over that wide mouth, and her lips were soft and smooth...

He shook his head and promptly blamed the whiskey. Can't drink on an empty stomach no more, old fool.

Then he thought how perfect her skin was. A warm, tawny brown that darkened to ochre on her arms as the summer deepened. Flawless - not a single blemish on it. Probably because she scrubs it off with sandpaper, he mused. She somehow always managed to look absurdly, even freakishly clean. And there was that chestnut hair; thick, wavy and wild. When she had approached him the scent of lavender had snaked his way... 

"That's enough of that," he muttered to himself, straightening on his saddle, checking on the tracks again. You've gone too long without fucking and it shows.

It worked for a few minutes. But then his mind, sloshing with alcohol and a need he had managed to hold back with a heavy hand for a long time now, coyly slipped from its leash and circled back.

Not like he was trying to marry her. Physical comfort wasn't an affair, it was a simple transaction. Granted it had been years ago, but he had bedded Abigail before. It had meant nothing then and meant even less now to either of them. Karen played around with Sean from time to time. Sometimes with Javier, too. The next day nobody cared. They were all grownups at camp, life was violent and short and for the likes of them, full of surprises. So you took comfort where you could, dressed back up and didn't look back.

"Yer too old for this shit. Focus!" 

Again, it worked for a spell, but he could feel the temptation burrowing into his brain like a worm, twisting and turning, boring its way through.

Why not just touch a warm body again? That smooth, soft skin would be like silk under his fingers. He wanted to feel her hot and sweet panting against his neck. He wanted to hear her moan. He wanted to make her moan...

Arthur felt himself harden and his frustration surged. Watch the tracks, not too far now, he thought in an effort to clear his head and rolled his shoulders as if the motion would dissipate the buzzing in his head. Shouldn't have done it. I'm a drunk fool.

...The curve of her breasts under that shirt...He wondered if she would tremble under his touch like an untamed horse. 

"Christsake!" he groaned, his erection now painfully pressing against his stomach.

No. Just no.

But she accepted freely.

Sure, if you conveniently ignored the twisting of her arm.

Still...could have said no and didn', did she? Maybe she been lonely too long. Maybe as long as yerself.

Arthur snorted in contempt. He wasn't so desperate that he was going to force his way to a woman's bed.

She'll be gone in a few months and you'll never see her again. What's the harm?

No. He would return the damn animal and then tell her that he hadn't meant it. He wouldn't go as far as apologize - she had deserved the humbling - but he would call it off and that was the end of it.

He heard a neigh and feint cursing nearby and pulled Frost to a stop. His gut said this was the group he was looking for and his gut was never wrong. Most likely Cricket was resisting being led away and his lips curled at the idea. He knew Savigne was overly protective of her horse and far too doting, but he also knew that the bond between a horse and its rider was a real thing. Could be that Cricket was as devoted to Savigne as Count was to Dutch.

He softly clicked his tongue and guided Frost east, up a hill and through the first trees, all ears. The neigh came again and was followed by rattled Spanish, tinged with anger and frustration. Arthur halted Frost, quietly retrieved his rifle and slid off the saddle. He stealthily slunk and weaved among the trees towards the voices and minutes later reached the edge of a clearing occupied by three men and five horses. One of the men was still up in his saddle while the other two were off their horses, advancing an agitated Cricket. Just then the dark horse reared up again and danced back and the two men cooed and tried to placate him, slaloming to remain at his side to avoid the kick. He uttered a soft grunt of approval as he raised his weapon and focused through the scope.

The man still saddled was holding his reins and his rifle was stashed on his steed. The others had gun belts but their weapons were holstered. He paused and calculated his options. Calling out would give them a chance to draw and he wasn't going to allow that. Killing outright was always an option and he had no qualms with that, except the group looked more like bedraggled horse thieves than killers and they were obviously not O'Driscolls. Then again - a gun was just as deadly in the hands of a horse thief as any other man, and that wasn't a risk he was willing to take.

He took a soft breath, exhaled and shot a spot under the rider. The reaction was immediate - the animal reared up in panic and the rider clutched the horse's neck in an effort to stay on his back. The other animals darted apart in surprise. One of the men staggered and turned in his direction but made the mistake of ending behind a horse and was promptly kicked in the chest. The third man hastily tried to draw but received a prompt bullet through his hand and sank to his knees, holding his injured appendage.

Arthur rose to his feet and marched into the clearing, the butt of his rifle snug against his right shoulder.

"Don' move or next one'll go through yer head!"

The man he had shot seemed too dazed to hear, cradling his hand and moaning in disbelief. The kicked thief was somewhere in the tall grass and Arthur circled towards him to make sure he wouldn't get up and put a bullet in the back of his head. His weapon swung from the man on the ground to the one on the saddle who was still trying to pacify his ride.

"I mean it!" he shouted, side-eyeing the location of the third man. "Don' wanna kill you, but I will."

The third man's arms rose slowly in surrender from the tall grass as he groaned and sat up. Arthur faced him and continued to advance, herding them all into his line of sight. From the corner of his eye he could see that Cricket and the other four horses dallied nearby, shaking their necks and hoofing the ground, stable for now.

"Palms up amigo!" He called, pointing his weapon at the man in the saddle. All three men showed their hands and sulkily meandered towards each other as he jabbed them into a cluster.

"You took my friend's horse. Where I come from that's a grave mistake."

"Mistake!" the one on the saddle echoed, his palms gesturing peace, "Mistake! Horse here, you take!"

Arthur's eyes flicked to Cricket who stood several yards away, watching him, then back.

"Take what's yours an’ leave. You here in ten seconds, you ain't goin' home," he growled at the trio.

The men stared at each other, slight confusion on their brows. Whether in disbelief of their luck or because they didn't speak English, Arthur wasn't sure and didn't care.

"Andale!" he shouted louder to make his point, his rifle still aimed at them.

The two still on the ground got some life jolted into them and scrambled after their horses. The man in the saddle watched him with a smoldering anger.

"Leave the other one that ain't yours too," he added, lower.

Language must not have been as big of a barrier as they pretended, because they understood him just fine and did just that. A minute later they were trotting off, shoulders sagging with defeat. The one with the injured hand gave him a baleful gaze over his shoulder, his dark eyes glittering under his hat, and for a moment a part of him wondered if he had done the right thing by letting them leave. But then they disappeared over the hill and the clearing was reclaimed by the buzzing of insects and the chirping of birds and the chuffing of Cricket and a tan colored Mustang.

The outlaw finally lowered his rifle, then slung it over his shoulder. He whistled for Frost and eyed Cricket who was still looking at him with undivided attention. When he started to stalk towards him, the horse didn't move, didn't act skittish, just stood there, calm and curious.

"Hey boy," Arthur sighed, his pace slow and steady, his attention fixed on the animal. "Aaaalllll good now."

Then suddenly Cricket surprised him by trotting towards him the last few dozen feet and pushing his head into his hand. He chuckled, amused.

"You recognize me, don' ya? Clever boy," he cooed, patting Cricket's neck. The horse snorted into his palm and Arthur smiled, pleased. "Very clever boy," he drawled, taking the reins and tying him to Frost's saddle. 

The tan Mustang was more skittish but Arthur was experienced and patient and didn't rush. When he finally managed to gain his trust, he went through the saddle to see if there was anything of value. He probably belonged to some other fool in Valentine, and nothing much was stashed in the saddle, but the saddle itself was of modest value and combined with the horse itself, would sell for a reasonable price later, so the day hadn't been a complete waste of time. At long last he climbed on Frost and tutted the animals out of the clearing back towards the main road and in the direction of Valentine.

Savigne was by the hotel, sitting with the tension of a spring and catapulted to her feet as soon as he took the bend. Cricket sped up a little, outpacing Frost and he let the reins go and slowed down to watch their reunification. By the way she embraced and kissed and petted her horse, you would have thought they’d been parted for years. He didn't say anything, just towered over her waiting to be acknowledged, which she finally did with such happiness in her expression, that he felt an odd double thump in his heart.

"Are you okay?" Her voice trembled with relief. "Did you get into a shootout?"

"No.”

"Well...thank you," she said, a little put off by the short answer. 

He cleared his throat and thought well, it's time to do the talk, but to his own surprise, remained silent, gazing down at her while she hastily fished an apple out for Cricket, followed by an apple for Frost.

What are you standing around for like a lumbering fool?

And yet, his mouth wouldn't move and the words wouldn't come out as he stood slightly swaying on his saddle, watching her feed Frost as if Frost had rescued Cricket.

An uncanny feeling came over him as he tried to understand his own hesitation.

You can call it off anytime, why the rush? Let her cook a bit more, no harm in it.

He turned the idea over in his head.

Then: Or you know, you can actually collect it.

To his frustration, the thought went right to his pants and his cock that had softened by this point, decided to wake up again. Arthur stirred, immediately looking away.

The thing we talked about earlier....No need. Have a good day, ma'am was what went through his head.

What he actually finally said was "Ma'am," before he spurred Frost and rode away.

It's the whiskey, he thought sourly. Gotta eat before you drink, you fool.

Days passed without an incident. Then one night Savigne felt his heavy gaze on her the moment she leashed Cricket and gave him some celery. She didn't know how she knew but she knew because the hair on her nape stood up. Just don't blush, she urged herself, feeling the heat of that gaze on her back. Not that it mattered if she blushed - it was late and dark, but the campfire was still occupied by a festive crowd. Javier was strumming his guitar again and Karen had had too much to drink, that much she could tell without looking. She continued to rub Cricket's neck as he munched on the celery, distantly curios why now she was so tilted by his attention and focus. She hadn't really seen him again except from a distance since that Sunday, but now his presence had a certain weight to it. She wondered if he was around when she woke up and wondered where he was when she returned. Was it the absurd interaction they had or was it more than that? 

She risked a quick glance over a shoulder and indeed, Arthur was there by the fire with the rest of them and and yes, he was staring at her across the camp.

She turned back to her horse and felt her mouth go dry. The temptation to run to her tent was strong and she was annoyed that she had to resist it. Annoyed that he had this effect on her, annoyed that she couldn't return to the days where he was just another gang member she was oblivious to. Was she angry because he had forced her into a lewd agreement, or was she intrigued? Was she grateful that he had retrieved her horse for her? Was she nervous because he looked at her with that stark gaze or was she excited? Her feelings were like a messy, knotty yarn she couldn't unravel and decipher

He hadn't spoken to her since that day, not even in greeting and yet she felt his presence looming over her more than ever. She found herself lying on her bedroll and thinking of what had transpired, picking at it to understand if he had really meant it and why he had meant it and if he didn't why he had said it at all, her thoughts churning and churning until sleep rescued her. During the day, she found herself sitting inside, listening to the voices in camp to guess if he was around or not, stressed that she would run into him. That he would look at her that way again – hungry – and worse, that she would like it. He had very irregular comings and goings which didn't help things because she couldn't form a routine around his absence. 

The thing was, although Arthur was no doubt an extremely handsome man, well put together overall, he wasn't really her type. She liked the soft, cute boys. The ones with gentle eyes and long limbs, the ones who treated her like fine china and needed to be nudged to take action. So it was perplexing to say the least that she was hung up over this as much as she was.

He just made a crude joke, get over yourself, Jesus. There's nothing there.

And yet...

Some days she thought the whole thing had become too silly and she had considered talking to him about it to clear the air. But every time she met his unflinching gaze, she shied away from the idea like she had just received a kick in the kidneys and darted to another direction. Truthfully, she didn't trust herself to not make things worse and the cowardly part of her insisted to let sleeping dogs lie. Maybe he would just forget about it? He certainly didn't bring it up, so maybe he already had forgotten?

She took a deep breath, ignored the thumping of her heart and finally turned around to stalk into camp. She walked by the fire but refused to acknowledge Arthur who was still looking at her and instead waved to Karen, who giggled and waved back with drunk enthusiasm. A few of them cheered her to join, but Savigne just shook her head, mimed tiredness and walked off towards the dark edge of camp, Arthur still heavy on her mind.

Chapter Text

Several weeks passed this way, with little news and blessed boredom. Despite the hardships they had lately faced, the gang seemed to be in a happy mood and the spring evenings often had people sitting by the fire, singing or talking until late night. As the weeks rolled into one another and the days came and went without incident, Savigne found herself thinking about Arthur a lot less and eventually, convinced that it had all been a ruse to humble and scare her, her thoughts drifted back to her usual worries.  

Then one late night, as she arrived to camp and dismounted, bone tired and ready to collapse on her bed, Arthur was suddenly right beside her. Startled by both his silent approach and the surprise of finding him standing abruptly so close after obsessing about him for weeks, she jumped a step back, hand on heart, momentarily speechless. He didn't say a word but in a bewildering gesture, grabbed her upper arm and started walking away from camp. Dazed, she followed him for a few minutes before she came to her senses and stopped herself, making him halt and turn back to her.

"Wh-what's going on?" she stuttered, suddenly both afraid and to her eternal frustration, also strangely excited.

"Let's go," was all he said before he turned to drag her along again.

"Wait! Where are we go-"

"‘M collectin'," was the simple response over his shoulder as he walked under the shadows of the first trees on the edge of the clearing.

Her gut did a flip, her feet tangled and she stumbled on a root, but his grip was strong and he straightened her.

"Hold on now..." was all her brain could come up with. She felt herself starting to hyperventilate again.

Something was different about him tonight and even in the dark she could sense it. There was a tension in the way he handled himself, she felt an electric tautness emanating from him. Then she noticed the flecks of blood on his shirt, darker blotches even visible in partial moonlight. Had he been in a fight? In a shootout? Had he returned from a heist? To her own bafflement, her excitement peaked at the notion.

She yanked her arm back with force and while it didn't release his grip, he did stop again to acknowledge her.

"Wait one second..." she tried once more, trying to catch her breath, "...you can't just...I mean I'm not...just...hold on!"

Arthur gave her a long look but his usually indecipherable expression was even harder to read in the dark.

"You renegin'?" was his late, low question.

"I'm..." she swallowed, pinned like a bug by that look, suddenly not sure how to finish. A distant part of her still believed he was joking but that part was dying a quick death right now. He didn't look amused. If anything, he looked... aroused. Eager. Hungry. What would happen if she reneged?

When she didn’t answer:

"Come." Impatient now.

He turned and dragged her further into the forest. It was dark in here, all noise muffled, animals long asleep and Savigne remembered the horror stories she used to read as a child in fairy tales about dark forests and the monsters who roamed there. She felt like she was in a story like that herself tonight, a monster right here by her side. Paralyzed by fear and inexplicable delirium she trudged on, afraid of what was about to happen but also afraid of running from it, transfixed by Arthur's broad back and the droplets of blood splatter on it in front of her, swaying in and out of the moonlight. He smelled of blood and sweat and gunpowder and whiskey and his fingers curled on her upper arm felt downright hot. 

They walked for what felt like hours although it couldn't have been nearly that long and arrived to a spot that didn't look different than any of the woods they had walked through except it was a little bit brighter here. Or maybe her eyes had finally adjusted to the dimness. She felt his hand drop away from her arm and immediately stopped, stabbed to her spot. Thoughts flitted through her brain like a storm of crows. The instinct to flee was overwhelming. She had never felt something so primal and so powerful before, but her legs felt distant, far away, like they didn't belong to her. She heard herself panting. Her heartbeat was so loud and the blood whooshing in her ears so heavy, that she was surprised to hear him speak, even though his voice was low:

"This'll do," he assessed before he turned to her.

For a moment neither of them moved, tense and unsure. Then he took a step towards her and she stumbled back two, breaking whatever spell was put on her before.

"Stop!"

To her surprise, Arthur obeyed. He squared his feet and rolled his shoulders and waited. From the outside he was as calm and stoic as ever. He wasn't tapping his feet or twitching his fingers, but still, the tension was palpable to Savigne. His shirt said he had obviously engaged in violence earlier and he looked like a man pent up tight, desperate for an outlet and relief. His shoulders were straight and rigid, his arms slightly held out as if he was going to draw any moment, his face inexpressive and mute. 

"I...listen, Mr. Morgan," she swallowed. Her voice was shaking and she was convinced her heart was going to jump out of her mouth any moment now. The surrealness of the situation was finally starting to catch up with her. "C-can we talk for a moment? I'm sure we can come to an agreement..."

"Ain't here for’n agreement," was the dismissive retort. "‘M here to collect. Now..." he took a step towards her and she took another back, almost tripping on whatever it was on the ground before righting herself again, "...if you tellin’ me you ain't keepin’ yer word, say it as it is."

"Why?" she breathed nervously, "What would happen then?"

He pretended to think about it but Savigne sensed that he had given it plenty of thought before. "What would happen is, I would go back and collect yer horse," he drawled casually. "Least I would be due for the trouble I took."

Seeing an opening, she pounced on the opportunity: "I can pay you! I have the money - more money than he's worth!" In her enthusiasm she dared to step closer, for the first time diminishing the distance between them. "I understand you are angry," her palms went up to soothe his objections, "but I can pay you several times what he's..."

"No," was his sharp interjection and she immediately bit back the rest of the sentence. "I'll take the horse," Arthur said as if he was talking to a child. "Don' wan' the money."

"But," Savigne sputtered, inching closer, fists clenched in frustration, "I want to be clear, I will pay more than..."

His hand rose and she quieted again, flabbergasted by his refusal to at least consider her offer. If there was anything that she had observed in her time here, it was that these people loved money. Especially easy money. The horse wasn't worth much and she had a sizable sum in mind, so it should be a bargain. Given the fact that this man didn't like her and that the feeling was obviously mutual, even if he was hell bent on fucking, that money could be used for someone a lot more willing and attractive than herself in a saloon. She opened her mouth to verbalize this argument but the look on his face stumped her.

Long, silent seconds passed as his eyes crawled over her face and when he spoke, she heard clear anger in his tone: "The horse."

"Why?" she flustered.

"Cause," he hissed and stepped to loom over her, "Don' like bein’ used. If I want money, I ask for money."

Savigne blinked and opened and closed her mouth a few times, thinking how to say things without making him more angry than he already seemed to be. She stopped when his gaze dropped to her lips. That warmth liquid pooled into her stomach again and sloshed around in her abdomen.

"What use do you have for a horse?" she tried, desperate to make him see reason. "You'll just sell him to someone for less than I can give you."

The outlaw let loose a long breath through his nose and shook his head. "Probably. Even so. I'll take the horse."

She swallowed, her head swimming. Had to be pride. Why else would he insist in something so illogical? Unless bedding women who didn't like him excited him and frankly, he didn't seem the type. Or maybe he didn't like paying for it, maybe he was one of those men who thought it cheapened the experience. 

"There are...women...in Valentine," she whispered hoarsely, watching the hard eyes. “Who, I’m sure, would be more…suitable.”

The tension that was emanating off him was dense and unnerving. Whatever he had done earlier today seemed to be clouding his judgement. The more she pressed, the firmer his jaw set.

"They don' owe me," he said, crossing his arms. 

"Yes but when you have money..."

"Who says I don'?" was his brusque interruption. She sensed offense at the suggestion. A chuff followed and his eyes chilled. “Thinkin' yer too good for the likes of me, that it?”

“Maybe I am,” she muttered before she could stop herself.

That was apparently the wrong thing to say. The cold in his eyes iced into frost.

“The horse it is,” he growled and made as if to turn around.

“Wait!”

He paused, eyes flicking back at her. “Warned you not to lie,” was the dark rumble.

She balked at this. "I didn’t lie.”

"Prove it.”

Another silence set in. He absolutely wasn't joking. And he clearly wasn't budging. Despite his open contempt for her - hell maybe because of his open contempt for her - he was determined to see this trough.

And there was her answer, wasn't it? It was all so simple. This entire charade was because he wanted to humiliate her.

Despite the rarity of their interactions, somewhere, somehow she had rubbed him the wrong way and this was his way of putting her in her place. He was a man, so no doubt he wanted the fucking. But not just the fucking. No, he wanted to subdue her. Dominate her. The idea should revolt her, but instead fluttered her stomach and sent more heat into her loins.

A dry click in her throat as she tried to swallow.

Are you stupid? Just let him have the horse.

But she knew she wasn't going to do it. Cricket wasn't a horse to her, he was her friend. He depended on her to feed him and to care for him and he had been her companion for years. Her only companion. She could never ever just give him away. Who knew where this brute might sell him and to whom. What if they flogged him or starved him?

What are you turning into, a prude? LOOK at him. He looks better than any man you flew into the arms of. A quick tussle, who cares, and god knows it's been a while.

True enough. Arthur was an attractive man. Well built, rugged and virile. He felt so starkly different from her usual partners that it bordered on exotic.

The problem wasn’t the sex. The problem was that she was trading it for a horse. Her pride smarted.

"Well," his drawl interrupted her ruminations, "What'll be, miss?"

She didn't think she had the voice to answer. Half in disbelief over her own actions, she turned around and faced a tree, then with a shaking hands began to undo the buttons of her shirt. Dreaminess came over her, almost as if she was having an out of body experience. She was standing in a dark forest, divesting her clothes and at the same time, it wasn't her, she was just watching it happen. Her feelings were all over the place, telling her to run, telling her to stay, urging her to hurry up and arguing that she should scream for help. And regardless of this inner tumult, her body continued through the motions, peeling the shirt off her shoulders and after a momentary hesitation, dropping it to the ground. Her fingers found the ties of her skirt and fumbled to undo them in the dark as her breath hitched and her head swam.

Just imagine he’s someone else, it’s not that hard. Or think of it as quenching your own thirst. You must want him if you’re here.

There was truth to that. She would have never accepted if it had been Micah, so on some deep level, she must have been willing when she had agreed. If they were drunk and had found themselves there, she suspected that she would have been perfectly fine with the arrangement. A one night tryst wasn’t anything to cry about, she wasn’t exactly sentimental about it. But it wasn’t a tryst, was it? It was payment.

When Arthur's palm bloomed between her shoulder blades, she jumped in surprise, startled out of her thoughts. Her reaction made him retrieve his hand as she stood frozen, unable to look back or say anything. Her heart thundered on with anticipation of the return of his touch but it didn't come.

After several moments of silence, a mumble: "Forget it. Ain’t doin’ this if you gonna be like that."

To her astonishment, she heard him turn and walk away. She quickly peeked over her shoulder and watched in disbelief as his large shadow, an inky black against the black of the night, stalk away.

A panic similar to the one in Valentine overtook her. He was going to take Cricket and she would never see him again. Every morning starting tomorrow she would wake up and he wouldn't be there. Maybe he would be tied to a heavy cart, flogged for not doing well enough, starved and ignored. All because she couldn't suffer five minutes of boring sex with a stranger.

Her breath hitched and words stumbled out of her mouth: "Wait! Don't go!"

She couldn't tell if he was still there or not, the darkness wasn't absolute but there was a slight breeze, throwing the shadows around and Arthur seemed to have an uncanny ability to be stealthy when he wanted to be.

"Mr. Mor- Arthur?"

No response.

"I was just...I wasn’t ready. I didn't mean to jump."

Nothing.

“I’m ready now?…”

Several moments passed as she stood there in her chemise and bloomers, hands crossed over her breasts, uncertain if she was terrifyingly alone in the middle of a dark forest or worse, if she was there in the presence of a... predator, her mind added. Then she blinked as he glided out of the shadows to stand several feet away. For the first time she could see his face in the Moonlight. It was frustratingly hard to read Arthur, but she sensed, more than saw, hesitation in him.

"Just…” she took a deep, rattling breath, “Just don't hurt me. Please."

Her voice was low, more of a whisper, but Arthur heard her all the same. The planes of shadow on his face twisted as if he was disgusted by the mere suggestion. "Ain’t gonna hurt you,” was his dark huff.

Really? Savigne thought sourly. Fucking someone to humiliate them is fine but the hurting is where you draw the line? She nodded morosely, blinked around, then turned back to face the tree, unsure how to proceed. Standing in her chemise and her bloomers, hands hanging limply at her sides, she tried to listen to anticipate his movements, but she doubted she would hear a thing with the thundering pulse in her ears. Long moments passed and just as she was about to take another look over her shoulder to see if he had left after all, she felt his big palm between her shoulder blades again. This time she merely flinched, resisting the urge to shy away from the touch.

The air was warm but his hand felt hot, like encased fire as he held it there for several heartbeats before he glided it over to her right shoulder, then slowly the left, traversing her nape, his fingers fanning out to brush her collarbone with a gentleness she didn't expect. Arthur had a rough attitude to him and she knew what he did for a living, so despite her earlier pleading she had half expected a painful grip. She stilled in surprise and her shoulders sagged a little with relief. He stepped closer. Maybe it was her imagination but she felt the aura of heat rising from his body, like a furnace. It was a warm summer night but her excitement budded droplets of sweat on the hollow of her neck. She absentmindedly brushed at it and wiped her fingers on her chemise.

She half expected him to taunt her or say rough things, call her out on relenting, tease her for being easy or a loose woman, but he was blissfully quiet.

She tried to relax and even her breathing and slowly succeeded. Hands drew ellipses and circles on her back, brushed down her spine and grazed her buttocks. His hands were big, fingers callused, but his touch was surprisingly gentle and confident. They perched on her hips, circled her waist before they glided over her stomach as he mapped out her body. The caressing soothed her fears of pain and eased her tension. There was an intense sensuality to it – the way he casually and languidly touched her over thin cotton, the way he took his time and didn't rush to drop his trousers. She had expected impatient and rough shedding of clothes, a forceful penetration and a quick rutting, but obviously Arthur had other ideas. 

The warmth in her gut sparkled and buzzed in response. She wasn't a virgin a long time now and recognized her own reactions to his touch. She wanted this, no matter how vehemently she would tell herself otherwise in the following days. Still, she wasn't going to let him see. Whatever Arthur Morgan was going to get from her tonight, he wasn't going to get her admission of pleasure.

She raised her chin with determination and stared at the cracks of the bark in front of her face, trying to move as little as possible, allowing him to set the pace. But the very next moment his palms glided up her chest and boldly cupped her breasts and she gasped despite herself as she felt his breath on her neck. She braced herself against the tree as his lips traveled between her shoulder and her ear and a shudder rippled through her body. He was a lot more intimate, a lot more enticing that she had expected him to be. Emboldened by her lack of objection, he grasped the hem of her chemise and pulled it up, tugging to make her raise her arms. The white cloth glided over her head and was dropped to the ground. Then his chest flattened against her back and fingers traversed her upper body again, touching every inch of naked skin, brushing against the indentations of her ribs and the curve of her breasts and circling her belly button.

The cotton of his shirt chafed against her naked back and sent goosebumps up and down her arms. His lips traveled to her other side, teeth gently grazed her shoulder and she sighed despite herself as he palmed her breasts and brushed over her nipples. His left hand dipped and set an agonizingly slow journey over her bellybutton, her abdomen and to the waistband of her bloomers. Fingers deftly ducked under the cloth and glided lower still until they reached the patch of hair that rested there. Her head fell forward and she bit back a moan as they sauntered lower still while his other hand cupped and kneaded a breast.

It's been too long, she thought, that's all it is. Just delayed need, unfulfilled pleasure. She tried to remember the last time she had sex and was too befuddled to pinpoint it. The last time she had good sex was even harder to remember. Her resolve wavered, her adversity softened and before she could harden it again, fingers rubbed downwards against her folds and her breath stuttered. His touch was confident but light, the touch of a man who knew what he was doing. He caressed and brushed and circled, leaving a trail of heat in the wake of his fingers that made her head swim. Her jaw slackened and her eyelids grew heavy as the need between her legs buzzed and tingled. She squirmed a little and shifted to press her thighs shut. But he burrowed through and moments later he deftly parted her folds and his large trigger finger slipped inside. A gasp fell from her lips as her hands curled against the tree. His boldness was so magnificent, that it felt almost perverse. None of the men she had been with had shown this much confidence and lack of timidity when they touched her body - much less down there. And those had been men she had known and wanted. Now a stranger was caressing her most sensitive, most private part, assertively stepping over a hard border of intimacy like it wasn't even there.

Breathe. Just breathe. Jesus Christ, I'm screwed.

She was embarrassingly, awkwardly wet and getting wetter by the minute. Arthur glided his right hand over her buttocks, drawing circles while his other hand continued to slowly dip in and out of her. Not a flick of hesitation, no moment of shame. No trepidation or even a smidge of discomfort. He glided his digit in and out of her body as if they were familiar for years, as if she was his to do as he pleased. Then he suddenly curled his finger and a surprised moan spilled from her lips when he brushed over a patch that ignited stars behind her eyelids. She clapped her palm on her mouth as her traitorous hips twitched back towards him and though he didn't change his pace or actions, the lips on her shoulder curved into a smile and moved to the back of her neck again, now boldly planting open mouthed kisses.

A breeze came and went, chilling the sweat on her chest and rustling the canopy around her. That, and the sound of his breathing into her ear was all there was. The world shrunk into a moment and a spot in a forest in America, everything else fell away. Her reluctance bled into anticipation and her anticipation colored into desire and her desire budded into pleasure. A wave rose in her like a force of nature, primal and frightening, like a tsunami building in the horizon, and she felt herself shrinking at the sight of it, powerless and defenseless. Sweat trickled down her torso, leaving little veins of coolness in its wake. By the time he added a second finger and increased the pace, she knew she was doomed. He gently ran his right hand down her side, his nails a sharp contrast to his fingers moving with dreadful accuracy inside her. She felt the puff of his breath at her neck and the drum of his heart on her back. His lips were more forceful, more assured now as his need whirled with hers, drawing her closer, swirling her away, then pressing her against himself.

Then his right hand disappeared and a moment later she heard the thump of his gun belt hitting the forest floor. She stiffened, sobering with the implication but was reduced to panting again when he curled his fingers in her, pushing her back into the haze of ecstasy. She bit her palm in an effort to remain quit. Her head fell back and landed on his shoulder. She felt his lips aggressively suckling the sensitive skin under her ear, on her jawline as she desperately pushed her ass towards him with every stroke. The hardness of his cock pressed to her lower back sent another jolt of excitement through her and a low growl traveled through his chest when she brushed against it. A distant part of her mind noticed his actions gaining urgency, his hands groping her hip harder and his fingers moving faster.

A moment later his right hand disappeared to fumble with the buttons of his pants to release himself. A fresh burst of slick released in her at the idea. If he dared to stop now, she knew she would be reduced to begging him to continue. Fortunately he had no intention of stopping. His grip on her hip grew bruising as he pulled his left fingers out of her, leaving her feeling empty and frustrated.

He pulled down her bloomers and hastily untangled them off her feet and immediately after settled back in position behind her. The smooth, blunt head of his cock appeared at her entrance and a shudder of tension shivered through her. The moment of no return. Before she could grapple with it and overthink it, Arthur started to push in. His hands were vise like on her hips, pulling her back on himself. Inch by inch he filled her, slow but steady. He was large, larger than she expected and she was very tight despite his ministrations. A familiar burn ran through her as she tensed and stilled herself to minimize the pain. He didn't stop until he was fully sheathed. A moment of pause followed as he groaned into her ear. The grip on her hips softened and fingers traveled back up to her breasts again to caress and soothe her discomfort.

Savigne swallowed and willed herself to relax, breathing through her nose. A wet kiss on her neck and a whisper she couldn't decipher over the wild thumping of her heart. Then his right hand enveloped her wrist and tugged to release the palm on her mouth before he guided it to rest against the tree again. His hand danced over her arm, down a breast before settling on her stomach. He pulled out and despite how wet she was, she gasped with the delectable friction while he hissed in surprise at how tight she was. Then he pressed forward again, keeping her flush against himself as he rocked in and out of her with an easy pace, one hand steady on her hip, the other splayed  on her stomach.

With each buck, the pain diminished and the tsunami on the horizon grew. She closed her eyes, as her head lolled. Her entire existence became the building pleasure down there and everything else blurred out of focus. She didn't care that it was a man she barely knew who was pleasuring her, she didn't care that she was copulating in a dark forest like some animal, she didn't care what this would look like in the stark light of the following morning. All that was brushed aside, dwarfed by her primal need. The world shrank down to a needlepoint; to his searing grasp, the panting in her ear, his velvety, hard cock brushing against a spot in her that forced moans and whimpers from her lips, the sweat cooling on her chest, the heat of the flush on her face, his mouth suckling her earlobe.

More, she thought and as if he had heard her, Arthur started to move harder and faster. Her moans grew in tenor and the tremor of his growls danced on her back. Her spine bowed back and her head fell on his shoulder again. The hand on her hips immediately draped itself over her collarbone to pull her closer into his chest. His breathing was hot and fast and she could tell by the urgency of his pace that his tether of self-control had slipped, too.

His right hand spidered down her stomach and touched her folds again and she jolted into that contact. He found her bud and started a slow, torturous massage and her eyes rolled back in her head as she cried out. He was pounding in and out of her with abandon now and Savigne started to writhe, trying to find leverage as her hands shot up to cling to his forearm. Closer and closer she swirled. The wave loomed over her, majestic and terrifying and she sailed towards it with the irresistible need to crest it. In ecstasy she squirmed, trying to move against him, all pride and reluctance burnt away.

Then, one more push deep inside her, a last slap against her clammy skin and her mind stuttered. A hoarse cry flew from her lips as her entire body erupted in pleasure so sharp, it trembled her legs and curled her toes.

He hissed a sharp curse when she clamped hard around him, and started to smack against her with increasingly desperate ferocity. Moments later he froze, choked out a long groan and she felt the spurt of heat when he released inside her.

They stood there, tangled, hot and breathless for several minutes as the fog in her head dissipated and blew away. Her eyelids fluttered but she didn't move, trapped safely in his embrace. She felt her muscles continue to pulse around him, milking him and he moaned into her ear before he placed his mouth to the juncture between her ear and her neck. Neither of them stirred, dazed from the force of their orgasm as they hung on to each other.

Eventually she peeled back her fingers from his forearm and braced against the tree again and he took that as a cue to place both hands on her waist again, his grip light and gentle. His forehead was on the back of her head, his hot breath a waterfall on her nape. He held her like this for another minute while she felt his warm cum drizzle down her wobbly legs. Finally he slowly pulled back and out of her and stepped away. A wave of cool air washed over her sweat covered back.

Her face flushed a deeper red as blood began surging back to her brain again. Now that the wave was crested and the act was done, they were reduced to two strangers in a forest again. She crossed her arms on her breasts by instinct, even though her back was still turned to him. Arthur's hands dropped from her hips and she stumbled forward to lean against the tree to put distance between them and to keep herself upright.

The fact that she was standing completely naked in front of him now brought an immense sense of shame and she bent down to gather her clothes and hastily get dressed without looking up. He was silent behind her as she slid up her bloomers and quickly donned her chemise, almost ripping it in her haste to pull it over her head.

Several moments passed.

"Sorry. Meant to...pull out." The hint of discomfort in his voice was new and hard to miss.

Savigne didn't respond. She was afraid her voice would break. She merely offered a sharp shake of her head and pulled up her skirt, her fingers fumbling to tie a simple knot. She hoped he would go away and leave her alone, but of course she wasn't so lucky.

“Can take you to a doctor…" he suggested. He sounded different – tired and spent.

“It’s fine,” she mumbled, fingers fighting with the buttons of her shirt.

“Ain’t a prob-”

“I won’t get pregnant,” was her harsh cutoff. She took a shuddering breath. “I can’t get pregnant. It’s fine.”

He was silent after that and when she finally looked up, was simply standing there, tucked in and buttoned up, his gun belt at hand. The tension that was emanating from him earlier was gone. Her gaze crawled up to his face, expecting a devastating and humiliating smug grin, but it wasn’t there and for the first time he was the one to look away. She stood rooted, now fully dressed, biting her lip, unsure how to proceed. There was a bristling need in her to say something sharp and callous, something that would help her regain control and the vestiges of her pride, but nothing came to mind.

“You should go,” she hugged herself.

Arthur wiped his palm over his beard and looked into the depths of the forest. “I’ll take you back.”

“No need. I can find my own way back. Please go.”

This of course was a blatant lie. Savigne got lost regularly in Saint Denis despite having worked there for years now, so finding the camp through this dark forest was going to require a small miracle. But it didn’t matter because she didn’t want to spend another minute with him. The longer he was here, the more the deed solidified into reality. But if he went away, she could scrub it out of existence, wipe it off like a stain on a counter top.

If he sensed her annoyance, he ignored it. “I’ll take you back,” was the simple repetition.

“I said…” she started, then threw up her arms in frustration. “Forget it! I’m done doing what you want.”

She picked a random direction and stomped by him. 

“This way,” he said calmly before she could get far. When she glanced over a shoulder, he took a few steps in the opposite direction and paused for her to follow.

She retrieved her steps and brushed by him to head that way.

To his credit, Arthur didn’t say anything and quietly followed.

Her mind churned with the echoes of what had just transpired. That feeling of being taken, of being wanted – no, needed - she just couldn’t look away from it. His large hands on her, demanding her pleasure. For a tryst between strangers, it had been bizarrely, inexplicably, frustratingly intimate and passionate. How is this possible, she thought as she stepped over roots and walked around trees in the dim moonlight winking through the canopy. Why had it been it so intense, so captivating? She neither knew, nor liked this man. And yet, she had thoroughly enjoyed being fucked by him against a tree. Where was her outrage, her disgust, her shock? She should be swinging around to deliver a well deserved slap. She should be hiccuping and crying in righteous fury.

And yet, she did neither. 

She stumbled several times, getting hooked on tree roots and rocks. Arthur’s hand shot out every time to steady her with eerie speed and accuracy. But the hands that had touched her so sensuously and intimately before felt cautious and apologetic now - only lingering on an arm or shoulder long enough to to break her fall and then swiftly, almost apologetically releasing her when she found her balance again.

Within minutes the muffled chatter of the camp drifted their way and before she could marvel how much shorter the return trip felt, they reached the treeline. She paused and blinked owlishly at the brightness of the campfire in the distance. She heard Karen’s hooting and a tinkle of laughter. He stood behind her, calm and patient; a very different man than the one who had dragged her into the gloomy forest no more than half an hour ago.

She veered towards her tent and kept to the treeline to remain hidden and didn’t look back and didn’t stop until she reached it. She crawled in, hastily closed the flap, then just sat there for a long time, trying to dampen the thundering of her heart.

Her thighs were still wet and an achy heat was pulsing between her legs.

She closed her eyes and he was behind her, pressed against her, in her, like sunspots burnt into her retina.

Her fingers shook as she started to undress to clean up and she felt his lips against her neck and his tongue on her ear.

It’s done. It was nothing. It will never happen again. Sleep and forget.

But the ghost imprint of his palms on her breasts and his fingers on her folds wouldn’t lift even after she thoroughly and repeatedly wiped herself clean, and the weight of his eyes brushed her back as she put on a clean clothes, and his phantom moan echoed in her ears long after she settled on her bedroll.

Chapter Text

Arthur gazed into the fire and took another sip from the bottle. His tent was set, his dinner eaten, his muscles tired from riding all day, but sleep would not come. Dutch had needed someone to do reconnaissance for a job and he had practically jumped at the opportunity to get away. The camp felt too close now, too stifling, too small. Relief had washed over him when it had disappeared around the bend as he rode out.

Now here he was, camping for the fifth night under the stars.

And he couldn’t get her out of his head.

Again.

He had believed his fixation with Savigne temporary, a silly thing born from a mistake, the mistake of strong-arming an indecent compromise from her just to kick her down a few pegs. That cursed promise - the simple blunder of a drunk, proud man with a bone to pick - had morphed into a baffling temptation over the weeks. Relentlessly nagging him, taunting him, daring him, teasing him. It grew and swelled and fattened like a leech latched on his gut, refusing to be ignored, refusing rejection, refusing good sense and slowly flooding every corner of his mind. He had told himself he would never do it, had told himself that not collecting was the worse punishment because the blade hanging over her head, the uneasiness that he could ask at any time was exactly what she deserved.

Well, telling yourself something and doing it were entirely different things.

The day came when he drank just a little too much, sour about Dutch, sour about John, sour about Blackwater and before he knew it, he was in the middle of another bar fight. To be fair, he had sort of put himself there and wasn’t complaining because he needed to punch someone and there were plenty of people around that needed punching. So he had punched them until they couldn’t get up again and had walked away with their blood on his shirt. However, on the way back to camp he then ran into O’Driscolls who recognized him and the anger he thought he had sated with punches just exploded in him like a forest fire. Bullets were exchanged but not too many and not for long, and then he was back on his way to camp, but unfortunately for him, the fire in him was roaring now, hot, searing and hungry. He rode into camp with an itch between his shoulder blades he just couldn’t reach. He beelined for his tent to huff about it in solitude, half hoping nobody would put him in a fouler mood and half hoping somebody would. And as he sat on his cot, frustrated and angry, he heard the approaching horse and in his gut he knew it was Savigne. Maybe by instinct, maybe because it was her usual arrival time, or maybe he had been more focused on her comings and goings than he would care to admit, but he knew it was her and in that moment he also knew without a shadow of doubt that he would collect.

Whatever sense tried to whisper objections in his ear was promptly pushed aside. He wanted it. He deserved it. He had earned it. Indecent or not, an offer was made and an offer was accepted. Why should he care about the morality of the act? She could have gone to the sheriff (good luck with that, he thought, bitterly amused. That man wasn't going to drop his feet from his desk and spoil his Sunday hunting for horse thieves), she could have bought another horse, she could have run to the saloon and waved whatever money she had in the air to find someone else (since she was so god damn eager to wave it in his face), but she hadn't, had she?

A better man would have done it for free. For the kindness of it, for the simple act of decency. But not Arthur Morgan.

How unfortunate for her.

He had sprung to his feet, still twitching with anger and restlessness and had strode over, comfortable in the cover of the dark that he wouldn’t be noticed by others as they sat singing and chatting around the campfire.

Punching drunk men had only riled him up more.

Killing O’Driscolls had only fanned the flames.

But there was one more thing to try, one ace left in his hand to play, and by god he would play it, because she had put it there. 

So he had collected and that should have been the end of it. It certainly had been the end of his foul mood and his raging ire.

He wiped his hands over his face, blindsided by the fallout.

Because he couldn’t get her out of his head.

It was as if she had infected him with a disease. He fell asleep thinking of her and jerked up from dreams of fucking her, startled and frustrated and finding himself painfully hard. He tried to relieve himself with thoughts of her polar opposite – a woman impish and warm and eager, but it did nothing for him and every night he eventually relented by circling back to her instead, just to get it over with. As soon as he allowed himself to see her underneath him, writhing with pleasure as he rocked into her, crushing her moans with his lips while her nails dug into his back, his cock obliged greedily and relief came. He told himself that it was the last time. That tomorrow he would have a dreamless night. That even if he didn’t, he would think of someone else, anyone else. To no avail.

The days passed like a fever dream and Arthur drifted around, stuck between wanting to stay gone and wanting to ride back to camp. He flitted between desiring her and hating her. He wanted to kiss her and he wanted to hurt her. 

He tried occupying himself with all manner of things, obsessively cleaning his guns, cleaning his gear, caring for his horse, hunting, trapping, skinning, cooking and drawing in his journal. But to his chagrin, she always found a way into his thoughts; the more mundane the tasks became, the harder it became to shut her out. Insidiously, like a god damn pest she bloomed in his mind while he was focused on the task at hand. She sighed into his ear when he was squinting through the lens of his rifle. A hand danced on his shoulder when was stroking the fire. Her breasts pressed against his back when he was lying on his bedroll.

He took another sip, irritated.

It was just fucking. Jesus, you'd think you'd never done it before, he thought grimly.

To be blunt, he never had fucked a proper city girl before, so there was that. Those were usually not within his circle of engagement, after all. Even when he hung around towns and cities, it was never long enough to ease into a relationship and frankly, they weren't worth the trouble. Not exactly the type to jump into your bedroll, they wanted to be wined and dined and courted. Preferably by a fancy man, a well spoken man with a job, not a man like him. That whole dance of trailing their clues and picking up their dropped handkerchiefs was not exactly his cup of tea. Ten times easier to go to a saloon and spend money on a woman who at least pretended to like you. 

The entire welling point of this mess had been her haughty pride and attitude. But when the moment came, she hadn't been nearly as rigid and stuck up as he had expected her to be. She certainly had a spark and...well...a nice body. Petite, firm and taut but not boyish, with a pleasant slope of hips and clean, perfect skin and nice breasts. She had been so very responsive to his touch. And so delectably more honest than any woman in a saloon. He had enjoyed breaking her resolve and making her squirm and moan. A small, soft thing, rebellious and proud enough to make the taming enjoyable. The way her nails had dug into his forearm and her hips had slapped back into him and she had whimpered when-

His trail of thinking hardened his cock and he became cross again.

Christ, just stop embarrassing yerself. 

He was running out of excuses and time. Sooner or later he would have to return and face her. And with any luck, the whole thing would just become another mundane memory and he could go just back to brooding about other, more important things again. Maybe staying away was what made it worse. Maybe it glorified her, elevated her into something she wasn’t and as soon as he saw her darting timidly around camp again, she’d lose her appeal and he would wonder why he’d been so hung up over the whole thing in the first place.

He corked the bottle and dropped it between his feet. Yer too old for this nonsense.

When he was younger he had been hot and needy all the time, but now it was just embarrassing. A woman was the last thing he should be thinking about among all the mess that was going on with the gang. If this childish obsession didn’t die out, he would seek to quench his thirst elsewhere. He didn’t like the idea of paying for it because he didn’t enjoy it nearly as much, but it would have to do because this Savigne thing was done and over.

“Woman, you hear what I said?”

Savigne jumped and mashed the potatoes in the pot with renewed vigor. “I heard what you said god damn it, I’m on it!”

“What’s goin’ on with you?”

Red blotches bloomed on her cheeks as she mashed like a machine, hoping the steam in the kitchen would take the blame. “Nothing! What do you mean?”

“Don’ know where yer head is but it ain’t here,” Luther gave her the side eye.

“God, we all have off days, it’s not illegal,” she mumbled into the potatoes. She wiped her hands and reached for the warm cream, slowly adding it to the pot as she whisked.

“Days? Been almost a week since yer acting like you chewed a whole box of cocaine gum. What’s eatin’ at ya?”

Savigne kept whisking.

“Is it Jerry?”

“Who the hell is Jerry?”

“That boy, left you flowers few weeks ago?”

“Oh. No, haven’t seen him. I think he moved away.”

“You stressed ‘bout this Antoine’s thing?”

“Please. I’m passing that with flying colors.”

Luther gave her a long look. “Ya know, youse always chatty when you got nothing to say and when ya do, you clamp up like an’oyster.”

“Uh-huh.”

“See here,” Luther said, plucking out his cigarette, giving her a more thorough inspection, “not talkin’ back at me and all…yer off, Savigne.”

Savigne just pursed her lips and reached for the butter. All she needed was some alone time to sit there and think and move things around in her head and the universe was determined not to give it to her. People talking to her on the job, people talking to her on her break, people talking about talking after the shift… Had there always been this much talking or was it new? Even people in camp wanted nothing but talking. Soon as she got away from one of them, another was flapping their gums. It was exhausting and frustrating and drove her wild. 

It had been five days and she was at her wits’ end. Initially she had managed to convince herself that she absolutely hated Arthur and had even fantasized about shooting him. She thought about those horse thieves who had instigated this entire mess and she thought about Arthur saying "'M collectin'," over his shoulder and she decided she needed a weapon. She had never lived outside a city, but her current situation was undeniable proof that she had some catching up to do. So she had bought a gun and had made time for target practice every day on the way back to camp. But after hours of practice and hundreds of wasted bullets, she had been appalled by her lack of progress and had slunk back into camp and into her bed. And then she found herself fantasizing and hoping that he would come and drag her out back into the forest and fuck her again.

A part of her was disgusted with herself. All those years of discipline and building herself up, steeling her mind, strengthening her resolve, believing herself to be strong and independent…only to melt at the altar of lust for a man she didn’t even like.

In her desperation to understand why she couldn’t get a grip, she had even debated leaving the camp. But that line of thinking was almost immediately dismissed. Running away like a little girl because some guy had reduced her to a simpering mess of moans was a ridiculous decision and it would do nothing to help her regain her pride. Besides, she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. He probably hoped she would, that bastard.

She mixed in some salt and absent-mindedly tasted the puree.

He was blessedly away anyway and hopefully he’d stay gone for a long time. If she was lucky, by the time he returned Savigne would be well over something as insubstantial as a one night tryst.

“Mashed potatoes done,” she sighed, moving over to prepare the plates.

Luther was still looking at her. “So you gonna keep yer secrets then?”

“I’m gonna keep mah secrets,” she emulated his accent. “How ‘bout them vegetables?”

Savigne rode into camp, exhausted. Exhausted from work, from bickering with Luther, from her mind refusing to cooperate throughout the whole day and exhausted from not hitting a single bottle after an hour of target practice. To be honest, it was incomprehensible how shooting was this hard. People in camp did it regularly, people all over the country were popping off guns and hitting each other all day every day. She had conquered far more difficult tasks with less effort and yet, this defied her.

She slid off Cricket and gave him a stalk of celery and that was when she noticed Frost. Her heart did a flip and her hands froze.

Arthur was back.

A sense of dread blossomed in her chest and with it, undeniable excitement. For fucks sake! Just keep it together, remember you’re a grownass woman. She petted Cricket and ignored her trembling hands and then set off a fast pace to her tent. The camp was relatively quiet today and she didn’t expect to run into anyone. Until she collided with Charles’ back.

“I’m sorry!” she gasped as he turned around. “I wasn’t looking.”

“No worries,” Charles smiled. “You ok?”

“What? Sure! I-I mean why wouldn’t I be?” she stammered, taken aback.

He gave her a long look. “Just asking. I noticed that you’ve been arriving later than usual these days.”

“Oh,” she exhaled a sigh of relief and wiped the hair off her brow. “I’m just practicing my shooting.”

“Really?” His eyebrow shot up and he grinned, compelling her to grin in return. “How’s that coming along?”

“Not very well.” She clicked her tongue. “Honestly I thought it would be easier than it is.”

“Most things are like that, aren’t they?” he said softly. “Need help?”

She blinked, surprised. “Well I…I mean I wouldn’t want to…impose,” was her cautious answer.

“Wouldn’t ask if you would be imposing. Can I see your gun?”

She fumbled with her satchel to retrieve it, careful to keep her finger off the trigger and handed it over. He took it and turned it about, inspecting the muzzle.

“I didn’t know what to buy. Seller at the store recommended it.”

“It’s fine if you want to shoot someone up close,” he said, weighing the stock, “which is what you want. Less chance of missing. I assume that’s why you want it, self-defense?”

“Oh yes,” Savigne nodded sagely, “self-defense.” As in killing a pest. “Should have learned it a long time ago, but I hardly stepped out of a city before so I didn’t really need to.”

“I can show you a few things tomorrow if you want. Though I have to admit, if you want the real deal, you’re better off talking to John or Arthur. They’re the best shots in camp. I’m more of a bow and arrows guy.”

At the mention of his name she swallowed a lump in her throat and fought to keep the blush off her face. Why she had a tendency to blush like a god damn teenager now whenever his name came up, was an entirely different issue altogether. “No, that’s fine. I mean I’d be happy if you can help. I don’t know those guys…too well…” she trailed off.

“They’re good people,” Charles said and she forced an expression of disinterest on her face when he looked up. “But I know a little, too. Tomorrow?”

“I’d really appreciate it!” she exhaled, suddenly happy that she had found a solution to one problem at least.

“We can practice here, just out of camp, no need to go far. Call on me when you return.”

She smiled and stuffed the gun back into her satchel. “I will!”

Her spirits rose as she realized that Charles had managed to distract her from the endlessly churning whirlpool she had been caught in for days – even if for just a moment. There was hope at the end of the tunnel to this madness. She walked the rest of the way to her tent calmer and felt better than she had the whole week.

The next day Arthur was sitting on his cot, enjoying the breeze that was flowing through his tent with the flaps open and drawing in his journal in the warmth of the late summer afternoon when Savigne returned to camp. He knew it was her, whether by the gait of Cricket or just pure instinct, he couldn’t say, and he forced his hand to continue with the motions, denying himself the compulsion to look up. He had woken up from another wet dream last night and was in no mood to feed that beast again. She would just run off to her tent anyway and that at least kept her out of his eyesight.

You haven't seen her in five days. Aren't you curious? He snorted to himself and stubbornly focused on the eagle he was trying to draw, his pencil carving deep lines into the page. But then minutes later he heard her voice, speaking and laughing and his head jerked up in surprise despite himself.

He saw her leisurely stroll off with Charles, their conversation too distant to make out words. There was a smile on her face when she looked at him, a version of which she had only granted him once, in Valentine, when he had returned Cricket to her. It was given so freely now to someone else. He clenched his jaw and forced himself to focus back on his journal but his eyes snapped back up to them on their own accord as they glided out of his field of vision. She looked everything she never did in his presence – relaxed, engaged and warm.

A strange feeling came over him. Something primal and basic that he sensed by instinct like a blur in the corner of his eye. Something that vexed him and made him uneasy - a fuzzy, shapeless presence he hadn't sensed in a long time.

Look at me, it teased and he shied away from doing so, vexed and uneasy.

His pencil tore the page and he stilled his hand. He closed his journal with a huff and threw it on the crate next to his bed.

You seem bothered. Look at me and you will know why. 

He didn't want to know why. He didn't want to know anything about this whole business. She was a woman he had fucked in the woods, soon to be left behind by the gang, that's it, the end. There was a whole host of other issues that he should be focused on. The demise of his friends in Blackwater. The walls that were closing in on them. How helpless he felt standing between Dutch and all these people who now whispered among themselves with fostered mistrust and doubts. Some of which had taken root even in his own heart. How tired and old he felt in the rare sober moments when the trajectory of his choices and his life amounted to so very little. Thirty six years under the sun and nothing to show for it but a chest full of dilapidated clothes, worn guns and a liver that seemed to be chugging along out of pure spite. 

He lied back on his cot and slid his gambler hat over his eyes. He dared not speak his fears and his doubts, but he could sense them growing in the dark like mushrooms. Purpose was like a mirage now, always in the distance, always spurring hope. But as soon as he arrived, it lifted and disappeared only to wink back into existence somewhere else. For so many people purpose was so easy, so given. It used to be for him, too. Not anymore. Now more and more he was losing the will to chase it, expecting it to dissolve as soon as he arrived and it never disappointed him. Increasingly, he rode through towns and cities - the centers of the 'civilization' that he used to find so contemptuous - and he felt like an overgrown boy. Like he was play acting a part that was now old and frayed and silly. The world was changing around them but not Arthur Morgan. Arthur Morgan was stuck where he was like a stick in mud. 

"We're free," Dutch insisted. "There is nothing better to be."

Were they, though?

Free to run and hide, that was for sure. Free to load up their wagons and drive to a new spot and do the same thing over and over again. On days he felt particularly gloomy, he thought of themselves as a circus. Rolling up their wagons from one town to the next and putting on the same droll show. Frozen in time, repetitive and outdated. Sometimes the ensemble changed - they lost some people and they gained others. But the main cast was the same. And on those particular nights where things seemed darker than usual, he came to the verge of admitting the unthinkable: he was tired of it. Bored. What used to be fun was dull now. Repetitive. Pointless. 

It was like blasphemy, admitting to this and soured his mood even further. Because in light of this admission, his life seemed pointless. A dust speck that came and went. Inconspicuous and indistinct. Even seeds grew into something. Arthur Morgan never would. He was barren and lifeless, like dust or driftwood. A monument of the past, frozen in amber like a photo on a wall. Outlaw. Cowboy. Criminal. Fugitive. Outcast.

But no husband and no father. The first never to be and the latter lost forever.

“You know, you’re not half bad.” He received a withering look for that but remained unfazed. “No, really. You’re just…too tense.”

“How do you mean?”

“You hold the gun like you fear it. And I saw you close your eyes before you pull the trigger.”

“It’s just a reflex,” she mumbled, aiming again and trying to focus on keeping her eyes open.      

“Can’t close your eyes before you shoot, Savigne.”

“I know,” she huffed and pulled the trigger. The bottle just stared back at her. “This is going to sound silly, but these things scare me.”

“It’s not silly. They’re tools to kill. Here,” he said, stalking to stand behind her. His hands lightly folded over hers. “You’re gripping it like it’s a live snake you’re afraid to let go off. You have to hold it firm, but not clutch at it.”

She slightly released her grip. “Like this?”

“Looser. Just loose enough where you know it won’t jump out of your hands.”

She forced herself to loosen her fingers a little more.

“Better. Now try again, but don’t close your eyes.”

She pulled the trigger three times and the third one hit a bottle.

“Well done!” Charles clapped her shoulder.

“It wasn’t the one I was aiming for,” Savigne snorted.

He shook his head in amusement, then glanced up at the darkening sky. “I think we're good for today. Let’s head back.”

Twilight descended around them as they trudged through the knee length grass and the pollen that danced in the air. She rolled her shoulders, happy for the lack of stiffness. Shooting at least was a good way to let off steam.

“It will take time,” Charles soothed to lift her mood. “All things worth doing, do.” And when that didn’t quit her brooding: “You cook, right? In Saint Denis?”

“Yes. At a steakhouse. It’s nothing fancy. But...” she sighed, “...I’m working to be accepted at this fancy place. Have you ever heard of Antoine’s?”

“Can’t say I have.”

“It’s called ‘fine dining’. Food for posh folks.”

“What’s that like?”

She gave it a thought. “It’s food for enjoyment, not nourishment.”

Charles pondered that for a minute and she walked next to him, silent. She liked Charles. A lot of the men in the gang made her nervous, but not him. He had a quiet, humble grace about him; the embodiment of patience and calm.

“Sounds nice,” he said finally.

“It does, doesn’t it? I think it’s nice to have these things in life that you don’t need, but want, you know? Like, not everything is about just bare necessities. I like that.”

He hummed then fell silent again. Then: “To be honest, I don’t know much what that’s like.”

“Me neither,” she confessed. “My folks were dirt poor and died when I was a child. I grew up an orphan. But these things, these fine things, I like them because they’re fine. Also, I love good food.” She eyed the camp as they crested the last hill. “I like cooking for folks. It makes them happy and that makes me happy.” she concluded with a shrug.

“Now, that I understand.” He said and gently squeezed her shoulder. “Good night.”

“Good night,” she smiled back and watched him walk away towards the fire. Her gaze swept the camp and collided with Arthur’s who had that unapologetic stare in his eyes again. She swallowed and twitched a little, suddenly unsure where she should put her arms and legs. This was the first time they chanced on one another since that night. And despite her expectations that it wouldn't be, it felt awkward.

Wouldn't be if he wasn't looking at me like he means to eat me, she thought sourly, shifting on her feet.

A flutter ran through her stomach and she looked away, turned around and shuffled off in the opposite direction, towards her tent.

By the time she ducked in and closed the flap, her heart was drumming. She had hoped that whatever had been lit that night would have died out by now. But the embers were there and glowed up like a fresh gust of air was blown on them.

Again she thought of the warmth of him on her back, of his flesh inside her and for the next few minutes neurotically devolved into making sure the books and clothes in her tent were perfectly folded and aligned. 

I have to keep my distance, she thought grimly. That's all I have to do - just avoid him. She had done it for months without even giving it thought, so it shouldn't be too hard. 

Would be easier if he didn't look so god damn fine.

"Stop it," she said into the silence of the tent. "He is a despicable man who used you."

The sex was divine. 

"So what? It was just sex. Keep your distance and it will fade.” she hissed to herself and pulled up her knees, then wound her arms around them. Outside, the camp stirred for the evening and she sat listening to the clanking of pots and dishes and the tinkling of laughter and the distant snorting of horses. It worked. For a while. 

Wonder what he keeps writing in that journal. 

"God!" she sputtered and started to undress to go to bed.

Now that he's back, maybe he'll come by tonight.

The notion stilled the fingers on her shirt buttons and she was half embarrassed, half astonished by the realization that she didn't know what her reaction would be if he did.

Chapter Text

Arthur picked up the deer he had just shot and loaded it on his horse. He wiped his gloves on the carcass to get rid of the excess blood and looked at the vista, panting a little with the effort. The sun was low in the sky and a golden light was kissing the landscape before him. He liked this part of the country – open, bright and abundant and his heart twitched when he heard the train hooting in the distance. All that civilization creeping in, relentless and seemingly unstoppable.

He rolled his shoulders and felt sweat trickling down his back. Hard work grounded him because it kept his mind busy and stalled dark thoughts. Eventually he climbed up the saddle, clucked his tongue to lead Frost back to camp, relishing the solitude and the quiet. Not too many in the gang shared his affinity with nature. Dutch sure complained about civilization day in, day out, but his disdain was only skin deep. The man liked his fancy clothes and his modern toys and his expensive cigars. Not him. He would take the tranquility and the fresh air of the countryside any day over the reeking, overcrowded streets of a city. There was profound peace here that soothed his heart and straightened his head and he thoroughly enjoyed it.

Well, unfortunately he didn’t get to enjoy it for long as Cricket thundered by, overtaking him. Savigne sat upright in her saddle and flew by without a glance and his mood was immediately spoiled. That pride, that haughtiness is what had started this nasty business in the first place and now it was back, merely weeks after… he shied away from that thought. Wouldn’t do to make himself uncomfortable in his trousers again this close to camp. He spat to the side, set his jaw and gave Frost a gentle kick to spur him on.

His mood didn’t improve when he arrived minutes after her and found her head to head with Charles again as she chattered on about her day. She had never chattered with anyone all the time she had been part of the camp, but now she sought out Charles like a damn tick sought out deer.

He jumped from his saddle and shouldered the deer again, annoyed that he was lugging around carcass while the rest of the gang was just floundering in their tents, idling about and reaping the benefits of the long summer days. He trudged through camp and dumped it on Pearson’s table with a smack loud enough to startle the fat man.

“Mr. Morgan, thank y-“

“Welcome” he grunted before he spun to march to the haystacks.

Out of the corner of his eye he watched them stroll towards the shooting grounds, increasingly incensed. Charles spending so much time with her when she clearly couldn’t shoot the broad side of a barn was outrageous. He should have been hunting the damn deer but no, it had to be Arthur Morgan. Because Charles was too busy dilly-dallying and playing white knight to someone who wasn't even part of the gang.

He flung the bale of hay at Frost’s feet and dismissed the horse’s startled neigh in response.

After that he stalked to the ledger, determined to find out what kind of pathetic amounts folks had put in there this past week so he knew which ears to twist, when Hosea called out to him and interrupted his march.

“Come sit with me.” He patted the seat next to him. “Spoil an old man.”

“Now why would I bother?” Arthur huffed but sat down anyway.

“Haven’t spoken to you in weeks. Why so dour?”

“I ain’t dour,” Arthur mumbled, fishing for a cigarette. Hosea gave him a long look which he ignored. “I ain’t,” he repeated after a long silence.

“If you say so,” the older man conceded. “There’s a job in Valentine I think that might work for us...”

“Course there is,” Arthur clapped back before Hosea could elaborate.

“Excuse me?”

He sobered a little at his own shortness and pivoted: “All I’m sayin is, I feel like we just threadin’ water. All these damn jobs and we still got Pinkertons breathin’ down our neck and we still sleep in tents. Reckon I was hoping for more at this point.”

“Well,” Hosea sighed, “that’s fair. I’m getting a little old for this life myself to be honest.”

Arthur grunted in agreement and they sat in silence as the minutes ticked by.

“And this is not what I envisioned for you either, dear boy.” Hosea picked it back up at long last. “You should be out there with a woman, building your own house by now.”

He couldn't help the dark chuckle that fell from his lips and blew a gale of smoke through his nose. “Don’ think that’s in the cards for me, Hosea.”

His mentor sighed and patted Arthur on the knee. “Not too late yet!”

“Yeah," was his grumble of a retort, "'M sure Mary will write any day now."

"Why do you say that?"

He shrugged and kicked the ash under his boots. "She a widow now apparently. Asked for a favor few weeks ago. Might get bored and ask for more."

Hosea blinked at him, more perturbed by the news than Arthur had expected. "The hell she need a favor from you?"

"I ain't that useless, Christ!"

“That’s not what I meant. You know I don’t like Mary.” He threw up his hands when the younger man gave him a look. “She's a fine lady, but you've been down that road, Arthur. What’s done is done. Stop retracing your steps, look ahead.”

Arthur huffed to himself, annoyed with these useless ‘life lessons’. He didn’t share Hosea’s optimism. Right about now, the ledger of his life looked heavy on the loss and mighty thin on the gains. He felt rudderless and alone. Hosea was getting old, Dutch was getting…well, something, and a future where he wasn’t doing….this…seemed as likely as a fairy tale. The gang was family to him but Hosea was right – at times he felt like flying out of the nest and never coming back.

He was right about Mary, too. Dimly he wondered what it was with him and women who looked at him over their nose. The notion brought back the idea of Savigne and his mood, temporarily softened by the distraction of chatting, darkened again. 

Suddenly, as if there was a blinking sign over his head that Hosea could read, the old man said: “On the bright side, we’ve been sitting here a good while and you haven’t complained about Savigne yet.”

It took tremendous willpower to choke back the cough from the smoke he was inhaling and his eyes watered from the effort. “What d’ya mean?” was his raspy growl, as he met Hosea’s eyes.

“Nothing," was the prim response. "You always complain about her given enough time. Figured you two…dunno…made nice.”

Made nice. You could say that, he thought darkly. We made something, alright. Made a mess.

“Don' always complain. I barely think of her."

Hosea hummed, scratching his neck.

"'Sides," he added, irked, "got bigger things on my mind.” His eyes flitted towards the sound of bullets in the distance.

“Like what, son?” Hosea watched him shrug, crush the cigarette under his heel and prodded: “You know you can talk to me.”

“Bout what?”

“Anything. Important things preferably. Don’t got much time left for bullshit when you get older.”

Arthur grunted dismissively. Sure, a part of him wanted to tell Hosea how he had messed up. How he had fucked Savigne and now - to put it bluntly - she was fucking him. But he knew he wouldn’t do it with a gun to his head. 

“I just…feel like we lost our purpose, is all,” he offered instead, steering the conversation away from that quagmire.

“You’re not wrong. This life…you owe it to yourself at least to try to leave it. Maybe you can, maybe you can’t. But you gotta try. There’s more to things than just this” the older man waved his hand over the camp.

“Yeah well, still need money for all that.”

“Don’t need that much money. People make do with a lot less than what we got our hands on over the years. You can hunt for yourself, you can defend yourself. You just need a home.”

“And what, farm beans?” he snorted.

“Do whatever. Just need good company, the rest is just a job. Nothing wrong with a job. Scamming folk is a job. So is herding cattle. Or training horses. A job’s a job.”

When Arthur didn’t respond, he continued: “I know Dutch likes to think different, but this here is for young folks. Now, I’m obviously already too old myself but you aren’t that young anymore, either. With or without the Pinkertons, this job will get heavy on you, mark my words.”

It had gotten darker and Arthur picked up Savigne’s babbling, getting closer to camp. He scratched his beard, feeling exasperated. He rose, mumbled a “later” and headed for his tent. He didn’t know what he needed but what he didn’t need was to watch that duo stroll back to camp, thick as thieves.  

Savigne felt the hand close over her mouth and she jolted awake. She reflexively gripped the wrist that dampened her yelp of surprise and tried to dislodge it but it was plastered securely over her lips. A weight settled on her chest, dark against dark and another hand peeled off hers to pin it over her head. She had been asleep a moment ago and wasn’t completely awake yet so her heart did a painful double thud as she tried to make sense of what was happening. Her free hand groped at the dark and bunched up the fabric of clothes as a low laugh filled the tent.

“Shhhh…come now...quiet!”

In her stupor she had believed it to be Arthur. Who else would come to her tent in the cover of night? Hell, she had expected him to show up for a while now, half repulsed, half excited by the idea.

But it wasn’t Arthur.

She froze in terror when the man leaned down and it was Micah’s slurred voice that brushed against her ear shell. “That’s it. Caaallmmm down.”

Savigne swallowed and stilled. Arthur made her nervous. He had a magnetic intensity to him and he was big and burly and no doubt, prone to violence.

But she feared Micah who was a different beast entirely. The way she sometimes caught him looking at her or the other women in camp made her stomach churn. All slit eyed and leery, tongue darting to wet those ugly lips.

And now this man was in her tent, ten times stronger than her and by the looks of it, drunk. Savigne wasn’t a child, she knew what Micah wanted, what all men like Micah wanted, and a shiver of ice crept up her spine.

She made an enormous effort to relax and think. It wasn't easy when she was half asleep and half stupefied with fear, but the cogs in her head whined and slipped into motion and as they did, she was reminded of the knife she kept under her pillow. An old habit she had never gotten over and, judging by what was happening right now, a good one.

The mass of shadow over her shifted to settle on her stomach, knees pinned to her sides. She felt his hardness against her stomach and felt bile rising in her throat. She closed her eyes and tried to even her breathing, which was hard with his hand over her mouth and him sitting on her. He was heavier than he looked and stank of sweat and alcohol.

“We calm yet?” he whispered and a mist of whiskey hit her face.

She nodded quickly, resisting the urge to buck up.

He contemplated that for what felt like eternity as she swallowed down the sourness in her mouth. She couldn’t see his face but she felt him looking down at her, lying underneath him in her thin chemise and she trembled with fear and disgust. A part of her wanted to know what was going on in that head of his and another part of her absolutely didn't.

“Look at ya. Little filly. So cleaaaannnn,” Micah whispered, releasing her hand he had pinned above her head, watchful if she would throw him a punch. Savigne remained stock still. His hand traveled down her shoulder and lower, groping a breast and she whimpered despite herself, her eyes tearing up. But she held her hand where it was, above her head and retrieved the other one, shaking, to grasp the pillow.

“You gonna be quiet?”

She nodded again. Very slowly he lifted his palm from her mouth, ready to pounce back if she dared to make a sound. She bit down her lower lip in fear that she would. Tears were rolling down her cheeks but she ignored the instinct to wipe them.

“I was sittin' there all by myself and got thinkin’...” Micah drawled with reeking breath, “You and I, we ain’t well acquainted. Thinkin’ we should be. You here all lonesome, so far from camp. I could…help with that.”

His other hand grabbed her other breast and she whimpered again. His grip was hard and painful but that didn’t scare her half as bad as that hardness against her stomach.

“Ain’t nothin to it. I’ll be niiiiceee.”

Savigne closed her eyes and nodded slowly in understanding. Her mind was in a haze of terror. Micah was much bigger and stronger than her and had her at a disadvantage. She could try to scream but the camp was far and he would just muffle her and probably hurt her. Maybe hurt her enough so she wouldn’t know what he did next. The idea terrified her.

He seemed occupied so she slowly pulled her hands down, placing them at the edge of her pillow. Under her head, she felt the hard handle of the knife.

His hands traveled down her stomach and she shuddered in disgust as if two giant spiders were crawling on her body. She realized that she was breathing too fast again and would pass out if she didn’t calm down. So she re-centered herself and focused on her breath. Micah mumbled to himself and she felt a drizzle of drool hit her chest. Another wave of bile rose up in her throat and she gulped it down. He shifted a little to reposition himself, the spiders looking for the hem of her chemise that was caught under him.

“Knew you would like it,” he grunted, “They aaaalllwaaays do.”

Savigne’s right hand dug under the pillow and touched the butt of the knife as her heart set to gallop in her chest. She shifted her shoulders a tiny bit to gain a grip on the handle while her mind screamed at her that she should lie still, that he would see it and beat her senseless and then she would be raped in this very tent. Frustrated with his failure to find the hem, Micah propelled himself to his knees and then everything happened very, very quickly. Her hand grasped the handle, she pulled out the knife and without hesitation rammed it into his leg with all the strength she could muster. At the same time she lifted herself into him to unbalance him and to her own surprise, it worked. A yowl erupted from the man above her and she screamed as loud as she could before his palm swiped at her cheek. The slap was so hard, she bit her tongue and tasted copper.

But she had managed to propel him off herself. She quickly sat up and scrambled back to the other side of the tent, away from him. Her heart sank when she realized that he was between her and the open flap but she didn’t think, she just jumped and grappled him in desperation. They went down wrestling and she should have failed but lucky for her, Micah was very drunk and her leg hit the knife that was still embedded in him. She tumbled over him as he yelled in pain, and she hit her head against the tent pole as she was trying to untangle herself to get back on her feet.  She managed to pull herself out of the tent but he caught her foot and pulled her back. Savigne smacked the ground face first and for a moment, saw stars. But her body kept fighting and she kicked back in desperation, hoping to connect with something, anything. Her foot glided free of his grasp and the next moment she was stumbling off towards camp. She didn’t know if he was right behind her but her mind insisted he was, so she ran screaming towards the fire before her foot got hooked on something and she fell on her hip.

Moments later people staggered out of their tents and when she saw that the relief was so sharp, it made her muscles limp. She gave up trying to scramble up and instead sank back down, trying to breathe as a heavy darkness crept into her vision. Hands touched her and she yelped, shying away from them in panic.

“What’s going on here?” she heard Dutch roar and Tilly was right beside her with a soft “Oh my god, Savigne?”. She looked up to see Ms Grimshaw standing above her, back as straight as ever, her bun nestled in a sleeping cap.

“Micah” she croaked, panting and short of breath. The urge to speak before she would pass out propelled her on: “Micah...in...in...m-my t-t-tent.”

Someone threw a blanket on her and she clutched at it, grateful because she distantly realized she was lying half naked in the middle of the camp. A sob tumbled out of her mouth as Abigail knelt beside her, fingers ghosting at her left cheek which felt on fire.

“Son of a bitch!” Grimshaw hissed as the man in question came limping out of the dark, hands raised as if to placate them. Savigne scrambled back a little despite herself and nausea erupted in her stomach all over again.

“She stabbed me!” he yelled, sounding almost offended as he swayed on his feet, hands raised in surrender. “Bitch stabbed me for no reason!” He pointed at the knife that was still lodged in his thigh.

Savigne wanted to answer but couldn’t seem to find the breath to do so. He stepped closer, looking almost smug. “Wasn’ doin’ nothing, she invited me to her tent!”

A surreal fear grasped her heart. What if they believed him? Micah was part of the gang and Savigne was an outsider. He was a man and she was a woman. He had history with them and she didn’t. The horror of the juxtaposition went through her like a lightning strike and her eyes flitted from face to face with trepidation.

A large shadow passed over her and for a moment she thought she really was passing out. But when she heard a thud and looked up, she realized it had been Arthur who had just walked by and connected his fist with Micah’s face. The blond man flew back a few steps and landed on his ass and Savigne watched with fascination as Arthur strode over, absurdly calm, to sit on his chest just like Micah had sat on hers, swatted the other man’s flailing arms away, grabbed his shirt collar with one hand and proceeded to punch him in the face with the other. His right fist went up and down like a metronome. Crunch…crunch…crunch…crunch. She watched, mesmerized as blood splattered Arthur’s face and shirt as he sat there looking indifferent, almost bored, his jaw clenched, his back rigid. She cringed with every blow, thinking how his knuckles must hurt as bone connected with bone, but he seemed oblivious to pain.

She had seen some street fights and drunk tussles, sure, but the indifferent, apathetic violence she was witnessing now was completely alien to her and made her previous experiences look like a theater play. There was no shouting or screaming. If there was rage, it was the silent, simmering type. Soon Micah's moaning ceased and the only sound that remained was the popping of the camp fire nearby, the wet whacking of meat and the blood pulsing in her ears. 

There was a moment or two of hushed lull as he sat there beating on Micah with tunneled precision, then everyone exploded into action. Several men descended on them, gripping Arthur’s arm and shoulders, trying to pull him off. Savigne just gaped on, unable to look away as he resisted and continued to punch down. Micah had grown very quiet. His hands were limply on the ground. She couldn't see his face from here but judging by the amount of blood on Arthur's shirt, it had to be an unrecognizable mess. She wouldn’t be surprised if he was dead. Her heart fluttered. She didn't have the stomach for brutality and yet, in the face of the highest order of barbarism she had ever witnessed in her life, she strangely didn't feel squeamish or uncomfortable. Just utterly hypnotized.

This was a side to him she had heard about but never seen. She knew Arthur was a violent man, more violent maybe than anyone else in camp. People talked of him beating people to pulp in saloons and bars over petty arguments. Nobody seemed upset or embarrassed about it - quite the opposite: the way they gossiped about these things had more often than not a humorous, or even downright proud tone. He was said to have a temper too, although she had never seen that either. It was hard for her to reconcile these tales with the man she had met weeks ago in the forest, the man who had made her writhe in pleasure, or the man who sat scribbling in his journal all day. 

A part of her - the naive, innocent part - that had been lucky enough to have witnessed very little true ugliness in the world yet, shrank away from that crude, quiet ruthlessness. But at the same time she felt spellbound, compelled, captivated and unable to look away.

A feeling turned in her and for a moment she wasn't sure what it was. But then recognition dawned.

Gratitude.

Deep appreciation welled in her chest for a man who, despite what had happened weeks ago between them, didn't question that she was telling the truth, didn't believe Micah's nonsense of being invited to her tent, needed no explanations or convincing arguments. He believed her and he had no qualms to dole out judgement.

They finally managed to drag him off Micah, hanging on his arms and pushing him back to his feet. Other than his heaving chest and his rough panting, he showed no signs of being worked up whatsoever. Lenny knelt down to check on the man on the ground.

“Is he dead?” someone whispered.

“No,” Lenny said, his eyes finding Savigne and she read the unfortunately in them. “Don’t know how, but he ain’t dead yet.”

Arthur jerked his arms back and held up his hands to imply that he was done. The others stepped back, uneasy and ready to interfere if he lunged back in. But he didn’t. He took a step toward the man on the ground and looked down. She couldn’t see his expression from this angle, but his voice was clear when he spoke:

“He so much as looks at her again, 'm puttin’ a bullet in his head.” His face tilted to Dutch for a long moment, almost as if he was daring the leader to say something, to challenge his statement. But Dutch must have known Arthur well enough not to. Instead he raised his palms in placation and strolled to stand over Micah and called on Ms. Grimshaw.

Savigne watched with a slackened jaw as Arthur dismissively flicked his hands and she heard or imagined she heard droplets of blood patter the soil like rain. Then he turned and looked at her and this time she managed to hold his gaze, desperate to communicate her appreciation without words. It was only for a moment and when she blinked he was already walking back the way he came and gone in another second.

With his departure, the spell was broken. She felt hands grasping her and pulling her to her feet, then guiding her to the tent where the ladies slept. She let them. All the fight went out of her, she felt drained and wobbly on her legs. Her cheek simmered, her tongue was smarting where she had bit it and she felt a lump growing where her head had collided with the tent pole. She sobbed with heavy relief and felt like a little girl again as they sat her down, touching her arms, wiping the hair from her face and clucking around her with concern.  

She cried herself to sleep, afraid of the morning and what it would bring. Afraid that at the advent of daylight, once Micah's visage came to view and the damage was measured against her discomfort, the punishment would sound overzealous and doubts would be whispered about her truth again. Afraid that despite having done nothing, somehow she would be blamed, that she wouldn’t be believed. And mostly afraid that she would dream of Arthur Morgan again, in all his glorious fury.

Chapter Text

She rubbed Cricket's neck and buried her face in his mane, inhaling his musky scent. “We have to,” she whispered, more so to herself than him. “We have to go to work. Or mommy will be fired.”

Savigne exhaled and shuddered as she gave him his apple and watched Cricket munch on it. Getting on the saddle and riding to Saint Denis after the night she just had seemed inconceivable - an impossible mountain to scale. But somehow she had to put one foot in front of the other and do it anyway, because not showing up for work without advance notice was a major offense and she wasn’t sure if Mr. Harrison liked her enough to overlook it. If she lost her job she would have to hunt for a new one and the uncertainty could stretch for days - weeks even. Her savings were for the cabin and she was reluctant to touch them. Even if she relented and did, they would only last so long.

She let out a long breath through her nose and tried to find a better angle. Getting away from camp and the pitiful looks that were cast her way when they thought she wasn't looking was definitely a plus, so there was that.

“Going to work, miss?” She flinched a little when she heard Dutch behind her. Either she was really distracted lately or everyone in this camp moved about like ghosts.

“I am,” she lobed back over her shoulder.

Another dangerous man. Dangerous in yet a different way. The camp was full of them, wasn't it? Each distinctly different and yet each menacing. Arthur was a brute. Micah was a pest. Dutch...Dutch was the magnetic, charismatic leader who everyone flocked around and followed without hesitation.  

He reminded her of this preacher that would travel through their town when she was a girl at the orphanage. Always talking big words, his sermons fiery and grandiose, hands drawing sharp gestures in the air, eyes dark, cunning and beady.

Her fate here rested between his lips, she knew that, and she also knew that he protected Micah. So his sudden rare appearance behind her didn’t bode well.

He stepped to stand across from her, on Cricket’s other side, and looked at her for a long moment. Savigne was not in the mood to be cowed, so she looked right back.

“How are you?”

She pointed at her face. “Pretty much like I look.”

He grimaced and sipped his coffee, the rings on his fingers sparkling in the morning sun. “I’m sorry. I truly am.” When she didn’t respond and simply waited for Cricket to finish his apple, he pushed: “I hope you believe me.”

“I don’t see why I wouldn’t,” was her careful answer. 

“I’m just trying to understand what happened. Maybe you can help me…” his voice trailed, a warm invitation to talk.

“He came into my tent and pinned me down,” she said flatly, her eyes steady on his while her hands continued brushing Cricket. “He meant to rape me.”

“Dreadful,” Dutch sighed, but his tone was light, blasé, indifferent. “I think, Miss Ricci, Micah was very drunk. Very drunk. Which…” he held up a palm to forestall her objection, “…is obviously very, very wrong. I’m not condoning it, I want to make that clear. At all.”

“But you’re excusing it.” She couldn’t help the hardness creeping into her voice.

“Now why would you think that?” he drawled, his eyes crawling over her face.

“Because he's still here? Do you really believe I invited that monster into my tent?”

“Well,” he sighed and she felt like punching his smug face, “I wouldn’t know who does what within the privacy of their tent around here.”

“Excuse me?”

“I sure don’t know and I don’t care. You’re a grown wom-”

“I didn’t,” she hissed, her fury climbing. Careful Savigne, careful she told herself but that proved to be harder than suggested. The way he stood here, clothes all prim, coffee at hand, relaxed and calm. As if there was nothing to be upset about. As if he hadn't praised the gang and how safe she would be here those months ago. As if he wasn't the leader and responsible for what happened under his nose. “Now enlighten me, Mr. Van der Linde: I came to your camp because you assured me that it’s safe. I pay you, weekly and unfailingly because you said it was safe. Well turns out that was all bullshit!” His eyebrows shot up at that but she rattled on: “One of your men came to my tent last night to rape me and to harm me. And you’re here, talking about privacy and invitations!” He scratched his chin, maddeningly calm and collected. The spark of a realization went up in her head. “Are you here to push the blame on me?”

“What?!” That tone of mock indignation was well practiced and unmistakable. “Of course not! If you say you didn’t, you didn’t.”

“But?” she prompted.

“But...he was drunk.”

“So why should I care? He’s a monster when he’s sober and a worse one when he’s drunk.”

“Not saying you should care, miss,” he drawled, his eyes locking with hers again as he took another sip. “Just saying. Men are…well…we’re a mess. Some of us more than others. He clearly overstepped, nobody is denying that.” She huffed in protest but he continued, unperturbed: “But he also paid the price, hasn’t he?”

She blinked at him. “What do you mean?”

“I mean he got his face smashed in by Arthur. I don’t think he’ll ever look human again to be honest with you. And worse, I think he might be damaged in the head.”

“What, more than he already was?” she snorted.

Dutch just nodded sagely and scratched the corner of his mouth with a pinky.

“Now, you have to understand what this means: Micah, for all his flaws, was an excellent gunslinger. Don’t know if that’ll hold, but there is a chance that it won’t.” He watched her face as he took another sip of coffee and Savigne hoped fervently that he would burn his tongue on it. “Which means, I just lost another man, an important man, in keeping this gang going. I know you pay me well and on time, Miss Ricci. But it won’t make up for that loss.”

A startled huff of laughter escaped from her in disbelief. “What on earth are you suggesting?”

“I'm not suggesting anything,” he drawled, palm rising again. “I'm only saying, he paid the price. In a manner of speaking, through his loss, we all collectively did. Justice was done.”

There was a long moment of silence as she feebly tried to stuff her rising anger back to where it had come from. She lost that battle.

"How was that justice?" she gaped.

"Seems to me like you think the punishment doesn't fit the crime. Would you like to stroll over and look at his state?"

"Absolutely not."

"Well then take my word for it: his punishment was severe. Most places in this country, he would have gotten a slap on the wrist. Here, he was punished. Unless you think we should hang him?"

Her outrage faltered because there was truth to his words. Rarely did these crimes against women get punished and when they did, it was a few days in a jail cell. She wasn't anyone's wife or daughter and without a man to demand punishment because his pride or reputation was dented, her pleadings would probably have been ignored. But that didn't mean she had to like it. After all, it was easy for Dutch to stand here and pretend magnanimity. He hadn't been the one in the tent with that animal last night. He hadn't lied under that weight pinning him down, cock hard against his stomach, hands spidering over his body.

“Tell me one thing, Mr. Van der Linde...” She said coolly, “If he had come to your tent and attacked Ms. O’Shea, would you be giving these sermons about privacy and invitations, or is that privilege just reserved for lesser folk like me?”

That sparkle in his eye dulled and she bit her tongue, suddenly uneasy. This was a dangerous man, maybe even more dangerous than Micah and he didn’t like her forgetting it.

A long silence settled between them and he was the one who broke it:

“I’m sorry for what happened to you. And I understand you might not feel...safe...here anymore. If that’s the case, you have my full blessing to leave. See…I know…” he added, lower, leaning towards her as she instinctively leaned back, “…you won’t go talking to no damn Pinkertons.” His tone implied that he knew no such thing but that he was making the suggestion as a warning. “I reckon if you were to, you would have by now. Others here might think you could do that now, with all that happened,” he drawled casually as his free hand started to pat Cricket and she hated that he touched her horse, “but I think more of you Miss. I think you’re a smart woman who’s seen a thing or two in life and you know what whiskey does to a man. That’s all.”

She looked away, depressed and angry. She hoped Arthur had indeed given Micah brain damage and he would never hold a gun again, because the odds of Dutch kicking him out seemed very much nonexistent. For all his grandiose talking, Dutch obviously cared very little about people with questionable morals in his camp. He wanted to smooth things over with her because he didn’t want her going around ruffling feathers in camp.

“I’m glad we had this talk,” he said before she could respond. “My door is open any time, stop by whenever you want.”

He strode away on those long legs, leaving her feeling small and scared. If I was smart I would leave, Savigne thought, pulling herself up into the saddle and grunting with the pain in her hip. This place is full of crazy people. But then she thought about that glimmer in Dutch’s eyes and she felt angry all over again. The nerve to imply she had caused all this, the veiled suggestion that she should be the one to bow out! Let him kick me out if he wants to, she thought. I didn't do anything and I’m not leaving with my tail between my legs.  

By the time she arrived at the steakhouse she felt like death walking, but it was almost worth the double take Luther gave her.

“What on earth!” He sputtered as his considerable mass ambled towards her. “What happened to you!?”

Savigne was touched by his concern, so she naturally decided to milk it:

“Don’t ask,” she sniffed, “I had a dreadful night, Luther.”

“Oh no, youse gonna tell me. Can’t walk in here like this and not tell me. You look like you was in a bar fight!”

“Worse. I almost got…” Her playful mood soured suddenly as her breath hitched when the memories, carefully stuffed away, scratched against their confines. “I almost…” she looked up at him, unable to finish.

His bear hug of an embrace surprised her. 

“Ow!” she mumbled into his shirt, “Let me turn my face. That side hurts.”

He allowed her to turn her face and hugged her tighter, babbling in a language she didn’t understand. It was nice, to be embraced like this. The enormity of her loneliness crashed down on her with the realization that her co-worker was the closest friend she had and a sob rolled off her lips. Luther hushed her and patted her back with those meaty hands of his, then grabbed her by the shoulders to peel her off. The dark eyes shone with sharp menace. “Tell me who did this. I will boil their balls!”

Savigne chuckled, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye. “Someone already took care of that.”

"Good," he sighed, pressing her against his chest again. She heard the sizzle of the steaks and almost said something, but she enjoyed the warmth of his embrace too much. “'M sorry. Tell me everythin'.”

Over the next few hours, she babbled about the ordeal. The terror of reliving it lightened with each word as if putting it out there into the world rid her of the toxin inside. Luther was a good listener and barely interrupted as the hours went by and they fell into their rhythm. Finally, as the shift slowed down and they lingered on, waiting for the night workers to fill in to wash the dishes and clean the kitchen, he spoke up:

“So this Arthur, he yer friend?”

“No!" was her sputter of a surprise. "Not really.”

The heat of her words earned her a side eye and a hum. 

“Then why he beat this monster for you?”

Savigne shrugged, suddenly finding herself in a precarious situation. Last thing she wanted was to praise the man who had fucked her for a horse not that long ago. But that deal between them was also the kind of thing she had no intention of sharing. She folded napkins and concentrated on aligning their corners as the big man next to her watched her. 

“I guess because he’s…I don’t know…the camp enforcer?" Her eyes flicked up to him and away to see if the explanation would suffice. "I mean if I had to guess. I don't know him well...” she trailed off. “It’s kind of hot in here.”

He ignored her grabbing a menu to fan her face and leaned his back against the counter to pluck out a cigarette.

"No light thing to do, that kinda beatin'," was the cook's contemplative muttering as Savigne chewed on her lip and wondered if she had perhaps recounted Arthur's actions with a bit too much heroic flair. “So he an outlaw but like a good outlaw?”

“Ugh...no? I wouldn’t really call him a goo-”

“Maybe he a bad guy to some folk, but to others, he a good guy,” he continued his ruminations, watching her reaction.

Savigne bit her tongue. "I don't think there are any good guys in that camp," she mumbled under her breath. "For all I know, he was annoyed because he was startled out of his sleep with all the ruckus and decided to take it out on Micah."

Luther gave her a long look. "Could be," he relented at last. "But don’ really matter, does it? He did this for youse, he green in my book.”

He shuffled to the oven and pulled out a whole pie. “Behold,” he said with dramatic flair, “Queen of deserts: American apple pie!”

“Is that one of mine?” she grinned.

He nodded sagely and waddled back over. “Sweet, sour, salty, doughy…” Her eyebrows rose at his exaggerated veneration. He held it out to her: “You give him this.”

There was a moment of stunned surprise. "What?!” She quickly realized she was overreacting and tried to aim for nonchalance. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Why not?”

She blinked, speechless for a spell before she found the words: 

“For one thing, you can’t just take out a pie, they’ll fire you!”

He snorted. “They ain’t gonna fire me. Nobody else dumb enough to do this job for the pay.”

“That’s a silly idea.” Savigne mumbled then scoffed at the absurdity of the notion. Imagine handing a pie to Arthur Morgan. To that mountain that had towered above her in Valentine, eyes cold as ice, and told her he wasn’t going to stick his neck out for an old horse. Unless...

“Give him pie!” was her dark mutter. “Ridiculous. I’m not giving him a pie.”

“Really?” A long, cool look followed. “He beat a man’s face in for you and you won’…even…give…him…pie.” The way he pressed those words, that slanted, judgmental gaze…Savigne found herself unreasonably flustered and stacked the napkins, smoothing them with her palms. 

“I mean, I can thank him…” she shrugged. “Maybe I will. Maybe.” The propability of actually thanking Arthur was minuscule, but it was still higher than actually gifting a pie. “Possibly. But to be honest, I don’t owe him a thing. If you think about it, I’m paying rent. So, you ask me, he was obligated to…you know…” She faltered under his persistent, silent stare, not sure how to navigate the issue without coming across as the unreasonable and ungrateful party. “I just…trust me, he’s not that kind of guy. Think big, bad outlaw,” she finished lamely.

“Everyone likes pie,” Luther said with dry conviction. “Even big, bad outlaws.” The palpable disappointment and disapproval in his tone made her uncomfortable, but it was one of those corners she had backed herself into and couldn't find her way out of. She watched him wrap the pie.

“I really don’t think it’s necessary,” she tried again meekly but he ignored her and brought it over. 

Out of credible excuses and too tired to argue, she took it. She couldn't blame Luther - the man was acting on limited information and he had been there for her all day, patient and affectionate.

“Okay,” she sighed and gave him a broken smile. “But only because you insisted.”

“It’s the right thing to do,” he said gently and patted her arm. “Don’ throw it at his head. Be nice.”

“I’m always nice.”

“Be nicer. Ain’t nobody got hurt sayin’ thank you.”

"Somebody probably did," she grumbled. 

She walked out of the steakhouse, retrieved Cricket from the stable and placed the pie, still warm, into the basket. As she rode out, she weighed the awkwardness that was about to ensue against the act of kindness that had been done. Where were the scales standing when it came to thanking a man who had done right by her despite having no obligation to do so, and what he had collected from her weeks ago? And what if he misread her intent? What if he took it as a sign that she forgave him because she absolutely didn't.

Then a more horrifying thought occurred to her: Considering the man, it could easily go the other way, too. He could sneer at her, curl up his lip with disgust and growl in that deep voice of his that he didn't want no god damn pie. Especially from her. That just because they fumbled in the dark the one time she shouldn't assume he gave a shit to what happened to her.

The humiliation of just imagining that scene pulsed on her face, crimson and bright. 

He wouldn't, she debated with herself. If he felt that way, why beat Micah?

The man needs no reason to beat anyone, her inner voice retorted. He seems to dislike Micah just as much as he dislikes you. Maybe he simply saw an excuse and he took it - none of it had anything to do with you. 

True enough. Arthur was an opaque box - hard to read and harder to understand. But if she took pie to this asshole and he berated her for it, she wasn't going to run out like some stupid startled fawn. She had already suffered Micah's assault, Dutch's pompousness and last thing she was going to put up with was another man rough handling her. 

Well, looks like he's having pie one way or another, she thought darkly. He's either going to eat it or wear it on his damn face. 

Chapter Text

She rode into camp with trepidation. It was like coming back to the scene of a crime. Her pulse quickened and her palms grew clammy with sweat. Savigne had never been good with confrontations. Scratch that, she actually preferred to run as far from them as her legs would take her, so returning to the well of the problem took more effort than she wanted to admit. It helped to have put hours between the event and now, but when she saw her tent in the distance, still leaning a little askew because of the tussle that had happened in it, memories started to crawl out of their hiding holes. The imaginary scent of whiskey and sweat wafted in her direction and Micah's phantom weight pressed on her stomach.

She grappled with this as she unhooked the saddle from Cricket and gave him his treat. But then she spotted Dutch watching her from the shade of his tent and somehow, that helped. She pushed her chin up and went around to pick up the basket. The pie, wrapped in cotton cloth was still warm to the touch. Despite her earlier determination to hand it off one way or another, she hesitated. I don’t have to do this, she thought. In fact, I really shouldn’t. I mean yes, Arthur deserves it. But then just a few weeks ago he also took my arm and led me into the bowels of the forest and…

Savigne flapped the lid of the basket shut and stood rooted. Her mind was tempting her to run. Her mind always tempted her to run, to avoid, to ignore. A reasonable response to most problems in life as far as she was concerned. But not always the correct one.

She looked up and found Frost among the horses. Arthur was here. 

She chewed her lip, took another sideways glance at the leader of the gang who hadn’t moved, who stood smoking his cigar, his eyes glued to her and decided to hell with it, if for no other reason, she would do it just to spite Dutch. To show him that she wasn’t going to be cowed and if she decided to leave, it would be on her terms, not his.

So she adjusted the basket against a hip, wiped her damp palm against her skirt and strode over to Arthur's tent. Her heart drummed in her chest, her throat felt scratchy, her feet wanted to tangle and move backwards but now that she was committed to the decision, she marched on with determination. Absentmindedly she flattened her hair against her left cheek and over the residue of Micah’s slap. 

His flap was closed. That didn't happen very often. Maybe he's sleeping. Maybe he's indisposed. Last thing you want is to arrive at the wrong time and inconvenience him and face his grouchy mood. She surprised herself when her knuckles rapped on the wood of the horse cart before she could chase that chain of thought down a rabbit hole and convince herself to slink away. 

Silence.

She glanced to the side and saw Tilly and Karen quickly divert their eyes and pretend to be in conversation. The camp felt more idle than usual. Watchful. Curious. The staccato of her heart pulsed in her chest. Dutch's gaze sizzled her skin.

He's clearly busy or he doesn't want to see anyone. No shame in walking away.

Stubbornly, she knocked again, cleared her throat and managed a croak of a “Hello?”

Another long silence.

He must be sleeping. You can try later. Or...never? She had carried the damn pie over and had knocked on his door. She had done her part and fulfilled her promise to Luther. Fine then. She turned to leave, somewhat relieved. 

“What d’ya want?” came the low growl from inside and her heart jolted. 

She ran her tongue over her dry lips and whispered “Can I come in?” It was so low, she barely heard it herself. So she swallowed and repeated it, louder this time.

There was a pause that felt like eternity. No noise of shuffling to adjust clothes, no jingling of a belt that indicated sitting up in bed. Just silence. She waited, a ball of anxiety, apprehension, determination all rolled into one.

“Fine.”

Before she could change her mind, she pushed the flap aside and stepped in, letting it fall back down behind her.

Arthur was sitting on his cot, sketching in his journal. His long legs were slung over the bed, his back settled against one of the crates. He was fully clothed, boots and all. He didn’t look up and if he was surprised, he didn’t show it. She noticed that she had rarely seen him without his hat in daylight and his hair was a lighter shade than she had noticed and longer than she remembered. His sleeves were rolled up, showing the tan of hours under the sun. It suited him, this rugged look.

This up close and in daylight, he was handsome in the way men were handsome when they didn’t aim to be. He was built extremely well - wide shoulders and slim hips, tall, strong and angular. But his attractiveness was beyond his physical beauty. He was like a tiger, honed by years of hardship and necessity into perfection, but completely unaware of and indifferent to his own elegance and that’s what made him so alluring.

