Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Alright, that will be one dollar and thirty-two cents,” you say as you finish ringing up the customer’s goods. “Would you like me to put these in a bag for you?”

The lady smiles in your direction as she searches for change in her coin purse. “That would be fine, Ms. Doe.”

That’s your name. It only makes the most sense, after being found battered, bruised, and delirious that awful day four weeks ago. Since living here, you’ve seemed to establish yourself as a hard-working store clerk. You found that you somehow have the skill for it, as counting money and dealing with people seem to come naturally to you. In any case, you’re just grateful to have a job and a place to stay at the nearby hotel, which is quite the alternative to where you once were. Alone with nothing. 

You don’t remember much from that day, and when you've tried, all you’ve gotten is a searing headache that lasts for days. And after dealing with the migraines and sitting with the doctor for hours of tests and questions, you decided that there wasn’t any use. 

And it’s not like you had much to go on. No one in town seemed to recognize you. Most figure you were a passenger on that ferry boat that arrived and that you were one of the well-to-do passengers. All you had in your possession were two train tickets, a golden ring on your finger, and thirty dollars in your coin purse. You had donned a fancy hat and a matching dress, so it was easy to accept their theory. Most had hoped that someone would come looking for you. A husband or fiancé perhaps, given that you had a ring, but no one has. 

And as a consequence, that only led you to have more questions, but since no one around seemed to know the answer, you decided to let it go. The town merchant was kind enough to offer you a job, and with the money you had, you started renting a room at the hotel. 

You put the lady’s items in a large paper bag and fold the top well enough for her to hold it securely. “There you go, ma’am.” You smile. “Enjoy your day.”

“You too, Ms. Doe. Take care, now.” And the woman leaves the store. 

You hear footsteps to your left and turn to see your boss, Mr. Lewis, come out of the back room with more stock for the shelves. “You seem to be catching on rather well, Ms. Doe. I’m glad I hired you.”

You nod politely. “And I thank you for trusting me, Mr. Lewis. Most wouldn’t take too kindly to a stranger.”

He waves off the notion. “It wasn’t your fault what happened to you. Terrible thing, the massacre.”

Massacre. That’s what you’ve been hearing everyone call it. Even the word sounds dark and evil. And to think it all started on the very same ferry you had supposedly been on. 

You nod solemnly. “It’s a miracle I’m alive.”

Mr. Lewis agrees, setting down his crate of stock on the counter. “Indeed, it is. What did the doctor call it?”

You shrug. “I don’t recall. He only said I had a big blow to the head and got shot in the back.”

The spot where you were hit suddenly starts to burn. It is just above your right shoulder blade. Any lower and to the left, it would have hit your spine and killed you. 

Mr. Lewis shakes his head. “And to think you would’ve shared the same fate as Heidi McCourt.” 

You remember hearing that name, too. She was one of the other passengers. Supposedly shot by the leader of the gang who conducted the heist. 

The fact that it was a gang of thieves and murderers that caused such a tragedy was a surprise in itself. You had thought the era of outlaws and cowboys was nearing its end. What desperate people they must have been to want to do such a thing, and to kill innocent people no less. 

But what perturbs you is how much you’ve thought about it and the longer you do, your head starts to hurt. 

It only seems to do that when you are bordering on a memory, something you know or recognize. But why would the thought of a gang do that? Would it be the fact that you’ve read it in a paper once? Perhaps you were held up by a gang years ago? You aren’t sure, but one thing you do know is that it hurts worse than any of the other questions or tests that you’ve endured. 

You bow your head. “Yes, I am very lucky.”

Mr. Lewis’s mouth flattens to a thin line as he studies you. “I really wish you could remember something of your past. Your family must be worried sick about you.”

You take a feather duster from under the counter and begin to clean off the counter. One thing you’ve learned about Blackwater is that it is ripe full of dust. “I gave it the ol’ college try, believe me, but I don’t think it will be instantaneous. And if I have any family, they clearly don’t care that I still alive.”

Mr. Lewis clicks his tongue. “Surely, you don’t mean that…!” He sets his crate of restock on a nearby barrel. “What a sad thing to say!”

You shrug your shoulders. “If I am as well to do as so many have deduced, I should come from a family of means to find me. And if I had come off that ferry, it would only make sense that someone was expecting me.”

Mr. Lewis carefully considers your evidence. “Well, that could be true, but—”

“And undoubtedly, news has circulated on this massacre that took place, so if it reaches family, wouldn’t they be so keen on—?” Cutting your words, a searing headache pounds in your mind. “…Oh…!” you exclaim, gripping the counter as the pain nearly brings you to your knees. 

“Ms. Doe!” your employer cries, and he hurries to your aid. “Oh, this one looks like a bad one…”

You try to think of something else, anything else other than the massacre, but suddenly a picture flashes into your mind. The color blue, and brown, and a blur of black. A softness in the distance, words, words that you can’t place but you know they are being spoken to you. 

“I…I can’t…” you grimace, as the sudden temptation to stay in that image and figure it out overwhelms you, but the pain is too great. 

You have to come away. You have to let it go.

Your hearing begins to clear, and the muffled sound of Mr. Lewis becomes more intelligible. “…can you hear…? Jane…? Jane, can you hear me…?”

You open your eyes, and you are on the floor now, your back against the front counter. 

You blink once or twice, and slowly but surely, your vision returns. You look to your left to see your boss crouching beside you. “I’m ssorry…” you mumble. “That hasn’t happened before…”

Mr. Lewis clicks his tongue. “I should say not…! What brought it on?”

You begin to massage your temple and feel a knotted muscle. It aches as you press your fingers into it, but it also gives a dull release. “I’m not sure, maybe the stress of not remembering, I guess.”

The boss looks at you, studying your pathetic state. “Maybe I should escort you to the doctor.”

You shake your head quickly, having to stop partway through as it’s too tender. “No…he will just say the same thing.” You take a deep breath and exhale. “I just need some fresh air.”

After a moment, Mr. Lewis has a thought, one that might help you. “You could use a trip away from here, something to take you away from what could be contributing to those headaches. You haven’t left Blackwater since you’ve been here…”

Hm, he’s right. You’ve walked these streets and pretty much stayed within several feet of the store and hotel this entire time. At this point, you are open to anything. “A trip? Where?”

Mr. Lewis smiles. “To our sister grocer, in Valentine. We have a shipment of goods from a boat that needs to be taken up there. Lotta folks order from that big catalog.” He offers a hand, you take it, and he begins to help you to your feet with a soft grunt. “Jeremy can go with you. He’s made the trip a hundred times. It’s usually a full day, but if you both leave early, you’ll make it back here by dark.” Once standing, you begin to brush away the dust off your dress. “Is that something you’d be interested in?”