Her eyes fell on his hands and the red, swollen knuckles. How many times did a man have to abuse those before he was unbothered by the damage? How many faces had to be beat in before he stopped caring to bandage them up anymore, because the discomfort and pain was just par for the course?

She cleared her throat again in an attempt to distract her mind and glanced around instead. It felt spacious in here. Bright and cozy. Unlike her own tent, she could actually stand up. The white fabric allowed the light in and there was a certain homey charm with the photos he had pinned on the crates and the scattered books and papers.

She stood rooted a while, suddenly not sure how to proceed. It occurred to her that this was the first time she was speaking to him ever since that night and the experience hung heavy between them, impossible to ignore. Though she had one or two whimsical sexual encounters in her past, they had never been with complete strangers and certainly not with someone she had disliked. He, on the other hand, most likely had had his fair share with the saloon ladies. So she told herself that if men could detach themselves emotionally from the act, a woman should be able to, as well. It didn’t really work.

His eyes flicked up and there was hardness in that glare, but also something else. Or maybe that was just her imagination. His gaze traveled over her face and lingered on her cheek, still blushed from Micah's slap and by reflex she tapped her hair over it again in an effort to conceal it. She wasn’t here for his pity. She looked away and he returned to his journal. For a long moment the scratching of pencil on paper remained the only sound in the tent.

She felt intrigued that he didn’t ask why she was here or what she wanted. Not only was this her first time in his tent, but they had both been avoiding each other like the plague since that night. And yet, he seemed content to sit there and scribble into his journal, allowing her to say her piece at her own time. Was it for her own benefit or was he simply not interested in her reasons?

At long last Savigne placed the basket on the ground and carefully fished out and unwrapped the pie. The unmistakable aroma of apples and cinnamon quickly unfurled in the tent. His hand stilled but his eyes remained glued to the journal. She sensed his surprise although his face gave away nothing and felt a certain satisfaction at that. Whatever he expected, it clearly wasn’t pie.

“For you,” she said simply, holding it up. He didn’t respond or look up, so she moved to place it on the low table that was holding several guns before she stepped back again to gather the basket and drop the cotton cloth in it. Having done what she had come to do, she stood waiting, not sure what she was waiting for. A ‘thank you’ would be nice, she thought. Or, god forbid, a ‘How are you?’. A ‘Why?’ would be completely acceptable.

Instead, he just sat there, still and cautious while he processed his surprise. Another woman would be insulted. Should be insulted. Who received a pie and said nothing, even as polite overture? Arthur Morgan, apparently. He had beat a man’s face in, almost killed him because of what was done to her, and yet he didn’t ask if she was okay. Did that mean he didn’t care about her at all and the whole thing had just been a convenient excuse to beat Micah? Something wilted in her at the idea and she felt a little frustrated that she might have served pie to a man who didn’t give a shit about her like damn fool.

A moment passed. The hushed quietness both in here and outside the tent prevailed. 

“Was just doin’ m’job,” he said dismissively, eyes on his journal, fingers still paused.

“I know,” was her shaky sigh of a response. “But still.”

Exactly as I thought, she ruminated sullenly. It was never about me. He doesn’t like me. Scratch that, he abhors me. I’m invisible to him, he doesn’t even see me and -

He looked up and locked eyes with her then and she was startled by the unexpected intensity in his gaze. She knew next to nothing about this man, but her mind greedily collected these little things to look at them later, in the privacy of her tent like collecting small, pretty pebbles at a riverbank: How quickly he could go from nonchalant to intense. How comfortable he was in letting the silence carry on. How impudently he could stare at you and how much weight his attention held.

Oh he sees me, alright. She swallowed a dry click, suddenly feeling pinned down.

A moment ago she had been annoyed that he wouldn’t even acknowledge her. And now that the full heat of that gaze was cooking her, she flustered.

“I-if you don’t like pie…” she tried, wetting her lips, “…you don’t have to eat it.” That had sounded a lot less idiotic in her head. “What I mean to say is…you don’t have to feel…obligated.” God, that sounded even worse. Why the hell would he feel obligated? She felt the ramble build up in her throat, a silly compulsion to correct her meaning, to explain her words, to dispel a possible misunderstanding and had the sinking sense that if she tried, she was only going to make it worse. It was impossible not to, under that gaze. “And by that I mean…” she trailed before her mind sputtered to a stop.

He didn’t say another word and neither did he look away.

It should be illegal to look at someone like that, she thought as she felt color dust her cheeks. Unable to hold his gaze, she decided to inspect her boots to collect her thoughts. Why didn’t he say something? Anything? How did people manage the art of stoicity in moments like this? How come they didn’t have to bite their tongues so their words wouldn’t run away from them and set them chasing?

She heard her own quick mumble of “Also, thank you,” before she stepped back out and let the flap fall into place. A ragged breath later her shaky legs set their course towards her tent and she obliged.

The whole thing had felt eerily like stepping into the den of a lion or a bear and living to tell the tale. She didn’t understand why Arthur had such an effect on her, but she was done questioning it. Clearly he did and clearly she needed to stay away from him. She hadn’t thought about that night in days and now she was thinking about it again. She hadn't felt this awkward and self-conscious around anyone since she had been a young girl and it was unsettling to say the least. Obviously they were two ingredients that should never be mixed, the sooner she accepted that, the better.

Anyhow, it was done. The pie was delivered. He would eat it or he would toss it, she didn’t care. Absolute last interaction ever she thought. Done, over, finished. If I stay here for another year, I’m never talking to this man again.

“Savigne!” Mary Beth sauntered over. “How are you holding up?”

“Okay, I guess,” she breathed, still a little shook by the force of that blue gaze.

“I don’t know how you do it. You even went to work.”

“Mostly I just ignore stuff,” Savigne sighed. “Also…” she fished out a bottle of wine from the basket.

“Don’t let Karen see that,” Mary Beth chuckled, then placed her hand on Savigne’s arm to walk her off towards the overlook.

They sat on a log overlooking the river from up high and Savigne wondered why she hadn’t come here before. The view was stunning. Thankfully the log was a good distance from the ledge, enough not to trigger her vertigo. She uncorked the bottle and they handed it back and forth, speaking in whispers and giggling like children.

“How is he?” she asked finally when she decided she was drunk enough.

The other woman snorted without mirth. “Not as bad as he should be. What an animal.”

“Don’t you go insultin animals like that!” Savigne protested before she grew serious again. “You think he’ll be like…damaged?”

“Hell he already was damaged,” Mary Beth said, taking another swig. The bottle was half empty now. “Maybe this’ll fix him.”

“I don’t think Dutch cares,” Savigne said carefully, turning the thought over in her head. “He talked to me this morning. Sort of…blamed me.”

“Of course he did," Mary Beth quipped. "You know why?”

“Yeah. Because Micah was a good gunslinger and now he’s a man short, blah blah blah...” she trailed off when Mary Beth impishly shook her head, then gave her a toothy grin.

“That ain’t why.”

Savigne ignored the buzz in her head and thought about it for a minute. She grabbed the bottle and took a swallow. The wine was warm and sweet and she hadn’t eaten much all day. It went straight to her head.

“Becaaauuuse...Dutch doesn’t like me?”

The smile grew wider still. “Oh sure! But why?”

“I don’t know,” Savigne groaned. “My head hurts. I hit it against the pole, you know. Here...” She grabbed Mary Beth’s hand and guided it to her temple. There, above her right eyebrow, under her hair was the bump. “So just tell me…hicc…I’m injured and hurting!”

A sigh of mock defeat and a sly side eye: “It’s pretty obvious.”

Savigne took a mouthful of wine and raised her eyebrows, intrigued.

“Because of Arthur.”

She sputtered, almost chocking on the wine. Whatever she was expecting, that wasn't it. Mary Beth laughed like a bird until she coughed it off. After, she managed a croaky “What’s so funny?”

“Your face!”

“This is my ‘you don’t make sense’…hicc…face.” She drank some more, hoping the red on her cheeks would be attributed to the wine.

“He doesn’t like sharing Arthur,” Mary Beth whispered mischievously and watched her with great interest.

“Sorry, still don’t get it.”

“Really? Why do you think Arthur beat Micah like that?” A finger was raised to denote importance: “And challenged Dutch?”

Savigne suddenly decided the view was fascinating. She watched the river under the emerging moonlight for a long time, pretending to think. What she was really thinking was how to steer the conversation elsewhere. Her imbibed mind failed to come up with a solution.

A name shouldn’t jiggle her insides like it did, but here she was. Equal parts fearful and captivated and too drunk to deep dive into why. For months he had been nothing but a background character in what was supposed to be a short chapter in the book of her life. Now he was a puzzle, a mystery. Short and terse and inarguably rude in Valentine, but so passionate and careful in the dark cover of privacy. Openly hostile since she had set foot in camp, and yet the only man who had stepped up when she had been hurt. A paradox. A dilemna. A room, locked and barred and clearly forbidden. And yet, she kept finding herself creeping to the door, sinking to her knees and peeking through the keyhole.

“Told me he was just doing his job,” she muttered at long last. “Makes sense. I mean…hicc…I pay for safety. I think Ar-Mr. Morgan doesn’t need more reason than that. In fact, I don’t think he needs much reason at all to beat someone up.”

In her mind’s eye, that fist kept coming down: crunch…crunch…crunch… and red fireworks bloomed on Arthur’s shirt. His face had been turned away from her and she wondered what expression she would have found there if she could see it.

From the corner of her eye she saw Mary Beth swipe her argument away with a wave of her arm.

“That ain’t it. I mean of course that’s what he says. But…" she dropped her voice, conspiratorial: "...he never beat someone from the gang before. Sure, a punch here or there, some kicking and wrestling. Hell, even when Micah…bothered…poor Jenny, he didn’t interfere. But he never beat anyone here like that. If they hadn’t pulled him off…hicc…he would have killed him. You ask me, he meant to kill him.”

Mary Beth watched Savigne’s unimpressed profile and pushed on:

“Also, he never stood his ground with...hicc...Dutch like that. Never with an audience. You see…” she slid closer, “…Arthur is big on loyalty.”

Savigne eagerly collected the pebbles and stuffed them into her secret pocket. Jenny. A new name. Arthur’s bond and relationship with Dutch. This line that Mary Beth implied he had crossed for her. So much to think about! But quietly. In secret.

Outwardly she shrugged, indignant. “So what? Doesn’t mean anything.” A part of her wished Mary Beth would change the topic and another, desperately hoped for more pebbles.

The other woman hummed, took another mouthful and handed her the wine back.

“I can’t help but think maybe there’s something going on between you tw-”

Before she could control her reaction, a heated “Absolutely not!” exploded out of her mouth.

The slant of a side eye. “Really?”

“That’s outrageous!” She cleared her throat and pressed her lips. She’s fishing. Ignore the worm. She forced herself to chuckle. “Those books have…hicc…rotted your brain.”

“Hmmm…” was Mary Beth’s unconvinced response as she puckered her lips and gazed at the star speckled sky.

“I mean it. Nothing’s going on.”

“Maybe not for you.”

She groaned and rolled her eyes. Then immediately regretted it when the world spun a little. “You’re drunk,” was her sheepish accusation.

“I’ll sober up tomorrow. But you’re blind. So what will…hicc…you do?”

“Honestly!” Savigne huffed with irritation. “You’ll just believe whatever you want anyway. No point in…hicc…arguing.”

“You don’t see how he looks at you?”

Inexplicably, her heart shivered.

Ignore

The

Worm

As obtuse as she was, Savigne still recognized shaky ground under her feet. Mary Beth couldn’t possibly know what had happened that night. Not because Savigne had confidence in her own perceptiveness, but because she had confidence in Arthur’s caution. Clearly he wanted the incident to remain private, so he would have made sure nobody saw. But all the same, Mary Beth wasn’t stupid. She might not know Savigne, but she knew Arthur well enough and she sensed something was off. Well enough to cast a worm in these waters.

“Well?” the other woman prodded, unwilling to let her silence stand.

“No,” was her flat answer.

“Well I see it!” Was the dramatic sigh. “I see how…hicc… he looks after you and Charles when you go shootin’.”

“What!? Absolute non...hicc…nonsense!”

“I known Arthur for yeaarssss,” Mary Beth said lowly, finger wagging. “Can’t fool me, no sir!”

“Uh-huh.”

“Besides, everyone agrees.”

“Scuse me?!” Savigne flinched. “Who’s everyone?”

“Every. One.” A hand sailed through the air again with finality.

“I think you ladies have too much time on your hands,” Savigne mumbled. “Maybe I’ll go and talk to Ms…hicc…Grimshaw. She should give you more work. Idle minds and all that.”

“While you’re there, ask her what she thinks,” the other woman giggled. “Make sure you sit down first.”

So many pebbles. A whole lap full of pebbles. She would turn them between her fingers when she lied down on her bedroll and try to glean what they all meant. She would peek through that keyhole and try to make sense of the shapes.

Savigne flattened her lips as her fingers prodded the raw left side of her face. She thought of how Arthur had looked at her earlier in the tent. And then of course she thought about that night. Always that damn night. She thought of his hands on her breasts and his breath on her neck and shivered despite herself. A shot of heat settled in her gut and she instinctively pressed her thighs shut. How he had undressed her and how he had removed her hand from her mouth, not allowing her anything to hide behind. He had wanted her completely naked in body and soul. Vulnerable. Honest. Her head swam as a yearning for friction bloomed between her legs. She cleared her throat, suddenly anxious to be back in her tent, alone.

“I’m goin’ to bed,” she announced, staggering to her feet and dropping the empty bottle into the basket for target practice later.

“It’s early!” Mary Beth pouted.

“‘M tired. You could say I had a day!”

“Okay then. Let’s go.”

They stumbled their way back to camp, snorting and laughing. When the fire came into view, Mary Beth headed towards it and Savigne continued to her tent, basket dangling from one hand.

She gave her tent an apprehensive look when she arrived. Did she really want to sleep in here alone again so soon after? But Micah was out, lying incapacitated somewhere in camp, so come to think on it, she was safer today than she had been yesterday.

The urge to be alone was stronger than her fear, so she dropped the basket, crept in and closed the flap. Ms. Grimshaw had brought over some of her clothes to change into for work in the morning, so she hadn't been back here since the incident. Someone had tried to straighten the pole and clear up her stuff that must have been scattered all over the place. Still, it was done wrong, so she rearranged everything by aligning every item just so and stacked in order, angling the books to perfection. Then she looked at her bedroll for another moment and started to undress. The heat between her legs pulsed ominously.

Distantly she heard voices and drunken laughter from the camp but it was silent in here, her breathing and the rustling of her clothes the only sounds. She placed another knife she had borrowed from the kitchen under her pillow, then stretched down in her chemise and bloomers.

In her mind’s eye, Arthur opened the flap and glided in, silent as a cat. Though it was very dark in here, she imagined seeing those ocean blue eyes as they had looked at her like they had earlier today: hungry with want. His big calloused hands glided up her legs, kneading her thighs, parting them as he moved to settle between them. He was warm and heavy and she felt the fuzz of his chest hair whisper against her skin. He slowly lowered his face to hers, closer and closer, until their lips almost touched and she felt the flutter of his eyelashes on her cheeks and the ghost of his breath on her face. He ran his tongue over her lips and she sighed, parting them. He kissed her then, first gently but firmer and deeper as fingers gripped her hair, keeping her head in place while his other hand cupped her breast. His cock was ramrod hard and hot and she felt herself getting wet as he glided it over her folds, his tongue imitating the movement in her mouth. Her fingers threaded his hair and he groaned into her mouth as the hand on her breast traveled lower to guide himself into her.

Savigne gasped as she touched herself. She was drenched. She bit her lip to keep in her moans as she moved her fingers over her folds.

Arthur’s mouth left her swollen lips to dip lower, to her neck and he began moving. She arched her back, yearning for more but he wouldn’t allow it, he would take her however he wanted and there was nothing she could do about it. The helplessness she felt against his power was new and foreign but so very, very delicious. There was no hesitation to his touch, no flicker of doubt, no questions of “Is this okay?”. She whined in frustration but he was indifferent, holding her head in place while his other hand pushed a thigh open for himself. He groaned into her neck as she gripped his shoulder and he pushed deeper into her, rocking in and out, in and out like a pendulum. She opened her mouth to moan but he captured it with his before he shushed her, watching her face. Her back arched in ecstasy as she felt herself rising towards the crest again, her bent leg shaking. “Look at me,” he whispered into her lips and her eyes shot open to meet his. He was hitting that spot in her again and again as he moved with sluggish vigor.

Her eyelids fluttered close but he tightened his fingers tangled in her hair. “Look at me!”

She met his eyes, as he huffed into her face, the muscles in his shoulder rolling like waves under her fingers. He wanted her to see him taking her, of sculpting her into whatever he wanted, like putty in his hands. She whispered his name again and again as she rose, as he pushed her up to the summit of that wave. Still he didn’t relent, his hand finding her throat again, forcing her head back as he descended on her mouth.  Until her eyes rolled back and a wave of pleasure exploded in her.

Savigne moaned into her pillow and pulled her hand out of her bloomers. She panted, hot and sweaty before she opened her eyes to her tent again. Her heart was racing in her chest and her head was dizzy from the wine, but she felt the satisfaction of her pleasure pulse through her, making her limbs heavy.

Lying there, dazed in the afterglow of her orgasm, she dimly wondered why she kept fantasizing about a man she shouldn’t want. A violent man, a rough man, a criminal. A very different man from the nice, shy, polite and gentle boys of her past. Was it the novelty? The taboo, the secrecy? Was it because he looked at her with that feral spark? Was it because he had drawn blood for her?

The pebbles lied scattered around her, mum about their secrets as she fell asleep.

Chapter Text

Savigne opened her eyes to dim sunlight within the tent. It was Sunday, which meant no shift for her. She lied there, lazy and content, listening to the distant sounds of the camp. It had been less than a week since Micah's demise and in that interim she had rarely seen Arthur. He was away a lot and when he was there, he made an effort to stay in his tent. She wondered if he had eaten the pie. She wondered if he had liked it. Then she wondered why she gave a damn.

The day after her chat with Mary Beth, Hosea had approached her. He had been visibly upset and had repeatedly apologized because his assurances about the camp’s safety had been blown apart.

"Ain't right," he mumbled as he sat next to her, his hand gentle on her knee.

Her eyes moistened at his concern, a stark contrast to Dutch's reaction and she patted his papery hand as if he was the one that needed consolation. "I'm okay now. I'm tougher than I look."

"I know," he sighed, "You must be if you managed to come this far alone. You don't have any family, Savigne?"

She shrugged, squinting at the river below as they sat on the same log that Mary Beth had taken her to. "No. I don't know. My parents died on the ship on the way over. I was very young. I grew up in orphanages and well...nobody came looking."

"We're your family now," he squeezed her knee with fierce conviction.

She smiled. She didn't object because she didn't want to hurt Hosea's feelings, but of course she didn't see the gang as family and she was sure the feeling was mutual. 

Sometimes, when she had trouble sleeping and the waves of laughter drifted her way, she found herself envious and sad. She tried to imagine what it was like, to know and be around the same people for years and decades. At the orphanage, a girl who sat next to her in class could be there for months, then suddenly one morning Savigne would walk in and some other girl would be sitting there. The girl who slept on the bed above her for a whole year could be gone - adopted or transferred - the next day. A lot of girls ran away, too. The Sisters were harsh and strict, sometimes two meals a day hardly seemed worth the price. All that to say that people were fickle. They could come into your life and walk out of it at the drop of a hat. There was not point in attachment, in growing closer. Some, she had tried to stay in contact with after they had left. But it never lasted because whatever they had in common was gone now and there was nothing else holding them together. So the letters had grown sparse and had stopped in time.

I walk alone, she reminded herself. I have no family. I need no family.

Like everything else, her time with the gang was temporary and she had no illusions about that. Hell, the time for the gang itself seemed to be running out - there were whispers of Pinkertons sniffing about.

"I hope you're not leaving over this," the old man offered a long moment later. "I would completely understand if you did, mind you. And it might be selfish of me, but I hope you won't."

She looked up at the bright blue of the cloudless summer sky and pursed her lips. "I've thought about it," she teased, although that thought had evaporated very quickly when the opportunity to spite Dutch had presented itself. Besides, where else was she going to pay $50 a week for no roommates?

"Young lady, are you haggling to lower your rent?"

Savigne chortled and he gave her an amused grin. The air between them softened as darker topics were dropped aside.

"Was worth a try," she laughed.

There was a comfortable pause in their conversation and both sat and watched the constellation of red poppies on the riverbank dance in the breeze. She thought of how much more quiet the countryside was and how she was growing to appreciate that when he suddenly said "Heard you talked to Arthur. Hope he wasn't rough with you," and she was reminded that, roommates or no roommates, there was zero privacy in camp. Everyone knew everything at all times. Well, almost everything.

She looked away and shrugged, feigning indifference. "I thanked him and I think he sort of grunted in response."

"Sounds about right," Hosea chuckled. "I tried, but you can only chisel down granite so much. Still, at least he did what he did, so he's not a complete failure. Just wish he had finished the job."

"I don't think he likes me very much," she mumbled, carefully giving him a side glance. Now who's the one fishing?

"That so?" Hosea drawled with a twinkle in his eye.

"It's pretty obvious," was her snort.

Hosea hummed and bit on the stem of his unlit pipe.

"It's fine," she threw her hair over a shoulder. Dimly, she thought that she should stop talking. She totally would, if not for that damn keyhole. "I don't expect him to care. I mean we're complete strangers." Sure. Complete intimate strangers.

"Reckon if he didn't care, he would have turned around and gone back to bed, no?" Hosea mused.

"He said he did his job."

"Well," Hosea sighed. "A man's gotta say something."

"What does that mean?" she asked, intrigued despite herself.

Hosea gave her a long look. "Stick around and you might find out," was his mysterious retort.

Then she had spoken to Sadie. She knew what had happened to Sadie, the story of a dead husband and O'Driscolls keeping her prisoner in her chemise for days had an obvious implication and even though she herself had avoided that fate, Sadie seemed to have found a fellow victim in her. Also a fellow hater of Micah.

“Listen up, buttercup,” Sadie growled as she violently hacked at a carrot. “Y’aint gonna let that asshole win.”

Savigne watched the uneven pieces of carrot fly off the table and resisted the urge to take the knife and do it herself. The wild discrepancy between the sizes was making the roots of her hair itch. “Win?”

“That’s right! Win!” The knife stabbed the air between them and Savigne deftly took a small step back. How can a small woman have so much fire in her? she thought. “You run off, he wins.”

“Why does everyone think I will run off?”

Sadie was too engrossed in her own anger to hear the question. “I tell you what that piece of shit did when we met?”

“Only about twenty-seven times,” Savigne mumbled, but that too fell on deaf ears.

“Arthur was the one who pushed him off. Now…you think that means I got a soft spot for him?” Sadie paused at her task and looked up menacingly from under her brows.

“Ugh...no?” she tried to guess the correct answer based on that demeanor.

“Wrong! I do and I ain’t denyin’ it. He did the right thing then and he did the right thing that night for you. Far as ‘m concerned, he’s walkin’ upright where too many slitherin’ on their damn bellies.”

Savigne crossed her arms, miffed that so many thought Arthur Morgan walked on water. “Let’s not put him on a pedestal.”

Sadie’s knife shot up again and sailed an arc. Half the carrot pieces rolled off the table when she smacked a fist on it. Honestly, handing a knife to this woman was a colossal mistake and Pearson was a fool. Or maybe not, since he seemed to find an excuse to make himself short whenever she was at vegetable cutting duty.

“I ain’t sayin’ he no damn fool! Men are dumb, that a fact. But his heart is in the right place!”

“He has a heart?” was Savigne’s low mutter which was also promptly ignored.

“He did right. That counts for somethin’.”

“I already thanked him, so I don’t know who this sermon is for.”

“Sermon’s for you, cause ‘m gonna be pissed if you leave after this.” She scrapped the pieces of carrot that remained into a pot and two more hit the rim and tumbled to the ground. This made Savigne’s fingers twitch. No wonder everyone in camp complained of being hungry all the time, half the food never made it to the pot.

“Now,” Sadie said gruffly, pointing the knife at her, “Don’ go twistin’ my words. I ain’t sayin’ you can’t leave ever. But you leave cause of this, that sonofabitch wins and that…” a large potato was smacked on the table, “…I can’t abide.”

The hair on Savigne’s arms rose when Sadie peeled the potato so thick, one third of it came off under the blade. “You ever cook before?” she managed.

“Course I cooked before! Jake loved my cookin’ so don’ go crosseyed on me, you snob.”

Jake loved something alright, but I wager it wasn’t the cooking, Savigne cringed as more potato than peel curved up against the blade. 

“I’m not going anywhere. For now.”

“Good. Cause I got money ridin’ on it.”

“Excuse me?”

“That’s right,” Sadie quipped and dropped the potato, too small to cube at this point, into the pot with a plop. “Got a bet goin’. I bet on you, so don’ go disappointin’ me.”

Savigne felt flabbergasted and outraged that people were trying to make money off of something so horrible. Then her curiosity won out and she wondered how Arthur had bet.

“Who else thinks I’m staying?” she asked, as nonchalantly as she could.

“Can’t tell you that! Might influence yer decision.”

She rolled her eyes and grunted in frustration. Sadie looked up. “Let’s just say, sugar, if you stay, ‘m gonna make a lot of money.”

Wow, so most of them think I will run off, she thought sourly. Lovely. Well they’re gravely underestimating my stupidity.

“I can’t believe people would gamble over something like this.”

“Case you ain’t noticed, this here an outlaw camp. Folks here are drunks and addicts and very, very bad with money. They’d gamble the dirty shirts off their backs if it was worth somethin'. If it gonna make you feel better, ‘m pretty sure they did the same for me.” She fished out another potato. “Sides…lots of idle time means lots of bets goin’.”

Savigne had never been asked to participate and she felt a little annoyed about that. But to be frank, she would have refused. Betting? Sure. Betting money? Absolutely not. She was frugal enough not to bet a penny on the sun coming up tomorrow, so there was that.

“What else are they betting on?”

Sadie paused for a long moment. Then her eyes flicked up and she bit her cheek, almost mischievously. “This and that,” she said at last and refused to elaborate.

“So all that ‘Micah can’t win’ was bullshit. You just want to win your bet.”

“Was no bullshit,” was the low growl. “I know what almost done happened to you. I know more than most.” The knife was impaled on the table and wobbled as Sadie’s eyes darkened. “You can’t let the monster win. Ever.”

Savigne nodded eagerly to placate the other woman who looked like a bull about to charge her. Then she walked away before she would have to witness another vegetable get violated.

She hadn't seen Micah, but she heard him plenty, moaning and wheezing at all hours and it gave her immense satisfaction to hear it when she walked through camp. Every time he sounded in pain, Savigne felt a spring to her step. Her gratitude for Arthur grew and she almost, almost arrived at the edge of forgiveness for what he had done to her, but she stubbornly kept herself from crossing that line.  

She pulled on her jeans and a blouse, tried to tame the mane that was her hair, gathered her dirty laundry into the basket and crawled out her tent, squinting against the early noon sky. The cicadas sang a tune as she walked over to her horse. 

She steered Cricket to Valentine, a much shorter ride than Saint Denis. Despite that, she arrived already sweating from the heat and after stabling Cricket (leaving him on the street wasn’t an option after what had happened), made a beeline for the hotel. 

"Miss Ricci!" the heavily mustached man at the reception greeted her as he shuffled to his feet. "Good day, ma'am. How are you this beautiful day?"

"Very good, Bill, thank you," she smiled. “I just need the usual."

He nodded somberly and went through the door behind him to fetch a basket just like hers. "Your laundry from last week. Washed and pressed." They exchanged baskets and Savigne eagerly inhaled the scent of her clean clothes (this week it was sage), hugging them to herself. 

"And one bath I assume?"

"Of course."

"Ready to go," as he handed her the key.

She thanked him and took the clean laundry with her to change into after.

Savigne was frugal enough to sleep with outlaws over lodgings in Saint Denis, but she allowed herself certain luxuries in life like laundry and bath. She refused to wash her own clothes as they never came out clean enough and she refused to jump around in a cold river like a fish. 

She spent an hour in the hot tub, scrubbing every inch of her skin and washing her hair twice. The memory of Micah's drool dripping onto her chest made her shudder and scrub a third time. By the time she came out, she was raw and red. She added her dirty clothes to the dirty laundry basket before handing it back, paid for the services, gave the receptionist a generous tip and said her goodbyes until next Sunday. 

After that she went to the saloon and ate lunch, was extremely underwhelmed by the food of course, then visited the general store and bought herself what she needed for the week. During this entire time she was proud to be able to avoid anything camp related - she didn’t linger on Dutch, Micah, Mary Beth or Arthur Morgan and enjoyed a lazy Sunday. It had been a dark few weeks but the beauty of the summer day made brooding impossible.  

Then she rode into Saint Denis. A long ride but it was Sunday and she had nothing else to do and she enjoyed the sparse countryside of a Sunday. She tied Cricket in front of the public library, asked for maps and landscape books of the surrounding regions and sat at a table for hours, trying to find that peak with the rocks that resembled three outstretched fingers. She went through books with pictures that showed the geological formations in the region but none of them looked remotely like the map she had. 

Disappointed, she climbed back up on Cricket when the day started to cool off and headed back to camp. There weren't many people around and she was glad for it. It was difficult to find a moment of solitude in a place like this some days and she didn’t feel like going to her tent yet. She fed Cricket and then strode through camp. She couldn't help but glance in the direction of Arthur's tent for a moment but his flap was closed and he was probably catching up on sleep.

She walked to the makeshift gun range and centered the bottles on the rocks and logs they were perched on before she strolled back, pulled the gun out of her satchel, checked if it was loaded and spread her legs for a more balanced stance. 

The cicadas sang in the background and birds twittered in the trees as she tried to concentrate. "Loose," she mumbled to herself and tried to loosen her grip. "Don't close your eyes." She took a moment to breathe, pulled the trigger. 

Nothing. She cursed in frustration. Weeks of this and she still couldn't hit the target from a distance that wasn't even that far. "How on earth do people do this?" she mumbled to herself before pulling the trigger again. And again. With pretty much the same result. 

She hummed to herself, reloaded, then stepped forward a few steps and shot again. Nothing. She stepped forward again and tried. 

By the time she hit her first bottle, she was standing a lot closer than where she had been initially shooting from. 

"That count?" came Arthur's voice from behind her and her heart skipped a beat. 

It took her a few moments but she managed a "Well I did hit it," over her shoulder.

A feeling of unease budded in her, typical when he was close. She was supposedly never going to speak to this man again and here they were. She looked back and yes, unfortunately they were alone. 

"That up close, couldn' miss if you tried," he drawled, scratching his days old beard and gazing into the distance. He looked relaxed and rested, his blue shirt snug against his broad chest and frankly those jeans looked criminally good on him. She quickly turned around. 

"You'd be surprised," she mumbled to herself, replacing the broken bottle with a new one before she stepped back all the way, close to where he was standing, hands on his gun belt. 

She tried to focus on the bottles and raised her gun, then lowered it. 

"Are you going to stand there and watch?" she lobed over a shoulder. 

"Why?" It sounded closer. 

"You're...distracting me."

She was surprised by his chuckle as he swaggered closer, his black gambler hat hiding his face as he casually kicked rocks while he approached. She turned to look ahead again and flattened her lips, painfully aware that her heart was starting to pick up pace. 

There was an animalistic quality to him that she innately both feared and was enthralled by. Arthur was almost the polar opposite to men she preferred. She liked the clean shaven, gangly, cute boys with kind eyes. The ones who were almost nervous to touch her, reserved and charmingly insecure. The ones she could pull in when she needed companionship and push away when she was bored of it. 

And yet here she was, in the pull of a maelstrom of a man who was nothing like that. A confident man who came and went as he pleased, did as he wanted, and who definitely hadn’t been afraid to touch her. A dilemna, was the low whisper in her head and there it was again - the tug of temptation to saunter over to the keyhole. He spoke plain and often acted dumb but she saw him drawing and scribbling in that journal of his all day and she knew he wasn't half as stupid or shallow as he pretended to be. At times she had been certain he disliked her. Despised her, even. Sometimes she had sensed such dismissive contempt from him, it was impossible to misread. But then other times he looked at her like she was the only person in the entire world worth looking at. 

She shook herself out of her reverie and pulled the trigger and missed, of course. 

He came to stand behind her left shoulder. Touching distance, thought Savigne and rolled her shoulders while resisting the impulse to move away. 

"Believe it or not, this is me improved," she said without taking her eyes off the target. The dampness of sweat ghosted her nape and she rolled her neck to loosen up. She raised her arms for the next attempt, but flinched when he stepped up and smacked her left shoulder. 

"Too stiff."

She looked up at him in surprise but he didn't meet her stare, his eyes glued at the bottles. 

She shifted on her feet and tried to loosen her shoulder before she raised the weapon again. Another smack, this time on her left elbow. 

"Bend it. A bit."

Savigne sighed and tried to do as told. Frankly, it was very hard with him looming beside her like this. His presence had a weight to it that she couldn’t explain. Like he was made of magnet and she of metal. The pull irresistible, like a law of physics.

She inhaled to shoot and sputtered when his bark of "Breathe out!" startled her.

"Why?"

"Always shoot on the exhale," was his matter of fact response as his blue eyes locked with hers. 

She whipped her head back to the range. 

Arthur seemed to have taken her pie as a peace offering. You would think this would relax her but no, it just unsettled her even more. She was used to his rough aversion, so this newfound friendliness, this late attempt at comradery was foreign waters she wasn’t sure how to navigate. Sure, she still fantasized about him in the late hours at night. And she couldn’t deny that she was curious about him. But an actual relationship between them frankly sounded absurd. They had next to nothing in common except that they were docked in the same harbor for a short while. Soon enough she would pull anchor and head left to a marvelous career in fine dining. Her food would be photographed and written about in magazines and people would oh and ah when it was delivered to their table. And he would head right - to wherever outlaws went.

She tried to clear her head, exhaled, bent her elbows slightly and pulled the trigger. A bottle exploded. 

"Hah!" she beamed with pride. 

"What you celebratin’?" was the dry question. "That ain't the one you was aimin’ for."

"How would you know that?"

A smug bowing of lips. "You sayin’ you was aimin’ for the bottle second from the left?"

Savigne clicked her tongue in annoyance. It was true that she was somewhat obsessed with doing things in order, so naturally she had been aiming for the bottle at the end of the row. But there was no way for him to know her compulsions and her quirks, so she had no reason to admit the truth. 

"I think maybe my weapon is broken," she huffed in frustration. And my head, she added silently. Because him standing this close was doing things to her she didn't want to think about. Her thoughts drifted to the nights in her tent and she had a sudden superstitious fear that he could read minds. She hastily pushed the images out of her head.  

"Give it here."

She handed the gun over, careful not to touch him. He weighed it casually in his hand, checked if it was loaded before he turned around and shot all five bottles with lighting speed. 

Her mouth fell open as he held the butt of the gun back to her, then sauntered over to replace the bottles as she stood there, dumbfounded. 

"I don't understand why I'm so bad at this," was her whine when she recovered from the shock. Charles wasn't kidding - Arthur was a stupendously good shot. 

"Yer thinkin’ too much," the cowboy said as he placed the last bottle on the rock. 

"What do you mean?"

"Head’s in the way," he clarified as he walked back to her, this time standing on her right. She blinked at him. "Thinkin’ how to hold the gun, how to breathe, how to aim…" He crossed his arms. "Can't think, you gotta do it."

Maybe my head’s in the way because you’re here, she thought sourly. She took a deep breath, aimed again and he smacked her right elbow. She bit her lip, annoyed, and loosened her elbow.

"Why are you here anyway?" she asked, lowering the gun again. 

"Got tired listenin’ to you shootin’ about all day," he said dismissively. "Wanted to see what Charles taught you.”

I see how he looks at you and Charles when you go shootin’ Mary Beth's voice drawled in her head and she felt heat creep up her cheeks.

She re-positioned herself again and pulled the trigger. To her amazement, the bottle on the very left exploded. Savigne was about to let out a whoop when he interjected: 

"Closed yer eyes."

"But I hit it," she protested. 

He shrugged, clearly unimpressed. "Don' count."

"Bullsh-" She bit back the word and glared at his profile before focusing ahead on the targets again. That lilt at the corner of his lips showed he was having a fine time watching her fail and slapping her down a few pegs. Charles had been encouraging and gentle. Arthur apparently had no such qualms. 

The second bottle took four tries but when it shattered, she cackled with victory. 

"My eyes were open for that one!"

He scratched his neck and grimaced in concession, but refused to give her due praise. 

“If that was a man, he’d be on you by now,” he said flatly.

Which just steeled her resolve to impress him. Her fingers curled around the handle of the gun with grim determination as she thought watch this, you asshole.

All he got to watch was a volley of bullets that hit nothing except maybe some poor animals far off in the distance - certainly no bottles. She grew frustrated and complained that the third bottle was too small (it was a tonic bottle), so she moved on to the fourth. Arthur just gave her an incredulous look. 

The fourth bottle took two tries. 

"Go on, you can say it. That was perfect," she gloated, supremely happy with herself.

"Bottle still there ain’t it?" he jabbed his chin at the empty tonic flask. "So that don' count either".

"Seriously?" she hissed. 

He gave her a look that said ‘seriously’.

She regressed from that point on and a series of smacks against her shoulders and elbows and one to her hip ensued. She fought the temptation to tell him that he was a terrible teacher and thankfully won that battle. 

Finally she called it quits and stuffed her gun into her satchel with exaggerated ire. Her fingers brushed against the map and suddenly feeling bold, she pulled it out. Maybe this normalcy between them could be extended a little further.

"Hey. Would you mind a look at this? You ride around a lot, maybe you've seen it?"

She unfolded the hand drawn map and watched his eyes flit over it. 

"I seen it," he said simply, leaving her to head back to camp. 

"Wh-what?! Where is it?" she stumbled to catch up. 

He didn't answer right away, then stopped and looked at her for a moment. "That a treasure map?"

"Yes," she said sheepishly. Savigne was well aware that these so called treasure maps were sold like trinkets all over the country. 

"How much you paid for it?"

"Ten dollars."

He snorted and continued his lazy stroll to camp. 

"I know it could be fake. But a lot of the fake ones have all these well known landmarks," she said quickly, trying to match his long stride. "That's the charm, you know? People recognize the landmarks and they get excited which is what sells them. This one, I couldn't find it anywhere! It's so obscure!"

"Ain't that obscure," he retorted. 

"Okay, for you, because you ride around a lot. I couldn't find it in any of the books at the library…" she got another snort for that one, "…or maps. Can you tell me where it is?"

"No."

She halted in surprise. He really liked that word, didn’t he? This was the second time he had uttered it and walked away from her. A sense of deja vu rooted her feet as she owlishly blinked after him. Then she scrambled to to catch up again, just like she had that day in Valentine. 

“Why not?”

“Don’ wanna.”

“Excuse me?”

His blue eyes were sharp when they swung her way, then away.

“But…” she ran along and reached out to grab his arm to make him stop. Then cringed when she remembered his aversion to being touched and changed her mind. There was a short internal debate whether at this point in their bizarre correspondence it was more appropriate to call him Mr. Morgan or Arthur before she decided neither. 

“At least tell me why!”

"Ain't safe," he said matter-of-factly, still walking.

"Safe?" she echoed, confused.

He locked eyes with her to make his point. "Can't go there by yerself. Specially shootin' like that."

“What do you care?” she gawked.

He shrugged. “If I told you and something happened, I’d be responsible.”

That's when she felt a nip of anger. 

Somewhere in his primitive head that made sense to him. To tell her, an independent woman, what was safe and wasn’t; what she could and couldn’t do. 

Maybe he thought she was Mary Beth or Tilly – someone familiar he pompously imagined himself to be the ‘protector’ of. Someone he talked down at like a benevolent older brother and drew boundaries for.

Worse: maybe he thought because he had punched Micah for what he had done, he had earned the right to have a say in her decisions and her actions from here on out. 

Much worse: maybe he thought because they had frolicked for one damn night – a concession that was wrangled from her in exchange for an act any decent man would have done without a reward in mind, by the way – he was suddenly entitled to tell her where she could go and where she wasn’t allowed to. 

The bud of anger flourished into a dark flower. 

"Now listen here,” she said, her voice taut, “I'm not your ward.” 

The amused look on his face incensed her further. Who the hell did he think he was? Some stranger in a camp she was temporarily staying at, that's who. He wasn't her father or her boss or even a friend. The nerve to think she needed his guidance or protection or allowance!

“Oh, I know what you’re doing,” she snapped, the venom in her voice dark and sticky.

He seemed completely unfazed by her growing ire. The cocked eyebrow said ‘go on’.

So she did: 

“You’re trying to wrench another promise from me, is that it?”

As soon as the words tumbled off her lips, she regretted them because Arthur's reaction was profound: He flinched and stopped in his tracks. Startled, she stopped too. 

A moment later he stepped up to her and she instinctively took half a step back, wilting under those eyes shimmering with slight and fury.  

"I'm sorry," she whispered, bewildered. "That was…uncalled for."

The tension that had dissipated between them at the shooting range shot up like an invisible wall. 

A long moment passed, then another. The cicadas sang on. 

"Few miles north-east of Strawberry,” he said finally, the tone of his voice as flat as an open palm to her face. "Do as you please."

Then he marched away and she took a ragged breath, looking after him. Damn it, will I ever have a normal interaction with this man? she thought glumly. She felt regret, but then told herself she didn’t care enough about him to regret it; she felt ashamed but then told herself of course he had deserved it, lording over her like he had...  

She ambled back to camp, feeling sullen and not understanding why.

By the time she arrived, Frost was gone and so of course was Arthur. 

Chapter Text

They didn't talk again for a long time. Savigne was annoyed about being annoyed. She had finally managed to push him away, so why was she so grumpy about it? Things fell into their natural order and one day as she walked through camp, she heard a raspy sound that made her skin crawl:

"Hey der, ‘member me?"

She had almost forgotten about Micah but when she whipped her head around, there he was, sitting under Dutch's tent shade. His face was a cluster of bumps and cuts, still black and blue. He reminded her of someone she had seen in a circus once, a poor man whose face was all grotesque. They had paraded him around as the crowd had watched and booed with breathless disgust. 

"Layk wat ya see?" he mumbled and a rope of spit extended from his slack lips. Savigne froze, suddenly all her fear from that night coming back to her. "Don werry bout dis," he drawled, waving his hand about his face, "itll get bettah." A wound opened in his visage and she realized he was smiling. She quickly stalked off, very disturbed. That night she slept fitfully, this time with the gun under her pillow. 

After that, she got shy around camp again because Micah was always up and about. She didn't go to the shooting range anymore, afraid that he would sneak up to her, and she didn't go sit on the log she and Mary Beth had shared and she had made a habit of visiting to read her books, either. 

Then one Sunday, after she had returned from her routine in Valentine, clean and fresh, her laundry smelling of Jasmine this week, re-arranging her tent with the new groceries she had bought and folding her clean clothes, suddenly gunshots rang in camp and all hell broke loose. 

Caught off-guard, she threw herself on the bedroll as a bullet pierced the tent above her head and a scream of surprise tore through her throat. She heard other screams and to her horror, she recognized Jack's. Initially she believed that someone in camp was drunk and shooting about. That had never happened before, but it was plausible as everyone walked around decked to the neck. But then the barrage quickly reached a point where this was implausible. She belly-crawled to the entrance of her tent and carefully peeked out and that's when she spotted strangers, riders pouring into camp and shooting at the gang. She saw Dutch and Micah behind crates on the opposite side. Abigail ran through her field of vision, dragging Jack behind the cover of one of the wagons. 

As comical as it sounded, the first thought that popped up in her head was “So Hosea’s ‘staying in an outlaw camp to avoid outlaws’ bit was bullshit, too!”. Her dark humor vaporized when she noticed the green vests and bandannas on the raiders. These must be the O’Driscolls everyone talked about (and spat to the side after). She looked behind her, to the edge of the forest and hesitated. If she ran into the forest and they caught up with her, she was done for. If she stayed here, one of these bullets would surely hit her. Reaching the gang at the other end of the camp required her to run through the crossfire so that was not an option. She fished out her gun from her satchel as another bullet whizzed by her head, almost making her drop it. Forest it was. She stumbled to her feet, tried to keep low and started to run. 

It seemed to be going well enough until a hand grabbed her shoulder and flipped her and a body landed on her. “Wouldn’t get up if I was you,” a man growled. His thick thighs had pinched her in and this sprung all sorts of unwelcome memories. She tried to bring around her gun but he slapped it away with ease and it sailed into the tall grass. The embarrassment at being completely disarmed and rendered defenseless within seconds was so intense, she hoped to god nobody had witnessed it. She pushed against his chest to dislodge him but he was heavy and dug his pistol into her ribs in warning. Savigne stilled and opened her palms in surrender.

A moment later his head exploded. 

She screamed in shock and pushed his still bleeding and twitching body off herself, furiously grabbed the hem of her skirt to wipe the mist of blood off her face. Another man, stockier and older with a heavy beard was lured by her screams, spotted her and started to stumble in her direction. He managed to take a few steps as she helplessly scrambled back on her butt. Before he could get closer, he promptly went slack and keeled over when a bullet tore through his eye. She sat there, stupefied and frightened frozen for a long moment and then her animal brain kicked in and she rose to her knees, paused in bewilderment, and resumed her scramble towards the forest. A close shout of sharp pain from behind her made her glance back. Not even ten feet away a man keeled sideways with his hand pressed against the red blotch on his chest. His moaning ceased when half his face cratered with the next bullet.

Her head snapped towards the gang but in the mayhem and smoke she couldn’t see the shooter, although she had a pretty good idea who it was. 

Her lungs shrunk to the size of walnuts as she wheezed for breath, eyes on the treeline that, in cruel dreamlike fashion, withdrew the closer she approached. She barreled towards it running on pure fear and adrenaline and almost made it when a hand shot out behind one of the discarded damaged wagons and gripped her arm to pull her sideways. A low voice in her ear drawled, “Don’t move,” as an arm pythoned around her neck. She felt the cold barrel of his gun on her temple. “Yer sniper friend is good, but I ain’t dyin' here.”

He pulled her roughly against himself and she sputtered as her airflow was restricted. He carefully rose to his feet, using her as cover as he backed into the forest. Her vision started to darken and she tapped on his arm with alarm, trying to breathe but he didn’t loosen his grip, glancing behind him, then ahead again, ducking behind her smaller figure as she stumbled backwards to keep step. She glanced up to see the tree branches and knew that once they were behind the edge, it would be impossible for anyone to shoot this man. Panic seized her and she started to buck to break free but he just hit her temple casually with the butt of the gun before pointing the barrel at her again. Stars exploded behind her eyelids and she felt herself dragged backwards before she lost consciousness. 

Arthur cursed under his breath as he watched Savigne through his scope disappear between the trees. His temper flared white hot. Fuck! Should have taken the god damn shot. Immediately at the heels of it: No. The risk was too great. The two wolves in him panted at each other, tongues lolling, then turned their amber orbs to him. Fury pulsed red behind his eyelids. He bounced from behind his crate and shot an O’Driscoll peeking around a tree, then quickly another who was trying to run for the forest, then a third fool who probably thought he was already outside his rifle range. His fingers darted like hummingbirds as he reloaded. The gunfight was tapering off as the remaining O’Driscolls tried to stagger back to their horses and ride out.

Dutch appeared beside him and ducked low before popping out to fire three shots in succession.

“They’re retreating,” he gasped at Arthur, pleased. “Damn O’Driscolls got their asses handed to them today.”

“They took Miss Ricci,” was his dry response. In his mind’s eye, the dark wolf grinned. Should have taken the shot.

Dutch paused mid reloading and gave him a look. Then he released a few more bullets before ducking back down. 

“Listen to me: We should regroup first. See if we have any wounded and-”

Arthur moved to the next crate and shot a man riding out. The man flew off his saddle and twitched on the ground. In his mind’s eye, that heavy arm coiled around her neck. O’Driscoll filth! the lighter wolf snarled.

To his annoyance, the other man followed and gripped his shoulder to get his attention. Arthur, his temper already short, shook the hand off and ran to take cover behind a tree with Lenny.

“Did you see…” Lenny started.

“I saw,” he growled. But didn’t shoot, the dark wolf panted. 

He tasted bitter ire on his tongue, sharp and acrid. He knew the shot hadn’t been clean. But that didn’t mean the alternative was going to be better for her. You can fix this. You will fix this. Stay focused.

He ducked out of hiding and shot the last O’Driscoll in the leg, then marched towards him. From the corner of his eye, he saw the rest of the gang come out from behind covers, flooding the clearing and calling to each other. When he reached the man, he kicked the gun out of his hand and knelt down beside him, his hand gripping the leg wound. The man released a high pitched scream and tried to free his leg but Arthur was stronger and kept the pressure while giving him a casual smack on the nose with the butt of his rifle. The wolves watched him hungrily, ears twitching as blood started to pour out of the O’Driscoll’s nose as he fell back, hands raised in surrender. 

He dug his finger into the bullet wound. The man screeched and he slightly released the pressure to allow him a moment to think. 

“You took my friend," was his flat question. "Where is she?”

The man just cried a peal of senseless words. With barely contained enthusiasm, Arthur dug his trigger finger all the way into the wound, so deep that he actually touched the bullet lodged in there. A yowl of sobbing boomed from the man and echoed in camp and he clawed at Arthur's grip. Arthur smacked him with a heavy backhand that tossed an arc of blood from the man’s nostrils and dug on. He teased the bullet, enjoying the fever pitch of the cries before he reminded himself to back off and released the pressure again. 

“I ain’t got time. Talk!”

The O'Driscoll whimpered in pain and panted like a dog. “I...I...d-don’t…” 

Arthur’s finger dug in again, rotating ruthlessly to widen the wound. Despite the desperate howls, he heard the squelching of flesh under his ministrations and felt no pity. Blood gushed and bubbled out of the bullet hole, warm and crimson. “I know you got a meetin’ place picked," he said when he backed off again a few moments later. "Tell me where.”

The man gave him a bug eyed look, the whites of his eyes huge and brimming with tears. Arthur's big hunting knife was drown out with a whisper. "Tell me where. Or 'm gonna trim you like a tree."

The dark promise in his voice was convincing enough. The man gasped and coughed, chocking on the blood that was flowing from this nose into his mouth. “Abandoned…c-cabin!" he half cried, half wailed. "Six miles...north...the m-main road…west of…Valentine,” he moaned. Then a blabber of hasty pleading: “Please! I'm sorry! I’m new…I just joined…” 

He rose to his feet and took a look around while he whistled for his horse, unfazed by the begging at his feet. Fur shivered, teeth glinted in excitement as the pack rallied around him. Dutch strode up to him, his eyes glued to the man on the ground, his face hard. He shot the O’Driscoll in the head and quieted his prayers forever before he grabbed Arthur’s forearm. 

“Listen to me,” the older man hissed, chasing his eyes as he secured his rifle on his back, watching Frost, who had trotted off when the mayhem started, appear ahead. “You can’t go alone. There might be too many of them. Let’s just gather up, see what’s what and then we can...”

Dutch's face twisted with disbelief when Arthur brushed his hand off and muttered “I’ll be fine. You can do all that without me.” 

“Son...” The leader of the gang started, but stilled when Arthur finally locked eyes with him. The unexpected hostility in that blue gaze shocked him into silence.

Arthur stepped around him and jumped up his horse and without hesitation promptly dug his heels into Frost without looking back. The wolves turned up their snouts and howled in ecstasy.

Dutch was still standing there when Hosea shuffled up to him. “What’s going on?” was the breathless question.

“They got Miss Ricci,” Dutch sighed, the tone of irritation hard to miss, his eyes following Arthur’s receding back. “And he won’t listen to reason!”

Reason was one thing, but the boy wouldn’t listen to him, which was quite another. Rationally, he didn’t like the idea of his best man going after and endangering himself (and the fortunes of the gang, as a consequence) for an irrelevant woman. Emotionally…he didn’t like it for different reasons. He was still smarting over the Micah incident, and now once again Miss Ricci had somehow managed to bewitch Arthur into thinking he’s her personal bodyguard. The gang should come first. His wishes should come first. But she had a way of reshuffling Arthur’s priorities like a veteran croupier shuffled a deck of cards and it made him uneasy.

“Of course he won’t listen to reason,” Hosea gasped, hands on knees. “And good for him.”

Dutch slowly turned his head and gave him a look of profound surprise, laced with anger. 

“What?” Hosea wheezed defensively. 

“I thought I was the leader here. He rode out blind! How is that wise?"

"You've sent him against bigger odds before," the other man coughed and straightened up.

"For the gang!" Dutch seethed. It occurred to him that if he had to explain to Hosea of all people how gang members and non-gang folks where worlds apart, a foundational pillar was already crumbling. Something to ruminate on later. "She's not one of us! I have nothing against doing the right thing, but I see no point in taking risks for her."

Hosea gave him a long look. "You're not the one taking risk, old friend. And you'd be wrong to put yourself in the middle of this." 

"And what," Dutch ground his teeth, "is that supposed to mean?"

Hosea didn’t cower before Dutch’s stare and held his ground. "It means you're used to getting your way, I understand that. But I see what you're doing. You force him to make a choice between you and her, well, let's just say you might not like the result." He ignored Dutch's silent, hard stare. "I guess what I'm saying is, don't make it a competition, and you won't lose."

Hosea watched the other man storm off and stood there for a long time as he tried to regain his breath.

Arthur rode like the wind until he reached the main road, then crossed it to ride on north. He knew the cabin the man was talking about, he had spotted it once or twice in passing, but he had doubts if the man had spoken true. If he had lied, he would never find Savigne in time. He cursed under his breath again as he drew closer and jumped off Frost before the horse fully stopped. He reloaded his rifle and touched the butts of his guns to make sure he hadn’t dropped them as he ran the rest of the way on foot, patter of eager paws to his right and to his left. Minutes later he spotted the cabin ahead and dropped down to a crouch behind some bushes, trying to regain his breath. 

The scope of his rifle aimed for the cabin and he breathed out so his vision wouldn’t shake. For a moment he was convinced that the man had lied. The cabin was dark and there was nobody about. But then he heard faint noises from within and he dared to hope again. 

He slowly scrambled left to get out of the view of the windows, making sure to stay behind the trees. When he finally faced the windowless wall of the structure he quickly glanced around to make sure there weren’t more incoming riders and quietly ran up to it, flattening himself against it. The voices were more distinct now. Three men. Arguing. Although he didn’t expect to hear it, the lack of Savigne’s voice made him uneasy. He stalked to the corner and glanced around it. Here, there was an open window and he heard the argument more clearly. 

“…you saw him?”

“Yeah I saw him. I saw him eat one in the gut!”

“God damn, that kid was barely fifteen.”

A moment of silence.

“What a disaster. Colm ain’t gonna like it.”

“I have half a mind not to go back,” was the mumbled agreement.

Silence again.

“You think more made it?”

A disgruntled “No. We were last to ride out and nobody else here...” Then, a more wistful addition of “I don’t know. Maybe?”

A longer silence. 

“Why’d you bring her?”

He realized then that in the dark, deeper corners of his mind he had feared that they had shot and discarded her on the way over. His heart flooded with relief and he momentarily closed his eyes to let out a long exhale through the nose.

“I didn’t bring her. She was my cover. They got damn sharpshooters in that rotten place. Good ones, too."

A sullen “Well she here now, ain’t she? Could 'ave tossed her once you got away.”

“I ain't toss her…” was the bristling explanation, "…cause Colm can talk to her. Two birds and all that. Find out what the bastards are up to.”

A long silence wrought with sounds of deep breathing. One of them seemed injured as he moaned softly in the background. 

“She pretty enough.” A statement that lilted like a question.

His blood reheated at that and he quietly cocked his guns, then carefully glanced at the open pane of the window to see a reflection. Two men sitting on the floor, leaning against the opposite wall. The third wasn’t visible from this angle. He ducked low so they couldn’t spot his own reflection on the open pane.

“Smells nice.”

“You think she Dutch’s side piece? Could be she could be useful.”

“Could be.”

Incomprehensible mumbling by the injured man.

“You tie her up good?”

“She ain’t going nowhere,” was the low, smug snicker. “Like a little bird, that one. Couldn’ find her way out a cage if the door was open.”

Another silence.

“Maybe you two go ahead, I stay here a bit. Keep n’eye on her.” He heard the grin in the voice.

A snort. “I’m only goin’ if she coming with.”

“I’m the one who brought her,” was the possessive growl. 

“So what? Don’ see your name etched on her.”

“You listen, boy…”

Arthur moved to crouch under the window, stepped up, bouncing the pane further open with his shoulder, raised his guns and shot them both in the head before they could even react. Then he leaned in, turned to his left and shot the third man in the back as he was scrambling towards the door of the cabin.

Silence. 

He swiveled right and pointed his guns to the door that was leading to the windowless room, possibly some kind of storage, and waited. Moments ticked by and nothing happened. He waited on, unsure if there was a fourth in there with her or if all O’Driscolls were dead. 

The relief he felt at her muffled “I’m in here!” made him dizzy.

“You alone?”

“Yes!” He could hear tears in her voice. 

He holstered his guns and walked up to the cabin door, throwing it open. He put a bullet in the the head of the man he had shot in the back just for good measure and strode down to kick in the inner door. 

The door bounced open and threw in daylight and she immediately recognized his silhouette: dark, tall and broad against the bright background. He stood there momentarily as his eyes adjusted to the dim room and she melted into sobs. She buried her face in her hands, her wrists tied to the shelf in front of her, overcome with gratitude and shame. She had doubted him; doubted that he would risk his life for her after so much terseness and adversity between them, after all the friction and hostility. She was nobody to him, merely a stranger who slept in camp. A temporary guest who had caused an internal strife and then had managed to get herself snatched away by raiders. At this point, undoubtedly the $50 a week she was bringing in was far outweighed by the trouble she kept stirring up.

He owed her nothing - no allegiance and no debt.

And yet, he had come for her.

She felt his knife cut through the thick rope, his fingers peeling it off her wrists. Moments later a light grip on her shoulder:

“You hurt?”

She shook her head and cried, disoriented with shock, fear, relief and that searing gratitude again that she had felt the night he had beat Micah to a pulp for her. It filled up her chest and choked out her breath. She couldn’t wrap her head around how a man could grant so much grace to her when she had done nothing to deserve it. When she had done enough to make him regret it. Nobody - least of all herself - would have blamed him if he hadn’t come.

But here he was.

He whispered her name then and she realized that she had never heard him say her name before. The absurdity of that fact only made her sob harder. The grip on her shoulder tightened.

“Savigne, look at me.”

She threw her arms around his neck and hugged him with all her strength. His hands landed on her waist to steady her, his body stiff with surprise. They stood like that for a long time as she tried to catch her breath. He felt warm like he had that night and she trembled against him, tucking her face in his neck, finding comfort in his familiar scent of horse and cigarettes, gunpowder and sweat. He waited patiently, rigid and silent like a warm rock she had swam up and clung to in her desperation to avoid drowning.

Finally she pulled back a little to look at him and he quickly retrieved his hands, allowing her to step away. Before she could change her mind, she raised herself on the tip of her toes and placed a lingering kiss on his lips. There was the slightest jerk of a surprise, but he didn’t pull back. Then she leaned away to meet his gaze, apprehensive.  

Arthur Morgan was a hard man to read when he didn’t want to be read. Well guarded, stoic and cautious. All she had was a keyhole and a pocketful of hope. Which quickly drained away when he just stood there and didn’t move a muscle for what felt like forever. Stupid fool. What are you doing? She swallowed a hiccup and felt the onset of shame. Her arms around his neck loosened with the brunt of rejection. Excuses bubbled up in her head: Sorry, I wasn’t thinking. Sorry, I overstepped. Sorry, I thought…

The he ducked in and locked lips with her as his hand shot up to cup her cheek and all her insecurities fell away. 

Savigne had fantasized kissing him many times in the darkness of her tent but reality proved to be so much better. His lips were firmer and more demanding than her imagination, kissing her with a passion she felt ill equipped to match. Kissing her like he too had thought about it, had wanted it in the secret dark hours of the night alone on his cot. She wondered dimly what he had concocted in his head and if it matched her own desires and the notion sent a jolt through her heart. He hummed into her mouth as his other hand cupped the back of her head to hold her in place. A burst of heat simmered in her gut and sunk lower still as she kissed him back hungrily, hanging from his broad shoulders. He walked into her and she felt herself pushed against the wall as the shelf beside them rattled. 

She moaned into his mouth and shifted her thighs, squirming against him as he covered her body with his, pressing her against the wall. Her fingers brushed into his hair, cradling his head to pull him closer still. A deep rumble traveled through his chest and his right hand traversed down her face to cup her chin, pulling it up to deepen the kiss, then over her throat, down a breast and further down still until it flattened itself over her stomach before it cupped her over her clothes, making her gasp.

Arthur pulled back and gave her a long look, breathing hard. She expected him to tell her that they had to leave this minute because there were dead people right outside the door and more men could be on their way. That this was stupid and a mistake and she was just in shock. That he wasn't interested in anything beyond saving her. That she had misread his intentions because she had lost her god damn mind. You know, sensible things. She yelped in surprise when he hoisted her up and she instinctively crossed her ankles on his back. He kissed her again as he walked over to the crate in the corner, swinging one arm to swipe off the items on it before placing her there. 

His fingers deftly loosened the top buttons of her blouse and she whimpered when he yanked the collar back to ravage her neck. His other hand on her lower back jerked her closer to himself, rough and impatient. This is crazy, she thought in the back of her mind but her body had a mind of its own and burned with desire that had been denied, ignored, repressed for too long. Her hands flew to the waistband of his trousers and she hastily unbuttoned them before she reached in to run her flat palm over his cock. It stiffened almost instantly against her hand and his groan was so deep, she felt the reverberations through his chest on hers. He broke the kiss and paused, clearly struggling for self control. Something she didn't want to grant him. So she grasped the back of his head to pull him closer and whispered in his ear to take her right here, right now. Outrageous, shameful words. But true to the core. There was a ghost of a shudder and she felt his cock twitch under her palm.

He straightened slowly. His eyes danced like choppy storm waves and his breathing was deep and loud as he gazed down at her. A look of hard resolve settled on his face. His gaze was locked with hers when his hand threw up the bloody hem of her skirt and reached for her bloomers, yanking them off her legs, half tearing them. She gasped when he threw her legs apart to stand between them and kissed her again, savagely and with impenitence while his right hand peeled off his gun belt. It dropped to the floor with a muffled thud. An act so bold, so risky, so stupid in their current disposition that she should object. But instead, her excitement exploded into delirium.

His gaze was fixed on her as he tore her half off the crate, angling her to loom over her. One of his hands on her waist to keep her in place, the other curled firmly on her throat, forcing her attention on him as she felt the blunt head of his cock at her entrance. Unlike the first time when he had been careful and slow, this time he pushed in with one fluid motion until he was buried to the hilt. She whimpered and closed her eyes and his grip on her throat tightened in warning. Her eyes flew open to meet his again. Only when she held his gaze did he start to move, watching her face as he rocked into her. A slow pull out, a hard and fast push, the meeting of his pelvis and her thigh a sharp pulsing slap against the background of panting and soft moaning in the small room. 

She straightened a shaking arm behind her to stay upright and splinters bite into her palm. Her other hand twisted the sling of his rifle across his chest as she tried to pull herself up to brush her lips against his. She tried to kiss him and whimpered against his mouth with frustration when he remained just out of reach, his hand on her throat sustaining the tiny distance between them. There was smug amusement in his eyes and a look of power on his face as he denied her. His grip on her windpipe softened when she relented, and tightened when she struggled anew to close the gap between their lips.

All the time he casually bucked into her with sluggish vigor and he took her - just as she had asked. Took her on his own terms and forcing her to yield. The first time, she had balked at being overpowered. She had chalked up the enjoyment she drew from it to novelty. But the second time, there were no excuses. She liked bending to his will and the resistance was pointless. The why and the how were for tomorrow. Right now, right here, she liked it, wanted it, craved it. She decided to do the unthinkable: to let go and allow him to take control.

Her eyelids fluttered with the building pleasure, her neck weakened and her head fell back in defeat and acceptance. Then the large hand on her throat moved to the back of her head like a steel grip, angling her face as he leaned in to kiss her at his pleasure, with ruthless demand, swallowing her moans while his pace increased and he started pistoning into her like a slowly accelerating train. 

His lips traveled to her neck, his breath hot against her ear as her cries grew louder, matching the thudding of the crate under her, fingers clawing at his shirt and his shoulder, digging into his skin to find purchase as she felt herself reeling towards completion with frightening speed. The fingers on her waist stiffened like a claw with his pleasure, injecting five tendrils of sharp delicious pain into her euphoria. Her back arched and her mouth fell open and she exhaled shuddered gasps as she tumbled over the precipice of ecstasy, head over foot over head over foot, in freefall. Moments later, a hot moan of her name by her ear and the warmth of his release inside her as his hips continued to smack against her once, twice, and then weakly a final time. 

Her strained arm behind her wobbled and she folded it around his neck for purchase. He straightened, large hands on her back pressing her to his chest while they panted into each other’s neck, their hearts thundering against one another. A long minute passed before his hands glided to her waist to steady her as he pulled out, but didn’t step away yet. She pressed her forehead against his pulse. 

“We should go,” he finally breathed into her hair. “Ain't safe.”

She nodded into his neck, still gasping for breath. 

He pulled back and looked at her, his gaze softer, warmer; the shedding of his hardness and tension complete. His thumbs brushed the remainder of her tears off her face before he placed a long chaste kiss on her lips for finality. Savigne dropped her hands and he stepped back to tuck himself in and put on his gun belt with practiced ease. She slid off the crate and gathered her torn bloomers to slip them back on, quickly tying a rough knot at the waistband to keep them in place.

He stood at the door inspecting the front room for a moment, then glanced at her over his shoulder and held out his hand. She took it, her hand small in his firm grip. “Don’ look,” he said quietly before he turned and led her out. She felt a sense of shame of their coupling right next to these dead bodies she could see from the corner of her eye, but it was distant and small. They had meant her harm and now they were gone. She kept her gaze on his broad back, on the muscles moving under his shirt as he pulled her out into the waning sunlight. 

Arthur stood in front of her for a few moments to make sure that they wouldn’t be shot at by an O’Driscoll lying in wait, then whistled for his horse. They waited in silence and she buttoned up her blouse with her free hand, straightened her skirt and wiped the hair off her face. Frost trotted out from between the trees and came to stand before them. Arthur stashed his rifle in the saddle before he climbed up as she briefly patted Frost’s neck and kissed his snout. He reached down for her and smoothly pulled her to sit behind him and Savigne threw her arms around his waist and rested her head between his shoulders. 

She was in disbelief about the magnitude of what had transpired – from the assault to the kidnapping to the sex. It felt like days had passed even though everything had started and ended within hours. She was a city girl and she had witnessed her first gunfight today, had seen people’s heads blown off and had been kidnapped for whatever terrifying purpose by outlaws. The sudden explosion of violence only to be surpassed in intensity by the intimacy that had followed it. She pressed her cheek against Arthur’s back and tightened her grip across his waist as she realized how close she had come to dying. Or worse. If he hadn’t shot those men back at camp and if he hadn’t come for her…a shudder went through her at the thought. 

He didn’t speak but he must have felt her trembling against his back because one of his hands came off the reins and lightly covered hers to calm her as he urged Frost to a light canter.

They rode back in silence and arrived at camp as the sun was setting. He jumped from his horse, grabbed her waist and helped her down as others came to express their relief that both had returned unharmed. He shifted on his feet for a few moments and gave her a long look. She searched for the telltale signs of remorse or shame in his eyes and was relieved when she couldn’t find any. The slightest of nods before he walked away as people flocked between them. Then she was accosted by the women who asked if she was okay and guided her to sit down by Ms Grimshaw’s tent to give her water and help her recover.

Chapter Text

She lied on her bedroll and stared at the ceiling. There was somber chatter nearby as they had moved her tent temporarily closer to the others for safety, but she hardly heard it. She thought about the bullet whizzing by her head and her eyes shifted to the hole in the tent fabric where light was beaming through from the campfire. She thought about that man's arm encircling her neck, chocking her and her hand absent mindedly cradled her neck. Then she thought of swimming up to consciousness as she was dragged off a horse, thrown over a shoulder and her palm glided down to her stomach as she remembered how it hurt to be hoisted like that. Then about Arthur kicking in the door and standing there, the light behind him almost giving him a halo, and her fingers inched downwards before she caught herself, flinched and shuffled to lie sideways. 

"What am I doing?" was her frustrated mumble. 

There was no more denying that the camp was dangerous. The short lived peace and security she had found here was shattered like a mirage and obviously things were escalating. There was danger from within and there was danger from without. Within a short few weeks she had been assaulted twice and that was twice more than she had been assaulted in her entire life! 

Now that their hideout had been discovered by O’Driscolls, the gang had decided to move in the morning but that was small consolation for her as fundamentally little would change. Micah would still be here and O’Driscolls would still be out there. 

Maybe, she thought, her pompousness, her irrational self confidence had finally led her to deeper waters than she was equipped to handle. In fact, the more she analyzed it in her head, the more ridiculous and insane it was that she had drifted this far from her comfort zone and sat here, mingling with criminals.

Savigne knew that she had a habit of getting carried away when she had her eyes on a prize, of dismissing the cons and highlighting the pros. How else could she explain why she had bypassed a dozen other, saner options to end up here of all places - an outlaw camp? She had known some fellow orphans who got into a life of crime but it had been simple stuff. Prostitution, pick pocketing, scamming folks, cheating in gambling and the like. These people were in a league of their own. They were rough and dangerous. They robbed trains, engaged in gunfights, killed without hesitation. There were some among them who were known to have done much worse. 

Her ambition to own her own home, the silly dream of an orphan, had obviously clouded her mind. Was it time to cut her losses, swallow her pride, admit that she was out of her league and move on?

Then she thought, yes, Micah and O’Driscolls would still be here.

But...so would he.

The notion sent a shiver down her spine. She remembered his hands roaming her body with confidence, carrying her, folding her, bending her, parting her; his mouth swallowing her moans, that hunger in his eyes, that sigh of her name in her ear…

Stop it! Think straight for once, Christ on a cross...

She shuffled to lie on her other side. 

He's just a man. There are millions of them in the world and only one of you. Think!

He wasn’t just a man, though. He was a man who had put his own life in danger for her. How many of those were there in the world?

Apart from a father she could barely remember, none that she could think of. The risk he took for her was so foreign, so novel of a concept, she simply couldn’t look away from it, fascinated by it. Maybe Arthur was the kind of man who would have done it for anyone, maybe it came natural and easy to him, maybe for him it was all in a day’s work and she was reading way too much into it. 

But for Savigne it was an extremely unique incident, something she simply had nothing else in her life to compare to. She had met some very generous people throughout the years who had helped her for no other reason than kindness. The sisters at the orphanage. Her old flame Llewyn who had helped her get that apprenticeship at the baker’s shop, even after things had ended between them. The baker himself, Mr. Stone, who had treated her like his own daughter and taught her everything he knew about the art of baking. Many more who held out a hand to an orphan girl with nothing to her name expecting nothing in return. 

But never had anyone put themselves in danger - especially mortal danger - for her.

Never had anyone killed for her. 

This seemed stupendous. Unfathomable. Especially given their history. A history that had started off acrimonious, had leveled off to something like gruff acquaintance for a hot minute, and then had descended back to bitterness. She could think of a dozen reasons why Arthur Morgan could have declined to come after her today, but not a single one why he actually did. It was perplexing, bizarre, outrageous, intriguing all rolled into one and she was mesmerized by it. 

Mesmerized by the rest of it, too. How she had wanted him at that moment. No, that wasn't entirely honest, was it? Because she had been wanting him for far longer than that. Fantasizing about him in the safety of her tent, telling herself that it was nothing but harmless daydreaming. Why, she couldn’t fathom. How it happened, she didn’t know. It was madness, it shouldn’t be, but here she was. And here he was - saving her again. Fucking her again. She had asked for it but he hadn’t refused. Then again, what man would? She found herself back at square one, struggling to understand why he had done what he had done and why she had done what she had done. Endlessly running in circles.

Where did they go from here? Was today the end or just the beginning? Would he chalk it up to adrenaline and shock and look through her as if she was invisible tomorrow, or would he want more? She looked and looked through the keyhole and dreamt of rising to her feet, twisting the door handle, and finally entering instead.

She woke up the next morning to the gang packing the wagons and preparing the horses. Her tent was small and easy to fold and she didn't have a lot of possessions, it was ready in minutes. They placed it into one of the wagons and then she just idled around, unsure what to do next. Hosea asked her where the steakhouse was so someone could pick her up from work to bring her to wherever the new camp would be.

When she didn’t answer, his hand gently grasped her arm for attention.

“You are coming back, right?”

“I…yes,” she said, distracted. “Where else am I going to go?”

He nodded, looking half embarrassed, half relieved. “I know I’m a scoundrel for even asking,” he muttered. “A proven liar.”

A sensible person would take that tent sitting in a wagon, get on her horse and leave without looking back. But all her sensibilities had wilted away in that storage room, it seemed. Because she saw Arthur move about in the periphery of her vision and all she could think of was the feeling of his lips on her skin. She cleared her throat and gave Hosea a half smile.

“Are you trying to glean the odds of your bet?”

He blinked in surprise, then coughed a bark of laughter. "Why, I never!” was his mock protest.

The blur that was Arthur stilled and looked at them at that, then continued with the packing. She thought of his rumble against her chest and the warmth of his back against her cheek as he rode her back to safety and sighed.

“If you feel so bad, maybe see that I get a discount for rent,” she quipped after she gave him the address for the backdoor of the restaurant, and made for her horse.

Behind her, another bark of amusement.

She rode to Saint Denis more apprehensive than she had been in years, her eyes scanning the hills for O'Driscolls. But nothing happened along the way and soon work did that wonderful thing work does: it took her mind off things. Of course, discounting the long report she had to give to Luther. 

"The hell kinda life you livin’? Every week it’s somethin’ new with you.”

"I know," she groaned, refilling the sugar pots from the large container. "It's like I have crosshairs on my back."

"That ain't it," he mumbled around his cigarette. "It's cause youse livin' with outlaws."

"Well yeah," Savigne admitted. "That too."

"No," he retorted. "Not that, too. Just that."

"I've saved a lot of money," she said defensively. 

"Worthless if you die.”

"I just need a little more. And then I can buy a place and..."

"So lemme see if I understand this," he interrupted, plucking the cigarette out of his mouth and waving it at her, "You live with outlaws till you save money cause it's dangerous out there on yer own. Then you gonna buy a place and live on yer own cause that's less dangerous than livin’ with them outlaws."

Savinge blinked. “I mean…obviously I have to be able to defend myself..." she trailed.

He gave her a long side-eye. 

"I would like to remind you that I'm taking shooting lessons," she added with a huff.

"Uh huh...How did that pan out when you was kidnapped?"

"That's not fair, I didn't get a chance to use my gun!"

"Cause it got slapped outta yer hand, you mean."

She mumbled some dark, incomprehensible things in return.

"Y’ask me, yer better off findin' a husband who can shoot than them lessons."

Savigne banged the container's lid shut a bit too forcefully. "I don't need a husband. I can do everything myself, thank you very much! Been doing it since I was a child."

He rolled his eyes and returned to his station. 

"Maybe you'll marry this Arthur,” was his late mutter. “He seems to know what he doin’. That's twice he saved yer hide."

She was placing the sugar container back into a lower shelf and got up so fast that she banged her head on a hanging pan. He turned around slowly, eyeing her with renewed interest. Savigne busied herself with cleaning the counter. 

"Somethin’ goin’ on there?"

"What do you mean?"

"Woman, don' play coy with me."

"Listen you dirty old man, nothing's going on. Also, your steak is burning."

"They ask for well done," he said smoothly, not even looking to check. "And yer a terrible liar."

She huffed in annoyance and wiped harder. 

“You sweet on this guy or somethin?” was the sly question.

Her laughter felt forced even to her own ears. “The only guy I’m sweet on is you,” she said with an exaggerated smile and batted her lashes at him. 

“My my…”Luther drawled and grinned as he turned his back to her again. “Somethin' goin' on alright. Somethin’ definitely goin' on.”

She ended her shift tired, but happy that she was tired. Working kept her head above the water. She changed her clothes and took off her double cap and made sure her hair didn't smell like food. Then she walked out of the backdoor and was startled to find Arthur across the street, leaning against the building with one knee bent, foot planted against the wall, smoking a cigarette and looking absolutely stunning. Her legs went weak for a moment, then she forced herself to walk up to him. An involuntary smile split her face from ear to ear.

"Hey!”

The grunt of a greeting in return.

His eyes were more green than blue today but as magnetic as always. Nobody had ever looked at her as fiercely as Arthur did and it made her heart quiver every time.   

"Sorry you got saddled with taking me back,” she said, a bit flustered. Fishing again, are we?

"Volunteered.”

Something threatened to jump out her throat, so she quickly flattened her lips, nodded and looked away.

"Where's Cricket?" he asked a moment later.

She chuckled despite herself. The progress from "the horse" to a name seemed small but significant.

"He's stabled around the corner."

He crushed his cigarette under a heel. “Let’s go.”

He walked her to the stable to pick up Cricket and waited patiently as she petted him and saddled him. The horse was already washed and brushed and looked pristine. She climbed up the saddle and joined him as they rode out of Saint Denis, towards Rhodes. She disliked this region overall, the new location felt like a downgrade to her. But it was closer to Saint Denis, so there was that. 

The silence between them stretched on, not exactly tense, but somewhat awkward. She had spent a good number of hours last night and earlier today wondering how things stood from here on out, and had finally decided to play it off on his actions. If he acted friendly, so would she. If he acted like there was nothing between them, so would she. Problem was, Arthur was a closed, opaque box and hard to read. Well, he had volunteered to pick her up, which was something. And he wasn't hostile and short with her, so that was something, too.

“So I actually read about a new dish today,” she said after a while. He grunted to imply he was listening. “It’s called ‘canard a la rouennaise’”. 

“The hell is that?”

The permission to talk opened the floodgates. “It’s duck. But you kind of use a press to extract the essential juices from roasted duck, and then you make this sauce with Bordeaux wine and shallots - but it has to be Bordeaux because otherwise the flavor won’t be right - and also never onions, it has to be shallots you know, shallots have this distinctive taste…” 

She counted the ingredients on her fingers and described the details of the dish but got sidetracked on how port and cognac are NOT interchangeable because of the properties of port and so on and so forth as they rode on as the sun waned on the horizon. 

His only contributions were the occasional “That so?” or “How come?”, which spurred her on to talk even more, jumping from one subject to another as was her usual way of talking – especially when she was nervous, excited or happy. In the back of her mind she told herself that she should shut up, that the man wasn’t probably very interested in the different varieties of mustard, but then she thought that 'mustard' rhymed with 'custard' and decided to tell him all the different custards she could whip up and how they were totally not the same even though some kind of tasted pretty much the same. 

This went on for a good while until he veered off the road into the dimmer forest and she followed, trying to memorize the point of departure from the main road. He pulled his horse to a stop, stuffed his hat into his saddle, jumped off and came around to grab her waist and pull her down. Surprised by the boldness of the touch, she trailed off from whatever she had been babbling about and whipped her head around to spot the camp when his lips crushed hers. She froze with surprise but this didn't deter him as he walked into her, pushed her against a tree without breaking the kiss, then immediately started down her neck, fumbling with the buttons of her blouse when her back hit the bark. 

"Could think...of...nothin' else...all damn day," he whispered between kisses. His hands roamed and kneaded her body like a man possessed. Savigne's eyes fluttered close as he suckled her earlobe and his hand reached into her blouse to palm a breast. 

The sudden turn from disinterest to passionate threw her off, but only for a moment. The tone she had expected him to set had been set and she sure as hell wasn't going to argue with it. Arousal zapped through her like a rush. It was electrifying, to be wanted, to be needed by someone so honest with their regard. His lust was palpable, flammable and it made her knees weak to know that she was the reason for it. She had been desired by others, but that desire had been tame and gentle compared to this - his desire was searing, scorching, fuel to her own flame. 

He found her mouth again and she moaned into him as he pulled her blouse apart, his large hands cupping her breasts over her thin chemise, his thumbs drawing circles around her nipples. The same hands that had been soft and tender in touch when she had been fearful and apprehensive that first night, today eager and unapologetic. Moments later one of them dropped down to pull up her skirt and reach under her bloomers. 

There was a mumble of a hot whisper against her ear as his fingers brushed against her folds and she jumped with a gasp, feeling herself get wet already. 

It was hard to believe that this was the same man who had shown aversion to her touch back in Valentine. A reserved man around others, Arthur was a different beast altogether in private: direct, daring, feral. His boldness was magnetic; his hunger simple, honest and unabashed. He wasn't interested in pretending or playing coy games; he wanted her and he asserted his demand with remarkable confidence, and her body responded to this demand with a primal need of her own.

"But what if someone sees-" she muttered weakly, stunned by the force of her own thrill.

"Don' care." 

He captured her lips again, his tongue forceful and possessive. She unbuttoned his shirt halfway and ran her hand against his warm chest, his heartbeat like a drum against her palm. She moaned with surprise when he inserted a finger in her, moving it teasingly slow, his other hand kneading her buttocks as he pressed her against himself. She gave up on the rest of his shirt buttons and hastily unbuckled his gun belt instead. He curled his finger with deadly precision and she cried into his mouth, dizzy with need. The hard outline of his cock bloomed against her stomach. 

"Woman, you sing like that, I ain’t gonna last," was his low chuckle, but he curled his finger again and her head thudded against the tree as she let out a long, deep moan. His hand cupped her as he continued pushing his finger slowly in and out. His other hand settled on her cheek to turn her face up to him as he kissed her breathless. 

Then he locked eyes with her, his blue gaze assertive as he brushed his lips against hers. “Unbutton me, little bird,” he mumbled against her lips. She shuddered at the casual command in his tone. Her face locked in his palm, she reached blindly with shaking fingers. He suckled and licked her lips, watching her with hooded eyes. When her fingers touched the rough cotton of his shirt, suddenly his thumb slid over her wet clit and her hand momentarily fisted the garment as a wave of pleasure jolted through her. She gasped and he took the opportunity to deepen the kiss, pushing in his tongue to glide over hers before retreating again, back to suckling her lips. Her glare of irritation only amused him, curling the corner of his lips and crinkling his eyes. 

Savigne pressed her lips flat to deny him as her hand drifted lower over the buttons of his shirt, like a trail of little pebbles leading her to the waistband of his trousers. His finger kept moving, coated with the wetness of her own desire now, the pace just slow enough to make her tremble with the friction. She felt the hard buttons of his trousers when he inserted a second finger and continued his rhythmic pumping. She exhaled with the increased pressure and bit back a whimper. Her fingers grasped the buttons and she fumbled to undo them single handed. He curled his fingers and brushed his thumb against her bud, forcing a moan from her and making her hand pause again. He was expecting it and pounced on her mouth, kissing her deeper, smugly pleased with himself.

Then the hand on her cheek turned her face away and his lips traveled to her neck, kissing and licking the sensitive skin under her ear. She sighed with relief when she finally managed to undo the buttons. His erection was hard against his trousers, tenting the fabric. His lips like circles of fire on her neck while he was seemingly occupied with kissing his way to her shoulder. But when she tried to reach in to touch him, he immediately curled his fingers in warning that she was overstepping what he had asked of her and she cried out from the pleasure, fisting his waistband in frustration. 

“Well done,” he whispered into her ear, playfully nibbling her earlobe. A part of her disgustingly rejoiced at the compliment. Another, more rebellious part of her wanted to fight him, to resist him. Her fingers curled around him over his pants and his breath stuttered as his hips involuntarily twitched against her hand. The next moment he curled his fingers just so, executing a slow and long slide against a spot inside her that made her eyes roll back and her hand reflexively left his cock and flew to grip his forearm. She panted, trying to come down from that sharp, unexpected cut of pleasure that he had managed to inflict on her, stunned by how well he already knew her body. He hummed in approval as if to remind her that he was in charge and didn’t feel like sharing his power.

A moment later he stepped back and slid down her bloomers, crouching down in front of her to help her step out of the fabric pooled at her feet. His hands slowly came up her calves, then glided over her thighs, pulling up her skirt in their wake. She swallowed, her fingers combing his hair as his lips kissed a trail on her inner thigh while he rose back up slowly, kneading her legs before he palmed her buttocks to lift her weightlessly against the tree, then to lower her back on himself.  

They gasped in unison as he slid in all the way, throbbing inside her like another heart. She coiled her arms around his neck as he kissed along her collarbone and started to thrust into her, slow and steady. The rough tree bark scraped the back of her blouse as she brushed against it, but she barely noticed. The forest was silent around them, the only sounds their moaning, panting and grunting. 

In the distant part of her mind, bewilderment at her state - allowing herself to be fucked against a tree again. Moreover, by the very same man. He had claimed her that night as if it had been his god given right, and he was doing the same now. And just like that night, she couldn’t refuse or resist. It was one of those “How did I end up here?” moments in life - a forced arrangement that she had hated, or at least believed she had hated, turning into a willing tryst within mere months. 

She didn’t get to ruminate on it for too long because the heat of her pleasure was building like a sunrise - bright, inescapable, imminent. She panted into his neck, feeling powerless in her current position, completely at the mercy of his pleasure and his stupendous strength, holding her up as if she weighed nothing. Arthur angled her to go deeper yet and she cried into his ear which only seemed to drive him wilder, spurring his pace. 

"God…I'm close," she whined, shocked by her already approaching peak. She felt like she was on fire as his fingers painfully dented her buttocks while his hips bucked into her with increasing force. 

"I..." she stammered, bewildered, "I..."

"Let go," he drawled casually into her chest as he closed his mouth on her nipple over her chemise and just like that, her back arched, her shoulders pressed against the rough bark, her hands clawed into his shoulders and she came at his bidding, crying her release. She felt herself clenching around him and that was his undoing as he followed her with a shudder and a long groan while she was still riding out her orgasm. Moments later her head fell on his shoulder as she panted, her inner walls fluttering against him. 

“I…” she gasped, dazed and confused by the power he had over her, by how quickly he had aroused her and how smoothly he had steered her and how she had obeyed his command without the slightest resistance. He kissed the corner of her lips and suckled gently on her neck. “That was…” she tried again when his lips interrupted her, now more languid and gentle as he lowered her to stand, pressing her against him with a palm between her shoulder blades. 

She leaned against him, breathless and somewhat stunned by what had transpired. It was a steep deviation from her former relationships where more often than not she had been the initiating party, the one who had held the reins of control, the one who had allowed herself to be touched and loved. She had been the one who had convinced her shy partners that she wouldn’t break, she had encouraged the timid ones to kiss her, she had urged the hesitant ones to undress her. She had reveled in their adorable veneration and she had praised them after, even if most of the time the sex had been disappointing.

Now here she was, spellbound by a man she hardly knew, undone with a word or a touch. A crack formed on her coveted sense of independence. What else would she do if he merely asked?  

She pushed these thoughts out of her head to pick on later as they dressed back up and climbed their horses. A comfortable, slack silence settled between them as he guided her back to the road. Twilight fell around them and they rode on for another quarter hour before his knuckles briefly brushed against her thigh as he passed her on the last bend. The trees fell away and suddenly the camp was there, in the open, surrounded by forest on one side and water on the other. It was actually quite beautiful. She would miss the view of the first one but she liked being on the water. The stars sparkled over the wide expanse of the lake. 

“I like it,” she said, over her shoulder as she heard him dismount. He grunted his agreement. She fished out two apples from her basket and fed one to Cricket, the other to Frost. They stood like that, close but not touching, petting Frost on opposite sides. She glanced up at him and noticed the ghost of a smile on his lips and the serenity in his eyes. 

Although she had seen his softer side once or twice, usually in passing when she had caught an interaction between him and Jack, the Arthur she had been living next to in camp for months had been cold, distant and hard. Mean, even. She remembered conversations between the ladies, chiding him (never to his face, always carefully behind his back when he was out of earshot) for getting drunk and harassing folks needlessly again. Conversations that she had barely listened to with an absent ear because she hadn’t been interested. Now it was obvious to her that he was one of those men who ran hot and heavy, building up steam until he found an outlet by punching or shooting someone. Or fucking someone, she thought to herself. In the aftermath there was a tranquility about him, a certain peace and contentment that she had begun to recognize. She gave him a small smile, grabbed her basket and walked off to find her tent and Arthur headed to his but didn’t quite make it before Dutch called out to him. 

“Everything went well?”

“Fine.”

“Seen any O’Driscolls?”

“No.”

“Son…” Dutch walked out of his tent and strolled closer as the phonograph behind him bellowed an opera, “…are we good?”

“Sure.”

Dutch came to stand in front of Arthur and squared his long legs. He gazed deep and long into those blue eyes, then grasped the younger man’s shoulder. “You know I only want what’s best for you.”

“What’s this 'bout, Dutch?” Arthur sighed.

“Nothing!” Dutch threw up his hands in mock surrender. “Just making sure you know I mean the best for you.”

“Sure,” was the response again.

“You know I would have sent you after Savigne eventually yesterday. That was never in question.” 

Arthur waved it off as if to say it didn’t matter, it was in the past. 

He shuffled closer still, perturbed by the lack of engagement and eager to set things straight between them.

“I’m just saying, I only wanted to check on our people first.”

“She is our people, ain’t she?” Arthur said drily before he met Dutch’s eyes. Same irritating argument that Hosea stuck to. He weighed the delicacy of the issue and tried to approach it from a different direction. 

“Well I mean in a way she is, of course!” He took another sizzling drag from his cigar and watched the embers on the tip glow up orange. “But then again, she pays to be here.”

“We all pay to be here.” 

“Not quite the same, don’t you think?”

“Sounds exactly the same t’me,” was the flat answer. 

Dutch watched him for a long moment and Arthur looked back, inscrutable. Something was different about Arthur and he did not like to see it. This man had been an unquestioning right hand since he was 14; whatever this was, felt new and out of place. It was almost like a late - very late - teenage rebellion. As if he had breezed by that phase unaffected when he was younger, but now suddenly was at the point where he was questioning his elders and drawing his own red lines. Dutch felt his influence on him slipping and every time he tried to regain it, Arthur seemed to drift further away. 

If his suspicions were correct, right into Savigne’s arms. He wasn't sure if this was simply just a phase he was going through and Savigne just happened to be there at the right time and the right place, or if she was at the root of it, but he resented it all the same. 

He was insulted by how blindsided he felt, by how quickly it had happened. She had been in camp for months and these two had moved around each other like planets in different orbits. Then suddenly something had shifted just enough for there to be a massive gravitational pull between them and he had failed to predict it. Dutch prided himself as a cunning observer and a good judge of people, but he had failed to foresee something so bizarre happening right under his nose.   

And now, for the first time since they had met, Arthur was drifting out of his sphere of influence. Now, when he needed him the most. His resentment about Savigne flared up again but he was careful not to show it. He tried a different angle:

“We never really talked about what you did to Micah...” he began and watched Arthur’s eyes sharpen, “It was…necessary, I understand that. But maybe we can agree that it was a little…overdone.”

“No,” Arthur said, his tone even as he held Dutch’s gaze. “We ain’t agreed on that.” This coldness, this open disagreement was baffling to Dutch and he struggled to keep his temper in check.  

“Son…”

“Listen Dutch,” Arthur said a tad impatient, and took half a step towards him. “I ain’t jokin'. You keep that animal away from her or I’ll do what needs doin’ and put him down. Y’ask me, should have done it that day. He shouldn’ be here, he ain’t our sort.”

The hands came up again in placation. “He is a bit rough, I admit…”

“That ain’t it,” Arthur hissed, making Dutch look up in surprise. “He ain’t ‘rough’. He’s wrong and that’s plain to everyone but you.”

“You’ll come around,” Dutch mused after a long moment, pointing the tip of his cigar at Arthur. “You came around on Savigne, you’ll come around on Micah.”

“What’s that s’posed to mean?” was the guarded question.

“I mean you didn’t like her for a long time…” he watched Arthur’s eyes drift off again and knew he had hit a mark, “but now…you jump at the chance of being her hero!”

After the Micah incident he had suspected that something was going on between them, but it had been Arthur’s reaction to her kidnapping that had convinced him. That dismissive brushing off of his hand, that hostile, icy gaze when he tried to reason with him. They kept their distance within the confines of the camp and the fact that they were attempting to hide it was somewhat encouraging – at the very least it meant that it wasn’t as serious as it could be and he took solace in that.

Unfortunately Arthur didn’t rise to the bait. That too was new. Arthur had always been a simple man - easy to anger and easy to placate. But now he seemed more calculating, more careful around Dutch. It was as unmooring as watching a leal dog suddenly pick a new master. He felt jealous of the shift in devotion and resentful because he felt jealous, because he liked to think himself above such petty feelings.

“Anyhow!” Dutch’s voice lilted up to imply that he was ready to move on. “I have a job for you. Could take a couple of days. I want you to go as soon as possible – tonight, if you can. Talk to John about it, will you?”

Arthur shook his head and turned to go back to his tent, displeased. Seemed like every time he had a few days to rest, Dutch grew an itch to give him work. He went through his flap and threw his hat on the table, then proceeded to sit on his cot and angrily take off his boots.  He tossed them away and lied down, one arm bent under his head. 

He thought about the incidents of the last few weeks and a picture started to emerge in his head. An uncomfortable picture he’d rather not see, but one he increasingly couldn't look away from. 

What would have happened if he hadn’t been here that night? Micah would have walked off scot free because Dutch would have backed his lies. “To keep the peace” he would have said later in private. His knuckles itched at the memory. “Should have finished the job right there,” he muttered to himself. 

And what would have happened if he hadn’t been here when O’Driscolls came? His gut told him that Dutch would not have sent anyone after Savigne. Hell, he might have even stood in the way of anyone who wanted to go, just like he had done with him.

It dawned on him then that he was reluctant to leave the camp now because he wasn’t so sure that she was safe here without him. 

Which led him to a curious notion: somewhere along the way his interest in Savigne, up until recently easily explainable as mere sexual attraction, had evolved into something else. He ruminated on this for a few minutes, puzzled and intrigued by it, but soon dismissed it because unlike Savigne, Arthur wasn’t a man who was prone to relentless self-introspection. There had been a time when he was uneasy and restless by how much space she took up in his head, but now that the desire was mutual, the conflict and tension had evaporated. 

He retrieved his arm from under his head and draped it over his face. He was tired but it was a good tiredness, the kind of fatigue a man felt after gratifying sex and he knew he would sleep well tonight.

Chapter Text

The next morning when she woke up, there was a piece of paper placed inside under the flap of the tent. “Have to leave for a few days” it read. On the backside was a quick sketch of Cricket and she smiled, running her fingers over the lines.

She placed the note between the pages of her cookbook, where the recipe of apple pie was and started to get dressed. She thought about that note all day, and then the day after.

At first it was unexpected, cute and innocent; she was excited and intrigued by why he had left it. Was there more between them? She thought about the man who had dragged her out to the forest to collect a debt - he hadn't been the kind to leave notes. Had he changed or was she just starting to see a different, a hidden side to him? Had he pre-planned it or had it been just an afterthought? It was just a single line, hard to interpret as anything but a simple heads up, practical and unsentimental. But then he had also sketched Cricket in the back and surely that meant something? Or maybe he had sketched Cricket long ago just because and then had added the note to the front because he was out of paper?

But the more she thought on it, the more ominous it became. Because it exposed something, something she sensed but couldn’t define. Initially, like an ethereal ghost, it evaded the grasp of her understanding. But after doggedly peeling back the layers, she found the heart of the matter:

It didn’t matter why he left it, what made her uneasy was that she cared so much why he left it, her reaction to it, how much she thought about it and how invested she was in the answer. Men had gifted her nice bouquets, hairpins and necklaces; a simple note wasn’t really something to get worked up about. But at night she found herself retrieving it and looking at it, imagining his fingers writing the lines. It was daunting to have this weak spot for someone. It felt like realizing one day that your back door wouldn’t lock, that it hadn’t been locked for weeks.

After this realization she wasn’t certain if her affair with Arthur was just a simple sexual, physical attraction anymore and emotional entanglement with people was something Savigne had grown out of, even actively avoided since her parents had died, leaving her alone on a ship sailing towards a new country. Every connection she had formed since then had always been with the understanding that she could and would always break it when she needed to, that she never would entirely depend on it. She would miss it perhaps, but definitely survive it. Now here she was, enthralled by a man she hardly knew, excited by the little things he did for her that went beyond just physical intimacy.

It occurred to her then that she was wrong to fear Micah or Dutch. That Arthur was the one she really should fear.

She went back to camp that Saturday and found Sadie sitting by the water and decided to join her. They sat in comfortable silence for a long time and watched birds circling the little islands in the distance.

Sadie seemed better overall but a dark anger had replaced her depression. Savigne asked about her husband and their life together to change the mood and it worked for a little while.

“What’s it like,” she said carefully, “to rely on someone like that?”

Sadie gave her look. “I wouldn’ change a thing, if that’s yer meaning.”

“So if you could go back in time…I mean knowing what you know now…” Savigne tried carefully, “…the good and the bad…you would still do it? You would still love him and marry him, knowing what follows?”

“Sure.”

The unhesitant response surprised her.

“I’m not so sure I would,” Savigne conceded to herself. “Feels like signing up for a lot of avoidable pain.”

“No other way of livin’.”

“There is though…”

“That ain’t livin’,” was Sadie’s simple answer.

“But…”

“Can’t just take the good and leave out the bad, that ain’t how life works.”

“But…”

“You’ve been on yer own too long,” Sadie said gently, gazing at her with what looked suspiciously like pity.

“I like being on my own,” Savigne mumbled defensively.

“Sure. And good for ya. Ya should be proud. But all the same, that ain’t livin’.”

“I don’t get it,” Savigne admitted after a long silence.

“You cook, right? Think of it like eatin’ food with no flavor. Yeah, you’ll get what ya need out of it, but would ya want t’eat food like that all yer life?”

She thought about this for a long time. “I guess not.”

Sadie smiled and touched her shoulder. “I know it’s hard for you. Like I said, ya been alone too long. But it’ll come natural when it comes. Me? Wasn’t even a choice. I met my Jakey and that was that.”

“I fear it,” Savigne whispered, looking at the emerging stars. “Wanting something so bad that it’s not really a choice anymore. Like you think you have a say in it but it’s a lie you tell yourself, you never did.”

She shrugged in discomfort, unable to explain further and was surprised when Sadie placed her hand on her back and drew circles, the way her mother used to do in the dim recesses of her memories.

“You’re proud Savigne. I like that about ya. But some things nobody has a say in, not even kings and queens.”

On the fourth night she woke up with a palm on her mouth and her heart jolted so hard, she thought it would jump out of her chest. Her hand immediately went under the pillow but a much bigger hand enveloped her wrist.

“Ssshhh…it’s me. Savigne, it’s me.” She stilled, confused and unsure. Then, lips on her ear: “It’s me.” A shudder of relief ran through her at Arthur’s voice and a tear trickled down her cheek. He removed both hands and she shot up to sit, shaking.

“Seriously!?” she gasped, feeling like she was about to faint.

“‘M sorry,” was the sheepish response from the dark. “Wasn’ thinkin’.”

She took big gulps of air as he moved to sit beside her. His palm settled on her back to calm her. It was a warm summer night and it must have been the early hours of morning because it was unusually quiet. Even the stragglers who kept odd waking hours seemed to have passed out. Her eyes eventually adjusted to the dark and she threw her arms around his shoulders, still shaking.

“Don’t do that again,” she whispered into his neck, still panting. She felt him nod against her. “Also,” she sighed, “welcome back.”

She felt the smile on his lips when he lifted her chin to kiss her. He deepened the kiss as his thumb wiped the tear off her cheek, then his hand pressed down her shoulder to make her lie back down. Halfway to doing that Savigne jerked back up to sit. “What are you doing here?”

“What d’ya mean?” he whispered against her neck, his hand re-applying the force to her shoulder.

“In my tent!?” she hissed and tried to shove him away.

He cuffed both of her wrists in his palm and moved them above her head as he pressed his chest against her, easily pushing her flat on her bedroll and kissed her again, his body covering hers. He moved up on one elbow so he wouldn’t crush her as his lips traveled down her jawline.

“Stop! Someone’s going to hear us!” she breathed, nervous.

He didn’t seem to care. Savigne tried to scurry from under him but her movements only served to make it easier for him to settle between her legs and he chuckled lowly in amusement. He captured her lips again and let go of her hands. She struggled some more and stilled when she felt his hardness through his trousers.

“Y’ain’t helping,” was the dark growl in her ear.

She gasped when his hand pulled down the shoulder strap of her chemise and he left wet kisses on her shoulder. His beard, a few days longer, scraped against her skin. Her fingers carded through his hair and he moaned, pleased at the sensation. She wondered momentarily where he had been and what he had done. What he had seen. Maybe he had robbed someone, maybe he had collected debts. Or maybe most of the time he had just drifted around, camping under the stars. It occurred to her that she knew very little about how he passed the days and what he did when he left camp.

“Arthur!” she tried again.

"It’s late, everyone's 'sleep," he mumbled into her chest.

She bit back a moan when his mouth closed on her nipple, hot and hungry, and her grip on his hair tightened reflexively.

“We can…meet…up…later today,” she mewled, feeling like she was fighting a losing battle as the familiar warmth gathered in her gut.

“That ain’t happenin’.” His left hand slipping under her bloomers to heft a cheek as he ground his erection against her thigh to make his point. It still surprised her, his boldness with her body, how unabashedly he touched her. They hadn’t known each other for very long, but Arthur acted as comfortable as if they’ve been intimate for ages; as if her body was his to touch and kiss and fondle whenever he wanted.

“But…”

“Ssshhhh.” The fingers of his right hand slowly stroked her folds over her bloomers. Her mouth fell open as she started panting again and her fingers curled on his shirt. He sat up suddenly and started to unbutton his shirt, then threw it aside and glided to lie above her again. She realized that for the first time she could touch his naked torso and her palms rounded his shoulders, then slowly down, over his heart and the trail of hair on his stomach, the hard panes of his abdomen, down to the waistband of his trousers.

He kissed her again, one hand unbuttoning his trousers, then grasped her hand to guide it to his warm cock, hard and ready. She wrapped her fingers around it and he groaned into her mouth, curling his large hand around hers, teaching her how to touch him, showing her how he liked to be touched. Eventually he retrieved his hand and remained perched on his elbows looking down at her, his eyes shimmering with lust.

She slowly stroked him, watching his face as he panted down at her, his hips pulsing in tandem with her movements. He groaned softly when her thumb brushed under the swollen head, mumbling incomprehensible things against her lips.

Savigne had had a number of lovers before and she was no stranger to sex. But she wouldn’t call herself bold or experienced. Her preference of men had always put her in a position of power instead of the other way around and as shy and reserved she had been, most of her lovers had been even more so. Now that the roles were reversed, she suddenly found herself to be the pupil and somewhat out of her league. But Arthur didn’t seem to mind - if anything, he was more eager for it. The more reluctant and awkward she was around him, the more he seemed to enjoy prying her out of her shell.

“Just so…you know…” she whispered between kisses. “if we get…caught,” she tightened her grip and brushed that sensitive spot again as his breath stuttered, “it’s…your…fault.”

“Yes ma’am,” was his ragged reply before he gently slapped her hand away and scrambled back to undress completely, then crawled to her on his hands and knees, his muscles rippling like a tiger. He smoothly pulled off her bloomers and then peeled the chemise over her head before he straddled her, sitting on his knees. She realized that for the first time they were both completely naked and rose up to glide her fingers over his biceps and his thighs. He felt like warm marble. Her hands mapped his broad back and glided over his ribs to the curve of his buttocks as he watched her, his eyes unreadable in the dark.

“You feel so hard,” she mumbled, fascinated. She thought of her previous bed mates, their soft muscles, their long limbs and skinny legs.

“So soft,” he sighed in return as his hands traveled down her arms, cupped her breasts, thumbs brushing underneath and down her stomach. He pushed her back down and slid between her legs again. "How're ya always so clean?" he mumbled into her mouth. It was a rhetorical question, he didn't wait for an answer as he suckled on her lower lip before he glided into her, then set a painfully slow rhythm. His hand closed around her throat, gentle but firm and pushed her chin up to continue his ministrations with her lips.

Savigne panted with need, inhaled his hot breath as he inhaled hers while she tried to swallow all the moans bubbling up in her. Her legs pressed down on his buttocks, urging him to go faster but he ignored her as he pulled almost completely out before her glided back in. Leisurely, agonizingly teasing as he watched her with hooded eyes, licking her lips and kissing her cheeks.

The tent was warm, warmer still with him in here with her, and even warmer still as they panted and gasped against one another. It felt very different from their previous trysts. More sensuous, more intimate to be in this small space and completely naked, unhurried. It felt like making love.

She knew he must have been very impatient to have come to her tent at this hour, an unspoken line they had never crossed before. And yet he was slow and gentle, taking his sweet time and resisting her pleadings to move faster.

"I-I need," she stammered, trying to press into him for more friction between them.

"Ssshhh...I know what you need."

She felt immense, sustained pleasure and writhed underneath him with the need to get more, her hands dancing on his ribs, nails scratching his back. Sweat was dripping down her neck and beading on his forehead. She felt him get harder in her, his breath bellowing but he didn't change his pace. "Ya know," he whispered as she felt a tremor run through his torso, "yer very...pretty...when yer...flustered."

She moaned despite herself and his thumb came up from her neck to wipe at her mouth. She closed her lips around it and suckled it and his breath caught as his hips stuttered. She panted his name arching her back and he groaned as his rhythm grew more haphazard, his movements more erratic.

Her orgasm, when it came, was stupendously long and smooth, forcing a low sigh out of her that he inhaled through his mouth as he rocked into her a few more times before he stilled. He sank down to lie half on, half off her chest, cheek on her shoulder, hot and heavy. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, feeling his slacking pulse on her skin. A long time passed as they remained like that, their sweat cooling off in the warm summer air. All was quiet. She drifted off and it felt only like minutes but when she woke up it was light out and he was gone.

She stretched like a cat, still feeling the lingering throes of her pleasure and lay there for a minute, absolutely happy. She couldn't remember the last time she had felt this content. She needed to get ready for her trip to Valentine but all she wanted was to stay in his orbit. No, what she really wanted was to walk up to his tent and kiss him.

Told you, you would catch feelings.

Savigne groaned, a dark cloud appearing on her sunny day.

Next you'll imagine cooking for him as he chops wood in the back of your cabin or some other mundane fluffy shit.

She decided to ignore it. No need to spoil her off day with such venomous company.

He doesn't feel the same you stupid, stupid girl. Know how I know? Go on, walk over and try to kiss him and see what happens. He'd be mortified and cross.

A drop of green poison landed in her tranquil pool, swirling lazily, unfurling and dissipating.

For all we know, he does have a woman in a cabin somewhere but you're just a side piece he fucks when he's horny.

Her resolve crumbled. Another green droplet went plop.

And that woman, well that one he wouldn't hide. She's the real one and you're just a good lay.

Savigne sometimes marveled at her skill in making herself miserable. It came so easy to her, like a gift she was born with. She didn't have to hone it or perfect it, it was just naturally sharp.

Come to think of it, keeping you to himself is probably him taking pity on you. Because if it was revealed, everyone in camp would be laughing at you behind your back.

Rings extended on the surface of her pool as another drop went in, coloring the clear water further.

She sat there, head bowed in frustration. She didn't know why she did this to herself. There was absolutely no reason to believe Arthur was doing any of the things her mind kept whispering to her, and yet here she was, already feeling the compulsion to scratch that scab.

“Enough of this,” she sniffed finally, stuffing her dirty laundry into the basket. “I know what you’re doing and I’m tired of it.” She started to get dressed and muttered on, more confident: “Nothing has changed. My life continues just the same as before.”

People are fickle. Why give someone power over you? Nobody deserves that kind of trust.

“Nobody has power over me,” she said to the reflection in her mirror while she was braiding her hair. “I haven’t lost my mind and made stupid choices. I haven’t given up on my dreams. As long as I don’t deviate, there’s no problem.”

Sadie said you won’t have a choice when it happens. Don’t. Lose. Your. Head.

She inspected her face in the mirror, absentmindedly listening to the camp noises in the distance. She pulled out Twenty Thousand Leagues Under The Sea, cracked it open and found the photo of her parents. Two young people looking at the camera, serious and somber. The woman in a simple dress, seated, the young man standing behind her, his hands on the back of the chair she was sitting in. The image cracked, a bit faded, the once rich black ink dull and the whites a shade of grey now.

Not for the first time she wondered what their day had been like before this picture was taken. What they had done after. Had they gone out for lunch? What had they talked about? Had they sauntered around town, arms locked? Maybe they weren’t affectionate people and they had just stalked back home, feeling awkward and insecure. Maybe it had been an arranged marriage. Maybe quite the opposite - they had been in love and they had run away together?

The picture wasn’t dated. Maybe Savigne hadn’t even been a figment of a thought for them when this was taken. Or maybe she was already there with them, hidden snugly in her mother’s womb. Either way, it was years before the voyage to America. She looked at their somber expressions, her mother’s beautiful hair and her father’s slim, athletic stature. They looked so strong, so confident, so healthy. Not the slightest inkling in their minds how in a few years they would perish on a ship, coughing, frightened and in pain, far away from everything they knew.

She looked up to the mirror again. Same slightly slanted eyes and same cheekbones as her mother but the stronger nose of her father. She was probably older now than they had been when this photo was taken. If true, she had outlived them in age already. In a strange way this notion calmed her because it implied that she must be doing something right. They had passed the torch to her and she had run further with it than they had managed to. She hadn’t perished at the orphanage, she hadn’t picked up an addiction, she hadn’t gotten involved with some brute and gotten pregnant out of wedlock, she hadn’t gotten her life derailed over a petty crime. She had been careful, disciplined, focused and she was still here.

A surge of confidence and peace settled on her and her acrimonious mind went blessedly silent.

“I won’t lose my head,” she snorted to her reflection. “That kind of nonsense is for stupid girls. I’m a woman. No man is going to bewitch me.”

The weeks went on as summer unfolded in all its glorious beauty. She told herself she wouldn’t lose her head every night. Then every other night. Then it was spotty and half-hearted, like a prayer mumbled from memory, no thought going into the words. He didn’t ask anything of her and he didn’t transform into some mean, selfish fiend, so her guard slackened and her wariness eroded.

Arthur left her notes before he would leave if he would be gone for longer than a few days and sometimes he would leave her drawings of the places he’d been at after his return, and sometimes those came with a note to meet somewhere the next day at a certain time. She never felt as alarmed about them as she had after that first one. Sure, her heart did a funny thing when she received them but the more she got to know him, the more she was convinced that this was simply his way of communicating. Because he was a private person, not inclined to talk much.

That didn’t mean he was dull. He might not be chatty, but he did speak in other ways. She learned to tell his grunts of agreement apart from those of disagreement. She learned that he had a habit of letting a long breath out of his nose when he was angry. He ran his hand through his beard when he was uncomfortable or frustrated and had a particular huff when he was impatient.

He rarely talked about himself, things about his past life would only come out with a sentence or two in random circumstances. But he liked to talk at least about the things he’d seen when he was traveling. Even then he wasn’t much of a wordsmith and at times, when he felt like he couldn’t express himself as he wanted to, he would show her a drawing in his journal to get his point across. His drawings were always a testament to how perceptive he was – the way he managed to capture the essence of things sometimes with very few lines showed that he was a diligent and patient observer.

The key pillar at the center of their affair was a ridiculous inability to keep their hands off each other. His virility was stupendous - something she would expect from a teenager but not a man of his age. In the beginning she just assumed that he mustn’t have had a woman in his life for a long time and he was just awash with pent up sexual frustration. Then she thought that it was the life he was leading - the life of an outlaw with risk and violence around every corner, the drive to survive, the worry about his gang - that fed the pressure. But then at times she suspected that, just like his notes and drawings, sex was how he expressed himself. A way of speaking without using words.

Sometimes, if he had been away for a while, instead of returning to camp, he would wait for her on the road to Saint Denis and whisk her away for a tumble in the woods before she went to work. These she liked less because she was always stressed that she would be late. But when he was gone like this for a period of time, he developed a hunger for her and he was ravenous in his passion, making her come with mind blowing orgasms within minutes. Other times he would pick her up from work and their affair was more languid and drawn out, until she dressed up and returned to camp and he followed within a reasonable time gap. Some nights, when it was late he would come to her tent, whispering her name to wake her up and those were her favorites because they felt so much less rushed.

Savigne suspected that their relationship was an open secret in camp – she sensed that everyone knew but pretended not to for their sake but Arthur didn’t want to change it, so they stayed away from one another in camp. He attempted to help her with the shooting lessons again but it quickly devolved into them making out in the woods so that was the end of that.

She was so caught up in this infatuation, she barely noticed the date of Antoine’s screening drawing closer and then one day it was just upon her.

“Ya tell him it’s tomorrow?” Luther grunted beside her.

“No. I don’t want anyone else to know. It’ll just up the expectation, make me nervous. I’ll tell him when I win the position.”

“Confident, are we? Good on ya.”

Then he gave her a long look.

“What?”

“Ya know, ya don’ even look like you care.”

“What do you mean?”

He shrugged his big shoulders. “Like if ya don’ get it, you’ll just waltz back here and go on as ya was and that would be just fine.”

“Well, I mean it would be fine.” The long look returned. “It would be! It wouldn’t be great, but it wouldn’t be the end of the world, you know?”

“Ain’t sayin’ it be the end of the world. But was a day, ya really wanted it. Wanted it.”

“I do want it.”

But she thought about it some more as she went to get a stack of plates. “You think he’s distracting me?” A tad nervous.

“Oh I know he distractin’ ya!” he guwaffed.

“Not what I mean. I mean like…you think I’m losing my head?”

“Yer head long gone, woman.”

She huffed, a bit annoyed.

“Ain’t nothin’ wrong with wantin’ other things, too” he said, gentler.

He watched with amusement as she ruminated on it for several minutes while she was plating the steaks and the mashed potatoes. She ran the back of a spoon over the potatoes to give them a pleasant shape and turned the plates to look at them from different angles.

“I shouldn’t get so carried away,” she muttered to herself when it was done. “People are fickle.”

“True,” he said and put out his cigarette, immediately lighting another one.

“This thing…” she drifted off. In the back of her mind, she thought how she still couldn’t call it a relationship even and it added to her worries. “This thing between him and me…it could end. It’s foolish to focus on it so much that it interferes with my life goals.”

“Life goals huh?” His eyebrows shot up. “Them’s big words.”

“Luther,” she said, hand on hip, her serious timbre in stark contrast to his amusement. “He could die. Like, tomorrow.”

“We can all die tomorrow,” he shrugged, flipping a steak.

“You know what I mean. Obviously his life is riskier than yours or mine.”

“Eh,” he waved it away with his fork. “Sure. In a way.”

She thought of the death of her parents. Of course that hadn’t been sudden, they’d been both sick for a long time but she had been a child, she hadn’t understood what that sickness meant and their death had surprised her all the same. If anything, it intensified her current discomfort.

“Or he could leave,” she said and paused as Susan came to pick up the plates before she continued: “Camp could move somewhere I can’t go.”

“Can’t or won’?”

“Either. Both.”

“Hmmm….”

“Or, like…he could meet someone…else…” she glanced up at him. “Why are you looking at me like that? It’s entirely possible.”

“Watchin’ ya do yer thing, is all,” he said coolly.

“What thing?”

“Thing ya do every time somethin’ nice happens to ya.”

“And what’s that?”

“Ya make sure it ain’t nice no more.”

“What!?”

He took out his cigarette and waved it around in frustration. “Woman, ya think too much! Just live. Youse here today, ya happy, that’s all it needs to be.”

“I’m just saying!” she rolled her eyes.

“All them things could happen to you, too.”

She shrugged, now feeling glum.

Luther sighed a big sigh. “Ya know, every day I come here and listen to yer nonsense. Every day ‘cept Sunday because the Lord has mercy and even He know I need a rest from it. And ya know what – every day I’m happy you ain’t my woman,” he huffed, shaking his head. “Yer exhausting.”

“Well as of tomorrow you won’t have to anymore,” she said loftily.

“Praise be!”

“And guess what – you’ll miss me.”

“I’ll miss ya like a hole in m’shoe.”

“I’m still going to stop by, you know,” she said darkly, pulling out more steak from the fridge. “Don’t think you can get rid of me that easily.”

“I would pay this Arthur a year’s salary to put ya on a horse and ride away.”

“You keep talking, I’m going to come by on my breaks, too.”

He shook his head again and flipped the steaks, but seemed cowed enough at the threat to hold his tongue.

Chapter Text

She left the restaurant calm and chin up; walked out the door with her back straight, shoulders raised; casually waited for the trolley to pass before she crossed the street and headed into an alleyway. When she arrived she covered her mouth and screamed as loud as she could. She laughed a little, stomped her feet and screamed into her hands again. Her legs felt like jelly, her eyes too big for her face. She was going to work in the kitchen of Antoine's! Her head swam for a moment, grappling with that concept and she put her back to the wall to glide down and sit on the ground. Years of working, of yearning, of learning, of ruthless self-criticism and self-doubt and she had done it, she had won the chance to work in an actual fine dining restaurant!

Savigne sat there for a long time, both sweating and shivering and trying to wrap her head around the idea and failing miserably at it. She couldn't stop grinning, she was ecstatic despite still being in disbelief about it. Finally she tried to rise to her feet but fell back down and sat for another few minutes, cackling like a maniac. 

She took big breaths to calm her heart and considered the voluntary training in New York they had talked about. Normally she would give anything to go, but now her mind came up with excuses. 

“It’ll be too expensive,” she told herself. 

The restaurant will pay for half the expenses, her mind interjected. And you know you have the money.

“Yeah but it’s so far…”

It’s New York. You always wanted to go.  

“Could be unsafe…”

Says the lady staying in an outlaw camp.

“I probably already know everything they’ll teach us. It’s just a money grab.”

You just want to stay and get fucked by Arthur.

She laughed at that. Because it was true. God, the way she felt right now, if he was here, she would tear his clothes off and ride him. Hard. She mused on how he would react to her taking the reins like that for once. 

At long last she managed to get on shaky legs and wobble away. She had to tell Luther, he would lose his god damn mind! She set a course to the steakhouse, resisting the urge to run. Instead, she sauntered through the streets of Saint Denis and enjoyed the freedom to do so at this hour during the week, her usual work shift. It was hot and the city smelled like it did every summer but it was the kind of smell she had gotten used to long ago. It was the smell of life - of spices and fruit, of shit and perfume, of sweat and seafood, of flowers and horses. She smiled as she passed by strangers on the street and greeted them and they smiled back and returned the greeting, sometimes politely tipping their hats. Her excitement felt buoyant and contagious.

She crossed a street and was about to turn the corner when she did a double take - Arthur was standing with his back to her in the middle of the street. Her heart did a flip. It was as if the universe had decided that today was going to be her day! 

She ran up to him and hugged him from behind, failing to contain the shriek that fell from her lips. As expected, he immediately tensed up. As soon as he turned around with a frown on his face, she quickly jumped up to give him a kiss on the lips. It wasn't easy to stun Arthur Morgan but by god had she succeeded! He blinked down at her, his usually stoic expression marred by pure surprise. 

She laughed and danced away, then stepped back in and grasped his arms. 

"You won't believe it! Guess what happened just now? By now I mean like half an hour ago." She fished out a pocket watch, hands trembling, “Twenty-three minutes ago Arthur, guess, go on, you won’t be able to but you should try, oh my god, I can’t wait to tell you, it’s going to blow your mind, just guess, guess, guess-”

"What you doin’ here?” His head swiveled to the entrance of the building they were standing by before his eyes landed on her again.

She jumped in place like a mad woman. "I just had this thing...” She pulled on his hands. “You know what, I have the rest of the day off, come, I'm going to tell you all about it! And then…” she blushed a little as she thought on what she wanted to do to him.

She turned to walk away and tugged on his wrist but he remained rooted. 

"What is it?" she said, still grinning. "I promise, it’ll be worth it!"

"’M…busy with somethin’." He gently peeled her hand off his arm. 

"Oh! Sorry, I wasn't thinking," she said, suddenly remembering how he didn’t enjoy public displays of affection. "Of course you are! I can wait!" She locked her fingers behind her to convey that she understood.

He gave her a look before he declined: "Think you should go." Flat. Final.

"No, like I said, I have the day-"

"Go!" The sharpness in his tone surprised her and for the first time her mind cleared enough to notice the tension in his body. There was a certain rawness there, a nervousness that he compensated for by being extra frosty. He stepped back. 

“But…”

"See you back in camp,” was his final dismissive comment before he turned away.

She blinked with surprise. He hadn't spoken to her like that in months and it threw her off balance. She felt her smile falter and was about to ask him what was going on when a woman exited the building they were standing in front of, calling his name. 

Savigne froze, suddenly feeling like she had walked into a private conversation she wasn’t supposed to be a part of. The woman drifted over to them, her eyes glued to Arthur. Savigne was sour to notice how pretty she was. You could even say regal. Her eyes involuntarily did a head to toe. Not a hair out of place. Beautiful figure. Gorgeous eyes. Graceful. She glanced at Arthur. His normally stoic features soft and apprehensive when he looked at her. Her mouth went dry.

“I’m so glad you came!” the woman said to him, clear happiness and gratitude in her voice. The familiarity between them was palpable, they obviously knew each other well. Then she looked at Savigne and Savigne instantly hated how she smiled – so insufferably polite and self-confident. She looked even prettier when she smiled.

"Sure," Arthur said, low and gentle. "‘Scuse me a moment, Mary." He gently grabbed Savigne’s upper arm, his hand brooking no argument, and walked her a few steps down the street. "Ain’t a good time," he said quietly when they were out of hearing range. 

She walked with him, her eyes still glued to Mary. She had heard that name thrown around in camp, but momentarily couldn’t place it. 

"But..." she stuttered, finally looking up at him. His face was unreadable. 

"It's private," he said simply and released her arm.

He seemed very tense and his uneasiness made her uneasy, too. She glanced at Mary, then back at him as if she could unravel the invisible ties between and understand what they were to each other. Acquaintances? Too familiar. Friends? They were acting too awkward around one another for that. Well that only left…

She nodded to him, dazed with confusion and started to walk away, simply because she didn't know what else to do with herself. When she arrived at the street corner she glanced back and saw them walking in the other direction. Mary had her arm in the crook of his and they looked like a couple. It struck her then that this was something he would never grant her with an audience present. 

Savigne felt her face heat up as she walked on, not looking where she was going. Her joy had evaporated. Behold, the other woman, chuckled the voice in her head. She cringed and walked into a man, quickly apologized and continued.

She tried to remember what she had heard in camp as she stumbled through Saint Denis, oblivious to her surroundings. A memory swam to the surface of her mind, watery and vague: Tilly talking about the letter he had just received from the old flame. Months ago, when they had still been at the first camp. "The one he never got over,” had been her choice of words. Abigail clarifying how he had meant to marry her back whenever to a disinterested Savigne, who sat there politely pretending to listen. Disjointed recollections flitting about in her head like bats in a cave, many she had barely picked up from earlier times, the times when Arthur had been just another name to her. 

A part of her tried to come up with innocent explanations, common sense justifications. But that tension in his body, that brisk tone of voice, that hand on her upper arm to dump her further down the street refused to be explained away. She stopped so abruptly that someone ran into her, so she moved on. 

She waded through the crowds, feeling more miserable with every step. The city was suffocating now, stale and overcrowded. Shoulders bumped into her and strangers looked at her with pity and disdain. That poisonous inner voice that had been quiet for so long wouldn’t shut up, babbling incessantly, ecstatically. Told you, told you, told you, it chanted. A flash of Mary in her mind. Did you really think you can compete with that?

She swallowed and attempted to cross the street and someone pulled her back sharply as a carriage flew by, missing her by inches.

"Miss, are you blind?"

She swatted off the hand and stalked on.

Awww don't be so sad. Happens to all stupid girls eventually. You were a good lay and now the bill is due and you must pay. Somehow her face heated up even more.

It felt like hours must have passed, but when the church bells rang she was surprised and checked her pocket watch to confirm that it had only been an hour since she had left the restaurant. She looked around and wasn’t surprised that she was lost. She asked for directions to Antoine’s and found her way back, then retraced her steps and arrived at the street she had seen Arthur. They were long gone of course, so she walked on to the stable and picked up Cricket. 

By the time she rode out of Saint Denis, she was crying. There was a slight drizzle and she wished it was a thunderstorm so lightning would strike and kill her and rid her of this shame and humiliation. Then she thought that this would kill Cricket too, and it made her sob harder with guilt. Cricket sensed her mood and was all agitated, so she tried to calm him by talking nonsense but it devolved into more weeping. She felt supremely sorry for herself. And she absolutely hated feeling sorry for herself. 

Half an hour later when she arrived at camp she was all out of tears and filled with a terrible wrath. She jumped off the saddle, her head pulsing darkly, her skin flushed. The drizzle had stopped and it was bright and warm again as she stomped over to the money box. She almost ripped the bills as she was trying to get them out of her satchel but managed not to before she stuffed $100 in it. She wrote it into the ledger so hard that the pen tore the paper. Then she stomped over to her tent. She dived in and quickly gathered her clothes and some other essentials, proceeding to stuff them into her valise. There was a heavy quiet in her tent and the heat made her pant as she went through her articles with vigor, dismissively collapsing her tower of books and wrenching garments from her orderly pile. She backed out of the small tent and marched back to her horse, brimming with the need to kill something. She received a curious look from Javier and returned one that promised murder if he asked her how she was doing. He didn’t. Her clothes were damp from the rain and her hair was hanging wild as she tied the basket to Cricket’s saddle.

"Savigne? You okay? What are you doing back so early?"

She jumped a little at Hosea's voice at her shoulder. "I'm fine!" She spat. He flinched with surprise and she felt a glimmer of guilt. Easy Savigne, easy. You like Hosea, remember? She took a breath and forced herself to say "Sorry. I'm in a rush."

"What's hunting you?"

"Oh nothing," she managed, her voice even, and pulled the leather cord that attached her basket with such force that Cricket danced away, agitated. "Sorry boy! Sorry!"

Hosea's hand landed on hers and she was forced to look at him. "What's the matter, child?"

His gentle tone almost made her scream with fury. She swallowed and continued tying the basket. "Said I’m fine." Sharper and impatient now. "I won't be around for a couple of weeks."

"A couple of weeks?!" he said with alarm. When she refused to answer: "You've...never left the camp for that long before. Everything alright?"

"I have some stuff in the city I need to take care of. Easier not to ride out here, you know?"

He was silent for so long, she couldn’t help but glance at him. Hosea gave her a grave look. 

"What did he do?" 

"What!? W-who?" she stammered.

He didn't say anything, just kept looking at her like he was seeing right through her. 

"I don't know what you mean," she sniffed, finished with attaching the basket and gripping the handle of her valise. She swiped the hair off her face and glanced at the camp to avoid eye contact. One wrong word and she was going to explode on him and she knew she would regret it. She started tapping her foot.

The old man sighed with frustration. "Honestly I'm too old for these games. And so are you, young lady. But I won't prod. I just wish you stayed. You should really stay, Savigne."

"I promise I have to be in the city," she said, somewhat calmer. She had decided on the ride back here that she would go to New York after all, so it wasn't a complete lie. The journey was simply easier out of Saint Denis. 

"For two weeks?"

"More or less," she quipped as she climbed up the saddle. 

"Can you at least tell me where you'll be staying? I'll feel better if-"

"Don't know yet." she cut him off. But when his face fell, she quickly added "I'll be fine Hosea. I've been on my own a long time before I met you. I'm going to be okay. And I will be back!"

He sighed and patted her knee, defeated. He stepped away and she turned Cricket to ride out, eager to leave and refusing to look back. 

By the time Arthur rode into camp it was late and the sky had darkened. To say that he was annoyed with himself would have been a colossal understatement. Someone had once told him that doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results was the sign of madness. Well there was no arguing that he was mad. He should have never gone to meet Mary and he really didn't understand why he did it. Probably because he had never been able to refuse her anything.

No doubt some of it was guilt - the guilt of having led her on for years until she finally had enough. He liked to think he owed her for that at least. It appealed to the better man in him.

But in his heart of hearts he knew it was more than that. There was a meaner side to him that took pleasure from the fact that she needed him, was reduced to begging him. An undeniable dark satisfaction at knowing that the very man who hadn’t been good enough to marry, the man who hadn’t been worthy was now the only man she could turn to. 

He slid off Frost and massaged the back of his neck, angry at himself for playing these pointless games at his ripe old age just to get some petty revenge and even more angry at her for calling on him like a lackey and laying the groundwork for it. That last part at least was new and bode well for him. For the first time in as long as he could remember, he felt like he was finally not spellbound by Mary. He used to tremble in her vicinity, was a time he thought she could do no wrong. And today all he had seen was a fool of a woman, clutching at other fools in her family and clutching at him, too.

It had surprised him, how quickly he had soured on her once she had gotten around to explaining what she needed from him. How the usual pull of her attraction, always so magnetic and taut, had failed to grip him. How all her imperfections had been so obvious, the blinding memory of her at long last dulled and tarnished. She had been a colossus of dignity and strength to him and for a moment his mind had wrestled with who this impostor was, wailing over a trinket and begging for her mean old father to come back home.

He unsaddled Frost as his eyes drifted to Cricket’s usual spot and he was startled to see that the horse wasn’t there. He dumped the saddle and walked into camp to glance at Savigne’s tent. It was dark. Which, in itself didn't mean much - she could be sleeping. But it was too early for that and Cricket not being here meant she wasn't, either. He fished out a pocket watch to check the time - not unreasonably late and she had mentioned that she had the day off, she could be taking care of an errand. In fact, she was probably at the library, checking on that stupid treasure map of hers. He shook his head and decided to go to his cot but his eyes met Hosea's who was sitting alone by the fire and giving him a look that made him stop in his tracks. 

He strode over instead. "Everythin’ alright?"

Hosea fished out a newspaper and shook it open with dramatic flair before pushing a pipe into his mouth and pretending to read. 

Arthur rolled his eyes. "Hosea?"

"I ain't craning my neck to talk to you."

He sat down and flinched when Hosea shut the newspaper with a slap, took out his pipe and glared at him. 

"Gonna tell me what's goin’ on?"

"I will. If you tell me what you've been up to today."

He blinked with surprise. "Was in Saint Denis," he said carefully. When Hosea continued to give him that frosty look: "Had to meet someone."

"Who?"

"What's it to you?”

"Alright then." Hosea flapped his newspaper open again. 

Arthur, his annoyance multiplied at this point, resisted talking for several minutes but realized Hosea was not going to give in. "Fine. I met Mary."

The old man's eyes flared up momentarily and he internally shrank away. He knew Hosea didn't like Mary but that reaction was still a bit too much. "She needed help with somethin’," he mumbled, hating how defensive he sounded.

“Again?” was the hard question.

”Again,” was his lame answer.

"Did you run into Savigne?"

He almost dropped the cigarette he was fishing out. He took a moment to light it to give himself time to navigate the issue. 

"Yeah, I saw her." It occurred to him then that at this hour the library would be long closed and that she didn’t like traveling in the dark. The unease he had felt earlier at Cricket’s empty spot solidified and suddenly Savigne's absence from camp didn’t seem like such an innocent coincidence. 

“So what’s goin’ o-”

"You're a dumb mule, that's what's going on," spat Hosea. Arthur just looked at him like he had sprouted a second head. "You deserve what's coming at you, every single bit of it," the old man added, lower. "And I don't feel sorry for you, son."

"The hell you sayi-"

"She left."

"‘Scuse me?"

"Savigne left," Hosea enunciated. "She paid two weeks in advance and said she'll be away for that time. I believe ‘more or less’ were her words. I would like to underline the more for you, since you need things spelled out."

A reflexive urge to jump to his feet as his thighs twitched with intent. He placed his elbows on them to contain the movement. He glared at Hosea, then ran a hand over his beard, trying to come up with a way to inquire further without revealing anything. Judging by Hosea’s face it was completely unnecessary but still, he made an effort: 

"What does this have to do with me meetin’ Ma-"

"Really?" Spat so drily, he could feel the heat in it.

He clenched his jaw and relented. A few moments passed as he endured the other man’s silent disapproval before he eyed Frost. "Did she...uh...tell you wh-"

"No." was the curt interruption.

He sat on, feeling increasingly irritated at the day he was having. It had started nice enough but meeting with Mary to trail her drunk father of all people had spoiled it and now Savigne had decided to kick up a fuss over nothing. He ran his hands over his face. “Didn’ do nothin’,” he groaned. “Mary needed help, so I helped. Don’ understand why-”

“Son,” the older man sighed, “I want you to do something for me: I want you to replay things in that tree stump you call your head and tell me what you would have done if the shoe was on the other foot.”

He scowled at Hosea.

“Go on, ain’t that hard. Humor me.”

He scoffed and gazed into the fire. What pointless nonsense, he thought. He had told Savigne that he would see her later in camp and had taken care of an errand. End of story. But as the counterpart of this morning unfolded in his mind and he pictured himself running into Savigne with another man, he found himself absentmindedly scratching at the phantom itch that bloomed on his knuckles. She had shown the grace to walk away, but he sure as hell wouldn’t have. Not until that man was a god damn bloody-

“That’s right,” Hosea interrupted his dark thoughts as if he could see into his head. “Now look here, I know it ain’t my business but I like to think I earned the right to say a thing or two to you, harsh as they may be. You lost Mary because you led her on. Don’t make the same mistake with Savigne. Because the second time around, it ain’t a mistake no more.”

Arthur didn’t respond. He threw the butt of the cigarette that had turned to ash between his fingers into the fire and rose, undecided on what to do. Finally he stalked to his cot, knowing that there wasn’t anything he could do tonight. Hosea gave his back a pointed look and clucked his tongue in disappointment. 

Chapter Text

The next morning Arthur was up early to saddle Frost. He knew that her shift wouldn’t start till noon but he didn’t want Dutch to give him a job that he would be stuck with all day so he left for Saint Denis and set an easy pace to pass the time. He still arrived too early and settled across the street to watch people going in and out of the backdoor of the steakhouse, chain smoking. 

When the church bells rang for noon, he knew Savigne wasn’t coming because she would never be late. The voice that kept telling him all night that she was just angry over a misunderstanding and she would calm down by morning and realize that she was making a mountain out of a molehill dried up at that point and now Arthur was genuinely worried. In other words, he was angry, because for Arthur the twin brother of worry had always been anger. 

He stalked over to the back entrance with long steps, pulled the door open without hesitation, entered the building and navigated his way through the corridors until he reached the kitchen. It was big, spacious and already bustling with action. Several people were manning the cooking stations, running between them and between the upper saloon and back. He walked through and received some glances, but nobody told him to leave. Savigne wasn’t there. 

A big black man was sizzling steaks at his station and gave him a long, inscrutable look. 

“Do I know you?” he growled, walking up to him.  

“No sir, don’ know me.”

“What you lookin’ at then?”

A short silence. “Youse Arthur?”

“Who’s askin’?” Cautious. This man could have recognized him from a bounty poster for all he knew. 

The man shrugged his large shoulders, his hands smoothly working the food. “Guessin’. Lookin’ for Savigne?” 

“What if I am?”

The man just flipped the steaks, giving him a long side eye. “She ain’t here.”

“I see that. D’ya know when she comin’ in?” Impatient.

“She ain’t coming.” 

“‘Scuse me?”

The cook stuck his fork in a steak, made eye contact with Arthur and flipped the steak without breaking it. A lot of folks cowered in Arthur’s presence, but this was a big man, pretty much his height and he didn’t seem too fazed. Arthur stepped closer and crossed his arms. 

“She ain’t comin’. She ain’t workin’ here no more,” the man clarified.

That surprised him and his crossed arms loosened. For a moment he didn’t know what to say. Savigne storming out of the camp was one thing, but leaving a job she was absolutely obsessed with? 

“She quit?” he said, clear disbelief in his tone.  

“Yup.”

“Why?”

The man eyed him darkly before he plated one of the steaks. “Would know if you talked to her yesterday. But that didn’ happen, huh?”

“Listen mister,” Arthur growled, now quickly approaching pissed. “I ain’t got time for games. Where is she?”

“She won the position at Antoine’s,” was the response, delivered under dark brows.

Arthur blinked. He remembered her excitement, the joy on her face and her promise of great news and his behavior in light of that made him even more uneasy. He turned to leave.

“But she won’ work there for few weeks yet,” the man called after him. He stopped in his tracks. “In case yer headin’ over.”

“Gonna tell me where she is or you set on wastin’ my time?” Annoyed.

“Can’t. Promised I wouldn’.”

Arthur stepped closer. His hands bunched up into fists and his knuckles started to buzz. He was going to get answers one way or another and this man had started to irritate him – big mistake for him as punching someone right now sounded like a wonderful idea. 

The man shuffled over to a large stack of wrapping papers, imprinted with the downtown map of Saint Denis, the wax glimmering under the kitchen lights. He grabbed two, placed one of the steaks on one, slapped it close and pushed it aside. “Medium well to go ready!” he bellowed. 

Then he turned to Arthur, took out his cigarette and pointed it at him. “She came here n’ the evenin’. I saw her face and thought ‘Lord, she here to kill me’. Lucky for me, turns out, wasn’ me she me was angry at.” He took a drag out of his cigarette, giving Arthur a slow head to toe.

Arthur ground his teeth and kept his silence.

“You see, you hurt my girl. So I don’ like youse much right now. But...!”

He pulled the second wrap in front of him and fished for a shot glass from a higher shelf, filled it with an amber colored liquid, whiskey by the smell of it. 

“…I like Savigne and she has a habit of doin’ stupid things when she hurt.”

Arthur watched him down the whiskey in one gulp, irritated but also intrigued where this was going. 

“So ‘m gonna take a gamble here…”  He turned the shot glass upside down and smacked it on a spot on the paper, “…and hope yer a convincin’ fella.” Arthur’s eyes drifted to the shot glass on the rough city map. It sat on a building on the north side.  “Cause lemme tell ya, judgin’ by her state, you gonna need to be very convincin’.”

A moment passed. Arthur touched his hat and nodded to the man, then stalked out of the kitchen. 

Luther watched his back as he scrunched the paper and tossed it into the garbage bin before he went back to his steaks. 

He stood in front of the stable and felt stupid that he hadn’t thought of it. If he wanted to find Savigne, all he really needed to do was to find Cricket. And while this stable wasn’t the one she usually left him at, he knew in his gut that Cricket was here. He went in pretending to be a prospective buyer and scanned the stable as he was shown the horses for sale. Sure enough, Cricket was standing in his stall, munching on hay and giving him a long, knowing look. He strolled over and patted him. 

“You know this horse, mister?”

“Belongs to my friend,” he said amicably. “Name’s Cricket.”

“Yes indeed, any friend of Miss Ricci is a friend of ours.”

“She been in today?”

“She came this morning. Said she will be back in the evening. Like six or so.”

Cricket pushed his head into Arthur’s palm and he chuckled, caressing his snout. “‘M gonna think on yer offers. And ‘m gonna come back to say hello to Miss Ricci while I’m in town.”

Jebediah was cleaning the stable floor when a tall, broad shouldered man came in. Jebediah had seen his kind before and knew better than to engage. He glanced away, pretending to be immersed in his work. The man stalked to the end of the row, leaned against the shadows of the back wall and crossed his arms. Jebediah risked another glance, curious what this man was doing here if he wasn't here to pick up a horse and considered leaving elsewhere. If he was here to steal a horse, far be it from him to be in the way.  The money was good but not that good. A man like this would eat him for breakfast and ask for seconds. 

However just when he was about to do that, Miss Ricci walked in. Well, can't leave now, he thought, somewhat sour. He liked Miss Ricci and the morsel of chivalry and manly pride he imagined himself possessing wouldn't allow him to leave her alone with whoever this was.  

Miss Ricci gave him a wide smile, remembered his name and asked him how he was. He said he was fine, thank you and blushed a little, returning to his work. She went over to pet Cricket and Jebediah gave a side-eye to the man back at the wall. To his great discomfort, the man bounced off just then and strode out of the shadows, silent like a cat and came to stand a short distance away from Miss Ricci’s stall. 

All the alarm bells in this head went off and he looked between them, debating how to alert Miss Ricci that a stranger was standing behind her, furiously thinking what to do if she needed his help when she suddenly somehow sensed the man behind her and her hands stilled, her shoulders tensed. Jebediah watched her slowly turn her head and make eye contact with the man. She made an effort to hide her surprise, but Jebediah saw it and shifted on his feet, unsure what to do. Sweeping the floor seemed like a good idea so he continued, ears peeled. 

“Why are you here?” she said finally, turning back to Cricket and brushing his neck. Her voice shook a little. 

“Been lookin’ for you,” The man said drily. Then, somewhat softer: “You didn’ come home.”

So they knew each other. That was somewhat of a relief but then again, not really. What if he was some jilted lover, come here for revenge? Jebediah blew on that morsel of gallantry to relight it and tried to shuffle closer. 

She grimaced at that and didn’t respond for a while. 

“I told Hosea I would be away for a couple of weeks.”

“I know.” He stepped closer. “But you never told me.”

She snorted with what sounded like bitter amusement.

“Consider yourself told.”

The man sighed with a tinge of exasperation. She gave the stranger a sharp look over her shoulder at that. Miss Ricci had always been nice to him, to anyone really, so the fire that blazed up in her eyes at that sigh surprised Jebediah. He hesitated and gave the man a sidelong glance to see his reaction. The stranger didn't move a muscle but he too hesitated before he tried:

“If this is 'bout yesterday…I ain’t proud of how I handled that.”

Jebediah watched Miss Ricci's profile as the muscles on her jaw clenched. “You handled it just fine.” 

Could have just used a whip instead, he thought and felt a glimmer of sympathy for the man. His ma used that tone and he knew it only bode ill. 

The man inhaled a deep breath but before he could come up with something to say, she swirled around and exited the stall, stepping around him. “I’m actually glad it happened.”

“How so?” he asked as he kept pace with her, heading to the exit. 

“Frankly, it put me in my place.”

“Savigne…”

“No, I really am.” She gave him another look and Jebediah was fascinated how girls could say so much with a look alone. The anger and contempt he read there were unmistakable and the impact was not that different from a slap. Another pang of sympathy erupted in him for the stranger who also looked a bit shaken. "Because I was getting a little carried away and now I know where I stand.”

She marched towards the exit of the stable, followed closely by him and Jebediah looked on, debating whether he should follow. He decided that Miss Ricci should not be left unprotected and was about to step after them when, just before he crossed the threshold, the man's head swiveled his way and the blue eyes flicked at him with a warning so ominous, he cringed and hastily returned to his sweeping. 

They left the stable and he scrambled to the door to watch them walk away. She was walking with a furious pace but he was taller and kept up easily enough. Miss Ricci would be fine, he told himself. In fact, judging by what little he had seen, he was in greater danger than her.

Henrietta was walking down the main street as a group of ladies sauntered by her. She listened to their twittering, annoyed that they wouldn't pass her faster. God, the city was simply getting too crowded. All these folks flapping their gums all day with nothing interesting to say! She hated Saint Denis and she hated people, so the combination was unbearable. Once again she thought that she should just leave that mule of her husband and pack and go back to Ohio. She was too old to put up with this nonsense and tired of the boredom alone while he was endlessly in the thrall of his damn business ventures that somehow never took off.

A young woman was marching towards her, skirts swirling like thunderstorm clouds and right behind her a tall fellow, keeping up. That at least looked somewhat promising so she stalled, pretending to check the store window. 

“What’s that ‘sposed to mean?” the man said roughly as they were walking by. 

“Meaning,” she rounded on him, “I’m just someone you fuck!”

The ladies who were walking by them gave them a startled look and hastily scurried away but Henrietta shuddered with excitement. A couple fighting! If there was anything that could lift her sour mood, this was it: the misery of other folks.

There was clear anger in his voice when he spoke: “‘Scuse me?”

“Did I stutter?”

“That’s a lie,” he growled and stepped closer to loom over her. Henrietta watched their reflection. The fellow was handsome enough. Piercing eyes, built like a brick wall, he looked like he could handle himself. She thought of her pudgy husband, carrying that belly around like he was perpetually with child and quietly clicked her tongue. Fool of a woman, she mused, inspecting the dark haired woman. A man like that could have anyone he wanted but unfortunately that's how the world worked, wasn't it - they always wanted the wrong sort. The more wrong they were, the more men wanted them.

“Please!” the woman huffed and walked on. 

Henrietta ambled after them as fast as her old hips allowed.

“Woman, just 'cause you gone and spun a tale in yer head, ain't make it true. Yer wrong.”

Henrietta finally caught up and pretended to look at the next store window. The nice thing about being old was that it made you invisible. Folks hardly noticed an old woman lurking about.

“Now listen to me,” the woman hissed and rounded on him again, finger pointing, “because I’m not going to repeat myself. First I was angry with you. Furious! But then I went to bed and thought some more – hours more – and you’re not the one at fault here, I am!” 

Henrietta watched her reflection as she stepped up to him, poking the finger at his chest. 

“You never tried to hoodwink me, Arthur. You never…” her face twisted into an exaggerated grimace, “…misled me. You wanted to fuck me from day one and you never said otherwise.”

He opened his mouth to protest but she was on a roll and talked right over him: 

“That’s all you wanted to do so you kept us private and I admit, at first I didn’t mind sneaking around like teenagers. It was understandable – or at least I thought so. I didn’t mind that you crept into my bed or took me to a forest…” 

Henrietta was delighted by her fury. Served her well for spreading her legs for a man and then getting all huffy about it! She was starting to get a picture about the conflict and it amused her. A noncommittal man, an overly promiscuous woman - story old as time. 

“…I didn’t mind that it was all hush hush. You didn’t want people in camp to know, I get it, I mean they’re only your family after all…” She spat the words with clear sarcasm.

Oh boy, there was a family involved, too! The Lord must have sent these folks her away just to lift her spirits. Her day was already better for it. She shifted a little closer, watching their reflection with hawk-like attention.

“…but then yesterday, I realized you don’t want anyone to know. Not even a woman you are about to claim you don't have feelings for anymore.” She swirled back to him, dark eyes blazing like a furnace. “Aren’t you about to claim that?” Her voice taunting him, testing him.

Careful, son, she said in her head. Don't let this harpy twist your words around your neck. 

“I sure am,” he growled. What was his name? She had called him Arthur. “She just needed help with somethin’ stupid. Mary is in my past, her and I ain't a thing no more.”

So we have Arthur, Henrietta thought, we have Mary - good names, by the way, regal names - and then we have this jezebel. Who got what she deserved, frolicking around in forests. She sniffed with pleasure and listened on. 

“Hah!” the woman exclaimed, throwing up her hands, victorious. “Then why couldn’t you even introduce me?” She stepped closer to him. 

“Wasn’ thinkin’!” he protested, throwing his arms wide, “You caught me by surprise, Savigne. Didn’ mean nothin’ by it.”

His game wasn't very good, she had to admit. Those broad shoulders on the other hand...

Savigne gave him a long look. Henrietta felt for him; if looks could kill, he'd be dead, poor soul. He shifted on his feet but held his ground. She nodded her head in approval. 

“Let’s consider the facts, shall we?” Savigne said finally, her voice suddenly cold and flat.

Uh oh. Stay strong, Arthur, she pleaded silently, this trollop has her finger on the trigger.   

Savigne held up a finger. “One: you don’t want anyone in camp to know about…whatever this is between us. This implies that it’s just sex for you.”

“That ain’t"-

“Two…” another finger shot up, “…You avoid telling your old flame when she’s not even part of your life anymore. Debatable if she isn’t, by the way, if you’re running around doing errands for her.”

Henrietta watched him roll his eyes. Understandable reaction.

“Also implies it’s just sex for you. Three: You never want to do anything with me other than fucking.”

His eyebrows shot up at that and he was about to object when he halted, unsure. Henrietta watched his face as he scanned his memories to come up with a worthy argument. But he wasn't quick enough on the draw.

“You never want to, I don’t know, go somewhere, do something together. Because it would require you to go against points one and two.” Savigne stepped closer, her voice dropping lower. “Which implies it’s just sex for you!”

There was an expression of pure conviction on her face and Henrietta had to admit well played. He certainly looked well put together, but unfortunately for him, he seemed the quiet type, not so good at fencing with words. Clearly he was outmatched here and she pursed her lips, annoyed that the succubus was winning.

He ran a palm through his beard and gave a long exhale through the nose, frustrated. “I see yer point,” he conceded at last. “And ‘m sorry. I aim to change it.”

Henrietta rolled her eyes. 

Savigne smirked. “Why? If it’s just sex, then it’s just sex.”

“It ain’t,” he said, his irritation rising again. 

“We just established that it is,” she said coolly. And when he meant to argue, she swiped a hand in the air with finality. “That’s not even the part that bothers me.”

He took a deep breath and squared his feet, by the looks of it, steeling himself for worse. 

“Like I said, you never implied otherwise. You were clear from the beginning and consistent in all your actions. You disrespected me Arthur,” she said and her voice shook a bit. “Maybe not intentionally, but in the end you did. That’s not great, but I can live with it. What’s worse, what I can’t live with is that I let you.”

“Now listen here…" he groaned.

Savigne’s hand shot up to block him and Arthur swallowed his words. 

She's half your size, Henrietta thought, frustrated. What are you waiting for? She obviously needs a smack to put her back in her place! Truly, men were the dumbest creatures that had ever walked the face of the earth. If she had Arthur’s big hands, well let’s just say no loose woman would ever get to talk to her like that!

“I let you. Because I got sidetracked about it," Savigne continued glumly. "Because…well I guess you could say I caught feelings.”

Henrietta's eyes shifted to Arthur's reflection, rigid and silent. The harpy didn’t see it but she spotted that lighting fast flicker of his eyes to her face when she said that. They really always wanted the wrong sort, didn’t they? 

To her demise, Savigne took off again and he followed. She sputtered and ambled behind them but Savigne was walking like a tornado and soon she had to give up when her hip warned her that she's not a young girl anymore. She watched them disappear around the corner and clicked her tongue in irritation.

Marie sat at her juliet balcony, watching the lights of Saint Denis flicker on. Almost time to start her shift. She fanned herself, glad that the evening was finally here - this city was atrociously hot and humid in the summer. She wondered if Cassius would come by today again. His wife was getting suspicious and men like Cassius were all loud and boisterous until the wife found out. After that, they discreetly disappeared on her. She didn't mind them disappearing as much as the gifts disappearing, to be honest. 

She sighed, took another drag from her cigarette and watched a curious couple heading her way down the street. Rough looking tall man and a petite woman. Arguing, by the looks of it. They came and stood right under her balcony and she heard their voices drift up. 

“I knew what I was signing up for and somewhere along the way, I lost my god damn head!” the woman said and hugged herself. 

Marie groaned. Another wronged woman. You could swing your arm and hit one of those in this town. She took another drag from her cigarette and leaned discreetly over to see their faces. 

She was pretty enough. Had an exotic look about her. Her clothes were simple but well fitting and pristine. Her hair full and dark. Skin absolutely flawless. What was she doing with this country bumpkin?

There was a blaze in the woman’s dark eyes when she said "But I’m clear now. So circling back, I’m glad it happened.”

“Well I sure ain’t,” he mumbled.

“We’re just fuck buddies…”

“Christsakes…” he hissed.

“And it's time we remember," she said, squaring her shoulders, "That everything is eventual.”

Good for you, girl, Marie thought and watched him eye her with suspicion for a moment. 

“What’s that ‘sposed to…”

“It means we move on,” the woman interjected, coolly. “Both of us.”

“Move on?”

“Yes. I have things to do. Life goals. I have plans for my future. I’m sure you do too.”

The man clenched his jaw, annoyed. The look on his face implied that he understood well enough what she meant, but refused to entertain the thought. You’re being ditched, big boy, Marie thought and grinned with amusement.

“I ain’t agreein' to that,” he muttered, defiant.

She continued, unperturbed: “I’m going to New York for a while.”

“New York?!” was the stunned question.

“Yes. I’m only telling you so you don’t waste your time coming here again. I’m leaving tomorrow morning.”

"Why?"

The woman hesitated briefly as if she didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of an explanation, but then surprisingly, relented: "Training.” While he internalized that she added “Then when I come back, I’m going to go on that treasure hunt.”

“Ain’t damn safe, I told you,” he growled.

“You also told me to do as I please, if I remember right.”

“Ain’t what I meant,” was the sour response. 

“Well next time you don’t mean something, Arthur, maybe don’t say it,” the woman quipped and he gave her a withering stare. 

“Then I will return to camp. Not because you’re there, so don’t flatter yourself, but because I will buy that god damn cabin.”

Going by his face, he had no clue on that matter either. That was just men for you – they just wanted one thing and one thing only, the rest they just pretended to listen to. You could talk all day and it would just to through one ear and right out the other. 

The woman took a breath and stepped a little closer. There was a look of determination in her eyes when she extended her hand. "We don’t have to part like this. We can be civil about it," she said, staring up at him.

It was a well honed move, Marie could tell, something she had done before with others, probably many times. Marie glanced at Arthur. But not with a man like this, she mused, as she watched his jaw muscles work.

After an irritated click of the tongue and a shake of the head, he gave up trying to argue, a craft she was clearly superior at and instead walked into her. She flinched with surprise and leaned against the wall to gain distance. He placed his hands on both sides of her head, looming over her. 

“Savigne,” he said, his voice low and soothing, “Said ‘m sorry.”

Marie watched on, intrigued if she was going to give in. Despite their difference in appearance, there was palpable attraction between them, so this desperate move might actually work.

Savigne looked away, plastering herself against the wall as he leaned in. 

“Said I mean to fix it,” he said quietly, clearly encouraged by how rattled she was by his closeness.

His knuckles brushed the jawline of her profile and his eyes dropped to her lips. She rolled her shoulder to shake off his touch and he placed his hand back on the wall, trapping her in. 

For a moment it actually looked like he would sway her. But then she ducked under his arm and ran off and Arthur was left standing with pent up frustration.

Marie was pleased. For once his nonsense hadn't worked, good for her. Then she thought business is business, no better time to hook in a lost soul and placed her arms over the railing of the balcony, making sure her cleavage showed over her chemise.

“Hey cowboy,” she cooed.  

He looked up at her. Nice eyes. Nice face. Nice body. She bit her lip in excitement. 

“Wanna come up? I can keep you company.”

She was disappointed to see the disinterest in his expression. Well, couldn’t blame her for trying. 

He touched his hat and said “Ma’am,” and stalked off in the opposite direction. 

She sighed and sat back down, finished her cigarette and wondered if Cassius would show. 

Savigne woke up early the next morning and ordered coffee to her room. Then she started to get dressed for her trip. She had slept very little last night, thinking on their encounter, on the words they had exchanged, on where they had ended up. Her resolve shook a bit, but stayed true. She was convinced that even if Arthur couldn’t admit it, she was right on this and they had to move on. She was done emotionally getting entangled with a man who wasn’t ready, maybe would never be ready to do the same. 

For all its flaws, her inner voice had been right on this – physical intimacy without emotional attachment just wasn’t possible with Arthur. It had been easy enough with others, but every rule had an exception after all. He took up too much space in her head and distracted her from the important things. And in return he brought nothing to the table but sex. No companionship, no emotional support, none of the affections of a relationship. Not even public acknowledgement. 

That memory of Mary’s arm in his as they walked down the street…she couldn’t look away from it. That had hurt her, wounded her in a way she hadn’t believed something so simple could. Savigne hadn’t been born into an important family, she wasn’t part of polite society, she wasn’t rich or successful or famous, but she was a proud woman and she wasn't going to let herself be treated like an afterthought. She would rather be alone than do that. 

Wasn’t meant to be, she thought as she prepared her valise. It was good while it lasted, but now it’s time to rejoin the real world. I’m going to go to New York. Then I’m going to work at Antoine’s - a privilege many would kill for! Then I’ll buy a cabin and move out of the camp. And I’ll probably never see him again. 

The fact that the notion hurt so god damn much was all the proof she needed that she had gone too far, that she had fallen for him beyond what she had ever allowed herself to before. It steeled her resolve to move away, that pain. Like a whip on her back, it spurred her to run faster.

When she went to say goodbye to Cricket, there he was again, waiting for her. She felt a spark of ire but it faded when she realized that he wasn’t there to dissuade her from going; he had just come to accompany her to the station. She had half a mind to refuse anyway but then decided that she didn't want to spoil her day with an argument first thing in the morning, so she relented. Thankfully he didn’t push her against a wall again because by god, she wasn’t sure if she could resist him a second time. Instead he took her valise and followed her to the train station, silent and reserved. He didn’t argue his case or try to change her mind - in fact he didn’t speak much at all. 

She got on the train and he handed her the valise, but didn't release it until she looked up at him. His blue gaze was as intense and magnetic as ever as he asked when she would return.

She hesitated, a bit miffed. “What does it matter?” she wanted to say, and “None of your business anymore”, and most of all: “Never”. But in the end she told him the truth – she didn’t know. Maybe three days, maybe five, maybe longer. He nodded in understanding and stepped back. 

She said "Goodbye" and the stubborn mule that he was, he refused to reciprocate, just stood there looking at her with one of those damn unreadable eyes. So she clambered up and found her seat and settled in. 

She watched Arthur glide by as the train left and exhaled a shaky breath she didn't know she was holding. She reminded herself that moving on from people was her expertise and that yes, it would hurt for a while but then the pain would fade. Better a little pain now than a lot more later, she thought and dabbed her eyes.

People are fickle, you are stronger alone, her inner voice soothed her.  Who needs all that emotional baggage? Remember all your friends who have lost so much on account of a man. Remember Mary's arm in his. Remember and look ahead. You are not alone, you're independent, there is a difference. Well not in this case but there is, generally speaking. Now let's focus on the important things: see if you recall how to make rich puff paste.

She sniffed and retrieved her cookbook from her valise.   

Chapter Text

Hosea sat by the campfire and looked up when Frost rode in. No Cricket and no Savigne. He shook his head, disappointed, and sipped his late morning coffee. A shadow fell on him: an unreasonably excited Dutch was fishing for a clean cup to join in. Eventually the other man sat down next to him and Hosea pretended he couldn’t see the glee in his eyes when they wandered to Arthur. He fussed with the old newspaper on his lap, annoyed.

“Morning Hosea.”

“Morning.”

“What a fine day!”

Maybe for you, Hosea thought but quipped: “Sure seems to be.”

They watched Arthur jump off Frost and walk into camp.

“You know,” Dutch drawled, smiling, “I have a feeling in my gut, today is going to be a great day.” 

Hosea resisted the urge to roll his eyes. It was no secret that they were in disagreement about this particular issue and obviously the fact that Arthur had come back alone meant he was here to gloat. And gloating was to Dutch what a bone was to a dog - something to be coveted and enjoyed leisurely; the gnawing drawn out and savoured.

“Some days, I admit, I get a little worried. Blackwater, our folks dying, that horrible track through the mountains…damn Colm still breathing somewhere. It hasn’t been easy. But then days like this come by and I’m reminded that no matter what happens, we are family.”

Hosea smacked his lips, irritated and unwilling to show it. It was going to be a long sermon, by the looks of it. Can’t just say 'told you' and leave it be. No, that would be too nice. Have to embellish it so it’s more than the petty thing it is, have to prattle about the gang and America and justice and life, he thought sourly. He would take a bullet for Dutch, but there were times he was tempted to bullet there himself.

His eyes followed Arthur marching with determination across camp towards Savigne’s tent and a feeling of worry came over him. That no nonsense walk, brimming with determination; that set jaw…not exactly encouraging clues about his intentions.

Her tent was a good distance from where they sat. She had insisted from day one that’s how she wanted it and except for the one evening following the O’Driscoll attack, she had refused offers to move her closer.

“I can’t sleep well with all the noise,” she said simply when asked. “I’m not used to it.”

“What noise?” Hosea had asked with a grin.

“Just because you’re half deaf, old man, doesn’t mean the rest of us can’t hear,” she had jabbed at him playfully. “There's a ruckus here every night!”

“We’re a jolly crowd!” he had huffed, miming offense. “You should join us.”

“Some of us have to work. You know, so we can pay rent,” had been the counter.

“Tell you what, you move your tent closer, I’ll give you a discount.”

She had laughed at that, tickled by the idea. Of course he had known that she wouldn’t accept. Some folks in camp resented her residing so far; they thought she was aloof and was looking down at them for being outlaws. For a good long while Arthur himself had been one of those people. But Hosea knew the real reason, even if Savigne herself maybe didn’t. She did it because she felt the need to underline the fact that she was independent, autonomous. Not just independent from the gang, but from everyone. 

It came down to this:

Most orphans he knew burned with the secret desire to be part of a larger bunch, of having a family. These always strove to find a group, a community they can belong to, people they can form bonds with. Any band that took them in, they quickly became devoted to and always wanted to provide for them and to protect them so they would feel needed and wanted. 

And then there were the other kind of orphans who went the opposite way: those who eschewed commitment, were always mistrustful of people and prided themselves in making it alone. They had a deep underlying need to prove to themselves and the world that they didn’t need anybody. 

He had always thought it ironic that Arthur fell into the first category while Savigne distinctly favored the latter. In a lot of ways they were different and this was no exception. You might think they should repel each other, but wisdom (or old age - it was hard to tell at times) had taught him that many folks in this world were attracted to their opposites.

Having arrived at her tent, Arthur dove in and started to methodically carry out her items, placing them outside. Hosea noticed Tilly and Abigail stop their chattering to watch. Even Micah, faking engagement in a game of poker with Bill, leaned back in his chair with smug arrogance and looked in that direction. 

Well, this didn’t bode well. Did they have a fight? Was it over? He had clearly failed to convince her to return, so had they called it quits? Had it gotten heated and ugly enough that Arthur was removing her possessions from camp? It certainly looked like it. He coughed gently, displeased.

Maybe them being opposites in their dispositions was why it had ended before it had even begun? He was clearly still too dedicated to the gang and she was too guarded about her independence. 

“We. Are. Family.” Dutch enunciated next to him, fishing out a cigar. “And as family, we are unbreakable.”

Guess I’m not much of a family man then, he thought sourly, because all this droning is starting to irritate me something fierce. It certainly didn’t help that Dutch kept playing the family angle as much as he did, but in the back of his mind, he knew he was guilty of it, too. He should have tempered that nonsense down years ago. Now Arthur was too locked in, unable to contemplate the possibility of a life outside all this. He had failed Eliza, had let Mary walk away and now he had allowed Savigne to slip between his fingers, too. At this rate he was never going to have a meaningful relationship, never taste the joys of that kind of companionship. What a waste of a life. Guilt swelled up in him again.

After removing all her possessions, Arthur started going around and one by one yanked the poles and pins out of the ground. There was a grim economy to his movements, a cold resolve. Hosea knew these mannerisms well. He had obviously made up his mind and knowing how stubborn Arthur was, the sun was likelier to rise in the west before he would reconsider his decision. The tent deflated.

Ms. Grimshaw sauntered closer, hands on her hips, and joined the audience. 

He took another sip from his coffee just to seem nonchalant but his mood had turned bitter. 

Several minutes passed as the gang watched Arthur disassemble the tent, fold it over, tuck it under his arm to walk back in their direction. 

“Sometimes, old friend, some of us wobble. It’s okay to wobble. But we have to trust our roots. Strong roots, good roots.” Dutch droned on. 

Hosea wasn’t really listening. He felt a wave of frustration and stared into his cup. The thing about getting old was that when you failed, you didn’t have the time to make up for that failure anymore. There was always a chance that Arthur was going to find someone else next year or the year after. But with every year the odds were shrinking and the door was closing another inch.

The gunslinger strode with big steps across the lawn, passing the viewers without acknowledging them. Savigne’s folded tent looked small and fragile under his big arm. 

Dutch lighted his cigar and Hosea had the compulsion to pull it out of his mouth and throw it to the ground. Instead, he watched, as deflated as the tent under Arthur’s arm. Could have been a good thing, he thought to himself. Could have been his ticket out. He blinked into the bright day and sighed. He regretted neither his life, nor most choices he made through it. But knowing that his time was short and Arthur was still where he was, well some of those choices obviously hadn’t been right. He would have to make peace with that. At least John had managed to cobble together a semblance of a family. He wasn’t doing great in that department either, but it was something. The glass was half full, as they said.

Arthur arrived at the center of camp but kept going.

Until he came up to his own tent and ducked through the flap.

Hosea blinked. 

Moments later the young man emerged and strode back across the lawn under the watchful eye of the gang. People kept out of his way and somewhat tried to pretend that they weren’t watching, but the act was sloppy. 

Hosea gave Dutch a sidelong glance and recognized the same surprise on his face. 

The gunslinger carefully gathered Savigne’s possessions and walked back towards his tent, his stride confident and certain. The glimmer of hope that bloomed in him almost made his old papery heart stutter. He took another sip from his coffee, just to keep his hands busy. 

After the third and final trip to the tent, Hosea exhaled a breath he didn’t know he was holding and let loose a low chuckle. He looked up at Dutch’s vexed profile and chuckled louder. 

“You know what,” he said, his voice mirthful, “I think you’re right! It really is a fine day!” he snorted and raised his coffee in salute.

He half coughed, half snickered until the other man got up and left and then some more, eyeing the closed flap of Arthur’s tent. For a man who fancied himself the mature leader, a father figure, Dutch had made this entire affair about himself, about his hold on the gang. Well, lo and behold, it had backfired and Hosea was pleased to see it.

Finally he dropped his cup, straightened his back and walked over to Arthur’s tent to ask for permission to enter.

“Everything okay son?” he said, dropping the flap behind himself.

Arthur grunted in confirmation. He was packing Savigne’s possessions into one of the crates. 

“I take it she’s coming back?”

Another grunt of affirmation.

Hosea exhaled in relief. Then he eyed the other man who obviously wasn’t in a good mood. “Did you have a fight?”

A snort. “Fight? More like I got done told.”

“I see,” Hosea nodded, suppressing a grin to hobble over to the cot to sit down. “I reckon she’s one of those people who burn hot, bright and short.”

“You got the hot an’ bright bit right, tell ya that.”

“You’re a big boy,” Hosea waved his arm dismissively. “You’ll be fine.”

“Startin’ to think she didn’ need no help with them O’Driscolls,” Arthur mumbled, massaging the back of his neck.

“That bad huh?”

He gave Hosea a look. “Things she accused me of would made you blush.”

“Were they true?”

“No?” he huffed. A moment later: “Most was nonsense.”

“So some wasn’t.”

Arthur threw up his arms in defeat. “Guess you should have raised me better.”

“Raised you just fine. You can’t tell me you didn’t know you were doing wrong, leading her on like that.”

An irritated grunt. “Wasn’ bein’ malicious. Just my regular damn fool self.”

“Well what did you expect, growing up in a camp full of men?” Hosea sighed, softer. “We’re all a bit…lacking for it. It’s going to be good for you, having someone like her around. Chisel you down a little.” 

He received a sidelong glance and a clench of the jaw for that. “All ‘m sayin’ is, might be nice if I got treated kindly. By anyone. Forgot what that’s like.”

“She did treat you kindly. But then you went and met Mary behind her back.”

A frustrated sigh. “What d’ya want, old man?”

Hosea rose and walked up to him. He squeezed the younger man’s shoulder. “Thank you,” he said simply.

“For?” was the confused question.

“For taking a leap. Maybe it’ll work out, maybe it won’t. But I’m glad to see you trying. Was worried you didn’t have it in you anymore, with you roosting around all glum and whatnot. You have to fight for the good stuff in life, they ain’t free. But if you do, maybe I’ll get to see you do more with yourself. All I want.”

“You had your coffee yet? Cause yer talkin’ nonsense.”

“I had the most delicious coffee. Dutch’s expression was all the sugar I needed.”

Arthur straightened up at that. “What’s goin’ on with Dutch?” he asked, his voice lower. “He’s been off ‘bout this whole thing since Micah.”

Hosea pressed his lips. “Isn’t it obvious?”

“Not to me it ain’t.”

“Cause your head doesn’t work like that. And thank god for that.” He patted Arthur’s shoulder and turned to leave. “Don’t worry about Dutch, you just worry about yourself.”

“What’s that ‘spose to mean? Tell you what Hosea, I’m all tapped out on confusin’ talk for the month. Say what you mean.”

“I mean,” Hosea shot back, “for once in your life, think of yourself first. Dutch this, Dutch that! Be your own man for Christ’s sake!”

Arthur gave him a stunned look. “You okay?”

“See now you’re worried about me instead,” Hosea threw up his arms.

“'M tapped out on bein’ chewed, too,” was the ascerbic retort as he smacked some of the books into the crate. “For the month…” another stack of books was smacked in while Arthur gave him a baleful look. “…just so you know.”

“When’s she coming back? You were a lot more tolerable when she was around.”

Arthur rolled his eyes and grumbled to himself, returning to the crating. Hosea knew he didn’t like talking about these matters and he was actually surprised by how candid he had been so far. 

“Well?”

“Don’ know,” the other man barked.

“How do you not know?”

Arthur clicked his tongue in annoyance, clearly done with airing his private affairs for the day.

“You know where she’s staying at least?”

“New York” was the bitter answer.

“New York?! What’s she doing there?”

“Maybe ask her yerself, I ain’t her messenger.”

“Well I would if someone hadn’t failed to bring her back.”

Arthur gave him an icy flick of the eyes. Clearly time to leave, Hosea thought, recognizing that look. The man had a temper and he was an entirely different flavor of mean when that flared. He exited the tent and ambled away, gaining a small smile on the way. It really was a nice day, wasn’t it?

Arthur dropped the shelf on the ground, shook it around a bit to make sure it wasn't wobbly, then started to unpack the crate and place Savigne's items into it. Most of them were books and he flitted through them to see what they were. Cookbooks, mostly. Several novels. One in particularly rough shape, titled "Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea". A book about Annesburg (he shook his head, guessing what that one was for), and one about how to care for horses. As if Cricket needed more caring for. He chuckled despite himself and started to stack them up, then hesitated. Knowing Savigne, there would be an order here. Something ridiculous like by size or by topic or who knows - by word count? 

As he mused on what to do, one of the cookbooks fell open and the notes he had left her spilled out. He grunted in surprise and gathered them up, then went through them one by one, trying to remember when he had written them. This one was the first, with Cricket in the back. This one was when he was sent out to do a bank job in Van Horn. This one he had actually left her after his return and it had the sketch of a bridge he had camped by on his trip. None of them were sentimental but it touched him that she had kept them. He placed them back between the pages they had spilled out from and smiled at the recipe of apple pie. He closed the book, then hastily opened it again. Had they been in chronological order before they fell out? Christ, she was driving him crazy. 

"What's with the incessant hammering?" he heard Dutch behind him and slapped the book shut. 

He shrugged, not turning around as he angled the book into the shelf. "Need a bigger bed."

Dutch didn't say anything for a moment and Arthur took up his tools again. 

Then: "Can we talk?"

He sighed despite himself and gave the other man a glance.

"Sure."

Dutch waltzed in and sat on one of the chairs as Arthur leaned back against his crates, crossing his arms. 

"I'm not sure this is a good idea," the seated man offered finally, giving him a long look. 

Arthur kept his face blank to hide his irritation. By the looks of it, the whole gang was going to file in one by one to give him their opinion in the matter. This was exactly why he hadn’t wanted to come out with it in the first place: he couldn’t have a god damn thing to himself in camp. Folks felt entitled to pipe about what should be just his own business. Outside of his damn journal, nothing was private, nothing was sacred, nothing was off limits. Nothing was just his to covet.

He had grown to hate this part of gang life and it had only gotten worse with time. This was the main reason why he had run off more and more often to wander in the wilderness by himself and if not for Savigne, he would have gladly spent these last months doing the same.

What’s more, everyone incessantly wanted something from him. Pearson would imply that they had all gone hungry as if the camp wasn’t full of people who could hunt. Abigail needed him to talk to John. Or Jack. Or both. Strauss needed a collector. Dutch disapproved how he wasn’t capable of being in more than one place at a time, complaining about the jobs that didn’t go well because Arthur hadn’t been there. He had been excited to get that first letter from Mary. Only to find out that she needed her brother saved. And the second one was for her father.

On and on and on, grown adults constantly chirping at him like helpless fledglings. But now that for once he selfishly wanted something for himself, already Dutch was in his tent to explain how it wasn’t a good idea and why he should give it up. He ground his teeth, feeling the pushback swell inside his chest.

"She’s a nice enough girl,” Dutch continued. “but -and I hate to say it- I don’t think she'll be with us much longer."

"What makes you say that?"

Dutch scratched his chin. "Well I doubt Miss Ricci is the kind to leave her city life for Tahiti."

Arthur snorted. "So yer set on that idea."

"Son…” exasperated, “…we're wanted men. You think the Pinkertons will leave us be if we stay in this country?" 

He didn't respond and he didn't like how easily Dutch always crawled under his skin. 

"We have no future here! You have a bounty on your head. I have a bigger bounty on mine. We can’t stay."

He scratched his beard and looked away. "Don' have to be Tahiti. Could go to Canada. Could go to Mexico. Hell, it's a big country - Pinkertons ain't combin’ through Ohio or Montana, are they?"

"Maybe they are, maybe they aren't," was the light response. "Doesn't mean she'll go with anyway. You asked her yet?"

"Nothin’ to ask. Yet."

"I feel like you're walking into this thing with your eyes closed. You don't know what she wants, you don't know what you want and here you are, redecorating!" Hands thrown up dramatically.

"Well," he sighed, inspecting his hammer. "I know I want a bigger bed."

Dutch's face scrunched up. He was at times surprised how often he lately ended up at odds with Dutch and how little it bothered him. Was a time, any disapproval from this man would keep him awake at night. Now it was just as expected and boring as afternoon showers in Roanoke Valley.

"You're making a mistake," the older man said lowly, pressing on each word. 

"Might be," he countered, locking eyes with him.

“Is she really worth all this trouble?”

“Only one way to find out.”

In the back of his mind he dimly wondered again why Dutch gave a damn. He hadn’t caused half as much fuss about Mary and that had been a much longer, more serious relationship. He was indifferent to members of the gang bedding one another. He hadn’t even been set against Savigne herself at first, had often taken Hosea’s side in the matter and playfully teased Arthur’s dislike of her. Now he visibly tensed whenever her name came up. It intrigued him, this sharp dislike he had for her when she went out of her way to avoid interacting with him. 

“You used to say she wasn’t one of us. That she looked down at us,” Dutch pushed. “What changed?”

“And you used to say I was wrong,” Arthur countered. “Maybe I came ‘round to yer way of seein’ things.”

“I wanted everyone to get along, didn’t say you should get involved with her.”

“Didn’ know I needed yer permission, Dutch.” Arthur said evenly.

This surprised Dutch. A look of wariness came over his face. “I just want what’s best for you, son.”

Suddenly, out of nowhere, a memory: 

He was riding back towards camp with Savigne through a meadow, basking in the contentment of the moment. His mind glassy and still like a lake in the very early hours of the morning. He used to drink to achieve a poor imitation of his current state. But whiskey merely made him numb and forgetful. What he felt now was a peaceful tranquility; like maybe not everything in his life was great, but a great many things were good. Soon they would part ways so they would arrive separately - she would ride back to camp and he was going to diverge to sell some stolen goods at the Emerald Ranch. 

She had just asked him why he liked being an outlaw and he was pondering it. 

“‘M free.” He said finally and rolled a shoulder. 

She turned to him. “How do you mean?” 

Maybe it was his current mood or the fact that the trails of her nails were still pulsing on his back, or just the angle of the light, but he distantly marveled how he had thought of her as mousy - she looked anything but at that moment. 

“I do as I want,” he explained.

“Do you?”

He glanced at her but there was no mockery in her expression, just that curiosity of hers, childish at times in its hunger.

“Sure.” 

“So you want to rob and rough up folks?”

“No.” He scratched his beard, unsure how to clarify it. “I mean to say, I got no master and that there is the price.”

She scoffed at that. “Of course you do.”

“Oh?”

“Dutch is your master.”

He grumbled in disagreement.

“Can you walk away whenever you want?”

“Sure.”

She gave him a dry look.

“Just don’ wanna,” he shrugged.

“That’s how it works,” she said, squaring her shoulders. 

“How d’ya mean?”

“I mean the best master is the one who makes you want to stay.”

He gave her a side-eye. “That ain’t what’s happenin' with me an’ Dutch.”

Savigne didn’t speak for a while. The sun was low in the sky, it was late afternoon. He noticed the tiny beads of sweat on her neck and wondered what they tasted like. It was a little bewildering, this appetite he had for her. He was thankful when she spoke again, distracting him: 

“When I was at the orphanage, we had a Sister Rodriguez. She was very nice. Kind, generous, gentle, charming. She loved us, you could tell and we were all crazy for her. We would compete for her attention, for a compliment, for a ‘good job!’ from her.” He lighted a cigarette, enjoying her easy company. He had never really liked chatty folk but somehow he had grown to like listening to Savigne. It didn’t bother him any more than the twittering of birds or the rumble of a waterfall at a distance. She always had a lot to say and she didn’t mind that he didn’t. 

“She liked me especially. She secretly used to smuggle me these little lemon drops and tell me not to let anyone else see because then everyone would want some. She said that I was special, different. That I was strong. I remember feeling so proud of that…”

She shot him a grin. He nodded in understanding. 

“So anyway, as I got older and my time to leave the orphanage approached, she started to tell me how wonderful it would be if I stayed. ‘You of all people should know how much help orphans need’ she said. ‘We don’t get that many volunteers and I’m getting older’ she said. ‘You know how you were sick on that ship? That means you will never have children of your own. But if you stay, you can have hundreds. The Lord works in mysterious ways’ she said.”

Savigne bit her lip, lost in thought. 

“…And?”

“Obviously I left,” she said sheepishly.

“Why?”

“Because she wanted to tie me down.” She must have read the confusion on his face, because she clarified: “Sister Rodriguez was just, like…grooming me, manipulating me to stay at the orphanage. So I would spend my life doing what she thought I should do. But willingly, doing it like I wanted it, like I chose it myself, you know what I mean?”

“How d’ya know that?” he asked, skeptical.

“Because once I said no, she never brushed my hair and never told me I was special again. And she never ever gave me another lemon drop.” She shot him a sidelong glance. “Sometimes you have to ask why you want something. Why you really want something. And if your answer is because someone else wants it, could be you have a master and you just don’t know it.”

Arthur had dismissed her conclusion at the time. He knew Savigne had an independent streak that she guarded with jealous zeal. Odds were, she had run from the commitment and responsibility and she had simply misread Sister Rodriguez’s intentions. But then again…it had stuck with him, the idea. And now it resurfaced, like a beached whale.

Or maybe you want what you think is the best for me, he thought, looking at Dutch. 

“Look,” Dutch leaned back in his chair, spreading his long legs. “Did I say a word when you were bedding her?” 

Arthur blinked, startled by the change in language.

Dutch nodded in understanding, a small grin on his lips. “Of course I knew. And I get it, you’re a man, you have needs…” Arthur had known Dutch long enough to know that he had a salacious side. There was a reason Molly and him spent half their time awake arguing about other women. 

“…I’m just saying you don’t have to commit. Have your fun while you can, you deserve it! But she clearly has an expiration da-” He swallowed the rest of his words at Arthur’s icy, unblinking gaze.

A sizzling tension shot up between them. 

Arthur bounced off the crate. “Think we done here,” he growled.

Dutch’s face said he knew he had overstepped. He threw up his arms in defeat and turned to leave. 

"Just so we clear," Arthur said to his back, bristling with offense, "Savigne ain't payin’ rent no more."

Dutch froze in mid step and gave him a look over his shoulder. "We all pay."

Arthur scratched his jaw, suddenly eager to prod a retreating beast. "Ms. O’Shea pay?"

Dutch's eyes widened. "Molly is with me," he said, turning to face him. His anger was impossible to miss and gave Arthur a palpable satisfaction. 

"Sure," he drawled, nodding. "And Savigne is with me." Dutch opened his mouth but he continued: "You check that ledger sometime Dutch and tell me whose name you see the most. It ain’t even close. Then you go ahead and think ‘bout some of these folks here for what - five months, six? I count twenty-two years for me." His eyes flicked towards the other man with no trepidation before he moved back to the wagon. 

"I paid my dues and then some. Savigne ain't payin’ no more. You gonna hound someone 'bout it, ‘m right here."

He didn't look up when Dutch stormed out his tent. He wondered who would stroll in next to impart their wisdom in the matter. Or to chide him about some nonsense. Or to ask him for one thing or another. 

He crouched by the bed and lifted the hammer, then stilled as an understanding bloomed in his head. Hosea had been right about one thing at least: Savigne had treated him kindly. But more than that, she had never asked anything of him. Well, except that first thing, but as far as he was concerned, that ask had been very well compensated for, he thought with a slight grin. After that, nothing. Not a single thing. Was it odd that he hadn’t seen it as such when they were together? He hadn’t thought on it really, had taken it for granted. But now, against the stark background of others, it seemed so obvious. Even at the end she hadn’t asked him to change his ways, demanded that he do one thing or another, instead she had simply called it off. 

He missed it, he conceded, being around someone who didn’t want anything from him other than his company. As expected, he thought bitterly, you didn’t put it together when she was around. Now that she’s gone, now your head’s working again. A whole lot of good that will do.

He set his shoulders with determination and, after a moment’s hesitation, spitefully lifted the hammer higher so the banging would be louder.  

Chapter Text

She saw Saint Denis appear outside of her window and smiled, watching the buildings flicker in the distance. The feeling of home bloomed in her. The man across from her prattled on and she politely pretended to listen. 

"...Miss Ricci?"

"Hmmm? I'm sorry, my mind just went somewhere else for a minute."

He mirrored her smile. Clean shaven except for a well groomed mustache, clear skin, his hair a shock of yellow, his eyes an enticing shade of grey. Her gaze dipped down to his clothes - well tailored and fitting. The kind of man she used to find intriguing.

"I was asking when you're starting your new job."

Her smile widened into a grin. "In a week or so now."

"You seem excited," he chuckled. 

"I am." She shrugged, unapologetic. 

"It's refreshing to see someone like their job this much." He gave her a long look and she cleared her throat and went back to watching the approaching buildings. 

"I was thinking," Mr. Dunham drawled and she knew what he was going to say before he said it. “Maybe I can call on you sometime. I will be in the city for a few weeks. This contract my client wants to sign is lengthy and it'll take time to comb through it."

"I'm flattered," she said carefully. "But, I have some preparations to make. And after...well...new job and all that. I think I'll be very busy and when I'm not, likely tired."

She felt his gaze on her hands and knew he was confirming the lack of a ring as if he hadn't done so half a dozen times already.

"Still, everyone has to eat sometime."

"I eat at work," she said, feeling herself getting slightly flustered and not sure as to why. She had decided that she would move on, hadn't she? No reason why she shouldn't let him wine and dine her. And yet, all she felt at the prospect was a profound lack of interest. 

Unfortunately for her, he was the type who took rejection as a challenge: "I admire your dedication. But you must have days off."

"I do," she relented, suddenly glad that the train was pulling into the station and made to get up. He shot up before her and swiftly removed her valise from above, then his own. She stood about aimlessly and dropped back into her seat to wait for the train to come to a full stop. 

"I don't know my schedule yet." was her eventual conclusion.

Mr. Dunham nodded and took out a card to scribble on the back of it. The moment the train stopped Savigne shot up and moved to disembark. He followed with her valise. She stepped down the ladder and blinked in the bright sun, smelling the familiar smells of Saint Denis. Then froze when she spotted Arthur striding towards her. Her stomach did a flip at the sight of him. He had that sauntering, confident gait that she knew so well, easily recognizable anywhere. Her mouth ran dry at the sight of those long legs, the wide shoulders, the black shirt snug against his broad chest, the gunbelt swinging on his hip and of course that gambler hat, dipped low. 

It had been almost a week and although he had never been far from her thoughts, the days in New York had been busy, overwhelming, brimming with excitement and novelty, so she had managed not to wallow. Seeing him now, so unexpectedly out of the gate, she felt caught off guard and unprepared. She gaped in disbelief at his approaching form until she felt a touch on her arm.

“My card," her fellow traveler offered, "It has the name of the hotel I'll be staying at."

"I..." she stammered, still watching Arthur approach from the corner of her eye. "…Thank you." They shook hands and she felt him holding hers longer than he should have. She reached down for her valise.  

"I would really like it if you called on me, Miss Ricci." He lifted his hat momentarily. "Especially since you have some time before you start. I'm sure you know the best food in town, and I wouldn’t mind sampling it." He gave her a warm grin.

She forced a smile and stepped away with a nod. Arthur had come to stand a few feet from them. His eyes, clear, sharp and a deeper blue than the summer sky above them, flicked to the man for a moment before they locked on her again.

"Good day, Mr. Dunham," she managed as she stepped towards Arthur, who took her valise from her. 

"I prefer Erik," he called after her. He seemed unperturbed by the other man’s presence, even oblivious to it. Maybe he thought he was just a coachman, here to pick her up. 

Savigne nodded and walked away, feeling Arthur close at her heels.

She cleared her throat, trying to regain her composure. "How did you know I was coming back today?"

"Didn’," was his simple response.

She glanced at him over her shoulder, surprised. The southbound train was scheduled to arrive once a day in Saint Denis. She dismissed the conclusion of his answer as ridiculous. 

"Why are you even h-”

"This way."

He veered to the left, her valise at hand, and after momentarily throwing up her arms in exasperation, she followed. Frost was waiting at the station and she ran up to him to pat his snout and coo in his ear. "Don't have apples for you today boy," she whispered as Arthur climbed up the saddle. "Sorry."

He extended his hand to her. She gave him a pointed look.

“Said you was comin’ back to camp, no?”

He looked confident and recovered from his setback. It shouldn't surprise her really, because unlike herself, Arthur had the remarkable ability to jump right back on whatever horse had bucked him. Licking her wounds took Savigne days if not weeks sometimes. But not for Arthur - when he took a tumble he just dusted himself off and climbed right back on the saddle. And now she felt at a disadvantage because her ire had dampened and she had never been able to keep a grudge. 

“I’m not going to camp, I’m going to the steakhouse,” she grumbled, patting Frost’s flank.

“Fine, I’ll take ya.”

“I can go myse-”

“Thought you wan’ed to be civil,” he said coolly.

She blinked, taken aback for a moment. “Well…yes, but..."

She eyed him with suspicion, trying to gauge if he meant it. It would make her camp life –whatever remained of it at this point- a lot less stressful if she didn't have to avoid him all the time, so there was that. He was a hard man to ignore and she hated the idea of zipping to and from her tent every time he was up and about in camp. But he had never struck her as the type who would care to keep a civil discourse. Then again, wasn’t it 'civil' to run errands for an old flame? The memory of Mary soured her stomach and put a scowl on her face. 

"You sayin' I can't be, that it?” He asked when he misread it. He gave her an intense look, swaying on the horse, hand still extended. "Cause I ain't fancy like yer friend?" His head jabbed back to the station. 

Savigne felt her face heat up. "That's nonsense," she muttered, offended. She grabbed his hand and pulled herself up to settle behind him.

A moment later she added, miffed: "Also, he wasn't my friend."

"Could'a fooled me," he shot back lowly.

“He was just a fellow traveler,” annoyed that she felt the compulsion to explain herself.

“That so?” he growled, “No fellow traveler ask me to dinner, tell ya that.”

At least I didn’t saunter around town in his arm, she thought darkly but bit back the words. One of them had to be the mature person and it sure as hell wasn’t going to be Arthur.

This decision went right out the window the next moment: “You sure you want to be seen with me in town? People might get the wrong idea, wouldn’t want to ruin your reputation,” she quipped.

“Christ,” he managed stiffly before he clicked his tongue for Frost to move.

She smiled to herself, basking in the satisfaction of pettiness. That is, until his smell of tobacco, horse and fire brought back a rush of emotion. Here we go again, she thought sourly. It daunted her, this pull he had on her. She was fine when he wasn’t around, it was easy to keep her mind busy, a skill she had honed over the years. But the moment he showed up, she felt the force of the maelstrom tugging at her again, spinning her, sucking her ever closer. No matter how much rationalization she came up with in her head, it wasn't enough to withstand the force of that pull. I need to move out of camp, she thought to herself. Would have been easier if she hadn’t spent a good chunk of her savings on a hotel in Saint Denis and a trip to New York, but there was no helping it. Being around him was making moving on unnecessarily difficult. After she had barely pined for him for almost an entire week, ten minutes into showing up he was bewitching her again with his stupid eyes and his stupid scent and his stupid touch.

“I appreciate the civility,” she explained as they rode through the familiar streets, “but it’s not necessary. I’m not so dainty that I can’t carry my own valise.”

He didn’t answer for a while.

“Might be, just wan’ed to make sure yer fine,” he said roughly.

Something warm and soft bloomed in her gut and she hastily stomped it out. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Woman,” was the sigh of exasperation, “you don’ need to raise yer hackles at everythin’ I say.”

Savigne pressed her lips, chided.

They arrived at the back door of the steakhouse. She slid down and ran in, expecting him to wait for her outside. To her surprise, he took her valise and followed. 

In the kitchen Luther was exactly where she had left him, flipping steaks at the burner.  

"Welcome back!" he hollered and gave her a big hug. Arthur strode in after her and stood a few steps away to place the valise on the floor.  

"You won't believe the things I cooked Luther! Like, first off - New York - amazing. I mean scary, a little, but also amazing. So busy, so many things to do! It's like you go there and you go through a time machine, it's the future! Anyhow, I whipped up some meringue; you would have cried your beady little eyes out, it was the best one in class, perfect stiff tips, our chef passed it around, can you believe that, you should have seen the look on people’s faces, especially this one guy, I didn’t like him, he reminded me of George, remember George, he used to work here a few years back and always had that dirty apron, jesus, the grime on that apron, I mean seriously, how hard can it be to wash your damn apron, you don’t see me complaining, but George, he didn’t even care, unbelievable, instant reason to fire someone if you ask me, inexcusable, imagine cooking people’s food and you look like you just crawled through a back alley, but that was before Mr. Harrison became a partner here of course and thank god for that because the menu before that was just – I mean, might as well put slop on a plate at that point...

"Savigne, take a breath."

She sputtered and took a breath. "Anyway, as I was saying…"

"See here," he interrupted, taking out the cigarette from his mouth to wave it in her face as she vehemently swatted the smoke away, "I can see yer worked up and ready to rattle on till youse blue, but I don' have the ear for it today. Some of us still have to work."

She rolled her eyes. "I know you're dying to hear all about it, don't pretend otherwise."

"I assure you, I want nothin’ less." 

"So anyway, and then we ate at this restaurant..."

"Who's yer friend?"

There was a long moment of awkward silence. Then Arthur extended his hand with a gruff “Arthur" and Luther shook it, locking eyes with him and giving him a wide smile. Savigne just watched the two big hands clasp and shifted on her feet with unease, not sure if she liked the idea of these particular two spheres of her life overlapping.

"Luther here." He pointed his steak fork at the other man, eyes narrowed, “You know…think I might ‘ave heard about you,”

Arthur crossed his arms, scratched his beard. “That so?”

"Maybe I'll come back later!” Savigne interjected with haste. “Given your foul mood.” Last thing she wanted was for Luther to reveal something she had said about Arthur in the past. Knowing him, it would be something wildly inappropriate and possibly untrue.

Luther gave her an amused look. Then the fork jabbed in her direction: "You do that." 

"I know you missed me," she huffed.

He just flipped a steak, nonchalant. 

"Jesus, who uncorked you and let you turn into vinegar?"

He scrutinized the orders stuck at the railing above his head. 

"Fine! I'll come back later."

"Ya keep sayin’ that, but youse still here."

She rolled her eyes again and caught Arthur's lips twitching. It propelled her to leave.  

"Don't know what I was thinking," she mumbled to herself, exiting the backdoor. "Grumpy old man!"

Arthur saddled back up and offered her his hand. She climbed up, distracted and her mood rattled.

How come I always pick these horrible men, she ruminated. I deserve to be treated nicely, instead I just get shoved around, ignored and talked down to. Mr Dunham at least had been polite. If she called on him, he wouldn't treat her like a nuisance and rudely chase her out. No sir, he would likely jump at the idea of seeing her, would arrive early and maybe kiss her hand when she did. No doubt he would treat her like a gentleman, open doors and pull out chairs for her, let her advise him what to order and of course insist she order first. Then he would sit and listen attentively and with interest when she spoke, ask questions and praise her wits and her character and her looks and make her feel important and special.

But then she thought of how Luther had always been there for her when she was going through a tough time and how Arthur had done things for her Mr Dunham never would have even attempted, and felt a little guilty. Yes, they weren’t always tolerable, they were difficult men with sharp tongues and rough attitudes, and more often than not they annoyed the hell out of her, but they were always there when it counted.

She sighed and looked around, only to realize that they were at the outskirts of Saint Denis.

"Where are we going?" she asked, even though she knew the answer.

"Home.”

Savigne thought about her dramatic exit from camp. In hindsight, she must have looked a bit unhinged, stomping around like a madwoman, face flushed, clothes damp, hair hanging wild. She cringed at the memory. "Take me back to Saint Denis. I'll come to camp when I'm ready," she said with a lofty tone.

''Fraid you can’t,” he drawled.

“Huh?”

“Seein’ Cricket is there already."

A jolt of surprise went through her.

“Excuse me?!”

“Took him back few days ago."

“You took my god damn horse?!” she sputtered in disbelief. “Why?!”

"Didn' think they cared for’im well enough,” he sighed, leisurely lighting a cigarette.

If she had ever heard bullshit, this was it. She was speechless for a few moments. “Am I allowed to raise my hackles now?” she spat when she found her voice again.

He actually, seriously grunted in affirmation.

Serves me right for falling for that civility racket, she thought, her temper starting to sizzle. He had taken Cricket not just to leave himself as the only option to return to camp, but clearly also to force her back earlier than she had planned. Arthur was clever enough but he loved to play dumb to get his way and it irritated her that he was certainly getting it today. Well if he thought that meant he can give her a night time visit, he had another thing coming. She was going to sleep with knife at hand tonight, not under the pillow. 

“How did you even manage to do that?” she hissed. No stable would allow a non owner to take out a horse, it would defy the whole point of stabling your horse.

“The kid and I came to an...understandin'.” She could hear the smugness in his voice.

Poor Jebediah, she thought and ground her teeth.

"Don't even think about veering off the main road," she said darkly.

"No ma'am," was his simple response as he kicked Frost into gear.

Chapter Text

They rode into camp and she slid off as soon as Frost stopped to run over to Cricket. She hugged his neck and kissed his cheek, then talked to him with affection about how much she missed him. Arthur gave her a dry look as he hit the ground but she ignored him. 

“Are you okay my love? Did they feed you well here? Were you nervous coming over? I know, I know! I bet they didn’t give you your treats every evening,” she whispered, combing through his mane with her fingers. “I thought about you all the time! Every day! My big boy.”

She heard Arthur mutter something dark under his breath as he walked by her into camp and she ignored that, too.

“A whole week,” she said quietly, palming his ears as he nodded with excitement, “Mommy is sorry. I had to go. But I’m back now and how is my beautiful, my gorgeous, my amazing, my one and only, my precious…”

“You done?”