You think about it, and the thought of going on the road thrills you for some reason. Something about the word travel made your heart skip a beat, as though the word was a triggered thing within your very being. Maybe you and your wealthy family traveled a lot? Paris? Timbuktu? Iceland?

And the thought doesn’t hurt your head. Maybe this won’t be a bad idea. 

You meet Mr. Lewis’ gaze and you nod your head, but softly this time. “Yes, I’d like to go.”

***

As the sun begins to paint the sky with pastel hues, you emerge from the hotel and are greeted by the gentle warmth of its rays. You take a moment to breathe in the fresh morning air and soak in the peacefulness that surrounds you. Dressed in a flowy cotton skirt and a linen blouse, you feel comfortable and ready for the day ahead. Your shoes are laced tightly, ensuring a secure and confident stride as you make your way through the quiet streets of Blackwater.

A straw hat rests atop your head, providing shade and keeping you cool under the bright rays of the sun. The scenic beauty of this small town is amplified by the tranquility that comes with being one of the few people awake at this early hour. There is a sense of calm that accompanies your solitary walk, free from the hustle and bustle of daily life.

As you reach your destination - a quaint store tucked away on Main Street - you can't help but appreciate the simple joys of taking a peaceful stroll in the morning light. No one is out here, and you seem to prefer it that way. You like the lack of people and the opportunity to walk in peace without the threat of someone jumping you or calling you names you aren’t sure why you’d be called. You savor this moment to yourself, relishing in the absence of judgment or conflict.

Go back to where you came from, nomad trash…!

The echoing thought makes you stop in your tracks, as it sounds like it was shouted right beside you. You look around to see if anyone has spoken it, but surprisingly enough, no one is even around. 

“…Good morning, Ms. Doe…!”

That did sound close. You look ahead along the sidewalk and see Jeremy, your fellow coworker and store clerk, and he’s waving energetically at you. “Are you ready for our journey?”

Jeremy has always been very friendly, and you’ve wondered why he’s been so kind. Even with all the generosity from Mr. Lewis, the doctor and the other townsfolk of Blackwater, a pit in your stomach has made you hesitant to accept it. While thankful, you’ve downplayed every kindness, reminding them that you are a mere stranger, and are undeserving. 

But those who have helped you indicate that they don’t seem to mind. 

You smile at Jeremy and wave at him. “Yes, I believe so.”

Jeremy nods, resting closed fists on his hips. “Ever good, you should go on and check in with Mr. Lewis real quick, and I will get the last load in the wagon.

Last load? Weren’t you supposed to help with that? “Oh, Jeremy, I can do it…! I thought that I was supposed to be here at sun-up.”

Jeremy nods again. “You were! I wasn’t going to have you load the wagon, that wouldn’t be very gentleman-like, now would it?”

You scoff. “It’s my job, Jeremy.”

Once you’re close, he takes you by the arm and escorts you away from the wagon. “Don’t you worry about it. I’d imagine your family would have my head if they knew we were working you to the bone.”

You feel a pressure in your head and pinch the bridge of your nose. “I find that hard to believe.”

He doesn’t seem to hear you as the jingle of the door rings loudly and he begins to call out to your employer. “Mr. Lewis? Jane and I are about ready to go…!”

It is only but two seconds before Mr. Lewis reveals himself, exiting the store room with the last crate. “Perfect! Here you are, Mr. Frank.”

Jeremy lets go of your arm to take the final crate while Mr. Lewis regards you. “Good morning! I have a canteen and a sack lunch for you to take on your journey.”

Sack lunch? “I thought I’d get something to eat when we get there.”

He shakes his head. “There isn’t much good to eat there, and I’d feel terrible for not preparing you for your trip. I always send Jeremy with a few travel essentials.” And he turns to go to a shelf where a paper sack and leather canteen rest. 

Jeremy nudges you and you meet his eyes. “My essentials usually aren’t the edible kind.” And he winks at you before he turns to head back out to the wagon. 

You furrow your brow, unclear as to what he means. 

You are startled when Mr. Lewis takes your hand, upturning your palm, and places the sack lunch in your hand. “There you go. I hope you like turkey.”

You just stare at the sack for a minute, trying to think whether you do or don’t, and then you remember you had a meal of sliced turkey and peas at the hotel for dinner yesterday. “Yes, I like turkey.”

“Good.” And taking the canteen strap, he helps to swing it over your shoulder. “Now get going, you don’t want to lose daylight!”

You guess that’s all there is to it, then, and so you slowly back away out of the store. Once you feel the warm sun on your back, you turn around to see Jeremy sitting atop the wagon, ready to go. 

He pats the seat beside him. “Hop on, Ms. Doe!” He grins a toothy smile and tips his hat upwards, exposing his forehead. “The drive is quite breathtaking!”

***

With a gentle hand, Jeremy drives the wagon over a wooden bridge, and the horse veers right. You’ve made some distance from Blackwater and the scenery has changed from barren and golden to lush and emerald. There are tall pines everywhere and if you look just right, you can see rocky ledges and all a matter of birds flying overhead. 

“So far, so good,” Jeremy speaks into the silence. “You can never be too careful about trips like these.”

You turn sharply to look at him. “Careful?”

He tilts his head towards you, smiling. “But don’t you worry,” and he pulls away his jacket to reveal a gun belt with a revolver. “I got it covered.”

You snort, something you are unsure of whether it’s characteristic of you or not. “I don’t think a six-shooter is going to stop a bunch of bandits.”

He lifts his brow at you and points behind him. “I have a rifle, Miss Doubtful,” he teases. “Most women are pretty nervous around guns.” He turns his attention back to the road. “You didn’t flinch at all when you saw it.”

You chortle. “Do you take women on this journey often? And show them your gun?”

His face burns pink, obviously taking your questions to a different level. “Erm…no. You’re the first, and you’re also a store clerk. I wouldn’t just take anyone on this trip.”

You smile. “So I’m special, then?”

On a whim, he rests his palm on top of your hat, pushing it down on your head. “Oh, get off your high horse.”

You laugh, bending over under the pressure of his hand. “You didn’t deny it.”

He tucks his chin, smiling. “I guess not.”

You both fall into a comfortable silence as you come around another bend in the road. 

***

Valentine. From the acrid smell of manure, you have already deduced that it is a livestock town. You arrive on the side of town that takes you past the butcher and stables, quickly turning right and stopping directly in front of the general store. 

A few of the townsfolk eye you, but quickly go about their business. You can easily tell that there are more men than women, and most look more poor than wealthy. 