She gave him a poisonous side-eye. For whatever reason, he stood in the middle of camp, valise at hand, waiting for her. 

“I’ll be back later, I’ll find you apples. Maybe we’ll ride out to that tree together. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” she whispered and kissed Cricket a final time before she inhaled with determination and walked in his direction. 

She saw Hosea by Dutch’s tent raise his hand in greeting and she waved back with a smile. Behind him, Dutch was leaning on his tent pole and walked out of sight when her eyes landed on him. Micah was close by, his face still blue and purple, his stitches still in place but not as deformed as she had hoped he would be, arms crossed, leering.

Her eyes glided to the left and she saw the empty spot where Arthur’s tent used to be. Her brows furrowed in confusion as she walked towards him. “Where’s your…”

She flinched as if burned when he took her hand. He turned and started to walk to the outskirts of the camp where her tent was, ignoring her attempt to jerk it back. Karen walked by, giving her a lecherous smile and she smiled back politely, feeling a blush creep up her cheeks. 

“We’re in camp!” she hissed, stumbling to follow him.

Arthur strolled on with that confident gait as if he hadn’t heard, pulling her in his wake.

“Welcome back!” Jack piped up from where he sat and Savigne smiled at him. Her gaze traveled up to meet Abigail and Tilly’s eyes and she helplessly twisted her fingers to slither out of his grip. To her astonishment, his hand clamped down even harder. 

“Have you lost your-”

The rest of the sentence evaporated in her head when her eyes landed on the spot where her tent used to be. Her tent wasn’t there anymore. In its place was Arthur’s tent, but it looked considerably bigger. 

“Uh…where is…” she stammered, “…what’s that?”

She walked the rest of the way willingly, confused and curious. The structure was still the same – the canvas attached to the cart, draped over poles. But the poles were set further away and additional poles had been added to carry the weight of the larger canvas. A second, thicker maroon canvas was draped over the lighter one, currently bunched up and tied up higher. The knots could be released to let it drape over the first layer for added privacy or warmth or adjusted to be pulled up to let light in through the white one underneath. She gaped at it with astonishment – like it was an ancient structure that had popped out of the sea within a fortnight, covered in shells and seaweed. 

Arthur walked up to the flap on the side that was facing away from camp and strolled in. She stood rooted when he released her. The inside looked similar with stacked crates, but there was an addition of furniture of shelves and two chairs pushed against a small table. The bed was quit a bit bigger, still attached to the cart on one side and supported with sturdy legs on the other to stabilize it. Her bedroll was rolled up and tucked into a corner. Her eyes glided over her clothes, neatly folded and placed on a shelf with her books underneath and her basket leaning against it. 

She had the wherewithal to close her mouth as her gaze came full circle and landed on the man standing in the middle. There was an unreadable expression on his face – trepidation?

“What’s going on?” she managed finally. 

He rolled his shoulders and scratched the back of his neck, then took off his hat to throw it on one of the crates. 

“You like it?”

“I…sure. I mean…it’s nice. But…” She glanced at her possessions. A distant part of her mind noticed that the books were out of order and for a moment her fingers itched to fix it. “Why is my stuff in here?”

He gave her a look that asked if she was stupid and it was probably well deserved. 

“Our tent now,” he said casually. “Yer stayin’ here with me.” Then an added mumble: “At least I hope y’are.”

A long moment passed in stunned silence as she internalized the words. He palmed his beard and pulled a chair closer to the bed and sat on it. Savigne felt herself gliding to carefully sit on the bed across from him, first testing its sturdiness, then relaxing onto it. She swallowed and tried to think but all she could think of was his hand gripping hers to walk her through camp and her heart did a double thump at the meaning of it.

Her eyes crawled around the tent. It felt as spacious as a house after her previous one. The fabric, a creamy white, broke the harshness of the bright afternoon sun, bathing the inner space with a soft glow. It rustled and swayed gently in the summer breeze, moving, breathing as if it was a living thing. It was peaceful in here, quiet and cozy. She never had owned a home but she must have constructed, decorated, painted one in her mind a thousand times. It wasn't the cabin of her dreams, but it was closer to a home than anything else she had lived in before.

She found him watching her, his blue gaze shimmering with apprehension.

“Said I would fix it,” he muttered, sounding somewhat offended by her surprise, before he fished out a cigarette to play with.

Yes, he had said it but naturally she had dismissed it because in all their time together he had never implied that he thought of her as anything more than an affair. He had been gentle and polite, but he had never done the things people associate with affection and devotion: he had never complimented her, had never expressed interest in wanting a real relationship with her, had never bought a gift or even picked a couple of measly flowers for her. The most sentimental thing he had done were the handwritten notes and half of those had been to communicate a departure or to set up a meeting place.

But somewhere, somehow she had made an oversight. She had bought into his reserved and rough facade and forgotten that this was also the same man who had come to blows with Micah, would have killed him if not for the interference of others. For what Micah had done to her. The man who had obviously created a strain between himself and a man he had been obscenely loyal to for decades, his mentor and father figure. For her. And last but not least, had - without delay or hesitation - risked his life. To save her. Now sitting in this tent he had built just for her, had moved away from camp because she preferred it so, among the new furniture he had cobbled together so she would be comfortable, Savigne couldn’t help but feel like he had told her that he valued her all along, but in a language she didn’t speak, with words she couldn’t understand.

“Why did you hide us?” she asked, suddenly unsure about everything, especially her own judgement.

He looked away and ran a hand through his hair. "Don’ matter. I know it was wrong.”

“It matters to me,” she said.

He exhaled a long breath and sat back in his chair, spreading his legs. It was a quiet, breezy summer early afternoon. Most people in camp were gone to wherever they went during the day, there was just the distant chatter of the women talking as they worked. He seemed to be in thought, absent-mindedly playing with the cigarette in his hands. She was used to his long pauses and determined to find out what was going on in that head of his, so she waited.

"Think maybe I envied you long time and didn’ know it," he said slowly. "Envied what you had and wan'ed the same for myself."

”How do you mean?” was the incredulous question.

All she remembered from their earliest encounters was a profound lack of interest tinged with mild distaste towards her. A lot of characters in camp had made her uneasy those first days - she had feared Micah's dead gaze, had been disturbed by the clever spark in Dutch's eye, she even remembered feeling uncomfortable about Sadie's hot, quiet anger, so of course she had also noticed Arthur's hardness and intensity. She could tell that he was a rough man, a man with a mean streak, a no nonsense man. So she had glided around him as much as possible and darted straight to her tent whenever she felt his sizzling azure gaze on herself. Thankfully he had also been the busiest member of the gang and more away than present and not the type to strike a conversation with her, so the first few weeks had passed with what could only be called mutual aversion. Then somewhere further down the line he must have come to a conclusion about her because his lack of interest had morphed into a scrutinizing, judgmental, critical gaze. She had made peace with the fact that he didn't like her because frankly, she didn't like him much, either. If Cricket hadn't been stolen that day in Valentine and he hadn't walked out the bat doors of the saloon the very moment he had, odds were she would have never interacted with him.

He leaned forward to place his elbows on his knees and inspected his hands for a while. 

"You came and went as you pleased." he tried to explain. "No folks hangin’ on yer skirts. No mouths to feed but yer own…Thought for a long time I didn' like you for it. But...looking back...think I envied it. All you had was yer own. Your money was yer own, your time was yer own, your business was yer own..." He trailed off for a while. "Used to think I was free," he huffed darkly. "You was more free than I ever was. Guess I wan'ed somethin' for myself, too." He scratched his beard and looked up to see if she understood, that unapologetic intensity back in his eyes for a moment: "Wan'ed you for myself."

She dropped her gaze, unable to hold his for a moment, but understood what he meant too well. Growing up around hundreds of other kids didn’t allow a lot of privacy or ownership.

Then he added “I love the gang,” as if he had said something sacrilegious and needed to clarify. “Would die for these folks." She nodded again. "But…I been restless. Tired, maybe.” He massaged the back of his neck. 

"Thank you. For explaining," she said finally and picked lint off her skirts for a short silence. "Wish you would have done that in Saint Denis."  

He snorted. "Tried."

"I might have been..." she trailed, trying to come up with the right word.

His eyebrows ticked up as he sat back to cross his arms.

"...a little..."

His eyebrows rose higher.

"...testy."

"Yeah, that ain't the word."

"Anyhow, that's in the past," she said quickly and ignored his amused hum. “Seems to me,” she sighed, “you should maybe try to do a lot more talking and I should do a lot less thinking.”

The corner of his lips curled and the blue in his eyes was softer when he looked up.

“Yer hesitatin',” he said carefully when the lighter moment passed. “Thought you wan’ed…more?” 

“I mean I did…” She bit her lip, undeniably nervous at the prospect of becoming not just an actual couple, but one that shared a living space.

“Ain’t nothin’ to fear,” he said softly, reading her tension. “I don’ bite.”

“I know that,” she huffed. “It’s just…I never lived with someone. Not like that. Feels more…” The word she was reaching for was ‘serious’, but she decided against it. “I’m just thinking it might be different.”

He nodded slowly, focused on rolling the cigarette between thumb and finger. She knew he had never shared a tent, either, so this was new territory for him, too. “Might be different.” His eyes flicked up to her. “Might be better?” he suggested. He crossed his arms again and looked around the tent. “More room,” he shrugged.

She grinned a little and absentmindedly played with her fingers, imagining she could still feel the residue of his grasp on her hand and it made her heart flutter.

“That’s true,” she admitted. “But, for example, I don’t even know if I snore,” she posed.

“I don’ mind,” he said dismissively.

“What if we like things different?” she waved her arm at the furniture.

His shoulders hitched. ”I ain’t fussy.”

She bit a nail. “What if you come in late or I wake up early to go to work and…”

There was a smidge of amusement in his eyes when he looked at her. “Ain’t no big deal.”

”And what if…”

”Savigne…” he interjected gently, as if she was a spooked horse, “…all that don’ matter none.”

Asking the important questions here, are we?

She concentrated on her boots.

"Ain't gonna force you,” he said at last. The cigarette weaved between his fingers, looping back and forth and back and forth. “I ain’t a good man,” he huffed with a bitter tinge, “that don' gone changed. I understand if you don' wanna.” He jabbed his chin at one of the crates: “I’ll put up yer tent if you say so.”

Jesus, he has a scathing inner voice, too, she thought, surprised. It was sobering, to see a man so self confident and so capable have his own demons to wrestle.

“I do want to,” she said quietly.

He gave her a look, and even though it was well masked, she read his surprise in it. The surprise of a man who had gambled and thrown the dice, hoping for the best but expecting the worst. "Way I see it..." he cleared his throat, "...worth a shot to...” the expression on his face suggested he was trying to recall the right words, “...'take a leap’.”

"What if it doesn't work out?" she whispered, more somber. She looked up from under her eyebrows. "What if you leap and there's nothing on the other side to land on?"

He took a few moments to mull on it before he finally met her eyes, his gaze now clear and steady: “Only one way to find out.”

Times like this she envied Arthur's simple approach to things. He had a straightforward, no nonsense way about it; he didn't shy away from risk, wasn't afraid of failure, didn't overthink the issue. No doubt it was a big step to take for him, too, but here he was, ready and resolved, standing at the halfway point. And that's as far as he would go. If she was going to meet him on that bridge, she would have to do the crossing alone. 

Don't do it. Here there be dragons, Savigne.

The center of the maelstrom yawned ahead of her, terrifying in its darkness. In it, a frontier unknown. The foreboding hinterlands of trust and attachment and commitment. Riddled with the mines of misunderstanding and mistrust, the swamps of jealousy and insecurity, steep peaks of incompatibility, the tundras of dishonesty and the thorny thickets of quarrels. And worse still, somewhere in there, the scepter of that lurking beast: love. Probably pain. Again. Possibly loss. Again. Sadie was wrong - it was madness to agree to all that knowingly, willingly.

And yet...

She glanced at her clothes on the shelf and saw the attempt he had made not just to fold them, but to fold them neatly. The clumsy job of a child, but the effort unmistakable. Seeing that broke something inexplicable inside her and put a lump in her throat. I might actually, really, seriously love this man, she thought to herself, somewhat startled. 

Eventually she had the courage to look up at him and he stilled when he saw it. Then his face twisted with discomfort when he saw the tears building up in her eyes. “If you don’ like it-” he started gruffly.

“I love it,” she sniffed, wiping her cheeks. “Thank you.”

He nodded once, inspecting his hands and the rigidity of his shoulders loosened a little. Then he shifted in the chair, making a point of not looking at her as she patted her skirt pockets to find a handkerchief, a little baffled by her own reaction. She felt raw and vulnerable, exposed like someone had peeled her skin off. She dabbed her eyes, confused what she was crying about but unable to stop all the same.

“I think I’m just tired,” she sniffed after a few minutes. “Was a long trip.”

Her tears had put him back on edge and he fumbled with his cigarette a little longer before he finally decided to light it. He flicked away ash on his shirt that wasn’t there while he shot a glance at her to check if she was done bawling. The tension in his shoulders eased further when he saw that she was.

“I’ll sleep on the bedroll,” he offered around his cigarette as she was wiping the last remnant of tears off her cheeks.

Not if I have anything to say about it, she thought, amused by his attempt at chivalry. But all she said was “Okay.”

He nodded in agreement and threw his legs on the bed beside her. A moment later he flinched at the look she gave him and retrieved them to plant his feet on the ground. 

“No boots on the bed,” she growled, brushing the spot with a hand. “That’s just nasty.”

“Yes ma’am.”

She sighed into her pillow. Turned on her other side.  

Silence. 

She sighed again, a little more dramatically and turned again. 

“Y’alright there?”

Savigne smiled in the dark, then quickly wiped it off her face, lest he could hear it in her voice. 

“Not really.”

Silence. 

“What’s the matter?”

She grumbled something incomprehensible.  

She heard Arthur grunting to sit up on the bedroll behind her. “What’s that?”

“I think my hair smells of steak,” she said over her shoulder.

A long silence that indicated that he was wondering if he had heard her right. 

“I walked in there today without a cap. And now my hair smells of food,” she clarified. 

He groaned in exasperation and she smiled wickedly again. 

“Y’can wash it in the morning.”

“But I can’t sleep tonight.” 

Silence.

“Also, I didn’t get to wipe off my sweat when we arrived. I must stink to high heaven.” All of this was true. She was agitated at the grime on her body and her hair did smell a bit like steak (or at least smoke), but at the moment it was more of an excuse to annoy him. 

“You don’ stink,” he muttered and she heard him lie back down. 

She sighed again and turned to lie on her left, facing him. 

“Woman…”

“What?”

“You don’ lie still, 'm gonna tie you down.”

“I’d like to see you try,” she muttered. 

“‘Scuse me?”

She bit down a bubble of laughter. She moved to lie on her back. From the corner of her eye she saw Arthur’s head turn towards the bed. The light in the tent was dim so she couldn’t see his expression but she would have bet real money that he was sublimely pissed. 

She was getting ready to turn on her right again when warned: “Don’t. Turn.” His voice annoyed, flat. 

She flopped back on her left again instead to face him. He clicked his tongue. God, Arthur was harder to rile up than she imagined. 

“You’re very cross today, aren’t you?” she said flippantly.

“Wonder why,” was the gruff response. 

“You’re cross. Luther was born cross. It’s like I have a type.”

Silence. 

“Except for Mr. Dunham.” She watched his body tense like a drawn bowstring. “He was kind of nice.”

“Savigne,” he said lowly a moment later, “yer testin’ my patience.”

A long silence. 

She pushed: “He had soft hands.”

Arthur catapulted to his feet and she flinched and sat up in response. They stood there looking at each other in the dark for a long moment. 

“Y’ain’t gonna let me sleep, are you?” he growled and she suppressed a shiver at his tone. 

He took a step towards the bed, then halted in restraint. He was wearing soft cotton bottoms and nothing on top. She couldn’t see his expression but just in case he could see hers, she forced her features to convey innocence. 

“I don’t know what you mea-”

“Woman!…”

She sensed his surprise when she rose to her knees to face him. “What?”

“You tryin’ to piss me off?” His tone wary and unsure.

She looked at his dark silhouette against the milky moonlight in the tent. “Come closer,” she said quietly.

He hesitated for a moment, but then padded closer to look down at her.

She gathered her hair to one side and exposed her neck. She looked up at him. “Here,” she whispered. “Smell that.”

He hesitated again, then leaned in to her neck. She stood stock still as his nose touched her neck, his lips brushed against her skin, inhaling deep before he withdrew without a word. 

“Well?”

“Smells fine to me,” he said carefully. 

She looked at him from under her eyebrows. “Try again.”

Something in his body language shifted. He lightly placed his hand on the other side of her neck and waited a moment to see her reaction. When she didn’t object, he pulled her up a little as he bowed down. His lips traced her neck before a slow kiss bloomed below her ear. When she didn’t move, he placed another one, lower. He stood up again and let go of her neck. His breathing was a little louder. 

“Nothing?” she asked. “I think the soap scent of my chemise is masking it". She crossed her arms to grab the hem and lift it over her head and threw it on the floor. She faintly heard his breath hitch. 

“There. Try again.”

His hold was firmer, more confident this time as he pulled her up without hesitation and gave her neck a long, slow lick with the flat of his tongue. She gasped and closed her eyes, swaying in his hold. Arthur’s hand on her neck slid to her throat and he closed his fingers, gentle but firm and pushed her back onto the bed while he followed, climbing between her legs. His mouth descended on hers, forceful, and she relented immediately. His other hand cupped her breast hard and she arched into his grasp. He kissed her deeply, violently for long moments, bruising her lips and stealing her breath.

“You ‘ave a mouth on you today,” he whispered in her ear. 

“What are you…going to…do about it?” she whispered back, suppressing a moan as his hand dipped from her breast into her bloomers.

He kissed her again, aggressive and enthusiastic. “Teach you some manners,” was the low growl as he sat up to grip the her bloomers and peel them off her legs. Then he lifted her by her waist to throw her further down the bed as he crawled after and settled between her legs. A split second later his lips were on her folds and she almost screamed in surprise. She tried to scramble away but his hands gripped her thighs and pulled her back as he gave her a long lick with the flat of his tongue. 

She moaned and tried to scuttle off but he was faster and jerked her back again. One of her hands shot out to his hair, trying to move his head away, hissing his name. Then she clamped the other palm over her lips as she felt his mouth on her folds, kissing her slow and sensuous, tongue gently lapping and swirling. No one had ever done this to her before and Savigne’s head swam both with self-conscious embarrassment and the the unexpected pleasure. "Stop!" she whispered, "w-wait...just...oh," she flopped and spasmed uselessly as he ignored her pleadings. 

The hands on her thighs pressed her open as he settled between her legs. She whined into her palm, feeling completely exposed to him. His tongue was like wet fire, exploring her with confidence, his licking and suckling growing bolder the harder she struggled. She knew fighting him was only making it worse so she made an effort to stop struggling and the grip on her thighs relented in response as he hummed against her with approval. Her head fell back on the bed in momentary submission. He stopped and untangled her hand from his hair and slapped it away. 

“Better keep them hands to yerself.” His voice was hard and low. “Or I will bind you.”

She whimpered another pleading but quickly clapped the second hand on her mouth too as he resumed. His tongue gently traversed up and down, sending shock waves through her before it swirled around her clit and suckled. Savigne shot up halfway despite herself at the searing jolt of pleasure and reflexively tried to snap her thighs close again, crying into her palm. His grip instantly hardened to iron in warning, pushing her open her further.

“Oh god, oh god, ohmygod,” she blabbered into her hands, her legs shaking with the strain to close but failing against his hold. 

“I like it when you fight me,” he drawled, scraping his beard against her inner thigh. Hot breath against her folds as he pressed her legs open to almost a painful degree. “But ‘m gonna take what I want.” 

She felt his tongue curl and enter her, dismissive of her muffled wails in response. He hummed with pleasure, dipping his tongue in and out, then lapping at her like a dog. Muffled cries of gibberish as she felt a finger go in and his lips latch on her again. The finger started to pump, slow and steady while he suckled her bud and she shuddered in ecstasy, her control fraying and her embarrassment forgotten. Finally, another swirl of his tongue against her entrance and Her hips started to sway against him on their own accord as she lost the fight, giving in to the burning pleasure. He moaned his approval and softened his bruising grip, hands moving a leg over his shoulder, caressing it to encourage her as she let go of her inhibitions and rocked against his finger.

Just when she thought it possibly couldn’t feel any better, suddenly the finger curled expertly to touch her sensitive spot and her spine snapped off the bed like a bow. 

She couldn’t form words anymore, stuttering broken syllables instead, hands pressing harder against her mouth, teeth lodged on her lower lip as she was rapidly approaching a terrifying peak.

The finger curled again and his lips closed on her bud and next thing she knew, she saw stars. 

Her eyes fluttered close as she her back rose off the mattress and her body convulsed with the force of her orgasm. He gave her tender licks as she rode through it, a flame blooming through her in the aftermath of the lightning strike. It felt like minutes but could only be moments when she collapsed back on the bed, light headed and breathless. Her muffled wails died off as she distantly felt him withdraw and shift to sit up, large hands tenderly massaging her legs, moving up her stomach, cupping her breasts, then removing her hands still plastered on her face. He brushed his thumb against her split lip as she panted breathlessly before he kissed her, slow and careful, lapping at the cut she had inflicted on herself.

“I ain’t done with you yet,” he murmured against her lips, “don’ move.”

Her head felt like it was stuffed with cotton and it took her a moment to register his meaning. He ignored her protestations as she felt him move off the bed and heard the rustling of his undressing before she felt the mattress dip again. She yelped in surprise as he flipped her on her stomach and made an attempt to crawl away. “Too much,” she croaked, bewildered that he was serious. He snickered and bunched her ankles together to jerk her back. A moment later her buttocks were pulled up as he settled behind her and she felt the swollen head of his cock against her entrance. 

“Should ‘ave let me sleep, little bird,” he said roughly. Her hands grasped the covers in helpless preparation and she moaned, her cheek on the bed, still dazed from her orgasm as he sheathed himself completely. Then he pushed on her lower back to flatten her and crawled to lie on top of her, placing his elbows on both sides of her head. When he started to move, she gasped at the unfamiliar sensation. He was reaching so deep in her, she hadn’t even known it was possible.

He was panting above her, perched on his elbows as he rocked into her slow and deliberate, filling her and stretching her and grunting with the pleasure of it. His skin, slightly sticky with sweat was flush against hers, she felt the soft brush of his chest hair on her back. Her eyes fluttered open with disbelief when she felt her pleasure rise again. Her legs attempted to part reflexively but she was wedged between his strong thighs, locked into her position, unable to move.

“Oh…” she gasped, startled, then again “oh…that feels…oh…”, bewildered by how the embers in her core started to flare up again while she was still in the thrall of her pleasure from merely minutes ago. She craned up her neck, rising on her forearms and mewled, fingers tangling the sheets. His hot breath on her ear as his hips languidly pushed her into the bed, his cock touching spots in her she didn’t know could be touched. Her feet started tapping on the mattress as she whined with the pleasure, squirming to open herself further for him but he ignored her, clamping her legs shut with his thighs, continuing to rock into her.

“Not so…chatty…now…are we?” he growled into her ear before he suckled her earlobe.

“Oh god,” she shuddered, trying to push her hip up to meet him.

“Like that?” he hummed as he gently bit her neck. He chuckled darkly when she squirmed helplessly against him. She felt him grow harder in her with the excitement of her struggle. “You like it when I take ya like this?” He bucked into her sharply and pushed in so deep, her eyes rolled back in her head. 

Her head dropped back on the bed as he left wet kisses on her shoulder, rocking into her with relentless precision, piercing her, parting her with every stroke. Her hands twisted the sheets tighter and she buried her face into the mattress to muffle her moans. Her legs trembled and straightened, toes curling with ecstasy. He groaned with the increased tightness, moving faster as his restrain started to falter. He whispered a curse under his breath and then her name, like a sigh, and she knew he was close. But she was closer still. One of her hands found his and clasped his wrist with desperation and before she knew it, her second orgasm was on her, and while the first one had been steep and sharp, this one was deeper and and softer and she let it wash over her, her shudder of sobs muted by the mattress. 

Her entire body clenched up and went rigid as a board as she came and he growled as she clamped around him. She heard his gasps above her as he spent himself, his hips stuttering. 

She melted into the mattress, muscles soft and pliable like rubber and he collapsed to lie beside her, panting into her hair. Her mind was in a fog, her body a separate thing from her, utterly depleted. Minutes passed as she listened to his breathing and the soft calls of the night, felt her sweat cool off in the warm summer breeze. Her limbs grew heavy and she felt herself drift into a state of lucid slumber, then woke up again when he settled behind her. His big hand on her lower back, caressing up to her shoulders, then down over her buttocks.

“Be honest,” she mumbled when she could form words again, struggling to speak in her exhaustion. “Why’d you move your tent out this far?”

He chuckled, still a little short of breath, his hand drawing tantalizing ellipsis on her back. “Our tent,” he corrected. And then: “Cause ya wail like a banshee.”

She groaned. He laughed, easy and relaxed, and slid closer.

“Think I’m dying,” she whispered, her nerves strumming like strings.

He placed his hand on her ribs and pulled to turn her over on her back. He perched up on his elbow, looking down at her, brushing her wild hair from her face. 

“You look fine t’me,” he whispered, his thumb gently tracing her swollen lower lip again. His fingers glided down her neck, under the swell of a breast, over her stomach.

He lied down facing her, hand splayed on her stomach, thumb drawing circles. It felt strange that they didn’t have to worry about getting dressed, straightening their attire, brushing leaves and twigs off each other’s hair and heading out. That they could just lie here together until morning or even later if they wanted to. 

“We will wake up together,” she drawled a long while later, still unable to wrap her head around it. She hadn't woken up next to someone in years and couldn’t remember what it felt like.

“Depends,” he sighed.

“On what?”

“If ya snore, ‘m leaving.”

“You said you didn’t mind,” she laughed quietly.

“I lied,” was the easy retort. “To make you stay.”

She chortled. Minutes later she was falling asleep again when he shifted away to lie on his back, retrieving his hand. She turned to her side to face him and scooted closer. He was very still, his breathing soft and deep and for a moment she was anxious about it, nervous that it would backfire and wound her in the process. But her curiosity won out and she inched closer still until she was lightly pressed against his side. Any moment now he’ll pull away or he’ll turn his back, she thought and waited in anticipation. A long time passed and he didn’t move at all as she felt herself grow heavy with sleep again. Just before she drifted off, she distantly felt his arm shift and curl around her back to anchor her against him.

Chapter Text

She still had a brief instant of confusion when she woke up - that fleeting moment when she wasn’t sure where she was. Soon after, the recognition of her new tent. Their new tent. Then, the warmth of his body behind her and the weight of his arm slung over her ribs. 

Before this, waking up next to someone else like this had been a rare event and hadn’t happened in years. And now more often than not, she woke up next to Arthur Morgan. It took some getting used to.

First few days she had stumbled around him awkwardly, unsure how much space to give him. She was anxious that her presence would tire him, overwhelm him, exasperate him. But if he was any of those things, he hid it well. She re-arranged the furniture and watched him cautiously when he returned. He hardly seemed to notice and just acted like that's how it's always been. She cleaned the tent, wondering if he'll get annoyed, but he took it in stride and made no comment. One time he came in to her struggling to move a crate, pinned like a bug against it, straining and huffing and he asked her if she was trying to give herself a heart attack and then where she wanted it and then pushed it into the position she wanted like it was weightless and that was that. She bought other pieces of furniture and tools and moved things about but he didn't complain that she was overcrowding the tent and just rolled with the punches.

She must have re-arranged things a dozen times, but she made a point of never ever touching his possessions. Even though the crooked angles of the photos bothered her something fierce, she just eyed them grimly from a distance. Then one day she had been squirming around restlessly again while he was sitting at the table, drawing in his journal and he casually asked her if she had lice.

"WHAT!?”

She ran and dropped in front of the mirror on the shelf, hastily yanking her hair apart. “Oh my god! OH MY GOD, did you see something?”

She locked eyes with his incredulous reflection in the mirror. "Did you?!”

"Calm down-” he began when she jumped to her feet, running to her satchel. “The hell you goin’?”

"Town…” she managed between gulping breaths, feeling a panic attack coming. “…going to…buy…”

"Didn’ see nothin’!” he rose half out of his chair, palms up to placate her. “Just an expression, Savigne.”

She paused and gave him a long look. “You serious?! Promise!”

"Promise didn’ see nothin’,” he said quickly, visibly alarmed by her reaction.

She walked over on shaky legs, sank on the other chair and bit back a sob.

He looked like he was going to break into a grin but she gave him a severe glance and he wiped it off with a palm over his beard, clearing his throat. “Christ, you was twitchin’ about, why I asked.”

"I was going to ask something,” she mumbled with shaky breath, dabbing her sleeve at the cold sweat on her forehead.

"Well ask then.”

"Forget it!” was her grouchy hiss.

He gave her a dry look.

"Promise you didn’t-”

"Woman!”

She muttered to herself, mollified.

"You gonna ask or what?”

"I was going to ask if maybe we can straighten your stuff,” she huffed.

His eyes shifted to the pictures pinned against the crate, then back at her. He shrugged, “So, do it.”

She pressed her lips and started tapping her foot.

"Now what?”

"It has to be you.” His eyebrows shot up. “I don’t want to do it, it’s not right.”

He took a deep exasperated breath and rose to his feet, dropping his journal on the table. “Fine.”

He sunk down on his haunches in front of the crate and she followed to perch behind his shoulder. “Sorry,” she whispered and chewed on her lip.

"What’s wrong with’em?”

"The corners don’t align with the crate corners,” she said, her color rising.

He grunted in acknowledgment and re-pinned them. “Good?”

"That one…the right corner just a little higher,” she whispered.

He patiently did as told.

"Okay,” she sighed finally. “I feel better,” she smiled up to him when he straightened. “Do you?”

"Sure,” he said and returned to his journal.

She idled about a little, waited for him to start drawing, then went and sat down in front of the mirror again.

"Savigne!” was the sharp warning.

"I’m just checking. To be sure.”

"Can’t check without a mirror,” he said and made to get up again.

”Okay, okay!” She hastily scrambled off. “Jesus, can’t even look in a mirror around here! I feel itchy now, thanks to you.”

"You know what,” he said, annoyed, and slapped his journal shut, “I can help ya with that. Come here.”

She eyed him suspiciously. “I know what you’re thinking. What you’re always thinking. That’s a no from me.”

He gave her a long look, then without breaking eye contact, rose to his feet. “Come here. And bring yer little friends.”

She burst into laughter and stumbled to put the table between them. “Stop!”

He started to unfasten his belt which made her laugh even harder. She looked around for loose flaps but they were all bolted down, the only exit was behind him. When she turned around, he was unbuttoning his trousers. “Stop!” she chuckled, stomach muscles strained from laughter. Then, attempting a more serious tone: “It’s the middle of the day! People are up and about.”

"Should ‘ave thought ‘bout that before you started this,” he said and stepped closer, leaning on the table.

"You started this!” she protested between gales of laughter and swung to the right. He stepped to his left to block her. She danced back.

"Come here. I got an idea,” he drawled. God, he looked incredible with hair mussed, longer and even lighter now, tucked behind his ears; his trouser buttons undone, a triangle of flat stomach visible above his pants, his summer beard shorter than ever, revealing the angles of his jaw.  

She darted to her left and he stepped to his right, blocking her again. She was flustered but couldn’t stop cackling. “Absolutely not happening!”

"Gonna give ya a real good look over.” He casually peeled off his suspenders.

She glanced at the bolts holding the tent flaps to the ground behind her and momentarily considered if she could rip one out in time but dismissed it as unlikely.

"Listen here you manchild…” she started with a sterner tone.

He gripped the corner of the table and flipped it away with the flick of a wrist. Savigne gaped as the articles on it somersaulted and prattled all around the tent. She yelped and tried to step back but he was lightning fast, hands on her waist, throwing her over his shoulder before she could protest. “Gotta make sure,” he said, walking to the bed. 

“I swear I’ll scream!”

She inhaled with the intention but his fingers danced on her thighs and all the air chortled out of her.

Next thing she knew she was flipped on the bed and he crawled on top of her.

"There…are…people about!” she hissed again as she tried to push him off, but it was like pushing against a boulder.

"Guess you gonna have to be quiet, little bird,” he smirked, hand snaking boldly under her skirts and into her bloomers as she squirmed under him.

She moaned when his fingers lightly traced her folds, then dipped lower, circling her entrance and he shushed her as if he wasn’t the cause of it, then grinned at her annoyance.

"Think I found somethin’,” he whispered, fingers dancing and brushing, sinfully adept, as his lips hovered over hers.

It was frustrating how he lit a flame in her so quickly, so suddenly, whenever he wanted. He twitched his fingers and she jerked up on her strings, his to command. Often it triggered her pride, but unfortunately for her, that only lighted a spark in his eyes and redoubled his enthusiasm. He enjoyed the struggle of breaking her will, turning her body against herself. And worst of all, he knew she enjoyed it too - enjoyed it begrudgingly, secretly, helplessly like one enjoyed a dark sin.

"You don’t...fight…fair,” she huffed, pushing against his shoulders, legs flapping uselessly to find footing, irritated that he could feel how wet she was getting.

"Course not,” he drawled with smug confidence, trigger finger casually brushing over her clit.

She moaned again, managed a “Damn it!” before her hands flew to the back of his neck to pull him down to crush her lips against his.

She felt his thumb starting to draw light circles on her stomach. He must have been awake and he always knew when she was, too. She inhaled in contentment, remembering that it was Sunday.

“I like this tent,” she drawled sleepily. “And I like this bed. Didn’t know you could build this stuff.”

“Uncle helped,” he said quietly from behind her. “Said he knew how. If the damn thing collapses on our heads, he’s why.”

She chuckled and turned on her other side to face him. His arm remained draped on her waist and his thumb continued to draw circles on her lower back. 

“When did you come in?” she whispered.

“Late.”

She snuggled closer, eyes instinctively checking for injuries or bruises. Relieved that she couldn’t see any, her fingers reached to slowly comb back his hair from his face. 

“Welcome back,” she sighed and kissed his cheek. “How was your trip?”

“Uneventful.” A slight shrug.

“What did you see?”

He watched her with that blue gaze, his hand gliding over her arm, “A horned owl.”

“Really? Did you draw it?” 

A slight nod.

“What else?”

She liked this new ritual: talking about the mundane things; the routine, boring things in life. They had so much more time together now and weren’t pressed to summarize just the highlights, they could afford to talk about the little things, too. She told him that she saw a rancher teaching his son how to lasso cattle when she was riding to work that morning or that she learned at work that empty spaces on a plate were also part of plating or how she noticed last morning that the cicadas were quiet now, probably all gone. And in return he told her about the cool dew on the grass when he broke camp and the murmuration of swallows he had watched from afar, mesmerized. He wasn’t a chatty man and hardly offered it without being prompted, but he never refused her an answer when asked and humored her curiosity.

Just like he humored her shows of affection.

First time he returned to camp she had embraced him in full view of the gang, hand snaking under his arm, up his back, hooking his shoulder to pull him down for a kiss on the cheek. Their tent was far enough but she still had heard some snickering and then shushing and if she heard it, he definitely did too because his hearing was sharper. He had allowed the kiss and had nodded in acknowledgment, somewhat surprised, then had stepped away. 

The second day he was already at camp when she arrived. He had taken the table and chairs out and was sitting, watching the lake. She walked up to him, leaned down to embrace him and gave him another kiss on the cheek. This time he wasn’t surprised, but a little flustered, as if he had expected the first to be an outlier. 

And ever since, it had become a thing he seemed to grudgingly suffer through. 

It intrigued her, the subtle unease she read in him to these simple things, so she kept doing it, somewhat mischievously, curious when he would ask her to stop. Curious if he would ask her to stop. He wasn’t a shy man by any measure but in a bizarre way, he seemed more comfortable and a lot less bashful with the sex than he was with the affection. 

It had become a test of his borders, his limits and his stubbornness. So far, he had stood his ground. Maybe he wondered when she would find him boring enough to give up. Maybe he secretly enjoyed it. Or maybe he endured it because he saw it as one of those things you just signed up for when you lived with someone else. It made her think how much more there was to map out about him - all his little idiosyncrasies in the different circumstances of life.

“What did you eat?” she asked him and “Did you sleep well?” and “Did you hunt?”

She never asked what he did for the gang, hadn’t asked since even before and he rarely volunteered it. There was an unspoken understanding between them to keep the gang business separate. She had always underlined the fact that she wasn’t part of the gang by keeping her distance both from the members themselves and the campground and he accepted that. In fact he seemed almost glad for it - glad that he could walk away from it when he wanted to and be left alone.

He still walked over to the fire in the evening when most gang members came together from wherever they went during the day, but it was rarely for long. She told him that she didn’t mind, that she was just going to read like she always did and she was used to spending a lot of alone time, but he waved it away, saying he was glad to get away from the yapping.

She flopped on her stomach beside him, rising on her elbows.

“Want to come to Valentine with me?”

His hand cupped her shoulder, glided over her chemise, down her back and the curve of her buttocks.

“What for?”

“Bath. Lunch.”

She sensed his mood shift and wasn’t surprised when he rose on his elbow and kissed her shoulder, brushing her hair out of the way. “What’s wrong with the river?” he teased as his hand caressed her other butt cheek and he placed another kiss on her shoulder, slow and sensuous.

“Fish shit in the river.”

His bark of laughter startled her and she grinned despite herself.

She gave him a long look. “How about,” she said suggestively, “I give you a nice, long bath?”

He pretended to consider the offer as his fingers detangled her hair. 

“Sure,” he said finally. He sounded casual, almost dismissive but Savigne could tell he was eager.

“Yes!” she triumphed and scrambled out of the bed to get dressed as he joined her. She grabbed her basket and collected her dirty clothes in it, then started to pick up his hamper of dirty clothing. She went over to the bed and stripped the sheet and the pillow cases and threw them in her basket, too.  

“The hell we gonna sleep on tonight?”

“I bought spare sets,” she quipped. 

He blinked at her like the idea of a spare set of sheets was wild. She shuddered with disgust at his reaction. 

“Based on what goes on in this bed,” she said over her shoulder, “the sheets need to be changed often.”

“Not sure what you mean,” he drawled, amused, as he was putting on his boots.

She chuckled despite herself, turned to look at him over her shoulder and suddenly, reflexively almost said “love you,” as if it was something she said all the time, familiar and routine. She managed to swallow the words at the last moment but a look of bewilderment passed over her face and he saw it. 

“What’s the matter?”

What the hell, she thought, incredulous. Are you insane? Get a grip.

She shook her head and forced a smile.

“Savigne?”

“Nothing!” she stammered, grabbing the baskets, “Let’s go take a bath.”

He gave her a look but decided not to prod and instead gathered his hat to follow her out. 

The receptionist at the hotel gave Arthur a long head to toe as he shifted on his feet. “Welcome back, Miss Ricci.”

“Hey there, Bill.” She smiled as she handed him the baskets to place behind the counter while he gave her the one with clean laundry. She added Arthur's clean change of clothes in it. “And a bath, of course.”

He glanced at Arthur again. “Separate? Or together?”

“Together.” she said, her blush starting.

“Then might I suggest the big tub?”

“There is a big tub?”

“Sure. It’s excellent. And ready. Further down the hall, last door.” He cleared his throat. “It doesn’t get much use, so unfortunately there is a…considerable…price difference…” he trailed.

“No problem!” she quipped with excitement. The idea of sharing a tub with Arthur momentarily eclipsed her frugality. She took the key and walked into the hallway as Arthur followed with his heavy steps. 

When she opened the last door she couldn’t help a gasp of surprise. The tub was a lot bigger – almost the size of a small pool, it looked big enough to hold five people comfortably. It was a sunken tub, the floor was built around the rim. Not so unusual perhaps for a city like Saint Denis, it was bizarrely ambitious for a hotel in Valentine. She locked the door behind him and quickly started to unbutton her shirt, impatient to clean up. Arthur joined her, looking a lot less indifferent and a lot more eager than he was when they initially had set out from camp. The room was thick with steam and very warm. 

She slowly lowered herself into the hot water and closed her eyes in pleasure as she sat on the narrow bench that was running around the inner perimeter of the pool. He sunk in beside her to sit at the bottom, grunting with satisfaction. 

“God, if I were rich, I would do this every day.” she groaned. She opened her eyes and smiled at his lack of objection. He was tall enough to sit at the bottom and the water just reached below his collarbone. His back was turned to her but she could tell his eyes were closed. 

She grabbed a brush with soft bristles from the side of laid out items before she moved to the center of the tub.  He stirred and followed her to sit back down again, facing her. She dipped the brush in the soapy water and started to languidly brush his shoulders, up his neck, down his chest, then one arm and the other, applying enough pressure to take off the grime, but not so much as to hurt. He groaned lightly as she moved behind him, brushing his broad back all the way down, his muscles flexing with pleasure under his skin. 

She ran her fingers through his hair. “Did I ever tell you,” she said quietly, kissing his neck, “that I like your hair long like this?” 

He swiveled his head in her direction as she moved back to his right shoulder. “What’s this from?” she asked, tracing a scar by his kidney.

“Knife,” he said with a low voice. 

Her hand glided up higher, and traced the faint thin lines crisscrossing on his right shoulder blade. “Wolf. Or cougar. Don’ ‘member,” he mumbled. 

She traversed to his left side again, to a small blotch of waxy skin. “Fell on fire,” he muttered.

Her fingers glided up his muscles to circle a puckered wound. “Bullet.”

Lower on his back, “Stab wound.”

She swam around to his front as he followed her with hooded eyes and touched a raised line on his left upper arm. “Believe it or not, whip.”

His hands settled on her waist, pulling her closer as her fingers glided over the hair on his chest, above his heart. “Bullet. Shot went through that wound in the back,” he sighed. 

He grasped the brush in her hand and tossed it away, pulling her on his lap. She sat down on his crossed legs, circling his waist with her own. His hands glided over her body, her skin unbroken and unmarred. The steam swirled around them, thicker now, the water less scalding. Her arms circled his neck as she pressed herself against him, her breasts flattening on his chest as she placed a kiss under his ear.

"Do you like the bath?” she whispered in his ear.

He grunted in affirmation.

Her right hand danced down his neck, rounded a shoulder, glided along his collarbone, then the plane of his breast, the ridge of his pectoral muscles, further down between them, brushing over his pubic hair until she gently grasped his length. He didn’t react other than hardening slowly as she kissed his neck again. At times their affair was rushed and urgent, brimming with the need to reach relief above all. Other times, like now, it was a slow and drawn out buildup. One was like eating to still hunger, the other like eating for the pleasure of it and she could never decide which one she liked more.

"I missed you,” she sighed, one hand combing through his hair, the other stroking his length languidly, fingers dancing around the head. She really did miss him a surprising amount. She used to crave solitude, feel elated when she was done with work and Saint Denis because that meant she could finally ride out to the countryside on Cricket and hear nothing but the call of animals for stretches of time. It had been a new thing, the silence outside of the city, and she had grown to like it. But now she hurried back to camp, hoping he was there because she missed his company. He was a quiet man but his presence was palpable to her, his absence as unmistakable as the hollow spot of a missing tooth.

“Wasn’ gone long,” he mumbled. His grip on her waist grew a little firmer as he hardened further at her touch, but he still didn’t move other than a slight turn of the head, allowing her to kiss him, gentle and slow.

This was typical. “Wasn’ gone long” when she said she missed him and “Ain’t that good,” when she complimented a drawing and “Wore it a hundred times” when she said a shirt looked good on him and “Blind man could ‘ave shot it,” when she praised the game he brought back to camp. But always followed with a wandering gaze or a roll of the shoulders - something she took as his version of pleased diffidence.

"Felt long,” she whispered and kissed him again. Every now and then he allowed her to take the lead and take her time about it. She liked touching him, mapping out his body, brushing his skin and combing her fingers through his hair and she knew he enjoyed it, the way people enjoyed rare things. He was undoubtedly more brazen and experienced than her when it came to sex, but sometimes she sensed that the intimacy, the sensuality of a slow coupling was new to him, or at least uncommon. There was a certain thrill to touching a man who usually didn’t allow himself to be touched in this way, a certain satisfaction of knowing that she was the exception he yielded and gave permission to.

“Slept well without yer snorin’,” he sighed, hands moving to cup her breasts, thumbs brushing under them.

Always “Didn’ miss the snorin’,” or “Was quiet without ya chirping about, tell ya that,” or “Nice to wake up with no hair in m’nose,”. It didn’t faze her because she was well versed in this language. Luther always liked to dismissively push her about and she had learned to ignore it. And then there had been her old flame Llewyn who, when they first met, used to mercilessly mock her and criticize her and always look for opportunities to knock her down a peg or two. Llewyn who had been mean to her for months but then suddenly had kissed her, confusing her with his admittance that he had been sweet on her all along.

“I don’t snore,” she grinned and moved to mount him, hands cupping his face as she kissed him deeper and he kissed her back, a low moan rumbling through his chest when he was fully sheathed. She broke the kiss and embraced him, starting to ride him with a slow, sluggish pace, panting in his ear. She closed her eyes and enjoyed the feeling of his hardness gliding in and out of her, leaving that delicious trail of friction in its wake, the pressure of his hands on her hips and the softness of his skin against hers. She focused on the distant sounds of others, ambling about in town, the muffled clopping of horses passing by, the occasional creaking of wood around them, the soft sizzling of the sud, the water churning around them, the drum of his heartbeat against her chest, his seesawing breath on her neck. A yearning to preserve the moment in amber grew in her, a wish to keep it somewhere in perfect shape, deep in a drawer in her closet of memories so she can revisit it years from now, whenever she felt alone or unhappy or hopeless.

She suckled on his earlobe and ground her hips against him and his breath hitched. He gently bit her shoulder and whispered her name and the fragile image blew away like smoke. In its place, something more raw and urgent - the need for fulfillment, the craving to scratch that deep itch. She felt the same urge in his fingers, digging into her waist, the quickening of his breath, in the tension of his thigh muscles that moved against her now. A shudder went through him and she knew that it marked the furthest point of the pendulum, the end of her control and the beginning of his.

He groaned into her mouth, one hand moving up to tangle her hair and bend her head to his desired angle as he kissed her back, deeper and more demanding. His hold was rough now, fingers closing into a fist to keep her head where he wanted it as he suckled on her lips, watching her pant through hooded eyes. She broke the kiss, breathless and a moment later his lips closed on her mouth again, unwilling to give her respite. The dynamic shifted as he took his power back, his hips starting to smack into her, propelling her up with the movement while his hand on her hip mercilessly held her stable. Those cowboy hips, swaying forward and back in the saddle all day had a muscle force she simply couldn’t match. 

He let go of her hair and she arched back, hands latched on his shoulders. She felt his mouth on her breasts, hungry and unabashed, and moaned lowly as his movements became harsher, now him riding her upwards. One hand on her hipbone with a bruising hold as he bucked into her, the other glided between them to gently stroke her. She whimpered at the sensory overload on all fronts. He whispered against her breasts but she struggled to make out what he was saying as her head swam with the warmth of the water and the warmth of the steam and the warmth of his body. Her mouth fell open and she let out a series of sobs when she came, her orgasm slow to rise and even slower to dissipate.

As soon as she crested her peak, both his hands clasped her hips, bobbing her up and down on himself with casual power, as if she weighed nothing. She felt him swell even bigger inside her and mewled at the force of the friction as he panted against her throat. She threw her arms around his neck as he pulled her down onto himself again and again as he rose to split her, harsher now with the force of his need. The water around them churned and bubbled like a choppy sea. Then suddenly he stilled, holding her there as his hips pulsed gently when he came, his groans of pleasure muffled against her neck. She combed her fingers through his hair and kissed his forehead for a moment.

Then she sank down on his lap and rested her cheek on his shoulder, trying to regain her breath as he slowly softened inside her. In the past, sex had always been clumsy for Savigne, often fleeting and rushed with harsh peaks of occasional orgasms interspersed over the span of barren, boring years. She was more surprised when not when she climaxed; often the act was just about the pleasure of touching a warm body and intimacy. She had never understood the obsession some people had with it, the yearning when they talked about it. Sex was fine but always an inferior pleasure next to so many other things. Many times she had felt that people glossed over the awkwardness, the clumsiness of it and the anticlimactic aftermath. All that had changed forever. Now she understood why people lived in the throes of it, did crazy things to get it, and incessantly sought it out.      

She almost said it again – “love you” – and swallowed it again, her face flushing. It made her nervous, coming this close to spilling something she didn’t even know she meant yet. Where was this coming from? Did she love Arthur? How did one know these things? How did people tell it apart from sexual desire? Or just infatuation? Or a passing fixation?

“I can hear ya thinkin’,” he mumbled into her neck. 

“Just recovering,” she sighed back. “You’re wearing me out.”

He smiled into her neck, his palms gliding up her back. “Shouldn’ have bewitched me then.”

She snorted weakly. “I wasn’t the one who bent your arm to have my way with you in a forest.”

A moment of silence. Then: “You bewitched me t'do that.”

She laughed despite herself. 

Long minutes passed and she felt the water gradually turn tepid. Just as she was about to tell him that they should leave, he asked “What’s this ‘bout buyin’ a cabin?”

She blinked in surprise and tried to remember when she had said it. It had been during their fight in Saint Denis.

“I want to buy a cabin,” she drawled finally, accompanied by a mild shrug. “Doesn’t everyone?”

He was silent for a moment, his hands traversing her back. “For?”

“To live in of course,” she laughed, lifting her head to look at him. 

He held her gaze, his eyes not giving away anything and not mirthful. 

“By yourself?” was his late question. 

She shrugged again, “If I have to,” she said carefully. 

He was silent and when her eyes flitted up to him, she found him looking at her with a seriousness she didn’t expect. 

“What? You’re looking at me like I’m the first person to want it.”

“Ain’t safe,” he sighed finally, looking away. 

“You say that about everything,” she muttered. 

“Cause it ain’t.”

“Do you and Luther exchange notes or something?” He gave her an inscrutable flick of the eyes. “Because you sound just like him.”

”Smart, ya mean?”

“Why can’t I own a cabin? Because I’m a woman?”

He didn’t answer and it annoyed her. 

“If Sadie said it, you’d act different,” she grumbled. 

“First of all, Sadie ain’t my woman...” he groaned. She rolled her eyes at the phrase. He kept casually using it now and maddeningly ignored her corrections. “Second, Sadie can defend herself.”

She opened her mouth to say so could she, but wilted under his cocked eyebrow. 

“Never had a good teacher,” she shrugged.

”Ain’t you learned nothing ‘bout the nature of man?” he asked with some heat. “After all that happened?”

She hesitated to tell him all that was because she was staying in an outlaw camp but he read her meaning just fine and snorted.

”Ya think this country ain’t full of bad folks itchin' to do harm?”

”So what then? I always have to have a man around to be safe?”

”I ain’t makin' the rules,” he said simply.

“Sadie had a husband and she still…” She bit back the rest of the sentence.

He nodded gravely, his eyes hard and frosty now. “His mistake,” he said and the veiled disgust she heard in his voice surprised her. “Couldn’ protect her. Maybe wasn’t rough enough. Maybe too trustin’. Paid for it, didn’ he? Sadie, too. I know she all sharp corners now, but you’d be wrong to pity her. ‘Cause she ain’t gonna make the same mistake, tell ya that.”

She clenched her jaw and drew designs on his chest with a finger, refusing to meet his stare. The implied disclosure that she wasn't as tough or skilled as Sadie stung but she couldn't counter it. She knew how useless she was outside of a city. Knowing how to whip up a souffle wasn't exactly a survival skill. “Wish I was a man,” she grumbled.

He chuckled, palms running up her ribs to cup her breasts. “I sure don’,” he grinned.

She tsked and looked away, annoyed. Always this invisible wall, this barrier she kept running into. No matter which direction she went, sooner or later she always ended up planting her face into this border. Like she was in a fishbowl, designed to look vast and limitless but it was all a lie. She could do everything - except that. And this. And the other. 

He sighed and palmed her buttocks, then crawled to the edge of the tub on his knees. He sat her on the narrow bench and boxed her between his arms. He kissed her again before he cupped her face and looked into her eyes. “Savigne,” he said gently, trying to get his point across, “Ain’t safe. Not on your own.”

There was something there, she could tell. But she was afraid to ask in case he thought her nosy and overbearing. 

“Maybe I won’t be on my own,” she said, returning the steady look, but afraid to come across pushy on that front, too.

He nodded in what seemed to her as an understanding and agreement. Don’t read too much into it, don’t’ read too much into it, don’t read…too late, already did, thought Savigne, biting her lip. God, why couldn’t people just talk to one another? All this hemming and hawing, trying to gauge what the other person wants or fears, what their sensitive spots to avoid are…so exhausting. Why can’t I just say what I want and then he can say what he wants and then we’ll know and we don’t have to do this awkward dance?

“Let’s leave. ‘M starving,” he said finally. 

“Okay, but we have to wash our hair first."

He didn’t complain as she quickly brushed him again and then herself and he even sighed happily when he washed his hair, then her own. 

Then they dried off and changed into their clean clothes, took the dirty ones to the reception and added them to the basket. 

Savigne made to pay the bill but Arthur smacked his money on the counter before she could fish hers out. 

“Excuse you,” she said to him, bristling, and pushed his bills away as she pulled out her money.

“Mister, ya better take m’money,” Arthur growled from over her shoulder, eyeing the receptionist. 

“I’m the customer here,” Savigne said smoothly, smiling to the man. “Bill knows that. And I have my own money.”

“Well ya ain’t payin’ today.”

“I sure am.” Savigne was prickly about paying her way through life. She didn’t accept gestures like this from anyone and was overly sensitive about running a debt to anyone. They already had a fight over this new stupid rule he had come up with in her absence about her not paying rent to the gang anymore.

“Absolutely unacceptable!” she protested when he told her. “I’m not a freeloader.”

“What d'ya wanna pay for anyway? The view?”

“I’m staying in camp!”

“Ain’t so sure ‘bout that,” he muttered dismissively. “We go out a bit more, might end up over the state line.”

“We’re not that far,” she growled. “In fact, the camp’s right there!”

“Think I lost some weight trackin’ ‘tween here and there every day,” he sighed, scratching his beard. “It’s a hike.”

“You really like to exaggerate, don’t you?” she scoffed. “Dutch and I had an agreement.”

“Well that gone changed. Make yer peace with it.” 

“You can’t just change my-”

“Done did it,” he interjected with a crossing of arms that spelled ‘what are you going to do about it?’

She gaped at him, unsure how to counter. She couldn’t remember the last time a man she had been involved with had bossed her around and she was fairly certain the answer was ‘never’. In all her previous affairs she had asserted herself easily and naturally. Now suddenly she was facing a man who, when pushed, simply pushed back harder.

The concept of being overpowered in bed had been exciting. The notion that this would extend further had not been part of her calculations. Because until now he had made no demands of her, neither had he made assertions of any kind. Now though…now he seemingly thought he had the right. She eyed him with suspicion, wondering what else was coming her way.

“Why would you do this?” she asked at last.

“You’re with me,” he said, matter-of-factly. “And I pay plenty. Y’ain’t payin’ no more.”

She blinked at him, taken aback. There was a certain irony here: Arthur, who had been adamant about keeping their affair under wraps for so long, now suddenly embraced the idea so easily, so boldly while she - miffed by the former practice - was trying to keep a semblance of separation.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” she growled.

“Look here, this land belong to nobody. Gang’s stayin’ free too.”

“I know that!” she huffed. “I’m not paying for the land, I’m paying for protection.”

“That so?” A grin bloomed on his face. “Then you should pay me, not them.”

She looked at him with raised brows.

“What? Ain’t I the one who came to yer aid?”

Savigne tsked in annoyance. 

“Come to think, you did pay for that, didn’ ya?” he mused suggestively.

“Excuse me!?” she hissed, her color rising.

“Was talkin’ ‘bout the pie,” he drawled, eyes twinkling mischievously. “Why, what d'ya think I meant?”

Arthur locked eyes with Bill, squared his feet as he crossed his arms and gave him an unflinching gaze. The receptionist looked from one set of blazing brown eyes to the other icy blue ones.

“Bill...” she tried, her voice even, but she didn’t get further than that.

“Miss Ricci,” he cleared his throat. “I’m sure you understand that I can’t possibly…let a lady pay while a gentleman is with her…” her mouth fell open when his fingers gathered Arthur’s money as the gunslinger grunted in agreement. “It just wouldn’t do.”

He shot her an apologetic look. 

See if I ever tip you again you coward, she thought sourly. 

“See ya next week,” Arthur said before he walked out and she felt a burst of joy in her gut at that as she followed him. 

Chapter Text

“The hell is she doing?’’

“Making a ‘earthen oven’, apparently,” Hosea answered before he re-inserted his pipe back between his lips and continued to watch Savigne stomp on what looked like mud. 

Dutch scratched his neck. “For?”

“Baking stuff would be my guess.”

"Getting’ a bit domestic here, ain't it?" Micah said from the tree he was leaning against. He spat to the side. "Don't like it, Dutch. Thought this here was an outlaw camp."

Dutch just watched in silent contemplation, his coffee in one hand, cigar in another. To Hosea, his dislike for Savigne was obvious, as was the effort he made to conceal it. Concealing his thoughts and emotions was second nature to Dutch, something he did reflexively, almost unconsciously. He lived life like it was a game of poker, cards always held close to the vest.

Hosea shrugged. “Why shouldn’t she? Pearson has a whole setup, nothing odd about cooking in camp.”

Dutch hummed his agreement, gently rolling his cigar between his fingers, a contemplative look on his face. They sat in silence and watched Savigne as there was little else to do in camp. It was a hot day and everyone else had either rode out or had ran back into their tents for shade. 

“You know, Hosea,” Dutch said at last, “I’m surprised you’re not with me on this. That you can’t see how this…” waving his cigar towards Savigne, who was now plastering the wet mud over the dome she had built out of sand, “...isn’t good for Arthur.” Jack ran over to join her and she was showing him how to help. He looked excited to get his hands muddy.

Hosea gave him a sidelong glance. “Not sure what you mean. Arthur looks in a better mood to me.” That was an understatement but an intentional one. He knew losing this tug of war had wounded Dutch’s pride and it wouldn’t do anyone good to scratch that scab.

Arthur didn’t look in a better mood, he looked happier than Hosea had seen him in years. His version of happy, of course, which was a lot more muted compared to other folks. For Arthur, happiness was a lack of restlessness, of a state of peace. Happiness was less brooding, less running away from camp or spending days in his tent, glumly re-evaluating his life choices. Not getting drunk every night and going around picking on folks, needling and teasing them to rile them up for the chance to get into a fight. Hoping Bill or Javier or John will take the first swing so he can pummel them because Arthur was bigger and stronger than most of them, more experienced in fistfights and, with whiskey in his veins, as formidable as a cardinal sin.

“Sure,” Dutch consented, “But that only means he’ll fall harder when things go sideways. As they must.”

“How so?”

“She’s not coming with us,” he said with a tinge of exasperation. “Look at her! The woman is building a kitchen while we’re running from the law.”

“I don’t know why you can’t just enjoy things as they are. None of us know what comes tomorrow. If we did, we’d still have the money from Blackwater, for one thing.”

“Forget about the past. We all made some mistakes, I’ll give you that. Can we at least agree that we can’t stay around much longer, given the state of things?”

“It’s a big country. Have you ever considered that we can make it if we scatter?”

“Scatter?” The surprise on Dutch’s face was the first genuine emotion he had seen today.

“Well yes, I mean we don’t have to hang around each other like a clump of kitten. People here can go their own ways, can’t they?”

Dutch blinked at him. “Their own ways? To do what? People here are here because they got nowhere else to go.”

“Pshhhh…they’ll find somewhere to go when they have to, trust me. You telling me Pearson can’t do nothing by himself in the world? Not like we suckled him on our bosom, the man joined us fully grown. All these people joined us from somewhere, and except for John and Arthur, none were children. They’ll go back to that somewhere.”

Dutch shifted in his chair with discomfort. “We are family.”

This nonsense again, Hosea thought. Sure, Arthur was family to him. He couldn’t love him more if he was his own blood. But that’s exactly why he was ecstatic that this whole situation with Savigne had worked out. It could be Arthur’s last shot at some domestic bliss and Hosea pitied any man who never got to experience that. His short years with Bessie had been the pinnacle of his life and he would give anything to relive them.

“Even in families, children leave and go about their own lives,” Hosea pushed.

They were silent for a long time. Savigne was stomping on mud again and adding what looked like hay to it. Jack was right there with her, stomping along.

“So you mean to tell me we should just what – part ways?” Dutch huffed eventually.

Hosea chewed on the stem of his pipe. It had gone out a while ago, but he enjoyed the weight of it between his teeth. 

“What use of sticking together after the last job is done? Can’t live like this forever.”

“I don’t see why not?”

“Live like some religious commune? Didn’t take you as one for that sort of thing, Dutch.”

“Doesn’t have to be like that,” the other man snorted. “Life is easier together, isn’t it? You need something, you got all of us to help you. Javier needs something, Mary Beth needs something – we’re all here. Protection for our folks…people are social creatures for a reason.”

“Aren’t you tired?” Hosea said finally, turning to him. 

“Tired?”

“Of being the leader. I mean why not just take your woman and enjoy life without the headache of how to provide for a bunch of grownup folks?”

Dutch rolled his shoulders. It had been clear to Hosea for a while now that what had started as a necessity and a few men taking young Arthur and then John under their wing, had grown into something bigger for Dutch. He went about crying how hard his job was all day, but at the merest suggestion that he didn’t really need to do it, acted offended. Hosea was starting to believe that Dutch didn’t really want things to change because he didn’t want a life where he wasn’t the leader of a group. 

“What’s that woman doing now?”

He glanced up at Molly, leaning against the tent pole and looking like she had just woken up. “I believe she said it’s an oven.”

Molly snorted. “Is she going to bake bread or something? She’d be more useful helping Ms. Grimshaw.”

So would you, Hosea thought, but of course didn’t say it. 

Molly strolled to stand behind Dutch, giving his shoulders a massage. Their audience had turned into four. Savigne and Jack were heading to the water to wash off their muddy feet. 

“Stomping in mud like a peasant,” she muttered. “Baking bread. At least the other one was a proper lady. What was her name?”

“Mary,” Dutch said, absent-mindedly. 

“Yes, that one. She was prettier. Graceful. Don’t understand what he sees in…her.”

Hosea ignored her. Savigne got along with most people in camp, but ever since her relationship with Arthur had become official so to speak, there was an underlying current of resentment towards her from some quarters. Arthur wasn’t hanging out with them as often or volunteering for as many duties in camp as he used to. He would still come and sit by the fire most nights, but he was more distant and now divided his time, especially his time in the evening between them and Savigne.  

They watched Savigne and Jack play in the water, splashing each other. “I like her. She’s a headstrong woman, goes her own way,” Hosea mumbled around the stem of his pipe, trying to defend them without overtly defending them. “They're just enjoying each other's company, no harm in it.”

"But see here," Micah drawled, "that bothers me none. They wanna play house, it's a free country. But gotta say, I worry if Arthur is getting a bit soft."

"You worry that the guy who beat your face in is getting soft?" Molly snorted and didn't see the baleful look Micah shot her way. 

"Arthur is fine," Dutch interjected mildly. “A woman isn't going to change him. He's just having fun."

Hosea bit his cheek because he knew this expression on Dutch. Dutch was worried. He was protective, you could say even possessive of Arthur. He had always depended on Arthur's skill set more than anyone else in camp. But ever since the Blackwater business, Dutch was convinced - nay, obsessed - that Arthur needed to be present for every job. He hadn’t been there that day and things had gone sideways in a big way. He wasn’t wrong - Arthur was the best gunslinger in camp, he had the nerves to see things through, he had undying loyalty to the gang and a good, clever head on his shoulders to improvise. John was perhaps just as good in shooting folk, but he was a wildcard - the man had run away for a whole year because he was fed up with his nagging woman and his wailing kid. That’s something Arthur would never do. Well, would have never done. Before. Now all bets were off of course.

All in all, Arthur was the queen on Dutch’s chessboard, and any game was infinitely harder without a queen. Unfortunately for Dutch, now he had gotten a taste of something different, something Dutch simply couldn’t provide for him and he was liking it. No wonder Dutch resented Savigne. Maybe he saw Savigne the way he saw all opposition: someone acting with the sole intent to undermine him.

Molly grimaced and went back into the tent.

“He’s more than a son to me,” Dutch said, relighting his cigar. “But she has him wrapped around her little finger, can’t say I approve.”

As opposed to wrapped around your finger, Hosea thought darkly. 

As if speaking of the devil, Arthur rode into camp. He jumped off his saddle and walked towards them. His eyes flitted shortly to Micah who took the cue and slunk away. The animosity between those two kept getting worse. The more serious his affair with Savigne became, the frostier the cold in Arthur’s eyes turned at the sight of Micah.

“Dutch. Hosea.”

Hosea looked at his blood covered shirt and checked his face if he was drunk, but no, Arthur seemed sober. Business then, not personal.

All three looked up when Savigne squealed with delight at Jack holding up a frog. Arthur’s gaze shifted. “The hell is that?” he waved his hat at the new structure by his tent.

“Behold!” Hosea chuckled, “Your new oven!”

He grunted, puzzled. “She goin’ to bake bread or somethin’?”

“I reckon you’re gonna find out soon enough.” Hosea gave Arthur a side glance. “And don’t you forget about poor old me if she does.” Molly came back out and, saw the disinterest in Dutch’s eye, gave him a pouty, hurt look and walked off with a bottle at hand. Hosea smacked his lips and said he’s going to check on the Braithwaites and ambled away, leaving the two man to their talk.

“You don’ wanna send me out with him, Dutch,” Arthur growled. “One of us ain’t coming back from that, I tell ya that.”

”Can you drop this nonsense?” Dutch said, exasperated. He noticed the frosty flicker in Arthur’s eyes.

“Nonsense?” was the low, disbelieving question.

”He paid for his mistake. He was drunk.”

”Don’ care. I killed folks for less.”

”He knows you mean business,” Dutch tried, softer. “He’s never getting near her again, he’s not stupid.”

”Unless he drinks again you mean. Since yer buyin' that bullshit.”

”We’re all here,” Dutch insisted. “He won’t dare…”

”We was here that night. And I don’ remember anyone else puttin’ their fist in his face.”

“I don’t remember you doing it for Jenny,” Dutch drawled and watched the other man tense up. It felt good to tarnish Arthur’s newfound halo. This playacting was tiresome. He knew who Arthur was in his heart - a mean old dog: loyal and steadfast, but also selfish, brutal and cold. Only time he played the hero was when it either amused him or benefited him. He had mellowed a bit when Isaac was around and tried to be a better, worthier man for Mary, but it hadn’t stuck. In fact, after those affairs he had only turned meaner. To him, that had been Arthur’s prime - a dependable man who was not afraid of getting his hands dirty. This…boy, playing house in an outlaw camp, following a woman’s heels like a puppy wasn’t his real self. 

There was a long moment of silence. “I know I ain’t no knight in shinin’ armor, goin’ ‘round saving folk, Dutch. Guess you could say, I didn’ care enough,” the younger man sighed finally. “Truth is, Jenny wasn’t my woman. She was a sweet girl, but I didn’ know her or cared one way or ‘nother.” He shrugged, unapologetic, eerily reminding him of the old Arthur he knew for the first time in months. “That ain’t the case no more. Fact this man has done it before means that’s his nature, so maybe think on that.”

”I get that,” Dutch said, frustrated. “And I’m telling you, she’s safe.”

"Don’ feel safe to me,” Arthur crossed his arms and leaned back on the tent pole, looking out.

Dutch was offended at the implication: Arthur didn’t trust him. When the onion was peeled down to its last layer, this was at the heart of their conflict and it infuriated him. He was reluctant to take it head on though, because this Arthur was a different man and could possibly not fall for the “How dare you!” outrage card and then he would have no other play left.

"We need Micah,” he tried instead and ignored the other man’s grimace of disagreement. “You know how many folks we lost. Micah is an excellent gunslinger, even you can’t deny that. I’m just thinking of the gang here.”

"You sayin’ I ain’t’,” was the dark chuckle of a response. 

“Forgive me but yes, I think your priorities have…shifted.”

The dismissive shrug surprised him. Was a time, this argument would have offended Arthur greatly. Dutch felt a subtle fear creep in that he was already too late to reel him back in, that he was standing at a station, bag at hand, waiting for a train that had long since passed.

“Aren’t we family? Does the gang mean nothing to you anymore?” he said, barely keeping his voice from shaking.

The deepest cut he could inflict and Arthur merely tilted his head in thought. Unbelievable!

“Family,” the younger man huffed finally. He bounced off the pole, turned around and gave him a long look. “Am I family?”

“Of course you are. I would call you my son but you are much more than that to me.”

The gunslinger nodded as if expecting this answer. “All them years, I did as you asked, when you asked, how many times you asked. Didn’ I?” He nodded again to himself, not waiting for an answer. “Now I’m askin’. If I’m family, show me. Send this rattlesnake away. Whatever slack comes with it, I’ll pick it up, y‘ave my word.”

Dutch clenched his jaw. “As soon as he’s not useful anymore-”

The other man stepped closer, shaking his head. “No. Today. Now.” He gave Dutch an intense look. They stood glaring at each other for a moment.

"Son…” Dutch tried.

Arthur waved his argument away, eyes locked to his.

He swallowed, feeling boxed in and hating it.

"Y'ain’t gonna do it,” Arthur said finally. There was bitter amusement in his tone. But something else, too. Something like…a hushed understanding. The moment hung between them and once again he was overcome by the feeling that he had missed the train.

"You have no right to-” he jumped to his feet, insulted.

To his amazement Arthur stepped around him and kept walking. He called after him but received not even a hesitation in his step. He watched in disbelief as he marched away and Savigne jumped up from the table she was sitting at to come around to meet him. That smile on her face, the look in her eyes... he hated it. He had saved Arthur, raised him better than his own father, taught him how to shoot, how to shave, how to read, gotten him his first woman, given him a purpose in life. What had she done other than batting her lashes and parting her legs?

He watched how Arthur stopped a small distance away from her, rigid and tense. How she noticed his posture and hesitated. 

Savigne changed her mind and stepped back, wary of his anger and unwilling to play games when he was in this mood. Suddenly her innocent attempts at mischief seemed crude and petty.

"You want to sit down?” she asked cautiously instead, turning to pull out a chair.

He gave her an inscrutable look and didn’t move.

"You okay?” she said quietly, unsure what to do. Last time she had seen Arthur angry was when he had bashed Micah’s face in and that Arthur, calm and collected like this one on the outside had been capable of such nonchalant violence, that the memory still made her nervous. She didn’t think he would hurt her, but she didn’t want to worsen his mood with her clumsiness.

"Waiting,” he said through clenched teeth, his chest heaving.

"For?” she asked, pulse strumming.

"Yer thing,” he said finally, somewhat softer. When she still didn’t move: “Unless ya don’ wanna no more.” There was bitter disappointment in his tone, as if he expected the rejection. Why he wanted today what he obviously so begrudgingly, reluctantly endured, she didn’t know, but he had a vulnerability, a tension about him since he had set foot in camp and it had only grown deeper after his talk with Dutch.

She set her jaw and stepped up, took a breath of courage and hooked his shoulder to pull him down. For a moment it felt like he wouldn’t comply, a childish pettiness in his refusal because he had been reduced to asking for it, but then he stiffly bent down and allowed her hug. She was surprised when she felt his left hand on her lower back, almost in an awkward attempt to hug her back. She kissed his cheek and whispered “Welcome back”, hands tightening on his shoulders and lingering longer than usual.

She stepped back when she felt him nod. His eyes flicked to her and she thought that they were a shade softer.

"I hesitated,” she huffed, brushing her blouse, “because your shirt’s bloody and disgusting.”

The small grin of relief that broke out on his face was like the sun piercing rain clouds.

“Fair,” he said and his mood visibly lightened.

"I got you something,” she said and pulled out a chair. “Come sit.”

His eyebrows rose as he stalked over to take the chair and turned it to sit with his back to the camp. She ran to the tent and returned with a bottle and two shot glasses. She placed the bottle in front of him and he took it to inspect the label.

"Luther said it’s the good stuff,” she moved to sit to his right. “I don’t know much about whiskey, hope he’s right.”

He grunted and uncorked it, poured both glasses and held his up. She clinked her glass to his. “To luck!”

"Sure could use some more o’that,” he grumbled, but she was glad to see the corner of his lips curl up.

He gulped it down in one go while she took a sip. Whiskey went straight to her head.

He smacked his lips and rolled his tongue around his cheeks.

“Well?”

He grunted in approval and poured himself another shot. “Smooth,” he said, reading the label again. “Why’d ya get this fancy stuff?”

She shrugged. “Why not?”

"You got a raise or somethin’?”

“I just came into some money.”

"That so?”

"Yeah. $200 a month that I don't have to pay as rent anymore.”

He gave her a sheepish look and she cackled, pleased. He chuckled despite himself and shook his head. “Should ‘ave known,” he mumbled and sipped his second glass.

Dutch’s phonograph started suddenly and Arthur grimaced, shifting his gaze to the lake.

Savigne glanced towards the camp, then back at him, her eyes crawling over his bloody shirt. She rose from her chair. “I’m going to get some water. Then we’ll clean up. Take the table in please?”

"Yes ma’am,” he sighed. 

She went and collected two buckets of water, one with soap and without. When she returned to the tent she told him to undress. He did as told, amused. She wiped him down with soapy water first, taking her time, gliding the washcloth over the strung, rigid muscles of his shoulders as the fingers of her other hand found knots to untangle. She pressed, burrowed, kneaded and watched his head loll as he grunted in satisfaction. She traversed his broad back, down his narrow waist to draw lazy circles on his buttocks, her free hand mimicking the motion on the other cheek. He squared his feet and she glided it along his inner thighs, down his legs as she kneaded his calves and then back up in the front, stroking slowly and gently between his legs, feeling him harden at her touch but ignoring it, gently caressing his abdomen and then up his chest. Then she took the washcloth in regular water, wrung it and did the same thing, just as slowly to rinse him off. He was fully aroused by the time she made her way to the front and stepped up to her, a hand playing with her locks, his eyes set on her face, his breathing faster. She didn’t shy away from his erect cock and gently wrapped the washcloth around it and stroked it meticulously, her other hand caressing his trembling stomach muscles. His hips twitched towards her, drops of water glistening on his dark pubic hair. He uttered a low moan and panted with need but she ignored that too and moved up to finish his chest.

He reached for her but she danced back and started to unbutton her blouse. He wasn’t in the mood for rejection and stepped after her, slapping her hand away, resuming the unbuttoning himself. “Don’t rip it,” she murmured to slow him down. He peeled off her clothes and leaned in to kiss her but she pushed him away. “You have to wipe me off first,” she whispered and handed him the soapy washcloth. She smiled coyly at his frustration and he bit his cheek to imply that he would play her games. For now. He mimicked her movements and despite his full blown erection, his touch was deceptively light and gentle. “Missed a spot,” she whispered when rushed, and “wet the cloth again” and “Do that part again.” He gave her a look, pupils dilated, but stubbornly did as told.

It took a while but as soon as he was done he grabbed the back of her neck and jerked her towards himself, to give her a hungry kiss, his other hand squeezing her buttocks. “Ya done teasin’?” he mumbled into her lips, the fingers on her nape rough. She struggled against his grip and he chuckled darkly, kissed her again, holding her head in a vise. Whatever had been on his mind earlier was the furthest thing on his mind now, that was for sure. Savigne knew he was in a mood, had known it since he had walked in with a bloody shirt and those hiked shoulders, and she loved that she was the outlet, the cure for his frustrations; that she was the well that he returned to drink from again and again.

“Time t’make you dirty again,” he grinned before he hoisted her up and walked over to drop her on the table, settling between her legs. His hands ran up her upper legs, fondling hard before light fingers danced over her folds, making her yelp and bite her lip.

"Yeah, think ya done teasin'," he smirked when he felt the wetness there and he grabbed her hair to kiss her again, his other hand on her lower back, jerking her flush against himself.

"I don’t think…this table will…hold me,” she tried between rough kisses. His skin was still wet, sticking against hers as she ran her hands over his shoulders. Arthur ignored her trepidation, stroked himself twice and promptly guided himself in. She held her breath as his swollen head breached her. He grabbed a buttock to pull her on himself, slowly rocking in, then back out, then in again a little further as she panted into his mouth. Like a pendulum gaining force, in and out and back in until he was fully sheathed, pulsing in her, filling her and stretching her. He groaned at the sensation and paused with the effort to remain in control. 

Then he kissed her again, hands hooked around her thighs to pull her in. Since that first night, every encounter was colored by his unabashed want for her and it coiled a spring in her gut. That look he gave her with hooded eyes, the tension of his fingers against her flesh, grabbing, clawing, pulling at her - all reflections of his desire for her and it wound up her body, breathing life into it like winding gave life to a stopped watch. Dutch’s phonograph was blasting an aria in the background and distantly she was thankful for the cover because when he started to move again the table creaked fiercely. She crossed her ankles behind him and he pulled her closer still, one arm across her lower back to hold her in place, the other hand splayed on the table behind her, allowing him to buck with more force.

He rocked into her unhurried as his lips traversed her neck and shoulders, his hand kneaded her buttocks. Too soon the friction against her inner walls started to build and her moans became harder to contain. She started to claw at his shoulders and hips. He pushed her back then and when she fell on her elbows he leaned in to kiss her breasts with a wild hunger, suckling her nipples, gently biting the plump flesh, licking and scraping his teeth at the sensitive underside. Savigne whimpered as he crawled over her to loom, hips rolling and bucking faster now, wet skin slapping against wet skin. She arched her back and he sharply jerked her ass half off the table, angling her before he resumed his pounding.

Her arms wobbled and her ankles uncrossed when she fell flat on her back. Her threw her legs over his shoulders, bending her in half when he leaned over her again. His right arm wound against her thighs on his chest to secure them while his left hand grasped the edge of the table above her head. She tried to mumble a protest about being bent over awkwardly but it evaporated when he continued bucking into her, reaching deeper yet. Soft cries bloomed between her gasps as he fucked her into the table, folding her on herself. She gripped the forearm above her head, felt the corded muscles straining with the pressure of his hold. Her other hand cupped his cheek as he grunted, huffed and groaned above her, watching her face while he rolled his hips and rocked into her harder and faster. 

She cried his name and he peeled her hand from his cheek to guide it between them.

“Touch yerself,” he whispered, eyes never straying from her face. She immediately recoiled, feeling exposed when she was trapped under him like this, in full view of his hungry gaze. He rolled his hips and smacked into her with with vigor, forcing a shudder of gasps from her. He snatched her retrieving hand and guided it back between them, his eyes sharp as ice. “Do as yer told,” he growled, his voice low and hard.

She glided her hand over her swollen folds and whimpered. Reaching lower, her fingers parted around his cock pistoning into her, making his breath stutter. His eyes were glued to hers as she moaned helplessly and did it again, eyelids fluttering with ecstasy, fingers gliding up and down, brushing and massaging herself and him at the same time, pulling a sound from him she had never heard before. Sliding and caressing, pressing and dabbing, closing and spreading again until suddenly the tightly wound coil in her gut unfolded so fiercely that she spasmed, rising on the back of her head, digging her shoulders into the table, convulsing with the force of her orgasm. Her heels sharply dug into his shoulder blades as she distantly felt his hot mouth close on a nipple when her back arched. A moment later he spat a whisper of a curse followed by a series of moans and his hand gripping the edge of the table clenched hard enough to make the wood sing.

When she finally remembered to breathe again, his forehead was between her breasts, hot breath painting her skin and her legs were still slung over his shoulders. He whispered a husky “Christ,” before he shakily straightened, carefully dropping her legs from his shoulders and snaking his hands around her back to pull her up. Her muscles twitched and shivered as they elongated after being pressed awkwardly. She sat in his embrace, feet dangling as he huffed into her neck.

"Don’ move,” he whispered long moments later and pulled out to walk away. She swayed on the table, a trembling flushed mess. He returned with the washcloth and wiped between her legs, threw it back into the bucket and bent over to place open mouthed kisses on the inside of her thighs while she combed her fingers through his hair. He kissed his way up, over her stomach, licking the faint bite marks on her breasts and throat, kissing her jawline and finally kissing her mouth, hands cupping her face.

His eyes were that amazing shade of blue green when he pulled back, calm and gentle, as if he wasn’t the man who had fucked her mercilessly minutes ago.

"Ya okay?” he asked quietly. He was always distinctly gentle with her after an episode like this – not exactly apologetic, but more careful in how he handled her, more doting. Almost as if his superiority of size and strength over her excited and aroused him, but afterwards there was a veiled undercurrent of guilt or shame for using these advantages against her.

"I’m...okay," she panted, wiping her hair off her face. The music continued in the background and they listened to it for a while, foreheads touching, hands caressing; trying to extend that weightless feeling of the afterglow just a little longer. "And you?" was her belated question, intentionally vague and broad. 

"Am now," he sighed.

Not for the first time she wondered what he used to do before they met when he was hot and heavy like this because at times she marveled at the force of his sexual frustration. Odds were, a lot of drinking and fighting. And probably pleasure houses, if if he was into that sort of thing, since Mary married a long time ago. The idea stirred a sour tinge of jealousy in her, even though she knew she didn't have the right to be jealous with whatever came before her. Didn't she have old flames herself? Still, it was hard to counter an emotion with logic and she struggled with it. Maybe that sort of thing was nature or maybe it was the lack of it growing up, but despite telling herself she's above such petty things, in her heart of hearts Savigne had always been jealous when it came to affection and though she knew it to be more casual for a lot of folks, she couldn't grasp the concept of sex without at least a little bit of affection, so naturally she was jealous of that, too. It was ironic, really, because half the time she was correcting Arthur that she isn't "his" woman and that she didn't belong to anyone and yet here she was, wondering who else had been touched by him, kissed by him, filled by him.

A little annoyed at herself, she pushed against his chest and he stepped back with some surprise, allowing her to jump off the table. "I'm going to refill the buckets," she said, starting to put on her clothes. "I'm all sweaty, can't sleep like this."

"I got it," he countered and pulled on his cotton pants and left with the buckets. 

She gathered and placed the dirty clothes in the baskets and sat on the bed waiting. He returned and gently slapped her hand away when she reached over. He wiped her off and grabbed her arm when she turned to put on her chemise. "Did I hurt ya?"

"No," she stammered and smiled. Then more assured: "No." She knew that he didn't mind hurting her at all; in fact, there was a side to him that greatly enjoyed it, but he was cautious in mapping out her borders and red lines.

She turned again but he didn't release her, nudging her to look up at him. "I need ya honest," he said seriously, those eyes crawling over her face, prodding, searching for the reason of her mood change. Arthur was surprisingly intuitive and perceptive. At times she was amazed how quickly he read her mood swings. Even when he couldn't exactly guess what was going on with her, he almost always knew that something was and the more time they spent together, the eerily better he got at it.

"I am," she said and gave him a chaste kiss on the cheek. "I liked it. Which should be obvious unless you're blind and deaf."

He nodded and let her go. Eventually they lied down facing each other as the last notes of the music died out. 

He was perched up on his elbow, thoughtful and quiet, gliding his hand over the lingering marks of his iron grip on her body. 

"Tell me what's in yer head."

"Mostly it's nonsense," she sighed. 

"Like why yer here?" he said a long while later, eyes flicking to her face. 

“What do you mean?” she asked, cautious. 

“Here. In camp. With me.”

He was a man of few words and at times untangling his meaning was an art form.

“Shouldn’t I be?” she said finally.

He grimaced, his fingers caressing her hip, her rib cage, shoulder and back down, watching the cotton of the fabric smoothen under his hand. “Can’t think why,” he said, attempting casualness but she heard the timbre of self-doubt. He was one of the most confident men she knew but at times revealed a surprising tendency for self depreciation and the events of the day must have rattled him somehow.

“I know we’re very…different,” she tried. “But different things sometimes complete each other, no?”

He was silent for a while, seemingly thinking about that. 

“If I was to leave, would you come with?” he said suddenly, before his eyes shied away again.

“Leave where?”

He shrugged, his warm palm gliding up and down and up and down. “Don’ know. Somewhere else.”

She thought on it for a while, caught a bit off guard. They hadn’t been together for very long but in all these months, he had never asked anything of her. Now he was suddenly asking for something very big.

“Would you want me to?” She said carefully.

He scoffed. “Ain’t I askin’?”

“Okay then. Probably,” she said.

This seemed to surprise him and his hand stilled momentarily on her hip as he gave her a long look.

She snorted at the doubt in his face, amused.

“Why?” he said at long last. 

Because I love you, you fool, she thought. “It’s not the shooting lessons, I’ll tell you that,” she said instead. 

“Y'ain’t sick of me yet?” he pushed.

She wondered if this is what she sounded like when her stupid inner voice babbled in her head.

“Wouldn’t be here if I was.” 

He didn’t seem mollified. She cupped his cheek and he stilled, finally meeting her gaze. 

“It’s the tent,” she whispered as seriously as she could. “I really like this tent.”

A smirk bloomed on his lips. “Honesty at last.”

“Clearly it’s all calculated,” she said, waving her arm about. “Besides, I might need saving again, smarter to stick around you.”

He snickered, amused, but his gaze was unmistakably warmer.

“Of course once I learn to shoot, it’s a different story.”

“Well then I ain’t got nothin’ to worry 'bout,” was the smug retort.

She gasped and slapped his hand away but he didn’t move, just grinned at her with that damn gaze she couldn’t hold.

“Said you liked it,” he drawled, hand gliding over her hips, eyes more playful.

She flopped on her other side. “Unlike you, I’m working tomorrow. Let me sleep.”

She felt him reach over to the lantern on the crate and turn it off, then settle behind her, arm draped over her. 

“I like being with you,” she said a few minutes later, more somber. “It’s not that hard to understand.” The camp had grown quiet, all she could hear was the lap of the water and the buzzing of insects. 

He was silent for a while. “I ain’t a good man,” he said finally.

“What does that even mean?”

“You forget what I do for a livin’?”

“Oh…” she mumbled, “…that.”

“Yeah. That.”

She thought of his bloody shirt from earlier, his odd mood since. “Did something happen today?” she asked.

It took a while, but eventually he said “Had to do somethin' I ain’t proud of,” with some reluctance.

There was a very long silence between them. Savigne didn’t have Arthur’s sharp perception, but she was convinced that he was at last asleep. His heartbeat was steady and his breathing low. 

“When I was twelve or thirteen, I was transferred to this orphanage in a small town for a few years,” she whispered to the darkness of the tent. “There was a Tommy there. Some kid, maybe like early twenties, who was a menace. The meanest person you can imagine and crazy, too.” 

When she had been in her own tent, she would sometimes talk to herself. Because most of her life was spent around others, in rooms with multiple bunk beds, in meal halls filled with other kids, in crowded classrooms, having a place that belonged just to her, where she was alone was a luxury. Talking to herself in the privacy of her own tent had been an affirmation that she had earned it, that she had made it.

“He had his own gang. He wasn’t even that big; he was a gangly, wiry kid, but you know how some people have that something that others fear and follow?” she asked, a rhetorical question she didn’t expect an answer to. “He had that. There were men older than him in that gang, kissing up to him all day, acting like foot soldiers to him. Anyway, Tommy would go around causing all kinds of mayhem, beating folks, robbing them, extorting them, you name it.”

“Eventually he found out that Mister Stiller…” she hesitated, trying to think how to say it, even though she was her only audience. “He…uh…‘liked’…his daughter…a little too much.” Her face heated up in the dark but she kept still, not wanting to squirm and wake him behind her. Thinking of Elizabeth always made her want to squirm.

“Everyone knew about it. They pitied Elizabeth. Folks were extra gentle to her. Like, they would give her free cans of food when she went grocery shopping or an extra few feet of cloth if she was at the tailor or they would give her a discount if she needed new shoes. As if all that would make up for the horror that girl was suffering through every night,” she hissed, clenching her jaw. 

“But nobody had the courage to do anything about it. Not the so-called law, not the judges, not the churchgoers sitting next to him every Sunday. Because Mister Stiller was an important man and he owned half the town. But, you see, he didn’t own Tommy.”

“One night Tommy broke into his house, slapped his wife around when she tried to stop him, dragged Mister Stiller out to his horse, took him god knows where and beat the living shit out of him. I mean, ‘breaking both arms, both legs, cracking his skull, splitting some of his ribs’ kind of beating. It's not like Tommy liked Elizabeth or anything, it was the principle of the thing, you know? Unlike all those ‘proper’ townsfolk, he wasn’t willing to look the other way. Mister Stiller miraculously lived, in case you’re wondering, but he never walked again. He never ate solid food again. Among other things. Can’t say I’m sorry about that.”

Something hooted outside and she wondered what it was. The tent swayed gently in the summer breeze, shadows moving. Arthur was warm and quiet behind her. Everyone in camp sounded asleep, too. A sense of belonging came over her, of comfort, of…home. Something about the moment was perfect and she paused, mystified and spellbound by the feeling.

“Now, people knew it was Tommy, of course,” she whispered on after a while, “But once again, nobody did anything. That’s small towns for you. Probably smart, considering the boy had his own army at that point and besides, nobody was eager to become the next Mister Stiller.”

“I think on that sometimes and I think ‘so was Tommy a bad man?’ And I think, yes, he probably he was. To many people, most people even, he definitely was a terrible man. But I bet to at least one person in that town, he will forever be the greatest man who ever lived.” 

She listened to the steady drumming of his heartbeat on her back. Her mind went to the day when she was standing in that dark pantry, her wrists tied, terrified. She couldn’t make out the muffled words outside the door but she sensed the intent, an inkling of what was waiting for her and it had made her shake like a leaf. She didn’t know if she had the strength, the resolve to go through it, to go somewhere else in her head when it happened, and then when it happened again. And again.

“You’re never going to convince me that you’re not a good man,” she whispered, trembling with the memory.

She jumped with surprise when his hand slowly moved to cover hers. She slightly curled her fingers around his, anchoring the hold. He didn’t say anything but she felt a warm kiss bloom on her shoulder like a flower. 

She thought she would be up all night, haunted by old memories, but she was fast asleep when another hoot came, not that much later. 

Chapter Text

Savigne was riding back to camp after her shift, thinking about work. Chef Ecco was the head chef and he was one of those suave, flirty Italian men, handsome and confident. Dark hair combed back with pomade, well trimmed and clean mustache, always spotless apron, quick on his feet, quick with his hands, generous with his praise. A good number of the women in the kitchen were infatuated with him. Proud of his heritage, he had warmed up to Savigne immediately when he found out about her mother's ancestry. He loved coming to her and cracking jokes about how Italians could cook better out of the cradle than some of this folk.

And yet…a juxtaposition: Rachel’s downcast eyes, Chef Ecco’s confident grin, how close he had stood by her, how uncomfortable she had looked about it even though a few weeks ago she would literally blush when he walked into the kitchen. Rachel’s change of attitude intrigued Savigne. She knew that there was something there, but couldn’t quite extricate it because she rarely paid enough attention to what was going on around her and was usually the last person to find out about some open secret at work.

Luther would know in a heartbeat, she thought, and missed him again. Antoine’s was nice, a definite upgrade when it came to her career ambitions over the steakhouse, but she would take a pay cut to have Luther back with her in the kitchen.

A smile tugged at her lips when she thought what a kitchen that housed both Chef Ecco and Luther would look like.

She arrived at camp, petted and fed Cricket and strolled in and walked to her tent. Arthur wasn't there but that wasn't unusual. Although he would always give her a heads up when he would be gone for a prolonged period of time, his comings and goings were irregular on a daily basis. He did a lot of footwork for the gang too and if he went hunting game for example, the timeline was always unpredictable; sometimes he spent hours out there and barely got anything and other times he was back within half an hour. 

She heated the clay oven to cement the lining, took her book and went to sit outside at the table to read. An hour or so later Dutch and Micah rode in. She made herself tea and read a little more and then Abigail came over and they chatted about this and that and eventually it led where most conversations went with Abigail: complaints about John. At some point Abigail said Arthur had rode out with Dutch and Micah earlier and hadn't looked too happy about it. This made Savigne uneasy because why had those two returned and he didn’t, but she dismissed it because he could have gone off to do something else after. She lighted the lantern and drank her tea and read her book a little more, then decided to take a nap. When she woke up the sun had set and Arthur still wasn't there. That's when she started to worry because although he could still be on a job, he rarely stayed out late without telling her and it had been hours since Dutch and Micah returned. 

She squirmed a little about talking to Dutch, so she decided to go to Hosea. She walked up to camp, agitation nipping at her heels and found him and his surprise at Arthur's absence strung her nerves further. "That's odd," Hosea said and looked at her the way people did when they don't want you to worry about something you should definitely be worried about. "Let's go talk to Dutch. I'm sure it's nothing."

Dutch also hesitated for a moment at the news before he waved his hand and speculated that Arthur could have diverted to another job or he could be taking the long way back to lose a tail and that he would be here soon. 

“Soon” didn’t happen. Her disquiet now was colored with panic as she frantically cleaned the tent three times, didn’t sleep a wink and in the morning rode out to work to let them know that she had a family emergency and she couldn’t come to work today. Chef Ecco held her shaking hands and caressed her hair and told her she could take as many days as she needed. Surprised by his generosity and elated, Savigne rode back to camp, hoping that Arthur had showed up in the meantime. But he wasn’t there and still nobody seemed concerned.

This time she didn't need help to go to Dutch; she marched to his tent and loomed over him, quickly working herself into a state. 

“How are you so calm?” she spat.

Dutch was obviously losing his patience with her inquiries and his tone was frosty when he responded: “Listen, Miss Ricci, you don’t know our business, you don’t know Arthur that well…” she ignored the slight smug twitch on his lips when the intended punch landed, “…it’s understandable that you’re worried, but he’s perfectly capable, I assure you.”

“I don’t care about your assurances,” she said, well past the stage of fearing him, “why aren’t you sending people out to look for him?”

“He could be anywhere!” he protested, “He could have circled around and be coming back from a completely different direction. Where am I supposed to send people to?”

“I don’t know! You just told me that I don’t know your business, why are you asking me?”

“It was a rhetorical question,” he said dryly and to her astonishment, sat down to light a cigar as if everything was right in the world. 

Her gaze traveled behind him to find Micah with that leering grin, leaning against a tree and watching the interaction and she shuddered at the look on his face. Up to this point she had been worried about Arthur and she still was, but now suddenly the other implications of his absence reverberated through her. 

“I can’t believe you’re just sitting here and doing nothing!” she hissed at Dutch. “If this is being a ‘leader’, well sign me up because I can do nothing, too.”

The spark of anger in his eyes and the way his jaw clenched satisfied her darkly as she turned and approached Cricket. She saddled up and Cricket neighed softly under her, sensing her mood. Then she turned him out of camp and rode to the main road, pulled the reins and hesitated. Dutch did have a point, she realized lamely, because she had no idea which way to go. She stood there for a long time, gazing at the hills as if Arthur was going to crest one imminently. As it got darker her imagination summoned flickers of movement that made her heart jump, but they all proved to be ghosts and dissipated into the night. The vast number of the things that could have happened to him overwhelmed her. He could have been shot, bit by a snake, fallen off a ravine. He might have eaten bad food and be slumped over somewhere with food poisoning. He could have had a heatstroke and fallen off his horse. He could have been mauled by a bear. Drowned in the current as he tried to cross a river. Captured by a bounty hunter or the law. He could already be dead and his body might never be found, whispered her inner voice.

Frustrated, she rode into Rhodes. Despite feeling nervous about coming to this town after dark, she forced herself to ride through the streets on the lookout for Frost. She felt stupid because why the hell would Arthur be here, but she was unable to return to camp without looking just a little further and then a little more. The hour grew late. 

Then she rode to Valentine, another blind shot in the dark. The town was full of drunk people stumbling about. She was momentarily amazed how an entirely different class of folks emerged from their lairs after nightfall. Afraid to get off her horse, she sat on Cricket as she combed the streets, on the lookout for Frost's pale flank. People ambled towards her, asking if they can buy her a drink and saying she should come and join them and she spooked and rode on, jumping at shadows. 

Deflated and more afraid than ever, she rode back to camp. It was after midnight. The moment she climbed off the saddle, her foot started to tap and she just stood there, unsure what to do next. She didn’t want to go to the campfire and be around all these useless idiots just strolling around like nothing was out of order, but she also didn’t want to go back to her tent where she would be reminded that Arthur was still missing. 

A hand touched her shoulder and she jumped. 

“Sorry Savigne,” Charles said gently, “I called but you didn’t hear.”

“I’m…I’m…” she stammered, jittery and at the verge of crying. 

“He’s back,” Charles said quickly and she blinked in disbelief. 

“He’s…okay. He will be at least.”

That last part jolted her stopped heart back into action. 

“Where?” she managed to whisper. 

“We carried him to his – to your tent. Ms. Grimshaw is caring for him.”

She whipped by him without thanking him and stumbled to her tent in the dark. The lantern inside was on. 

She walked in to a crowd of people – Ms. Grimshaw and Abigail were by the bed. Dutch, Hosea and John were standing around and they parted like the sea when she emerged. 

Arthur was lying on the cover and he looked gravely injured. He was unconscious and shivered a little. His upper body was naked and they had put a fresh bandage on his left shoulder. His face looked all bruised as if he had been beaten, and black and blue bruises also covered his ribs. Savigne just stood there, looking at him with disbelief until Ms. Grimshaw stood up from the chair that she had pulled to the bed and pushed on her shoulders to sit on it. 

“What happened?” she whispered, unable to tear her eyes from him. He looked smaller somehow, more frail, almost as if he was a stranger, an impostor and not the Arthur Morgan she knew. 

“O’Driscolls trapped him,” Dutch said, the anger in his tone sharp. “But he made it back. Of course he made it back!” He sounded upset, offended even, and his voice boomed in the quiet tent. 