Your eyes are immediately drawn to the bank behind you, and you find yourself counting how many windows there are, who is all standing out front, and if there is possibly a back door.

When I get the money, it will only be just you ‘n me.

The side of your face, near your temple, starts to ache and you go to massage it. 

“Well? What do you think?” Jeremy’s cheerful voice breaks your thoughts and you look back up at him, failing to hide your grimace. “Oh, you alright?” he asks. “Not one of those headaches again.”

You nod but try to put his mind at ease. “It’ll pass. It helps to get me thinking of something else.”

He eyes you carefully, his brow furrows in concern. “Okay, okay, well, how about we go in real quick and speak to the owner, Mr. Sims.”

You nod, still rubbing your temple and you both motion to get out of the wagon. You plant your feet on the ground and the sensation of feeling the mud beneath you almost makes your head swim. Its sound is almost disturbing, and you know dwelling on it doesn’t help the headache dissipate. 

You push through and keep moving. Sloshing through the mud, you instinctively hoist up your skirt and follow Jeremy up the wooden steps. The sounds of wagon wheels and horse hooves behind you add to the annoyance of your headache, and you step faster, eager to dull the sound behind closed doors. 

Jeremy reaches the door first, and like a gentleman, he opens it to let you in. You manage to nod your thanks and step right inside. 

The temperature is slightly cooler, and you feel a chill. You suppose that living in the blazed city of Blackwater, you’re used to warmer air, and you wish you had brought a shawl with you. 

With a few more circular motions to your temple, you begin to feel some relief as you peruse the store with your eyes. 

There is a set of shelves that line the wall to your right and several short shelves that misplay wares to your left. You clearly spot ammunition, gunpowder, and Kentucky bourbon and feel a glitter in your stomach. You shake off the feeling, as it nearly makes you want to jump. 

“Good morning, Mr. Sims…!” Jeremy greets, suddenly taking you by the arm and leading you in the store owner’s direction. “I want you to meet our newest clerk. Been with us a month, and she’ll be making these trips with me.”

Mr. Sims eyes you and offers a soft grin. “Hey, there!” He points to himself. “Mr. Amos Sims.” And then he offers a hand. “Pleasure to meet you.”

Shy but firm, you reach out your hand and shake it. “Jane Doe.”

Amos Sims blinks. “You’re joking?”

And you shake your head. “No, I am not.”

Jeremy, leaning his lean frame on the counter, looks Mr. Sims square in the eyes. “You did hear about that Blackwater Massacre, didn’t you?”

At those words, the store owner’s eyes widen. “Oh, sure! We’ve just had word of it in the news! It’s terrible…!”

Pointing a thumb at you, Jeremy tries to be discreet, but you see it in the corner of your eye. Due to the new topic of discussion, you’d rather not hear this and get another headache. So, you turn on your heels and try to distract yourself by looking at the canned goods behind you. 

As you look, your perceptive auditory senses catch bits and pieces of their conversation, despite your best efforts to not hear a single word. 

“…found her in an alley…docks…ferry boat…”

“No…!”

“Wealthy…married…or something…”

“And she doesn’t remember anything?”

“Not a thing.”

You try to stare at the can of coffee, willing it to make you think of something else. But it’s like their words are pinpricks in your ears. You blink, take deep breaths, and after shuffling on your feet, you throw discretion to the wind. 

You head for the door. “I’m going to start bringing crates in.”

It appears that they aren’t listening, still talking about the gang who shot up the whole town, Heidi, and any other keynotes of the event you’d soon forget. 

You forcefully get the door open and once your skin meets the cooler morning air, you gasp loudly, causing a man and woman on the boardwalk to turn and stare at you. 

You pause and bow your head. “Excuse me,” you mumble, before heading down the steps and onto the wagon. 

Your legs begin to tremble, and you grasp the edge of the wagon for support. The relentless talk of gangs and massacres weighs heavily on your mind, and you yearn for time to pass quickly. But a nagging voice in the back of your mind wonders if uncovering your past is worth the risk of reliving painful memories. Somehow, you infer, self-preservation has always been ingrained in you, a survival instinct that runs deep within your core. You've made it a personal mission to live another day, each day at a time until days turn into weeks, then months, and eventually years. It's a mantra that keeps you going, even in the darkest of times.

But why would a wealthy woman need to worry about something like that? Surely, money could promise security. 

Then your own voice pops into your head.

I’ve never felt as safe as I am now with you, my strong hart…

Your head throbs, as a face threatens to appear in your memory. You shake your head, closing your eyes tightly. 

“That’s enough…!” you grimace. “Enough!”

You think about birds. Jeremy. Mr. Lewis and the store. Concrete things in the now. 

And softly, the image in your mind fades, forgotten in the dark depths once again.

After another moment, you open your eyes, your line of sight immediately falling on your white knuckles, your long fingernails digging into the aged wood of the wagon. You quickly pull your hand away and take a quick glance around. 

No one has seen, or at least you hope no one hasn’t. 

You exhale slowly, and after gathering a moment to compose yourself, you go to the back of the wagon, unlatch the gate, lower it, and reach for the first crate. Thankfully, it is not too heavy, and you can pull it close to you with ease. 

And just as you are about to bring it to your chest and lift it, you hear a loud crash. 

Whipping your head to the right, you are bombarded with the sound of glass shattering and catching the light as it sprays into the sky, shards raining down onto the boardwalk and embedding in the muddy ground below. You are momentarily stunned by the sight of a man rolling out from the wreckage, his body bouncing off the wooden planks before landing with a sickening thud in the muck. But to your surprise, he rises swiftly to his feet, seemingly unscathed by the brutal impact. As he turns to face another man, even larger and more imposing than him, you catch a glimpse of his face - twisted into a snarl of pure rage. The other man is no better, with a grotesque comb-over and a stained white shirt, lumbering down the steps like a beast on the hunt. The air crackles with tension as these two massive figures square off, ready for a violent confrontation.

“C’mon, pretty boy…!” White Shirt taunts as he reaches the bottom step.

The other man, wearing a buckskin jacket and back now dark with mud, spits at the ground. “Pretty boah? Ya kiddin’ me? Pretty boah?!” His voice is a low timbre, a warm growl like a predator being cornered. He readies his fists for a fight as his opponent steps forward with a fighting stance of his own.

Buckskin moves backward, circling around as White Shirt comes toward him. A gathering has already begun to form, onlookers eager to get a proper viewing of action they’ve been supposedly starving for.

You hear someone cheer for White Shirt. “Get ‘em, Tommy!”

White Shirt, now named Tommy, takes the first swing. Buckskin dodges with a duck to the left. “C’mon, let’s see it!” Tommy taunts again.

You hear another voice in the crowd, a soft twang and with a drunken cackle. “I said this’d be fun, didn’t I?”

Buckskin seems to react to that, swinging back and landing his fist right into Tommy’s jaw. There is an audible sound, not a cracking, but a contact of flesh, indicating that the punch is hard and solid. Tommy returns with a punch of his own, hitting Buckskin in the gut, and causing him to fumble backward.

Another man speaks up, his voice warm like coffee but with a concern in his voice. “You okay there, Arthur?”

Arthur. That’s Buckskin’s name. You feel a sudden leap in your stomach, something you can’t explain as you watch on from your place beside the wagon.

Arthur resumes his fighting stance, circling around Tommy. “Yeah, I got this sonofa—”

And Tommy swings again, this time Arthur dodging it. “Whatchu scared of, huh?”

Arthur answers the taunt, with a sucker punch to the side of Tommy’s head.

The man with the drunken cackle cheers again. “Yeah! C’mon, Arthur! He’s a moron!”

The fight continues on, and you find yourself walking toward the crowd, though you are unsure why. You find a spot between two men who are calling for Tommy to keep going.

You finally get a better view. Arthur, his face covered in black mud is pinned to the ground. Tommy’s grip appears unrelenting as Arthur writhes beneath him.

“Get ‘em, Tommy!”

“Show him how we do it in Valentine!”

Suddenly, Arthur brings up his fist, cracking Tommy in the jaw. Tommy reels back, giving Arthur enough space to get up to his feet and land two more punches.

“Put that ape down, Arthur! C’mon!”

Tommy falls into the mud and like a conquering gladiator, Arthur gets on top of him. Without a moment’s hesitation, he lands hard punches into the man’s head.

The savagery of the scene is both chilling and electrifying. There's an intensity in the way the man with a darkened face zeroes in on his opponent, a larger man writhing beneath him. Every movement from Arthur emanates a primal fury that captivates your attention.

Suddenly, a soft cry interrupts the silence next to you. It's followed by a cough and a gurgle. You turn your head to see a weak, mustached man standing nearby, wearing a straw hat. His eyes are red and bloodshot, and it's clear that he is sick. If you didn't know any better, you might assume he is close to death. "Please," he pleads, "someone needs to stop him...!"

Something about him, speaking to your conscience, stirs you into sudden action. No one else seems to be listening, and if this wild man continues, ol’ Tommy will be dead where he lay.

So, without thinking, you push your way into the ring.

It’s clear that the man doesn’t see you and as you draw closer, your heart pounds with great conviction.

“Hey!” you call. “Get off him!”

Arthur lands another punch, not listening to you.

That’s when you grab him by the collar, pulling him away. Just as he turns to look at you, you flatten and tense your hand, jabbing it forward, and your long nails act like a serpent’s bite, cutting him deep into the face. “I said off!”

Gasps echo around you as Arthur's body falls back to the ground, a sloshing thud that echoes in your mind. Tommy lies curled up in the mud, his face contorted in pain and fear. A sharp pang of fear hits you - what have you done? You try to think of something to say. If this man was just willing to beat a man to death in public, what will he do to a woman who just struck him?

Yet, he doesn't move. His eyes remain fixed on yours, wide with shock and disbelief.

Through the layers of grime and mud, his features come into focus - dark blonde hair, piercing marine eyes, a ruggedly handsome cowboy.

His chapped lips part, revealing a single word that sends shivers down your spine. "Kit...?"

Your heart drops to your stomach and your head throbs as if a nail has been driven into your temple. You stumble backward, hand reaching instinctively to touch your head where it hurts.

The man, who had stirred your conscience, rushes to you, taking your free hand and shaking it. “Bless you! Bless you for your courage…!”

You try to nod and smile, but the pain is too great, you pull your hand from his grasp and turn to walk away as others begin to crowd and push their way to Tommy.

That’s when you hear his voice again, nearly sounding like a pleading cry. “Kit…! Stop!”

You don’t know who he is calling after, and why it seems to be directed at you, but you need to get away. You need to return to Jeremy and get back home to Blackwater.

As you weave through the growing crowd, your legs carry you faster than your thoughts. Each step away from the chaos is a step toward clarity, but his voice haunts the edges of your mind. "Kit...!" Why does that name claw at your memories?

You finally are clear from pedestrians and onlookers and nearly reach the wagon when you feel something rough grab your wrist and spin you around.

You’re still in too much pain to muster any strength to fight the hand that grabs you, and so you are forced to only look at the person.

It is him. This Arthur you are trying to flee from.

As soon as you lock eyes again, the pain surges through your head.

His eyes soften, nearly glistening, and his grip lessens, almost with an intimate tenderness as he places his other hand over yours. “My god…” he sighs. “It’s you…I thought you…” And he tries to pull you into his embrace.

You begin to feel weak, but you dig in your heels, stopping his attempt. “Let me go,” you moan, the words hardly coming out of your mouth.

He seems to be wrestling with his own thoughts, his muddied brow furrowing in confusion. “Kit, it’s me…!” And he quickly lowers his voice, as though he is to tell you something secret. “Arthur…your–”

You shake your head fervently. “I don’t know you…!” And with the pain in your head increasing, you try to get out of his grip. “Let me go!”

You don’t realize how loud you have screamed, for Jeremy and Amos come out of the general store and see you two.

Jeremy’s eyes are filled with protective rage as they gaze upon this stranger who claims to know you. “What are you doing to her?!”

Arthur turns his attention to Jeremy, instantly changing from soft and pleading to furious and territorial. “Ain’t none of your business!”

This shift in the air only seems to increase your pain. You begin to claw at the man’s hand, his grip increasing. “Jeremy…!” you cry.

Jeremy doesn’t hesitate, flipping back his jacket and reaching for his revolver. He draws and points it at Arthur. “Back away, or I won’t hesitate!”

Arthur looks back at you again, his eyes going soft into a sea of blue. He seems to search your face for something, long and hard, as though time permits him to do such a thing in a tense situation such as this. You can only grimace, the pain from your pounding migraine still relentless despite his comforting gaze. The pressure in your head feels like a vice squeezing tighter and tighter with each passing second.

And just like that, he lets you go and you use your freedom to make your way to Jeremy.

Jeremy doesn’t lower his gun, its barrel still trained on the jaded gladiator. “Leave.”

Arthur's gaze lingers on you as he slowly backs away, his hands raised in a sign of surrender but his eyes still filled with something unreadable—a mix of desperation and disbelief. He doesn't say another word; instead, he takes a few more steps back before turning and disappearing into the mud-logged street, leaving you by the base of the general store steps.

You’d watch him go, some sort of pull tempting you to, but your knees buckle from under you and you fall to the ground.