“He’s going to be fine,” Ms. Grimshaw said to her but Savigne barely heard it. He looked so vulnerable and weak - things she had never associated with him. Arthur was a big man and his strength was part of his identity. Seeing him lying here, looking like all the muscle was drained from him made her uneasy. “We just have to keep an eye on his wound and his fever.”

Her fingers touched his arm and she jerked them back. “He’s so hot,” she whispered, noticing the beads of sweat on his brow.

“He’s running a fever,” Ms. Grimshaw repeated patiently before she gently gripped Savigne’s chin to turn her face and force her to make eye contact. “Savigne. He’ll be fine.”

She suddenly remembered the doctor on the ship telling her that her mom and dad would be fine and flinched. Every day he had told her things were fine, not to worry, they were already better, she should go and play with the other children, that they would get better just like she had and every day she had believed him, leaving her parents to go dally around. Until they both died hours apart and she wasn’t even there. Her mind folded defensively on itself, like an armadillo, locking in the armor. She’s lying, they always lie. She’s just placating you. She doesn't want you to make a scene. They say these things and then people die anyway. Liars, every single one of them.

“Are you lying to me?" she hissed, hands trembling with fury. 

Ms Grimshaw blinked at her. Then her gaze softened somewhat. 

“Course not. He’s going to be fine, he’s strong.”

Savigne looked at her with such repulse and disbelief that she straightened, struggling to remain sympathetic. 

“Just sit here and wipe his brow to keep his fever down. I will come back and check on him,” she said finally and glided out.

They all left and she just sat there, dazed and very afraid. She watched him breathe and sometimes in the dim lantern light he looked like he had stopped so she would put a shaking hand on his chest to feel his pulsing heart, then sit back again, relieved. His breathing was shallow and labored and he mumbled in his sleep. She strained to understand the words but it was gibberish.  

Ms. Grimshaw came back what felt like ten minutes later, but when she checked the time Savigne was surprised that it was three in the morning already. She learned how to change the bandages and when the wound was revealed to her, she felt a little nauseous. It was huge and puckered like an angry mouth, lips pursed close, holding in terrible secrets. It looked alien and hostile, like a parasite that had latched on to him. Ms. Grimshaw said that he must have done it to himself in a desperate attempt to stall the bleeding and prevent infection. Savigne's fingers ghosted over the cuts and bruises and she felt tears well up in her eyes at what was done, how he must have felt, afraid and alone, helpless and in pain. What was she doing when this happened? Drinking tea probably. Sleeping. Riding back on Cricket thinking about work gossip. Chatting to Abigail about nonsense. The world seemed so very different here, barely forty minutes away from the world of Saint Denis; so much more hostile, arbitrary and indifferent. 

Don’t cry. If you cry, he will die. She swallowed back the sobs and dismissively wiped off her eyes. A tremendous tiredness came over her and she trembled with the need to sleep but she jerked back up and slapped herself awake. Don’t sleep. If you sleep, he will die. She sat on, barely blinking and, then fetched a new batch of water. She wiped his face and his torso repeatedly to cool him down and watched him moan and shiver and mutter to himself. She carefully peeled off his pants and wiped his legs and his feet and dressed him with his soft cotton pants. The doctor on the ship had told her that cleanliness was of utmost importance, so she cut up some sheets and towels, boiled them to use as wipes once and then burnt them. Just for good measure, she boiled and cooled the water to wipe him, too. She dozed off once and then woke up with a jolt, convinced that he had died because of it but found him alive and cooler. He looked calmer and his muttering had ceased. 

She sat there, furiously thinking what she could do. And then the faded imprint of a ghost of a memory - summer, as it was now, but drier, hotter. The light warmer, more golden. A heat inside her like a smoldering fire, aching. Pain in her chest, pain in her head. It hurt to breathe, so she did it carefully. The sweet smell of her own sweat, gluing her cotton gown to her skin. A stone wall across from her, painted faded blue, a long, zigzagging fine crack on the left corner of it. The buzz of flies. Calls in the distance in a different language, sharper and more rapid. The scraping of the spoon on the edge of the bowl, rhythmic like a clock. Gentle fingers wiping the corners of her mouth.

She jumped up, suddenly elated. “Of course!” She whispered, amazed that she hadn’t thought of it. She had to make chicken soup.

He isn’t sick. And he’s unconscious, he can’t eat.

She waved that argument away immediately. She convinced herself that as soon as he had some chicken soup in him, he would be fine. It was light out now, she ran over and woke Ms. Grimshaw so she could go and sit with Arthur because Savigne needed to run to town. Ms Grimshaw didn’t seem convinced but she didn’t argue. Then she hastily rode to Rhodes to buy the ingredients for the soup as well as new bandages and alcohol from the doctor and returned with more than what she set out to get, Cricket struggling under the weight of the baskets. She hurried to the tent and Abigail was there, told her that Arthur was doing better and she really needs to sleep.

“I’m fine!” Savigne shouted, emptying her basket in a breathless rush. “I’m going to make chicken soup and he’s going to be okay.”

Abigail watched her for a few minutes, then agreed that this was a great idea, although she looked somber saying it. 

Savigne went about hysterically preparing the earthen oven she had been heating up the last few days with hotter and hotter fire to allow it to settle. 

Don’t leave him alone. He will die. But also: Make the chicken soup. Or he will die. “I can do both”, she thought with steely resolve. Every few minutes she ran back to the tent to check on him and wiped his face and torso with clean water to cool him off. She was relieved that he felt cooler, his body more relaxed, his breathing deeper. Then she ran back out to prepare the ingredients, almost cutting herself in her vigor, pieces of vegetables flying off the table. She ran back in to make sure he was breathing, then back out to drop everything into the pot. She ran back in to check again and then added water to the pot.

When the oven was hot and ready she closed the door and placed the pot on the chimney to boil. Then she ran back in and changed his dressing with the new dressings she had bought at the doctor’s office in Rhodes. She wiped off his torso when it was done. He felt cooler still, somehow more solid, heavier and less transparent, as if he was a ghost becoming corporeal.

At some point she must have drifted off because she dreamed that she was on a big ship. It was dark and the vessel was tilting and creaking and there was nobody about. There was a heavy, cloying sweet stink in the air which she instantly recognized as Death. She went around from cabin to cabin, walked through the corridors, listening to the clanking and groaning of the metal and the wood expanding and contracting and couldn't find anyone. She went up stairs, waking puffs of dust with her steps and walked into cabins to look at the empty, unmade beds and the strewn clothes and children's toys. The silence scared her so she called out to Luther, Arthur, even Dutch and Sister Rodriguez, but nobody answered. She walked around for what felt like hours and encountered nobody. The ship seemed vast and endless, swaying and rocking gently on the water. Then suddenly she heard a bang that shook the floor under her feet and the sound of something slithering away like a long drawn out sigh. She followed the sound with the curiosity and courage that only dreams can give you and found a giant tentacle, as thick as a horse cart sliding through the cabins. It was a deep inky black on top, glistening, wet and slimy. The skin underneath was pink like a baby's skin that had never been touched by the sun. All along the underside were enormous suckers, an angry flesh color like Arthur’s wound, pursing, yawning, pulsing, shivering and gliding along the walls as it retreated. She followed it as it slid away from her, through open doorways and corridors until it disappeared over the railing of the ship in the distance.

Savigne flinched awake and found Arthur looking at her. She sat up and rubbed her eyes to make sure she wasn't still dreaming and sure enough, he was still looking at her. She scrambled closer to touch his cheek. He was warm but not hot and he looked half asleep, but there was a hint of lucidity in his gaze. 

“Hey,” she whispered with shaky breath, fingers ghosting over his brows and the scar on his chin. He didn’t answer, just blinked around the tent, then back at her. “You’re going to be okay,” she whispered, holding his limp hand and trying not to touch any of his bruises. “I made you chicken soup.”

His fingers trembled in her light grip but he didn’t say anything and eventually closed his eyes again. His breathing seemed deeper and easier but she hadn’t slept well in so long, she couldn’t trust herself. What did it mean that he woke up? Was he getting better or was it goodbye? She ran over to Ms. Grimshaw who came back and checked on Arthur and she said that he is indeed doing better. Again Savigne shifted on her feet, refusing to believe her, suspecting that she was being told what she wanted to hear, but kept it to herself. 

She took the pot of soup off the chimney to cool and removed the cold debris from the oven. Then she sat there, watching the sun set over the water. Her mind was a jumbled mess and she felt dizzy. It had all happened so suddenly - one minute they were talking about mundane things or he was teasing her about something stupid and the next moment it was all over and he was dying. None of it made sense. How could life take such a turn so casually? And how were people in camp strutting around as if this was just the normal way of things? Sure, they came and asked about Arthur and hung around to talk to her, but overall they seemed remarkably accepting of the situation. Everyone knew that death could happen any moment, but most people didn't live their lives like that because it would drive them insane. Arthur had much longer history with all them than with her and yet they were calm and accepting of his fate, like it was simply part of their lives and if he died tonight, they would mourn him and drink in his name and then a few days later, go on with whatever they were doing. They called each other family but didn't seem as shocked as she was that a member of their family was at the threshold of death.   

She heard her name and ran back in to help Ms. Grimshaw change the bandages again. She poured some soup into a bowl and held it on her lap as she sat watching his chest move, listening to the rhythm of his breathing. It burnt her palms but she didn’t mind. Eventually he didn’t wake up again so she went and poured the soup back into the pot. She tasted it but it tasted like cardboard, all wrong. She carried it over to the camp and told Mr. Pearson to give it out before it went bad, that she was going to make another one in the morning. 

She crept into bed, careful not to disturb him and lied down next to him. She placed her palm on his heart to keep track of his heartbeat in case it stopped and closed her eyes, telling herself she was just going to rest her eyes because they felt raw and dry. She woke up to Arthur’s knuckles stroking her cheek. She hastily leaned over and carefully peppered his face with kisses and told him that she loved him and that he had scared her witless. Then she jerked awake again and wasn’t sure if it had ever happened. He looked peaceful in his sleep and after checking several times that he was indeed breathing and his heart was still beating, she asked Abigail to come wait with him while she rode to Rhodes to buy fresh chicken again. On the way back she realized she hadn’t fed or petted Cricket in two days. When she arrived she was upset and crying and John asked her what the matter was, then assured her that they had fed Cricket and she didn’t need to worry. 

She went back, checked on Arthur and cooked another chicken soup. Cooking calmed her down a little and when she got up to go back in to sit by Arthur, she felt dizzy and told herself she needed to eat something. But then the moment she sank down on the chair she forgot and instead fell asleep again.

It felt like moments but it was darker when she woke, so hours must have passed. She checked on him, heart thudding in her throat but fortunately he seemed fine, even felt her touch and stirred to it. She wiped his torso again and watched his bruises turn from angry red to an ugly yellow and shades of blue. The embers in the oven had gone out but the soup was still warm, so she sat with a bowl in her lap looking at him. 

As if he felt it, he opened his eyes. He looked at her for a long time and she looked back, waiting for him to fall back asleep. But he didn’t; instead he looked around again and touched his injured shoulder with his good right hand. Savigne jumped up, stood there for a few moments wondering what she was doing with a bowl in her hands. Then she remembered and sat down on the bed next to him and told him that he had to eat her chicken soup because it would protect him. She heard the words tumble out of her mouth and they didn’t make any sense but at the same time, she was absolutely convinced of their truth. 

He looked at her a long time, then nodded and made to sit up. She quickly placed the bowl on the chair to help him. He seemed to be in a lot of pain but didn’t complain and when he sat up he swayed a little, as if the act had drained him. She helped to hold up the bowl to his mouth. He drank half of it, but waved the rest away. She eased him back down again, checked his bandages, and then told him that it’s fine, he would be safe now. He nodded and closed his eyes and slept again. She combed her fingers through his hair, stiff with sweat and over his beard, growing wild now and the sticky pallid skin of his good arm and held his hand, feeling more hopeful for the first time because not only had he woken up, but also he had eaten the soup. Then she went out and carried the rest to Pearson and came back to lie next to him. Moments later she got up to boil the soup bowl. Just for good measure. 

The next morning she meant to get up and almost fell on Arthur. She felt dizzy, faint and nauseous. She crawled out of bed on shaking legs and arms and forced herself to eat something canned although afterwards she couldn’t remember what it was. Probably fruit. She changed his bandages again and this time when he opened his eyes they were very lucid and she almost sobbed with relief but stoically didn’t. He reached for her hand and she let him grasp it and there was strength in his grip. He made as if to speak but she told him to reserve his energy and helped him drink some water. Then she told him that she will be right back, fetched Mary-Beth to sit by him and rode back to town to buy new ingredients. 

When she came back Arthur was still awake and there were others in the tent, talking to him, so she cooked the soup and once again, the act of cooking helped her to calm down. Then she suddenly realized that she hadn’t wiped herself off in days and suddenly felt extremely disgusted with herself, so disgusted that bile rose in her throat. She ran into the nearby woods and vomited whatever she had eaten earlier, wiped her mouth and returned to camp. 

She jumped when she heard her name and realized the sun had moved low. She cursed her negligence, took off the soup pot and left it to cool, then ran in to check on him. It startled her to find him sitting on the bed, hunched over, his feet on the ground. “What happened?” she said, and to her own ears she sounded hysterical. 

“Bathroom,” he rasped. She took a deep breath, relieved, and brought him the chamber pot. When he insisted that he wanted to walk to the woods she told him she would rather knock him out and clean out the mess on the sheets after so it was that or the pot. He chose the pot. After, he lied back down and she went to empty the pot, then went to the lake and rubbed her hands until her fingers bled a little. She ladled some soup into a bowl and brought it back to him. 

He sat up by himself and ate the whole bowl this time. After he was done he held on to her hand and asked if she was okay. This sounded really funny for some reason so Savigne had a little laughing fit. She said yes of course she’s fine when she could talk again, because she wasn’t the one who got shot. He looked at her for a long time and asked how come she’s been at camp. She explained that she took time off from her job. This made his brows furrow and she laughed again because his expression was comical. 

“Come lie next to me,” he whispered and she said okay. But the next time she came to her senses, she was on Cricket, outside of camp, watching the sun set over the hills. It scared her because she couldn’t remember how she got here. Her head was foggy, thoughts just flitted through like smoke. Every time she tried to grasp and hold on to one, it slipped through her fingers and turned to dust.

Eventually the vermilion and sienna of the sky faded to a rich blue and navy and she heard a horse behind her. When she looked, it was Sadie and Sadie said she should come back to camp. She panicked, thinking she had killed Arthur by leaving his side and not checking on him but Sadie assured her that Arthur was fine and she needs to come back and sleep. 

Savigne followed her, glided off Cricket and walked back to her tent. To her amazement Arthur was up and he looked…normal. Given the circumstances. He looked bigger somehow and his movements were smoother. The bruises looked dark and ominous now but they couldn’t be hurting as much since he moved easier. She sat next to him at the edge of the bed and he placed his good right arm around her back, nudging her to sit closer. They remained like that for a while and Savigne asked if he had any soup yet and he said he did, that she gave him some earlier. “Oh yeah, that was today,” she mumbled. 

He insisted that they sleep and she lied down next to him and put her hand on his heart again and fell asleep almost immediately. But then she woke up sitting in the boat, drifting from the shore, watching the sun rise. Again, she jolted with fear and scrambled to row back to the shore and the camp. When she arrived Arthur woke up and asked her where she had been. She said she had rowed out to the lake for a bit and left out the part where she couldn’t remember doing it. She emptied the pot and brushed her hands again and only stopped when she broke skin. 

When she walked in again he was sitting on the bed and he wasn’t hunched anymore. His hair and his beard were a mess but his eyes were sparkling and lively. 

“Savigne, come here,” he said and she glided to sit next to him. 

He tucked her hair behind an ear and asked when she had eaten last. She said she couldn’t remember but it was recent. He asked her when she had wiped herself off and she blushed and stammered that it had been a few days. This reminded her how dirty she was and out of the blue, she started to cry, then panicked that crying would kill him and apologized profusely. She felt his hand on her knee and only then realized that she had been furiously tapping her foot. 

He told her that it’s fine, they’ll both clean up after they ate and she jumped up to make chicken soup but her vision darkened and she sat back down on the bed awkwardly. He grew angry at that. 

“Listen to me,” he said, voice hard, and she nodded, wiping away tears. “Want you to go to Pearson and get us two plates of food. Can you do that?”

“Of course,” she scoffed with mock self-confidence. To be honest, she wasn’t sure she wouldn’t forget halfway there but she was determined to try. 

He gave her a dubious look and told her to go so she did. Pearson plated her two bowls of stew on a tray and when she carefully, slowly managed to carry it back to the tent, Arthur had somehow gotten up and cleared the table, placed the chairs around it and was sitting in one. She went over and placed the tray on the table. 

“Sit,” he said sharply and so she did. 

He placed the stew in front of her and told her to eat. She was wiping her spoon hysterically but stopped when she caught his pointed look, and tasted the food. It tasted like nothing which was curious. She ate several spoonfuls and wondered how Pearson could cook something and make it taste like air. She speculated if this was some kind of art, or a skill that could be mastered. 

Arthur prodded her to continue, so she did. At some point she felt nauseous and stopped, but he told her that she needed to finish and his tone brooked no argument. She finished it under his stern gaze but felt sick by the time she was done. When she got up all the stew in her stomach jumped up her throat. She knew she wasn’t going to make it out of the tent, so she ran to the chamber pot and threw up. 

“I’m sorry," she stammered as she straightened. "I just…it was too much.”

He stared at her for a moment, but then softly rasped “Don’ worry ‘bout it,” and attempted to rise on shaking legs. He let her assist him back to bed and once he was settled she grabbed the pot to empty it but he told her to do it later, to come lie next to him. She hesitated until he gave her a heated look, so she placed the pot outside and crawled into bed. 

He was lying on his back and she pressed herself against his good side. The moment his arm curved around her back to hold her to him, she fell asleep. She woke up in the dark from a dream she couldn’t remember and couldn’t get up because Arthur’s arm was still locked around her. She tried to untangle herself when he spoke up:

“Don’ get up. It’s early.”

She lied back down, her heart thumping from her dream. She couldn’t remember anything about it but she remembered being scared.

He was quiet for a long time and she thought he had fallen asleep again but then he said “'M okay. I ain’t dying.”

“I know that,” she replied with a confidence she didn't feel. 

“M’sorry,” he sighed a while later. 

“Why?”

“I know it ain’t easy, I know you was worried.”

“It’s fine,” she whispered and dozed off again.

When she woke up the next morning, he was up already, sitting in a chair and checking his bandages. 

“Is it infected?!” She scrambled out of bed in a panic and almost slipped and smashed her head on the frame. 

“Ain’t infected. It’s fine,” he said calmly. 

Savigne nodded with relief, got up to retrieve and empty the chamber pot. Then she went to the lake to scrub her hands and for a while she sat there, fascinated with the droplets of blood welling up around her nails and running down her fingers. Eventually she ran her hands through the water until the bleeding stopped and went walked back to the tent and for the first time Arthur looked almost completely normal.

She walked in and smiled as the fog in her head lifted a little. He called her over and she sank into the chair across from him. He put out his hands, palms up so she would do the same. He gently grasped her hands and kissed her palms, eyes locked to hers. She was surprised at this and wondered if he was really okay, it was very uncharacteristic of him. Then he just sat there, holding her hands and looking at her for a long time. 

“What is it?” she asked, uneasy.

“Nothing,” he said softly. “I feel better.”

“Good.” she sighed with shaky breath. A long moment later: “Do you want me to make soup?”

He shook his head. “How ‘bout we clean up?”

Her heart exploded at the idea and she jumped up from her chair. “Yes! Let me go get water.”

He released her and she ran out with the buckets and soap and returned minutes later. He was already undressing and she tied the flap and helped him with it. She went to the soapy water bucket to wet the washcloth but he told her no, she needs to undress, too. So she did. Then he allowed her to wipe him clean and then wipe off the soapy water and help him to dress back up again in clean clothes. She did the same and sighed with pleasure at the feeling of clean clothes against her skin. 

“I feel better,” she smiled up to him. 

He nodded and took her hand, kissing her palm again and said he wants to sit outside for a bit in the fresh air. So she helped him drag the table and the chairs out and they sat outside in the hot breeze. He held her hand, his thumb brushing her palm as they watched the birds circle the island in the distance. She wondered if he saw the world different now, if he had gained a new set of eyes that painted mundane things with a brighter hue. Sobs tried to crawl out of her throat again and she swallowed them down. She felt fragile like a soap bubble, shivering at the slightest breeze, always at the verge of popping and dissolving into mindless sobs.

“Let’s go to bed,” he said. It was still light out but he sounded tired, so she went with him and lied down next to him again. He turned on his good side to gaze at her and she lied facing him.

“Go to sleep,” he said quietly and she closed her eyes, certain that she wouldn’t, but then she was on the ship again and heard the thump of the tentacle and woke up, gasping and trembling in the dark. 

“Hey,” he whispered as she sat up, confused and afraid. She looked around the tent bathed in moonlight and tried to see where it went. 

“Y’alright?”

“I just…” she gulped air, cold sweat on her nape, “I thought I heard…”

A long silence. “What’d you hear?”

“Nothing, it was a dream,” she mumbled, still dizzy with fear. 

She felt him shift to lie on his right side to face her. “What was yer dream?”

“Nothing.”

There was a long silence and she could tell he was looking at her in the dark.  

“Why won’ you tell me?”

“It’s stupid,” she hissed, turning her back to him. “It was a dream.”

“So if it’s stupid, just tell me.”

She rolled her eyes, annoyed, but then immediately felt guilty because he had almost died.

"You must feel better if you're back to bickering with me," she muttered.

"Ain't bickerin’. Yer evadin' the question, ‘m askin' again," he clarified, the stubborn mule that he was. 

"I'm not evading. It's just stupid, is all."

"And 'm sayin’ if it's stupid, no reason not to tell."

"Christ!" she hissed. But ultimately she was unable to deny him anything in his current state: “I was on a ship,” she mumbled with a low voice, hoping he didn’t hear her. 

But of course he did. “And?”

“It was empty. And dark. And it…smelled.”

“What’d you hear?” he said again after a long silence when she didn’t continue.

“The Kraken,” she whispered under her breath. In her mind’s eye, that giant tentacle, wet and slimy, gliding through the empty rooms, twisting to round the corners before finally bowing over the railing. She shuddered. 

“Probably from a book I read. Told you, it’s nothing.” she added with a lighter tone over her shoulder.

She watched the shadows move on the cart as the tent swayed in the summer breeze, feeling burnt out, singed. As if she had touched fire and it had left a permanent mark. He was the one who had wrestled death and yet she felt like she had wrestled something too, was still wrestling it but just like the Kraken, it was submerged, invisible, unknowable.

Suddenly she felt his hand on her shoulder. He hesitated when she flinched, then ignored the flinch and moved to drape his arm over her rib cage. It was his wounded arm and trembled slightly with the effort, so she turned around to face him and placed it back on his hip. “Don’t stretch it.”

“Come closer then,” he whispered and she moved to settle against his chest. He placed his hand on her waist and his chin on her head.

“It's over, Savigne," he said quietly. "Everything will be fine."

He didn't feel her folding in on herself and he didn't hear the latch of her armor and neither did he sense the lie when she said "I know."

Chapter Text

“What she doin’ out there?” Sadie sauntered to sit on the other chair as Arthur rolled his left shoulder, his eyes on Savigne. 

“Pretendin’ to fish,” was his dry retort. 

They sat watching Savigne on the boat, her back turned to them, her fishing pole limp in her hand. 

“You really scared her, huh?” Sadie said after a long while. 

“I scared her!? She scared me!” Arthur said sourly. “She looked half mad when I came to.”

“You used to this life, Arthur,” Sadie said gently, “She ain’t. I know, I know!” her palms shot up, “she knows what you do for a livin’. But knowin’ and seein’ are different.”

He glumly sipped at this coffee. It had almost been three weeks since he had arrived in camp injured, and physically he felt much better. But mentally he felt…on edge. Savigne just wasn’t the same. She was skittish and distant and every time he approached her she ran out like a fleeing doe with an excuse to be somewhere else. She worked later than usual, saying she had to make up for lost time, but he knew she was lying because when he rode for her the first time to see why she was late, he had spotted her sitting on a hill on the way to camp, just watching the vista, Cricket grazing lazily behind her. He had thought of riding up to her but then something had told him not to, so he had returned to camp and pretended he hadn’t seen her, pretended that he didn’t know she was delaying her arrival to camp. It bothered him immensely, all this pretending. It felt new between them. And wrong.

She ducked around him when he tried to embrace her and flinched away from his touch, rambling that she’s tired and exhausted and she just wants to sleep but he knew she was awake for hours, lying there, acting like she wasn’t. She damn near had a fit when on a Sunday he suggested that they ride to Valentine again to resume their usual routine because he missed it. So he had gone alone to deliver the dirty laundry and pick up the clean ones and it had made him unreasonably mad to tell Bill that she was just feeling sick this week. So mad that he had dived into the saloon after and drank half a bottle of whiskey before he managed to calm down and ride back to camp. 

And now she had this new trick – going out on the boat and just floating there like driftwood, only to come back hours later and rattle on about how clever the fish around here were and how she couldn’t catch a single one again. 

If he was a better man, he would tell her that this was what she should expect going forward if she stayed with him. This, and probably worse. If he was a good man, he would push her away for her own sake so she could go and live the life she deserved with someone who deserved her. Someone smarter and kinder than him; someone whose face wasn’t on bounty posters, someone not tied to others with biting manacles of need; a man who actually had a job and a career and money and most importantly, a future. 

But unfortunately for her, he wasn’t a good man. No, very far from it. 

He knew it was selfish, he knew it was wrong, but selfish and wrong had rarely given him pause before and that wasn’t going to change anytime soon. Hadn’t he known that it was selfish and wrong to ask her for the unimaginable for the simple kindness of returning Cricket? He sure as hell had. Yeah he had that internal debate over it, wrestled with his conscience for a little while. But in the end, being who he was, he’d seen that through, hadn’t he? Maybe if not for this long line of dominoes the first piece of which he had casually flicked his fingers at and flattened, she would have moved on and left camp a long time ago. Maybe she would be in Saint Denis working her dream job and eating dinner with a man like Dunham instead of staring listlessly at the horizon on a lake. 

But here she was, with him, and if he felt regret about it, it was a drop in the ocean of his want.

Because the thing that nobody told you about the good things in life when they urged you to pursue them was that they were addictive and they made everything that came before them merely poor imitations. They didn’t tell you that once you had them, you were doomed to live with hair raising fear of losing them. That you became twice as mean, thrice as selfish in your possessiveness of them. That the notion of returning to a state without them again only hardened your resolve to keep them. They talked about the hard fight to gain them. But here's the bit that they never told: you had to fight a lot harder, meaner, nastier to keep them. To her ill luck, it wasn’t his habit to back out when the fighting got hard, and he wasn’t about to start now.

Maybe there had been a time when she could have walked away and it would have amounted to just another entry in his journal, a fond memory, carefully pushed into its proper slot. Maybe after that first night, once the lust had died away. Maybe after he took her in that cabin. Or the day after. But that was too many crossroads ago now; a history so ancient, they might as well write a book about it. Now he was too deep into it and he wasn’t going to give her up and he wasn’t going to let her go. Not willingly and not without a fight. The fact that this meant she was stuck with the mess that was Arthur Morgan was of little consequence to him. Sure, he wished he was a better man, he wanted to be a better man for her, was going to be a better man for her, but he wasn’t going to unfist his hand and let her slip off for the grand gesture of doing right by her. What starving fool passed by a banquet? What kind of wretched poor gave away the treasure he stumbled on? Even he, idiot that he was, knew better than that.  

Besides, not like he had fooled her, was it? He hadn't pretended he was a nice man, a selfless man. From the first moment of collision when she had begged him in Valentine to many times after, he had shown her exactly what he was, who he was. And still, it was his shoulder she had tapped, him she had chosen and now, sadly for her, he had chosen her, too. Maybe that was a regrettable state of things for a better man, but for him it was simply good fortune and only a wasteful fool would let go of good fortune.

No, there was no regret. But as he watched her struggle to recover, there were fleeting moments of disgust. Disgust for himself because while he worried immensely about her hurt, her invisible injuries, her pain; what he worried about far more was that she would choose to untap his shoulder.

That was the full measure of his selfishness: Droplets of regret. Fleeting moments of disgust. All of them easily gusted away in the gales of his colossal, bottomless want and his biting hunger, the fangs of which were sharpened on years of need.

So no, he wasn't going to walk away. Only she could do that. But he knew full well that if she tried, he would aim to trip her, tangle her, stall her. He would tell himself that the option was there, that she could do it anytime if she wanted it enough, all the while shamelessly wrestling her away from it.  

Because, it bears repeating, he was not a good man.

He glanced at Sadie and struggled with the idea of talking to her. He wasn’t comfortable talking about his private life to anyone but Sadie wasn’t anyone. For one thing, he knew she had a soft spot for him ever since he had helped saving her from the O’Driscolls. And more importantly, she was a woman. 

He cleared his throat. “Don’ know what’s gotten into her. It’s like she’s…'fraid of me,” he muttered, gazing at Savigne’s back again. 

“She ain’t afraid of you. She afraid of herself,” Sadie offered.

“How d’ya mean?”

She gave him a hard look, but it softened after a moment. “Reckon she hasn’t been close to anyone much in years. And now she got reminded why that is.”

He took another sip and fumbled for a cigarette. “Not like I did it on purpose.”

“She knows that,” Sadie said, squinting into the bright sun. “She doesn’t blame you, Arthur.”

“Sure don’t feel like it,” he said around his cigarette.

“It ain’t about you, sugar. She’ll get there.” He noticed how her eyes glazed over a little and the line between Savigne and herself seemed blurred when she spoke again: “She’s just spooked, like the world was pulled from under her feet. Just needs solid ground again, needs her confidence back.”

He mumbled to himself, rolling his shoulder again. When she had been angry at him after Mary, that at least he had understood. He half wished she was angry at him again. He was worried and because he was worried, he was irritated. Then he worried that being irritated will push her off worse and it made him even more irritated. 

At long last she laid down her pole and grabbed the oars. Sadie saw it too and when she rapped on the table to get up and leave, he grunted in acknowledgement. 

He watched Savigne pull in and tie the boat, then trudge back towards the tent. She was a petite woman but she looked even slimmer now, her fitted clothes hanging a bit loose on her. He felt that worry nipping at his heels again. 

“No fish today,” she smiled at him, swiping her hair off her face as she came and sat on Sadie’s empty chair. “You okay?”

“Fine.”

“How’s the shoulder?”

“Fine.”

She leaned the pole against the tree and just gazed out into the water. She felt weird around him now and it unmoored her, set her adrift. She missed him terribly and then when she was close to him, all she could think of was running away. He was like fire in a blizzard: she needed him badly, desperately but if she stepped too close, he would burn her. So she danced around him, drawing closer, drifting further, stepping up and scurrying back. It was a journey, finding her way back to him. Nights spent either listening to his breathing behind her, afraid that it would stop or waking from nightmares of dark, churning waters. Days spent navigating through the hurt he tried to conceal and the frustration he wiped off his face.

But she knew in her heart that she was closer now. Just a little bit further and she would be home. Just a few more steps and she could sink back into the pit of the maelstrom that had spun her out, into the comfort of his embrace and his kiss and his touch. She just had to move her feet and inch a little closer.

“Wanna go out for dinner?” he asked suddenly.

She blinked with surprise. “Go out?”

“Either that or Pearson’s stew,” he muttered, “Anything’s gotta be better n’that.”

“His stew is not that bad,” she chuckled. “That’s your meanness you’re tasting.”

“Easy for you to say, you threw it up. The real banger is when it worms its way through you.”

She chortled and a grin crawled up his lips, his eyes childishly flicking up to her, pleased that he had made her laugh. 

“Food in saloons isn’t exactly great around here.”

Arthur palmed his beard for a moment. Then carefully: “I liked yer soup.”

She couldn’t help breaking into a smile at that. “Doubt you tasted it at all. You were pretty out of it.”

He shrugged. “I tasted just fine.”

She looked at him, weighing the truth of his words, a little surprised at the gentle compliment which wasn’t his style at all. 

“You want me to make something?”

Every time she had offered, he had declined. At first Savigne thought her chicken soup must have been atrocious. She was half mad when she cooked it, so it was entirely possible. But her gut told her it was deeper than that; that he simply didn’t like her cooking with the oven because, well, probably because it reminded him of that horrible week. She was aware of course that the experience had…tilted…her somewhat and Arthur had been uncomfortable seeing it. But Savigne thought that was ridiculous. Imagine thinking that getting shot and tortured and almost dying was nothing to be fazed about but her reaction to it was bizarre.

Nevertheless, it saddened her that the whole thing had tainted her oven and the plans she had made for it when she built it.  

So naturally she was stunned when he scratched his beard and offered: “Maybe.”

“How come?” 

He rolled his shoulder and took a sip from his coffee and volunteered: “Seeing as it was my birthday few days ago.”

She sat up in disbelief. “It was your birthday?”

He swatted a fly or pretended to. “Was born, wasn’ I? Bound to have a birthday.”

“Why didn’t you say something?”

A wave of the hand, mildly flustered now. “‘M a grown man. Ain’t a big deal.” When she gave him a long, hard look: “I barely remembered myself.” Defensive. “Given what happened.”

Her face softened. The man had almost died and it had been his birthday and for the last few weeks she had been treating him pretty much like the chamber pot. She felt her face heat up a little.

“Not saying we need to have a party or something, but it’s nice to celebrate the little things,” She said. He kept looking out to the water, squinting at the brightness of the day. “There are more than bare necessities in life,” she added, quietly. When he still didn’t respond after a few moments she said “I want to make something!” with more determination. “Would have to go to town for shopping, though. 

“Is it kaynard ala ruinayse?”

She froze and then broke into peals of laughter. “How do you remember that? Didn’t think you were listening.”

He grinned and she thought he looked fabulous with that twinkle in his eyes. “I listen.”

“No it’s not that. It’s something much better.”

She got up from her chair and he mirrored her.

“You sure you can-"

“‘M fine,” he exhaled, a bit frustrated. “Been doin’ nothin’ for weeks. Let’s go.”

She placed fire into the oven and opened the chimney, then they rode out to Rhodes together. It felt like forever since they rode together and she was surprised how much she had missed it. She watched him sway on Frost, his posture that came so easy to him as if he was born on a horse. The casual rolling of hips to adjust his balance, hands on the reins like an afterthought, back straight but not rigid. As a man, there was a certain magnificence to him that defied description. The ease with which he occupied time and space in the world, as if there was a hole in his shape and he just filled it flush to the hair, like he belonged right there and only he would do. She had seen the picture of a Japanese meal in a book once and of all things, he reminded her of that. The meal had been the epitome of perfection in understatement - ordinary things arranged simply, clean, in harmony; every piece plain and unimpressive alone but the sum of it stupendously beautiful.

He glanced at her for a moment and her heart quivered. How was it that he had such power over her even now, after seeing him in all manner of circumstances that would tarnish the glowing image of another man? Most people you coveted from afar and the gleam would fade the closer you got to them. But Arthur Morgan just remained sublime. Did she really stumble on a perfect man or was it her that gave him his shine?

"You okay?" he asked.

"Yeah. Why?"

He shrugged. "What's in yer head?"

"I was just thinking that you looked amazing."

A flicker of his eyes to see if she was teasing him. "Yeah, I feel better." He rolled his left shoulder, taking her meaning differently.

She could just let it be. Or she could approach another inch.

"No, I mean you look amazing."

He chuckled a little. "You sure y’okay? Sun cook yer head on that boat?" His gaze wandered the horizon to mask his fluster.

"How old are you now? Fifty five?” she said to ease his discomfort. 

He grinned and clicked his tongue. "Close enough."

They arrived at the store and despite trying to contain herself, Savigne got into a shopping frenzy. He tried to pay but she gave him a severe look and he grumbled that he was going to make an exception for today. That was one battle won. She also picked up a good red wine and a few bottles of beer. And then ground beef from the butcher about which he ceaselessly complained because he could just hunt fresh meat. Her response was a long, silent glare and when his grumbling petered out and ceased, she reminded him that he was injured and he “yes ma’am”ed with a sigh. That was the second triumph. By god, she could get used to this! On the way back they stopped at a farm and bought eggs, cheese, milk and butter. 

Then she borrowed Mr. Pearson’s cast iron tray and started to cook. He sat at the table and watched her, drinking his beer as the sun started to set and twilight bloomed. The air softened and cooled and fireflies sparked around them. 

She explained how this was a meal cooked back where she was from and how she had very dim memories of her mother making it. To her amazement he said that he had never eaten pasta before which excited her even more. She was always surrounded by people who ate a diversity of food, so it was thrilling to come across someone with such a virgin palate. 

She boiled the sheets of pasta in the pot she had placed on the chimney, then layered them with vegetables in tomato sauce and spices, meat and cheese. Finally she covered the tray with a tin sheet, checked the heat of the oven and pushed it in.

“Now we wait,” she said, uncorking the wine. “Won’t be too long.” She poured herself a glass and sat next to him, facing the water. People in camp were stirring and coming out for the night as the heat dissipated.

Half an hour later she was a little drunk but the lasagna was done. She took off the tin plate and let it cook a bit more, then took it out and let it cool. 

“How much longer?”

“Five minutes.”

“You said that five minutes ago.”

“It’s really hot, you’d burn your tongue and taste nothing.” She took another mouthful of wine. In the back of her head she told herself that she shouldn’t be drinking this much on an empty stomach but she felt relaxed and content for the first time in weeks and didn’t care. 

She plated a slice for him and a slice for herself, arranging the napkins and the cutlery on the table just so, then gestured for him to start and moved to her chair to sit down. 

Before she was even fully settled, Arthur had wolfed down half the lasagna on his plate. She watched with fascination as he chewed down the rest and took a swig from his beer. 

“You eat like you’re being chased. It’s not good for you, you know,” she said, astonished. He grunted in agreement.

She cut off a corner from hers to try as he walked over to cram two servings on his plate. The lasagna tasted good, she had to admit; creamy and hearty, the cheese buttery and the oregano sharp. And even though her memories of it were dim, it would always remind her of home. Not home as in a country but home as in family. 

She took another sip from her wine and sputtered at his half empty plate. “Slow down!” she said, bewildered and he made an effort to chew a little slower before he swallowed.

His dinner etiquette was atrocious – he was gulping down the meal as if he hadn’t eaten in a week and seemed to have no intention of talking through it. She sighed in frustration but was also inexplicably amused by it. 

True dark had set and she heard Javier’s guitar back in the camp. She finished her plate as he went back for another serving and she swiped a slice from the remaining lasagna before he could get his hands on it. “It’s for Jack.”

She walked over to camp to give it to Jack who was as happy as if he had just received a puppy. 

When she walked back, she was stumped to see that he had eaten what was left of the entire tray.  

“Did you like it?” she said as she sat back down, a bit nervous that he was going to be sick. 

“Ate the whole thing, didn’ I?”

She chuckled. “Or maybe you were just hungry,” she teased, taking another sip from her wine. 

He muttered a disagreement and fished out a cigarette. 

She wasn’t expecting ornery praise from Arthur Morgan, that would have been uncharacteristic, but no leftovers was a job well done in her book so she was satisfied. 

“I’m happy you liked it…hicc…” she said and slapped a palm over her mouth in horror as a lazy grin bloomed on his face.    

“You good, Savigne?”

“Please. I just had…hicc…two glasses.”

He hummed smugly and held up the bottle, swirling the content. It looked decidedly less. She watched him take a swig from the bottle, eyes dancing with amusement.

A long moment passed as she ignored his gaze on her. Then he leaned in and brushed her cheek. “You look drunk. Flushed.” She was relieved that for the first time in weeks, she didn’t find herself shying away from his touch.

“I’m not drunk,” she waived his hand away. 

He grinned and took another mouthful, watching her.

“What are you looking at?”

“Told ya, yer pretty when yer flustered.”

She rolled her eyes. “I think you’re drunk.”

Given his usual drinking habits she doubted a couple of beers would affect him, but he didn’t argue, just smoked his cigarette and looked on. 

“Ya know,” he said finally, “Should have come to yer tent and dragged you back to mine after that night in the woods. I regret not doin’ that every day.”

She almost choked on her wine. “I would have…hicc…cut your eye out!”

He smirked smugly as if to say she would have failed.  

“I bought a gun just to shoot you!”

He smirked again. “Would ‘ave missed anyway.”

She gave him a shocked look but he merely chuckled as he finished the bottle.

There was a moment of comfortable silence where they just sat in each other’s company after a day spent together in leisure and a good meal.

“Thought you loved me?” he said suddenly and she sputtered in bewilderment. 

“Where’d you get that idea?!”

He just gave her a look that she couldn’t hold. 

“You know you were delirious, right? Like…hicc…you had a fever and everything.” She gave him a side eye.

He hummed and scratched his beard. 

She downed the remainder of her wine, suddenly anxious and not knowing where to look. 

He didn’t say anything but that smug curve of his lips made her face heat up and prompted her to add: “You were dying and your brain was cooked from the fever.”

When she looked up, his eyes were so warm and so full of desire, it made her squirm in her chair. Another long moment of this and she huffed and rose to gather the dishes. 

He didn’t look drunk at all when he shot up to his feet and gripped the dishes out of her hand to throw them back on the table. Before she could object, he stepped up to embrace her. Surprised by his show of affection out in the open, she froze. 

The sigh he released into her neck was brimming with ache and longing, things he couldn’t put into words but tried to say anyway and somehow she understood them just fine. Her hands finally glided up his back, embracing him back and it tightened his arms around her shoulders. 

“Missed ya,” he whispered and kissed the junction of her jaw and ear as if she had finally arrived from a long journey. And in a way, she had, hadn't she? 

“I’m sorry,” she whispered with shaky breath, overcome by the familiarity of his scent and his touch and the kiss. “I think I was a little…lost.”

He pulled back a little, eyes clear and calm like open water. He cupped her face and surprised her again when he leaned in to kiss her, gentle and careful as if she were to bolt. She melted into him and, just like that, whatever rock had been sitting on her heart slid off and tumbled away.

“Let’s go to bed,” he said into her ear a while later.

“But…the dishes…” she managed, stupefied by how much lighter she felt, her pulse beating in her ears with her excitement and happiness.

“Later.”

He tugged at her arm and she almost stumbled on her chair, but he straightened her and guided her back to their tent. As soon as the flap came down, he rounded on her and kissed her again, more urgent and demanding now and she felt another wave of relief wash over her that she wasn’t afraid of intimacy anymore either. He had been injured but she herself had been injured, too, and they were both back on the way to recovery. 

His hands started to roam her body, gentle but hungry, and she pushed into him to walk him back to the bed. He smiled at her boldness, pleasantly surprised. She guided him to sit down on the bed and his arms immediately shot up to gather her in his lap but she swatted them away. He cocked an eyebrow, but allowed that, too. She sensed that he would allow her anything today despite his obvious eagerness. Which was good because she knew exactly what she wanted. She stepped closer, and ran her fingers through his hair and down his beard, then cupped his chin and kissed him. He hungrily leaned in and his hands caressed her back, pulling her between his legs. She was suddenly grateful for the wine and the liquid courage sloshing around in her veins. 

She unbuttoned his shirt and rolled it off his shoulders as she kissed his upturned face, her fingers gently playing on his cheeks and his ears. Then she sank down between his legs and slowly unbuttoned his trousers while he leaned down to kiss her again. She slapped away the hands that tried to unbutton her shirt and he sat back, a little impatient but succumbing to her will. She ran her hand down the hair on his chest, careful to avoid any remaining bruises. They had never foregone intimacy for this long before and he was clearly famished for it; his already very hard cock sprang into her hands as he sighed in contentment. 

She took his hands and placed them on the bed, giving him a pointed look to keep them there, then kissed a trail down his chest, staring from his heart that thudded with a fast pace against her lips, over a nipple, down the shivering stomach muscles. His breath hitched when she reached his pelvis and he stopped breathing entirely for a moment when she didn’t stop and kissed up his shaft. He was still like a statue, frozen with anticipation and almost jumped when she slowly licked the head. A sigh when she did it again, slower, with the flat of her tongue. She went back and licked slowly up the rigid shaft as she felt the muscles of his legs coiling with anticipation and then took his swollen warm head between her lips like an overripe plum - careful not to mar the skin. Her lips glided over the roundness, teeth pulled away, tongue relaxed until she had all of it in the warm cavity of her mouth, her lips closing around the shaft. He moaned lowly and a jolt shivered through his thighs.

Savigne had never done this for anyone before. She had heard of it, this thing from Europe, frowned upon in polite American society that was supposedly driving men wild and she had tsked as the more confident women at the steakhouse described it, and initially had dismissed it as a joke. It had sounded like a disgusting thing to do to be honest, especially for someone like her, someone not as bold in bed and obsessed with cleanliness. But then Arthur had come along and she had found herself wondering what it would be like, intrigued by the idea.

“D’ya even have a man?” Susan said, blowing out the smoke of her cigarette from the side of her mouth.

“Why wouldn’t I?” Savigne said defensively. Then, with dark satisfaction she thought how shocked Susan would be if she knew what she and Arthur were up to whenever they sneaked out of camp.

“I bet she does,” said Bertha, giving her a grin. “It’s the quiet ones you gotta watch out for.”

Susan snorted, watching the foot traffic on the street as she leaned back on the restaurant wall. “Well she definitely ain’t quiet, so there’s that. She can talk the paint off a wall.”

“Just tell me, Jesus, not like you’re disclosing state secrets here!” Savigne groaned.

This went right over Susan’s head but it did earn her a discerning look. “Wouldn’t want youto faint or nothin’” she drawled. “Ran out of smelling salts, ya know.”

Savigne rolled her eyes. “Guess you don’t know either, you’re just pretending.”

“Course I know,” she huffed, but a little offended now. Then, flicking the ash off her cigarette, “You just have ta practice, is all.”

“Practice?” was Savigne’s confused question.

That demure grin settled on Susan’s lips again as Bertha giggled on her other side. “That’s right. Or you’ll embarrass yerself real quick.”

“Practice with what?”

“Depends,” said Bertha conspirationally.

“On what?”

“On yer man,” Susan said coyly. Then, exasperated at Savigne’s stupified look: “There’s cucumbers. There’s eggplant. There’s radishes…” she trailed and watched Savigne’s flush creep up her neck with amusement. 

“For you…maybe take some o’them green beans back home with you tonight,” she chortled and Bertha snickered along.

“Very funny,” Savigne mumbled. “I think you’re both exaggerating anyway. If it was that good, it would be more…” she cleared her throat, “…popular.”

“Girl,” Susan sighed, crushing her cigarette butt against the wall. “You do this right, the man will take a bullet for ya, all I’m gonna say.”

“Sounds kind of an…unpleasant thing to do,” Savigne pursed her lips, ruminating on the logistics.

“Boy are you green,” Susan huffed and turned to the door. “Can’t wait for the day you fall on them bony knees and thank me.”

And now, as she took him into her mouth and ran her tongue around his swollen head and over his protruding veins, she found that Susan was right all along because suddenly she was overcome with a want, a need to do it and wondered why she had been disgusted at all - it felt absolutely amazing. 

He fisted the bed sheet and moaned her name, the word lilting as if it was a question, as if he was in disbelief of what she was doing and all the more excited for it. Frankly, she was a little in disbelief of her own boldness, too and a part of her was nervous that her inexperience would show, that she would make a fool of herself.

But the hiss of “Jesus” she received when she rolled her tongue around the head set her fears aside and gave her a boost of confidence. His legs shook a little as she started to move, each time taking a little more of him into her mouth and applying a gentle sucking motion. She curled her fingers around his shaft and started to pump him in tandem with the swallowing. His breathing was raspy and loud in the tent, the muscles in his thighs and his abdomen twitching as they resisted moving against her. His right hand  flew to hover over her head, then gripped his thigh in desperation, trying to adhere to her rules. She watched his fingers twitch with desperation and hook into his own flesh, felt his feet rise on his toes as he rumbled with pleasure.

She swallowed more of him, agonizingly slow, giving herself time to adjust, moving back when she felt overwhelmed and inching forward again when it passed, all the while pumping him with her hand, first upwards, then downwards. He moaned, almost whined a "fuck" as she twirled her tongue around the head and she knew she must be doing something right. The veins in his cock swelled up like ridge lines and he grew even bigger and harder in her mouth. She felt the gag reflex come up and concentrated on breathing through her nose and it passed as she took him deeper. He cursed again helplessly, his hips trembling when she increased her pace. She had thought that a man would smell unpleasant down there but he had a good, lightly musky scent and she was suddenly crazy for it. 

A waterfall of whispers and moans of “Christsakes”, “woman”, “Savigne, and “Jesus”, tumbled from his lips, a stark deviation from his usual quietness in expressing his pleasure and it drove her wild. The part of her that was shocked at her own promiscuity evaporated and she felt drunk not just on wine but also on power, the power of reducing a man of his strength and size to trembling mess above her simply by her touch and her tongue. Suddenly she felt his cock hit the back of her throat and he hissed another curse, panting wildly. She swallowed and he shuddered with ecstasy, fingers of his left hand worrying the bed cover, straining to remain where they were . 

He tried to get her attention with an urgent gasp of her name, and sooner than she thought, she tasted his precum in the back of her tongue as she moved up and down the shaft, nestling and rolling around the head like a piece of jewelry cushioned in velvet. The taste wasn’t unpleasant as she had assumed it would be, just an interesting flavor, somewhat salty, like something that had come out of the ocean. His legs started shaking with restraint. 

“Darlin’, he warned and she froze for a split second, her heart jumping at the word, then picked back up the rhythm. “I’m close.” His hips started involuntarily pulsing into her despite his resolve.

Instead of moving away she increased her pace and felt his cock hit the back of her throat with every seesawing motion, her nose touching his pubic hair before pulling back. He mewled helplessly and she smiled around his shaft, the ache in her jaw and the discomfort in her throat instantly forgotten. “Ya have to...you should...” he tried again, and she gripped his right hand without letting up and guided it to the back of her head. He growled at that, sounding feverish and delirious and his fingers immediately fisted her hair as if they were magnet to metal. He started to nudge her down on himself, hand stiff with need but the push remarkably careful.

Hard panting and a stutter of groans above her made her regret not seeing his face right now. She focused on tightening her lips and sucked harder, cheeks hallowing, knowing he was close. Her palms on his twitching stomach muscles glided around to gently caress and scratch his lower back, urging him to set the pace and angle, encouraging him to use her to his full desire. The last vestiges of his control fractured as he resigned himself to it, unable to hold back any longer as he started to thrust into her. She could tell that he was fighting himself to keep it gentle, his muttering reduced to indecipherable things until moments later he hit the back of her throat and pushed impossibly further, then suddenly stilled and barked a sharp gasp, hips pulsing uncontrollably until his movements softened and stopped completely. 

She carefully released his softening cock then and wiped off her mouth, suddenly feeling shy and unsure again. She glanced up at him and found him heaving to regain his breath, chin pressed against his chest, eyelids closed and fluttering. His face and torso were both flushed and slick with moisture. One hand was frozen, clutching the cover while the other remained tangled in her hair. He looked absolutely ravishing and she would have done it all over again right now if she could.

She gently untangled his fingers from her hair and rose to sit down next to him, pleased but also somewhat apprehensive. “You okay?” she whispered a moment later, her eyes on the bruises that stood out starker against his flushed skin, worried about his bellowing breath.

He nodded and swallowed before locking eyes with her. “‘M more…than fuckin’…okay,” was the raspy whisper.

She smiled a little self consciously and played with her fingers, thinking she must have done something right. Suddenly his hands were on her face, jerking her towards him to kiss her aggressively between breathless puffing. “Woman…” he mumbled against her lips “…where’d ya learn that?” There was awe in his voice but she thought she heard that tense tone hidden in the back and recognized the same jealousy in him that she felt when he did something that made her wail in ecstasy: the dark envy for whoever she had done this for before him.

“Heard about it,” she said, aiming for nonchalance, and gave him a side glance. There was something new in his eyes and she couldn’t quite place it.

“Your shoulder okay?” she said, suddenly feeling naked and exposed under that silent, intense gaze. 

“Fine,” he said dismissively and kissed her again, his tongue forcing his way between her lips. He leaned into her and roughly pushed her back on the bed and made to crawl on top of her, but froze in surprise when she managed to scrambled from under him and dance away. 

“The hell you goin’?”

“Dishes,” she said, pursing her lips. 

“Savigne…” the warning in his tone was impossible to miss and she bit back a grin at his frustration. “…that ain’t how it works. Come here.”

“We’re not doing anything with your shoulder like that,” she pushed back. He opened his mouth to object. “And that’s final.”

“Woman…” he started again, exasperated, rising to step off the bed. “My god damn shoulder is fine! Come h-”

“No!” she held up a finger and he stilled, blinking with disbelief.

"Won' need m'shoulder for what I have in mind," he growled with a predatory grin. 

"Even so, you could strain it." 

His grin faded into a withering look but she stood her ground. “I’m going to go and do the dishes. And you will get us water so we can wipe off. And then we will go to bed.”

“That so?” Something in his tone made her hesitate, but only for a moment.

She threw back her shoulders. “That so.”

“Ya sure about that?” he said with a low voice. His flush was fading and he looked incredibly handsome, standing there without a shirt, the buttons of his trousers undone, his hair mussed, eyes ablaze. For the first time since his injury, Arthur looked more like his true self again than he had in weeks. He stood fuller, taller, his shoulders held higher, legs planted with more weight and confidence; arms hanging slightly away from his body as if he was going to draw any moment. A part of her soared, knowing his healing was complete. 

But as the pendulum of power stood suspended at that moment of standstill at the furthest distance of the midpoint, not quiet yet tilting to return, another part of her was unwilling to let go of the thrall she had over him for weeks. Savigne wasn’t a naturally submissive person and had grown fond of the Arthur who had been ceaselessly, patiently trying to regain her affection instead of simply taking it. The Arthur who had been reluctant to push too hard too fast, who gave her space and time to find her way back to him instead of the one who had manacled her upper arm and dragged her to a forest. 

“Pretty sure.” she said, trying to look as confident as she could manage. 

He gave her a long look, then just squared his feet and nodded. “Fine.”

This surprised her immensely and she stared at him with narrowed eyes for a long moment. Then her power really went through her head because god damn, there was her third victory of the day! She grinned with euphoric confidence and strolled up to him, gave him a chaste kiss on the cheek and drawled a cocky “Happy birthday.”

He grabbed her upper arm as she attempted to walk away. “When?”

“When what?”

He stepped up to her without releasing her, looming over her. “When’s my shoulder fine?”

“I don’t know,” she said, a little uneasy. “When it’s healed.”

“Nah,” he said, eyes blazing. “Ya gotta make a call.”

“I…” she stammered, feeling the pendulum stir and start to fall back on its predestined path, an inevitable development given the momentum that was stored in it. He was who he was and there was a limit to how much she could get away with. “Maybe…when you can…hunt again?” Then she quickly added “Which you shouldn’t. It could just delay the healing.” 

He nodded, eyes boring into hers. “So this here is what’s gonna happen…” His fingers released her arm and drifted up to tuck strands of her hair behind an ear. “Tomorrow ‘m gonna go hunt a buck,” His voice was low and casual and she just blinked up at him, nervous. “Biggest buck y’ave seen…” his gaze shifted from her ear back to lock eyes with her again, “…gonna bring it back to camp. Carry it on here…” He pulled her fingers to his left shoulder and they stayed there as she clutched at him to counter her shaking knees. “…smack it on Pearson’s table…” his fingers glided over the shell of her ear to gently worry her lobe, “…then ‘m gonna walk over…and ya better be here, cause I’m gonna be in a mood if y’ain’t…” his fingers brushed her lips, eyes flicking up to hers to make sure she understood how serious he was. “…and I’m gonna fuck you till yer satisfied, and I mean really satisfied that m’shoulder is fine.”

She flinched a little and managed a wheeze of a “But…”

”Shhhh…” he gently stalled her objections, fingers casually following her blush crawling up her neck.

”After that, I will clean ya up, just as ya like it.” His palms ghosted over her breasts, curving around her buttocks, gliding around her waist. She swallowed, not sure if she owed her dizziness to the wine or the feral hunger in his eyes. “And then… I’m gonna fuck you some more.”

She just gaped at him, speechless.

He inched closer, leaning over, warm breath pluming on her ear. “I’ll do as I’m told today,” he whispered, “But tomorrow yer mine.” He placed a slow kiss on her beet red cheek. “So don’ make no plans for the day, little bird,” he sighed. Then his lips bowed slightly with mock speculation. “Or ride the one after.”

Savigne remembered to breathe when he turned around to button his trousers before he grabbed the buckets and exited the tent.

Chapter Text

She made fluffy oven pancakes with berries and honey in the large iron skillets she borrowed from Mr. Pearson and invited Hosea and Jack who brought their own chairs to join them at the table outside. Knowing Arthur’s daunting appetite she made two skillets and was surprised when Hosea and Jack fought him for the scraps. 

The hour was still early so she decided to read Jack from her book before they set off to Valentine for their Sunday routine. 

“I am not what you call a civilized man!” she quoted with a huff. “I have done with society entirely, for reasons which I alone have the right of appreciating. I do not, therefore, obey its laws, and I desire you never allude to them before me again!” She gave the page a dramatic flip. 

“Ya know, I kinda like this guy,” Arthur said from behind her. 

“He’s an entitled narcissist,” Savigne replied over her shoulder.

Arthur hummed, skeptical, and continued to clean his gun. 

“What’s a nar…see…sist?” Jack asked, working around the new word.  

“Someone who loves themselves too much,” she told him. 

“Hmmmm…” the boy thought about it for a minute. Then: “Why is he always so angry?”

Savigne closed the book on her thumb and thought on how to explain it. “He doesn’t like people and he doesn’t like civilization. He thinks people are stupid.”

Arthur grunted in agreement behind her. 

“He loves nature and he hates what people did to the ocean, what they do to nature.”

Another grunt of agreement. 

“He’s annoyed with Aronnax because they ended up on his vessel.”

“But they needed help.”

“Yes, well he doesn’t like people, remember? I think he’s annoyed that he was forced to help.”

“Hmmm…” It didn’t look like the reasoning made sense to Jack.

“Wait till we get to the sea monsters part,” she quipped. “I bet you’ll like that."

“You really gonna read that to him?” Arthur interjected.

“It’s the best part,” she said, glancing over her shoulder. 

He gave her a look. “Ain’t he kinda young for that?”

Savigne glanced back at Jack with a little more scrutiny. He did seem kind of young. But then again, fairy tales were scary and children a lot younger listened to wolves killing the grandma and donning her skin. “I was about his age when my parents read me this story.”

“When was this?”

“When we were on the ship coming over. In fact, this is theirs,” she said, holding up the tattered book.

He paused cleaning his gun. “Yer parents told you ‘bout sea monsters when you was on a ship?”

“In hindsight, probably wasn’t their best idea,” she mused, contemplative. 

“Ya think?” he huffed. Then lower: “Explains some things alrigh-”

“Excuse me?”

He rose from his chair to walk into the tent. Savigne picked back up the book and continued reading.

“Hey,” John called from outside. “Mind if I come in for a minute?”

He heard Arthur grunt his acceptance. 

John walked in, then stood rooted, eyes crawling around the tent as Arthur slotted his clean gun into his holster.

“It’s like you guys don’ even live here,” he said after a moment. 

“What d’ya mean?” Arthur asked, his back turned while he pulled his rifle from a crate.

John’s eyes went over the perfectly made bed, cover creaselessly tucked under the mattress, the crates aligned as if Savigne had measured the inches between them, clothes on the shelf folded neat and stiff, looking like they was never worn, boots clean and polished. No rags or dirty utensils or mugs with last week’s coffee in them or soiled underwear peeking from under the bed or empty bottles of whiskey lying about. He shifted on his feet and coughed a little, thinking he was the dirtiest thing in this tent. Even the rug on the ground looked like it was bought yesterday, colors all bright and whatnot, and he knew this old thing well, had carried it around plenty.

Arthur glanced at him as he assessed his rifle and read his mind. “Savigne likes things tidy.”

“I see that. She clean every week or somethin’?”

Arthur snorted. “Try every day. If I ain’t here, probably more.” Then: “You gonna talk or just stand there?”

John shifted some more. “Walk with me?”

Arthur left the rifle on the crate and joined him as they stalked towards the camp. 

“So…what’s with Jack always with you guys?” John managed finally.

“He ain’t comin’ over for me, tell ya that.”

“Well…I mean I ‘preciate it...”

“But?” Arthur nudged when he wouldn’t continue. They gravitated to the hay stacks and each hoisted one. 

“But it’s a little odd. He ain’t your child.”

Blue eyes flicked at him. “So you finally decided he’s yours?”

John adjusted the haystack on his shoulder and turned towards the horses. “I’m tryin’, okay?”

“Try harder,” Arthur huffed, getting ahead. 

He gave Arthur's back a glare of resentment. Fact is, he didn’t like much seeing Jack with them. Savigne doting over him with food was one thing, the boy needed to eat more, so there was that, but Arthur being part of it made his stomach sour. Was bad enough when Jack ran to him with a broken toy or to ask him to bring back a book or to ride Frost, but sometimes he would look over and find Arthur sitting there all big and proud, watching Savigne and Jack like they was his to provide and protect, like he was the father (which he wasn’t) and the husband (also wasn’t) and he was all into it, happy as a pig in shit and it bothered John something fierce. He grumbled about it to Abigail few times and she just walked up to him like a demon, eyes blazing, poking that bony finger into his chest, hissing to leave Arthur be, that maybe he was missing Eliza and Isaac, did he ever think of that, the fool that he was? John told her woman, of course he had thought of that, what kind of man did she think he was, but truthfully he hadn’t and it made him a little ashamed.

Course he remembered that time when Arthur returned after his last visit to them, looking all wrong, like he was sick with madness but play acting he was sane, scaring John with how all calm and quiet he was on the outside but his eyes on fire. Mary broke his heart but a heart grew back, even if it was small and bitter, but what happened to Eliza and Isaac killed his hope and well that was different, wasn’t it? He had been a chatty, charming smartass of a young man but after that he barely spoke for a year and drank enough to kill a small town and became mean just to be mean and walked about like he itched to kill something just to watch it die. Even Dutch and Hosea let him be and were hush hush around him, uneasy and nervous because a heat came off of him like he had been to the pits of Hell and brought it all back with him.

To be honest, it had surprised John, since when they was around Arthur rarely visited them and acted like they was the furthest thing from his mind, like he was happy they was far while he was here robbing and hustling. When he awkwardly managed to ask Hosea one time how come he was as he was, Hosea said it was the curse of man to only appreciate things when they was gone and that he should look at Arthur long and hard so he wouldn’t suffer the same because a wise man learned from the mistake of others.

Abigail joined the gang shortly after and John watched from the shadows as she was like moth to a flame with Arthur as if she was drawn to his anger and pain, fluttering around him as he swatted her away for a long time until he didn’t once or twice and John still hadn’t forgiven him for that weakness years later although he had been told his ears off that it was nothing but plain comfort and long before Abigail chose him. Sure, they wasn’t a thing back then and Arthur wasn’t the only one but he was the one that hurt because he was the one he envied.

Then Abigail got with John and everything was mighty fine under the sun cause he loved her like he loved no other and a part of him gloated with pride that it was him she had chosen. Truth be told, when Arthur didn’t even blink at the news and acted like he didn’t care one way or the other, he was somewhat offended which confused him, making him lie awake at night thinking why that was and he couldn’t decide if he would be more offended if Arthur gave a damn or didn’t and the question drove him wild for a little while but eventually he made his peace with it.

Then Abigail got pregnant and he told her if she was smart she wouldn’t keep it but, but if she was smart she wouldn't have told him to finish in her to begin with, would she? No, sir. Wasn't really a surprise when she decided she would keep it and suddenly all of it wasn’t god damn fun anymore because the bigger Abigail got, the meaner and fiercer she became, as if it was pure fury growing in her belly. She nagged and pecked at him day in day out, but what made it worse was how Arthur noticed her again and started to look at her like he had just met her and she was the only one he wasn’t rough with and that really did a number on John. They started arguing and Abigail swore up and down she was loyal and only loved him and John knew she was true, but he hated how she enjoyed Arthur being all polite with her and ask her if she needed anything and how she was feeling and whatnot, enjoyed it as if she was the flame now and he was the moth.

Then Jack came and things got worse, if you can believe it, because John was all stumped and burnt out from months of nagging and instead of peace what does a man get - he gets to put up with not just one but now two people wailing at him. And what do you know, Uncle Arthur was there learning how to hold Jack and how to feed him and showed up with clothes and food and toys, looking more a man and less of a beast every day. Worse still, Arthur used up the little tenderness and patience he had with Jack and Abigail, so when it was time for John all he had left was that disapproving look he had perfected just for him and a rough grab of his lapels to smack him over the head and tell him to grow up and be a man to his family and do this and do that but not like this and not that like that, breathing down his neck every damn day.

Imagine folks being surprised he ran! Of course he ran; he ran because no man can live like that without going mad and he didn’t even feel guilty thinking they’ll just shack up and leave him be, some days burning with the envy of it and other days cooling with the relief of it. He got a year of freedom out of it and peace of mind where he drifted this way and that and enjoyed just being a man on his own, no nagging woman, no wailing kid, no rough big brother and no thoughts of how to provide for something he never signed up for. He had told Abigail that he didn't want the kid, hadn't he? But then she had gone and done what she always did - meaning, whatever she wanted, and now he was stuck with something he had never agreed on. She had been begging him to leave the life and Dutch had been scolding him that the gang was family and one never left family, so John defiantly rode out and did both.

A year passed and he ran out of money and he ran out of purpose and found himself dreaming of her before things went sideways, when they was together and just the two of them and she was fun and eager and loved to screw his brains out. He missed her smell and he missed her face and he also missed the gang and he started to become curious what they were up to now that he was gone. He wondered if she had moved into his tent or him into hers and what they were doing when Jack was in his crib and it made him all hot and bothered to think on it. So he tracked them down and made his way back.

Imagine his surprise when he came back and they was the opposite of shacked up, each doing their own thing and both mad at him for going, acting like they had nothing to do with it. For a while he had exactly as he wanted - Abigail and Jack trailing him, happy he was back, and Arthur being a cold fish in his corner again, sour that he had left and sour that he had returned. Things started to fall into their place, he was feeling better now that Abigail was doing less nagging so he wouldn't run off again and Jack was grown and doing less wailing and Arthur was keeping his distance and he had to admit, it was kind of nice. For once he was on top and he enjoyed that Arthur was all pissed how Dutch, Hosea, Abigail and the rest of them took him back with little to no grumbling and he enjoyed having something Arthur never managed: his own family.

But good things rarely last and so it was that Savigne came to camp.  

She was around for a good while, darting in and out of camp, looking a bit put off and scared of all of them before John even noticed her. But then one day he saw Arthur's eyes flick at her differently and he thought to himself, ain't no way these two was gonna happen. If he was a betting man he would have bet good money on it never happening and he would have lost it all, because just a few months after that somehow the mean bastard was putting up a new tent and suddenly Abigail was happy and Savigne was happy and Arthur was happy and even Jack was happy but guess who wasn’t happy - that’s right: John Marston. Because Arthur had outmatched him. Again. 

And here they was: Jack was chasing after Uncle Arthur again, Abigail wouldn’t let him say a bad word about him on account of all he had done for her and Savigne treated him like he was one of them damn knights in the stupid books Jack couldn't stop flapping his gums about. Doting on him as if he wasn’t some low life, mean, rough outlaw with nothing to his name like they all was, but a hero who had gone battled a dragon for her. Cooking his food and cleaning his tent and acting like he was gone days when he strolled in hours later. Imagine that without gagging. Worst of all, you would expect Arthur to roll his eyes and run from all that nonsense, on account of having done so before, but there goes your betting money again, because this time he fucking loved it.

“You goin’ fishing with him. Savigne feedin’ him fancy food. ‘M asking why, simple,” he muttered darkly.

“I just did as Abigail asked,” the other man said, a bit defensive. “Got a problem with that, go talk to her.” After they dropped down the hay, he added: “And you got a problem with Savigne, she right there.”

“Ain’t no talking to Abigail without losin’ a chunk of flesh,” he grumbled. “And I ain’t gonna talk to Savigne, she gonna be upset,” John mumbled, disgruntled. Naturally he didn’t add the part where he knew what would happen if Savigne got upset, since he had seen up close what happened to Bill that night. Arthur telling him to go talk to Savigne, what a hoot, as if John didn’t know that the moment her face fell just a little Arthur would come find him like he was the wrath of God himself.

“So you just wanna talk to me when I ain’t even doin’ nothin’.” Annoyed. 

“‘M just aimin’ to understand what yer trying to do, is all.”

“Ain’t tryin’ nothin’,” was the dismissive reply.

“Well…” John grumbled, upset but unable to explain why he was upset. It was true that he avoided time with Jack but now that Jack was hanging around Arthur, he wasn’t happy about that, either. He shifted on his feet again. “Ya know...” he said casually, and in his head he knew he shouldn’t but that low wicked whisper in his ear told him differently, “...maybe everyone pretendin' they happy I’m back, but sometimes I ain’t so sure. Maybe was better I didn’ and you three carried on without me.”

Arthur stilled for a moment, then gave him a frosty look. “The hell you mean by that?”

Shut up you fool, he thought but what he said was “Heard you took good care of Abigail and Jack when I was gone. Fact, I hear it all day, every day.”

Somehow the frosty look in Arthur’s eyes became even frostier, if such a thing was even possible. “This better be yer clumsy way of sayin’ thanks for doin’ right by you and yours,” was the mildly spoken threat.

John shrugged, suddenly feeling careless. This whole thing with Jack was doing a number on him and for once he wasn’t in the mood to let sleeping dogs lie. “Sure. Thanks. Guess you didn’ mind much is what ‘m sayin'.”

“That’s rich. Comin' back and tellin’ a man he shouldn’ have done a good thing for you. Yer somethin’ else, ain’t you?”

“Only it never stopped, did it? Abigail still runnin' to you for everythin’. Jack still trailin’ your shadow.”

“Wouldn’ happen if you stepped up, would it?”

“I done step up.” He ignored Arthur’s snort. “You never step down.”

“Listen here,” Arthur growled and his tone did set John’s heart aflutter like he was a wiry kid again, about to get his head punched in. “Don’ know what’s gotten into you, but I have half a mind to give you a good correctin’. Comin' to pout at me with that bullshit when I only did what’s right. I ain’t tryin’ nothin’. Don’ want your kid and don’ want your woman, you know damn well I got my own thing.”

“Savigne know?”

Arthur’s head whipped around at that and it took everything he got not to jump back a step.

“Know what, Marston?”

He shrugged again, amazed how far he had taken it, amazed at his own stupidity. If Abigail was here she would claw his eye out for digging old graves and Arthur looked at him like he meant to do worse, but neither ever slipped on his boots, did they? Maybe he wouldn’t be sour about it if they didn’t give him reason to be, would he?

“I know yer dumb but even you ain’t so dumb to come at me for somethin’ six years past that was nothin’ then and is less than nothin’ now. Unless yer trying to piss me off and let me tell ya, if that was yer intent, you done well did it,” Arthur turned to him, one elbow on the fence, the other hand loose between them like a viper, ready to strike.

“Was a simple question, why you gettin' pissed?” John muttered.

“Was no simple question.” Arthur’s heavy hand was suddenly on the back of his neck, twisting his head so hard that he heard the bones creak when it was swiveled towards the tent in the distance. “Yer eyes still workin’, ain’t they?” Arthur’s lips were right by his ear, growling low. “Might be yer confused. That right there is my woman.” The fingers on his neck turned steely. “I only got the one, and you damn well know she wouldn’ be there if I wan’ed another.” He tried to turn his head but the grip wouldn’t allow it, so he just morosely watched Savigne reading to Jack. “I get that wolves ate half yer brain but ‘m countin’ on the other half to make sense of it.”

“‘M only askin’ if she-”

The grip got so tight, he winced despite himself. “I ain’t thinkin' of Abigail like that in years and I know she feel the same. You lookin’ to dig up some old bone to growl over, have at it. But if you tryin’ to rope Savigne into it when she done nothin’ but kindness to you and yer folks, ‘m gonna make you wish them wolves chewed on you for days.”

He tried to nod and couldn’t quite manage but Arthur felt it and eased his hold just a little. Savigne looked up from her book, eyes scanning the camp and found them standing all brotherly, Arthur’s hand on his back, and went back to her reading.

“I ain’t never said that and I would never do that,” John muttered, offended that Arthur thought of him so low.

“Good. You was askin’ all manner of stupid shit, had to make sure we understandin' each other, Marston.”

“Yeah,” he swallowed, cowed and sullen both.

That meaty hand slipped off and his muscles sang, promising a bruising headache tonight. He massaged the tender flesh and gave a side eye to the other man who smoked on. The way he got all huffy about her when John didn’t even say nothing, would never say nothing! As if she was no grown woman with her own job in the city, managed to find her way all by herself through life and wasn’t living in an outlaw camp for half a year now, but some dainty flower that needs trembling over.

A while back Abigail had told him that Arthur was sweet on her, and John had snorted in disbelief. Sure, the man was no monster or nothing and it was impossible to miss how his gaze softened around her, but there was miles between that and the slack jawed worship in his eyes that he used to have with Mary. But since that talk John had witnessed a whole manner of things:

First Sean had predicted that in a week or two Arthur would take longer and longer breaks from camp because he’d feel stuffy on account of sharing his tent with a woman because everyone knew women nagged. He said if you ever want to make a man run all you had to do is stuff him in a tent with a woman and truth be told, John knew where he was coming from, so it seemed likely. But months passed and Arthur still rarely left camp when he didn’t need to and if he did, he came back as soon as he could. Arthur was Arthur so it was all subtle but John knew him now decades and he saw that spring to his step when he walked to his tent and this one time when he came in real late John saw him take off his belt and boots outside so he wouldn’t wake her and it was so unlike Arthur that John had gaped staring, then quickly looked away as if he had seen something private and intimate, worse than seeing them fucking. He made a beeline to his tent and lied awake thinking on it, didn’t understand why he got so worked up about it, thought about asking Abigail but knew he wouldn’t because it felt wrong to tell.

Then Tilly had said now that two spiky porcupines were living together, the fighting was inevitable. But if they was fighting, it wasn’t the sort of fighting he knew - the kind of fighting him and Abigail got into or the kind Dutch and Molly did, or the kind Karen and Sean did. No mugs flew through the air, there was no shrieking and stomping and airing dirty laundry, no yelling hurtful things or throwing stuff into the lake. Savigne had a hot head, that was easy to see, and Arthur had a mean temper so you would think they be brimstone and fire but it was surprisingly quiet over there. This mystified John because other than Hosea and Bessie he’d never seen the like of it and Hosea and Bessie was as mild has plain toast.

Then Bill had spat that Arthur was going soft. He was glum about losing his poker hand to Micah and all cocky because Arthur wasn’t in hearing distance and John had thought he might have a point with all the hugging and whatnot.

But came a day they was robbing a train and Arthur was looking at this ice box, head tilted all contemplative. Bill snorted, understanding his thinking and told him he was losing his grip, thinking of a woman on a job and Arthur had given him this casual flick of the eyes and asked ‘What’s that, now?’ so calmly that John had winced, knowing what was coming Bill’s way.

“Y’ain’t on a shopping trip for the missus,” Bill guffawed, going through the pockets of the trembling man slouched on the ground. “This here is a job, you remember what that even is?”

Arthur had straightened up a little, eyes set on Bill, giving him his full attention and John thought there was stupid and then there was Bill and tried to intervene:

“Can we grab what we need and go or you two gonna squabble like old women?”

This earned him his own share of that blue gaze and he knew his mistake and turned around, pretending to rough up the head cook some more by shaking his collar.

“You got somethin’ to say, ‘m right here,” Arthur drawled casually to Bill who rose from his haunches and stepped to him.

“Said it, didn’ I?”

“Must have missed it, say it again,” was Arthur's easy response and John hissed a cuss.

“I said…” Bill stepped closer still, and John hoped that the waft of whiskey that drifted his way meant Bill would be spared some of the pain at least on account of being numb. Unlike Bill, Arthur wasn’t drunk, hadn’t been drunk in a long time and at least if he was drunk Bill might have had a crying chance here because, see, while he was formidable and mean as a drunk, sober Arthur was a lot faster and he knew where his betting money would go. 

“That woman…” Bill started but got no further as the lightning fast punch he received on the mouth made the kitchen staff flinch and moan on his behalf. 

Bill stumbled back, arms pinwheeling to regain his balance which wasn’t easy as lumbering and surprised as he was. When he looked up Arthur was inches from his face. “Try again,” was the cool suggestion.

Bill was confused for a moment, but went straight into anger and swung his right fist but it was easily avoided and that earned him a punch in the gut that sounded so hefty, the head chef in front of John shakily glided to sit on the floor as if he was the one who was gonna shit blood tomorrow.

This took the air out of Bill’s lungs and he wheezed, scrambling to rise to his knees. He was a big man, almost as big as Arthur, but was hauled by his lapels to his feet as if he was a child in one moment and his head smashed on the steel counter the next, hard enough to make the cutlery and bowls on it jump and dance.

“Come on now!” John yelped and that’s as far as he would go, because ain’t no way he was gonna even attempt to do more than that.

A moan came from Bill and he dug his hands into the edge of the counter, slowly straightened up on shaky arms as he pushed back on Arthur's hand pressing down on his head. But one of his stiff arms was swiped away and with the sudden loss of balance and Arthur’s aiding grip on the back of his skull, his head crunched on the counter again and John thought this was one of them times having a thick skull may have saved Bill’s life.

The kitchen staff flattened themselves against the walls and melted into the furniture and John too stepped away a little so as not to get hurt in the fallout because now Arthur really went to work. He pulled Bill upright by his hair, swiveled him around, held him by a torn lapel and started punching him in the face. John was actually amazed Bill was still on his feet because an ordinary man would have passed out after two. The smacking of meat on meat rang in the small kitchen car of the train and he fervently hoped Dutch would show up because otherwise they were about to lose another gang member real soon but to his surprise Arthur stopped at long last and shook Bill by his shirt.

“You wanna try again?”

Bill’s head lolled a little and when he opened his mouth, there was another collective moan when a tooth slid out of that bloody cavity on a string of blood and clattered to the floor. A slur of indecipherable words came next and when Arthur didn’t move, a muffled, broken but clear “No.”

“See, yer not as dumb as you look,” was Arthur’s soothing compliment. He released Bill’s lapels but stepped even closer and manacled his neck with his left hand, pushing his face up to force him to look at him. Bill had an impressive neck, thick as a young girl’s waist but Arthur’s big hand had no problem circling his throat and throttling him to get his attention.

“Now,” Arthur said frostily and somehow that sounded scarier than yelling, “you gonna take that ice box…” he jabbed his head towards it and they all turned their heads to look, kitchen staff too, as if to make sure it was the right one and there was no mix up even though it was the only one there, “…and bring it to camp.”

Bill chocked a little and mumbled gibberish so John spoke on his behalf, hoping Arthur had gotten the crazy bit out of his system by now. “That thing looks heavy as shit, how he gonna get that to the cart?”

He swallowed when Arthur shifted to him because lo and behold, the crazy bit still sat snug right in those blue eyes.

“Glad yer volunteerin’ to help,” Arthur said, all calm and cool, and John found his own head bobbing in eager agreement.

“Don’ care how you do it, but that ice box better be at my tent tonight,” he said dismissively and John was grateful when he turned to Bill again who stood there swaying, looking like he might not even remember his own name at this point. “I want this fool to carry it over.” He inched close enough to Bill’s ruined face, daring him to make eye contact like a big mean alpha wolf and whatever brain mass Bill had left did the smart thinking and avoided doing so. “And there better be no dent or scratch on it, or ‘m gonna be pissed and y’ain’t seen me pissed yet.”

A moment passed. “We clear?”

When Bill nodded as best as he could against that giant spider sitting on his throat, Arthur threw him against the wall hard enough to clatter and unhook the pans hanging behind him, straightened his jacket lapels as if Bill ever gotten a hold of them and crinkled them, and walked out.

Somehow the kitchen immediately felt a lot bigger.

John tried helping Bill lift the damn thing but Bill could barely stand straight, so he barked at the staff to carry it out of the train, knowing they looked like a unfunny joke, come to rob a train and leaving with a god damn ice box. Staff jumped up and did as told even though he put his guns away and John had a feeling it wasn’t the fear of him that set fire under their asses.

They lifted it extra careful into the back of the horse cart and John told to them they better hold their tongues or they knew what was coming for them and they clucked and scattered away with haste like a flock of chicken. He angrily pushed Bill into the cart and the man collapsed with a thud as if he was furniture too, and John took the reins and yelled for the horses to move because everyone else had left and he felt alone and defenseless.

When they arrived at camp he slapped Bill awake and told him to do as told and to his credit Bill ambled off the cart and nodded, toned down, all big and subdued like a teddy bear. Well…a very bloody teddy bear. They gently pushed the box into a wheelbarrow covered with a blanket so it won’t scratch and he pulled up the left handle and Bill did the other and they stumbled through camp while Dutch and Hosea and everyone looked at them in amazement. When they got close enough they saw Arthur sitting on a chair, watching the water and smoking like he had just woken up, all relaxed and easy and Savigne gaping at them in shock. 

When Arthur’s eyes glided to his hands holding up the handle of the wheelbarrow John stopped and told Bill “Good luck” and stepped back. The other man took over both handles and to John’s fascination managed to get going, but took the same long way a drunk butterfly would, looping about left and right and drawing circles once or twice.

Bill arrived by the table at long last, panting and coughing blood to a smoking Arthur and a speechless Savigne, took off a hat he lost long ago and told Savigne in babbling gibberish that he found an ice box for her. As if the things grew on trees. She looked at the box and up at his bloody face and at the box again. 

“Ain’t that nice?” Arthur drawled, “You shouldn’ ‘ave.”

She rose and walked up to Bill and winced. “What happened to your…”

Bill waved it away, shifting on his feet, playing with that invisible hat. “Was drunk…” he heaved. “…fell…” he contemplated his boots for a moment, “…a lot.”

She blinked at him and then at John and Arthur, confused, and all three men looked at her like this was a perfectly normal thing and happened all the time.

“I mean, thank you,” she stammered, “but…” Then she looked at the box again and stepped up to glide her fingers over it and the joy that ran over her face made a child out of her for a moment. “Why, this is really nice!” she smiled a big smile at Bill.

“Where you wan’it?” Arthur jumped from his chair, pleased at her happiness.

She flustered, unsure, and ran around a bit to find the perfect spot while the men stood around patiently and Bill coughed and swayed a little more. When she found a spot Arthur slapped Bill’s back so hard, the man almost keeled into the ice box, and said “You heard her.”

Bill wheeled over the box and attempted to lift it but he was done for the night, hell, he was done for the week and Arthur stood right there, arms crossed, enjoying his struggle like he was watching a boxing match that was going in his favor. John stepped up to help but the ray of ice that was shot his way froze his feet.

This went on for a while until Savigne grabbed Bill’s shoulder to halt him and she looked like she was starting to get upset watching him suffer. Arthur’s expression tightened at that and he gently tapped her shoulder so she would move away and he helped lift the box - meaning, he carried the damn thing by himself and Bill clung to it to remain upright. When the box was placed Savigne thanked Bill profusely and the big man looked up and met Arthur’s unblinking gaze over her shoulder and mumbled she’s welcome and good morning even though it was late night, put on his invisible hat and turned on his feet to stumble in the direction of the lake. 

John scrambled after him, hooked Bill’s arm over his shoulder and course corrected and half carried him back to camp but not before he saw Savigne get all jittery with joy, jump up and down whispering “Can you believe it?!!” and embrace Arthur in delight while Arthur grumpily untangled himself from her to go sit back down, groaning that it was a stupid box with ice in it and nothing to chirp about and that Bill must have been piss drunk to do as he did.

That’s the thing these new guys didn’t understand but John saw clear as day then: Just cause Arthur was nice to Savigne or Jack, it don’t mean he was soft. He was still the man who could shoot you in the gut and sit across, watching you die real slow while he smoked, all unhurried and easy, enjoying it like it was a sunrise, then when it was done get up and go about his day as if you was a whole pile of nothing. 

After dropping Bill off in Grimshaw’s care he walked over to his tent and told Abigail that Sean and Tilly and Bill were all fools and she had the measure of it all along.

Abigail smirked as if to say 'course I did' and, to his amazement, gave him a peck on the cheek which somehow made the whole thing worth the trouble.

There was a long silence as Arthur took another puff of his cigarette before he finally drawled in a calmer voice: “Now…you gonna tell me what’s eatin' at you instead of barkin' nonsense?”

It irked him how eagerly he jumped at a chance to make peace with Arthur, so they was brothers again. “This all comes so easy to you,” he said, happy that they was moving on, pulling out a cigarette himself. “I can’t even talk to Abigail without her chewin’ me out. I can’t talk to Jack before he runs off. Sometimes I don’t know if I wanna, but when I do, just can’t seem to do it right.” 

“What you askin’ me for?” Arthur snorted.

“Well you must be doin’ somethin’ right. Seein things are ok over there…” he jabbed his head towards Arthur’s tent. “…and Jack can’t get enough of ya.”

“Ain’t doin’ nothin’. Just got lucky, is all.”

“Lucky how?”

“Found someone who puts up with my bullshit.” Arthur shrugged. “That’s the gist of it ain’t it - you find someone who puts up with yer bullshit and you put up with their bullshit. Then you just do that every day.”

There was a short silence as they leaned on the fence and watched the camp. “And you already have, Marston.”

John grimaced at the suggestion. “That’s the thing. She don’.”

Arthur gave him a long look. “That woman puttin’ up with yer bullshit for years. Longer than Savigne or anyone else would, tell ya that.”

He was right of course but John just shrugged morosely. 

“You know what yer problem is? What’s different with you and I?” Arthur said suddenly, eyes hard. “She put up with yer bullshit plenty. But you don’ see it.”

“I see it,” John said but Arthur just shook his head.

“Nah ya don’. Maybe cause you never lost it.” Things got a bit more somber than John liked, with all the unsaid stuff and whatnot like Eliza and Isaac and Mary hanging between them and John shifted uneasily on his feet. “She puttin' up with it so long, you got used to it. You say hard things, she forgive you. You run off, she take you back. Yer the young guy who don' appreciate beein' young cause you never been old.”

A while later Arthur gave him an odd look. Then scratched his beard and looked around camp. “John…” he said finally, his voice lower, “…you find the gang changed?”

John looked around too and shrugged. “No? What’s changed?”

Arthur palmed his beard. “Dutch changed. He playin’ hard and fast now. Ever since Blackwater, I see somethin’ different in’im. And this thing with the two families, playing sheriff? It ain’t just robbin’ trains and banks no more.” He squinted toward Dutch’s tent. “O’Driscolls chasin’ us. Pinkertons chasin’ us. Cornwall chasin’ us. We used to get in and get out, nothin’ personal. Now it all seem personal.” A moment later, with perceptible anger: “Micah always whisperin’ in his ear.”

John nodded and scratched his beard. “I can see yer meanin’. But maybe it’s you that changed?”

“How so?”

“Don’ know. You smell better?” He shifted on his feet at the dry look he received. “Maybe the view’s different from over there…” he jabbed his cigarette at Arthur’s tent.

Arthur thought on this for a while. “Might be yer right,” he said finally. “Maybe I changed. But it don' seem the same to me.”

“So what are you sayin’?”

“‘M sayin’,” Arthur gave him a glance, “This here ain’t safe no more. You got yer family in line of fire. And I got Savigne to think on.”

John nodded, even though he didn’t quite understand what Arthur meant. Sure, the stakes were higher now, but not like robbing folk was ever safe. Besides, where else were they supposed to be?

“If somethin’ happens to you or me, what d’ya reckon will happen to’em?” the older man asked.

John shrugged. “Dutch will take care of them I guess?”

Those blue eyes gave him a long look. “Ya sure ‘bout that?”

This surprised him. “Sure he will. We family, ain’t we?”

This seemed to disappoint Arthur as he spat sideways and took another drag. “All ‘m sayin’ is, you got a family of yer own. You gotta think on that.”

“You thinkin’ on that?”

Arthur shrugged. “Maybe I am.”

“Don’t tell me you thinkin’ on leavin’.”

He didn’t get an answer. 

John shook his head with bitter amusement. “Then why’d you get mad at me for doin’ the same?”

“Ain’t the same, you left Abigail and Jack,” the other man said, a hint of anger in his tone. 

“Okay, I get that. But all that talk up and down ‘bout loyalty?”

This seemed to make Arthur somewhat uncomfortable. He didn’t answer a long time, just smoked his cigarette and looked around camp and John did the same. 

“Maybe yer right,” he said finally, sounding displeased and crushing his cigarette butt under his heel. “But I tell you what – somethin’ happens to me, you will take care of Savigne. And somethin’ happens to you, you know I will do the same for yer people.”

“Sure,” John said. He didn’t really understand where Arthur was coming from with all this but that didn’t need saying between them. 

Arthur gave him a smack on the shoulder. “Good. And now 'm gonna tell Savigne she can’t feed Jack no more.”

His head shot up. “You can’t do that.”

“Was what you asked, no?”

“No. I just asked why.”

“You did sound unhappy ‘bout it.”

John scratched his beard, annoyed. “I was just curios, is all.”

Arthur hummed and stepped around the horses to head back. 

“I’m serious, don’ say nothing,” John called behind him, somewhat flustered. 

Arthur just kept walking and raised a hand to say he heard.

Chapter Text

She was back in Antoine’s preparing her station for the day when she spotted some of the women whispering in a tight group. She glided over, curious. They gave her an inscrutable look when she arrived. 

“What’s going on?”

There was a pause, then one of them, Ruth, conceded: “Rachel left.”

Savigne blinked with surprise. “Why?”

Ruth shrugged but her face said she knew well enough. 

She thought on the last time she had seen Rachel. She had looked somewhat glum. But then she had been glum for so long that it was hard to tell if something new had happened. “She didn’t look happy,” she said slowly, almost to herself. “Did she have problems back at home?”

There was an exchange of looks between the women but so quick, she couldn’t read it. 

“Does Chef Ecco know?” Savigne asked suddenly.

This caused an awkward pause which made her uneasy. God, she hated always being in the dark about these things and she usually was the last one to find out.

“You obviously know more, why won’t you tell me?”

“Sorry, we have better things to do than gossip,” Myrtle huffed and Savigne gave her a sheepish look. As if they hadn’t been gossiping a minute ago.

“You’ll find out soon enough,” Ruth quipped as they glided to their own stations and for whatever reason, this made her even more uneasy. 

She grumbled with annoyance and returned to her station but soon forgot all about it. 

That evening she decided to make Arthur venison stew. She bought some herbs du Provence and vegetables in Saint Denis and headed back to camp. Arthur wasn't there yet, so she got about preparing the clay oven by placing embers in it. 

When she saw Molly lazily saunter over, she knew it was bad news. There was a letter in her hand. She knew Molly didn’t like her even though they had barely spoken and could only assume that it was because of the animosity between herself and Dutch.

"Hi there," Savigne said when she arrived and plastered a smile on her face. "How are you?"

"Good, thank you.” The other woman watched Savigne shove embers into the oven for a while, flipping the envelope back and forth in her hand.

"Anything I can help you with?" she asked when she was done, wiping her hands on her apron. 

Molly held up the envelope, stepped closer and held it out. "For Arthur."

Something in her face reminded Savigne of a cat that had lapped up a whole bowl of cream.

"You can leave it on the table” she offered and refused to take it.

Molly's face fell, but only a bit. She placed the letter with extra care on the table, meticulously aligned the corners, gave Savigne a long last look, then sauntered back towards the camp. 

Of course she looked, who wouldn’t have? The envelope had Mary's name on it and her face went white. Then it went red. She walked over and took the embers out of the oven.

Not too long after that Arthur arrived as she was carrying her stuff to the boat and walked over to her. 

"What you doin'?"

"Getting on a boat," she quipped, throwing in her bag and her book.

"Now?" He glanced at the setting sun and scratched his beard.

"Now."

"Kinda late ain't it?"

"Are you my father?"

That threw him off a bit and he paused to give her a more scrutinizing look. "Everything okay Savigne?"

"Sure."

He adjusted his hat and stepped closer. "Y’ain’t stayin' for dinner?"

"What dinner?" she asked with dark satisfaction.

She felt his attention on her as she settled in the boat and grabbed the oars, facing him. He had that narrow eyed look that he had when he was trying to figure out what gears were turning in her head.

"By the way, you have a letter,” she called as she pushed off. 

She started to row as she watched him walk back to the table. He picked up the envelope and glanced back at her but she quickly looked away, acting as nonchalant as possible.

He stalked back to the makeshift pier. "You gonna be long?"

"Yup," she called back. 

He palmed his beard, annoyed. Good. 

"Don' go far." 

"I go wherever I want."

This frustrated him and she thoroughly enjoyed his frustration, watching him take off his hat, run a hand through his hair and put it back on. 

"Come back. ‘M goin' with."

You wish, she thought to herself. Outwardly she shook her head and hitched her shoulders. "I prefer not."

She saw that spark of irritation in his eyes even though they were a good distance apart at this point and it tasted like the best meal she had in weeks. Ever since they had started sharing a tent, he had gotten more and more bold in assuming this bullshit role he had made up in his head. Acting like she needed his permission or approval to do something. Like he was her keeper or her father or her husband. Just a few days ago she had been talking about how she hoped she would soon qualify for the dinner shift because the more complicated dishes were served for dinner. And what had been his first question? That’s right, what time her shift would end.

"I don’t know…”

He gave her a dry look. “Course you know.”

"Well the kitchen closes at ten.”

A sharp turn of the head. “Scuse me?”

"It’s Saint Denis, people eat out late,” she said defensively, somewhat annoyed why she felt defensive in the first place. When he kept looking at her with that unblinking gaze: “I’ll have you know, I’m not the only woman working there.”

"How many of’em ride to Rhodes after?”

She deftly tried to skirt around this. “The dinner shift is very prestigious. Everyone is trying to-”

“You gonna answer or you don’ know that either?” The sarcasm was palpable but she ignored it.

“It would be an important advancement,” she explained patiently, all the while in the back of her head wondering why she explained at all.

“Sure, you could advance yer way real quick to gettin’ robbed or killed.”

“I mean realistically, what are the odds…”

“High,” he interjected, testy. “Realistically very high.” He straightened in his chair at her huff of disagreement and pushed his drink away. Oh boy, here we go, thought Savigne. Pushing the drink away was always a sign he was getting ready for a sermon. “You know how many folks I stuff behind bars 'round here every week?” Jesus was it annoying to watch Arthur buy into his own bullshit! As if he was actually the sheriff and not hustling as one. “You know what these men would do to a lone woman ridin’ around after dark?”

“I’m not stupid,” she growled, “I know it’s a little dangerous.”

“A little?” was the amazed retort.

“Okay, it’s dangerous. But my career…”

“Gonna be a short one if you do this.”

She took a deep breath to calm herself and all it did was provide more oxygen for her anger. She opened her mouth to argue but he was faster:

“Eeaaaasssyyy!"

As if she was a god damn horse!

Then, while she was still blinking in disbelief at that, a gruff "Fine."

As if she needed his permission!

What drove Savigne wild was that she could never tell if he worked her up intentionally or he really was as dense as he pretended to be. He loved teasing her into a state and acting all dumb about it. But he also had a big - scratch that - overgrown sense of protectiveness, so either option was plausible.

“I’ll pick you up. And days I can’t, I’ll find someone who will. John or Charles or Sadie.”

"That's your solution?" she managed, dumbfounded. "Asking people to pick me up like picking up a child from school?”

He gave her a long look. “You know,” he finally said with a hard voice, “‘M happy you recovered from what happened with them O’Driscolls, I truly am. But seems to me, maybe you recovered a little too well.”

"W-what?!”

“I don' like bringin' it up, Savigne, trust me. But yer mad if you think I’m gonna let you ride ‘round alone at that hour.”

"Let me?” she sputtered, “Let me?”

He waved her argument away with that casual ‘it is what it is’ hand wave. The 'I don't make the rules' wave. The 'I'm just looking out for you', or 'it's for your own good' wave. Before she could work herself up further:

“Y'ask Luther?”

“Why would I ask Luther? He’s not my keeper,” she mumbled, crossing her arms and leaning back in her chair.

He gave her crossed arms a long look. Times like this she hated how easily he read her. “What he say?”

She glanced away, working her jaw muscles. Of course she had told Luther and his reaction had been to yell at her that she was an idiot and she better come to her senses real quick so loudly, her startled look had earned her a humiliating grin from Susan. "Luther is not the North Star,” she deflected.

He hummed to himself. “Listen here,” he continued. “People you work with stay in Saint Denis. Y’aint. You wanna cook dinner? Fine. But y’aint riding home alone. Go talk to anyone you want - talk to Sadie, talk to Abigail, to Hosea. Hell, do a poll in Saint Denis if you want and see what folks say. I ain’t wrong on this.”

Deep down she knew he wasn’t wrong. But it irked her all the same, to be told she can or can’t do something. Because it came with a whole bunch of other things. Like the fact that he had unilaterally cancelled her agreement with Dutch and shifted her position from an individual to suddenly his own extension, in other words his woman. Then there was the warning look he gave her when she went a little overboard with the cleaning. Also the way he slapped his money down for the Sunday bath week after week and the way Bill accepted it as if she wasn’t standing right fucking there with her own. He was an old fashioned man, she understood that and it required some adjusting on her behalf. Her former partners had all been deferential to her, easily accepting when she had put her foot down on something. This concept was completely foreign to Arthur. Every time she put her foot down he just, proverbially speaking, lifted her and moved her to wherever he thought she should go.

Even all that was somewhat acceptable once you made peace with the fact that it was his nature or his weird way of expressing his affection for her. But here was the thing that turned her stomach sour: he was old fashioned when it came to all that, but not so much in receiving letters from a god damn former flame, was he? The hypocrisy! The memory of Mary's letter sparked another gust of fire in her.

"Savigne..." Arthur had somehow finessed the art of saying her name with a particular tinge of warning and it only spurred her to row faster. 

“Good night!" she yelled, feeling bold with the body of water between them.

He blinked. "What dy'a mean?"

"Don't wait up for me!"

His surprise gave her immense satisfaction and a boost of energy as she worked the oars with a frenzy. 

"Woman!”

She smiled a big smile and gave him an exaggerated wave and then grabbed the oars again. 

When that didn’t deter her either: “You light yer lantern so I see it!” She kept rowing. “Ya hear?!”

She brought a hand to her ear to indicate she couldn’t. 

She saw him mutter to himself in frustration. Her exaggerated smile fell from her face and she clenched her jaw and rowed harder. He idled at the edge of the water for a bit longer, then walked back to the tent.

The letter remained on the table.

She was so incensed, she actually managed to row out all the way to the island that she had been watching and wondering about for months and barely noticed until the hull of the boat hit the sandbar. She yelped in surprise and almost lost one of the oars from the impact but managed to hold on to it. Then she climbed out and pushed the boat higher. It was heavier out of the water and she struggled with it for a while but succeeded in the end. She thought on it for a moment and then pushed the boat into some bushes so it wasn’t standing there all obvious for someone to come and take it. After that she looked back at the shore and marveled how small and distant the campfire looked from here. 

Good. 

She retrieved her bag and lantern from the boat and looked around. The sun had set and it was twilight now and for a moment she was afraid. Then she took a deep breath and stalked inland. 

“Please don't let there be men, please don't let there be men,” she mumbled to herself, cautiously walking about. “Or snakes.” Then: “Same god damn thing!”

The island was fairly small and a little raised on the edge that faced the camp and had a gentle incline on the other side which meant that if she built a fire on that side, she would be well hidden from curious folks heading out from the mainland. To her delight, there were no signs of men or snakes. Just a lot of birds and toads which was fine by her. Then she spotted the ruins of a vessel and was immediately excited. An adventure! Maybe there was a treasure!

She wandered towards it, cautious, and watched it from a distance for a while. The moon came out, full and bright. She placed her stuff carefully on the ground, lighted her lantern and slowly walked towards it, an eye on the reeds for snakes and another towards the shadows under the trees for strangers. When she was convinced that she was completely alone, a sense of peace washed over her and she realized she hadn't been really alone anywhere for a long time. It was both unnerving and incredibly euphoric. Sure, she was alone at times on her ride to camp or back, but that wasn't the same - there were always people about, even if at a distance. This was a different kind of alone and she liked it. It was like she could hear herself think clearly out here. 

She climbed around the ship, careful not to step on anything sharp or rotten. To her delight she found an old hat but it was dirty so she just took it with her to wash. Then she found a crate packed with bottles that looked like rum. Most were smashed but two were unharmed and she cackled victoriously when she found the seals unbroken. She took the bottles and the hat over to where her stuff was and thought on what to do. 

She set up her fishing pole, took off her skirt and walked towards the shore on the side of the island that faced away from the mainland. The incline was gentle so she managed to walk in quite a bit until the water got to her thighs, and set to fishing. She knew that this close to the shore she wasn't going to get anything big but that suited her just fine. Savigne was actually very good at fishing, something she didn't disclose to Arthur for obvious reasons and within ten minutes she had a bite. She whooped with joy and started to reel it in. The fish gave her a good fight but she managed to get it to the shore and it was a decent size. The second one took a bit longer but she had all the time in the world and waited patiently, watching the stars and listening to the trees swishing behind her. 

She took both fish back to where her stuff was and left them there, put her skirt back on and stalked around to find dry wood. This proved to be harder than she thought - a lot of the twigs on the ground were wet but she found that some of the lower, finer branches of the trees had dried out better in the breeze, so she chopped them off with her knife and returned. She dug out the sand to make a hole to protect the fire, broke the twigs and placed them in there, then tried to light it. After several unsuccessful attempts, she stalked back and looked for dried grass which was even harder to find. Then she had an idea and went back to her makeshift camp, shaved some of the thicker branches to their dry cores, opened the rum bottle, spilled some of it carefully on the twigs and shavings both and tried again. The fire whooshed up and this time burned hot enough to take. She patiently fed it more twigs.

When she was satisfied that the fire wouldn’t go out, she took the fish to the shore to clean, took out the guts and peeled off the bones, used the knife to scrap off the scales, then opened them like a butterfly and brought them back to place on the sticks she had placed on top of the hole like a grill. Satisfied, she took a sip of the rum. It was thick and sweet and she smiled in delight. 

She sat there sipping the rum and waiting for the fish to cook, listening to the hooting of passing ships and watching the distant lights of Saint Denis flicker. The breeze was gentle but the nights were chillier now. At least the fire was warm and the rum was buzzing in her. 

She tasted the fish and it was a bit plain without salt, but still rich and delectable because all that rowing had made her hungry and hunger was the best ingredient. 

The Moon was bright but not enough to read by so she lighted her lantern again, pulled out her book and settled on her stomach. Unlike Savigne's current mood, the story had finally taken a happy turn and she was looking forward to reading the long awaited marriage of Jane and Mr Rochester.

Mr. Rochester, as his lips unclosed to ask, "Wilt thou have this woman for thy wedded wife?" — when a distinct and near voice said —

"The marriage cannot go on: I declare the existence of an impediment."

Savigne gasped. "What now?" she muttered as she quickly flipped the page.

The clergyman looked up at the speaker and stood mute; the clerk did the same; Mr. Rochester moved slightly, as if an earthquake had rolled under his feet: taking a firmer footing, and not turning his head or eyes, he said, "Proceed."

Profound silence fell when he had uttered that word, with deep but low intonation. Presently Mr. Wood said —

"I cannot proceed without some investigation into what has been asserted, and evidence of its truth or falsehood."

"The ceremony is quite broken off," subjoined the voice behind us. "I am in a condition to prove my allegation: an insuperable impediment to this marriage exists."

She moaned with disdain and attempted to take another swig from the rum. To her surprise, the bottle was empty. She threw it aside and hastily opened the second one to take a gulp.

"Something fishy going on here,” she muttered, adjusting herself on her stomach. 

Mr. Rochester heard, but heeded not: he stood stubborn and rigid, making no movement but to possess himself of my hand. What a hot and strong grasp he had! and how like quarried marble was his pale, firm, massive front at this moment! How his eye shone, still watchful, and yet wild beneath!

Mr. Wood seemed at a loss. "What is the nature of the impediment?" he asked. "Perhaps it may be got over — explained away?"

"Hardly," was the answer. "I have called it insuperable, and I speak advisedly."

The speaker came forward and leaned on the rails. He continued, uttering each word distinctly, calmly, steadily, but not loudly —

"It simply consists in the existence of a previous marriage. Mr. Rochester has a wife now living."

"Excuse me?!!” she screamed. A moment later: "I knew it! I so knew it!"

She banged the open book face down to the ground and scrambled to sit up, taking another mouthful of rum.

"The man...hicc...is married! Shameless! But whaddaya expect? That’s all they god damn do!” She was disgusted by Mr. Rochester and even more disgusted by the fact that she had been charmed by this mysterious, gloomy, gruff man throughout the entire book. She should have been rooting for poor Jane who had done nothing wrong but was now stood up at the altar, humiliated on her wedding day! “They lead you on and you follow like blind, dumb cattle...hicc...and meanwhile...they aaallllll have a sidepiece!” she babbled to herself. “Snakes, all of them! Every single one-”

"The hell you doin’ here!?"

She jumped up so fast, she fell right back on her ass and froze, hand on heart, blinking stupidly at Arthur who stood at a distance, wet from the waist down, dripping water and looking sublimely pissed. 

His eyes crawled over her, her camp, the fire, the empty bottle of rum and then to the one in her hand. 

Savigne's heart was thudding like it was going to fly out of her chest. She took a few gulps of air and shrieked "You scared me, god damn it!" And then: "...hicc..."

His face scrunched into deeper anger at that and she tried not to feel intimidated when he started to walk towards her, eyes burning. 

"WOMAN!" he boomed and it made her jump despite herself, "D'ya know the time?!”

“W-why are you here?” she managed and scurried back a little like a crab.

“Take a GOD DAMN wild guess!” he roared. She flinched at that. Who knew his voice could get so loud? He stomped closer and gave her an intense glare. “You drunk?” was his incredulous hiss of a question.

The question and the way it was asked immediately reminded her why she was here to begin with. It took some effort and a long moment of focusing, but despite her heart beating so fast that she felt breathless and dizzy, she managed a nonchalant tone: "Did you need something?”

He blinked at her like she had said it in French. "Did I..." he growled and stalked closer, now steps away, looking at her like he meant to strangle her. Savigne at last felt her fear color with anger and thanked the rum. 

"Because if you don't...hicc...you can paddle right back to camp!” she spat. “Goodbye!”

She scrambled to sit up with her back turned to him, book in her lap and rum at hand. She opened the page to continue reading as if he wasn't there, noticed the book was upside down, corrected it, then just sat staring at the swaying letters, trying to calm down the thudding of her heart.

"Listen here,” he growled, the undercurrent of fury palpable.

"I'm...” she managed to swallow the hiccup, “...busy.” 

"Doin' the hell what!?" he barked. 

"Reading about you!" she yelled back and gave him a baleful look over her shoulder. 

Arthur took a deep rattled sigh of a breath and ran his hands over his face, trying to put a lid on his ire. Moments passed as she listened to his attempts to calm down behind her while she pretended to read. For the most part she was pettily amused that he was so worked up. But a dim part of her drunk brain was also stupefied by her boldness. His temper was infamous enough for her to have heard about it before she had even spoken a single word to this man. It was the reason people gossiped behind his back instead of talking to his face. He had never hurt her and she still didn’t think that he would, but at the same time she had never really been the reason and sole target of it, had she? What if he was one of those men who killed their loved ones in a blind rage, oblivious to what they were doing or incapable of controlling it?

"Savigne..." she took a deft breath of relief at the softer tone. He came to stand in front of her. "Darlin'..." She rolled her eyes at that and made sure he saw it. "It's late."

"And?"

"And..." his voice shook a little with the struggle to remain calm, "…we should go home."

"I'm good here.” She turned a page. 

From the corner of her eye she saw him palming his beard. He sunk down to his haunches in front of her, trying to make eye contact. She took a swig from the rum and turned another page. His chin hit his chest with frustration when he failed and he gave out a long breath through his nose.

"Hey," he pawed at her book to get her attention. She swiped it away. 

"Told you not to...hicc...wait on me!"

He gave her a long look. 

"Was worried," he explained as if he was reasoning with a child. “Couldn’ see yer lantern, thought you drowned. Been lookin’ for hours, almost didn’ see the boat in the dark…”

How very ‘poor me’, she thought, starting to get incensed again. "Well you found me. I'm fine. You can leave."

To her frustration, he sat down instead, and turned to face the water, elbows resting on his knees. 

"I said-"

"Ain't leavin' without you,” was the curt response.

When she huffed he looked at her and the anger he was trying to control was dancing in his eyes. What the hell was he angry about? She wasn’t a child on curfew!

A moment later he held out his hand, pointing at the rum. "Give it here."

"Why?" she snapped, suspicious, and cradled it against her chest. 

"Need it," he grumbled through clenched teeth.

She hesitated, then smacked it into his waiting hand. He took a swig. 

“Where’d you find this?”

Her arm shot out towards the ruins of the ship, her eyes glued to the page. 

They sat quietly for a few minutes and the harsh peaks of his breathing mellowed as he looked about the island and drank the rum. She realized she hadn't turned pages in a while and quickly turned two.   

"You caught a fish." he broke the silence at last, sounding a lot calmer.

"Two," she corrected haughtily. 

He hummed, contemplative, and she knew he was thinking of all those weeks she had paddled out to sit on a boat and come back without a single fish. She turned another page and flicked up her eyes to his profile to find him remarkably calmer.

"What you readin'?"

"A book about a deceptive man."

To her amazement his lips twitched and he idly took another mouthful. 

A long moment passed as she tried to focus on the page but the letters were swaying and blinking about which made her dizzy. 

"What he do?" he asked casually. The nerve!

"He proposed to a woman and then...hicc...wedding day she finds out he's already married!" 

"Hmmm..."

"So he just strung her along," she spat, eyes shifting between him and the page to gauge his reaction

He drank again, watching the stars, bizarrely relaxed now.

"Got anything to say to that?"

"No ma'am," he sighed and drank some more. He was starting to look amused which she didn’t like at all.

"Give it back," she reached for the rum and he snatched it away with eerie speed. 

"Think you had enough."

"Don't..." she hissed, making to get up, "…tell me..." she tilted, shot out an arm to support herself, threw the book away, "…what to...DO!"

She jumped at him to wrestle the rum out of his hand but one moment he was there, the next she was flopping about on the sand like a fish out of water and he was standing out of reach, chuckling. 

That did it for Savigne, she was instantly furious. She lunged at him again and he just stepped away. She almost kissed the ground that time but somehow managed to stay upright. The world spun. He took a long drink from the bottle. "It's mine, give it back!" she yowled. He snickered, outright god damn snickered in response! She ran up to him and he just sidestepped her hands like a butterfly and calmly took another sip as she screamed with outrage.

Then she was dizzy and nauseous and sunk to her knees, crawled a few steps away, moaned and threw up. 

He drank the bottle dry, threw it away with a flick of his wrist and said "‘M takin' you home."

"Don't you...ugh..." she felt more coming up and gulped it down. "…dare..touch me, you brute!"

Next thing she knew she was lifted through the air and was carried in his arms like a child, his hands locking in her arms and legs tightly so she wouldn't flail about. She screamed with fury and bucked like a horse. 

"You don' calm down, ‘m puttin’ you on m'shoulder. That’ll make you more sick."

She bucked harder.

"You gonna behave?"

"Fucking no!" she wailed. "Let me go!"

He sighed "Okay then," and changed direction to walk towards the shore she had fished at earlier.

"Stop!" she said with horror.

He walked into the water, boots and all. 

"Stopstopstop!" She bucked wilder.

He continued walking unperturbed.

"LEMMEGO!"

A moment later she was in the water, sputtering in shock. She found the ground and rose up on trembling legs, looking at her wet clothes in disbelief. She lifted the hair from her face and glared up at him, ready for murder. 

“The hell do you think you’re doing??!!”

“Puttin’ out a fire, that’s what,” he said, completely unfazed by her fury. 

“I’m going to kill you!”

He swatted her arms away with casual boredom, said “I warned ya,” and threw her over his left shoulder with humiliating ease to start back towards her camp. 

She screeched like a banshee and bucked but the arm around her legs was like iron. She threw punches on his back but the only reaction she got was a few meaty pats on her butt with a drawl of “Don’ hurt yerself now.” It reignited her zeal to free her legs while he chuckled with dark amusement at the puny fight she was putting up. He shuffled sand into the smoldering hole with a boot as she swayed like a pendulum on his back, moaning with the nausea, bent down to pick up her book with his free hand, added it to her bag with the other articles and proceeded to walk to the shore the boat was on. 

“You son of…hicc…let me down this minute!” she yelped, unable to inflict damage to the hard muscles of his back.

“Ain’t safe here,” was his response. “A wildcat’s loose on this island.”

Unable to grab anything else, she clawed at his pants.

“You keep that up, ‘m gonna oblige and take’em off,” he drawled suggestively and she flinched away.

“I’m going to be sick!” she burped in panic, “I’m going to…throw up on you!”

“Go ahead. Tomorrow’s Sunday,” he said coolly.

She bucked some more but felt herself run out of steam and moaned in frustration.

When they arrived at the shore she saw his beached boat next to hers. It was damaged and had taken in water. He had probably jumped into the first abandoned one he could find at the shore. The world swam ominously as he turned her over to place her gently in the boat and she scrambled to the side to throw up again. By the time she was done, he had transferred his lantern, bucket and balled up dry jacket from the damaged boat and was pushing the vessel she was sitting in back into water. Then he jumped in himself and grabbed the oars, turned it around and started rowing. 

She dipped her hand into the water swishing by and washed her mouth, then just sat there, quietly pouting. All that heaving and retching and bucking had taken the strength out of her. Now she was just sick, wet, dirty and cold and sensed a wave of despondency approaching. She felt his eyes on her and turned to sit with her back to him, eyeing the island. 

A few moments later the boat wobbled and she felt his jacket draped on her. He tapped her shoulders before he returned to the oars. 

The minutes passed in silence and she thought of throwing his jacket into the river. It was his favorite jacket so that would definitely hurt, but she was cold so she just clung to it tighter and felt morose. 

“You calm yet?”

She didn’t answer. 

“Gonna ignore me?”

She sniffed and looked out to the retreating island. 

“‘M touched yer jealous...”

“I’m not jealous!” she spat. 

She could feel his smugness behind her, proud about his own ingenuity in getting a response.   

“But…” he went on as if she hadn’t said anything, “…I told ya before, me and Mary are done.”

“You’re just penpals now I guess!”

“Can’t keep her from writin’ can I?”

“Why would she write?”

“Guessin’ the usual: she needs something.”

“Guessing?”

“Didn’ read it,” he said dismissively.

She shot him a look over her shoulder to assess his honesty and he stared right back. “How come?” was her skeptical question.

“Spent the evenin’ in a damn boat I had to empty every five minutes so I can row 'round lookin’ for my mad woman,” he growled.

She huffed and looked ahead again. “Told you not to…”

“Don’ care what you told, was worried sick.”

Another silence settled between them and she broke it when she couldn't keep the question in any longer: "Will you do it? Whatever favor she needs."

"You want me to?"

"Not my call," she shrugged, tipping up her chin, gazing across the water. 

“Course it’s yer call,” he said, annoyed. "I tell ya what I want all the time. Why can’t you?” She didn’t answer and after a minute of silence he stopped rowing.

She glared at him over her shoulder. “What'd you stop for? I’m freezing.”

“Ya know Savigne,” he sighed, sitting back a little. “Everyone I know wants somethin’ from me.” He jabbed his head towards the camp at the shore. “Folks ask me for somethin' all day, every day. ‘Cept you.” They swayed on that dark water under the glare of the Moon, looking at each other. She was half angry and half annoyed that he was getting into a chatty mood after he had dunked her in the lake, when she was sitting here wet and cold. “You never ask me for anythin’ and, ain’t gonna lie, long time I liked that you didn’.” 

“Okay?” she nudged when he didn’t continue.

“Now I want you to,” he set his jaw.

She blinked at him, confused. “Why?”

“Cause yer my woman,” he said simply. “So you should.”

She rolled her eyes. “I don’t understand these old fashioned-”

“I mean to say, we’re together,” he impatiently circumvented her deflection. “Ain’t we?”

“Sure,” she said, starting to feel uneasy about where this was going. Arthur was intuitive and he had a bloodhound’s nose for her insecurities.

“Then tell me what you want.”

“Why?” she huffed, crossing her arms.

“So I can do it,” he explained patiently.

“You should do whatever you want,” was her dismissive response.

There was a long moment of silence. "Maybe doin’ what you want is what I want, you ever think on that?"

“Christ on a cross!” she sighed. “Can we please-”

“No. Tell me what you want.”

“Damn you’re stubborn!” She glared at him over her shoulder. “I don’t like telling people what to do.”

“Good thing I ain’t 'people' then,” he said mildly.

She knew what he wanted - he wanted her to claim him same way he claimed her. To take possession of him as he did of her. Because there were no half measures with Arthur Morgan and he did personal bonds with the same simple, no nonsense attitude that he did everything else. It was hard for her, crossing this invisible barrier, this line that divided an ordinary affair from a relationship; that set apart a partnership where your person made demands of you and you made demands of them. But for him that decision was already made, naturally and easily. He didn’t feel the need to bookmark it with an admission or a special occasion or a gift - somewhere along the way he had accepted her far more intimately and completely than she had accepted him and now he was asking her to cross that border, too.

“Woman, how hard is it to tell yer man what you want?”

“I’m working on it,” she grumbled. "Some of us aren't used to bossing people about, you know."

He gave her a dry look but didn't comment for a while. Then, when she started to shiver:

“This gonna happen tonight, or…?”

“Fine,” she spat. “I don’t want you to do any more favors for her. There.”

She waited for a smug or gloating response from behind her but all he said was “Done,” before he picked up the oars again.

“I don’t get it,” she said as she watched him row over her shoulder, mystified by how pleased he looked. “I thought you were sick of people asking things of you?”

“Y’aint ‘people’,” was his simple counter.

“I hope I don’t get pneumonia because you had to make a stupid point,” she hissed.

When he finally pulled in and tied off the boat, the camp was silent and empty. He picked up her bag and held out his hand. She ignored it but then the boat wobbled and she almost lost her balance and he grabbed her arm to steady her and pull her out. He softened his grip but didn’t let go of her arm as he walked her to the tent. 

He had dropped the outer, thicker canvas and the tent was snug and warm inside and she was glad for it. He sealed the flap before he came over to help her undress. She tried to slap his hands away but he slapped hers in return and unbuttoned her shirt. “‘M tired,” he said. “You wanna fight, we do it tomorrow.” He brought towels and dried her off and she wore her chemise and bloomers and sat drying her hair as he discarded his wet clothes and boots and toweled himself dry.  

She brushed her teeth and crawled into bed and he turned off the lantern and joined her, settling behind her. 

“Didn’t say you can put your arm there.”

“Yer freezin’.”

“And?”

“Could get pneumonia," he smiled and defiantly snuggled closer to plaster himself completely against her, his arm around her rib cage tightening.

She scrambled against him to dislodge herself but it was like a bug trying to push off a spiderweb and he treated it as such, with complete indifference. Finally she ran out of steam and clicked her tongue in annoyance. The rum was churning through her and turning her eyelids into lead. 

“Don’ do that again,” he mumbled against her hair. 

“Do what?”

“Run off.” She inhaled to deny it. “Just don’. You run off when yer mad. I hate it.”

“Well if you hate it, ‘m just gonna do it more now,” she mumbled. 

He sighed and kissed her neck. She struggled to free herself some more and when she failed again he kissed her neck again.

“I fucking hate you,” she muttered into her pillow and soon fell asleep in his warm embrace.  

In the early hours of the morning she woke up to feel his hand caressing her arm and his lips kissing her neck. His erection pressing into her back felt hard as a rock. Her eyes fluttered open, she could tell it was getting lighter outside but with the heavy maroon canvas let down, the tent was warm and dark. She didn’t move but he knew she was awake like he always did and his caresses became bolder, his hand gliding under her chemise to cup a breast as he rose on his elbow and leaned over to kiss her cheek. He pushed his hips against her and sighed with the friction. 

“Do you ever think of anything else?” she mumbled into her pillow, resigned that her sleeping ruse wasn’t going to fly anymore. 

“Not when yer lookin’ like that,” he whispered, licking her earlobe as his hand glided lower on her abdomen.

She snorted with frustration but it was weak. It was hard not to get aroused waking up to him touching her like this and she felt a stirring between her legs. But she was also tired from the rowing, the puking, the fighting and she had a colossal hangover from the rum. So she just lied there, indecisive if she should tell him off or let him seduce her. 

The fingers gliding down her abdomen went under her bloomers and touched her folds and she let out a long breath through her nose. She should be angry, but Arthur was clever and he aimed for these weak moments – these tired, unguarded times to disarm her and he knew too well how to go about it. Still, she tried:

“I’m still mad at you,” she muttered.

“Gonna fight me, Savigne?" he drawled, rubbing up and down, teasing her, sounding like he hoped she would.

His other arm snaked under her head and nudged her face up towards him as he leaned in to kiss her properly – lazy, long and deep as his fingers started to rub her folds with a slow, delicious pace. She bit back a moan and squirmed and he moaned back into her mouth when she unintentionally rubbed against his hardness. 

“Didn’t say…you can…do…that,” she panted as he glided in a finger, doing that thing that he does – that slow, torturous pumping that she was defenseless against. 

“Didn’ say I couldn’.”

The heat of his naked chest baked her back. How he always managed to be so warm, she didn’t know but it was one of her favorite things about him. His thumb started to massage her clitoris and she curled her toes. He was agonizingly slow about it and by the time he removed his finger from inside her to throw back the cover and push her bloomers off her legs, she was completely drenched. 

“I thought…” she moaned, her hand fisting the sheet as her pleasure built, “…we were going to…fight.”

Her face buried itself into the pillow, her heart thudding with anticipation and he didn’t make her wait, pushed her legs apart, positioned himself and slowly entered her, groaning into her ear with the pleasure of it. 

He turned her face upwards again with the arm under her head and his kiss became firmer and more demanding. “We’ll fight in Valentine,” he mumbled into her lips. "But y'aint..." he moaned in pleasure as he pulled out and slowly pushed back in, "...gonna win."

His hand came up to knead her breast again as he kissed her neck, then her shoulder, then bit her gently as he started to move, slow and steady. She was locked between his arms, unable to budge much, completely at his mercy. "We'll see," she gasped when his cock brushed against her sensitive spot, making her shiver. 

"Just so you know..." he rumbled as his cowboy hips swayed up against her, practiced in the art from sitting on a saddle all day, every day, “…gonna...punish ya…for that…nonsense...yesterday.”

"What?" she breathed as he slid in and out, rubbing her deliciously from the inside, her inner walls fluttering around him to intensify the friction.

He retrieved his hand from her breast and she jumped when the sharp slap of his open palm seared her butt cheek elevated over his leg. She froze with surprise, momentarily bewildered and confused by the sensation of pain intertwined with the pleasure of the friction as he continued to pump into her.

His large hand fondled the skin that felt on fire as he angled himself and brushed against her sensitive spot and the whimper that dropped from her lips was louder than it should be. She felt him grow harder in her. “Ya like that, Savigne?” was the smiling whisper in her ear as he started bucking harder.

She didn't trust herself to answer and bit her pillow, hot and dazed, as he pulled her leg over his and increased his pace. “Guess we…gonna…have ta…find out…won’ we?” he panted, his movements getting sloppier and bolder. She flailed to move about but she was encased in a steel cocoon and he didn’t allow her much room, seeking to dominate her and doing it so easily. He groaned into her ear and suckled her earlobe, smacking into her with more force and she whimpered and wailed into her pillow, her head swimming. 

Then she felt his fingers on her folds again and her eyes rolled back under her lids. 

She whispered his name in urgency, her left hand gripping his wrist and feeling the muscles move as his fingers glided around her wet clitoris with expertise to wrench the pleasure out of her. 

Peals of “ah”s started to tumble from her lips, in tandem with his strokes and she felt her body getting tauter and tauter like a bowstring about to snap as he groaned encouragements into her ear, licking and gently biting her neck. 

She shuddered and let out a long stuttering moan into her pillow when she came. He whispered his approval as she rode it out, his fingers relentlessly circling her clit to intensify her orgasm. Then his wet fingers gripped her hip bone and he harshly rocked into her a few more times until he grunted his own release, panting and gasping in her ear. She sank back into the mattress, rigid muscles softening as the pleasure sizzled through her like hot fire and consumed her until there was nothing left to consume. Long minutes later he pulled out, shifted to find her discarded bloomers, wiped her off with them and threw them on the ground to be taken in for laundry later. Then he settled behind her again and pulled the cover over them. His hand glided over the fading imprint on her buttocks as he kissed her neck again, then her nape before his arm snaked over her rib cage to pull her flush against him.  

She felt herself drift off to the pulsing heartbeat on her back, warm and content. 

Chapter Text

Antoine's was renovating and they were supposed to be closed for five to seven days, depending on how the construction went. 

Savigne decided, no better time to get rich. 

The restaurant allowed them to prepare and store their own meals if they used their own ingredients and most people used that offer to make themselves lunch or dinner for their breaks. She did, too, but now she took out the pizza dough balls she had left to cold marinate ahead of time so they can warm up by the time she arrived at camp. Chef Ecco sauntered over, curious what she was doing and nearly lost his god damn mind when he saw she had prepared pizza dough, praising her to high heaven and exchanging recipes with what he thought was the best dough and best pizza recipe. He shared with her the shops he acquired his cheese from, then even gave her a pizza peel from the kitchen as a gift. 

Ruth and her flock watched from a distance with scowls and Savigne basked in their disapproval.

She went to the open market in Saint Denis to shop for ingredients, strolling around, sniffing and tasting the vegetables, cheese and spices. It was no Grand Bazaar but Saint Denis was becoming more metropolitan by the week and she was impressed with the new, “exotic” food that was sprouting in the market.  

When she arrived in camp it was early afternoon, most folks were out to do whatever they did during the day, so she prepared the fire for the oven – it needed to be very hot for the pizza - and changed into comfortable clothes. 

She prepared the sauce and the toppings, then poured herself a glass of wine and sat at the table, watching the water. Mary Beth came over and Savigne poured her a glass, too. Mary Beth shared the story of the latest novel she was reading and she listened.

“That makes no sense.” 

“What makes no sense?” Mary Beth asked. 

“The man’s too perfect.”

“That’s the point” was the amused reply.

“No I mean it’s not realistic. He’s gorgeous. Strong. Clever. Rich. And a gentleman. And apparently also…you know…a great…lover,” Savigne concluded.

“And?”

“And – so he’s too perfect.”

“You saying men like that don’t exist?” Mary Beth grinned. 

“Have you ever met one? I know I haven’t.”

“Haven’t you?” was the teasing question.

“Are you trying to say that Arthur is perfect?” Savigne snorted. “Or that I am?”

“Perfection is boring," Mary Beth shrugged. "Besides, you’re perfect for each other, no?” Savigne shrugged. “Perfect” wasn’t the word she would use, but she had to admit that this was a relationship that should have failed and yet somehow didn’t. Who knew that she could fall into co-habitation with someone this easily, this comfortably? And someone like Arthur, too! Nobody would argue that both of them were difficult people to be around and yet, bizarrely it worked. 

“You know how many bets I won thanks to you guys?” was Mary Beth’s gloating question.

“Bets?!”

“That’s right. Folks around here don’t understand you the way I do,” Mary Beth sighed. Savigne rolled her eyes. “Hey now, don't underestimate me. Ain't I the one who knew before either one of you did?”

“Hmmmmm…What else do you know, oh sage one?”

“I know the man is ensnared," Mary Beth pursed her lips, her eyes shifting to the oven. “Getting him hooked up proper, are we?”

“Why? Because I cook?” Savigne laughed. “It’s just food, what’s the big deal?”

“Just food,” she mumbled teasingly. “I don’t think Arthur has ever been spoiled like this before. It's not that you cook, it's that you cook for him.” She paused for a moment, then quickly retrieved her notebook to scribble in it. "Need to use this in my novel."

"You're writing a novel?"

"I am," she said smugly. "You're craftier than you look, you know. Maybe I should get some pointers from you."

“Right,” Savigne huffed, secretly pleased. “All I do is cook dinner. Happens to be my job anyway. You could even call it self-serving practice.”

The other woman hummed with a smirk. “Ain’t just dinner. It’s being cared for that he’s addicted to.”

“Not going to apologize for that!” Savigne mumbled, but her grin grew just a little wider. 

They watched Arthur arrive at camp and stroll over to talk to Dutch. Mary Beth drank the rest of her wine, gave her a knowing look and left. 

Savigne saw him walk over a few minutes later, eyeing the ingredients on the table. She got up and came around to hug him and kiss him on the cheek - a ritual she still stubbornly followed and he still stubbornly endured.

"You cookin' dinner?"

"Only if you're hungry," she said lightly. He grunted in affirmation and went to wash the sweat and dust off his hands and face.

She quickly flattened a ball of dough on the peel, spread the sauce, added the ingredients and pushed it into the hot oven. Few minutes later she placed it on the wood vegetable chopping block, cut it by pressing her palm on the spine of the knife and slapped his hand away. 

“You just watched me pull it out of the oven. It’s hot. Give it a minute.”

He grumbled a little and poured himself a shot of whiskey. She adjusted the corners of his napkin just so. “How was your day?”

“Fine.”

He finally noticed the side-eye she was giving him as he was staring at the steaming pie and took the cue: “Yours?”

“Glad you asked!” she started with enthusiasm. “Antoine’s is renovating. So I’m going to have a few days off.”

She slid the chopping block over and announced: "Pizza Margarita from Italy! Bon appétit!"

“So I was thinking…” she said, getting up to prepare the next pie on the peel, “…we can do something. If you have the time.”

By the time she sat down he had already eaten half of it. She knew that expression on his face and smiled with satisfaction. “Good, huh?”

“It’s from Italy, course it’s good,” he shrugged, grinning at his own cleverness. 

She pulled out the second pie, cut it and put it on a separate plate. He eyed the plate with some resentment as she took it to Jack.

When she returned, to nobody's surprise, he was finished. 

She sat down and sipped her wine. 

"That it?" He was looking the rest of the dough balls. 

“Do you have the time to do something together?”

“I got time,” he admitted cautiously as if he was guessing where this was heading.

Satisfied, she jumped up to make the next pie. Her fingers, quick and nimble with practice threw on the ingredients and slid the pie into the oven with the peel. 

She sat back down as he served himself another shot of whiskey. 

"We can...I don't know...go to Strawberry?”

He gave her a look. “Lemme guess…you wanna go treasure huntin’.”

She slid the second pie onto the block, cut it, then snatched it from his grasp. “You’re going to burn your tongue, wait a minute, Jesus!” She sat back down and sipped her wine. “And yes, that’s the idea.”

“Savigne…” he started, exasperated, but before he could say more Jack ran over and asked if there was more. 

"How the hell did y’eat that whole pie so fast?" Arthur protested and she rolled her eyes at the irony. Jack admitted that his mom and dad had each taken a slice, too. Arthur grumbled darkly at that. She pushed the block in front of him and prepared the next one while the two of them argued. 

"Five minutes, Jack. Did you like it?" 

“I loved it!”

"Can't have loved it if you gave it away," muttered Arthur as he chewed. 

"Don't listen to him.” she quipped. She cut the next pie and placed it on his plate. "Be careful, it's hot." He ambled away carefully. 

She sat back down to sip her wine and met his gaze. 

"Well what about me?" 

"You had two pies," she teased. 

He glanced at the last ball of dough. "You want me to take you, that it?”

“Pffft. I want to know if you’re coming along,” she said as she got up to prepare the pie. After she slid it into the oven: “I’m going either way. It’ll be an adventure.”

“That so?” he said, eyebrows raised as he poured himself another shot. 

“That so,” she confirmed, pulling out the pizza a few minutes later and sliding it on the chopping block. "I can do everything on my own just fine, thank you very much," she added as she cut the pie.

He was clever and waited until it was pushed in front of him before he said “Y’ain’t goin’ alone." 

"Don't tell me what to do!" Savigne growled with some heat.

He was expecting that and there was clear amusement to his tone when he spoke over the chewing. "Or what?"

"Or I'll do it," she grumbled, taking another mouthful of wine. 

He finished his pie, drank the rest of his shot, pushed the empty block aside and put his elbows on the table, leaning in.

"Well then," he sighed, his eyes twinkling, "I might have to…you know…punish you.” He watched the red blotches blooming on her cheeks. “Think yer overdue for a lesson.”

“Thanks to you we can never go back to the bath in Valentine!” she hissed. “I’m pretty sure the entire hotel heard us.”

“Course we goin’ back,” he grinned, leaning back in his chair and pulling out a cigarette. “And wasn’ us they heard, was you.”

"I wasn't there by myself, was I?"

"I got no problem with it," he shrugged smugly. 

She ran her palms over her face, annoyed how quickly and violently she blushed. Also annoyed how pleased he was with himself. Arthur had strutted out to the lobby that day like he had conquered Rome while she had run straight for the exit, not even attempting to pay the bill that week, mumbling that she was going to retrieve the horses.

“God, I can never look Bill in the face again,” she whined.

“The man works in a hotel,” he drawled. “‘M sure he’s used to it. ‘Sides…I liked it.”

"You know what - we’re doing separate baths from now on."

He hummed to himself, inhaling the smoke. "You actually think a door's gonna stop me," he mused, leaning on the table, the muscles in his wide shoulders rounding up. 

"You wouldn't dare.” He just chortled at her disbelief. "I think you're missing the bedroll, Mr Morgan.”

"That how you treat yer guide?”

A smile bloomed on her face. “So we’re going?”

He sighed. “Reckon findin' a pile of rocks gonna spare me years of naggin’.”

This stumped her because it implied that he thought they would be together for years to come. It’s just a figure of speech you fool, she mused and it was, but that didn’t matter much to her heart. 

She lied awake for a long time thinking on that, annoyed that her mind would start writing an epic novel because a few uttered words but unable to stop it. What would life be outside the gang with Arthur? What could a man like that do? He was good with horses, she thought, he could breed horses. Or maybe train them. He was good with a lot of animals, so maybe he could be a rancher. Or - twist of fate - bounty hunter. She scratched that possibility off the list. Too dangerous. Farmer? No, didn't seem fitting. It was hard to imagine him outside of his current environment, as if being an outlaw was part of his identity and this life was his natural habitat. What if he missed the social interaction with the gang? Sure, they had a fine time now but that's because he still had that. Removing the gang would rob him of all his friends and family and she couldn't picture him enjoying life without all that. Then again, he did enjoy solitude in nature, didn't he? Maybe he was more of a loner than she assumed. 

She jumped when he spoke up. "What you cookin' in yer head?"

"I'm just excited," she said, irritated how much of a light sleeper he was and how, even with his back turned, he always knew when she was awake. "I'm going to be rich tomorrow."

He turned to face her and shifted closer. "Might have to rob you then," he whispered.

"What if we really find a treasure?" she said more seriously a while later. We could do anything we wanted. We could both just pack up and go away. Start somewhere new. Together. She thought on how to ask these things and couldn't make the words come out. 

"I'll eat my hat, tell ya that," he mumbled sleepily. 

"Wouldn't mind seeing that,” she sighed and settled into his chest before she drifted off.

The next morning they set out early. It was a long ride to Strawberry and they wanted to arrive before they lost the daylight. Arthur watched with fascination as Savigne whipped out a list and rattled off all the items she had decided they needed. He shot down half of them saying they're not traveling to Canada and there are towns in between, also game to shoot. There were some things on the list he just listened to incredulously like "extra matches, extra soap, extra boots, extra sling in case Cricket's basket sling got ripped etc" and dissuaded her only by reminding her how much Cricket would suffer under this "extra" weight and added that this was not how adventures worked. She relented. 

She prepared the horses as Dutch called him over, saying there is a job he needs Arthur to be on and when Arthur said that he will take care of it when he returns, Dutch’s eyes sought out and blazed at Savigne as if she had said it. She took some satisfaction in that.

They trotted out in the brisk morning air and she was unreasonably excited. 

"You know, this is my first time doing anything in the countryside," she remarked. "Are we going to camp under the stars?"

"Course we are," he said from ahead, "or was you aiming for a hotel, Princess?"

"I prefer the camping."

"Won' be glamorous, I tell ya that," Arthur grunted, sounding unsure what she was so excited about. 

"That's the point," she quipped. 

He waited patiently as she stopped several times to watch animals through her binoculars and then wanted to get off to look at some flowers she hadn't seen before. 

Overall it was a pleasant ride, cool and relaxed. There was a lady by the road who needed help and Savigne gave him a questioning look but he rode on as if she wasn't there and later said that she's always there and it's an ambush. This sobered her a little to dangers she wasn't aware of and she was glad he was with her.

Late afternoon they arrived to the outskirts of Strawberry but instead of heading into town, Arthur aimed north and a mile or so out said they needed to rest the horses by a stream. He told her not to go too far, that there were wolves and cougars around and Savigne didn't need to be told twice. 

An hour after they broke rest they arrived at a hill and for the first time she saw the three rock formations in the distance, reaching to the sky. 

Unfortunately her good mood turned when they arrived to the foot of a bridge. Arthur went right over it with Frost and she lingered behind, preparing. On the other side he noticed she wasn't following and came back. 

"What's the matter?"

"I need to prepare," she told him, locating her blindfold. 

"For?"

"Crossing the bridge."

He watched her put the blindfold on. "The hell you doin'?"

She pulled it off, exasperated. "Why don't you go ahead, Arthur, I'll be there in a few minutes."

He didn't move, intrigued. She put the blindfold back on, arranged it just so and took a couple of deep breaths. 

She was about to lean over Cricket's neck when he spoke up, startling her: "Savigne, y'afraid of heights?"

"So what if I am?" she said, frustrated and pulled down her blindfold again. 

"Nothing," he said, his voice somewhat softer. "Just didn' know.'"

"You go ahead," she said, "Cricket will take me over, he knows what to do."

He looked like he was going to argue, then decided against it and left. She swallowed, tightened the blindfold and leaned over Cricket's neck, whispering for him to go. She felt him walking, slow and easy. The timbre of his hoof beats changed as they mounted the bridge and she shuddered. Slight sweat broke over her brow and she ignored it and instead, mentally went through the ingredients of chocolate pudding.

Cricket stopped once he was over and she took a deep shaky breath, sat back up and took off her blindfold. 

Arthur was waiting on her and he didn't comment further, just gave Cricket an appreciative look which she felt very proud about and they continued. When dusk set, he said they were camping there for the night because the rest of the way was too steep and treacherous to navigate in the dark. 

He prepared the fire and said he will see if he can hunt something even though they had food and left. She fished out the canned beans, canned tomatoes, vegetables and her spice set and prepared vegetable chili. 

He came with a rabbit and cleaned it and she prepared to grill it with salt, pepper and thyme while he washed off the blood on his hands.

When he returned they waited for the rabbit to cook, then she served him a bowl of grilled rabbit, chili and a slice of the sourdough bread she had baked in preparation the day before. He ate the whole thing in his usual hungry, no-nonsense manner and wiped the bowl with the bread, saying this was some fancy camp food and asked for more. After, the lighted his cigarette and pulled out the whiskey and she took a small glass, warming it in her hands.

The stars were out and it was a warm night, slightly breezy but overall calm and beautiful. 

"You know, I envy you," she said at some point. "You live like this all the time."

"I like being out here, that's true," he said, gazing at the sky. "Quiet."

"You can camp wherever you want, you can travel the whole country if you want to. Must feel very free."

He scratched his beard. "Does."

"You think I could do it?"

"No."

She blinked at his short answer. "Why, because I'm a woman?" she asked evenly.

"Cause you can't shoot," he grinned.

She huffed. Then, carefully: "You ever think of life outside the gang?"

"Sure," he said, the campfire dancing in his eyes.

It had its challenges, to be with someone like Arthur. She couldn't read him, he was wildly different in his upbringing and values, and worst of all - he rarely expressed his opinions or his plans for the future. Sometimes - most times - he acted like he deeply enjoyed her company and that was all it was. Other times he made her think she was profoundly underestimating her importance to him. It was like being in a dark room and trying to feel her way around.  

"What does that life look like?" was her careful question.

He gave her a long look. "Hope to find out soon."

They were quiet for a while, watching the Moon move up. She was happy to be there, happy to be with Arthur, happy to be outdoors, in the country. Away from of camp he seemed more at peace, calmer, more balanced.  

"Ready for bed?" he said finally. 

She was tired from riding all day and nodded. She crept into his arms in the tent and was almost immediately asleep.

The next morning she was standing at the edge of a cliff, looking up at Arthur's amused face, then back down at the ravine. Then at the ledge across, then back at him. She took a step back, her palms sweaty. 

"Ughh...let's check the map again."

She took it out and spread it with trembling hands. 

"I'm not sure..."

"Clearly says we gotta jump over," he interjected smoothly.

She bit her lip, looked back at the ledge. "That can't be right, it's too far."

"Ain't that far," he lazily scratched his beard. 

She glanced back at the ravine. Her foot started tapping. The day felt unnaturally hot, so she loosened the top button on her blouse. 

"I'm thinking..."

A grunt of ‘go on’. 

"…thinking..."

He shifted on his feet, unperturbed. 

"…that maybe we should come back another time."

His eyebrows rose at that. 

"Clearly we don't have the equipment we need for this."

His gaze shifted to the ledge, then back at her. "What equipment ya need?"

"You know...climbing equipment. I can read a book. In fact, let's go to the library in Saint Denis! I can look it up and we probably need some pins and foot gear and hooks and a rope of course, scratch that, several ropes, then we need to practice somewhere, can't just start he-"

"Ain't comin' back here," he waved the idea away. She opened her mouth to argue and he added: "Y’ain't either."

"But..." she sputtered.

"It's a jump. Ain't that far." The corners of his lips curled up.

"It's really high though."

He took off his hat, fanned himself a bit. "Thought you can do everythin' on yer own."

She pressed her lips together. "I can!"

"'Cept that," he said, pointing his hat to the ledge. 

"I can do that, too! I just need to learn-"

"How to climb the Rockies?"

She wanted to slap him so bad, her palm itched.

He put his hat back on. "I can do it." A thoughtful palm on his chin, "But..."

"But what?" she asked, annoyed. 

"Why would I?" The hint of a grin. The brute. 

"What do you mean, why? I told you we'll share the treasure!" She flapped the map shut with a huff. 

"And if there ain't any?"

"Well we won't know until we look."

"Hmmm..."

A few moments passed. Who knew when she might get time off again from work? He was such a prick, using her fear of heights against her.

"Need more'n that if ‘m riskin' my neck," he sighed in a regretful tone.

"What, you want the whole thing?"

A dismissive shrug. "A whole of nothin' is nothin'."

"God! What then?"

He gave her a look. A long moment passed. She would have laughed if she wasn't so frustrated. 

"Seriously?"

He shrugged. "It's my price." Then a smug "Ma'am."

"This here isn't Cricket, you know."

He turned away. "Well then, let's head back while we got the light."

"Stop!" she laughed, defeated. "Stop! What do you want, a promise?"

"That'll do."

"You're insufferable, you know that?"

"What'll be, miss?"

"Alright, fine, I promise," she chuckled.

"Promise what?"

"I promise whatever. Christ, get over here already!"

He sauntered over, obnoxiously proud of himself. "Give it here."

She handed him the map and he stuffed it into the pocket of his jeans. She grabbed his arm before he could set off. "You better be careful," she added somberly. 

"Yes ma'am."

"I'm not kidding, be care-"

He jumped the gap and landed casually on the ledge. "God dam it!" she gasped, hand on heart. She ran as close as she dared. "What do you see?"

"Another ledge."

"Seriously?"

"Why, this here suppose t'be the only one in America?"

She cursed under her breath at how impossible he was today. "How far?"

He didn't answer and just jumped out of sight. Her heart flipped. "Arthur!"

"Calm down woman! You'll hear me if I fall, believe me."

"Very funny," she called over, but then decided it was better not to break his concentration. 

She sat down at a comfortable distance from the ledge, pulled up her knees and started to tap her foot. Should have gone for that climbing gear, she thought, waiting and reminding herself to breathe. The minutes ticked by so slowly on her pocket watch, she was starting to believe it was damaged. She jumped to her feet, went over to Cricket, petted him anxiously. Then she repeated it with Frost because you can’t just pet one horse and not the other. Then she went back and sat down again. Then she jumped up, checking her watch. It had only been five minutes. 

Five minutes after that she was so restless that she crept to the edge of the ledge and called out to him. He didn't answer which made her really nervous. Now she was running between the horses and the ledge and doing the same actions over and over again. Sitting down, getting up, petting Cricket, petting Frost, calling out to him, sitting down, getting up - she knew she was being stupid, but the compulsion was so strong, she couldn't resist. 

After what seemed like hours he called back. The relief that washed over her made her knees buckle. 

"What took so long?" she called, trying to calm her heart that was galloping in her chest. 

"Ain't easy hoppin' around with all this gold!" came the answer. 

"What?!! You serious?!!"

He jumped into view. Empty handed. He gave her a grin and she was compelled to find a gun and shoot him. 

"I fucking hate you!" she yelled. Then: "Be careful!"

He jumped back to her side and she swung her arms around his back. 

"Whoa woman," he chuckled, "y'alright?"

"I was worried," was the muffled response into his chest.

Then she stepped back and slapped his chest. "You're enjoying this way too much!"

He clicked his tongue in amusement. 

She bent down, hands on knees, trying to regain her breath. "All that and we got nothing."

"Didn' say we got nothin'." 

"What!?"

He fished out a piece of paper. When she unfolded it, it turned out to be another map. 

Her eyes widened and she got all jittery. "Oh my god, ohmygod I knew it! The treasure map is real!!"

Arthur rolled his eyes. "No it ain't. Just someone's idea of a prank."

"Are you telling me somebody jumped around these ledges here just to set up a prank?" she said with clear disbelief.

He threw out his arms. "Clearly."

She looked at the map, her excitement undimmed. "Only one way to find out! Where's this, I wonder?"

"I know where it is and we ain't goin' there," he said, wiping his brow. 

"Why not?"

"Dangerous."  

"You say that about everything!" He gave her a side eye. "Just tell me where it is, then."

"The hell I am," he huffed and walked away. "Knowin' you, you'll just run off there first chance."

"You're such a brute," she hissed. Then, calmer: "Charles might know." She saw the slight tensing of his shoulders as he was walking towards Frost. "He might even take me," she added with a drawl. 

"He ain't takin' you if I say not to." He was fishing for his water canteen in the saddle, trying to hide his annoyance. 

"I might cook him a prize," she quipped, sauntering over. "If he hunts a rabbit, I can make him kouneli stifado. Greek rabbit stew." She knew she was pushing it because Arthur was irrationally possessive of her cooking and pettily disinclined to share it. The only person he made an exception for was Jack.  

"Woman..." he gave her a hard glare. 

"What?"

He huffed and stuffed the canteen back in, then gave her a long, intense look, walked over to the side, squared his feet and said "Come here."

Her eyebrows rose. "Don't think I wi-"

"Ain't you promised?" was the low growl. 

She blinked. "You're collecting now?"

"I am. Come here."

She eyed him head to toe to gauge if he was being serious. 

"Now, Savigne,”he said, his tone more serious, less playful. 

She walked over and stood in front of him, suddenly excited. He cupped her chin and gave her a long crushing kiss. When he broke it, she was breathless. His eyes crawled over her body. "Strip." He said with a low voice.

"Here?!"

"Here."

"But..."

"Ain't nobody 'round for miles." She almost shivered at the way he was looking at her. Then again the command: "Strip!"

She stepped back and started to unbutton her blouse. She glanced around nervously, there was nothing but rocks and trees. But it was daytime and in the open and he had asked her to take off her clothes, this was way outside her comfort zone. She stripped out of her blouse, her boots, her jeans, then her underwear, standing stark naked in front of him, resisting the urge to tap her foot. He watched her with hooded eyes, hands on gun belt. She hugged herself with the instinct to cover her nakedness but he waved an arm.

"None of that."

She bit back her argument and dropped her arms to her side, twitching nervously on her feet. He would take any objection as a challenge and enjoy squashing it, so the best thing to do was to comply completely. 

He came to stand in front of her, then slowly circled her, his left hand gliding over her leg, her stomach, a breast, a shoulder blade, her spine, a butt cheek, waist. Despite the urge to cover herself, she felt her exhilaration still present, pulsing in the background. His other hand smoothly slid off her tie and he ran his fingers through her hair to loosen it over her back. After a full circle he kissed her again, aggressively. 

"On your knees," he whispered into her ear. 

She sunk down, feeling herself getting wet. She looked up at him. His face was unreadable but his eyes were dilated and full of want. 

He dropped his gun belt to the ground, then very slowly unbuttoned his jeans, watching her. She didn't break eye contact and kept very still. His cock sprang to his hand, eager and ready but he was calm and calculating as the fingers of this other hand glided over her jawline and his thumb pushed between her lips. She suckled at it without looking away and his jaw muscles clenched at the action. He moved closer and she didn't need to be told, she leaned in and closed her lips on the head, twirling her tongue. 

A low moan fell from his lips. He had never asked her again after the first time she had done this and she hadn't offered, curious how long he would go without asking. She knew he had enjoyed it greatly that night. But that night she had initiated it and she had been in control. Today he wouldn't allow her that. 

His hand cradled the back of her head and he urged her to take him in further and she relaxed her throat and did that, moving up and down his shaft. His eyelids fluttered and he moaned again, whispering her name as he kept their gazes locked. She moved slow and suckled gently when she reached the head, then back down, taking him in further and getting more and more wet herself, the tingling between her legs now clouding her mind with need. His lips fell apart and he started panting louder, a slight tremble to his legs. Her hands crawled up to his thighs, resting on his hips and she finally sheathed him completely in her throat and he cursed softly, his eyes gliding to his cock disappearing and reappearing between her lips. She felt him harden even more and swallowed, feeling another shudder go through his legs with it. 

He inched closer, moving against her now, gently pushing in and out as he held her head in place. She continued to hold the eye contact as he increasingly became more excited, a flush creeping up his face, the fingers on the back of her hand curling into a fist on her hair, his peals of moans more lustful. There was a look of dominance on his face, a look of power and it turned her on immensely. But in the back of her mind, suddenly the urge to rebel. To turn the tables. 

She tasted his precum and felt him slowing down. His legs trembled as he fought the urge to come. Given that he had told her to strip, she imagined he had other things in mind. Well but so did she. She raised her tongue to increase the friction and he moaned absentmindedly at that. Then she removed one of her hands from his hip and slowly moved it to her breast. His eyes glided over, fascinated as she gently brushed and cupper her breast, then continued moving her hand over her stomach. His breathing gained pace again and despite himself, so did his pumping. She hummed and his eyelids fluttered with pleasure, but his eyes were glued to her hand as she moved it lower still, over her upper leg, the inside of her thigh, then back up, up until she separated two fingers and glided them further, over her folds, then curled them at the knuckle and pushed them in. 

He hardened in her mouth and bent forward with a gasp. She thought she had him but suddenly her hair was pulled back with a sting and he slipped out. “Gettin’ bold, are we?” he growled, dropping on his knees in front of her. He bent her head with the grip in her hair before he crushed her lips, then left a trail of kisses down her throat before a suckled on a breast hard enough to make her arch and whimper.

”Turn around,” was the rough command. She scrambled to turn her back to him, remaining on her knees. The slap on her buttocks felt like someone had pressed a sheet of fire against her skin. She took a sharp breath and his left finger slid into her and her intended gasp turned into a moan. His cock pressing against her back was rock hard and distantly she marveled at his self control. She squirmed against it and he groaned with the friction. The harder slap that followed made her jump. The finger in her curled and she moaned so loudly, she could have sworn that she heard and echo of it bounce around. His large hand fondled her sensitive cheek as he curled his finger again and she whimpered, torn between pleasure and pain.

There was something obnoxious about doing this in a clearing in broad daylight, stark naked while he was completely dressed behind her. Obnoxious and exciting at the same time. The things this man could make her do! He removed his finger and pushed his cock into her. She was so wet, he slid in comfortably despite his size. His left hand found hers and pressed it flat on her belly, keeping it there as he pulled out and bucked back in.

”Feel that?” he whispered against her ear. “Feel me takin’ ya?”

She felt him under her palm, moving in and out, splitting her and moaned again. “Yes.”

His right hand squeezed her inflamed butt cheek, his left hand still on hers as he continued his slow pumping. She whimpered with excitement and pain and he hardened in her. He pushed her left hand down to her folds, placing his fingers on hers to make her caress herself as his bucking sharpened. She panted when he suckled her earlobe. She felt herself getting closer and he knew her well enough to notice it. His right hand flew up to her chin to turn her face. “Wanna see it,” he whispered as she moaned uncontrollably under the assault of his fingers, moving her own.

He must have seen her crest that peak dozens of times by now but his appetite for it never slackened. The hunger to see her vulnerable, naked, completely at his mercy, in submission to his power and to the need only he could grant her was voracious.

Suddenly, just at the verge, his fingers forced hers to still and his bucking slowed down. She moaned with frustration. “Ask me for it,” was his low command.

Savigne flustered at his self control to pull back even now, when he was as close as she was. It was freakish compared to hers. Her muscles clamped around his cock, trying to force him on. “Please,” she whispered when he wouldn’t relent.

”Please what?”

A distant part of her rebelled and he must have seen it on her face because he slowed even further and removed her left hand from her folds. She panted with need, stuck between the primal need to scratch that itch and her pride. His right hand dropped to her breast, fondling it as he glided in and out of her with agonizing slowness. This was his new thing now - forcing her to ask him for things. Breaking that wall brick by brick. 

”Please…” she swallowed, “…let me…oh..." she shuddered and whimpered.

"What's the word, little bird?" he sighed into her ear, kissing the cheek that was turned to him, his beard scratching her shoulder.

"...sing." she gasped. 

He hummed with approval and pushed her to fall on her hands, jerking her ass towards him. He pulled on her shoulders, arching her back as he increased his pace. In the back of her mind, the notion of how she had started off the year not understanding what the big deal about sex was only to become a woman who let herself be stripped and taken in broad daylight in a clearing. You think you know yourself, she thought dimly but all her thoughts scattered like smoke in the wind when he leaned over her, beard scratching her back, fingers gliding over her folds. He relentlessly brushed, caressed, massaged until her moans turned into guttural gasps and her final cry bounced between the walls of the chasm. A moment later a rumble on her back, a stuttering of grunts in her ear and the wetness of his warm seed inside her. They remained like that for a few moments, panting and baking under the sun. He sat back and pulled her with him to sit in his lap, his hands circling her waist and pressing her into his chest. She lied against him, trying to come down from her peak, her nakedness completely forgotten.

”Enjoyed this trip more than I thought I would,” he drawled and kissed her neck.

"So…about this next spot..." she panted.

He chuckled darkly. “Tell ya what. You make me some of that kuneli stuff, maybe I'll think 'bout it."  

Chapter Text

"Told you this was a bad idea!" Arthur yelled, "Look where it got us!"

"I'm god damn tired of you telling me the obvious in hindsight," Dutch countered, incensed. 

"Well someone has to," was the low growl as Arthur stalked closer. "Cause it ain’t damn obvious to you!"

"Please," Hosea interjected, "everyone calm down."

"Calm down?!" Arthur boomed, his voice carrying outside the tent, "Tell that to Sean!"

There was a miserable silence. 

"We went too far," Hosea said begrudgingly. "That much is clear. Nobody is happy with what happened, Arthur."

The younger man just turned his back and huffed over his shoulder, looking out to the camp. In the back of Hosea’s mind: how combative Arthur was with Dutch now. The reverence, the respect, the devotion all in tatters, unrecognizable. His tone, his mannerisms when he argued with Dutch were those of a stranger and an equal, not Dutch’s right hand. It was glaringly obvious and it drove Dutch wild more than the argument itself.

When he had encouraged Arthur’s affair with Savigne, Hosea had known it would cause some cracks in their relationship, since Dutch didn’t approve of her. Cracks, yes, but not these canyons! He had assumed Arthur would get a bit more independent and pursue something outside the gang eventually. Nothing wrong with that. But Dutch’s stubborn decision to back Micah despite Arthur’s pleas, even after Arthur was almost killed in a mission that Micah had orchestrated, had destroyed all trust between them. Hosea wasn’t sure of Dutch’s motivations in doing this, but it wouldn’t surprise him if Dutch clung to Micah both to spite Arthur and because Arthur had left a gaping void with his withdrawal. Either way, the flames just simply wouldn’t go out between these two in and it was hard to watch at times.

Hosea glanced at Dutch. 

"You think I wanted it to go this way?" was the defensive response.

"Playing the families. Playing sheriff," Arthur grumbled. "We got cocky, ain't no talkin' around that. Now there ain't any gold and ain't no Sean."

Hosea sighed and coughed gently. What a mess, he thought. Things just finally seemed to be on the upturn and then another collapse. At least he knew he was getting too old for these fancy games, by the looks of it Dutch was still in denial. 

"We have to move," Dutch said finally, trying to find common ground. He ignored Arthur's tongue click. "It's getting too hot here, we have to find somewhere else to take the gang."

"Got too hot weeks ago," Arthur mumbled and Dutch ignored that, too. Hosea could tell that Dutch’s patience was running thin but he didn't want the gang to see the infighting and he calculated that it was easier to win Arthur back once he had calmed down. 

Arthur harrumphed and walked off towards his tent. 

"All he does is complain," Dutch hissed when he was gone. "Must look mighty easy to run a gang from where he's standing."

"Nothing easy about it," the other man said to placate him. "But you have to admit, we did get cocky."

"When has there ever been reward without risk?" Dutch snapped, leaning on the tent pole, watching Arthur's furious stride towards his tent.

"Never. But we're on thin ice. People are upset. Blackwater, Pinkertons...this..."

"We just need one good score and then we're done."

Hosea sighed and kept mum.

"Is it true?" Savigne jumped up to come around the table. 

He nodded and looked away, his mouth thin, his shoulders tense. 

She walked up to him to embrace him, shaken. "I'm sorry," she whispered, cheek on his beating heart. His arm came around to press on her lower back. He didn't say anything, was probably too angry to speak. Moments passed and she stepped back to look up. He nodded again to say he was fine before she could ask and she nodded to say she understood even though she didn’t. It could have easily been Arthur who got shot today and she shuddered at the idea, throwing her arms around his back again with more fervor.

"'M fine,” he mumbled, sensing her thoughts and embracing her with more vigor as if to make his point.

This was the beginning of a a very turbulent time. Her sleep became spotty again and she was tense and distracted over the next days, watching him wrestle his grief and anger, torn between drawing closer to alleviate it and giving him the privacy to deal with it himself. He was distant and more quiet than usual, spending more and more time with the gang, often coming over to eat dinner and then leaving again. She couldn’t deny that she felt hurt about this, but told herself that whatever they were hatching over there was more important than her hurt and that once it was settled, things would level off again.

She never asked him what was going on and he seemed more disinclined than ever to share it. Sometimes it felt like he was doing it to protect her from the mental load, other times because he found commonality with the gang that he didn’t find with her. It was hard to pinpoint the reason, but she trusted him and convinced herself that it was the former.

Abigail and Mary Beth said that there was a lot of yelling and tension during the day when she was away and silent simmering at night. Arthur was away a lot, there were rumors that they would move again soon and they were looking for alternatives. When she asked, he explained that she didn't need to worry her head about all that gang business and that it was separate from them. This was a rule she had stood by in the past so she couldn't argue against it and morosely nodded in acceptance. But in truth half the time she was upset that he wouldn’t turn to her for solace and relief, and the other half upset at herself for expecting it, for not letting him work through his own problems in his own way.

A few days later, just as heads were cooling and guitars started to timidly get strummed in camp again, Jack disappeared and all hell broke loose. Again. Savigne rode in to a flurry of action and it scared her - she thought O'Driscolls had come through again and a familiar bile rose in her throat. 

Then Lenny explained what happened and she ran over to Abigail to hear it from her. Abigail was in a state and Savigne wasn't surprised - she was almost in a state herself. She liked Jack and even if she didn’t, she didn't have to be a mother to understand what it felt like to get your child taken from you. 

She sat around with the other women in an effort to console Abigail but frankly, she wasn't very good at it. She had rarely forged close enough relationships with people to find herself in these circumstances and consoling someone whose son was missing seemed way over her league. What did you even tell someone like that? The usual platitudes about how everything will be alright sounded hollow. She sat for a while and listened to Abigail wailing and felt supremely uncomfortable. She couldn't do anything and she didn't have the personal skills to make it better. She said she's going to make some soup for everyone because at the end of the day, that was at least something she could do. 

As she was getting ready to do just that, Arthur stomped towards the tent, dark and tense. "Have to go," he said, somewhat short. 

"Okay?” she said. Then: "Do you know where he is?" 

He huffed with impatience. "We know who took'im." 

“Took him?” she asked, dumbfounded and watched his eyes, cold as ice, as he prepared his guns. A familiar flip of worry landed in her gut, her palms started to sweat and she tried to ignore it. She didn't want to be the nagging woman, but she also didn't want him to come back like he had that time, injured and dying. Or not come back at all. It felt unfair that just when things were returning to normal, he was ripped from her vicinity again, tossed further out than he had ever been. What if this was the new normal? What if they would never find their way back to each other again?

She noticed that he was watching her and, not knowing what else to say, managed another "Okay.”

"I'll be fine." he said, a bit gentler. 

"I'm sure," she mumbled with a confidence she didn't have. 

He stepped closer but didn't touch her. Despite knowing that she wasn't the target of it, his anger intimidated her.

"I will come back,” he attempted to convince her. 

“I know,” she said and tried to smile. "I will save you some soup.” He nodded, looking relieved. 

Just at that moment Abigail called for him and ran over. She looked beside herself; irate and panicked and worried all rolled into one. Arthur stepped away from Savigne when the other woman arrived, all flushed and breathless. 

“Arthur! You have to find him! Please, you have to!” 

He nodded, grim. “We will. Gonna be alright, Abigail. They won’ harm a child.” 

“You don’t know that!” she hissed, grabbing the lapels of his shirt. Savigne shifted uncomfortably, wondering if Abigail was about to have a meltdown.

“I said…” he started, still calm. 

“Please! Do it for me! For us!” 

Even though the words were perfectly innocent, the awkward silence that followed triggered Savigne’s gut instinct. She looked up and knew by Arthur’s face that there was more said than the mere words implied. And yet, she hung in the limbo of disbelief for a heartbeat or two. But then he peeled her hands off his shirt and gave Abigail an intense look before Abigail’s head turned to Savigne as if she hadn’t been standing there all along and a blush crept on her face which was what really sealed the truth. 

“I…I’m sorry,” Abigail stammered, “I meant…I’m sorry, but…” her head swiveled back to him, Savigne already forgotten and her voice rose again, “John is useless, you have to find him. For me!” 

He took her elbow and marched her off as Savigne sat down on the chair, feeling a rush as if she had sleepwalked and opened her eyes to find herself standing at the edge of an abyss. She just sat there, unable to gather her wits that scattered in all directions at once. At some point she noticed that he was looming above her and she looked up, stupefied. 

“Ain’t what you think,” he said quietly, his eyes crawling over her face.

“What did she mean?” she managed.

“Nothing,” he said, voice harder. “I will return and we’ll talk.” 

She didn’t know what to say to that so she mutely nodded before she reached out for the tools she had prepared on the table just to keep her hands busy.

He sighed in frustration and ran a palm through his beard, aware of her efforts to conceal her displeasure. 

“Don’ go runnin’ off,” he said tersely. He was always terse now. Angry and worried and hard. She nodded again and listened to Abigail berating John in the distance. “Ya hear?” She gave him a look and a final sullen nod.

He searched her face for another moment, then turned around to stomp off. 

She went over to Pearson and took a bag of onions and some venison from his stall and then walked back to her own fire to prepare French onion soup, famously a soup that is hearty and rich, but more importantly, a soup that takes a long time to make - in other words, the perfect excuse to disappear to her own corner for hours and lick her wounds. She chopped the meat and added it to the cast iron pot full of water to make the broth. She chopped and added some vegetables, salted it, put it on the fire to boil. The broth was going to take a while so she started to thinly slice the onions. The camp had emptied out and all she could hear now was the wails of Abigail and the hushed tones of the women.

Well, well, well…what do we have here? Another buried little secret.

She continued to slice onions, sniffing as the sharp sting settled in her eyes.

Curious how it never came up.

She tried to focus on the task at hand.

One of them sleeps next to you every night and the other pretends to be your friend. Comes around for gossip. Listens to your confessions. Hundreds of hours of talking...and neither said a thing.

She huffed with disdain. He had said it was nothing, hadn’t he?

People don’t make a concerted effort to hide ‘nothing’.

She put a cast iron skillet on the fire, added some butter and watched it sizzle.

How awkward for you, Savigne. How sad that nobody entrusted you with this information.

She put the onions in the skillet and stirred occasionally to caramelize them.

Really makes you wonder what people think of you around here. The village idiot would be a fair assumption.

She added salt and pepper.

Doesn't it feel rewarding - to be patient and understanding through tough times, only to be slapped in the face at the end? 

The soup took a long time to cook. She saved some for Arthur and asked Pearson to help her carry the cast iron pot back to camp to hang it over the fire. As stressed as they were, people trickled in for a bowl one by one. She was going to take some to Abigail but couldn’t bring herself to do it.

Instead, she trudged back to her tent, took a lantern and her shawl and got in the boat and rowed out far enough so she wouldn’t hear the camp mayhem. She lied down in the boat and looked up at the stars while it swayed gently in the water. The Moon was bright, the sky a Prussian blue and the air clear. Her mind went still for the first time in hours and she relaxed, thinking about her predicament. 

Here she was, facing the truth she had managed to evade all these months: she was more than eager to finally leave the gang, and the inevitable price was that this also meant leaving Arthur.

In hindsight it was all very obvious. This was always the juncture she was going to end up at. The moment she had dived into this maelstrom, it was always going to spit her out right here. Her emotions, her want had clouded her vision, but looking at it now from a great height, the curvature of the path and the crossroads it led to were clear and unmistakable. It made no difference if she hobbled on for another day, a week or a month - she was predestined to stand in the very same spot regardless, facing the very same choice. So if she was smart about it, she would do it sooner rather than later. Pack her things and leave. Today. Tonight. Everyone had left, it was easier now than it would be tomorrow morning. Nobody would even notice with the way things were right now. One could easily argue that it was self-preservation, given the state of things.

But...

She would be devastated if it was done to her, how could she even entertain the idea of doing it to him? After everything they had shared, running off in the cover of dark? Running without an explanation. Inexcusable. Cowardly. Unfair. 

The siren call of just another day rung in her ears. Another night spent in the familiarity and comfort of the bed she had come to think of as her own, in the tent that had become her home, waking up next to the man she loved. So ridiculously strong, that call. But she feared that if she fell into its stupor, she would stay tomorrow. And the day after. And then the week. Then it would be Sunday and time for Valentine and then it would be Monday and she would start to think that the end of the month made more sense, and so on and so forth.

She distantly wondered where her pride had disappeared to, because now all she found was weakness. Fragility. Emotional hubris. All things considered, she was no Mary, was she? Because that required strength of character, determination, resolve. No, she was Molly; hanging around a man, hoping problems will magically disappear so she can have him to herself. Or Abigail: someone who stuck around an intolerable life because she loved a man who loved the gang more than he loved her. 

Ah yes…Abigail.

She thought of all her conversations with Abigail and felt like a prime fool, sitting there and confiding in her, not knowing she and Arthur had had a relationship. It was never said, never mentioned, never insinuated. She thought back into her memories to see if the power of hindsight would reveal any secret glances and exchanged smiles and knowing looks between them. Then she thought of him bucking into her as she arched with mewling gasps and her face flushed. All sorts of scenes played out in her head, each more lewd than the next. Abigail probably knew what she was doing, she must have wrung out impressive groans and whimpers from him, the likes she would never hear. And afterwards, in her mind’s eye, they lied, drenched and tangled, making fun of gang members, grinning in the afterglow. Her head spun as she remembered how Abigail had insisted how perfect Savigne was for Arthur, how happy she made him. All the while probably playing out their own coupling in her head. 

She wanted to stay sympathetic to her in light of her current plight, but found it very, very hard. 

She lied in that boat for a long time time, feeling small and miserable and unrecognizable. In one scale was everything detestable about this place and its people. And in the other - Arthur Morgan. The choice was simple and yet, maddeningly, the scales were at perfect balance, refusing her an easy choice. Because the heart wanted what it wanted and apparently that weighed a lot more than it should. 

By the time she heard the thunder of hooves, she was all cried out. Usually this was where her rage would come in. In its place now: a strange deflated hollowness. She watched the yelling and shouting and blaming from the distance and knew that they hadn’t managed to find Jack. But of course. Because when it rains, it pours. 

She recognized Arthur’s dark silhouette stalk towards the tent and eventually to the edge of the lake. He called out to her and she sighed and took the oars. For a split second she looked behind her and contemplated rowing away from all of it. To new horizons, as they said. It was a moment when anything seemed possible. But then it passed, she turned the boat around and rowed back towards the pier. 

He was waiting to tie the boat, then offered his hand to pull her out. Neither of them said anything as he led her back to their tent. There was a heavy smell of fire, smoke and gunpowder wafting off of him. 

When they arrived, she untangled her hand to walk over to reheat his soup while he went to wash his face and arms and change his shirt. Eventually she pulled the soup out and prepared the table for him. He seemed surprised that she had and reluctant to eat, but eventually he sat down and spooned the soup in his usual no nonsense manner, eyes flicking up to her every now and then, watching her drink her wine. 

He explained what happened at Braithwaite Manor and where Jack was without being prompted. It was a rare thing for him to explain gang business but she sensed that he was attempting to ease into talking about more difficult things. When he said the name Bronte, an expression flew over her face and he asked if she knew him. She told him that everyone in Saint Denis knew who he was and told him as much as she knew, swirling her wine glass. ‘Cosa Nostra’, she said, and ‘dangerous man’ and ‘owns a lot of important people in high places’. This development darkened her mood even further because things seemed to be escalating very quickly now. Bronte was a big fish and it was hubris for the gang to try to tango with someone like him. 

When he was done he pushed the bowl away, ran a hand through his hair, and placed his elbows on the table. She didn’t say anything and didn’t look at him, listening to the hushed tension coming from the camp. All she felt was an odd pointlessness. As if nothing was worth the effort of doing it anymore. 

He cleared his throat and moved his chair closer. “She’s a mother and had a crazy day…” he started. “She don’ know what she…” 

Savigne grimaced and looked away and he swallowed the rest of his words. A long moment passed as he let a breath out of his nose, palming his beard again. 

“Was a long time ago,” he mumbled at long last. “Meant nothing.” 

She swallowed and nodded, knowing it wasn’t her business but feeling betrayed anyway. Betrayed because it had been hidden from her and wounded because when it finally was revealed, it was explained as a non issue. Like she was a fool for being upset about it, like she didn’t have the right to be hurt by it.

“Look at me,” he said softly. When she refused, his fingers gently gripped her chin and turned her head. “It. Meant. Nothing.” An explanation so banal, the lack of effort was downright offensive.

“Meant something to her,” she said, surprised that her voice not only held, but sounded firm. “Since she brought it up.” 

He released her chin and swiped his fingers over his lips, annoyed. “No. She just half crazy right now, is all.” 

She took a sip from her wine and pressed her lips. “Why didn’t you tell me?” 

“Cause it meant nothing!” he said, irritated. A long moment passed. His irritation just added to her offense. “Savigne, I can’t think of this right now. There’s a lot goin’ on.”

She knew it was true and still balked at the idea of being yet again overshadowed by gang business.

Why so surprised? You were always secondary.

“Then don’t,” she shrugged.

“Don’ wanna but yer…hung up.” He watched her face. “When we have Jack back, we can talk proper.”

“Why bother?” She rose from her seat, unwilling to listen to his bullshit anymore and walked into the tent. He followed a moment later and found her undressing. He pulled the flap shut and stepped closer, hesitant to say anything. She undressed down to her chemise and bloomers and sank down in front of the mirror to take out the pins in her hair. 

“What you doin'?” was his quiet question. 

“Going to bed. Have to work tomorrow.” 

He shifted on his feet. “Gonna talk to Dutch. See when we will take care of all this. I’ll let you know.”

How chivalrous of him to update you when he will have time for you. You should clear your calendar.

She got under the covers and he came to sit on the bed, giving her a long look. “I understand yer upset. But I promise you…” 

She turned her back to him, shoulders stiff. “You have more important things to worry about than my feelings.” 

He huffed in frustration. “Woman, don’ do this now. I ‘ave a lot on my mind.” 

“You always do,” she sighed. “And you always will.” 

“The hell that mean?” 

“Nothing. Let me sleep.” 

After a while she felt the mattress shift, the lantern go dark and heard him leave the tent to go back to the gang and she felt glad for it. She pushed everything out of her head and closed her eyes. To her own amazement she fell asleep soon after, her inner voice suspiciously quiet. 

She woke up the next morning feeling rather empty. Disassociated. Checked out. It was both odd but also liberating to have this strange barrier between herself and the world now. She should be more worried about Jack but it felt distant, like something she read in a novel. She should be more worried about Abigail’s pain but as embarrassing as it sounded, she wasn’t. She should definitely be more upset about the tension between herself and Arthur, but the most she could muster was cold detachment.

Why worry about these things when they were temporary? None of these people would be part of her life for much longer.

She got up and started to get dressed and heard him shift to sit up on the edge of the bed as she sank down in front of the mirror to adjust her hair. 

“You okay?” he asked. He looked tired and disheveled.

“Sure.”

“You know where this guy lives?”

Everyone in Saint Denis knew, so she told him.

He nodded. “We gonna go to see Bronte today. Fix it.” His eyes found hers through the mirror. “We can talk after.” 

“I don’t want to talk,” she said quietly, setting the pins. 

He blinked. “Why?” 

Because the time to talk was months ago, she thought but didn’t say it. “You already said your piece.” 

“But you haven’t,” he said quietly, eyeing her. He seemed spooked and thrown off guard by her calmness, trying to decipher it and failing. Frankly, she was surprised by her own reaction too, but she welcomed it over anger and despair.   

“I have nothing to say,” she offered finally.

He exhaled in frustration and ran his hands over his face.

"Course you have. You should. You're my..."

"Don't say it!" she cut him off sharply and he froze. You haven’t been acting like it so don’t say it, she thought. "Also, I know Jack is more important. You don't have to remind me every five minutes." She sat on the chair and laced up her boots. 

"I will fix that today," he repeated patiently. "And then..."

"Then there will be other problems," she finished. 

He blinked at her, wary. The lack of his attention on her for this past week and more was made obvious to Savigne when it rushed in now, filling the vacuum, all heavy and intense. He sat there, silent and stiff, eyes crawling over her like searchlights.

“I hope you find him,” she said. He swallowed and looked at her with that custom concentration, probably dwelling on the fact that there were no “be careful”s and “good luck”s and hushed awkward assurances. She simply grabbed her satchel and left. 

The day flew by in a rush, she barely remembered what she did. Suddenly it was afternoon and her shift was over. On a normal day she would head back to camp, but today she went to the harbor and sat watching people unload the ships. She read their names and wondered where they came from and where they were heading. A silly temptation to board one to leave for a new life, new job, new…love. But she was too much of a coward to try so she just sat on, a spectator. After that she went to one of her favorite restaurants and had dinner. Food that would normally strum her strings of pleasure was bland and lacking, riddled with weird nuances. Then she still didn’t feel like returning to the gloomy atmosphere of the camp and went to a saloon to have a glass of wine. Then another.

A part of her was amazed how calm she was. Jack could be dead. Hell, even Arthur could be dead right now. She shuddered at the idea and bit back a sob. The thing that unnerved her more than anything was that she had no control over either of these things. And if it didn’t happen today it could happen tomorrow. It was like playing Russian roulette every day - so terrifying and draining that at some point it became impossible to process.

She drank wine until someone sent her a drink, then she got up without acknowledging it and left the saloon. The dark outside the door surprised her. Usually she avoided traveling after dark but tonight she didn’t care if she ran into O’Driscolls. She mounted Cricket, swayed a bit on the saddle and trotted out. It was very late when she arrived in camp. She heard the celebratory ruckus before she saw it and her heart felt lighter with the meaning of it. She stood by Cricket, feeding him an apple and relishing the fact that today, too, the chamber had held no bullet.

“Yer late!” she heard Arthur behind her and jumped a little. “The hell you been?” His voice had that annoying scolding timbre and she chose not to answer. Guess I'm not invisible anymore, she thought with rancor.

She unsaddled Cricket and he stepped up, taking it from her. She stalked into camp and walked towards the gang, singing and dancing around the fire. Jack spotted her and ran over. 

“Hey,” she smiled, placing her hands on her knees. “How have you been, my clever friend?” He immediately started to prattle about his time with Bronte and she said all the right things, grinning happily and listening to his excited babbling, ruffling his hair. How resilient children were! She had been too when she was one. You would think life made you stronger, but in a way, it made you more brittle.

“Do you know how to make worms?” was Jack’s sudden question.

“Worms?” she came out of her stupor.

“Yeah. Papa Bronte gave me some, they were delicious!” 

Her face brightened with understanding. “Sure, I can make you some.” 

He jumped up and down with delight and she ruffled his hair again. Skirts appeared in the corner of her eye and she straightened to find Abigail beside her.

“Hi Savigne,” she said, wringing her hands. Savigne smiled a fake smile at her fake friend. Abigail’s blue eyes scanned her face and didn’t find the sympathy she was hoping for. She felt Arthur’s presence behind her. 

“‘M sorry,” the other woman said. “Think I made a mess. Hope you don’ think less of me.” 

“I’m very happy for you,” was the cool response. 

Abigail eyed her with unease and nodded, hugging Jack against her legs. “Thank you! Was goin’ a little crazy.” There was a forced chuckle. Her eyes flitted over Savigne’s shoulder and then back. “I wanna apologize...” she started. The way they communicated silently in her presence turned her stomach sour. “Wasn’ my intention to…” 

Savigne was too tired to listen to her mop up efforts. Abigail was all happy again, had gotten what she wanted and now she wanted to mend fences. Well, Savigne was fine with those fences, thank you very much, so she dismissively waved the attempt away and started to walk to her tent. The other woman pressed her lips, gave Arthur another furtive glance and remained where she was. 

She entered the tent, still buzzing from the wine and went around to align things to their perfect positions. Arthur cleared his throat behind her and closed the flap. Savigne sank in front of the mirror and released her hair from the bun, gliding her fingers through her locks and sighing in contentment while he sat at the table watching her. 

“You wanna sit with me?” he said carefully. 

“I’m going to go to bed. It’s late.”

“Sit with me.” When she didn’t react: “You always say I should talk more and now you don’ wanna listen. I wanna talk, sit with me.”

Of course, she thought, now he wants to talk. Because now it's my turn to be 'fixed'. She sighed to herself and shot him a glare through the mirror. Then she got up and sat across from him, lacing her fingers. He gave her a long look and she held it while he fished for a cigarette. 

“Congratulations on getting Jack back home,” she said flatly. He nodded and shifted in his seat. Her missing reaction of waiting in camp, worrying about him and embracing him when he returned and asking him if he was okay hung between them. 

She rose to get the whiskey and two shot glasses and sat back down as he watched her through the smoke. She filled them and handed him one. “To the health of the gang,” she quipped. 

A muscle flexed on his jaw but he clinked his glass against hers and drank the shot. She surprised him by doing the same, shuddering and smacking her lips with disgust. She filled the glasses again but he didn’t reach for his. She threw her right arm on the back of the chair and leaned back. Her head jabbed towards the jubilation in the distance. “You’re missing the celebration.” 

“This here more important,” he said, eyes flicking up to her. 

She took a sip from her whiskey. “Doubt that.” 

“M sorry,” he said at long last, his eyes trying to drive his sincerity home. He was a lot more relaxed than he had been yesterday. Well good for him, hallelujah, Savigne thought bitterly. “Was years ago. Was just…relief. Nothin’ more.” He scratched his beard when she didn’t respond. “I was in a bad place and Abigail offered…company. Was a job to her.” 

She sipped her whiskey as he eyed her with unease.

“You gonna say somethin’?” 

“What do you want me to say?” 

“I know yer mad at me.” 

She shrugged as if to say ‘so what?’. 

“Savigne,” he said gravely, “Please say yer piece.” 

“Why do you care?”

“Course I care,” he blinked.

It turned her stomach, to be the center of his attention only when all other business was done. Like she had become a fixture in his life that he only noticed when he reached for her and she wasn’t there anymore.

“Could have fooled me,” she mumbled to herself.

“I know I been rough,” he sighed. So he wasn’t completely oblivious, at least there was that. “Was a lot goin’ on. Could have handled it better. But was tryin’ to keep us separate…clean from all that.”

Touching. His excuse was that he was enforcing her own rule and probably also feeling very noble about it. 

“Had a lot to think about,” he pressed on. “A lot to…come to grips with. Just needed some time.”

She looked away.

“Didn' wanna cloud yer mind with that nonsense, all that got nothin' to do with us.” He waited for a response that never came. “But this here does. Wanna clear it up. Talk to me.”

“Told you over and over again: I don’t want to talk,” she sighed.

“Why?” was the impatient question.

“It’s all meaningless. Just leads to more lies.” 

He gave her a long, intense look. “Ain’t all lies,” he said finally, leaning on the table. “I speak true. Was years ago. Didn’ mean a thing. I haven’t thought of her like that so long, didn’ think it mattered. You talk to Abigail, she’ll tell you the same.” She snorted as if to say ‘of course she would’ but he ignored it: “I wanna fix this.” 

“You can’t fix how someone feels,” she drawled, inspecting her nails. “And you really shouldn’t abuse a person’s trust repeatedly. It doesn’t grow back quite the same.” She looked at him from under her eyebrows. “First time, with Mary, I was disappointed, surprised. Now I guess I’m just used to it.” 

He reeled back as if she had slapped him, running a hand over his beard. “Don’ know what yer spinnin’ in that head o’yours but it was plain fucking. No different than goin’ to a…saloon.” 

“If I told you that I fucked Charles before you and I were a thing, how would you feel?” 

His head jerked up at that, eyes brimming with shock. “Scuse me?” he said slowly. 

She watched his reaction. “If I told you ‘it was just fucking’…would that make it better?” 

His jaw clenched so hard she could hear the click of his teeth and it gave her immense satisfaction.

“I…did you?” he chocked out. 

She sipped her whiskey to cruelly prolong the tension. 

“No. But you’re missing the point.”

He blinked and ran his hand through his hair with a huff. A long while later he nodded imperceptibly. 

“Okay then, that’s exactly how I feel,” she said simply. 

“Should ‘ave told you,” he clenched his jaw. “Reason I didn’, cause she ashamed of that part of her life. And I ain’t proud either. I was in a bad place, drunk for a year, barely ‘member it. Didn’ wanna go dig up old bones.” She didn’t answer, just played with her shot glass. “I need you to understand, this was before she was with John. Was what she did for money. I ain’t judgin’ or nothin’, but was no affair, was no feelings. Just a…” 

“Transaction?” she suggested. 

“Yes. Had a rough patch. I just…needed it,” he finished lamely. “Like I said, was no different than goin’ to a…” he cleared his throat and didn’t continue. 

“Then how come she thinks it’s more?” He looked at her, confused. “She brought it up, didn’t she? She bartered it for your aid. If it’s a simple transaction…” her lips bowed down, “…there was no debt. You got to fuck and she got her money.” She relished how the intentionally harsh and crude choice of words rolled off her tongue. 

“Ain’t nothin’ more. I helped a bit with Jack when John disappeared. Might be she got confused,” he shrugged uncomfortably. “She loves John, that’s for damn sure. He ran off for a year, leavin’ her with a baby...” He sighed and looked away. “She leaned on me and I let her. For Jack. That’s all.” 

“So you played family with her and you wonder why she thinks the way she thinks.” 

“Was I supposed to abandon her, too?” He rolled his shoulders. “Felt bad for the kid. You been doin’ the same, ain’t ya?” 

“Well yeah, but I didn’t fuck his dad.” 

This irritated him but he visibly pushed his irritation down. “Never touched her again,” he said, looking her in the eye. “And don’ wanna.” There was a bout of silence. “You believe me?” She didn’t answer. He clenched his jaw. 

She sniffed and pushed her shot glass around. “How do you think I feel, stumbling on these women by coincidence and then listening to you lecturing me on how I’m blowing things out of proportion?” 

He took a deep breath and snuffed out his cigarette in the tray. “Reckon it ain’t great.” 

“That’s one way to put it,” she said. 

“Won’ happen again,” he said firmly, eyes flicking up at her. 

She exhaled a long breath and looked away. 

“Look at me.” When she did: “Won’t. Happen. Again.” he repeated, pressing on each word. Then he sighed at the disbelief in her face. “Gonna tell Abigail she needs to go to John here on out. Think it’s better. For everyone.” 

Savigne shrugged, feeling petty. “Why? She’s perfect.” He looked up at her, confused. She drank her glass dry: 

“Let’s see…She’s part of the gang, so you’re more aligned,” she started counting on her fingers. “Good in bed - judging by your actions, I mean. Likes you. More importantly, needs you; comes to you for everything instead of the ‘man she loves’. Has a son you can be father to...” She gave him a cool look. “Ridiculously well matched if you ask me. I say you have a decent shot.” He just stared, speechless. “I can’t give you all that,” she grimaced. “If John doesn’t want to play dad…I say here’s your chance.” 

“Woman, you hear yerself speak?” he managed finally, a spark of anger flaring up in his eyes. 

“If you put up my tent,” she continued, her tone heating up, “You can have this one for your family. Lots of room for three. I bet she would love that. Maybe-” 

“THAT’S ENOUGH!” he boomed suddenly. She flinched and shrunk from his fury, sobering a little. 

He downed his second glass of whiskey and wiped his beard to come down from his ire. 

“I know ain’t fair you found out as you did,” he growled a while later. “Makes it look like we was hidin’ it. Like there was more to it. Truth is, haven’t thought of her like that so long, didn’ think it mattered.”

Again, that insinuation that she was making a mountain out of a molehill. That she was being unreasonable and naggy and spoiling everyone’s good mood.

“Are we done?”

“No.” was the sharp answer. His desperation at her lack of interest to engage was ironically amusing. The less she wanted to talk, the more anxious he seemed to get. He certainly didn't accuse her of chirping too much now, did he?

“What do you want from me?” she asked, exasperated. 

“Want you to tell me you believe me.” 

She casually said “I believe you.” 

He gave her a dry look. “Want you to mean it.” 

“So this is all about you feeling better about yourself! I need to get over myself because you’re sad. I need to act like it’s nothing so you can sleep better.” 

“Woman, it is nothing. I done explained it to you.”

It left her speechless for a moment, his lack of empathy.

“Doesn’t it matter that I’m hurt?” was her incredulous question.

“Course it matters. Why ‘m here, explainin’.”

“No it fucking doesn’t,” she hissed. “You don’t care about my feelings, you think they’re trivial. Silly.”

“That ain’t true,” he growled. “Said 'm sorry. Said it won' happen again. Said it was just a…”

“Yes, I know, just a transaction…” she said icily, rolling her empty glass back and forth under her palm. “Just fucking. Same as us.”

He froze at that, taken aback. “Might be,” he said carefully, “that first time. But ain’t what we doin’ since.” 

“You sure about that?” was her heated retort.

“Course ‘m sure! What ya even tryin’ to say?” his voice rose again. 

“Well if we’re taking your word for it, that things can change. That it doesn’t always stay transactional.” 

“That ain’t happened between me and Abigail,” he said sharply. 

“Would you even tell me if it did?” she snorted. “Maybe that’s going to be next month’s discovery.”

He grew impatient. “I get that you think my word ain’t worth shit, but this here ain’t gonna work without trust.” 

She leaned back, playing with the empty glass in her left hand. All manner of sharp things flitted through her head. Things to say to end it all triumphantly, a last smack to his face, revenge for him lecturing her about trust. The nerve! When she had done nothing to make him doubt her and this was the second woman that was revealed to her by pure coincidence! The anger that had been missing all this time settled on her shoulders at last like a flock of dark crows, cawing in her ear. Fire erupted in her chest. 

She looked up at him with blazing eyes, chest heaving. She drew a big breath and opened her mouth when he sensed her intent. 

“Don’t,” he interjected, palms up to calm her. “Savigne…don’t.”

“Don’t…fucking…tell me…what to DO!” she screamed and smashed her glass on the table and it exploded in her grasp, biting into her left hand. A momentary shock, then he was on his feet, coming around. She looked stupidly at the blood welling from her palm, frozen. He grabbed her wrist and pulled it to himself, inspecting it before he started to pick shards and dropping them on the table. She gaped at the amount of blood pooling, her head fuzzy with alcohol. 

“Keep it like that,” he barked and strode to the crates, flipping the covers and rummaging through them in haste. “The hell is the…” 

“The single crate in the back,” she muttered, hypnotized by the shade of red. 

“Gimme yer hand.” 

“No. I can do it mys-” 

He snatched her wrist and refused to let go. They had a short tug of war over it but, unsurprisingly, he won. He uncorked the whiskey and gave her a look. “This gonna sting. Don’ close yer fist.” 

She gave him a hostile look. The ‘sting’ was more like liquid fire and she yelped, trying to retrieve her hand but he was expecting it and held it firm. “It’s done. Don’ close,” he soothed. 

He picked a few more shards, then took a cloth, drenched it in whiskey and gently pressed it against her palm. “Just another moment,” he said quietly when she hissed. He pressed down, her palm small between his hands and held it for a long moment. Then he checked the napkin and dropped it on the table, grabbing the bandages to gently wrap them around her hand. The blood flow was much diminished but red flowers still bloomed on the first layers of bandage. He ripped the end with his teeth and knotted the bandage, his eyes flicking up to her face. 

“You okay?” She nodded. “Cut yer tongue, too?” 

“I’m okay,” she whispered, squirming at the throbbing pain that started to drum in her palm.

He sighed, half relieved, half irritated. “No more whiskey for you,” he grumbled. 

She cradled her hand, feeling like crying for no reason, but managed not to. Her nerves sizzled with alcohol, pain, shock and anger.

“It’s fine, ain’t too deep,” he said, aiming for a softer tone. When he placed a palm on her lower back she shot up to walk to the bed. "Think we're both tired," he eyed her warily as she sat down to unlace her boots single handed. When she didn’t answer: "Want me to get water?"

"No."

He sighed and and came to help but she slapped his hands away. “Don’t touch me or I’m leaving.”

He pulled back, surprised by her sharp tone and watched her crawl to lie as close to the other side of the bed as she physically could and fall asleep with her clothes on.

Chapter Text

She woke up with a massive hangover. Arthur was gone but he had left her the buckets of water to clean up. She crawled out of bed feeling like road kill, undressed, wiped herself and got dressed in clean clothes. The taste of whiskey was still in her mouth and she swore she would never touch it again. He walked in, a cup in each hand while she was doing her hair, and she immediately resented how magnificent he looked compared to herself. 

“Here,” he said and put a steaming mug of coffee on the table. “Should help. Lemme change yer bandages.”

She finished with her hair, then sat across from him. He pointed for her to extend her left hand, so she did as she took a sip from the coffee and shuddered at the intensity of it and managed a “Jesus”. Pearson’s coffee could wake the dead.

“Think you can take a sick day?” he asked as he unwound the strip of cloth, watching her face, probably hoping that her mood last night could be attributed to the whiskey and she was her normal self again.

“No,” was her flat response.

She curiously inspected the angry gashes in her palm, swollen and tender today and watched him dab it with alcohol, then a tincture that made her sneeze.  

“Wanna do somethin’ after work then?” 

“No.”

 His eyes flicked up to her. She swallowed the bitter coffee and grimaced. 

“Been a while since we had a day together.”

“You were busy.”

“Ain’t busy now. Maybe we can go check out that second map location,” he drawled. “Ain’t very far.” It sparked her anger, being treated like a child to be won over with candy and trinkets. Offerings to go treasure hunting, to spend time apart from the gang, and especially the sudden chattiness - if she were in a better mood she would find his clumsy attempts at appeasement endearing; would consider them the desperate acts of a man who didn’t know how else to soothe a woman’s hurt. Given that she wasn’t in a gracious mood, they struck her as crude and manipulative.

“No.”

“We can-”

“No.”

He took a slow breath, focusing on the bandaging for a moment. “Savigne…” he said quietly. “You’re running again. Yer mad, so you’re running.”

A relationship where the ‘let me fix it’ guy meets the sprinter, what a joke, she thought.

This early in the morning, before her anger and her jealousy had a chance to ripen, it was hard to find fault with him and so much easier to find fault with herself. Arthur hadn’t made promises and then broken them, had he? He had given no assurances only to walk them back. Neither had he lied to her about who he was - an outlaw, a drifter, a temporary guest just passing through. All he was guilty of was building a tent and sharing a passage of time with her. Why should he be the bad man now because it had made her so happy? Why should he be the villain because she had become addicted to it and had started thinking, hoping, building this fantasy in her head? No, Arthur Morgan hadn’t led her on. She had done that all by herself.

In the end she was angry at him because reality didn’t match her dreams, and whose fault was that but the dreamer’s?

She pulled her hand back and took another sip from the sludge Pearson called coffee to match her bitter mood.

“You know,” he sighed, watching her. “I ain’t good with words. But for all the talkin’ you do, you don’ say much either.” He leaned on his elbows, eyes fixed on her. “Tell me what you want.”

I want impossible things, she thought. But what she said was “I want to go to work.”

He followed her to the horses, a quiet ball of pulsing frustration behind her back. Before she could tackle her saddle with her injured hand, he handed her his coffee to put it up himself.

Jack ran over and tangled up in her legs. She held the mug away so the hot liquid wouldn’t splatter on him.

“What are you doing up so early?” she chuckled.

Her face fell when she saw Abigail chase after him. 

“Mornin’,” the other woman said, giving Savigne a shy look. 

“Morning,” Savigne mumbled and Arthur grunted in response.

“Jack here says we should go for a picnic to celebrate! What d’ya guys think?” She looked from Savigne to Arthur and back.

Savigne was startled by the absurdity of her ask. “Did you actually just ask that?” she managed, trying to be careful with her words since Jack was there.

Abigail winced and Arthur paused at her tone. “Didn’ mean nothin’ by it,” the other woman said carefully, caught off guard by her reaction.

Savigne gave her a glare before she turned to Arthur and slapped his mug into his hand. “Lucky for you, Arthur here has no gang duties and he’s been itching all morning to do something.” He flicked the spilled coffee off his hand and gave her an annoyed look as she swung herself up on the saddle. “I say you three should go. Have some fun after that ordeal.” 

“Yay!” Jack celebrated. “Where are we going, Uncle Arthur?” 

The look Arthur gave Abigail was so severe, Savigne marveled how the other woman didn’t go up in flames. His voice though was mild when he told Jack “Not today.”

“I meant together,” Abigail hastily said to Savigne. “We ain’t goin’ without you. Obviously.” 

“Why obviously?” Savigne asked coolly. There was an awkward pause. “Did you never picnic together?”