“Jane!” Jeremy cries and he rushes down the steps, its wood creaking under his boots.

He's at your side in a heartbeat, his arms strong and steady as they catch you before the ground can claim another ounce of your strength. Jeremy gently helps you to sit on the bottom step, his brow creased with worry. "Ms. Doe, what happened to you? Who was that man?"

You press the heel of your palm against your forehead. “I…I…”

“Maybe take her to the doctor,” Amos suggests. “This doesn’t look too good.”

Doctors. You’ve had enough of those. Something inside you suddenly bristles at the thought. You hate doctors. You’d rather wait on the side of the road begging for help than face a doctor who calls you names you’d dare not repeat.

Just as quickly as the feeling of animosity comes, a flash of guilt overcomes you. Why would you think such a thing? The doctor in Blackwater has been nothing but kind to you.

But still, you don’t want to see the doctor here. You shake your head. “No…! I just need to get away. Get home so I…” Your head feels heavy and you flop over into Jeremy, your head resting on his shoulder. “I need to get home.”

You feel Jeremy move to accommodate your weight. “I need to get these crates in. If I help you to the bench, can you wait for me?”

You nod your head, you will at least agree to that.

“Okay.”

With careful movements,Jeremy lifts you up, his arms secure as if he's holding something precious that might break. He walks you over to the old, sun-bleached bench outside the general store, its paint peeling like skin after a long summer day. He helps you sit down, arranging the folds of your skirt neatly around you, his hands gentle yet deliberate. The warmth from the midday sun does little to dispel the chill creeping through your bones, but Jeremy’s presence offers a different kind of warmth.

You watch him return to his work, lifting crates with a grunt, his shirt clinging to his back with sweat. His face is set in concentration, your condition motivation to hurry back to Blackwater and get you to the hotel.

You feel terrible, and while the headache is slowly dissipating, you still feel a great deal of uneasiness, as though you’ve tread between deadly and familiar waters. Where have you been? Where are you going?

Who are you?

After about half an hour, Jeremy finishes unloading all of the crates. He brushes his saw-dusted hands on his pants and walks up to you as you sit on the bench. “That about does it. Can you get up?”

You test it out, moving your legs out so you can stand. Easing yourself from the bench, you take it slow, feeling your muscles move and tense up. You finally rise to your feet and you wipe your brow. “I am ready.”

Jeremy offers an arm, and you take it before he leads you both down the steps again.

As he helps you onto the wagon, you hear Amos call out to you. “I hope to see you again under better circumstances, Ms. Doe!”

You wave weakly back to him as you lift your head. Jeremy walks around to the other side of the wagon, hoists himself up, and after taking the reins, flicks them and drives away.

Chapter Text

After resting overnight just outside of Valentine, you are back on the road again. Jeremy has been giving you enough courtesy to remain silent the first few miles towards Strawberry. While you are eager to get back, there is one more quick stop to pick up some lumber from the Appleseed Timber Company. Not a large order, Jeremy reassured you, but Mr. Lewis offered to pick it up since it is only but a small detour back to Blackwater.

You don’t care. The farther you are from Valentine. From him, the less pain you are in.

You can tell by the tall trees, that you are nearing the timber company. You can also see the trees thinning out, and you cannot help but feel sad about it. Something about loss, the lack of something missing as more stumps come into view.

The scent of fresh pine fills the air, a sharp contrast to the dusty, dry landscape you've become accustomed to in and around Blackwater. The timber yard is bustling with activity, men shouting over the whir of saw blades and the thud of falling trees. Despite the chaos, there's a rhythmic allure to it, a working machine of flesh and bone, not shy of risk and danger.

Jeremy pulls off the road and sets the wagon brake. Several men taking a break nearby turn and see you, their attention taken as you stare back at them. You begin to feel uneasy and you adjust yourself in your seat.

“Wait here,” Jeremy tells you, and he gets off the wagon and heads for the main building that looks a little more than a shack.

You try to avert the men’s gaze, who knows how long they’ve been working out here without seeing much of civilization.

The scent of pine grows stronger, and you distract yourself by focusing on the trees that remain standing, strong and defiant against the human intrusion. You wonder about their stories, their silent witness to the changing world around them—something you feel a kinship with in your fragmented state.

As you sit there, lost in thought, a sudden flash of memory appears in your mind. A bunch of trees. Several small, box-like wagons are arranged in a circle. A large fire. Music. Music you haven’t heard being played in the hotel or saloon. It’s sharp, foreign, bordering exotic.

You feel a set of hands taking yours, as you begin to be pulled in a circle around the fire, women in embroidered scarves tied around their heads. Their skirts with red flowers and leaves at the hems.

“Držte krok, Kitka!” The woman beside you encourages. “Tančit znamená být lehký na nohy!”

You seem to know what she is saying to you, but you can’t fashion a reply. You only keep up with your feet as you dance to the rhythm of the music.

And as quickly as the memory floods you, it begins to disappear like an underdeveloped photograph, the developer reversing the forming image that had already begun to appear. You try to reach for it, but at the thrumming threat of a headache, you let it go.

You hear footfalls on wood and opening your eyes, you turn to see Jeremy walking with a thick-bearded man, chatting idly.

You feel the wagon shake and quickly turning around, you see an assembly of men loading up the wagon with short-cut timber.

As you sit there, they continue to load the wagon and it isn’t long before their work is done. Jeremy finishes chatting with the man, shakes his hand, and returns to the wagon. He glances up at you, smiling. “You ready to head back to Blackwater?”

You nod. “Please.”

He hoists himself up, and you are soon on your way again.

The way back to Blackwater via Strawberry is a pleasant drive. However, with the winding road and the sharper turns, he has to drive slower. You are eager to get back home. You’ve had enough for one day.

“Still got your headache?” Jeremy asks.

You shake your head tenderly, as there is still a soreness. “It’s nearly gone.” You reach for your temple again. “They seem to get worse and worse.”

Jeremy's expression softens, a hint of concern flickering in his eyes as he maneuvers the wagon carefully down the path. "You ought to see Doc when we get back. He might have something for that."

You nod, considering the option. You aren’t about to argue your way out of it this time, it isn’t worth the energy. “As long as he doesn’t ask me more questions.”

Jeremy gently nudges you. “If you let me go with you, I’ll make sure he doesn’t.”

You smile at that, feeling a little heat in your cheek. “Why have you been so nice to me?” you dare ask. “It isn’t because I might be wealthy, is it?”

He shakes his head. “No.”

You look at your hand, the ring still on your finger. You haven’t brought yourself to remove it, regardless of what it might mean. “What if I am married? Or engaged?”

Surprisingly, he offers a quick answer. “If you are, I don’t understand why they haven’t looked for you, yet.” And he pauses. “You could also be a widow.”

You blink. “A widow at 29?” you chortle, unable to fathom such a tragic fate at such a young age. “I hardly think so.”

Jeremy’s eyes widen. “You just said how old you are.”

He’s right. You didn’t know that before. You blink, still shocked at the revelation. How did you come to do that? “How…?” Your mind reels, trying to process how this information slipped from your lips without your conscious knowledge. A surge of panic courses through you as you grasp at the small shred of individuality this revelation has given you.

Jeremy's words only fuel your unease as he stammers in an attempt to rationalize the unimaginable. “Maybe those headaches are a good thing…”

You shake your head vehemently, denying the possibility that such agony could hold any positive outcome. "I refuse to believe that!" you declare, but a seed of doubt has been planted, casting a dark shadow over everything you thought you knew about yourself.

His expression softens, quickly looking ahead to redirect the horse. “Look, Jane. I know this sounds bad. I mean, nobody wants to go through pain…” Putting both reins in one hand, he takes your hand in his other. “But you don’t have to go through it alone.”

You look up at him, and as you see the softness in his eyes, for a split second, you don’t see Jeremy’s face.

You see his. You see Arthur’s.

You know it is him, but he’s not the same. Younger, not sun-beaten and mud-covered, but his eyes. His eyes are the same.

“You’re not alone, Kit,” he says. “We got’chu.”

You lean away from Jeremy, nearly losing your balance and tumbling off the wagon seat. “Jane!” His strong arms reach out and pull you back, steadying you with care. Once you are sitting back up again, he pulls on the reins and the wagon comes to a stop. Your heart races as you try to steady your breathing and take in your surroundings. “You alright?”

It's happening again, those sudden flashes of memories and thoughts that seem familiar, yet foreign at the same time. You grip onto Jeremy tightly, seeking comfort and grounding in his presence. As your eyes take in the towering walls of rock ahead, a sense of unease settles over you. The rough texture and imposing faces of the stones seem to be reaching out towards you, almost menacingly. A shiver runs down your spine.

“We gotta get you back,” Jeremy says quietly. “Hang on.” He flicks the reins again, and the wagon lurches forward, the horse taking a steady pace as they enter the road between the rocks. “The river isn’t too far from here. Once we reach it, we will be on our way to Blackwater.”

That settles you for a moment, and you continue to clutch onto Jeremy’s arm as the wagon jostles a little.

You begin to pass by what looks like an old settlement on your left, a fence made with large planks stuck into the ground in jagged patterns, its ruins leaving an ominous mark. You think to ask Jeremy what the place is called, but you find no interest in speaking. There have been enough words.

But you haven’t noticed how ominously quiet it has become.

“Woo,” Jeremy says softly, pulling the reins back. The horse comes to a stop and Jeremy sits upright, listening quietly.

“What is it?” you ask.

“Something just doesn’t feel right.”

That’s when you hear a pik pik . Looking on the sloping rock face, you see small pebbles falling. You follow where they had fallen from, only to have a split second to see a man standing on the ledge, guns pointed at you, before a shot is fired.

BANG!!

You hear a sound, one that sounds striking and heart-stopping. You soon realize that it is the ripping of flesh, as the bullet goes right through Jeremy’s shoulder.

“Jeremy…!!” you scream and his body instantly topples over the wagon seat and falls to the ground.

“Aye, we got ‘em, boys…!” The man shouts. “Let’s get the girl and then take what’s ours…!”

There are other shouts and whoops as there is no more need to hide themselves. You find several men up top and you hear footfalls behind you as men come down the slope with guns raised.

You need to act quickly, lest you find a similar fate to your companion.

Oh, Jeremy…!

You reach into the back, picking up the rifle and with great finesse, you roll out of your seat, flipping backward and supporting your weight upside down as you reach the ground. Shots start firing, and you hear the bullets make contact with the wood of the wagon, bits and slivers flying.

You return right side up and sequester yourself against the wagon, between its wheels. If you had strength, you could flip it over, and use it as a shield, but you don’t have such creativity.

Creativity…create…

Why does this excite you?

You instantly remember that Jeremy has always carried with him a tiny flask of moonshine. Not to drink on the job but at the end of each day. He would always make a trip to the saloon to see his cousin, who owned the bar and they’d share a swig or two.

Did he have it with him now?

You look under the wagon and see Jeremy on the ground, still and unmoving. “Jeremy…!” you cry. Getting down on your stomach, you crawl underneath the wagon as fast as you can. Once you reach him, you try to search for signs of life.

Oh, he’s breathing. “Jeremy…!”

You grab him by the ankles and with all the strength you can muster, you drag him back to the safest side of the wagon. He moans, tossing his head from side to side.

“Jeremy,” you speak. “I need your moonshine.”

He tries to open his eyes and he grimaces. “Jane…?”

You see the blood oozing out of his shoulder, bleeding into his jacket. Not getting a response from him, you search his pockets until you feel the metal container. You clutch it tightly and remain where you are, setting down your ingredients before you. You go to the rifle, unloading it of all the bullets it has. Then, you reach down to your skirt. Taking hold of it, you rip it, trying to allot as many pieces as you can.

You hear Jeremy groan. “Am I dead?”

“Not yet.” And you look up at him. “Can you shoot any?”

His eyes open more, but he’s visibly weak, he draws his revolver. “I’ll do my best.”

You then hear more calls from the bandits. “They’re hidin’ under there!”

“We can’t just keep shootin’!”

“Let’s just scorch ‘em out!”

That isn’t good. You need to work faster!

You have seven good pieces of fabric. Taking the bottle of moonshine, you twist the cap open and begin to douse the pieces of cloth.

“What…?” Jeremy pants. “…are you doing?”

With trembling fingers, you work to disassemble the bullets, emptying a good amount of powder into the center of each of the torn skirt pieces. “I don’t know…”

When there is a pile, you begin to bring the corners of the fabric together, tying them in a knot or using a thinner piece of fabric. Jeremy, weakly, shoots a couple of shots with his revolver. If he can’t hit anything, it might serve as a distraction of some kind.

That is the best way to find your escape, Kitka. Turn their attention away from your hands…

You shake the voice out of your head and keep working. Finally, you have what you need.

You don’t know what they are, but you made them, like breathing it came easy.

You also remember Jeremy smokes a pipe. Turning back to him, you search his pockets again, finding a small box of matches. His eyes weakly follow you as he pulls the hammer back on his revolver to shoot again. 

You waste no time in striking a match, lighting the first bundle, and exposing yourself for a brief moment, throwing it to the group of men on the ledge.