“We did!” Jack exclaimed. Savigne savagely enjoyed the red blotches blooming on Abigail’s porcelain skin.

“That was years ago,” Abigail mumbled.

“Well there you have it!” she drawled. “I’m going to be late, so don’t wait on me.” 

Arthur clenched his jaw and looked away as Jack danced with joy. She turned Cricket around and rode out. 

“Sorry,” Abigail whispered when she was gone. “Was tryin’ to…” 

Arthur gave her a scalding glare. “Didn' ask for yer help, did I?” 

She hastily urged Jack to go play and replied after he ran off: “Didn’ know she was still mad,” a little defensive. “Thought you made up.”

Arthur threw his coffee out with irritation. “Doubt you did any thinkin’ at all. A picnic, Abigail? God damn now!?”

She withered at the volume of his voice that made some heads turn.

“Just want things to be like they was, is all.”

“That’s the thing, they ain’t gonna be,” he spat. “You gonna go to yer man from now on. Don’t stray to me for whatever you need or ‘m gonna be pissed. Should ‘ave stepped down long ago.”

“Why?” she trailed him as he headed to Pearson’s cart.

“Cause ain’t fair to Savigne and ain’t fair to John and you got even less sense than me if you can’t see it.” 

“I came to you cause he wasn’ there!” she protested. 

“He there now, ain’t he?” he said, throwing his mug at the pile of dirty dishes before he headed in the direction of his tent. “He been there a while, you just wanna do the easy thing. And I let you, so I ain’t blameless, but this here is over.” 

“Think I haven’t tried?” she huffed, trying to keep up with his long stride.

“Try harder.”

“But…”

“Jack has a dad and it ain’t me.” He turned on his heels to give her an intense look and she shrank away from it a little, fisting her skirts. “I did right by you. You wanna do right by me, you take yer son and go have picnic with John. And you won’ ask me for nothin’ again till I offer.”

“I don’t understand, what changed? We ain’t doin’ nothin’, that was years ago!”

“What changed is Savigne ain’t fine with it.”

Her face scrunched and she opened her mouth but he was faster: “You be real careful what you say ‘bout my woman now, ya hear?” She swallowed her words at the warning in his tone. “‘She’s right. I was her, wouldn’t like it, either.” He looked away for a moment. “You know damn well it bothers John, too. Didn’ care cause I told myself he deserved it. That’s on me. But I draw the line at Savigne. You got a man, go put in the work.”

“Was only tryin’ to be nice,” she stammered, visibly upset at his ire.

“Go be nice to John.” He stopped and gave her an icy glare. “Listen here, woman, I ain’t jokin’. You come to me again, you gonna see a side o’me you wish you didn’,” he spat and walked on, leaving her standing half way. 

Chef Ecco found her struggling to put on a glove over her bandages and said he wants to talk to her in his office. Her stomach flipped. She had already pushed the envelope by taking time off when Arthur had been injured and in light of that, her current injury was dangerous for her attendance. She followed him to his small room with heavy steps, thinking how she could convince him that she can work, injured or not.

"Come in Savigne," he amicably herded her in and she stood in the middle of the small room, heart in mouth. His office looked like any business office - more like a place Mr. Dunham would work in than a chef's room. It was crammed full of files and folders and paperwork and the only indication that this was the work space of a chef were the cookbooks lining the walls. It shouldn't surprise her - at this point in his career Chef Ecco was more a businessman than he was a cook. 

"I can work," she said quickly. "It's not that bad, really."

He gave her a crooked smile. "I like how hardworking you are. But the safety of my cooks is my job, not yours."

"Of course," she breathed.

There was a moment of silence between them. "You like working here?" he said suddenly, leaning against his table and crossing his arms. 

"I love it! I'm learning a lot."

He nodded in approval. "Glad to hear it. I think you are one of the most promising cooks I've had in years." He smiled at the bewilderment in her face. "I mean it," he chuckled. 

"Thank you, chef," she said, not knowing what else to say to such a compliment. 

Another moment of hush and when he spoke next, his voice was mild but there was a timbre of command and seriousness in it she wasn't expecting: "Show me your hand."

She hesitated for a split second, but then extended her left hand. He bounced off the table and came closer and grasped it gently to turn up her palm. "How did this happen?" he mumbled, fingers gliding over the same bandages that Arthur's had hours before. 

"I...a glass shattered under my hand."

"Did it hurt?" he asked, standing too close to her. He's Italian, she thought, they do that.

"Hurts more now than it did then," she replied. Then added: "Which is not much! I can wo-"

The thumb that pressed on her wound sent a flash of pain through her so bright, that it flared up her vision and sizzled her hair roots. She jumped with surprise, instinctively trying to jerk her hand back and opened her mouth to cry out but the sharp shush shocked her into silence. He looked up at her then, his dark eyes intense and calculating and she froze under that look as her mind went blank. 

"Does it hurt when I do this?" he whispered casually and pressed even harder. Savigne bit her tongue, unable to look away and unable to move. The pain was more than she expected, more than she had experienced since she had cut it and the intensity of it threw her off. 

"Yes," she heard herself whisper, her eyes locked to his, spellbound. 

"I see," he mumbled, eyes crawling over her face with something she couldn't name because it was too out of place, too absurd. She took a shuddering breath and tried to retrieve her hand again but his grip was firmer than it should be, so she just stood there like a deer cowering under the gaze of a predator. Distantly she felt the pressure on her palm increase and a tear roll over her cheek, but she couldn't divert her gaze. Time stood still. She could have been there, sizzling under his stare for a moment, a minute or ten minutes, it was impossible to tell. Her mind folded on itself defensively, trying to block out the pain but it was as overwhelming as an undercurrent that grabbed her legs and pulled her under water. She heard herself moan but it changed nothing in his expression.  

Then suddenly, jarringly, it was gone and so was that magnetic look that had held her with iron manacles. He turned away and walked around his desk to sit down as she stood there, dumbfounded, panting hard and cradling her hand. "I'm sorry to hear that," he said and the change in his tone back to spry camaraderie gave her goosebumps. "You can have the rest of the week off."

She just stood there, unable to move for long moments, trying to understand what had just happened and failing. Her mind argued that it was important and alarming while at the same time it argued counter-points: it was nothing, he was just stronger than he realized. He didn't press too hard, she was just more sensitive than she had thought. He just wanted to see if she was faking it. He was just concerned and wanted to assess the severity of her wound. 

She came out of her stupor when he spoke. "Savigne?" Her head whipped to him. "Are you okay?"

"Y-yes," she swallowed. 

"Did you hear what I said?" She nodded, not trusting her voice. "Then go. I will see you Monday."

Somehow the bored dismissal made the entire experience even more bizarre, more confusing. She didn't even realize she was leaving the office until she found herself in the street, blinking at the Saint Denis morning sun.

She stood there a long time, dazed and confused, inspecting her red palm. Next thing she knew, she was standing by a fountain, trying to wash the blood off the bandages. A part of her was furiously attempting to decipher what had happened while another, bigger one wanted to turn away from it. It's nothing. Let it go. It's nothing. You're tired. You're still half drunk. Let it go. Let it go. Let it go. 

She let it go with wondrous efficiency and didn't think about it again until much later. 

Not sure what to do other than not wanting to return to camp, she went to a broker and inquired about cabins. The man, Mr. Bowers, was somewhat stupefied by her request.

“But Miss,” he said slowly. “A flat in the city would be much more appropriate for you.” His eyes, as expected, glided to her naked ring finger. “Safer.”

“I can’t afford that,” she said, trying to keep her irritation in check. “Also, I don’t see how that’s any of your concern.”

“But you can’t get a loan from the bank without…do you have a brother? Father? Uncle?”

“You let me worry about the loan,” she quipped. Savigne had been saving since the day she started working, so she had the cash and didn’t need a loan for a humble enough cabin, but she wasn’t about to confess it to some stranger.

“Okay,” he cleared his throat. “That aside, I really have to insist that it’s not s-”

“Sir,” she spat, annoyed. All these men concerned with her safety were starting to get on her nerves. “With all due respect, you don’t know me. I could be the best gunslinger in the East for all you know.”

The astonishment on his face was comical. “True, Miss. But…I mean, are you?”

“You don’t want to find out, do you?” she growled. “My point being, concern for my safety isn’t your job. Do you have cabins that fit the bill or not?”

He sighed and got up. “I’m going to assume you’re just here to inquire. And that you have a gentlemen who can go over the options with you later.”

He produced a list of cabins for sale and a map of the surrounding Saint Denis area that marked them. She rudely swiped them from his hands. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?” she hissed and exited the office.

She went back to the harbor, a little worked up about the incident. Then forced herself to calm down and pulled out the list and the map, ruminating on her options. When the noon bells rang, she got up to walk to the steakhouse and hugged Luther. 

“I can see yer still at it,” he grumbled, pointing at her hand. 

She shrugged morosely. 

“Sit yer ass down. You ate yet?” 

She pulled up the stool and watched while he made her a steak. After it was done, he cut it into small pieces so she wouldn’t have to with her injured hand and shoved the plate her way. 

There was a long silence between them as she listlessly chewed on the steak. 

“So,” he rumbled finally. “Who done that?” giving her hand a side-eye. 

“I did,” she sniffed. “Drank whiskey and smashed the shot glass.” 

He tsked. “You know you can’t drink no hard liquor, Savigne.”

“I was angry,” she mumbled. With more heat: “Rightfully, I should add.” 

“Uh huh. What done happen now?” 

“Found out he had a fling with someone in camp,” she said through clenched teeth. 

“Really?”

“Well…an old fling.” 

He gave her a look. “How old?” 

She pursed her lips. “I don’t know…like maybe…” he stared at her, unblinking. “Six…” his eyebrow rose, urging her to continue. “…years?” He snorted and she immediately felt offended. “See, you don’t get it either!” 

“Woman, six years? You wasn’ even in Saint Denis then!” 

“It’s the hiding that irked me,” she mumbled which was only partially true. She wasn’t about to describe the graphic scenes playing out in her head between Arthur and Abigail to Luther. 

“No that ain’t it,” he scoffed. “Yer jealous…” 

“Please!” she huffed. 

“…cause you think he might have a thing for her still.” 

“I mean he could.” 

“Then how come he didn’ settle with’er long ago?” 

“Could be a million reasons…” 

He gave her a dry look. “You tellin’ me Romeo and Juliet sat in them tents pinin’ for each other for six god damn years in the same camp? Gonna have to excuse my doubt here.” 

She sat, steaming with her inability to come up with a counter. “I don’t know why I come here,” she muttered finally. “Of course you would be on his side.”

“Ain’t on nobody’s side. Barely know the man from Adam.” He jabbed the fork in her direction. “But y’ain’t dumb, you know it makes no sense.”

“I feel pretty dumb right now, that’s for sure,” she muttered.

“Listen here,” he said softer. “Y’aint wrong, they should ‘ave told ya. It’s okay to be mad ‘bout that. Okay to be jealous, too…”

“I’m not jealous,” she objected but he talked on, unperturbed:

“…but the rest is in yer head. Cause yer doin’ yer thing again.”

“Maybe you’re right,” she muttered. “Maybe I’m just looking for excuses to end it.”

“Thought you loved this guy?”

“I don’t want to be around the gang anymore. And I know he won’t leave.”

“He say so?”

She scraped the remnants of her steak around the plate.

“Lord,” he sighed, looking up at the ceiling. “Forgive me. Cause 'm ‘bout to say some things.”

“Just don’t, Jesus!” she hastily intervened. “I’m going through some rough stuff as it is.” She held up her injured hand for an attempt at sympathy and he took a deep breath and thankfully decided otherwise.

“This Arthur must be some kinda saint, man deserves a shrine.” He pointed his steak fork in her face. “Ask him. Then if he say no, yer welcome back here and we can badmouth him together. Otherwise, get outta my kitchen.”

“But…”

“Yer a grownass woman. Talk.”

"It's not that easy."

"Hell, you'd think ya can't string two words together. Woman, all you do is talk. Except when you need to, that is."

She grumbled to herself and watched him turn steaks. "I went to a broker today," she said after a while. 

He gave her a side eye. "Thought you said you won' move till you can defend yerself." She pursed her lips and shifted on her stool. "You got better at shootin'?" he pushed.

"No," she admitted miserably. 

"'M about to change my mind on how dumb y'are."

She barreled on: "They talked up and down how I need a man for this and a man for that. Would you sign for me if they won't let me?"

His eyebrows rose. "So you can ask for things when you wanna."

She gave him a dry look. "It's a little different, don't you think?" He gave her a skeptical hum but no answer. "Well, would you?"

"Gotta think 'bout it," he sighed. 

"What's there to think about? I have the money."

"Gotta think how 'm gonna answer the Lord when you get yerself killed. More importantly, how 'm gonna answer this Arthur. The Lord forgives, but I ain't so sure 'bout yer man."

"You know how humiliating it is," she seethed, "that I'm sitting right here and nobody cares what I think?"

"You was as big and mean as him, I'd care plenty what you think."

"He's not going to come after you just because you signed a paper for me," she huffed.

"I would," was his simple response that surprised her. Luther, despite his size, was the most nonviolent man she knew, she didn’t know what to make of that statement.

“He know you goin’ ‘round lookin’ for cabins?” was his sly question.

“What, I can’t go do stuff by myself anymore?”

“Ain’t what I asked, is it?”

“No," she admitted finally. His eyebrows did a thing. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

"Knew a girl, popped a cork when her man went behind her back to meet some old flame,” he drawled. "Ran all the way to New York, even." He pointed his steak fork in her startled face. "You know, you kinda remind me of her."

“Excuse me? How are these things even remotely similar?” she sputtered.

He sighed and lighted a cigarette, sucking on it for a while. "He gonna be mad and hurt if he find out?"

"Probably," she mumbled. "But..."

"Then it's the same thing."

"That's bullsh-"

"Same thing. Ya knows it, why yer doin' it secret."

She sat speechless for a few minutes, furiously trying to come up with talking points to defend herself when he went on: "Woman, when did you become such a coward?"

"Hard to build confidence when everyone is constantly telling you how stupid you are," she muttered darkly.

"Cowards blame others," he said smoothly.

"I can't win," she sighed, deflated. She jumped off the stool just as Susan was coming down the steps, saw her, rolled her eyes and went back up the stairs. "I missed you too, Susan!" she called behind her back.

"Go talk to yer man," Luther said, waving his cigarette in her face. "And I'll think 'bout signin' yer paper."

She harrumphed her way to the exit when he called after her: “And don’ drink no damn whiskey!”

“Don’t tell me what to do!” she yelled over her shoulder and swiped a glass from the shelf on her way out. 

She bought a bottle of wine and went back to the harbor. A police officer strolled towards her and said she can’t drink in public but she showed him her hand and told him it’s medicine. He gave her nice clothes a look over, nodded with a small smile and strolled away. She sat at the harbor a long time but didn't touch the wine after the first sip. Her stomach was still sour from yesterday and it tasted vile today.

Luther had a point and she hated to admit it. The notion that something profound had happened between Arthur and Abigail had been so very plausible last night but seemed really flimsy today. She racked her memories to come up with proof otherwise - a suspicious look or any kind of awkwardness between them but failed to do so. Arthur treated her the same way he treated most other gang members - like a mild nuisance he tolerated because she happened to be family.

This assuaged some of her anger but unfortunately did little with regards to her jealousy. Was it ridiculous to be jealous of something long before her time? Absolutely. Was she jealous anyway? Yes. This must be one of those embarrassing, dumb things that happens when you really fall for a guy, she thought because she hadn’t felt anything like it for her former flames. In fact most of those had moved on to other girls and some even had married and she had hardly thought about it, let alone throw a fit and smash glasses.

She noticed that the sun had set, so she went and had dinner. When it still wasn’t late enough, she went to a show, although afterwards she couldn't recall much what she had watched. Then she finally had run out of excuses and had to go back to camp.

When she arrived, it was very late but surprisingly lively. People were still riding the rescue high. She saw Arthur’s silhouette jump up from the fire and march over before she could even dismount and rolled her eyes at the lecture she was about to receive.

“Where you been?” he seethed as he shouldered her aside to take the saddle off. “Came to pick you up, you never left work.”

“Why did you do that?”

“What d’ya mean, why? Wan’ed to see you.” 

God, you would think a colossal catastrophe had befallen him when all she had done was give him the cold shoulder for two days! First conflict they had since they had moved in together and half the time he acted irritated because she wouldn't let him "fix" things and the other half, upset as if he was suffering through some great injustice.

“I just asked because I assumed you’d be at your picnic,” she said coolly.

“Was no picnic,” he gave her a hard look. “You gonna answer or what - where was you?”

“Chef gave me the day off,” she said dismissively, hefting her basket, but he quickly swiped that off her hands, too. She threw up her arms in frustration and started towards their tent.

“So where was you?” he said as he walked with her.

“Saint Denis,” was her evasive answer.

“Lemme guess,” was his dry retort. “Luther.” He seemed annoyed that she preferred to run to Luther instead of talking to him, but he didn't voice it. 

“Among other things.”

“What other things?”

“Wouldn’t you want to know?”

“Why didn’ you come home?” 

“Wanted to be alone,” she shrugged. 

This visibly frustrated him, but he didn't voice that, either. "I ain’t happy you comin’ in this late,” he grumbled as they reached the tent. “Bad folk out there.” 

“Bad folk in here, too,” she quipped and it silenced him for a few moments. 

He closed the flap behind them and put the basket aside. 

“Savigne...” he started but she interrupted him:

“I already listened to enough nonsense today, I’m all talked out.”

“What nonsense?”

“Everybody thinks I’m a fool,” she grumbled, yanking the pins out of her hair. “You have to wonder how I’m tying my shoelaces every morning, being as stupid as I am.” She threw the pins into the box with fervor and sat in front of the mirror, picking non existent lint off her blouse. It had stung, the way Mr Bowers had looked at her. And the truth of Luther’s words. And Abigail’s dumb insensitivity. And Arthur’s blindness to her point of view.

It occurred to her that she didn’t have anyone who stepped in and acknowledged her feelings and her frustration. She was surrounded by people who constantly told her she was wrong or too sensitive or too naive. And the fact that she had picked these people meant it was her doing, although she couldn’t fathom why she was doing it. 

“Y’aint no fool,” he said carefully and sat down at the table. “Lemme see the hand.”

“My hand is fine, she mumbled, thinking that she needed to pick better people. Softer people. People who would for once carry her banner to battle instead of stabbing her in the back with it.

“Lemme see,” he insisted. “Could get infected.”

She sat across from him and did as asked because the last thing she needed now was an infection. He paused when he unwound the bandages.

"What happened to yer hand?" 

Something stirred in her head and she reflexively pushed it down.

He looked up at her. "Did you hurt it again?"

She looked at the blood, pooled purple under her skin and the gashes, wider now, more swollen than before. "No."

He gazed at her a long time and she stared back, her mind placid and empty. Then he sighed and went about cleaning it. She bit her lip to keep in the hiss because it hurt. 

“Had a bad day, huh?” he asked after a short silence. 

“Quite horrible actually.”

“Me too.”

“You should have gone to that picnic I guess,” she quipped.

He inhaled a frustrated breath, trying to remain calm. “Woman,” he said carefully, “I can’t change the past. Ain’t fair yer actin’ like I betrayed you cause I fucked someone six years ago.”

“Not just someone. Abigail! She’s right here!” Her free arm waved in the camp’s direction.

“Didn’ know she was gonna stick around, did I?” was his heated response. “That she was gonna be John’s woman? That she was gonna have a kid and become family? She changed. You gonna tell her she can’t cause she did what she did for a livin’?”

She clicked her tongue and looked away. There was a long silence during which she watched him work, marveling how gentle he could be with hands like those. He finished wrapping and tied the knot but held on to her hand when she tried to pull it back; running his fingers over the edges of the bandages, pretending to adjust minor imperfections. The gesture reminded her of something uncomfortable but she couldn't place it and he spoke up and distracted her before long:

“Been quiet in here,” he murmured, eyes flicking up to her. “I miss yer chirpin’.”

She pressed her lips, afraid that she would forgive him right then and there. It was hard to resist Arthur when he was present in person, always had been. And he must know it too, because whenever he wanted to erode her resolve, he made sure to be impossible to shake off.   

"You know what I'm realizing?" she sniffed, eager to change the subject. "That Dutch is right about one thing at least. Life is easier with a family." He watched her while he held her injured hand and drew circles on the back of it with his thumb. "Maybe I didn't understand it because I wasn't really on my own before."

"How d’ya mean?"

She shrugged. "Growing up in an orphanage...I didn't have to do a lot of things myself, it was done for me. Like, I didn't have to protect myself. I didn't have to go out there and deal with..." she swallowed the word 'broker' at the last moment. "...institutions. That sort of thing," she mumbled. "Guess it gave me this false sense of independence. Like I can do whatever I want and it doesn't matter if I'm alone. I’m finding out that it’s hard.”

"But y’aint alone," he said quietly, the statement lilting like a question. Nothing in his expression changed but something in his demeanor shifted as his sharp focus came to rest on her. 

"That’s not what I meant," she squirmed in her chair, feeling like she had said too much.

"What did you mean?" he pressed, his gaze unblinking.

"Nothing. Just...that it's hard for a woman on her own, that's all," she said dismissively. 

She pulled at her hand again, but again, he didn't let go. He didn't look away when he leaned his elbows on the table and asked "But y'aint on yer own.” Now there was a tinge of offense in his tone. “Are you?”

"I meant in general," she mumbled but she could tell he didn't buy it.

"Did you?" was his mild question. His attention on her was so intense, she practically felt naked.

There was a bout of silence.

"Where was you today?" he asked calmly.

It was bizarre how much she felt like a little girl caught by one of the nuns at the orphanage. Lying was of no use, Arthur read her too god damn well.

“I went to inquire about cabins,” she admitted with some hesitation. 

He flinched as if she had slapped him. There was a long silence as he looked at her with disbelief and she stared back, a little uneasy about the intensity of his reaction. She sensed his surprise, and not merely surprise that she had snooped around, but surprise of her intentions. Surprise that she was entertaining the idea of walking away - not just from the gang, but from him too, if necessary.

“You serious?” The incredulity in his voice was obvious.

"I just wanted to know my options,” was her defensive response as she withdrew her hand.

He ran a palm over his beard and looked away. 

“It’s not like I’m moving to Europe,” she managed a moment later. “I’m going to be close to Saint Denis…” she trailed. This didn't do anything for his building agitation. 

“No.” Said with the finality of a gunshot.

“What do you mean ‘no’?”

When she had bid him goodbye in Saint Denis as she was boarding the train, he had had the very same look on his face as he did now. Arthur wasn't stupid, he knew what was going through her head probably better than she knew herself, but he obviously disagreed with her decision and he was getting ready to push back.

He set his jaw, shoulders rigid. “Lemme put things straight.” His voice was calm but the fire dancing in his eyes gave off palpable heat. He leaned on the table, looking at her from under his eyebrows. "Gonna be a cold day in hell before I let you go get killed in some cabin.”

She sat back with a sigh. You can come with me, she wanted to say, but couldn't. Now that she was at the cusp of it, it was harder than she imagined. Because if she never asked, she could always pretend that he would. But if she asked, he could say no. He probably would say no. He definitely would say no.

“Arthur,” she swallowed, “I appreciate it, I do. But…”

“I ain’t agreein’ to this,” he said, crossing his arms.

“You don’t have to."

“Savigne,” was his sigh of frustration, “don’ fight me on this.”

“Someone has to think of me,” she grumbled. Did he think this was an easy decision for her?

“You think I ain’t?” he said, equal parts incredulous and offended. “‘M your man. Your safety is my job.”

“I think maybe you have too many jobs,” she countered, trying to put it gently.

"The hell that mean?" he asked, but it was obvious he understood her well enough. 

"I'm tired," she said, feeling dejected. It was pointless. He didn't want her to leave which was heart warming but he didn't understand why she had to, and that was irritating. "I don't want to fight you anymore."

"Good."

She rolled her eyes. "I mean I don't want to argue."

"Also good."

He sat there, arms crossed, tense as a bowstring, head averted, a mixture of sullen and pouty which, frankly, looked a bit silly on someone like him. He was trying not to show it but she could sense his hurt and surprisingly, it didn't give her the satisfaction she thought it would. Because, she reminded herself, Arthur hadn't led her on. She had done that to herself. 

"My hand hurts," she said a moment later. "If you could bring in some water..."

He blinked at her, a little startled that she had made a request. "Sure," he said and rose up.

The enthusiasm and pleasure with which he went about the simple task twisted her heart. 

Chapter Text

The next morning she woke up with him flush against her back, legs and arms tangled with hers. It reminded her of the cat in one of the orphanages who wouldn’t let anyone pet him but who had the habit of seeking out and snuggling in bed with whoever disliked him the most after they fell asleep. She tried to untangle herself slowly but he woke up and moved away. She stumbled out of bed, waved his attempts to help away and dressed herself. He dressed up as well, jaw set, shoulders rigid with determination. When she took her satchel and turned to leave the tent, she found him holding the flap open for her. She hesitated with surprise, then walked out and, to her chagrin, he followed. 

He started to saddle up Frost and she was too curious not to ask: “Where are you going?” 

“Gonna ride to Saint Denis. I’ll drop you off.” 

She froze, her plans of spending another day groveling in anger and self pity spoiled. “I’m not in a hurry,” she cleared her throat. “You go ahead.” 

“I ain’t pressed on time,” he said, throwing her a look. “We ride together.” 

Jesus, was there ever a man as stubborn as Arthur Morgan? He had given her plenty of time and distance when she had been struggling after his recovery, but now he clung to her like a tick, unwilling to let her drift out further than she already had. She climbed up her saddle and rode out with him, furiously thinking of how to navigate her way out of this predicament. They made it halfway to Saint Denis before she was finally convinced that she couldn’t shake him off and slowed Cricket to a halt. “I’m not going to work,” she admitted sheepishly. “I have the rest of the week off.”

His eyebrows rose as he turned Frost around and guided him to step closer. “That so?” he drawled, with complete lack of surprise. “Where was you goin’ then?” 

She shrugged. “Wherever I want, I guess. Go to your business.” 

He gave her an intense look, swaying on his horse. “It can wait.” 

“Maybe go back to camp,” she countered, irked by his stubbornness. “Gang might need you. Or Abigail.” 

His face tightened but he didn’t move otherwise. “‘M right where I wanna be.” he said, eyes hard. 

“You know, you used to be a lot easier to irritate,” she observed. The Arthur who had joined her at the shooting range that first time probably would have backhanded her and trotted off by now. 

“Grew tougher skin I guess. Seein’ you have some claws on you.” He urged his horse to come closer still, then crossed his elbows on the pommel. 

“Wanna go fishin’?”

“Wouldn’t want to waste your precious ti-”

“I know a spot.” 

She pursed her lips, gazing into the distance. 

“Think you’ll like it,” he pressed. 

“I don’t know,” she sighed, eyes following the horizon line. “And I don’t have my pole with me.”

“I got yer pole,” he said, dismissively brushing over the fact that he had, God knows how, suspected all along that she wasn’t going to work. “And…" he continued with a more serious tone, "Got things to say.” 

She sighed. “What kind of things?” 

“Important things,” he said gravely.

She had to admit, there was something compelling about the way he said it, eyes locked to hers, face grim. She was a little intrigued and it was pretty clear that she wasn’t going to get rid of him, so she sighed “Okay I guess,” and motioned for him to lead the way.

They rode towards Saint Denis but instead of continuing into town he turned Frost north, towards the Bayou and Savigne followed, her intrigue intensifying. She swiveled around on the saddle, trying to take it all in. This was wild country, a place she hadn’t dared to come to alone before. She gaped at the tall trees, covered in moss, listened attentively to the unfamiliar sounds of croaking and hooting and growling. It was eerily empty and they barely ran into anyone, riding for long minutes to the clop of their own horses. 

“Wanna talk about why,” he said suddenly and broke her out of her stupor. 

“Why?” 

“Why Abigail happened.” 

She straightened on her saddle. “I’m not sure I want to kn-” 

“You need to know. Meant to tell before…just was never a good time.” His discomfort made her curious, so she swallowed her protests and urged Cricket to be abreast with Frost. The horses slowed down to a mere walk and he was quiet for several minutes, but she knew he liked to take his time and didn’t intervene. 

“I know gang loves to talk,” he sighed, “‘M sure they told ‘bout me and Mary.”

“I heard some things,” she said, carefully. It wasn’t a topic she had expected him to breach.

“We was engaged,” he said, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it. “Long time ago now. Didn’ work out.”

The opportunity was too good to pass. “Why?”

He blew out some smoke, thoughtful as if he was debating the question in his head. “Wasn’ just one thing. Her daddy didn’ think me good enough, that’s one. She wan’ed me to leave the life, that’s another.”

It only confirmed what she had darkly suspected - that he hadn’t left the gang for Mary and the odds of him doing that for her seemed more dismal than ever. He was always going to say no, she thought, feeling a little vindicated but also a whole lot sadder for it.

“You could have,” she mumbled before she could stop herself. “Leave the gang, I mean.”

He took a deep breath. She knew he wasn’t much of a talker when it came to private matters, but as uncomfortable as he looked, today he seemed determined to make an exception. “She wan’ed me to leave my family, my trade. That’s fair,” he explained. “But she wasn’ gonna do the same.” He shot her a glance. “Wan’ed to marry Mary, true. But didn’ wanna be a penniless toy for her father to push around. She couldn’ see it. Wouldn’ see it.” He smirked. “Don’ matter.”

She tried to read his demeanor. There was regret there, no doubt, but she was surprised to also find resolve. Arthur was a proud man and the scenario he described would have been difficult for someone like him. But she could also understand Mary - hell, she practically was Mary right now, wasn’t she?

“Point bein’, she moved on,” he cleared his throat. “Married some fool and I was real broken up about it.” He smoked casually for a few moments. “Did what I always do - drank myself stupid. Was a night, I did just that and met a girl. Eliza.”

He gave her a flick of the eyes. “She was a waitress. After the saloon closed we…fooled around.” He ran a palm over his beard, uncomfortable about the disclosure but stubbornly pushed on: “Left the next morning and didn’ think ‘bout her again. Few months later when I was back in town, she told me she was with child.” Her head whipped around to him with disbelief. He gave her a tired nod. “Yeah. Wasn’ happy bout it. Wasn’ ready for any of that, didn’ want the kid, didn’ want her. She was sweet enough but was just a fling to me, didn’ want more.” He swayed on Frost, one hand holding the cigarette, the other loosely on the reins.

“She had the baby, a boy. Named him Isaac.” He looked at her incredulous face, then away, smoking. “Wasn’ happy but tried to step up. Went every few months to see how they was doin’ and drop a couple dollars.” He blew out the smoke and grew silent for a few minutes. “Me and her wasn’ well matched and it got only worse from there. Towards the end, she used to look at me like I was the devil. But Isaac was a sweet boy and him I grew to love. He was shy and quiet. I ‘member wonderin’ who he got that from,” he mused, eyes hazy with memory. “I was a chatty fool back then and Eliza was anythin’ but quiet,” he snorted bitterly. 

He smoked the cigarette to the stub and threw it away. “Few years passed. My next visit, they was gone. Didn’ own much but whatever they had was gone to the bone. Thought they moved. Eliza was angry I wasn’ doin’ more, thought she had enough, packed up and left. Was angry at first.” 

He sighed. “But then I found two graves in the back.” She tried not to but couldn’t help gaping at him with disbelief. He grimaced ahead, refusing to look at her. “They was robbed and killed over ten dollars,” he finished and there was something in his tone she had never heard before.

“God,” she whispered after a long silence, stunned. “I’m so sorry Arthur.” 

He nodded in acceptance and maneuvered Frost to trot ahead. She respectfully drew back a little and followed him. So much loss. Loss of his parents. Loss of Mary. Loss of a son. Loss of friends - violent and sudden in most cases. But beyond that, also loss of a childhood. And his whole adult life a loss to crime. She wondered what made Arthur keep going because she would be a weeping mess on the floor if that was her. She had lost her parents, true, but she had been so young, one could argue it wasn’t a true loss, because she couldn’t remember what having parents even felt like. And after that she had always kept a careful distance with people, reluctant in forming bonds. Losing a child was something she couldn’t even comprehend.

Why it had never crossed her mind as a possibility was a mystery. In light of this disclosure everything made a lot more sense. His gentleness towards Jack. His weak spot for Abigail whenever she came running with a request. She knew it was unfair to herself but couldn't help a feeling of inadequacy germinating in her chest. When Sister Rodriguez had told her that she would never have children of her own, Savigne had been merely a girl, so it hadn't bothered her in the least. And afterwards for a long time she had felt liberated by it - one more thing she didn't have to worry about. Now, always eager for self-depreciation, she wondered if this made her...lacking in Arthur's eyes. She rode behind him, watching his broad back and tried to muffle her merciless inner voice.

“Was my fault of course,” he picked up the thread many minutes later, voice harder. He slowed down Frost to fall abreast with Cricket again. “Young woman and a child defenseless like that, course it was gonna happen. But I was too taken with being an outlaw, being with the gang. After Mary, maybe more than before. Told myself it was fine to leave them. Was all bullshit.”

He took a deep breath, his gaze wandering the surrounding bayou. "Sometimes I think on it, try to ‘member it properly. Don’ think I can, no more. Can’t think of the good moments without thinkin’ of what followed. It’s all…tainted.”

He looked at her for the first time in a long while. “It ruined me, Savigne,” he said softly. “The guilt. Murdered a young woman, killed my own child cause I wan’ed to play outlaw. Ain’t no forgiveness for that,” he managed to choke out. “I was…sick...for a long time. Drunk for a year. Somethin’ died in me and never grew back." A pause and a sigh after: "That’s when Abigail happened.” 

She swallowed and looked away. 

“She was in camp few months, she wan'ed the money, I wan'ed to forget, thought 'what’s the harm?'. If I knew she was gonna stick around, retire and be with Marston, would have never touched her. Even I ain’t that dumb.” 

“I see,” she nodded with pressed lips. 

“Meant to tell you. Wan’ed to. But…didn’,” he finished lamely.

“Why?” was her careful question.

A long while passed. Just when she thought that he wasn’t going to answer, he said “Honest? Told ya I was a bad man. Many times. Even showed you. But you never treated me like one.” There was a rough shrug of the shoulders. “Think I grew to like that more than I care to admit. Didn’ wanna lose it.”

The shame that was coming off of him was searing, intense. The notion that he put so much value in her opinion of him touched her in a way she couldn't explain. It was like noticing a vulnerability, a weak point in his armor she hadn’t expected to find and it made her feel irrationally protective of him.

“Listen here,” he cleared his throat. “I feel nothin’ for Abigail that way. But you was right when you said I played family. I did,” he shrugged. “Wasn’ all pure. Sometimes I did it to ease m'own mind. Sometimes to piss off Marston. But I never stepped down and I should ‘ave. I’m stepping down now. It’s done. I like Abigail. But you’re my woman,” he said with an intense look. “You believe me?”

The jealousy was still there, refusing to dissipate. But she couldn’t deny that Luther’s opinion had wormed its way into her brain and Arthur’s explanation was hard to ignore. “Yeah,” she admitted begrudgingly.

He nodded, satisfied and rolled his shoulders.

They rode the rest of the way in silence, each lost in their own thoughts.

When they arrived at a ramshackle town, Arthur dismounted to buy bait from an old lady fanning herself in a rocking chair on her porch. She glided off Cricket, fascinated by this new location and strolled up her steps to walk around her shack. It overlooked a lake and she leaned on the railing to watch it as he did his shopping. It was hot and stifling here, barely anything moved. The air was thick and heavy, every breath felt like breathing underwater. She timidly watched the gators floating in the lake and listened to the cawing and the hooting and the croaking. After the bustling of Saint Denis, it felt remarkably hushed. He came to stand next to her, mirroring her and fishing for another cigarette. There was a silence between them but it it wasn't hostile or awkward for what felt like a long time. 

“Savigne," he exhaled smoke after a while, squinting out to the lake. "Ain't gonna let you go live in a cabin alone. Can’t do it. Won’ do it.”

Somehow, the real reason for his resistance made it worse because now she understood it for what it was - a hard border he wouldn't entertain crossing under any circumstances. 

“I understand. But…”

“Gimme few months,” he interjected, still gazing out to the water, his face unreadable. 

She watched his profile for a while. “What happens in a few months?”

He played with his cigarette for a moment before he finally turned to give her a long look. “We leave together.”

The expression on her face must have been profound because he added a self-conscious mutter of “Ain’t the worst idea”, before he focused on scraping the mud off his soles on the edge of the veranda planks.

“No, it’s just…you never said anything,” she stammered when she found her voice again.

His lips bowed. “Ya never asked,” was the simple response.

“I’ve been blabbering about a cabin for months," was her incredulous objection. "Since we met, even. You never said you’re interested.”

“Never heard a ‘we’ when you talk ‘bout that.”

“Well…I didn’t want to…” His eyebrows rose as she searched for the right word. “…presume.”

“So you presumed I wouldn’?”

She huffed a cough of laughter. 

“Lemme guess,” he said, glancing at her. “You presumed I was…” he scratched his beard as he searched his memory. “…a ‘deceptive man, stringin' you along’ - that it?”

This up close, he felt magnetic, like he had his own gravitational field and she was in it, sizzling with the pull of it. It still surprised her, how casually handsome Arthur was. And how little he seemed to notice it himself. He made next to no effort to dress up or groom himself, often seemed oblivious to the entire concept of self care, more focused on caring for his guns or keeping his journal clean than he was of his own person. But somehow he always looked splendid. He kept his hair longer now, knowing she liked it and summer had stripped it into a pale gold. His skin was shades darker from when she had first seen him, giving his pallor a healthy glow. He was bigger somehow, no doubt filling up thanks to his voracious appetite and the dinners she was cooking him, but it all seemed to go to the right places on him and never the places it went on her - his waist was still trim, his stomach flat, but his shoulders larger, rounder as he leaned over the railing.

“What about the gang?” She said after a while, trying to break out of her stupor. The temptation to pinch herself was overwhelming.

He grimaced to the distance. “Done that all m’life,” he sighed before he gave her a long look. “Wanna do somethin’ else now.” Then a hitch of the shoulders, a subtle grin sent her way: “‘Sides…you make good lazan ya...Think it could work.”

Two days ago she was certain there was no point in asking the question. Hell, an hour ago she had been sure he was never going to agree. And now he suggested it - unprompted- as easily and naturally as asking her for a date. She felt as if struck by lightning. It was inconceivable.

Maybe, she thought then, there is something to be said for being in the right place at the right time. For arriving at the back end of mistakes and regrets and meeting a man when he is older, wiser. A man who had come to grips with the fact that he won’t live forever and wary of repeating the same blunders.

"I don’t know," she stalled to gather her wits. Her heart was beating in her ears and it took everything to make her voice not quiver. "We fight a lot."

"We don' fight," he scratched his beard. "A lot," he added, probably taking the last few days into consideration. "Would be less if you listened to yer man, tell ya that."

It was said playfully, with no menace and so was her scoff in response.

There were inches between them but neither made the attempt to close the distance as they stared out across the water. It felt bizarre to talk about something so momentous as if they were talking about what to have for dinner, but here they were. With her previous partners, Savigne had always been the odd one, the weird one, the awkward one. Now that she was matched with someone who was awkward in his own way, sometimes that meant doing this strange dance where they both played down big things to find a way to talk around them. 

“Worked fine for me,” he said a long moment later. “This past summer.” He gave her a flick of the eyes. “You?”

She felt breathless, dizzy. But managed an answer: “Worked for me, too.”

He nodded at that. Sometimes Arthur had a certain shyness about him that she found quite endearing. It was rare and rarer still as he grew more comfortable around her, but not completely gone. He was the picture of male confidence, cocky and self-assured. Often he was extremely bold with her and enjoyed dominating her and she was the one who blushed and squirmed. But every now and then he had the vulnerability of a young boy he couldn’t quite mask well enough or maybe didn’t try to.

“Could be boring,” she tried to alleviate the awkwardness. "Life without the gang."

He clicked his tongue and looked away again. “‘M okay with boring.”

“What if you miss the action?”

“Ain’t gonna miss gettin’ shot at,” was his dismissive reply.

“What if you miss your friends?”

“Guess ‘m gonna have to make new friends.”

“What if…”

“All that don’ matter none,” he said gently, steering her away from her spiraling.

“Why do you need this time?” she asked at last, more somber.

“Dutch took me in at fourteen,” he said, squinting into the bright day. “Never been to school. Never learned a trade. This here the only thing I know. Ain’t nothin’ to be proud of,” he grimaced, watching a flock of cranes glide in to settle on the lake. “But it’s what I got.” A hardness crept into his voice when he continued: “Put my life in this. My best years. Gave up a lot for it.” The look in his eyes when he glanced her way was brimming with determination. “Ain’t walkin’ away broke to leave it all to Dutch.”

“But…I have money, too,” she tried.

He shook his head. “I’m a man,” he rolled his shoulders. “Gotta bring somethin’ to the table.” She knew that, of course. She was proud, but so was he. He wasn't going to show up empty handed, it went against his whole code, his identity. Even if it didn't matter to her, it mattered a whole lot to him. 

“This last week has been tough. Risky. Draining. Months of that…is…a lot.”

He ran a palm over his beard, eyes flicking to her for a moment as he threw his cigarette butt into the lake. “I let Dutch talk me into shit I shouln’ have. Won’ happen again.”

She took a deep breath, trying to find a gentle way of voicing her doubts.

“Savigne," he said softly and turned to lean his elbow on the railing, facing her. “Stay with me.” He hesitated for a moment, but then his right palm came to rest lightly on her lower back and when she didn't move away, remained, more confident. His eyes were steady, earnest and clear, trying to convey his sincerity. "I will do right by you. Couple o’months. All I’m askin’.”

“And if you still don’t have what you need in a couple of months?”

He pressed his lips. “Then we get the cabin. Together.”

There was a long silence and he waited patiently while she pretended to debate it in her head, even though there really was no debate. Just like there never had been a debate when she had left the orphanage. Or when she had decided to cook for a living. Trepidation, sure. Some hesitation, some strife. But never enough to warrant a debate. She loved him profoundly, but that seemed almost secondary. Truth was, without the gang, he was perfect. Not perfect as in flawless, but perfect as in fitting - his corners and bends aligned with hers. Maybe it would work out or maybe, as soon as they were alone with each other, it would fall apart. But a couple of months seemed like a small price to pay to find out. 

“Okay,” she whispered finally.

He dipped his head and nodded, his hat momentarily hiding his face from her. When he raised it again, she surprised him by grabbing his shirt to pull him down and crush her lips against his. A moment later he responded with matching fervor, lips latching to hers, aggressive and unapologetic. His hand on her lower back jerked her towards himself and she rose on her toes to snake her arms around his neck, kissing him with fervent need. He pushed her against the railing, his tongue hot and eager, seeking entrance and she moaned lowly with the eruption of excitement in her gut.

“You kids better be doin’ nothin’ unchristian back there!” came the shout from around the corner.

They flinched apart like teenagers. “No ma’am,” Arthur managed after a moment, his hand gliding lower to fondle her buttocks, eyes set on her like they meant to burn a hole through her as he tilted his head to capture her lips again.

“Good, cause this here is the Lord’s house,” was her follow up.

Savigne pulled back, wrestling to get her emotions under control, but he was unwilling to let go. He leaned in, placing his forehead on hers, pulling her closer still, flattening her against himself.

“Just admirin’ the view,” he called back, chasing her lips.

“‘Mire it from somewhere else!” was the sharp rebuke.

She grinned and detached herself from his reluctant arms, stepping back and slapping his hands away.

“Thank you for the bait,” she called, trying to detach his palm from her buttocks. “Let go,” she whispered to him, half amused, half embarrassed.

“Wan’ me to knock her out cold?” he breathed, his other hand bunching up her skirt. 

She bit her lip to stifle her burst of laughter and pushed against his chest. “What happened to going fishing?”

“Made me forget all ‘bout that, didn’ ya?” he smirked, still trying to get under her skirt.

“Well I’m reminding you then,” she growled, battling his hands.

He sighed and adjusted his hat, gave her look and turned around. “Fine,” he said, somewhat grouchy and held out a hand behind his back. She took it and followed him around to the front.

She colored a little at the stinky eye the old woman was giving them. Arthur touched the rim of his hat with a “Ma’am,” and walked towards the horses, unperturbed. The spring in his step was unmistakable and she grinned, feeling like she was walking on air.

He clicked his tongue as he set out. "What happened to that guy anyway?"

"What guy?”

"Deceptive man in the book."

She urged Cricket to follow as they left the town and headed further north. "He married the girl."

"Thought he was married?”

"His wife died in a fire."

"Ya don’ say,” he said with audible amusement over his shoulder. 

"Wasn’t his doing, she was mad and started the fire," she explained. 

His hum indicated strong doubt as he urged Frost into a trot. They took several turns into side paths, going deeper into the Bayou. It was dim and hushed here, the hoof beat of their horses muffled. Finally he stopped and dismounted and she followed suit. He took Frost’s reins and pulled out a gun, continuing on foot. She followed, trying to stay close. The shot made her jump. Something slithered into the water ahead and her skin crawled. 

“Uh…this seems…a little…inconvenient for fishing,” she stammered. 

He grinned but didn’t answer and moved on. Another shot, plucking dirt by a sun tanning gator sent it ambling off as they came to a clearing at the edge of stagnant, murky water. He glanced around and once satisfied, went to his saddle to unpack the fishing rods and handed hers over as she pulled Cricket closer to the clearing, away from the underbrush. He gave her some bait, then hooked his and swung it far into the water. 

“Two outta three wins,” he said. 

“What!?” she froze. “Wins what?” 

He shrugged. “Whatever,” he said with a smile on his lips. 

“You should have said that,” she sputtered, hastily preparing her rod. “It’s unfair to start early.” 

He hummed in amusement. “Life ain’t fair.”

She came to stand next to him, hooked her bait and swung out her bobber. Afterwards she took a nervous look around and inched closer to him because every log and mound of mud looked like a gator. Not too long later he grunted and started to reel in. She watched, fascinated as he pulled out a respectable size of a gar. It fiercely slithered on the mud. He grabbed it and hit the head with the butt of his gun and it went slack. He threw it back towards the horses. 

“Ain’t got no luck today huh?” he mused as he prepared his rod. 

“You started early,” she hissed, “So that one doesn’t count.” 

“You know what,” he sighed as his sinker strummed and flew over the water, “I’m in a generous mood. We start now.” 

She squared her feet, pleased. They didn’t talk for a while. 

“Nice day,” he said, breaking the silence. 

“Yeah,” she agreed.

“Haven't done much together lately,” he drawled, watching the water. “Missed it.” 

She concentrated on the reverberations on her pole that never came. “A lot going on,” was her distracted mumble. 

He smirked into the distance. “Don’t make it right,” he said a while later. “Life’s short. Can end any day.” His broad shoulders hitched. “Should make time for things that matter.” 

A comfortable silence set in between them as she dared to think of the unimaginable: life with Arthur without the gang. Just the two of them. Waking up together every day, without distractions, without worries of harm, without Dutch and Micah and the rest of it. She couldn’t remember ever being this happy, she felt breathless with the force of it.

Suddenly a buzz from his angler and she gaped as he reeled in another, smaller gar. He fought it into the mud, then carefully unhooked it to throw it back in. “That’s one,” his eyes flicked at her with amusement. She harrumphed and reeled her bait in. It was still there. He chuckled when he saw it. “Thought you was good at this?” 

She made a face at him, hooked up fresh bait and swung it out. A few minutes passed. He made a noise and she protested “No way!” as he reeled in his line but thankfully the next fish escaped the hook before he could get it to the bank. She grinned at that and fervently wished for her pole to tremble, but it remained stiff and calm in her hands. She groaned when his bobber flew out again. 

“So this cabin,” he said, scratching his beard. “What’s it like?” 

“Don’t know,” she grinned shyly.

“You must have somethin’ in mind.” 

“I mostly pictured the kitchen.” 

“That so?” 

“Yeah. Huge kitchen. Windows everywhere. Ice box. Oven. Hearth. And a running sink,” she mused. 

“Sounds nice,” he said. Then: “Gotta have a tub. Big enough for two.” 

She clicked her tongue. “Of course that’s where your head goes.” 

“Sturdy table,” he said casually, adjusting his hat and giving her a side-eye. “Lots of counter space in the kitchen…” 

She shook her head and ignored him, he was most certainly trying to make her blush.

He seemed to take her composure as a challenge: “But you know what we really need?” 

“I’m afraid to ask” was her dry response. 

“One of them headboards.” 

“A headboard?” 

“Gotta be solid,” he nodded seriously. “Won’t break when I grab it.” He was visibly pleased when her color started to rise. “No neighbors, won’ have to mind the bangin’.” 

“Jesus,” she managed just when his line started to sing, promising a big haul. 

“What the hell?!” she protested, watching with dismay and frustration. 

He grinned at her expression and continued, fighting inch by inch until a massive longnose flopped into view. He chuckled as she swiped at his pole, trying to make him drop it and shouldered her away. “Hey now,” he laughed. 

“Life ain’t fair,” she hissed and tried to stab fingers into his ribs. He chortled loudly but it was more at her desperation, not the finger stabbing and lifted the pole away from her reach, still reeling. 

“Three out of five!” she yelled as the fish was merely ten feet away. 

“Nah,” he chuckled. “Think I’m good.” 

“Damn it! I bet you cheated!” 

He smirked in her direction, fighting the gar. “Sounds like loser talk to me.” 

She swiped at his shoulders. 

“Watch the hat,” he laughed. “I drop that, you wadin’ in to fetch it.” That cowed her and she gave up with a click of the tongue. 

She stepped away from the flopping, coiling monster that he somehow managed to pull back to the muddy bank. He delivered a single, heavy thud on the head and the animal went slack. He grunted, pleased, threw it next to the other one and dropped to his haunches to wash off his hands. She gathered her line and folded her angler, annoyed, ignoring his amusement at her expression. They stuffed their poles into the saddles but he halted her after with a light grip on the arm. 

“I won,” he grinned at her scowl. 

“Yeah, I saw,” she huffed and made to take the reins, but his grip tightened. 

“Ain’t you forgettin’ something?” She cocked an eyebrow. “My reward?” 

She rolled her eyes. “Fine, what do you want?” 

He hung his hat on the pommel of the saddle and stepped closer. The mood shifted so suddenly, she was unprepared for it. She blinked when his hand cupped her face. “How ‘bout…” he drawled, inching closer still to loom over her, “…a kiss?” 

“I don’t know,” she sighed coyly, “That’s quite an ask.” His other hand cupped her other cheek and forced her to look up at him. 

“What I want,” he said, eyes momentarily dropping to her lips. “Earned it.”

“I’m not so sure of that,” she whispered, “But a promise is a promise.” She threw her arms around his neck, rising on her toes to kiss him, long and deep. His left hand gripped her waist, pulling her against himself as he cupped her head with his other hand, kissing her back, first gentle and tender, then with more vigor. His tongue gliding over her lower lip, behind it, brushing her teeth, then moving back up, suckling harder, massaging her upper lip. He tilted his head further and his kiss became firmer, bigger. The fingers in her hair gently closing as he tilted his head the other way to kiss her again, bolder, more demanding. Dreamily she felt herself walked back until her back hit a tree, mesmerized by the taste of him. Standing on the mound around the tree, she found that she was eye level with him for once. He kissed her harder, a hand dropping to her throat to push her face up as he covered her body with his.

“You sore cause you lost?” he murmured against her lips, the hand on her waist impatiently throwing her skirt out of the way to cup her over her bloomers.

“Yeah,” was her shudder of an exhale when his fingers deftly began to massage her. She squirmed against him, moaning helplessly as he left a trail of wet kisses along her neck and suckled her earlobe. 

A hot puff of “Too bad, little bird” as his lips closed on her neck, gently suckling, puckering her skin. 

She moaned with the sensation, head swimming, gasping against his neck as she inhaled his scent of sweat, horse and cigarette, and bit her lower lip when that familiar coil strummed in her gut. Something splashed in the water and she opened her mouth to voice her concerns but his lips instantly took the invitation and crushed her words into meaningless muffles. His hand cupping her below pressed in, fingers moving slowly and she let out a shudder of air through her nose. He came up for air and looked at her, eyes blazing with arousal. He watched her as he massaged her over the thin fabric and she trembled as if it was some sort of witchcraft, undoing her, her hips grinding against him. A wetness erupted in her as her folds undulated at the thought of him in her, closing on nothing. His lips hovered over hers, fingers ruining her bloomers, teasing.  

His hand on her neck glided around and shackled the back of her neck as he dipped in again, unapologetic, forceful, parting her lips brutishly, tongue diving in to assert his claim. She didn’t fight him, opening the gates willingly and stepping aside to let him do as he pleased, to take what he wanted. The hands then snaked under her skirt and tugged her bloomers down before his fingers zeroed in to what they were seeking with easy precision. The wetness he found there dilated his pupils. She twitched against him and he grunted lustily, digits gliding over her sticky wetness. He crushed her lips again as she squirmed and stumbled to step out her bloomers, then hastily swiped his suspenders of his shoulders. But when she reached for the buttons of his trousers he slapped her hand away and stepped a little back.

“Asked for a kiss,” he smiled, dropping to his knees in front of her, heedless of the mud, “Didn’ say where, did I?”

Her skirts were thrown out of the way and she gasped as he roughly shouldered her legs apart and hands palmed her buttocks to jerk her closer. A moment later, his hot mouth on her folds, making her jump. By God, what a kiss it was! She whimpered his name, squirming against his hold, hands gripping his shoulders, feeling herself unravel with every stroke of his tongue. He threw one leg over his shoulder and she whined as she was exposed to him completely and he hummed with appreciation, diving in with more gusto, shamelessly lapping at her wetness.

Her back arched and her head thumped against he tree, a peal of heavy moans falling from her lips, her fingers desperately clawing into his shoulders. His merciless lips parting her without hesitation, his tongue entering her to make her scream his name, then withdrawing to drive closer and closer circles to the center of her pleasure, her bud that was pulsing with white hot need. She writhed above him, torn between wanting to withdraw to prolong the pleasure and wanting to intensify it to its peak. She found herself saying things she never even imagined thinking, a cascade of adulation for him, whispered with religious reverence. Then his lips closed on her bud and she shuddered, bucking against him helplessly as she screamed his name into the stillness of the bayou.

She was still panting hard when he rose to kiss her, sharing her taste with her. “I like the way you sing, little bird,” he mumbled against her lips as he grasped her waist to hold her upright while she swayed on trembling legs. He pressed her against the tree and kissed her again, slower and gentler, dipping to her neck and shoulders, allowing her to recover her breath. Hands gliding on her chest and hips, cupping her face and kissing her again before suckling her neck. His hardness against her stomach grinding against her as he grunted with the pleasure of the friction.

Minutes passed before he unbuttoned his trousers and took himself at hand, stroking and coating himself with his precum. Then he roughly pulled up her left thigh and guided himself into her, pushing slowly until his pelvis was flush against her. He guided her leg to hook his waist before he palmed her buttocks for support and braced himself against the tree with his other hand. He watched her face as he slowly pulled out and rocked back in, filling her completely. She moaned at the sensation and couldn’t look away from his eyes as he repeated the motion, slowly but firmly.

He worried her lips and watched her start panting again as he languidly bucked into her. Her eyes fluttered as a wave of heat started building in her and she whimpered and squirmed under his heavy gaze. He breathed into her mouth and licked her lips as he increased his tempo. She snaked an arm around his neck, gasping and moaning helplessly at the renewed buildup of pleasure.

Her other hand dropped to his exposed buttocks, clenching at the firm muscle as if to push him deeper as he grunted, setting a harsh rhythm. In a haze, she wondered when they had sex last because despite knowing that it couldn’t have been long at all, she felt famished for it. The same hunger was reflected in his impatient groping, the unceasing assault of his lips, his sloppy bucking. 

He whispered praises against her ear as her muscles tensed, trying to enhance the impact of his thrusting. Her leg folded on him, desperate to keep him closer still. He shuddered at her peal of moans, fighting to prolong a losing battle, fucking her into the tree with more and more zeal as she squirmed, trying to find purchase so he can hit her right there. He kissed her throat, then suckled it feverish as his hips slapped into her, jerking her upwards with every thrust, his big hand cupping her buttock to keep her in place as he chased her pleasure. 

“Gonna make you sing again,” he growled and deftly angled her with the expertise of someone who knew her body better than herself and when his cock bruised a spot inside her, she choked out a lusty whimper. He moaned in response and did it again and again and again when suddenly the coil sprang open in her and she clawed at his shoulders, helplessly releasing a silent scream to the sky, spasming with her orgasm, nails digging into his pistoning buttocks. He rocked into her a few more times before he joined her, a shaky, deep rumble traveling through his chest and pluming on her neck. 

Her head hit the tree with a thud and her eyelids fluttered as blood started lazily pumping back into her brain. He dropped her leg and embraced her flush against his chest as if he meant to bury her into himself. They panted, trying to draw breath in the soupy air of the swamp, sweat springing from every pore. She felt warm rivulets racing down her thighs and focused on lightening her talon hold on his buttocks, gently caressing over the marks of her nails in his skin. 

“You cheated…didn’t you?” she gasped, distantly amused that this was the first thing her working brain managed to spit out. 

His nod against her neck would have outraged her if not for her lightheaded exhaustion. “Gave you…wrong…bait,” he huffed. 

“I fucking…hate you,” she said weakly and he chuckled, breathless. 

He pulled back a little to look at her and she gazed back, enjoying the even eye level. His thumb brushed her lower lip, his eyes dancing with something she was too dazed to read. 

“Savigne,” he sighed with that particular lilt of his that always made her name sound so exotic and special. “Tell me what you want. What you really want.” 

Words she couldn’t make sense of but somehow understood anyway. ‘What’s in your secret heart?’ he meant, ‘Unlock it and let me see’. 

She parted her lips, unsure what would fall out. 

“I want you to be my family,” she whispered a while later, hypnotized by the shade of blue of his eyes. 

He looked at her a long time, hushed and surprised, perhaps just as surprised as she felt at her own uttering. 

Then he leaned in to gently graze his lips over hers.

“I accept,” he sighed before he kissed her again.

Chapter Text

“Son, I need to talk to you!” Dutch called as soon as he saw them riding into camp.

Even from a distance it was easy to see Arthur’s shoulders tense up at that. As it should be, Dutch thought. He heard him tell Savigne to go on, that he will take care of the saddles and did just that before he finally strolled over. The delay annoyed Dutch but he masked it well.

“What’s up, Dutch?” was the drawl when the younger man walked into his tent, two god damn days after he had left. Two days!

The need to move had been apparent after Sean. But before they could act on it, Jack had disappeared. So once Dutch had retrieved Jack from Bronte (something he still felt he wasn’t being properly appreciated for) he had made it clear that they couldn’t delay the moving any longer, that it was more urgent than ever. And what had Arthur done in response? Arthur had saddled up and rode out with Savigne one morning and hadn’t returned again until now. There better be some emergency to explain this, Dutch stewed.

“You were gone two days,” Dutch said, keeping his voice mild. “Where were you?”

For a moment Arthur looked disinclined to answer. Then he notched his hands on his gun belt and simply said “Camping”.

“Camping?” he blinked. 

Arthur looked him dead in the eye and nodded. Dutch took a slow breath. “Arthur…” he said carefully, “…I thought we decided to find a new place to move the gang?”

“We did,” was the flat answer. 

“And? Have you?”

“Nope.”

It drove him wild, the nonchalant disrespect. Losing Arthur's trust had been frustrating and hurtful. But losing his respect - that was unacceptable. Even if Arthur had forgotten how much he owed Dutch as a person, he was still the leader of this damn gang and this kind of attitude would do nothing but undermine him. People would pick up on it and it would spread. He had tried sweet talking but that seemed to have very little effect on Arthur now. Was a time, he would glow up at a compliment alone and leap to his feet to go and be worthy of the next one. Now the carrot held no appeal to him anymore and maybe it was time to produce the stick. 

“Are you mocking me, son?” he growled, rising from his chair. He heard Molly shift behind him, picking up on his anger. But if Arthur did too, he didn’t show it. The man just stood there, feet squared, hands slung over gun belt, staring back with hooded eyes.

“Nope,” was the answer again. “Didn’ realize that whenever you say ‘we’, you actually mean me, is all.”

“You’re my best guy," was the extended olive branch.

“No doubt,” Arthur scratched his beard. “But I ain’t yer only guy, am I?” He turned around and did a casual inspection of the camp. “Lots of folks millin’ about.”

“They’re busy doing other things for the gang,” Dutch quipped.

“What other things?”

“Other things,” was the sharper answer. “I need you on this! Our safety depends on it!”

“Sure,” Arthur said after a moment of silence. “I’ll get to it Monday.”

“Excuse me?” Dutch almost sputtered despite himself.

“For what, Dutch?” was the casual drawl and it was hard not to hear the mocking in it. He felt provoked, baited, teased. His wish was to smother it right then and there. But his instinct was to avoid doing so. Because it was never smart to do what your opponent wanted you to do, after all. 

He clenched his jaw as Molly huffed in amusement behind him. His head whipped around and the smirk fell of her face.

“What’s so funny, Ms. O’Shea?” he seethed, eager to take his anger out on her if she was so willing to pipe up.

“Nothing!” she said, biting her cheek. “Man has been camping. Sounds important,” she said derisively.

The sarcasm was lost on Arthur whose eyes glided to her before he calmly responded with “Was.”

“Oh I bet!” Molly sighed, adjusting her shawl on her shoulders. “Sounds like you had fun.”

“Did,” was his simple answer. Her smile faltered a little at his unblinking stare.

“I don’t know what’s gotten into you,” Dutch cut off their exchange, “but I need this done today. Now! It can’t wait until Monday.”

Arthur made an exaggerated check of the sky and then shrugged. Literally shrugged! “Ain’t no point ridin' out in the dark.”

Dutch clenched his jaw. “Fine! First thing in the morning then. Tomorrow is Sunday. Unless you started attending church, should be perfect.”

“I got plans for tomorrow,” the younger man sighed.

“What plans?”

“Plans,” was all he offered. “Wanna send someone out, plenty of men here. Maybe Micah can do somethin’ useful for once. Could even scare off some squatters with that face.” A cocky grin widened on his lips as if he was proud to remind everyone in the room that he was the reason for that. 

Before he could respond, Molly jumped in: “You’ve changed, Mister Morgan!”

Arthur gave her a frosty look, but when he answered his voice was warm: “Thank you, Ms. O’Shea.” She had no comeback for this and just huddled further into her shawl. 

“Now,” he said, voice hardening as he took a step towards Dutch. “You want me to go out, I’m gonna do it Monday. Else, you pick another guy.”

Dutch just gaped at him with disbelief. “She’s in this camp, too, you fool! Our safety is on the line, hers included!”

“I’m touched you care ‘bout Savigne’s safety, but I got that covered,” was the easy response.  

“What about the rest of us? The women and children?”

Arthur gave him a long look. He was a hard man to read when he didn’t want to be read. Dutch was better at it than most, but not today.

“I ain’t the reason for this mess and I ain’t the leader. That your job.” Then he turned to leave, his long gait back to his tent calm and casual. 

Dutch sat back down in disbelief. Various moves went through his head.

He could chuck out Savigne, expel her from camp.

No, Arthur would never allow it.

What if he did it anyway?

Arthur might leave with her.

No, he would never, he thought, but it irked him that he wasn’t absolutely certain.

Fine then, chuck them both out. The boy had never been without the gang, of course he didn’t understand the value of it. Maybe if he lost it, he would come crawling back. In time, after they had their honeymoon phase and he got tired and bored of her, he would dump her and show up, more eager than ever to regain Dutch’s favor.

But he didn’t have the time to gamble months of Arthur’s absence while there was so much pressure on the gang. He didn’t like admitting it, but he needed the gunslinger too much right now.

Besides, what would stop them from cashing in on Dutch’s bounty once they were gone? Ten thousand dollars was a nice nest egg, wasn’t it? Arthur had been approached by the Pinkertons before, maybe this time he would take the deal. Especially if that viper kept whispering in his ear.

No, he couldn’t allow Arthur to leave - he had to keep him closer now than ever.

“He’ll come to his senses. It’s just the sweet first months,” Molly interrupted his ruminating.

“No,” Dutch mumbled. “I’ve seen his first months with a woman. This here is different.”

“I don’t get it,” Molly snorted. “She’s nothing special.”

True enough. But that wasn’t the whole picture, was it?

“It’s not about her,” he said slowly. “He’s been doubting me since Blackwater. And then…Micah…”

“I don’t understand why you don’t get rid of that pig,” Molly grimaced with distaste. “I’m no fan of Micah myself. Arthur hates him, you know that.”

Dumb woman didn’t understand how any of this worked. 

“Because I have to do what’s best for the gang, not just Arthur!” He hissed, turning on her. “And I’m not going to let myself be pushed about!” A leader that submitted to the ultimatums of his followers wasn’t a leader anymore. Arthur didn’t understand his reasons for keeping Micah around and he didn’t need to - he just needed to do as told. Seeing the bigger picture was his job, not Arthur’s.

“I get it,” Molly mumbled, taken aback. “All I’m saying is-”

“When I want your opinion, Ms. O'Shea,” Dutch growled, “I’ll ask for it.”

Molly huffed, offended and got up to leave the tent. 

The sense of betrayal thickened like soup around him. Betrayal by Arthur that now, after all these years, he had become a teenager chasing skirts, completely confused about his priorities. Betrayal by Hosea who had openly encouraged this nonsense. Betrayal by all the other gang members who seemed accepting of it. You would think they’d share his irritation. But no, except for the select few, they seemed downright pleased by Arthur’s transformation. And why shouldn’t they be - no doubt they enjoyed the defanged version of him. Not understanding how this didn’t help them but would most likely hurt them. 

It was downright frustrating how nobody in camp was as concerned with the gang hanging on together as much as he was. Must be nice, idling about, waiting for Dutch to make the tough calls, to iron out the wrinkles, to come up with a plan to keep the gears turning.

Things will be easier once we get to Tahiti, he thought to himself. There would be no Savigne there, for one thing. No way she would agree to leave her city life and live on an island, far away from everything she knew and loved. Even if by some madness she agreed, he could see nothing but misery for the couple there. He imagined her growing resentment for Arthur, imagined the big, electric fights, the depression. He imagined his growing impatience with her tantrums, his sullen unhappiness at her unhappiness. On some days, when he really needed it, he even liked to imagine them getting frustrated and mean and cheating on each other just so they can hurt one another. This line of thought calmed him a little as it usually did. They just needed one big score. After that, no more Pinkertons, no more Savigne and - if it meant winning back Arthur and returning things back to their perfect state - no more Micah. 

“Let me guess,” Savigne sighed as she was unpacking her basket. “You have to leave.”

“No,” was his simple answer.

She glanced at him as he took his gun belt off. “Really? He sounded upset.”

He grimaced and took off his hat to throw it on a crate. “That just how he sounds.”

She adjusted his hat to its perfect position while he sat down to pull off his boots. “Good. I think we both could use a night in our bed. I slept on one for months, but damn are bedrolls uncomfortable!" She unwound the bandages on her hand and inspected the gashes that looked healed for the most part. "Can you bring in some water?”

“Tomorrow is Sunday?” was his confused statement.

“And?”

“Ain’t we goin’ to Valentine?”

“I’m going to pretend you never said that,” she recoiled with disgust. “We can’t sleep like this. I can smell the Bayou on us!”

She herded him off the bed so she can remove the cover he had just sat on to stuff it into the dirty laundry basket.

“Just sayin’,” he sighed, sliding up his cotton bottoms. “Makes no sense we gotta clean before we clean.”

“Makes perfect sense. We’re dirty, we need to clean. I wouldn’t want to sleep next to myself tonight. And you don’t smell like roses either, trust me. Imagine sleeping with-”

She straightened and he was right there to grab her face, give her a smack of a kiss before he let her go.

“Quit yer chirpin’ woman, ‘m goin’,” was all he said before he took the buckets and left.

She grinned and started to undress. Coming back to the tent was like coming home. She had missed it, the comfort of a routine and familiarity. But coming back to the camp itself had been less alluring. Being away from it for two days had only served to highlight how much she had come to dislike it here. The tension. The spinning wheels of power plays. The grating voice of Dutch. The sullen stare of Micah. It's only a few more months, she thought, a blink of an eye, really.  

After the Bayou, instead of suggesting a return to camp, Arthur had taken her to one of his favorite spots - a little secluded creek bend, surrounded by rocks, quiet and calm. Far from the soupy air of the swamp, it was brisk and refreshing. She dug out a pit oven while he had started the fire and erected his tent and tended to the horses. Then she had placed the rocks heated by the fire into the pit oven, placed the fish in it with the thistle leaves that grew abundant in the area and had covered it up. While they waited for the fish to cook, the stars had come out, fresh and bright in the Fall sky. They sat chatting about all the things they had missed out on these last weeks. It was a relief not to be mad at him anymore, to be honest. As if the anger that had usurped her peace of mind had finally lifted and she could breath again. Sooner than she thought it would be possible, they fell into the rhythm of their usual bickering.

Arthur had eaten almost the entire big gar by himself. And now he was working on the smaller one. She watched him chew with gusto as if he hadn't eaten in days and shook her head with a mixture of fascination and disgust.

"How's your fish?"

His eyes flicked up to her as he forked over the bones. "Good."

"You sure?" she said with a side eye. "It doesn't taste...off to you?"

He swallowed and stared at her. "How d'ya mean?"

"Tastes bitter to me," she pursed her lips, playing with the food on her plate. "Like...deception bitter."

The grin that bloomed on his face was drenched with smugness. "Tastes fine to me," he said shamelessly, mouth full. “Best fish I had in m'life."

"Am I going to get an apology or what?"

"For?"

"Seriously?"

"'M sorry yer gullible," was his mild suggestion as he chewed voraciously. "But I don' regret it." He chuckled at the glare he received. "You don', either."

"Unbelievable!"

"I know you don'. Think the whole Bayou knows."

"Okay, enough of that," she cut him off. "Also, you're going to get sick. You ate a whole damn fish and it was enormous."

"Wouldn' if I wasn' starved for days," he mumbled. 

"Why? What happened to Pearson’s stew?"

His face scrunched up with disgust. "Can't eat that slop no more."

Her eyebrows lifted in amusement. "Getting a little spoiled, are we?"

”Yer fault,” was his easy answer.

”Charming, that’s my fault, too.”

Truthfully, she was too happy to be angry. And he seemed to be in exceptional spirits himself since the Bayou.

After he was finally full, he lighted a cigarette and took out the whiskey.

“No whiskey for you,” he reminded her as if she had asked and took a mouthful.

They sat in comfortable silence for a while until he broke it:

"Savigne, you know I got a bounty on m’head?”

She held her palms up to the fire and watched the flames for a while. “I know.” She could see him look at her from the corner of her eye as he smoked silently, but it was a while before he pushed again:

"Ya think on that?"

She shrugged.

"The hell that mean?" was his question.

"Means I don't know what that means," she sighed. "How do you get rid of a bounty?"

"You don'," he said. "You just run and hide."

When she grew silent again, he insisted: "I was alone, I could disappear. Go live somewhere quiet. Far.” His eyes flicked up to her. “But ain’t gonna be easy for you.”

She thought about it for a while more.

"Woman, you gonna talk?”

"What’s this about? Are you having doubts about the cabin?"

"Ain't got no doubts," he said and this time he didn't avert his gaze. "Should. Would, if I was decent. But I want what I want.”

He gave her one of those long, intense looks as she felt the sexual tension settle between them. It was hard not to feel it when Arthur looked at her the way he did. From the first time they had met till now, that aspect of their relationship had hardly changed. A long while later he corked the whiskey and dropped the bottle to the side. “Come here,” he said softly. How this man made her shiver with anticipation by saying mere two words was beyond her understanding. Sometimes she wondered if it was his skill or her weakness that compelled her like this. 

She crawled to get closer and sat cross-legged next to him. He threw the butt of the cigarette into the fire, then moved catlike over her legs to kiss her. She placed her hands behind her and leaned back on her arms.

“You gonna run with an outlaw?” he whispered into her ear, deft fingers of his right hand unbuttoning her shirt. She felt hot and when the brisk evening air blew on her chemise, it hardened her nipples. A trail of big wet kisses on her neck as the hand threw her shirt apart and palmed her breast over the thin cotton. 

“A dangerous man,” he said, reaching lower to slowly run up her skirt and glide over her thigh. Fingers playing with the hem of her bloomers, crawling in to touch her skin as he captured her lips again, firm and demanding. 

“How dangerous?” she managed when he gave her a moment to breathe.

He kissed her again, the crackle of the fire and the rasping of their breath the only noise in the camp. Then he suddenly rose to his feet and walked over to his saddle on Frost. She sat up, curious. When he returned, he was holding his looped rope. His blazing eyes settled on her as he pulled the end of it taut with a snap.

”Get in the tent,” was his low command.

She gaped at him, blood boiling, heartbeat thumping in her ears. A long moment passed.

“Woman,” he said, voice hard, “Ain’t askin’ again.”

It catapulted her to her feet and she just stood there, somewhat dazed before her wits returned and she turned around to walk to the tent. She felt him right behind her, so close that his chest was brushing against her back.

“There isn’t much room to move in here,” she said, hesitant. A gentle push that urged her to duck and crawl in.

A meaty smack landed on her butt. “Y’aint gonna do much movin’.”

Monday morning Hosea watched Savigne climb on her saddle and leave and ambled over to Arthur’s tent. He arrived to the younger man sitting at the table, facing the lake and eating his breakfast.

“What you got there?”

“Biscuits and gravy,” Arthur mumbled around the food in his mouth. 

“I’m taking some. Ain’t gonna ask cause I know you’re a selfish bastard,” he said and did just that. 

He sat down at the table and for a long while they both ate in silence. When his plate was clean Arthur fished out a cigarette and Hosea leaned back in his chair, enjoying the warmth in his gut and the warmth of the Fall sun on his face.

“Haven’t talked to you in ages,” Hosea sighed, sipping his coffee. “How are you?”

“Fine.”

“Seems more than fine to me,” was the grinning comeback.

Arthur ran his tongue over his teeth and looked away but Hosea read the subtle pleasure in his face and nodded. “You’ve done well, son. Proud of you.”

“Done nothin’. Just got lucky,” was the shrug.

“If nothing else, you didn’t sleep on luck. That’s the important bit. Plenty of folks get lucky but don’t move on it.”

“Dutch send you?” Arthur asked mildly a while later.

“I came myself,” Hosea explained. “But I can’t deny it was because of him.”

Arthur nodded and sipped his coffee and smoked on.

“I’m glad you’re doing all this,” Hosea said carefully. “Proud. Happy for you.”

“I can hear a ‘but’ comin’”

“But…I wonder if it had to be like this.” He received a dismissive shrug in return. “I know you’re hurt, son. Dutch shouldn’t have kept Micah on board. I wouldn’t have. But what’s done is done. We have to move on.”

“Ya know Hosea, ‘m gettin’ tired of hobblin’ on with ‘what’s done is done’. You always say life is consequences. Well them consequences here now.”

The older man nodded and squinted to the lake. “Fair enough. But you’re still here. She’s still here…” he waved his arm to Arthur’s tent. “All of us still here. While we’re here, benefits all of us to get along.” He ignored the grimace of disagreement on Arthur’s face. “Dutch ain’t what he used to be, I get that. But he’s still the one holding us together. Without him, folks here would be in the wind.”

“Maybe they should be.”

“But not penniless, I hope! All these years of sleeping on bedrolls and tents - I hope we walk away with money instead of broke.”

“Hope that, too,” Arthur admitted.

“Okay, so we agree on that much at least. If we had the Blackwater money, I’d be packing up myself. Right now though, if we walk away, we got nothing.” He watched Arthur smoke.

“So what ya askin’?” was the belated question.

“Less bickering and more doing. I don’t have to remind you of all people that, when we apply ourselves, we can do some great things.”

“Some dumb things, too,” the younger man pointed out. “And I ain’t doin’ dumb things no more.”

“So what are you suggesting?”

“We play it safe. None of this theater. Rob trains, rob coaches maybe. No big names. Like we used to.”

“Playing it safe was fine when we were just a handful of people. That won’t feed mouths around here anymore,” Hosea waved his arm towards the camp.

“Can,” Arthur suggested. “More folks means more robbers.”

“True. But there’s another thing you’re not taking into account: Pinkertons breathing down our necks. We ain’t got the luxury of time anymore.” He sat back on his chair, straightening his back and groaning with the pleasure of it. “Dutch has made some mistakes. True. But he’s right about one thing: we need a big score.”

“Then what? Tahiti?” Arthur scoffed.

“That part I don’t agree with,” Hosea waved dismissively. “But that’s for folks to decide for themselves. A big score that will feed all of us, then we each decide what to do.” Hosea’s lips bowed. “I don’t know about you but I want to make enough to keep my nose clean after. I don’t want to retire for a year, I want to retire, period. And son, you can’t keep robbing and stealing once you leave this behind and set up with her. You’ll lead the law right to her doorstep. When you’re done, you have to be done.”

The younger man nodded in concession. 

“So here’s what I’m thinking, you let me know if you disagree: we work together amicably - as much as we can anyway - until we find a big score. Something safe. No big risk. Then we sit down and share it and then it’s adios.”

“Can’t disagree with that,” the other man sighed and threw his cigarette butt into the dregs of his coffee.

“Okay, good,” Hosea said, pleased. “So first things first: we move somewhere safe. Go from there.”

“‘M gonna take care of that today. Don’ know why folks were waitin’ for me,” was the sullen mumble.

“Be honest - would you trust whatever hideout these numbnuts found and take your woman there?” was Hosea’s dry question. “All men are not equal, son. You get the most work because you’re the most competent.”

Arthur leaned forward on his elbows and made full eye contact with him for the first time. “If that so,” was his hard retort, “should be someone more competent we follow.”

“Like who?”

“Like you.” Hosea chuckled, but Arthur wasn’t fazed. “I ain’t jokin’ Hosea.”

“I don’t have what it takes,” the older man said, amused. “Certain people have that spark and we all know it’s Dutch. These folks wouldn’t follow me.”

“That may be. But I would.”

“Son…”

Arthur swiped his argument away. “Here’s the deal: I do as asked. Play nice, do m’job. But I ain’t stickin’ out my neck for Dutch’s bullshit no more. Ya want me to be there, you come up with a score.”

The older man sighed and gazed out into the distance. "I understand. So be it."

Monday morning she walked into the kitchen with renewed energy. She felt so happy and recharged, she felt like she could work a twelve hour shift and still keep going. It was later, when Chef Ecco walked in, that she remembered the episode from last week and froze. It took her several moments to gather her head and return to work, but she couldn’t get back into her mental space again and fumbled around, distracted. She almost jumped when he appeared right next to her.

“How’s the hand?” he smiled and she shrunk from him as if he had slapped her.

“Fine, chef,” she said, struggling to keep her voice calm. “Thank you for giving me time off.” It turned her stomach that she had just thanked him.

“Of course!” he grinned. She tried to busy herself with preparing the dressing, but froze when he moved closer. “Let me see,” was his amicable drawl.

Her hand began to move towards him of its own accord. She quickly snatched it back.

“No.”

He blinked at her and she stared back, somewhat amazed at herself. 

“It’s fine,” she added morosely.

He gave her a long look. “First time I hear that word from you,” he said, casually leaning back to the counter of her station.

She deftly pulled her tools closer and tried to continue with the preparation, choosing not to answer. He watched her for a while, stepped closer again and stood right by her shoulder as she furiously mixed the ingredients in her bowl, trying to ignore him. Her mouth was dry and the whisk kept sliding around in her sweaty palms. He pulled out a spoon from his chest pocket and dipped it into her bowl. She waited as he tasted the dressing, eyes ahead, back rigid. Afterwards he just stood there, quietly inspecting her. The tension of the silence built up and at some point became unbearable, so she relented:

”Good, chef?”

He waited a long moment. When she looked up, his eyes were mean and hard.

“No.” was the flat answer.

After months of compliments, the word was as heavy and hurtful as a gut punch.

Chapter Text

A few days later when she arrived at camp late afternoon, people were packing up. Even though he had told her that they were looking for a new location, it felt extremely sudden and jarring and caught her off guard. She hated surprises and realizing that, unbeknownst to her, yesterday had been her last day in camp made her upset.

She ran up to their tent and Arthur was packing their belongings into crates. “We movin’,” he said as if it wasn’t obvious.

“But…but…” she stammered, “…just like that?”

He gave her a confused look that asked 'How else do people move?' and paused at the disturbed expression on her face. “You okay?”

Her day had been atrocious to say the least. Chef Ecco had advanced two more people to the dinner shift even though neither of them were as good as her. In fact, one of the promoted cooks had been Ruth, who, in her opinion, couldn't cook if her life depended on it. But Ruth came from a well connected family and there she was, failing upwards again. After she had applauded demurely along with the rest of the staff when it was announced, her eyes had collided with Sarah's and Savigne had paused, intrigued by the expression on her face. After the shift she had lingered around until she spotted Sarah exiting the building and taking the boulevard north.

"Hey," Savigne panted once she caught up, "do you have a minute?"

Sarah was startled out of her reverie. "Sorry. My head was somewhere else," was her polite response.

"I know the feeling," Savigne grinned and fell in step beside her. 

Sarah was one of those women who were shockingly beautiful. Tall, slim, well proportioned with beautiful skin, eyes the color of emeralds and the most lustrous hair Savigne had ever seen. Thick, wavy and sandy blond, it hung like a lion's mane over her back. She tucked some of it behind an ear as she gave Savigne an uneasy side glance and resumed her stroll. They walked in silence for a while, parting to let people flow between them on the crowded sidewalk. Savigne was thinking furiously how to navigate the issue when Sarah prompted her:

"Did you need something?"  

"I was thinking...how about Ruth's promotion, huh?"

"Yes, good for her," the other woman quipped. It was faint but Savigne heard the jealousy in her voice and was emboldened by it. 

"You think that was fair?" She received an inscrutable glance for that, but no answer. "I don't." Workplace politics be damned, she thought, I'll probably never run into Ruth again anyway and she was a bitch.

The bitter chuckle surprised her. "Fair? What does that have to do with anything?"

"Shouldn’t it be, though?"

The blond woman gave her a side eye that asked if she was stupid, then took a right turn. This side street was a lot less crowded and they gradually drifted closer.

"I know you didn't grow up under a rock, Savigne. Of course Ruth was going to be moved to the dinner shift. Wouldn't surprise me if she has her own restaurant in a year. Her family is quite wealthy."

"She’ll still be a terrible cook." was the smirk of a response.

"Irrelevant," the other girl quipped. "The city is full of restaurants that don't have good food, hers will be just another. She’ll marry to a well matched man and this will just be a hobby to her."

"I guess." was her mumble of a reply as Savigne kept stride. When Sarah slowed to a stop, she mimicked her, somewhat surprised at the intense look she was receiving. They remained like that, a pregnant silence hanging between them for a good while as she grew increasingly uneasy. 

"Did he ever...?" Sarah trailed off, both eager to skip the unnecessary hemming and hawing, but also hesitant to say it out loud.

Savigne felt her face heat up. She couldn't explain why, but she felt shame at the prospect of disclosing how Chef Ecco had hurt her. As if it made her look weak and pathetic and...less. "Once…I think,” she squirmed, unable to look the other woman in the eye, afraid that she would see pity and judgement. “For the most part he just...makes me uncomfortable," she stammered. "You?"

"He won't touch me." There was no smugness in her tone, just a direct acknowledgement of facts. She looked Savigne dead in the eye, pressing on each word: "Because I have a fiancé."

"Oh," Savigne managed. She ruminated on this for a while. Then a solution occurred to her and she almost slapped her forehead because she hadn't thought of it sooner: "So if I put a ring on and tell everyone I'm engaged..." she began with excitement.

"No," Sarah cut her off flatly.

"I do have a partner, you know," she countered with mild offense. "It's not that far of a stretch."

"That's not what I mean," was the uncomfortable sigh of a response. 

"Well what do you mean? How would Chef Ecco know if I'm really engaged or not?"

The other girl chewed on her lip for a few moments, watching people walk by. "I don't want to offend you," she said at last.

The look she was giving Savigne said that she hoped Savigne could put it together herself instead of making her spell it out but if she did, she was underestimating Savigne's obtuseness. "You won't. Just tell me as it is, Jesus," she groaned. 

A deep breath, another calculating glance, then: "Promise you won't get offended."

"I promise!" was the eye roll. 

"Savigne...you're very pretty. You're hard working. And you're the best cook in that kitchen."

"Strangely, I'm not offended at all,” was her grinning response. 

"But...!"

"Oh."

"But you're a bit...naive." Savigne could tell that the word she really wanted to use was a lot more offensive, but her manners wouldn't allow it. "Look..." Sarah stepped a little closer. "...my fiance works for the mayor."

"Okay?" was her confused question.

"Where does your boyfriend work?"

"He...uh..." Savigne fussed, suddenly her mind going blank. "He...works at..." She flustered for a bit and failing to come with something, finally blurted: "How is that even relevant?"

Sarah's eyes softened. "Of course it's relevant." She took a deep breath and decided to change gears: "You're an orphan, right?"

"Right?" was the even more confused question. 

"I'm not saying it doesn't happen but... Just tell me if I'm close - your boyfriend works at the docks? Or maybe he's a farmer? Does he...uh...maybe deliver mail?"

"Close enough," Savigne whispered. She finally understood what Sarah was getting at and felt embarrassed that she didn't before. Someone like her was unlikely to end up with a man of higher status. No, her boyfriend was a lot more likely to be lower class and Sarah knew that. And so did Chef Ecco. Neither probably even suspected that Arthur was an outlaw and outside any of these norms.

"You said you wouldn't be offended."

"I'm not," Savigne muttered. "I mean I get it.” Then she grew defensive “He might not be an important man, but he could break Ecco's neck with a flick of his wrist, you know."

"That's irrelevant, too," Sarah said calmly. "Because then he would just lose his job and go to jail."

This, she didn't have an answer for. Worse, she thought to herself, in Arthur's case, he could get hanged.

"I'm sorry Savigne. I'm really not trying to be mean or anything. But you can see what I'm trying to say."

She reluctantly nodded at that.

"Ecco is a big name," Sarah pushed, locking eyes with her. "He hangs out with judges and mayors and businessmen. You can never tell your boyfriend."

Unconsciously she inspected the crosses of healing gashes on her left hand. "What if he...finds out? What if he...sees something?"

Sarah grew visibly uncomfortable and for a long time hesitated to say the next part. "He's just a boyfriend, right?"

"What do you mean?"

"You’re not...intimate or anything yet?"

"I...uh..." God, we're beyond intimate, Savigne thought and blushed.

Thankfully Sarah took this as shyness and continued: "What I'm getting at is...if you’re not intimate, he won't see."

"Well...he might..." Savigne winced. "Eventually, I mean." How to tell a proper lady that, oh yes, plenty of folks were intimate before marriage? Lower class folks anyway, she thought bitterly. 

"Then you lie." 

It was said so simply, so matter-of-factly, accompanied with a dismissive shrug, that Savigne just stood gaping at her.

"I'm sorry," Sarah said hastily and she looked honest enough. “I really am. But..." She pressed her lips and looked away. "...that's just the way the world works."

She surprised Savigne by gripping her forearm for a moment and giving her a stare that held both pity and affection, then turned and quickly walked away, leaving her feeling very alone in the middle of a crowded city. 

“I’m fine,” she breathed, feeling dejected and went to sit on the bed tapping her foot. 

"I know it ain't great.”

She shrugged to say 'it is what it is' and looked away, lips wobbly. It was a simple move and was going to happen eventually since they had decided to buy a cabin, but she felt irrationally emotional about it. This was her safe haven and now she felt like she had lost it in a fire.  

“What’s the matter?” he asked, a little incredulous at her reaction. 

“Nothing,” she sniffed, fidgeting with the cuffs of her blouse, embarrassed by her own sentimentality. Must be my period, she thought suddenly and the notion came with a measure of relief. Her periods had always been rare and extremely irregular, impossible to predict, but feeling as raw as she did was typical before one so that was a likely explanation. “I’m going to miss it, is all,” she said.

He looked at her a long time. “Somethin’ happen at work?”

“W-what!? No. Why do you ask?”

“You was fine this morning…” he trailed off, eyes crawling over her face.

“I’m just…didn’t realize we’re leaving today. Threw me off a little. I liked it here.”

He nodded. “Gonna be closer to Saint Denis?” he offered as a consolation.

“That’s good,” she said sullenly.

“I’ll bring the horses.”

She got up to finish the crating, telling herself that she was being silly and yet was unable to overcome her sadness. He returned with Lenny and Javier who helped to pull the tent apart as she stood aside and watched them like they had just killed her pet rabbit and were now skinning and deboning it.

Arthur did a double take of her face after the other men left. “Woman, the hell’s the matter with you?”

“Nothing’s the matter with me you soulless ghoul,” she said, producing a handkerchief and stomping to the wagon to climb up. "Also, be careful with the damn ice box! Bill gifted that to me.”

He rolled his eyes and proceeded to stack their belongings into the cart.

"The hell all this stuff come from?” he complained as he pushed the last piece of furniture to fit between the others. “I was livin’ simple and you had nothin' but books.”

She gazed out to the lake, thinking she had never rowed back to the island for that hat she had found in the wreckage and now probably never would. To her own horror, she started to sob at the notion.

He came around the wagon and paused, visibly uncomfortable about her tears, then did what he always did: pretended to be oblivious to it.

“Ready?”

"I’m not sitting on this wagon to pose for a portrait,” she sniffed, dabbing at her eyes.

He took a deep frustrated breath and was about to climb up when he noticed the oven still sitting there and walked over to it. "Forgot to move this."

"Can't move that," she said dismissively. 

"What d'ya mean?" was the disbelieving question. 

"Can't move it. We have to leave it here."

“The hell we do,” he mumbled and circled it, trying to see what could be done.

"Can't move it, Arthur," she repeated a third time, almost amused by how upset he was.

"I can move it."

She rolled her eyes. "It'll just crack or break. Trust me on this."

"But..."

"But what?”

"You made it," he said, eyes locking to hers.

"So what? It's just an oven." Then she realized that she was being a giant hypocrite, that he was allowed to be attached and sentimental about a stupid clay oven just like she was attached to her tent.

"Maybe I'll make another one," she said finally to console him. "I can make another, it’s not difficult.”

He turned back to the oven, contemplative. His stance said it wasn't so much about making a new oven but more about leaving this one behind. As if it contained memories that he was reluctant to part from. Eventually he set his shoulders and came around, climbed up and took the reins.

She told herself not to look back but she did anyway. 

"Fancy, ain’t it?” was his breezy question when they rolled into Shady Belle.

She merely shot the old ramshackle mansion a glum glance. “I guess.”

He gave her a dry side eye. Savigne was perfectly aware that she was being unreasonably childish about this whole thing but couldn’t help it. She felt indignant as if someone had broken her favorite toy and was now offering a cheap alternative as consolation. Maybe Luther was right and Arthur really was some kind of saint because somehow he retained his composure throughout this theater.

The gang seemed to be in a better mood about it than she was. They rode into the mayhem of people getting settled as Ms. Grimshaw bellowed orders. Arthur took her into the mansion and walked up the creaking stairs to show her the upstairs room that was theirs now. She hated that too and was irritated by how he acted as if this was some kind of privilege.

She gingerly walked around the room, smelling the mildew and inspecting the stains on the ceiling. I just want to die right now, she thought, feeling absolutely miserable. 

"Gonna bring the bed in," was all he said before left her to run her fingers over dust on the windowsills and sigh at the blotches on the walls.

After the bed was set on the frame and the essential crates were dropped off, he disappeared to help the others, and she spent the next hours carrying up buckets of water and scrubbing and washing and wiping everything she could get her hands on. When night rolled around she sighed and dropped down on the bed, feeling exhausted and better for it. The room was sparkling clean; the walls looking like they had been freshly painted, floors spotless and the glass in the windows (somehow miraculously intact) gleaming. She sat and took in the room and wondered if she should do a sixth pass, but decided against it and instead undressed, wiped herself clean with the last bucket of water, dressed into her bed attire, placed the bucket outside the door and went to lie down.

To her chagrin, despite being bone tired, she was unable to fall sleep because after their airy tent the room felt cramped and claustrophobic and the campfire was nearby and there were people all around her, laughing and talking and hooting, running up and down the stairs and clomping around the first floor. Their jovial banter and excitement about the new location annoyed her because somehow they found charm and enthusiasm where she failed to find any. It's just a few more months, simmer down, she told herself. You lived in crowded orphanages all your life. That was true enough, but then she had had her own tent and blissful silence for months and after that she had been upgraded to an even bigger tent with Arthur, hadn't she? It hurt to lose the good things in life a lot more than never experiencing them in the first place. 

A long while later she heard him come in and take off his boots and clothes and lie behind her.

She pretended she was asleep but of course that never fooled him.

"Thought I came to the wrong room,” he whispered, throwing an arm across her rib cage. “How many times you scrubbed?”

“Five,” she mumbled.

“Feelin’ better?”

She nodded in the dark.

He wasn’t convinced. "Savigne, what’s the matter?"

"Nothing,” she sighed. “Just new surroundings. Always takes me a while to get used to it."

"Ya know...yer a terrible liar."

"That wasn't a lie."

"Wasn' the truth."

She didn't answer, hoping he would leave it at that. Maybe it was the move, maybe it was her stress at work, maybe her nearing period, maybe something else entirely. Explaining why she was going through all these big, explosive feelings for no apparent reason to a man as stoic and simple as Arthur Morgan was beyond her skills.

"You don' like it," he deducted from her silence.

"It's...different, that's all. Didn't like the previous one either at first."

There was a long silence - if you ignored the mayhem under their window, that is. "Is it the house?" he said at long last.

"It's nothing."

"Ain't nothin'."

She grew frustrated. Sometimes he would just get his teeth into something and refuse to let go. 

"Can we wait a few days before we fight about it?"

"Don' gotta fight about it if you tell me what it is."

She took a big breath. “I’m just tired. I’ll get used to it, don’t worry,” she whispered finally.

He shifted closer and pressed her into his chest. His hand clasped over hers.

“It’s temporary,” he said quietly.

“I know,” she sighed. “Everything is eventual.”

He gave her shoulder a kiss and she lied there a long time before she managed to fall asleep.

John followed him into the room and paused for a moment. “Damn,” he whispered. “You paint the walls or somethin’?”

“Yeah, we painted walls the one night we was here,” was Arthur’s sarcastic retort as he walked over to the bed and started to strip the covers. A mumbled “Dumbass” followed.

John gripped the other end of the mattress. “You sure ‘bout this?”

“Why?”

“Cause ‘m gonna claim this room, don’ ask it back.”

“‘M sure.”

“It’s a nice room...” John searched his face as they lifted the mattress and walked it carefully out of the door.

“Savigne don’ like it,” was the simple answer. 

“Why?”

“Don' matter."

“Just askin'," mumbled John.

“Reckon the drunk clowns under our window is why!” was the annoyed answer.

John sighed and kept his silence as he navigated the stairs.

“Pull it up,” Arthur barked. “Gonna make it dirty.”

He rolled his eyes and did as told. They ambled to the where the wagon stood which was, by John’s opinion, ridiculously far and by the time they arrived he felt the sweat forming on his back. They placed the mattress on the extended slab and John helped him erect the poles after and held them while Arthur nailed them down.

“So,” John said, “went to a picnic the other day.” He glanced at Arthur. “Was nice.”

“There’s hope for you yet, Marston.”

“Second picnic," he added with a certain measure of gloating.

This only earned him a grunt of approval.

"Everything fine with you guys?" he asked, irked by the lack of Arthur’s signature teasing and sarcasm. He did feel somewhat bothered by the fact that Arthur had stuck his neck out to get Jack back and was suspiciously nonchalant about it, not rubbing it in his face and all that. "Abigail said..."

Arthur's eyes flicking up to him made him bite back the rest. "Just askin'," he mumbled. 

"Everythin’ fine," was the curt answer. Then: "Why?”

John shrugged, glancing back at the camp. “Tryin’ to be nice, is all.”

”Why?”

"I owe ya."

"Owe me nothin'." was the dismissive response. 

"If not for you and Dutch..."

Those blue eyes flicked up at him again. "Why, what Dutch do?"

He knew of course about the growing animosity between the two and to be honest, despite seeing it plain as day, he still couldn't wrap his head around it. For as long as he could remember, Dutch had been the linchpin of their existence. The mediator between them but also the ball each kept chasing and trying to take away from one another. Arthur suddenly not participating in this game threw him off balance in a way he couldn't describe. Like he was left alone on the playing field, ball at hand and what was the point of a ball if no one else wanted it?

"I mean he talked to Bronte..."

"And?" Arthur rose to his full height and looked at him. 

"Dunno," he shrugged and let the pole go, stepping to the next one. "He got Jack back, didn' he?"

There was an amused chuckle. "Way I 'member it, you and I hauled ass to play footmen for that asshole and did all the work while Dutch smoked cigars with’im."

"Yeah but," John grimaced, "that's the way it works, right?"

Arthur sighed and didn't answer. After all the poles were sunk and secured, they worked on bolting down the flaps of the canvas. Only then did he speak: "You thinkin' on what I said back when?"

John looked at him over his shoulder. "What you say?"

"Family and the gang and all that."

John hadn't thought on that at all but he wasn’t going to admit it so instead said "Sure. You still thinkin’ on that?"

"I am.” Something about the way he said it compelled John to take a longer look at the other man over his shoulder and it was returned without blinking. "You gonna run to Dutch to spill?"

"What!?" was the offended retort. "I ain't a child. Or a snitch. You wanna leave, you’re a grown man, yer own business," John huffed. But it did something funny to his gut, the idea of the gang without Arthur. Which was silly because he hated Arthur, didn't he? Not always but most times. Maybe not most times but sometimes. Occasionally. Rarely? It was getting harder to tell these days. He realized that he hadn't even thought about Arthur in a long time. Maybe it was because he was spending so much time with Abigail and Jack now or maybe it was because Arthur was so distant from the gang, or maybe both. But the notion still paused his hands.

“What about family?” he heard himself saying.

“Gonna ‘ave a new family,” the other man said mildly. “My own.” There was pride in that statement. And a certain tinge of ownership - something that was hard to achieve within the borders of the gang. John’s eyebrows shot up. Well that was that, then. Because the Arthur he knew had done anything asked for the gang - his family until now - and undoubtedly would do so for the new one. Dutch and anybody else who was counting on him to be around much longer were really just fools on the beach, building sand castles while the tide was rising.

And wasn’t it strange how you could ride with someone for years - decades even, and then they just dived off into an obscure path and next thing you knew, they disappeared in the brush? 

"Don' think the gang can do without you," he said a long moment later. Then a bitter chuckle of his own. "Without me things was fine, but without you..." He threw a shy glance in Arthur's direction. It was close enough to saying I will miss you as he could get, closer maybe than it needed to be. 

Arthur grimaced. "Everything’s eventual," he said, sticking in the last bolt and stomping it into the ground. 

The ladle slapped on her hand and Savigne flinched with an “Ow”.

“You kill food!”

“Sorry Ms. Cheng,” she mumbled, blowing on her fingers. 

The old lady grabbed the handle of the wok, dumped the food on a tray, said  “Now good for dog!” and carried it out. She turned around at the door and yelled “Again!” before she left. 

Savigne poured some oil on the wok and tilted it around to make sure it coated the entire surface. She wiped the sweat off her brow and threw in the garlic and hot peppers. The smoke burnt her eyes. She dumped in the green beans and grabbed the handle to shake the wok. How tiny Ms Cheng managed it was a mystery because this thing was heavy as a church bell. A few beans flew out.

She quickly bent down to retrieve them and of course Ms Cheng showed up just then, scowling at her from the doorway. 

She left the litter on the floor and continued to shake the beans. The woman came up and watched her, hawk-like. 

She barked a command in Chinese and Savigne, startled and panicked, added the salt. This earned her a side eye. The ladle in Ms Cheng’s hand slapped into her palm like a metronome. She turned to add the cooked beef and the ladle landed on the hand that was holding the wok handle.

Savigne yelped in pain, dropped the handle and if not for Ms Cheng’s agility, the wok would have flipped over. 

A long string of what she assumed was curses erupted from the frame of the frail looking old woman. 

God, I thought Luther was bad. Old people are just mean, she thought and watched Ms Cheng shake the wok with one hand, heaps of beans rising to the ceiling and collapsing back in beautiful waves. 

“You go, back next week!” she spat. 

“But…”

“You go!”

Savigne nodded and ambled out of the kitchen. You’d think the witch is paying me for tutelage instead of the other way around, she thought ruefully. She stepped out into the street and took off her double cap, smelled her hair. No food odor. The clothes of course were a different matter but that couldn’t be helped.

Work? Done. After work her weekly lessons with Ms. Cheng? Done. She should head back to camp but the idea of sitting in that close room and listening to dumb gang conversations filled her with nothing but dread. She could go see Luther but putting up with Ms. Cheng and Luther on the same day would make her jump off a bridge. She sighed with frustration and schlepped herself to the stable to pick up Cricket. It’s just a few more months, she repeated her mantra as she rode back. 

When she arrived at a closer camp a mere fifteen minutes later and started trudging towards the mansion, she almost ran into John.

"Hi," he said looking away and scratching the back of his neck. Savigne was amused by how similar John and Arthur were in certain mannerisms, as if their habits had rubbed off on each other. 

"Hi."

"Yer tent is up," he said, jabbing his chin away from the camp. She followed his gaze and gawked at the structure in the distance. He cleared his throat and quickly added "Took your room. Hope you don' mind. Seein' you cleaned it and all that."

"Oh...no...I," she mumbled, trying to process what was going on. "...I don't…mind. When did this happen?"

"Today. Did it together," he straightening a bit with pride. John had a quiet, somewhat sullen quality to him. But this boyish shyness was a trait he shared with Arthur, although it was more pronounced in him. 

"That’s a lot to do in a single day.”

He shrugged as if to say 'no big deal'.

"Thank you!" she yelled over her shoulder as she ran towards the tent, suddenly all breathless with excitement.  

When she barged in, Arthur was shelving the clothes. 

"Why did you set up the tent again?" she grinned.

"Was loud," he said dismissively.

"Since when is camp noise too loud for you?"

"Camp noise I can handle. But camp noise and yer snorin' was too much."

She laughed and hugged him from behind. 

"Woman, I'm foldin' here," he grumbled.

She ignored his grouchiness and ran around the tent, adjusting things to their perfect positions and feeling like her whole day had brightened because she got to come back home.

When she was done she watched him for a moment and suddenly, with a speed that left her dizzy, the day's depression and hopelessness flipped and she felt thunderous joy and arousal erupt in her gut. She stood rooted when a ball of heat flew and perched between her legs and merely a moment after that she felt herself get wet. A minute passed as she grappled with the roller coaster of her emotions and waited, wondering if it would pass. When it flared up even further, she walked over and tied the flap of the tent, then peeled off her bloomers and dropped them to the ground. She walked up to him, watching his broad back and almost moaned with the need to leave her nail trails on it. He didn't react when she embraced him from behind again. 

“Arthur?”

He grunted.

Her hands glided down his chest and gently cupped the front of his trousers and he stilled. God, there was something very satisfying in stunning his usual cocky self into silence. 

"I don't snore," she whispered and felt him start to harden under her caressing fingers.

His head turned slightly in her direction. "That so?" he said over his shoulder. 

She grinned and ran her fingers over the bulge. A long moment later he dropped the clothes on the shelf and turned around. 

She locked eyes with him and slowly unbuttoned his trousers, a grin curving her lips. He watched her, fascinated, until she reached in and ran her palm over his hardening cock. A low moan dropped from his lips when she curled her fingers around it. His right hand shot out as fast as a drawn gun and closed on the back of her neck as he roughly pulled up her face to kiss her. She kissed him back with enthusiasm, then broke it to push him towards the bed. He obeyed her, equal measures surprised and aroused and sat on the edge of it.

She saddled his lap, panting with need and kissed him again, aggressively, fingers peeling off his suspenders and immediately starting to work on the buttons of his shirt. He might have been surprised but he wasn't a man to pass up an offer and his hands greedily ran up under her skirt and gripped her buttocks as she ground against him, drawing a low moan from him.

“You feel better huh?” he mumbled against her chest. 

She shivered with excitement, stunned at the force of her own arousal and without further delay rose on her knees braced on the bed to guide him into her. “Much,” she groaned as she settled back down, feeling him split her. His hands gripped her waist as she ground down on him to take him entirely. She threw an arm around his neck, the fingers of her other hand pawing at the flesh of his chest as she kissed him breathlessly, all tongues and teeth. 

”Damn, woman…” he moaned, then lost his trail of thought when she started to ride him. It began slow enough but soon she accelerated, gasping into his ear and biting his neck, dizzy with her need. It wasn't going to be a slow and sensual affair today - today she had an overwhelming need to be fucked, fast and hard and, as always, he was happy to oblige. Her enthusiasm tore a rumble from him chest and spurred him to move against her, meeting her downward slope with a push of his hips as he held her by her waist, grunting into her shoulder and kissing her throat. Merely minutes later she hissed and arched her back when his cock brushed against her sensitive spot, her fingers digging into his shoulders as she whined his name. She gasped and leaned back even further as he held her, muttering encouragements while she sputtered and dived towards her pleasure, delirious with her need for it. When her orgasm came it was sudden and explosive, wrenching a series of loud sobs from her. Her leg muscles clenched around his thighs while she clamped down hard on his cock, tightening his grip on her waist. She was still riding her pleasure when he growled and roughly flipped her on the bed and started to piston into her with his own need. He loomed above her, hands braced on both sides of her head, his bucking sharp and sloppy as he reeled towards his own peak. A hiss off a curse fell from his lips when he came, by the looks of it as hard as she had, hips slapping against her flesh until he groaned to a stop and collapsed to his elbows. 

They lied tangled on the bed, half naked as Savigne gasped to catch her breath in the silence of the tent. She carded her fingers through his hair, and ran her palms over his back while he softened inside her. Her arousal sizzled and dissipated, leaving her with the sweet aftertaste of satisfaction and also astonishment at the potency of electrifying lust that had surged through her. 

Long moments later he pulled out and shifted to lie beside her and buried his face into her neck, breathing hard. In light of her current state, all her worries and qualms looked flimsy and ephemeral and she basked in the overwhelming sense of safety in his presence. Not too long ago she had contemplated leaving him and now she marveled at the idea because at that moment he was the only thing in her life that towered over all else in importance - irreplaceable and indispensable. Distantly she thought she should be agitated at this notion; upset that a man had somehow sneaked under her barbwire and crawled through her moats and climbed over her walls to replace her ambitions, her 'life goals'. But all she felt was a deep tranquility and acceptance.  

"I'm happy," she whispered at the ceiling with a tinge of realization as her heart rate slowed. 

"I can tell," was the chuckle on her neck.

But everything is eventual, chimed in her inner voice.  

Chapter Text

"What's in yer head?" he asked from the chair he was sitting in.

Savigne came out of her stupor and smiled at him. "Nothing."

Another girl, Estelle, had left today. Just like Rachel, she too had looked pretty broken up about it, but unlike Rachel who quietly disappeared back to her hometown, Estelle got up in the middle of her shift and simply walked out of the kitchen and never returned. "It was the stress" people were whispering. "She wasn't cut out to work under pressure" and "She didn't have what it takes". But Savigne knew better. She liked Estelle and felt bad for her, wondered about her prospects now that she had left the way she did. A recommendation letter from Chef Ecco was out of the question and Savigne wouldn't be surprised if, quite the opposite, he actually ruined her future work prospects. 

His eyes flicked up at her from his journal. "Ya sure?" was his mild question.

She sighed and closed the book she was pretending to read and sat up on the bed.

"I was thinking that you owe me."

"That so?"

"Yeah," she mused. "You offered to go to that second map location, didn't you?"

His hand paused. A belated “When was this?”

“Very cute.”

She watched him thoughtfully hum and furrow his brow as if trying to recall. When he came to the conclusion that she wasn't going to fall for his brilliant amnesia play, he merely said: "That was then."

"What do you mean?"

"Meanin’," he grumbled. "Ain’t on the table no more."

"Excuse me?"

He looked up at her. "Offer ran out."

"Well isn't that convenient?" she said evenly. "Why the hell did it do that?"

"Cause you didn' take it, did ya?"

"How about I take it now?"

Arthur sighed and stubbornly sketched on, unfazed by her hard stare. 

"Hello?" she pressed.

"Expired."

"Why?"

"Cause it ain't safe."

"Wasn't safe then either I imagine."

"Well you was mad then."

"I knew it!" she scrambled to sit at the edge of the bed, ready for a fight.

He grunted in frustration and threw his journal on the table. "Woman, why can't y'ask for normal woman things?"

"Like what?"

"Like...goin' to a play. Or fancy restaurant. Or the zoo…"

“The zoo?” she echoed, incredulous.

He waved his arms in frustration and talked over her:"…A new dress. Jewelry. Ya know, the usual things."

"Pffft, please. I can do all those things myself, that's why." Then she quickly added: "This I can do by myself, too, by the way. It's just that you won't ‘let me’."

“Savigne, there ain’t no treasure. Never is.”

“Okay, think of it as an outing then. Sort of like going to the…” she almost snorted with the ridiculousness of it and added “…zoo.” Did Arthur ever fucking date? Who the hell had asked him to go to the zoo?

“Zoo is safe. This ain’t.”

“Why did you offer it then?”

“Cause you was in a mood, that’s why.”

“Aha!" she exclaimed, victorious. "Then how about you pretend I’m in that mood again. In fact, you keep this up, you won’t have to pretend because I’m getting there.”

He crossed his arms and looked away, jaws clenched. "Fine," he muttered finally with resignation. "Serves me right to offer."

She jumped up and came around to kiss his cheek. "I need to prepare."

"Ain't far," he said, sullen. "Don' pack like we goin' to California."

"Okay," she grinned and pulled out a sizable list from between the pages of one of her books.

They rode into the clearing late morning next Sunday and Arthur was extremely grumpy because their usual Sunday bath had to be sacrificed for the trip. 

"There it is!" she pointed with excitement at the waterfall across the lake. 

"I know it's there," was his dry retort. "I brought you here.”

"Jesus, you're glum! I'm sure Bill will survive one week without us."

He sighed at the great injustice of it and urged Frost to trot ahead. 

"Now listen here," he said over his shoulder. "This here Murfree country. You stick close to me, ya hear?"

"What's a Murfree?"

"Bad man."

"Oh, the usual kind, then."

He gave her look. "Ain't the usual kind. I mean real rotten, ya hear?"

"Okay," she said, sobering a little at his grave tone and urging Cricket closer. "Like what?" she asked a short while later. 

"They eat people."

"I'm sorry, what?"

"I ain't kiddin', Savigne. Stay close."

She didn't need to be told twice. They walked the horses to a spot across the waterfall, then dismounted. She brushed off her jeans and cracked her back, taking in the scenery. Treasure or no treasure, it was a lovely spot, perfect for a picnic. For the most part the trees retained their color, but Fall foliage was starting to peek through here and there. The familiar crispness of Autumn was in the air and the hue of light was a milder gold color. A flock of geese squawked high above them, migrating to wherever it was they went when the weather turned. Fall in Saint Denis was chilly, rainy and glum. But this would be her first year of experiencing the season outside of a city and she was looking forward to it.

She pulled out the map. "Says we have to go behind."

"Give it here," he swiped it off her hands, still annoyed. Then: "Says we have to go behind." He ignored the sheepish look she gave him.

"Should I wait here, or...?"

"Sure, if you wanna spin on a bonfire."

"But what about our horses, then?"

"They don't eat horse," was his answer. She thought she heard a mumbled "I hope" but wasn't sure and he walked away before she could confirm it.

She quickly ran after and followed him so closely, she almost tangled his feet. When they arrived at the waterfall he gave her a look. “We goin’ in and there better be a cave there or ‘m gonna be pissed.”

“Oh please, we wouldn’t want you to lose your sunny disposition!” she mumbled. When he glared at her: “I can wait here if you want,” she offered again.

“Could if you could shoot. Since yer more likely to shoot yer damn self, you comin’.”

“You know, they say if a pupil fails, the fault lies with the teacher,” was her acerbic response.

“Who says that?” he scoffed. “Failed pupils?”

“Here,” she tsked and handed him one of the coats.

“The hell is this?”

“A Mackintosh. I bought us these so the stuff on us stays dry.”

He pinched the rubberized fabric. “How long you been planning this?”

“Since I saw the waterfall drawing on that second map,” she said, hooking the lantern on her belt, then putting on her own Mackintosh which was a man’s model and way too big for her. Their boots would get wet of course but she had packed an extra pair for the trip and wasn't worried.

“You keep wastin’ money for a scam, won' be no cabin,” he teased but she could tell he liked the coat as it would keep his guns and satchel relatively dry.

“Who cares? I'm going to buy the cabin with the gold we're about to find.”

He snorted and offered his hand. When she took it, he stepped through without further ado and pulled her in his wake.

Momentarily the weight of the water on her shoulders and then she was through and when she looked up, they were at the entrance of a cave. They proceeded to climb in a little further to get away from the roar before they stopped.

“I knew it!” she twitched, squeezing Arthur’s hand with excitement. “Oh my god! The map is real! We're rich, Arthur!"

“Woman…” he sighed, then just clicked his tongue in resignation and shook his head.

“Was there ever a man as grumpy as you?” she grinned up at him, unbuttoning her Mackintosh.

“I’m only grumpy cause you could be naked, sittin’ on my lap right now, but instead we here.”

She motioned for him to take off his coat and handed him the lighted lantern, then folded the coats and left them by the entrance. “Thank God it's a cave this time. No more climbing.”

She whisked out the map again. “Says we go straight, then make a right at the juncture.”

When they turned the corner he stopped and she almost ran into his back. 

“I got news for ya.” The grin in his voice was unmistakable.

“What is it?” she tried to see around his broad back. 

He moved aside and there was a steep drop to their left. Unexpected vertigo buckled her legs and Arthur gripped her waist to keep her steady. “Hey, hey,” he cooed and pushed her against the cave wall. “Ain’t that high. Look.” 

He held the lantern over it and it was about thirty feet, which didn't change matters for her at all.

“I can do this,” she whispered, voice shaking.

He gave her a dubious glance. “Ya sure? I can go alone. Doubt anyone else comin' in here."

“I’m not staying here by myself in the dark. We only have the one lantern.”

“Okay. Lean back on the wall.” When she did, he grasped her hand. She closed her eyes when he started to walk along the ledge and she carefully crept along sideways, her back brushing the cave wall. A while later he stopped.

“Gimme the map.” She fumbled for it with closed eyes and held it out. There was a pause. 

“More news.”

She almost whimpered. “What now?”

“We gotta jump.”

“Are you bullshitting me right now Arthur?!” she hissed, her heart starting to thump harder.

“No. A section broke off.”

She moaned despite herself.

“Just wait here, I’ll be quick.”

She weighed the option of jumping against sitting alone in a dark cave with no light source, all manner of critters crawling over her and groaned a determined “I can do this,” trying to mask the clattering of her teeth.

He sighed. “Okay. Com'ere.” 

“Why? What are we doing?”

“Gonna take you on my back.”

She sensed him crouch down and blindly felt her way to his shoulders and threw her arms around his neck.

“Savigne...” he paused when he stood up. 

“If you tell me I’m too heavy, I’m going to lose it!” This had been a running joke now for the last few weeks. She was aware she had gained a little weight and was quite self conscious about it, but Arthur was having a blast, casually slapping her ass as she was walking by or lustily fondling her thighs in bed.

“Was gonna say, relax yer hold. Need to breathe.” He tapped her arm and she loosened her viselike grip a little.

He slung his hands under her thighs but not before patting her buttocks. 

“What’s that about?” she growled.

“Just adjusting. For balance.”

“Bullsh-”

He jumped and a yelp tumbled out her throat, echoing in the cave.

He lowered her down and she clung to his shirt, eyes tightly screwed. 

“Fine now.”

She carefully peeked out and took a deep breath. “God, we will have to do that again,” she shuddered. 

“Show me the map.” 

He inspected it, then simply walked off with the lantern, leaving her trembling against the wall in the dark.

“Arthur!”

He returned and offered his hand, not even trying to hide the grin on his face. She gripped his hand with a glare and leaned back on the wall and crabwalked as he pulled her into another tunnel.

When they arrived at a juncture he made a left. The passage narrowed more and more and he took the lead as they squeezed sideways trough the slim openings, trying to fit their arms and legs around the rocks.

“Maybe you should have gone first," she grinned over his shoulder. "Easier to push you through from behind if that pretty ass o’yours gets stuck.”

“I fucking hate you.”

“Should be right up here,” he said, inspecting the map and made a right. “Don’t know how you was gonna do this on yer own,” he muttered, inspecting the surroundings.

Probably couldn’t have, she thought but her pride didn’t allow her to say it.

They reached what looked like a dead end and he ran his hands across the wall. One of the rocks moved and he fumbled to pull it out. Then he shone the lantern into the gap and reached in, retrieving a folded piece of paper.

“There’s yer gold,” he sighed and handed it to her.

“Hold up the light!” she squealed with excitement. She was careful in unfolding it because it felt damp and fragile. She turned it around and read the words “final map” in a corner. “Oh my god, it’s the final piece!”

He hummed over her shoulder, not impressed.

“Does it look like anything to you?”

“Hard to tell. We’ll take a look outside.”

They ambled back to the jumping point. “Don’t fondle my ass,” she warned as she climbed on his back again.

“Think I earned it,” he countered shamelessly and did exactly that.

He jumped across and lowered her on shaky legs, then turned and gave her a crushing smack of a kiss. They found their way back to the cave entrance, bundled back up in their mackintoshes and waded through the waterfall. Savigne gulped deep breaths of relief when they came out into daylight. She ran ahead ahead and hastily hugged Frost's neck, glad that the horses were fine and not Murfree food.

“What he do?” Arthur asked drily from behind her.

“He was a good boy and didn’t act insufferable because he missed a bath,” she sighed and walked over to hug Cricket next because you can’t just hug one horse and not the other.

He muttered under his breath as he stuffed the lantern and the raincoats into the basket tied to his horse. 

Amused how invested he was in the Sunday baths now, she was about to tease him when suddenly she was grabbed from behind and the cold steel of a blade appeared at her throat. 

The click of a gun cocking stilled Arthur immediately.

“Eaaasssyy now, mister,” came a voice from her right. A man stepped into her view. He was tall and skinny with greasy blond hair hanging into his eyes. The denim overalls hanging loosely over the skeletal frame of his naked bony shoulders was stained with all manner of blotches, some of them undoubtedly the dull maroon of blood. Her eyes drifted to his face: Protruding eyebrows framing a set of cunning, cold grey eyes. His nose had clearly been broken at some point and had healed somewhat crooked. Once, when she was perusing books about exotic animals at the library she had seen the picture of a naked mole and he reminded her of that - big teeth, skin pale and hairless, eyes beady. He was marred with an old gash on his left cheek. In his extended hand a sawed off shotgun, pointing at Arthur with cold precision.

Arthur calmly resumed and finished his packing before he turned around, palms up in placation. His eyes immediately flicked to her, the knife at her throat, then to whoever was standing behind her.

“There a problem?” was his mild question to the man with the gun.

Savigne swallowed as her pulse picked up. Her eyes darted between Arthur and the man, lingering on the gun in his hand and finding their predicament increasingly grim. They hadn't encountered anyone on their way to the clearing, so the odds of someone riding by and offering at least a window of surprise were very low. Her heart sunk with the realization that they could die right here, right now, on this random Fall morning and nobody would even find their bodies. Or...their fate could be a lot worse than death.

“Yeah there is, partner,” the man said amicably. His grin revealed gaps of missing teeth. “You’re on our land.”

Arthur, bizarrely composed given the circumstances, gave him a long look with hooded eyes. “That so?”

The man nodded as his grin grew and stepped closer. The hand around her waist tightened and she was forced to rise on her heels to accommodate the blade. The sour, musky stench wafting off the man behind her turned her stomach and she almost gagged. Her eyes drifted down to his hand, caked in dirt, fingernails jagged and long as if he had burrowed his way out of a grave. She had to fight the urge to keep her hands up in surrender instead of clawing it off herself. 

“Don’ like strangers much,” was the easy answer, delivered with a toothy grin. She stared hypnotized at his wide mouth with those long yellow teeth and the fat lips, imagining them chomping on human flesh. A fresh wave of bile rose in her throat and she swallowed it back down.

“Just passing through,” Arthur drawled, head swiveling as if to take in the vista but more likely assessing who else was out there.

A low chuckle behind her and Arthur’s eyes flicked to the spot over her shoulder again. “Might wanna take yer hands off my woman,” was his calm suggestion.

Against the backdrop of a hyperventilating Savigne, the slight tremble in the blond man’s gun arm and the shallow and fast, dog-like panting of the Murfree behind her, Arthur looked absurdly collected, as if he had just woken up from a restful sleep. 

"Maybe you’re just passin' through, cowboy," was the tease from over her shoulder, colored with amusement. "But this here is city folk. She ain't yer woman cause yer friggin' in yer tent thinkin' on her."  

“You nick her even a little, y'aint leavin' here alive,” was Arthur’s dry retort, eyes icing over. A deliberate pause before the addition of “Boy.” 

“Watch what you call me, mister!” She heard the shift from hyena laugh to anger in the voice and shuffled her feet to regain her balance as the arm across her waist tightened like a coiling snake.

“Y'aint no man, hidin’ behind a woman,” was Arthur’s calm assessment.

“Hey! I’m holdin’ the gun here!” the other man barked, waving his arm but it fell on deaf ears as Arthur’s eyes remained glued to her captor.

“Ain’t hidin’,” was the hiss at her ear as the blade momentarily wobbled, then steadied again. He roughly pulled her against himself and ignored her shudder of disgust, perhaps even enjoyed it. His voice was shrewd when he spoke again: “She smell nice.” He took a deep inhale of her hair. Savigne pressed her lips flat to keep the whimper in. “Pretty, too,” he drawled on. “Just had us an openin'.” The hand on her waist spread like a spider on her belly. “Poor Barb died with my baby in'er.” Savigne's head swam and the world dimmed a little as he placed his chin on her shoulder. “What you say?” was the low song in her ear. “You like rough guys, do ya? Then you gonna looovee me. Things I'll do to you...no man even dreamed doin’.”

“Ain’t gonna ask again, boy!” Arthur spat, turning fully towards her and squaring his feet.

“Hey!” the man with the gun to his left barked for Arthur’s attention.

“Shoot ‘im in the gut,” her captor crooned. “So he die slow, watchin'.”

To her horror the hand on her stomach started to crawl downwards and she reflexively gripped it and tried to wrestle it off herself.

Then everything happened at once.

In an unfathomably instantaneous blur Arthur drew - no, more like a gun materialized in his hand. Later, Savigne would rewind this moment in her head dozens of times and still not understand how it happened. She had seen a mock duel and a shooting competition at a county fair once and had marveled at the speed of the shooters. But what happened in that clearing that day was leagues beyond that. One moment Arthur’s hands were still slightly upturned and away from his belt, then she might have blinked for a fraction of a second, and suddenly he had a gun in his hand and with expert subterfuge he never broke eye contact with her captor but it was the blond man’s face to his left that disintegrated. 

The gunshot boomed and echoed in the clearing, startling the horses and making them dance away as Savigne jumped with surprise. She stared, frozen stiff with shock and the man behind her stilled in incomprehension, too. The body collapsed almost in slow motion, first sinking on its knees, then toppling over as blood continued to spurt from the ruin that barely a second ago had been a face.

The swelling of her captor’s lungs pushed against her back and was followed by the bellowing thunder in her ear: “YOU PIECE OF SHIT, FUCKIN' PIECE OF SHIT, FUCK YOU!!”

Arthur didn’t even look at the toppled body. He didn’t look at her either. He kept his eyes glued to that spot over her shoulder. The knife on her neck instantaneously appeared against her stomach, the tip of the blade prickling her shirt above her belt.

“Gonna rip out her innards for that!” was the howl as she momentarily closed her eyes, afraid that she would pass out.

"He was pointin’ a gun at me,” Arthur drawled with a bizarrely casual tone and twirled the gun smoothly back into his holster. His palms rose back up. If this was done to pacify the Murfree, she didn’t understand why it would work. The blur of a draw he did a moment ago would persuade anyone otherwise. But to her surprise, despite his loud breathing, she sensed the hesitation of the man behind her. “Man’s got a right to defend himself, aint he?” Arthur pressed on, his voice calm and coaxing, a far cry from the frostiness earlier. The panting in her ear became raspy and quieter.

“Y'ain’t done point a gun at me, have you?” Arthur continued, straightening a little and relaxing his shoulders. The repose in his eyes would have confused an angry beast and in the same manner it served to restrain the man behind her too. At least for the moment. The silence was so deep, she literally heard the blood from the corpse to her right splattering to the ground.

The sullen, almost childlike “No,” mumbled against her hair surprised her but maybe it shouldn't. She didn't know who these people were but it was easy to deduce the heavy inbreeding and the dullness of the offspring that would follow.

Arthur nodded in easy agreement. “Then get outta here.”

Another silence.

“Bullshit!" Uncertain. Nervous. "Y’aint gonna let me go.” Lilted like a question.

“Savigne, he nick you?” For the first time since this madness had started, his blue eyes drifted to lock on hers. Her head stuttered with a shake.

“Good. No harm done. You let my woman go and I let you go. Simple.”

The Murfree thought on that for a moment. “She comin’ with me,” he tried and there was desperation in his tone. As if he wanted to believe Arthur but couldn't quite get there.

“Ain’t gonna happen,” was the flat answer that brooked no argument.

"I know youse shoot me in the back, you fuckin' piece of shit!”

To her amazement, Arthur unfastened his gun belt and loped it away.

Another silence.

The knife tip on her gut wobbled and this time she did feel a bite but she didn’t say anything. Then suddenly for the first time the hold across her waist loosened just a little bit.

“Here, take my horse.” Savigne’s eyes widened with disbelief as Arthur walked to Frost and brought him over by the reins.

The two men looked at each other for a long moment and then she was sharply pushed forward and stumbled, but Arthur caught her before she could fall on her face. His left arm curled around her back as she clawed at his shirt and tried to burrow into his chest. Not even a moment later she heard a sharp “Hya!”, the slap on a rump and Frost taking off.

"Stay here,” Arthur said quietly into her ear and before she had a chance to react he untangled himself from her grip and stalked to his gun belt. He whistled sharply as he reached for it and refastened it with smooth expertise and Frost immediately bucked his rider and turned to trot back towards them. The man remained a tangled heap on the ground for a long moment, then finally got his legs under him and scrambled off but Arthur casually shot him in the thigh and he collapsed with a sharp cry. She saw him clearly for the first time and realized why the 'boy' was taken as an insult. He was younger than she expected, maybe barely twenty years old with a mop of tangled, messy brown hair and few whiskers for a beard. Pale and gangly like his friend had been, he sat cradling the wound on his thigh, glaring back at them with naked hatred.

"Savigne,” Arthur said and her gaze snapped to him. “Look away.” There was something in his eyes she had never seen before and he didn’t give her a chance to decipher it as he turned and marched off towards the yowling Murfree without another word. In one hand he held his large hunting knife, in the other his gun.  

She meant to look away like he had asked but couldn’t tear her eyes off him, striding over as the other man desperately raised his blade. She flinched when another gunshot rang and the man’s hand disappeared in a mist of red. Her skin crawled at the screech that erupted at that. Last thing she saw was Arthur calmly holstering his gun and hefting his blade before he knelt over the man. Then she turned away, doubled over and threw up. She dry heaved, gasping for breath and threw up again. There was a low mutter that sounded something like “You think ‘m gonna let you run off after you put hands on my woman, boy?”, chased by a soft thump and a wet moan. She stumbled towards the lake on shaky legs, falling to her knees as her vision darkened and brightened again, crawling on all fours to reach the water. 

She sat there, mind momentarily blank before she jumped at another high shriek and remembered why she was there, washed her face and repeatedly slurped water from trembling hands to gargle the sour aftertaste from her mouth. Then she leaned over and dunked her head into the lake to restart her brain. She remained submerged like that for as long as she could, finding comfort in the quietness under the water. When she felt her lungs burn she sat up, sputtering and wheezing for breath, hair plastered on her face. From the corner of her eye she saw Arthur drop to his haunches beside her to quickly wash off his hands before he turned and roughly pulled her into his arms. She collapsed into his embrace and clung to him, shivering like a leaf as his hold tightened.

“You okay?” he asked quietly, chin resting on her head as she scurried her face into his neck, chasing the comfort of his familiar scent. 

She tried to nod although she wasn’t sure of the answer.

She felt the thunder of his heart, a stark contrast to his cool demeanor, against her cheek before he gripped her shoulders and leaned back to see her face.

“I’m fi-”

He crushed his lips against hers, his hands holding her head in an iron vise. She was too stunned to respond and took a shuddering breath when he broke it.

“Look at me.”

She did and his eyes bored into hers, then crawled over her face before he pulled her closer and kissed her again.

“Yer okay,” he soothed, hands wiping wet hair off her cheeks.

His eyes roamed the clearing. “We should leave," before he looked at her again. “Can you stand?”

She wordlessly hauled herself up. His arm circled her waist and she half walked, half stumbled with his aid towards the horses. When she attempted to climb up Cricket he gripped her waist and lifted her on Frost instead. “You ride with me,” he said before he slung himself up to sit behind her. “Don’ want you to fall off.” She nodded in a daze as his arm came around to secure her against him. He called for Cricket to follow as he turned Frost around and galloped out of the clearing, into the surrounding woods. 

How long they rode on, she couldn’t tell. It felt like a long time but when they came out to a well traveled main road, the sun was still in its early afternoon position. She had no idea where they were and placed her hand on his lying across her abdomen. 

“You good?”

She nodded again.

“Sorry,” was her late raspy response.

“What you sorry for?”

“I don’t know,” she mumbled. “For being useless.”

“Y’aint useless. I don’ doubt those two butchered seasoned men.”

“I…almost got us killed," she whimpered, the realization breaking her voice. "Or worse.”

He didn’t say anything for a while. Then: “Ain’t yer fault. This is a hard country, Savigne. Full of hard men.”

A hard country, she thought, where the weak get weeded out like chaff so only the strong remain standing. Where men abuse children, women and other men until they run into a smarter, faster, more ruthless man. The image of him dismissively reholstering his gun while he hefted his blade, looming over the man on the ground flashed before her eyes. This is his country. I’m just living in it.

Her hand tightened on his. “How far are we from Valentine?”

“Why, you wanna wash off?”

She thought of the man’s vile breath on her neck and that grimy hand caressing her abdomen. Her stomach gurgled, looking for something else to push out but luckily failed. “Can we?” she shuddered.

“Sure,” was his soft response.

They arrived in Valentine late afternoon. The horses were stabled before they headed to the hotel. Bill looked up when they walked in - both of them wet, Savigne pale and shivering, her hair a tangled mess and Arthur covered in blood. A true professional, he wordlessly reached for their clean clothes basket and added the key of the room with the large tub to it.

“Thank you,” Savigne croaked, voice still shaking. “Sorry, we’re a bit…late today.”

“No worries Ms. Ricci,” he said coolly. She sighed and ignored the fact that he had begun to call her Ms instead of Miss a while ago. Men had a barometer about these things she couldn’t read and for whatever reason, somewhere along the way Bill had decided that she wasn’t single anymore just like he had decided it would be Arthur’s money he would take and she was too tired to argue.

“We’ll bring the dirty clothes later,” she mumbled as she turned to the corridor leading to the baths.

After she washed her body and her hair she just sat there and quietly sobbed for a long time. Arthur didn't acknowledge it, didn't talk through it and instead pulled her onto his lap and gently brushed her shoulders and ran water over her hair. She sat with her back cradled in his chest and cried until she ran out of tears. Maybe because she had been having such a great day until the shockingly sudden turn of events; maybe because she was overwhelmed and utterly fed up with being surrounded by so many men trying to hurt her, or maybe the evil she faced today superseded all her prior experiences, but the encounter had shaken her a lot more than the ordeal with the O’Driscolls had.

After she was all cried out she leaned back into his embrace, feeling calmer and lighter.

“What would have happened to me,” she whispered at long last, “if you hadn’t been there?”

His hands glided over her stomach, his thumb lingering on the small cut on her skin. “I was there.”

“But what if I was alone?” Her head dropped on his shoulder.

He sighed and kissed her temple. “You wasn’ alone.”

His refusal to feed her nightmares was annoying but understandable.

“You were never going to let him leave, were you?”

“No.”

A moment passed.

“He looked young,” she mumbled.

“A young snake’s bite will still kill you,” he said carefully.

She turned in his lap to sit facing him. Her fingers ran through his hair and danced down his cheeks. For reasons she couldn’t explain, the question of what he had done to the Murfree clogged her throat. Had he slid his neck? Had he stabbed the man to death? Or, in his thirst for poetic justice, had he actually disemboweled him because that’s what the man had threatened to do to her? She was afraid that if she asked, he would actually tell her so she shied away from the question and settled for a whisper of “Why did you kill him like that?”

There was a silence as he watched her, eyes devoid of remorse or doubt while she ran her fingers over the muscles in his shoulders and the puckered reminder of his most recent injury on his left shoulder. “You think less of me for what I did?”

She mulled this over for a few moments, then sighed “No.” In her gut, she knew that as young as he had been, the man had been honest when he had promised to do unspeakable things to her. “It's just...I don’t understand it. I don’t understand…them.”

"You won'," he shrugged deftly. "Some men are just evil."

She nodded. "Maybe I can't understand it and you know what - maybe I don't need to." She locked eyes with him. "Because you do and...my safety is your job.” She snaked her arms around his neck and kissed his cheek. “Because you’re my man,” she whispered into his ear as she hugged him.

The hands caressing her back stilled with surprise for a long moment. Then he pressed a long kiss on her shoulder. And another further up her neck. He swiped her hair away as he continued the trail of kisses to her cheek before fingers on her chin turned up her face and he kissed her properly. 

“Damn right I am,” he mumbled against her lips.

Chapter Text

She was growing to like Shady Belle, or rather, disliking it less. If she were given a choice, she would have gladly returned to the former two spots, but the ride to work was considerably shorter and work was getting busier, so there was at least that.

Ecco hadn’t acknowledged her since the last incident. She had been on edge for a long time, but as he continued to ignore her day after day, her wariness had passed. Just as she was getting lulled by safety, thinking whatever happened had been it and that wasn’t so bad after all, he showed up at her station as if he could read her mind.

“Go to my office, Savigne.”

She froze and broke out in cold sweat. Several moments she lingered, unable to make her feet move. Even though nobody was paying attention, she felt like everyone knew, that all of Saint Denis knew and talked behind her back. She felt deep shame despite not having done anything at all as she slowly walked up the stairs. When she arrived at his office, it was empty. There was only one chair. So she waited, standing across from his desk. 

A minute passed. Then two. Then ten. After twenty minutes she checked her pocket watch and wondered if she was going crazy, if she had dreamed up the entire thing. She watched the slow, tedious crawl of the hands of the watch. Thirty minutes. She vacillated between going back down and waiting on. Maybe he had forgotten? Maybe he was sidetracked? She remained rooted, too afraid to go against his word. Her feet hurt from standing all day but there was nowhere to sit down, so she stood on. The days were shorter now, she watched the window darken and looked at her watch again. Forty-two minutes. He must have forgotten she told herself. I’ll wait five more minutes and then I’ll leave. 

Five minutes later she thought what's another five minutes. She shuffled on her feet and timidly eyed the desk. The temptation to lean against it was overwhelming. The pain on her feet moved up to her lower back. Next time she checked the time, it was an hour. She went to the door and looked out. Chef Ecco was nowhere to be seen. Again she thought she should leave. It was getting late and she was tired. And yet, she returned to the room and stood around. The fear of offending Chef Ecco even more than she had and inviting his ire intimidated her. He was already clearly displeased with her and he could fire her. Then she would eat into her savings and her savings were for the cabin. 

The notion of the cabin gave her strength and she ignored the pain pulsing in her lower back by going over recipes in her head. When she ran out of those she wanted to check the time again but didn’t, afraid to see how late it was. The room got dark. She didn’t know if she should turn on the gas lamp so she stood there in the dark for what felt like hours as the pain in her legs became unbearable. She felt shamefully weak and small, debating how she could allow herself to be treated like this and counter-debating that after all the waiting she had done, it would be foolish to leave now.

Saint Denis transformed outside the window as the arc lights in the streets flickered on. She started to fall into a dreamy state of mind where she hung in limbo, separate from everything. She thought about her childhood and all the orphanages she'd been through and the friends she had lost contact with one way or another and Sister Rodriguez and Sister DuBois and her ex flames, her ex bosses - the entire arc of her life that had started with her carried off the ship with only a tattered book and a photo pressed between the pages, cared for and fed by strangers to now: the chapter where she had somehow, some way managed to find her own family. Sometimes, when she was tense like she was now, she liked to construct imaginary moments in her head. Like introducing Arthur to her parents. Who - because she conveniently could 'remember' them however she wanted - were funny and mischivieous and warm. She imagined helping her mom in the kitchen but her mom would be the superior cook, teaching Savigne the best tricks while her dad opened the door and there was Arthur, with a bouquet of flowers in his hand. Scratch that, that didn't look right at all. Maybe a box of sweets? No, not right either. More like with a deer slung over his shoulder? God, that sounded absurd. 

When she heard the door close behind her she jumped and broke out of her reverie. She looked over her shoulder and saw his silhouette standing by the door, a shadow against other shadows. He didn’t light the lamp and he didn’t move. There was a long silence.

He didn’t apologize, but simply said “Good.”

She turned back to stare at the window. “I need to go home,” she said finally, a tad irritated. “My boyfriend…”

“I want to talk about your future prospects,” was the smooth interjection.

She heard the rustle of clothes behind her and for a moment panicked, thinking he was undressing. She was terrified to look, and so she didn’t. Her heart was thumping in her chest. When he glided to stand right behind her she felt herself start to tremble.

“You’re a good cook Savigne,” was the sigh in her ear. “But that’s not enough. Good cooks are a dime a dozen.”

She cleared her throat but when she tried to speak, her voice was gone.

She flinched when she felt his hand on her upper left arm, light and ephemeral, crawling up to her neckline to casually tuck loose strands of hair behind her ear.

“Don’t move!” he ordered when she tried to shift away and she stiffened with the low command. She hated the idea that he could feel her tremble.

“Do you like it here?” was the same mild question he had asked her the first time and it triggered something in her, as if she was a lab rat, conditioned for it.

Not anymore, she thought but what she said was “I’m learning a lot, Chef.” 

He chuckled at her answer, fingers brushing over the shell of her ear as she resisted the urge to slap his hand away.

“Have you learned that everything has a price?”

She wasn't sure how to answer this loaded question and for long moments just watched the dust motes lazily dance in the beam of light that was coming from the streetlamp.

“I need to go home,” she droned again finally, feeling short of breath. “My partner will be worried.”

She couldn't see his face as he stood behind her left shoulder but sensed the flare up of his anger. A huff of disappointment as he shifted to her right. She held very still as fingers spidered down her chest, lightly circled a breast. Suddenly a flash of the Murfree incident sparked in her mind and it was like a gut punch. These two men touching her against her will overlapped and for a moment a sense of dislocation and confusion washed over her and she wasn’t sure where she stood in space and time. 

“When you’re here, be here,” he snarled and the feeling passed as the present solidified. 

She felt his palm ghost down her breast and bile rose in her throat as her shuddering intensified. The slow, deep intake of a breath behind her right ear told her that he enjoyed her discomfort. 

“I have an excellent job for you,” he muttered as he came around to stand before her. His hands, deceptively strong after years of kneading and scrunching and molding, held her waist, before they traveled up. His breath smelled of peppermint as he puffed in her face and she had a distant thought that she would hate the scent from here on throughout her life.

Then something very strange happened - Savigne felt herself fracture into two.

She stood there as he gently palmed her breasts, sensitive and swollen with her expected period, revolted at herself for letting it happen but too hypnotized to act. 

But she was also outside the window, screaming mutely and beating on the glass to wake herself up. 

His lips moved but she didn't hear him. What she heard was the smack of the palms on the window pane - tha thump, tha thump, tha thump - a deep, primal sound she heard whooshing and beating in her ears.

Only when the hands on her breasts clenched and a needle sharp pain jolted through her, did she manage to whimper and take in a shuddering breath and the cotton in her ears fell off. The world became louder, sharper, warmer.

“…good,” she caught the last bit of the sentence cooed softly in her ear.

She stood swaying on her feet, trying to gather her thoughts when he idly stepped around her and disappeared behind her back.

A match was struck and the light that flicked on in the room startled her and hurt her eyes.

Footsteps approached, then passed her as Ecco walked around his desk and sat in his chair. 

He huffed at the paperwork piled on his desk and casually checked the folders, stacking them up in their proper order. She watched him, marveling how she had thought him handsome and charming. He looked slimy and dirty, beads of sweat lined up on his greasy mustache; hair caked stiff with pomade, littered with specks of dandruff.

“This job I have for you…” he sighed, distracted by the folder in his hand. “There is this ball coming up. I was invited to cook for it. And I’m going to pick a few people to come along…” His dark eyes turned up to her, dull and lifeless. “Interested?”

She felt incapable of speech but someone did it for her and she heard herself stupidly say “A ball?”

He nodded. “Extra money.”

She blinked at him. The speed with which he entered and left his moods intimidated and unbalanced her because she never knew what he would do a moment later, and she suspected that this was intentional. Very little with Chef Ecco, after all, was accidental. The precision and mastery of his meals, of his plating, of the set up of his menu - all things practiced and perfected through years of observation and mastery. This was no different to him than cooking she realized - something to be done with excellence and unsentimental perfection.

“Good money,” he pushed, taking her silence as hesitation.

Whoever was working her vocal cords, did it again:

“I never cooked for a ball before.”

He waved her argument away, all amicable smiles and easy banter. “Same thing. Easier if you ask me. Lots of cold hors d’ouvres and whatnot, so a lot of the cooking happens ahead of time. Lots of pastries. You’re good at those.”

“If you say so, chef,” she droned listlessly.

“I know you are,” he said warmly. “I actually have something particular in mind. Something…more traditional. Something a bit more Italian. Anyone can make a pie,” he said with mild disdain, “I want a dessert that’s more unique.”

“Like what?” It was a surreal experience - hearing herself speak but not doing the talking. Like listening to her own voice on a gramophone but having no memory of the recording.

“How is your frutta martorana game?”

“I haven’t made that…in ages,” she heard herself concede.

“You’ll be great, I know it,” he waved her discomfort away. “You’re great at anything you set your mind to.” The warmth of his voice bolstered the idea that she was dreaming because surely this couldn't be the same man from minutes ago?

She felt her facial muscles strain as her mouth was pulled into a smile. “Where is this ball?”

“Mr. Bronte’s mansion.” The panes of her face moved and whatever expression that resulted in, made him ask “You know him?”

“I know of him.” She heard the tone of wariness in her own voice but he didn’t. 

“Important man,” he said and she noticed his nod of approval. “Anyhow, I mean to surprise him with something from the motherland. What do you think?”

“I think it’ll hit the mark,” Savigne said and her voice sounded muffled to her ears, like it was coming from the bottom of a well. “Especially if he’s Sicilian.”

He smiled conspiratorially when he replied: “I think so too.”

Then a jolt of her inner voice: Refuse.

“I…” she cleared her throat, “I’m not sure if I’m the right choice for the job, chef.”

“Don’t be silly,” he said dismissively, thumbing through the folder again.

Don’t take this as payment for what he did.

“Why, what did he do?” she thought morosely and the memory of minutes ago flared up in her. She was alarmed by how efficiently and quickly she had managed to rugsweep it.

Refuse!

“I don’t want to embarrass myself.”

He blinked up at her. 

“But what about the cabin?” she thought helplessly. “He said good money.”

Her inner voice was sharp like barbwire she had curled a fist on: REFUSE!

“I’m not a good fit,” she said with more determination.

His eyes hardened at her rejection and her breath caught in her throat. “Nonsense,” he said, giving her a weighed look, “You’re perfect. You will accept. I don’t do charity, you earned it.” He looked her a long moment, eyes boring into her, daring her to argue and to her own horror, proud as she imagined herself to be, she wilted under that stare like a child. Not that long ago she had believed Dutch to be intimidating, but when the moment came, she had easily stood up to, spoken back at Dutch. Ecco, not so much.

“Yes, chef,” she whispered at last.

He nodded curtly. “I stocked up marzipan. Practice until the ball. Now go.”

She dreamily marched out of the room on stiff legs and found herself in the street. Then she walked around for a while, her mind blank and dim, turning random corners, brushing against strangers. When she found a deserted alley she doubled over and threw up. One half was horrified to be vomiting in public like some drunkard, but the other half felt relieved as if she had thrown up all the dirt and ugliness and she was clean again. She stumbled away in shame and found a fountain and washed her mouth and her face. Then she walked some more and as she walked, like the focus of a pair of binoculars being adjusted until the image became crisp, her shattered halves glided over one another and solidified into one person again. 

When she looked up, she was surprised that she was standing across the door of the steakhouse. She stood there for a long time, watching the door, unsure what to do. 

Go home, said her inner voice eventually. It’s late.

She knew it to be true but still hesitated with indecision.

It was nothing. You're fine. Go home to your family.

The word mushroomed a deep feeling of warmth and safety in her gut and she turned around towards the stables to pick up Cricket.

Unlike Arthur, her work hours were pretty routine. So whenever she ran late, he would sit by the main camp fire because it was right across the horses and today was no different. He jumped up and strode over when she rode in. 

"Was 'bout to ride out for you," he said when he arrived. "Yer late."

She turned around and hugged him tightly and he stiffened a little with surprise. Just months ago, embracing him all the way out by their distant tent used to make him uncomfortable. Now he merely tensed up here in full view of the gang and it made her inexplicably and immeasurably happy.

"Woman, you drunk again?"

"No," she chuckled into his chest.

He gripped her shoulders and held her out to look at her face. He must have smelled the droplets of vomit on her clothes. "You got sick?"

“Threw up,” she sighed. “Did a lot of tasting today. Something I ate must have been off.” If he heard her lie, he didn't push. Instead he pulled the saddle off Cricket as she fed him an apple. Then he took the basket from her and strolled alongside her to their tent.

She thought about telling him about the ball but she knew he wasn't going to like it and she didn't have the energy to fight him about it tonight. “How was your day?” she asked instead.

“Fine,” was his typical stoic retort.

"My back is hurting something fierce," she sighed, giving him a side eye. "A massage would be nice."

"That so?" he grinned.

"But someone has to clean me up first."

He hummed with amusement. 

"Think you can help me with that?"

"Sure can, ma'am."

The next day Chef Ecco was gone out of town and Savigne burst with so much joy at the news, she got into a work frenzy. It was as if she had twice the energy to spare as she chopped and whisked and shucked, food appearing in front of her like magic. One of the plates she prepared as a suggestion for the upcoming winter menu was so brilliant, the sous chef came over and inspected it from all angles and praised her until she turned red. She grinned self consciously, shy but proud and Sarah gave her a ‘well done’ smile from her station which boosted her spirits further.

Then she left Antoine’s and headed right to the market and shopped until her basket grew heavy. She saw a little dirty kitten in a corner and cried a little, then almost lost her head in a heated argument with the butcher, then went to pick up Cricket and found herself prattling to Jebediah about how to make remoulade, all the while ignoring the deep confusion and disinterest in his face.

That evening she cooked Arthur meatloaf and sat watching him eat with gusto after her own meal was done.

“Do you chew? Like, at all?” she said with a mixture of concern and disgust. 

He grunted and nodded in confirmation, her sarcasm lost on him.

She sighed and watched the gang idle about, feeling antsy and restless and brimming. In her mind, she was gearing up to have a fight with him because she knew he wasn't going to like her cooking for Bronte and just then the universe decided to trip her:

“Bronte’s gonna have a ball in a few days,” he said around his food. “‘M tellin’ you so you don’ spin tales in that head o’yours when you see me all fancy.”

She blinked at him, stupefied. “W-what?” was all she managed a long while later.

He ran his tongue along his teeth and took a sip from his whiskey before he clarified: “I’m goin’ to some silly ball. Don’ want you to think 'm meetin' a woman or some other nonsense cause I cleaned up.”

“First of all..." she said coolly "...I don't have a single jealous bone in my body." She ignored the dry side eye he gave her. "And second, I guess I'll see you there!"

"How d'ya mean?"

“I have been asked to cook for the ball," she gloated and sat back in her chair. He gave her a sharp look and swallowed his food. “What?” she said with unease when he remained quiet.

“Waitin’ for you to say you refused.”

“What!? I can’t refuse.”

His eyebrows rose. “Said you was asked, no?”

“It’s not that kind of asking,” was her annoyed answer. “I was politely told.” When he didn’t divert his gaze: “What now?”

“Aint’ a good idea.”

She huffed in disbelief. “You just told me you’re going yourself!”

He completely breezed over that point. “You don’ wanna mingle with these folks, Savigne.”

“Who’s mingling? I’m just going to be in the kitchen, cooking food.”

“No.”

“Excuse me?”

“Yer excused,” he said around his food after he stuffed an enormous piece of meatloaf into his mouth.

There was a long silence as she watched him chew with disbelief. “You know, it’s sort of amazing, your hypocrisy.” She enjoyed his startled pause. “Are you seriously telling me you’re going but I can’t?” Her anger sizzled.

His eyes flicked at her. “This man took Jack.”

“You think I hit my head or something? I know he took Jack.”

He continued his dinner for a few moments. “Then you know it ain’t safe.”

“How come you’re going, anyway?”

“Was invited. With Dutch and others.”

She blinked again and almost laughed because he had to be joking. When he ate on as if it was perfectly normal, she said “Are you serious?”

He did his ‘sure, why wouldn’t I be?’ shrug. 

“The man who took Jack invited you guys to a ball?”

He hummed in affirmation. Still maddeningly eating. Her temper flared up properly.

“And you accepted?”

“Dutch wants to go,” he said, taking a sip from his whiskey. “Thinks we can…find something for us there.”

She gaped at him as he refilled his bowl.

First of all, that meatloaf was heavy and rich and a third bowl was obscene.

Second, and more importantly, he actually had the audacity to ask her not to attend while he himself was going to…what were the words he used… ‘mingle with these folks’.

A few moments later he did a double take at her face. 

“Y’alright?”

“Actually no,” she sputtered, feeling the heat rising to her cheeks.

“What’s the ma-”

“The matter is that you’ve been lecturing me on not getting mixed up with these people and you’re actually going to the damn ball!”

“Woman, I ain’t goin’ cause I wanna,” was his exasperated response.

“Same,” she quipped and crossed her arms.

“Ain’t the same.”

“Why?”

He opened his mouth but she was faster: 

“I’ll tell you why,” she spoke over him. “You’re a damn hypocrite, that’s why!” she hissed. She hated how hot it was here. How stifling. She unbuttoned the top button of her blouse.

He seemed surprised at the fervor of her reaction and slowly put down his fork. 

“Now listen here…” He cleared his throat and took a moment to grab the napkin to wipe his beard. 

“No! Who cares what your explanation is? You’re a hypocrite. You’ll say this and then you’ll turn around and say that!” She glared at the campfire. People still lighting fires in this heat was also obscene.

He looked at her a long moment. Eyed his meatloaf with longing and then looked at her again. She wanted to strangle him for that alone. 

“I don’ like doin’ it,” he said, softer, with a timbre of appeasement as if she was a horse he was trying to calm down. It flared the fire in her hotter. 

“Who said I was?! It’s my damn job!”

“Fair. But...”

“But what?” God she wished he would say something outrageous. That fork was tempting her to grab it and stick it in his hand.

He gave out a frustrated sigh and tried a different angle: “Savigne. Darlin’…”

“Oh this should be good.”

“…don’ wanna worry ‘bout you when I’m on a job.”

“Sounds like a you problem to me.”

“Sure,” he said patiently. “But yer my woman and-”

“Arthur Morgan,” she growled as she felt the pulse starting to beat behind her eyes, “Do you actually think that means you can tell me what to do?”

“Course not,” he scoffed. A moment later: “Kinda.” He sighed at the glare she gave him. “Yer safety is my job, ‘member?”

“This is not a treasure hunt,” she hissed. “Or living alone in a cabin. I’m going to a god damn ball as a cook.”

“This man as dangerous as them Murfrees,” he growled. “More!”

“I’m around a dangerous man all day every day!” she said with some heat.

There was a moment of silence. “The hell that mean?”

She quickly looked away.

“Savigne?”

“I was talking about the gang. I mean you. Technically,” she mumbled a while later.

He leaned back in his chair. “Was you now?” was his narrow eyed question. Given the circumstances, that save was nothing but spectacular and yet Arthur Morgan didn’t buy it. He sat there like a bloodhound who had caught a whiff and was about to put his nose down to track it.

“You know what,” she flustered and rose up. “You go on and eat your meatloaf.” She turned towards the trees.

“The hell you goin’?”

“Going for a walk,” she yelled over her shoulder and ran off before he could sink his teeth into the problem and shake it out of her.

"God damn hypocrite," she seethed, stalking through the dark forest, working herself up. "The problem", she mumbled as she pushed branches out of the way and tripped on roots, "is men." The more she thought on it, the more apparent it seemed. At the root of all her problems: men. Infuriating, despicable, outrageous men. Mr. Rochester? Man. Murfrees? Men. Bronte? Man. Dutch? Man.

Ecco her mind whispered and she flinched at the thought, then quickly stuffed it away.

She fanned herself, feeling all hot and bothered. Her head swam and there was an odd pulse between her legs. She wished her period would finally come so she could be done with it. For weeks now she had been stuck on this ridiculous Ferris wheel, going round and round from angry to aroused to anxious to elevated.

"Men are the problem,” she muttered. “They’re not good for anything.”

An image flashed in her mind of Arthur thrusting into her, his eyes devouring her as the table under her creaked furiously.

She halted and cleared her throat. "Okay now," she mumbled, "pull yourself together, what the hell? 

"The problem is men", she started again but then she remembered the feeling of his trigger finger inside her, brushing her sensitive spot and making her shiver.

She stopped, panting with confusion and a little horrified at the coiling in her gut.

"No, no, no, no," she hissed. "The problem is…"

The way he had moaned her name when she was on her knees, pleasuring him on his birthday.

She felt herself get wet and gasped with disbelief.

Suddenly she heard his running foot falls behind her. 

"Savigne!"

She dived into the thicket, slowly so the bushes won't shiver and crawled around as carefully as she could. 

"You gonna make me hunt you down?" he called, amused, and he already sounded closer. “Ain’t gonna take long, tell ya that.”

Silence. She stood stock still. The ego of this man, she thought, incensed.

"Last chance, Savigne," he drawled, closer still.

Even from here she could hear the grin in his voice and it did make the coil in her gut shiver. She listened to the crunching of his steps draw near and softened her breath. Moments later his boots appeared in her sights.

"So be it," he chuckled darkly.

He dropped down to his haunches, back turned to her and inspected the ground. This made her very uneasy and she almost jumped up to protest that it’s unfair. She hadn't taken tracks into consideration!

A moment later he rose up and walked off her field of vision. She took a silent breath of relief. She was about to move on but then thought that he was way too quiet. Maybe he was waiting for her to pop out? So she sat there, listening with utmost attention to the deep silence. Her hands closed on a thick stick and she carefully hefted it, rose just a little and threw it far to her right. The crunch of steps heading in that direction made her grin and she slowly slithered through the undergrowth in the opposite direction.

Idiot, she thought and shook her head. That was the thing about men, they always pranced around like they ruled the world but…She stopped in her tracks. Men did actually rule the world. Whatever, she thought, that’s not the point.

She emerged a while later and peeked up carefully to look behind her. Nothing. She smugly brushed her skirts and turned around with a grin on her face and almost screamed with surprise. He was standing right there, one shoulder pressed against the tree, arms crossed, hips angled away. She gawked at him then morosely turned to the direction she came from in disbelief, then turned back to him again.

“Ya know,” he drawled, eyes locking to hers, “that was kinda embarrassingly easy.”

“You cheated!” she yelped.

“That so?”

“Yeah, you tracked me! Doesn’t fucking count!”

He chuckled and bounced off the tree. “Next time,” he said lowly, “maybe don’ stomp so hard you leave tracks.”

“You god damn…” she hissed as she marched towards him. The fact that he was utterly unfazed by her menacing approach irritated her to no end. “…smug…cocky…conceited…” He merely straightened to loom over her, rolling his shoulders, visibly amused by her fury. “…man!” she spat.

It was hard to say which one of them was more shocked when she found herself gripping the lapels of his shirt to pull him down and crushing her lips against his. He froze with surprise for a moment, then - always a man who never rebuked her advances - swung his arms around her and kissed her back just as aggressively, lips and tongue moving ferociously against hers.

“I’m going to that ball,” she hissed and grabbed his hair and jerked his head lower as she kissed him again. He grunted with the pain but followed her command, hands grasping her waist to crush her against him.

“The hell y’are,” he grunted as he walked her backwards and threw her against the tree.

She felt a shudder run through her from head to toe as her hands flew to his gun belt. “You don’t give a damn about what I want, do you?” she growled as she reached for his trousers next and almost yanked the buttons off in her haste to undo them while his hands hungrily clutched her breasts and his mouth descended on hers.

“Course I care,” he snarled but his breath hitched as she fell to her knees in front of him and immediately took him in her mouth. He flinched with surprise and couldn’t avoid the loud moan that escaped his lips. His cock stiffened in her mouth and she hummed with pleasure, gliding her lips up the shaft to take him deeper. One of his hands flew to the tree to support himself as a shiver went down his legs while the other tangled with her hair, undecided between drawing her closer and pushing her away. The decision was made for him when her nails raked the back of his thighs as she twirled her tongue around his swelling head and then proceeded to swallow him to the hilt while he moaned again and hissed a Christsakes above her. She moaned too, feeling the burn of the fire between her legs and the wetness soaking her bloomers. 

She sucked harder, setting a ruthless pace as he squirmed above her and his moans grew louder than he usually allowed himself to be. “Christ!…woman…oh…jeeeesus…ah…Savigne…damn”. It was like music to her ears, especially the soft cry that he let loose every time the tip of her tongue touched under his swollen head. She felt besotted with lust, absolutely drenched in it, she felt like she could fuck him till morning and then some. Her head was swimming and her cunt was aflame. Arthur was writhing above her, stunned and reduced to a blabbering mess and she felt like she would come just by listening to the sounds he was making. The power she held over him at that moment was like fiery whiskey, going straight to her head.

She gasped with surprise and disappointment when he pushed her off and roughly grabbed her arm to pull her up. She was turned around and shoved against the tree. “Lies! You don’t fucking care,” she stammered as hands pulled up her skirt and ripped off her bloomers.

“Woman…” he growled into her ear as his fingers found her dripping folds. Her ass was pulled back harshly and she tried to steady herself, gripping the bark as he groaned and immediately pushed into her. She was so wet, he glided in smoothly despite his size. He gasped her name and swelled bigger in her with excitement.

“…would burn the world for you,” he sighed in her ear, kissing her neck as he pulled out almost completely before the next sharp thrust that made her whimper.

This rendered her speechless for a moment and when she flustered and tried to come up with something witty, his hands pulled up her thighs, lifting her to the tip of her toes as he fucked the breath out of her lungs. She merely managed a raspy cry of ecstasy as he gently bit her neck and increased his pace. In the back of her mind there was a certain pride to have driven him this wild because even at his neediest, Arthur had never taken her rough like this. She bit into her lip to muffle herself and mewled with the pleasure, feeling every nerve in her body light up with fire. Just when she thought it couldn’t get any better he angled her slightly, making her eyes roll back and her toes curl and a few more smacks later she was undone as her mind turned white with the force of her orgasm. 

He whispered a curse as his motions became more vigorous and desperate and soon followed her, the pitch of his gasps rising as he emptied himself into her. Her eyelids fluttered and the sharp sensation of rapture spread through her before it slowly dulled like a forest fire that had run out of trees to burn. She listened to the drumming of her heartbeat in her ears, her head still swimming in ecstasy. He carefully lowered her back on her feet, then steadied her with a light grip on her hips as she almost toppled, her legs still shaking. His panting behind her was loud in the hushed forest. 

A few moments later he asked her if she was okay and she gasped a ‘yes’ as her hands crawled up the tree to straighten herself. He pulled his trousers back up and buttoned them, still breathing hard before he turned her around to look at her face. His thumb glided over her lower lip that she had punctured with her bite and his eyes, still churning and stormy, locked on hers before he lowered his forehead on hers. His harsh exhalations plumed down her face as he pressed her against himself with his hand on her lower back. 

“Savigne…” he managed between the puffs, “...you possessed?”

“I think so,” she whispered, struggling to catch her breath, too. “Sorry.”

He scoffed, then kissed her temple. “Aint…complainin’…but…hate it when you…run off.”

“Didn’t look…like you…hated it,” she wheezed. 

He chuckled lowly and retrieved his gun belt from the ground with a grunt. She looked around, suddenly anxious if they had been far enough away from camp. The forest looked dark and empty. She couldn’t hear the camp either but that meant little as her pulse was beating in her ears. She wiped her hands over her face, moist from the humidity and the sweat and tried to push her hair back into shape. Then she gathered her torn bloomers, gave him a pointed look that earned her a shrug and a grin and stuffed them into the pocket of her skirt. 

“You owe me…underwear.” she panted. 

“Me?” he said, running his fingers through his wild hair. “This is all…on you.”

She groaned, now feeling abashed as she was coming down from that insane lust spike.

He chuckled at her state and took her hand, kissed her palm as he led her back. Their walk back was understandably a lot slower and calmer and went on for longer than she expected. They had managed to get pretty far with their furious chase so that was good at least. She beat her skirts to free any dust and debris. She saw the gated entrance of Shady Belle and wasn’t pleased that they had returned this way.

“You think they’ll know when they see us?”

He gave her a look. “I would.”

She groaned again, tried to tame her hair once more as he grinned wider at her discomfort.

“This wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t followed me,” she hissed, annoyed by his nonchalance. 

“Course I followed,” he scoffed. “You ran like a wild beast. Sides…you know ya would have got lost.”

That much was true. 

“You cookin’ somethin’ in the food or what?” he asked, the grin on his face broadening. 

“Funny,” she said drily, then couldn’t help but click her tongue at his expression. He looked like the cat that ate the canary. “Don’t look so pleased with yourself.”

He just smirked. His eyes were warm and she was somewhat taken aback to see unmistakable love in them. Of course by now, having gotten to know him as well as she did, she knew Arthur loved her. But he loved her in his own way – he never said it, nor did he show it in the usual ways people do. The expression of his affection for her was a lot more subtle, more reserved and complicated. 

If she had been asked to explain it, she would have said that she knew he loved her because at times it felt supernatural how well he read her and it wasn’t hard to follow that he only read her as well as he did because he paid attention to her. Nobody paid this much attention to someone they didn’t care about.

But rarely did she see it in his gaze as obviously as she did at that moment. It set her heart aflame.

They were close to the camp now. She retrieved her hand and smacked him on the forearm. “Stop. Grinning. Like. A. Fool!” she hissed. 

“Am a fool,” he shrugged, still grinning.

She clicked her tongue again in distaste and dared a glance at the gang as they turned to stroll towards their tent. They seemed to be occupied but you couldn’t trust this lot – they saw more than they let on and had way too much idle time on their hands to share the things between each other that they had missed. 

He was sauntering as if he had returned from some gallant deed and she couldn’t help but roll her eyes at his silliness. When they arrived at the table, his third meatloaf bowl was empty.

She glanced at his face and the stupefied vexation she found there made her erupt in chortles. She clamped her hand over her mouth when he gave her a baleful glance but the chortles devolved into cackles behind her palm.  

“Thought you was done with that,” John called from a distance. 

“You a stray or somethin’?” Arthur barked. “Eatin’ other people’s food?”

Savigne felt the sting of tears in the corner of her eyes.

John just shrugged and scratched the back of his neck, shifting on his feet. “Came to look for you…food was just sittin’ there.”

Arthur gave her another side eye as she stood there, laughing and dabbing the tears off her eyes with her sleeves. He grabbed the back of the chair and slammed it to the ground hard before he sat down to pull his whiskey in front of him. 

“How come you didn’ steal the whiskey too, ya mooch!” he yelled, his eyes hard on John. 

“I got whiskey,” John said dismissively.

“Unbelievable!” Arthur hissed.

“Was getting’ cold and all,” John tried and was cut off by Arthur’s sharp gaze. “You was gone,” he tried again, flustered.

“I like it cold, why I left it you fool!” Savigne had just gained control over her cackling and almost broke into laughter again at that blatant lie.

“Sorry Savigne,” the other man called over. “It was delicious.”

She nodded in acceptance of the compliment as Arthur’s withering gaze made him finally scurry away. 

She fell into her chair, exhausted from bickering and running and fucking and laughing and this time it was him who clicked his tongue at her amusement. 

“This here your fault,” he said, annoyed.

“What!? Why?”

“Yer feedin’ these sponges and now we can’t leave food out no more. Too many god damn coons about.” 

She chuckled at that. “All I did was give them an extra pizza pie. Also, stop crying - that was your third bowl. I’ll make you more tomorrow,” she said, wiping the remnant of tears off her face.

He grumbled something incomprehensible as she sank on the other chair. In the distance, Javier strummed his guitar.

“I’m still going,” she said a while later.

“Guess ‘m gonna have to keep an eye on ya,”  he huffed. Then: “I want lazan ya.”

She grinned at the way he said it. “Okay.”

He seemed mollified as he drank his whiskey and she sat with him, placed a hand on his and watched the Moon rise.

Chapter Text

Chef Ecco had arranged for them to be picked up from the restaurant in the morning and they were driven to Bronte’s mansion in several horse carriages. She watched her colleagues, each looking more nervous than the other and she herself felt nervous, too. This kind of job was a career changer – evil or not, Angelo Bronte was an important man and he had invited a plethora of important guests, the biggest names in the city. It was the perfect opportunity to make an impression. But...somewhere in the very back of her mind she had begun to wonder if she really wanted to make one. 

She had barely slept the night before, anxious about the frutta martorana she had crafted, anxious about being around Chef Ecco, and (despite putting up a brave face about it to Arthur) anxious about being around Cosa Nostra. But there was a splinter in her, somewhere deep and hidden, that she felt now itching, needling her and she picked at it relentlessly, curious what she was concealing from her own self.

For a while now she had been struggling with doubts regarding the direction of her career. As much as she enjoyed crafting food at Antoine's, a part of her was listless about it. For one thing, her experiences at Antoine's had soured her ambitions to climb up the ladder of social strata. Food was her passion but this kind of food - expensive, fine food inevitably pushed her closer to folks that were...well you could say of a certain kind. Most were nice enough, true, but some were also inevitably people like Bronte and Ecco: men who could build you up or erase you with a flick of their wrists. Was it really possible to stay out of their orbits, stay out of their influence and still make a career in this field, especially as a woman of her background? It seemed less and less likely.  

The second reason was more complicated, more subtle and evaded her grasp for a long time. She had grown aware that something was missing from her work at Antoine's, something vital and essential. Like salt from a meal or cold missing from ice cream. Then last week she had taken a bowl of spaghetti with meatballs over to Jack and he had jumped with joy and it had hit her: no matter how masterful, how creative, how stupendous her food would be at Antoine's, nobody there would ever be as excited to eat it as Jack was. She had walked back to their tent mulling over this and sat watching Arthur slurping the noodles like some savage and had asked him if he liked her food or he simply ate it because it was there. 

He gave her an incredulous look. "Course I like yer food," was the flowery prose of a retort. And then, as he was piling himself an enormous second plate: "Gonna ask me if the sky is blue?"

She contemplated that until he forked one of the meatballs she had been pushing around on her plate to get her attention and threw it in his mouth. "You spinnin' in yer head again?"

Savigne shrugged. "I'm just...wrestling with some things."

His eyebrows shot up with amusement. "You keep poutin' like that, gonna have to wrestle me later."

"God, you're insufferable," she snorted. "Settle down."

"Don' look so damn fine then," he chewed with a grin. 

"That's the last thing on my mind right now," she grumbled. 

"What you said yesterday," he drawled. "Think I changed yer mind on that."

"Seriously, Arthur?"

"The day before, too."

She pursed her lips and ignored him. 

"And before that," he said smugly.

"Christ on a cross! I'm thinking about my career right now."

He hummed and slurped his spaghetti. "Why, don' like yer fancy job no more?"

"I wouldn't call it fancy," she chuckled. "I'm just a cook. Dime a dozen," she mumbled and winced when the phrase made her skin crawl. 

"This ball makin’ you twitchy?”

"No. Maybe. I don't know," she ran her hands over her face. 

Then she rose to stand behind him, flapped open his napkin and tucked it into his shirt. She squeezed his shoulders before she took the fork off his hand and the untouched spoon. “Observe, my love.” His head swiveled slightly in her direction with the endearment but he watched her twirl the pasta on the fork against the spoon without splattering it. “Just in case it’s served in a posh place. Or…you know…you want to eat it without wearing it.”

He took the cutlery from her and gave her a scrutinizing look as she came around to sit on her chair again.

"Gonna tell me what's goin' on with you? Been goin' on with you?” He said as he practiced the move.

She thought of Arthur telling her to look away and striding to the Murfree, a blade at hand and a storm in his eyes. Nobody cared about a Murfree, but Chef Ecco? The whole city would go wild; it might even make the national news! Maybe he could evade the law regardless as he had done all his life. But maybe this would be the time he bit off more than he could chew and it would be her fault. You can never tell your boyfriend Sarah whispered in her mind.

"Maybe I'm tired of Saint Denis," she sighed and cupped her chin, watching him eat. "Maybe that cabin needs to be far, far away from here."

"Fine by me. Long as it ain't Tahiti," Arthur grumbled. 

"Tahiti? What's in Tahiti?"

"Rest of them fools," he said, jabbing his head to the gang behind him. 

She laughed at that. "That's the plan? Even for Dutch, that's crazy."

But that night she had lied in bed, thinking about their conversation and it occurred to her how many people were pulled in the wake of the nonsense of charismatic men. How easy it was to laugh at Dutch and all the fools who would follow him off a cliff when she herself was allowing herself to be dragged into ever deeper waters by Ecco. I can't let this happen, she thought. I didn't come this far and work this hard so I can be humiliated and hurt and discarded by some monster. If Arthur has broken free, so can I. 

She pushed these thoughts away as the carriage slowed and they arrived at the mansion. They were guided to the kitchen like baby ducks in a row and she gawked around, stunned by the wealth. It felt like she had been transported into a different world. The kitchen was almost the size of Antoine’s and spotless. There were a number of cooks running around, preparing lunch and dinner for Mr Bronte. They weren’t assigned to help with the food for the ball – that was the job of Ecco's team. 

They were introduced, familiarized with the kitchen and the available tools and where everything was, then they had to wait a bit for lunch preparations to be over before they could go in and start the food for the evening. 

Savigne didn’t have much to do on her end – her frutta martorana had to be prepared ahead of time and she had done most of the work. She just had to put in the finishing touches so the colors would stand out vibrant when the time came. So she helped others with their assignments.

Chef Ecco arrived a lot later, towards late afternoon and she spotted him walking about in the garden with Mr. Bronte from afar. They seemed to be having a jovial conversation and she soured on him even further. It was unclear if he was just being chummy with Bronte for his own career advancement or if he really liked the guy, but there was no doubt in her mind that they were more alike than apart. 

It was her first time seeing Mr. Bronte and maybe it was knowing what he was and what he had done regarding Jack, but she immediately grew to dislike him. He had that grandiose, bellicose air to him that most men of his stature did but he also seemed to be overdoing it. His mansion was a reflection of him – big and showy but to the point of drifting into tacky, self-aggrandizing, everything for the distinct urge to impress others. She recognized the fellow immigrant in him always trying to compensate for the fact that he had arrived on a stinking ship like everyone else and was now obsessed with proving to folks that he was just as good, if not better than them.

She startled when Sarah chirped next to her: "Are they arguing?"

She turned to the two men, gesticulating in Italian. "Unfortunately no," she said drily.

A moment passed as the women watched the two men. "Are you okay, Savigne?"

"Not really," Savigne said, unable to look at her, feeling that weird shame again as if somehow what was happening was her own fault. 

Sarah didn't say anything but inched closer until their shoulders touched. 

"Some men," the blond girl sighed, looking out the window, "just want to take something from you and that's all they want. Then they're done. They move on to the next thing and they let you be."

Savigne watched the jovial back patting as the two men headed down the garden path. "Not everything is theirs to take," she droned. 

"If such men are told no, then they want to take everything from you," was the careful response. They both looked on even though the garden was empty now.

Savigne shrugged as if to say 'so what'.

"Did you hear about Estelle?"

"No, what happened?" Savigne blinked out of her stupor. 

"Heard she couldn't find a job in Saint Denis. Not even as a dishwasher. A few places accepted her but then...she was mysteriously let go the next day."

Savigne thought on this. "America is a big country."

"Sure. But some men have a long reach." Sarah turned to lock eyes then. "Don't think less of me for saying it. You're an excellent cook, that's why I'm here talking to you. Be careful."

She went back to the kitchen and focused on her job and before she knew it, it was evening and the buzz in the kitchen intensified. Savigne was used to it – there was always stress in the kitchen with the arrival of mealtime. Things had to be pre-arranged so everything could roll out smoothly and on time, because if there was an cardinal sin in this business, it wasn’t so much the taste of the food they were serving, but the nerve to waste some important person’s time. 

She pondered if she would run into Arthur and the rest and dismissed it as unlikely – they were going to be with the guests and she wasn’t going to step out of the kitchen for the most part. Still, she was curious. And apprehensive. Whatever the Van der Linde gang was up to, it could be safely surmised that it was no good and she hated the fact that Arthur, in his ripe old age still hung around this nonsense. She knew at this point he had his doubts about the whole thing, she knew he harbored some resentment for what the gang was doing and she knew he meant to leave it all behind, but he sure as hell was taking his sweet time about it! They all were. Even Hosea, who was the most vocal about the state of things, was still hanging around, idling about in Dutch’s shadow instead of putting his foot down. 

She eyed the time. The ball was going to start soon but the general air in the kitchen was collected. Things were moving about quickly and the staff Chef Ecco had brought over was used to the hectic pace of a kitchen and nobody was running around like their head was on fire. 

She went to the fridge and looked over her frutta martorana. It looked excellent to her, especially that mandarin that she had constructed, half peeled and looking as real as the fruit itself, but self-doubt was always close to her heart and she bit her lip, eyes crawling over the pastry with apprehension.  

“They look magnificent!” Chef Ecco proclaimed behind her and made her flinch. 

His arm swung around her back, patting affectionately. Savigne scurried out of his reach, trying to be subtle about it but he saw her panic and rather than surprised or angry, he was amused. 

“They’re excellent, Savigne. You have outdone yourself. Don’t be surprised if you get some calling cards delivered to you after tonight.”

She nodded politely and closed the fridge door. 

“How are things upstairs?” she managed to break the awkward silence that set in.

“People are arriving. It’s going to be a big one.”

“Where do you want me?” she cleared her throat, eyeing the kitchen. 

“You’ll find something to do,” he mused, smiling at her. “I know I don’t have to order you around.” His tone implied that he enjoyed doing it anyway.

She was about to step away when he said “Tell you what,” and glided into her personal space, “why don’t you take a break at some point and just go up and see what they think?”

“Would that be…appropriate?”

“Sure!” he waved his arm about dismissively. “Why not? You’re not a servant, you’re a cook! My cook,” he said eyes hungry. “Take your cap and apron off and go up and walk about the tables, see what folks are saying.”

She looked down at her pristine uniform. With or without a cap, she wasn’t really dressed for the occasion. 

He guessed what she was thinking and laughed. “Don’t have to attend the ball!” he grinned. “Just go about and see what it’s all like. If anyone tries to usher you out, you better take their name. Nobody pushes my staff around." Another pat on her back, the palm on her shoulder blade lingering a tad too long, and he was gone. 

Savigne exhaled with relief and rolled her shoulders to shake off the residue of his touch.

A few hours later the ball was in full swing and the kitchen was even calmer than before. Everything that was to be served had been prepared and was now just being carried upstairs. Bronte’s own staff was handling the serving, so there wasn’t much left to do for the cooks themselves. Ecco was right – this kind of event was in a way easier. It was front loaded and required a lot of preparation, but once that was done, the pace dropped off very steeply and there was a lot of time for rest. 

Having tasted food all day she didn’t feel hungry, but she was now eager to stroll upstairs and see what a ball was like. She removed her cap and her apron, smoothed her dazzlingly white, clean uniform and decided to take the offer. 

Upstairs was a a completely different world. The entire mansion had come alive with light and laughter. She walked among the guests, a little stupefied, absorbing the splendor. It was as if every beautiful person in Saint Denis was here today. Tuxedos pristine, dresses sublime, hair shaped meticulously, just the right amount of make-up, voices tuned to that polite, low tone interspersed with the tinkling of laughter here and there… She glided through the crowds, feeling invisible and, in a way, liberated because this way she was able to observe people she rarely encountered as if they were an exotic species while they hardly noticed her. She grew a little bolder and snatched a glass of champagne from one of the tables and strolled along the long laid out table, checking on the food to see what had been eaten the most and what remained relatively untouched. 

The buffet tables were regularly visited by the patrons and her frutta martorana was in the center of the spectacle, displayed like a work of art. She saw several people looking at it, pointing at it, almost afraid to touch it. It put a grin on her face and a surge of pride swept through her. 

“Miss Ricci?”

She turned to her name and for a moment had no idea who this man was. He looked very different dressed up, hair slicked back, beard trimmed down. Then it came to her: “Mr. Dunham?”

He grinned, showing his perfect white teeth. He stepped closer to extend his hand. His aftershave was excellent – noticeable but just the right amount of subtle. 

“Well at least I made an impression,” he said. She laughed and shook his hand, looking him over. 

“You would have made one today if you hadn’t already,” she complimented him. A light shade of pink dusted his cheeks and she thought it cute. 

“Should have known the excellent food meant you were in the kitchen,” he said. His grey eyes were twinkling, reflecting the lights around them. 

“I only made the frutta martorana,” she responded, brushing her skirt and taking a sip from her champagne. “Can’t claim ownership of the excellent food.”

“Which one is that?”

She pointed to the display with her champagne glass and almost chocked on a mouthful of it when she spotted Arthur there, staring at her with the ghost of a grin. He looked…well immaculate. She had to admit he cleaned up extremely well, and somehow a tuxedo looked even better on him than his usual clothes did, which was saying something. His hair was shorter and slightly combed back with pomade and the beard was trimmed professionally. The way his broad shoulders sat within the sharp corners of the stiff jacket and his trousers hugged his slim hips did something funny to her stomach. All in all, he looked like one of the heroes Mary Beth’s stupid books fawned about for pages. She stared at him, mesmerized all over again by that animalistic quality, that magnetism he had, the way he filled space and had a weight to his presence and thought no wonder I fell for him. Even if she hadn't known who he was, seeing him here in this setting where he stood out like a tiger among cats, it was near impossible to not notice him.

“My my,” she heard Dunham and felt his shoulder brush against hers as he walked around her to approach the display. She blinked away from Arthur’s gaze, closed her mouth and followed. 

“Well this is quite something!” Mr. Dunham said, circling the pastry table and Savigne tried to concentrate on him and ignore Arthur who was standing just a few feet away. “What is it?”

“Oh,” she said lightly, wetting her lips and trying to get her pulse rate under control, “it’s sweets made of marzipan. It’s very popular in Sicily. Traditional. We thought Mr Bronte would enjoy something from back home.” The way her heart was speeding up with his silhouette in the periphery of her vision, you’d think she wasn’t sleeping next to this man every night. 

“Miss Ricci?”

“Hmmm? I’m sorry. My mind went…”

“…somewhere else for a moment,” the lawyer finished, grinning again. “I remember.”

She chuckled. “Sorry. I do that.”

He waved it away. Somehow even his wave was elegant. 

“I was asking how you made it. This looks…well, spectacular!”

“Oh,” she grinned. “Thank you. It’s just…more sculpting than baking to be honest.” In the corner of her eye, Arthur stepped closer to them and her heart did a jolt. 

“But see here,” he pointed to the mandarin she had crafted, half peeled, the peel standing away from the fruit to show the inner slices, down to the detail of white flesh webbing, “you’re telling me this is desert and not a fruit?”

She laughed and shrugged in humble confirmation. 

“Well I can’t eat that!” he protested with mock outrage. “It would be a crime!”

“But…” she objected, the compliment shading her cheeks. It had been a long time since a man had earnestly complimented her. Sure, flattery was a simple and effortless thing, but there was a reason why it worked - everyone liked to be buttered up a bit now and then. Receiving it from him now so abundantly when she rarely got any from Arthur or Luther made her head spin a little.  

“Oh no I couldn’t,” he said, enchanted by her shyness.

“‘Scuse me,” came from beside them as Arthur’s big hand closed on the mandarin and retrieved it to plop it on his plate. 

She froze with surprise. Mr. Dunham was about to turn around to assess whose hand that had been when Savigne quickly spoke up: "You know," she said, giving Arthur a 'what are you doing?' look as he shot back a 'what are you doing?’ one of his own. "In some cultures food is served just as a spectacle, not even meant to be eaten."

"Interesting.” The lawyer followed her as she stepped down the line. 

"Yes. There are formal Japanese meals for example that are insanely pretty. They're paraded around and served but are meant to just be looked at. Sort of to show off the skill of the cook and, by association, the wealth of the host who can afford him."

"Why, that's fascinating," Mr. Dunham said, his grey eyes locked on her. 

"Try the grapes," she suggested. 

Arthur advanced and plucked the grapes away to stack them on his plate, too.

She gave him an incensed  'Seriously?' look. He responded with that brash and unfazed azure gaze. 

Mr. Dunham turned again to see who it was but before he could, she quickly touched his arm to divert his attention back to her. "So you're back in Saint Denis!"

Savigne was relieved when it worked. "Oh yes! I actually travel back and forth quite a bit now. Lots of business here and business is good for us lawyers."

She took a sip from her drink, gave Arthur a withering gaze over Mr Dunham's shoulder which was promptly ignored. She moved down the table further and the blond man followed and, to her chagrin, so did Arthur.

“How’s New York?”

“New York is New York. It’s the heart of this country and I daresay, the world. But…there’s a charm to Saint Denis I’ve grown quite fond of.” His eyes danced with bold mischief.

She feigned ignorance, bowed her lips and hummed. “How about that.”

They glided down the long table but he barely sampled anything, intensely focused on her.

"You didn't call on me, Miss Ricci," he said at last, voice a little more somber. "I have to say I was disappointed about that."

She smiled. "I was busy. I remember warning you about that.”

He grinned as if caught in a lie. "You did. But, guess I was hoping anyway. Are you still busy by any chance?"

Before she could respond, “So Miss,” interjected Arthur from behind him, his tone denoting that he had had enough of the playful banter between them, “heard you say you made these.”

Savigne blinked at him, caught off guard. She managed a late “Yes.”

Mr. Dunham turned and scrutinized Arthur, who stood at least a head taller and twice as broad. “Brilliant, isn’t it?”

Arthur threw one of the grapes in his mouth, chewed on it thoughtfully, then gave Savigne a long, intense look while he ran a tongue over his teeth.

She cocked an eyebrow. “Well? Do you like it? Sir?”

“Reminds me of somethin’,” he said. “Tryin’ to remember where I ate it.” He licked his lips. “Think I had somethin’ similar…”

She sipped her champagne, amused.

“…in the Bayou.”

The champagne shot out of her nose as she coughed violently. Mr. Dunham quickly came to her side to politely pet her shoulder which, of course, did nothing. 

Arthur broke into a grin and shouldered him aside. “Here, lemme.” His big hand slapped on her back not quite hard but hefty enough to dislodge the champagne that had gone into her airway and she wheezed and swallowed, recovering.

“Thanks,” she croaked, eyes watery. “It’s an…acquired taste,” she coughed, placing her glass on the table to brush the droplets off her skirts. His palm remained on her back.

"In the Bayou, you say?" the lawyer picked up the conversation. "I really can't imagine they have anything there that can compare.”

"There's this little bird..." Arthur began.

"Please, try one!" Savigne hastily urged Mr. Dunham, voice still raw.

Mr. Dunham picked a peach. She tried to inconspicuously push Arthur’s southward gliding hand away as they watched the lawyer carefully slice a piece off, fork it into his mouth and chew with narrowed eyes. 

“It’s marzipan and sugar,” she explained.

The blond man hummed, thoughtful. “Very…interesting.”

Savigne carefully slapped at the hand that had resumed its journey to her butt. “It’s a little old fashioned, I know.”

“Very unique, I must say,” the lawyer stated. Then his eyes glided up to Arthur at Savigne’s side. “I’ve never been to the Bayou, Mr…?

“Kilgore,” Arthur said smoothly.

What a name, Savigne thought and bit her lip.

"What's to do over there?"

“The fishin’ is good. Gotta use the right bait of course.”

The grab on her butt cheek made her jump and dance away as she shot Arthur a glare of warning.

“You, Miss Ricci?”

"Me what? Sorry."

"Have you been to the Bayou?"

“Once,” she said curtly.

“If you ever wanna go again…” Arthur said to her with a smug grin. “…’m yer man. Would be a…” his eyes crawled over her body, “…pleasure.”

It was inexcusable, the way he was looking at her - so bold and unapologetic that even Mr. Dunham noticed it and took a step closer to her. 

“Would you like to take a walk in the garden, Miss Ricci?” he said, offering his arm.

This displeased Arthur greatly and she saw the amusement drain from his eyes.

“I should probably head back to the kit-” she started.

“What time you done?” was Arthur’s drawl as his eyes flicked to her.

“Excuse me sir, that’s awfully direct,” the lawyer said frostily.

“If I care ‘bout what you think, I’ll ask.” was the hard response.

“You’re making the lady uncomfortable. I feel obliged to-.”

“Oblige somewhere else.”

The speed with which the amicable interaction dissolved rendered her speechless for a moment. A tension shot up between the two men as she looked from one to the other, nervous where this was going. It was very unusual for Arthur to act this brash but there was no doubt in her mind that he had recognized Dunham from the train station and had a bone to pick because of it. Mr. Dunham, on the other hand, had barely noticed Arthur back then so the odds of recognizing him in his current attire were slim to none.

"I think it's time I head back..." she tried, but the men had advanced to a stage of the duel where she was merely a prop for their stupid power play, so they ignored her.

“You're quite forgetting yourself, Mr. Kilgore," the blond man huffed with indignation and offered his arm to her again. "Miss Ricci?

“You stick that twig out again, ‘m gonna break it.”

Both Dunham and Savigne gaped at Arthur for a moment.

“Gentlemen…” she sputtered when she found her voice again.

“There’s clearly only one of those here!” was the lawyer's smooth interjection.

“You got the ‘gentle’ part right, tell ya that,” Arthur growled as he drew himself up and gave the other man a dismissive head to toe.

“You sir are a brute. That’s no way to behave around a lady.”

“Lady ain't complainin', is she? Go on, take yer fancy ass outta here.”

“Ar- Mister Kilgore!” she gasped, scandalized.

“How inappropr-” tried the lawyer.

“Bag it.”

“Sir, I’m about to call someone.”

“Who? Yer mommy?”

“Jesus!” Savigne muttered and nervously ran a hand over her forehead.

“That’s it! I invite you to step outside with me!”

“Thought you’d never ask,” Arthur said and roughly threw his plate on the table.

“Absolutely not!” Savigne stepped between them. For a lawyer, Dunham seemed surprisingly stupid. Arthur could crack this man’s skull with one hand while playing cards with the other. She glared at Arthur. “I will be very cross if there’s a fight,” she hissed, pressing on each word.

He never looked away from the other man as he rolled a shoulder. “Won’ be much of a fight. Miss.”

“Erik, please!" She was hoping that the use of his first name would compel the lawyer but all it did was irritate Arthur whose eyes now blazed at her.

“Miss Ricci, I assure you, I’m not a meek man.”

“Pushin’ them papers made ya this big?” was Arthur’s tease.

“I'm quite good at boxing!”

He got a snort as a response. “Might wanna have these then,” Arthur fished his black velvet gloves out of his pocket and flung them at the other man’s chest. “So you don’ crack yer pretty nails.”

“Gentlemen!”

She never thought she’d be this happy to see Dutch stroll over and almost sobbed with relief. 

“What’s going on here?” was his smooth question.

“This...man was bothering the lady,” spat the lawyer as if leaving the 'gentle' out was some great insult. “We were about to step away.”

“Nobody was bothering anybody,” Savigne seethed, giving both men a heated look. “And I don’t think either of you gave a damn about me.”

“Tacitus, shame on you,” Dutch drawled. “We can’t brawl here, this is not a saloon.”

Arthur flexed his fingers. “Man here wonders what Saint Denis cobblestone taste like,” he said mildly, “I’m obliged to help.”

“Really unfortunate how all manner of folk get invited to these events now,” sniffed the lawyer.

“You hear this mewlin'?” Arthur asked Dutch.

“I think we have more important things to attend to,” Dutch said and glared at her as if she was responsible for this nonsense. He gripped Arthur’s arm but the bigger man refused to move.

The hiss of “Tacitus!” was ignored.

“Goodbye,” was Dunham’s gloat and Arthur’s face darkened.

“You know what - I’ll see myself out. Good night to both of you,” Savigne spat and practically stomped off. Before she walked back indoors she looked over and Dunham was watching her with disappointment while Dutch had managed to wrestle the bigger man away.

“Unbelievable,” she hissed to herself. Silly peacocks, all of them, strutting around and sporting their tail fans at any given opportunity. 

Things tapered off and Savigne changed her clothes and headed out so she could sneak away before Chef Ecco turned up. The hour was late and even bustling Saint Denis was somewhat empty. She cringed at the idea of riding back to camp this late, through all those dark forests and deserted paths. Maybe it was better to stay in a hotel in town today. But she hadn't told Arthur and if she didn't turn up he would surely come looking for her. She crossed the street and a dark shadow detached itself from the rest of the darkness under a store awning and glided closer. 

She waited, apprehensive, until she recognized his gait and relaxed.

“i was just thinking about you,” she said as he walked closer to stand in front of her. He smiled and placed a hand on her lower back. “Maybe we can stay at a hotel.”

He gave her a rough jerk forward and she stumbled into him. Next thing she knew he was kissing her. Not a chaste kiss on the cheek either - a passionate, full on one that she would never expect from him in the middle of a city street - regardless how sparsely populated it was at the moment. She reflexively pushed against him and of course putting up that kind of fight just made Arthur more eager to overpower her. He swung her around and her back was pushed against the wall as he deepened the kiss, boxing her in between his arms, his body flush against hers.

Breathless, she relented, retrieving her hands and placing them on the wall in a show of surrender. It worked, he softened the kiss and eventually pulled back, but his hands glided down her chest and palmed her buttocks, implying that his reprieve was temporary.

“What was all that nonsense earlier?” she panted.

“Should be thankin’ me,” he sighed into her neck as he left a trail of kisses. “For savin’ you from that prick.”

“Thank you for saving this helpless maiden!” she sighed dramatically.

“That’s better,” he kissed her. “Now to my reward.” He took her hand and walked her through the dark streets of Saint Denis, to the background music of drunken yowling, ranting and peals of laughter.

They arrived at a hotel that was still lively with lights blazing and music drifting from the main hall.

“Gimme yer best room,” Arthur slapped his billfold on the desk. She cocked an eyebrow at him.

“Certainly sir,” the man flipped the book around for Arthur to sign. “We have a room with a double bed and extra large private tub ensuite.

Arthur grunted in approval as he grabbed the key. Then he paused and asked “The bed have a headboard?”

“Of course,” the clerk scoffed as if the alternative was unthinkable.

Arthur grabbed her hand again and pulled her up the stairs behind him. Several of the rooms had chatter and laughter drifting out as they walked past them. And a few of them lusty moans and cries of pleasure.

“Wow,” she cleared her throat.

“You can sing better than these fools,” he grinned at her. She opened her mouth to argue but he was faster: “And, believe me, you will.”

She shook him awake early next morning. “Arthur!”

He grunted to confirm he heard her.

“I need you to get me something.”

His brows furrowed. “What d’ya need?”

“There is this thing called beigel, I need one.”

“The hell is that?” he mumbled, voice thick with sleep.

“It’s like a pastry, but savory.”

He cracked open an eye. “You want breakfast, we can order room service.”

“No I want beigel with lox.” He took a deep breath and rose on his elbow to look at her as if she had spoken in tongues.

”Please?” she pleaded, pulling the covers up to her chin.

“Fine,” he sighed and rose to sit up at the edge, the covers pooling around his waist and exposing his naked chest. “Ya dream ‘bout it or somethin’?”

“I guess. I’m craving it something fierce.” He paused and gave her a look over his shoulder. “I think it’s because I’m going to bleed soon,” she explained, a little abashed.

He cracked his neck and got on his feet and started to get dressed. “Where they sell this thing?”

“The Jewish quarter. Three blocks up, an avenue over.” She watched him dress in his tuxedo from last night. “I want extra onions.”

He hummed as he reached for his satchel. “Ya sure they open on Sunday?”

“Yeah, it’s the Jewish quarter. It’s this round thing with a hole in the middle, they sell it on sticks. Don’t get the wrong thing!” she called quietly as he headed to the door. “With lox! And extra…”

“I got it, woman,” he grumbled and added “Don’ take a bath without me,” as he exited the room and headed for the stairs.

Saint Denis was calm and quiet under an overcast sky and the drizzle of rain. He decided he liked the city better like this. He passed people walking by quickly under the mist of rain and missed his hat. It was chillier now that Fall was here but perfect weather to him. He strolled up the avenue as the city slumbered around him, not yet ready to recover from the lively Saturday celebrations and he wasn’t the only one stumbling around in their nice clothes from the previous night, either.

Once he arrived at the neighborhood which was livelier than the rest of the city, he asked around and was guided to a small hole in the wall shop and proceeded to buy three, curious what this food was. 

As he was heading back to the hotel a store window caught his eye and he crossed the street to look at the jewelery on display. It surprised him to see a man behind the counter at this early hour but he took it as a sign and entered.

Arthur walked in, rolled his shoulders and looked around. His eyes adjusted to the dim interior and glided over the assortment of pendants, necklaces, tiaras, brooches, swaying and clinking softly in the wake of the breeze that followed him in. It had started to rain in earnest and he was the only customer. It was, by all accounts, too early for this kind of shopping.

The man behind the counter didn’t push and merely glanced over before he dived back into his newspaper. There was a strong, warm smell of coffee in the air.

“Late night?” observed the man, looking over his tuxedo when Arthur approached the counter.

He grunted and dug into his satchel and retrieved the slender ring and carefully placed it on the counter.

“Don’ need this no more,” he sighed.

The man placed an oversized lens in front of an eye and picked it up and took his time inspecting. “Charming,” he nodded thoughtfully before the big owl eye behind the lens blinked at him and a polite “I’m sorry, son” was added at the implication. His tone was more neutral when he continued: “I can take it off your hands.” He went to the cash register but he saw something in Arthur’s eyes and shuffled back over. “Anything else you need, young man?”

“Need another ring,” was the gravely response. 

The man hesitated. “She didn’t like it or…?”

“No. That business is over. Need a new one.”

“Ah I see. Well…what did you have in mind? Something similar?”

“Different.”