You must have a good arm, for just as it reaches them, it explodes.

The chaos that ensues is immediate. Shouts of alarm and confusion blend with the sharp crack of gunfire. You don't wait to see the results; grabbing another bundle and lighting it up. You throw it up there again, moving on instinct now, your body somehow remembering its given swiftness and agility.

The flames engulf them in an instant, their screams echoing off the rock walls as they try to escape the inferno, their curses slicing through the smoke and tumult that you have created. They didn't expect this—no one expects a store clerk from Blackwater to wield makeshift bombs with the expertise of a seasoned demolitionist. The edge of the embankment reacts under the force of your third creation, chunks of rock flying and sending two men tumbling down the slope.

But it isn’t over.

“Jane…!” Jeremy shouts weakly. “Look out…!”

Turning around, you are suddenly attacked by one of the bandits, eyes wild and fiery as he clutches onto your throat. “You think your little magic tricks will be enough?” He squeezes hard, his nails digging into your larynx and he forces you to the ground.

“Jane…!” Jeremy cries and just as he gets to his feet, he is soon attacked by yet another, and the gun falls out of his hand. They wrestle into the ground, and with his injury, Jeremy struggles to gain the upper hand.

Gasping for air, your vision tunnels, the edges tinged with blackness. In this desperate moment, you reach out, fingers clawing at anything they can find. Your hand brushes against the cold metal of Jeremy's discarded revolver. With a jolt of adrenaline, you grasp it, jamming the barrel against the bandit’s stomach, and pulling the trigger.

The gunshot echoes through the air, a sharp, definitive sound that momentarily slices through the cacophony of the ongoing battle. The bandit’s grip loosens as he leans back, eyes wide in shock and pain. He falls backward into the dusty ground, clutching at the wound that now mars his abdomen.

You gasp at the sight, unsure if it is because of the violence or a flash of memory.

A woman, being shot in the head. And a man with dark hair and dark eyes letting her body fall to the floor…

The man now dead, you whip around with the gun in your hand. You can do this, you can save Jeremy. The man is on top of him, landing blow after blow into his head with a rock.

You cock back the hammer and fire.

Jeremy’s attacker recoils as the bullet rips through his chest and he falls backward into the dirt.

You breathe for just a moment, looking around sharply to see if there are any more. There aren’t. They’re all gone.

Relieved, you look back to Jeremy, and he’s not moving. You study his body, and you cannot see the rise and fall of his chest, for there isn’t none.

An icy grip squeezes your heart. “Jeremy!” Your feet move on their own accord, propelling you towards him until you are kneeling at his side. His once smooth and handsome face is now a twisted mess of blood and bruises, an image that will haunt you forever. The metallic scent of blood fills your nostrils and bile rises in your throat as you try to hold back tears. You can feel the weight of the world crushing down on you as you see him in this state, and all you can do is pray for some miracle to save him from the brink of death.

But your prayers would be in vain.

You know he’s dead.

He’s dead.

He’s dead.

You feel sick. An image of a boy lying in your arms. Pale and lifeless, your voice hoarse from screaming, begging on the streets.

“Jeremy…!” you scream at the top of your lungs, your throat burning from the pain until you hear nothing left escape your lips.

You feel dizzy. Your head pounds with an ache that begins to weigh you down. The world spins around you. A whirlwind of days and hours gone in a matter of seconds. Jeremy, his life, gone, without as much a fighting chance. How many times has he gone on this journey before? What could he have done to deserve this?

And then it appears again. The boy in your lap, your hands, young and cold, reaching out to touch his face…

“Antek…” you say…your voice but a whimpering cry.

And as it leaves your mouth, you feel the weight of it all and the world fades to black.

***

You feel something soft underneath your face. You feel the weight in your body as you lie on your side. Warmth, something deeply warm heats your skin. You smell charred wood and hear pops and crackles. Fire.

Explosions.

Those men.

You open your eyes and quickly push yourself up to a sitting position. You feel the softness under your hands. You look down. An animal pelt, all white beautiful under the glow of the firelight.

How did you get here?

“Jeremy…?” you whimper, though you are unsure why. He’s dead.

“I couldn’t help him.” a deep voice speaks softly.

Your breath hitches and you feel the blood draining from your face. You’ve encountered it enough to start recognizing it. Turning slowly, you look past the fire near you, into the eyes of Arthur.

You feel something building in your chest, something that burns more than the fire ever could. You flare your nostrils. “You…!”

He holds up his palms, unmoving from where he sits. “Look, I was—”

“You followed me?!”

He shakes his head. “I was nearby. I…I was trackin' you, but I came runnin' when I heard the gunshots.” He pauses and seeing that you aren’t going to interrupt him this time, he continues. “By the time I got there, most had run or were dead…” And his eyes soften. “And you were just layin’ there.”

“And Jeremy…?!”

“He was already gone. I…buried him.”

Your eyes narrow. You only hope that he got a decent burial. “Where?” you hiss.

He looks pained at your words and something else you can’t pin down. “In Great Plains. Just after crossin’ the river.” He looks at you, almost wantonly. “I…risked a lot doin’ that for him.”

You scowl. “Giving someone a burial is risky?”

“When you’re a wanted man, it is.”

Your eyes widen. “Who are you?” And you dare ask a more important question. “And how do you know me?”

You see it in his expression, an aching familiarity, a recognition as he regards you sitting there. His mouth opens and closes, words wanting to escape but don’t. “You…you was with us, in a gang.” He reaches behind his head to scratch his neck. “We…kinda grew up together.”

The flash of memory you had when Jeremy took your hand. Arthur’s young face. That would make sense if you grew up with this man. “We’re siblings?”

He almost laughs at that and shakes his head quickly. “No.”

Then you remember the music, groups of people dancing. But those people were different. You felt shorter, smaller, and he wasn’t there. It’s strange. When you think about things that had hurt your head before, they don’t hurt now when you bring up those exact thoughts again. Perhaps, it is only new ones?

You remember what Jeremy said, about them being a blessing in disguise.

Oh, Jeremy…!

You feel the tears swell up in your eyes and you find no willingness to conceal them as you begin to sob. “He’s dead…!” you cry. “He’s dead and I couldn’t save him…!”

Your chest tightens and you feel like you can’t move, can’t breathe. The tears fall heavy down your soiled cheeks and you hold yourself for comfort.

That’s when Arthur moves toward you. You feel a sudden uneasiness when he reaches for you.

You quickly move back and rise to your feet. “Get away from me…!” you hiss and he moves backward, raising his palms.

“M’sorry,” he says softly. His voice holds a trace of genuine regret, a sound that stirs something within the depths of your fragmented memories. The campfire casts shadows across his face, making him appear both menacing and mournful at once.

You wipe your cheeks roughly with the back of your hand, trying to regain some form of composure. You need to mourn, but you also have questions. You have an obligation to Blackwater, you need to return to Mr. Lewis. But what will you tell him?

But if what Arthur says is true, if you were with a gang, could that mean you’re wanted, too? Not an aristocrat?

Would it be worth going back at all?

You sit back down on the pelt, and Arthur carefully returns to his spot beyond the fire. You appreciate the space he’s given you, despite his recent effort to embrace you again.

“It weren’t your fault what happened,” he speaks softly. “A lotta wagons get raided ‘round there.”

“You would know, wouldn’t you?”

Arthur doesn’t react in anger, but his eyes look saddened. “I am a bad man,” he says. “But I ain’t like them.”

“Does that make me bad, too?” you snap.

He is quiet for a moment. “You ain’t never done the things I have.”

You’re still skeptical, but your own curiosity is betraying your bitterness. “What did I do? What role did I play?”

“Are you makin’ fun of me?”

You snort. “I just don’t know if I believe you.”

He readjusts his sitting position on the ground and cocks his head, you can see more of his face under the brim of his hat as the glow of the fire is on his skin. Those eyes of his, even in the dark, make you think of paintings of the sea.

Where have you seen those?

“What if I tell you some things about you? Things that only you and a few others would know?”

You raise an eyebrow, a small gesture of disbelief and confusion. "I don't even know who I am," you say with a hint of despair creeping into your voice.

His shoulders slump in response, a mixture of disappointment and understanding in his expression. "You don't remember anythin’?" he asks, his tone gentle yet searching for any flickers of recognition in your face.

A feeling of emptiness washes over you at the thought of having no memories to hold onto. "No," you reply, shaking your head slightly. "I just remembered how old I am."

A soft smile forms on Arthur's lips, his eyes filled with compassion. "29," he says, the number rolling off his tongue like a familiar melody.

Your eyes widen in surprise. He could have thrown out any number to try to convince you, but he chose the precise and accurate one.

“Let me tell you some things.” The man's voice lingers in the air, hesitant yet eager. You feel a flutter of curiosity, your reservations slowly fading away. Memories flood your mind, images and whispers that have haunted you for weeks.

With a deep breath, you meet his gaze once more. “Who is Kitka?” The question tumbles out of your lips before you can stop it, the name feeling both foreign and familiar at the same time.

His smile widens, his piercing blue eyes that hold a wealth of secrets. “That’s you. Your name.”

You can't help but feel a rush of confusion and excitement at the revelation, wondering what other mysteries this enigmatic man holds. You repeat it, and it doesn’t feel uncomfortable settling there. “But when you grabbed me…in Valentine…” You see his frown fall, it must not be a pleasant memory for him, either. “You called me Kit.”

He offers you an explanation. “That’s what most call you. Guess some have trouble sayin’ your real name.”

“Do I have a last name?”

He grimaces. “I might be sayin’ it wrong, but it’s Petrova.”

You roll the name around in your mind—Kitka Petrova. There's a distant echo of familiarity, like a whisper from far away. "Petrova," you repeat, tasting each syllable. It feels foreign yet oddly comforting.

Arthur watches you closely, his gaze intense but not imposing. "There's more to you than that, though.”

You tuck your chin. Minute by minute, you are coming to believe him. This was more than what any doctor could help you with and it doesn’t hurt or give you a headache. You heard a woman speak that name, you felt her take your hand and dance. “There was a woman…” you begin, feeling your hands tremble at the thought. “She knew my name…” You look back to meet his eyes. “Do I have a mother?”

Arthur looks at you, his eyes softening as he speaks. “She died before I met you.” But lifting his forefinger, he points to the ring on your hand. “But that…that was hers.”

You look down at your hand, the gold band shining in the orange light. “So…I’m not married? Or engaged?” You feel a pit in your stomach. “No one was looking for me.”

You hear a rustling and look back up to see Arthur moving to you again, but he stops suddenly, remembering the proximity that you prefer. But he speaks to you earnestly. “We thought you was dead. I…”

But you clearly aren’t. “Folk in town say I was found in an alley. By the docks.”

His eyes widen. “That ain’t what Dutch told me.”

Dutch. Why does that name sound familiar…?

Suddenly, your head begins to pound.

Oh no, a new memory.

You want to fight it, so badly, but after knowing what happens afterward, you are tempted to let it run its course. You press your palms against your temples and feel yourself bending over into your knees without straining yourself.

“Kit…?!” Arthur says, his voice raised and concerned.

You don’t want him to touch you, you don’t want anything to interrupt. “Let me be…!” you snap.

You close your eyes shut and try to give in to what your mind wants to tell you.

You see something white. Grey. Paper. Words and lines. A Newspaper. A Headline.

BLACKWATER MASSACRE

DUTCH VAN DER LINDE GANG RESPONSIBLE

Your head pounds heavily and you feel it intensify. It’s becoming too much, you have to stop.

You try to open your eyes and come out of it, and stumble as you try to move. “I…have to…” You rise to your feet, your vision blurry as you try to get some air. It is dark, with nothing but light from the moon creeping through the trees, you hold out your hands to protect yourself as you keep walking.

“Kit?” You hear Arthur stand up and follow you.

You raise a hand to keep him at a distance, needing space to breathe and think. The name Dutch Van Der Linde spins in your mind like a relentless cyclone, pulling at the edges of your fragmented memories. “I need to walk,” you manage to say, your voice tremulous but determined.

Arthur hesitates, but he nods. “Just, let me go wit’chu.” He raises his hands. “I’ll keep back, I just want you safe.”

You nod, albeit reluctantly, and begin walking away from the campfire's comforting glow. Your feet crunch the dry leaves underfoot as you navigate through the dark forest. The air feels crisp against your skin, and each breath you take seems to clear your head just a little more. Arthur follows a few paces behind, his footfalls heavy and sure. They don’t frighten you or worry you, but they almost seem comforting.

You know this man. You don’t remember him fully, but somehow you know him. That much is clear.

You keep walking until the headache subsides again, and by now you have gone deep into the forest you aren’t sure you can navigate your way back. You stop and you hear Arthur stop as well.

“If we aren’t siblings…” you finally say. “But we grew up together…” You turn around to look at him. Shadows are cast from the moonlight, but you see his figure standing there. “How did I come to be in a gang of outlaws?”

“Kit…” he begins, his voice almost hesitant. “It might be too much to tell you…After what you just—”

“I want to know,” you insist, your strength returning. “Tell me.”

He sighs. There is a pregnant pause before he speaks again. “Hosea found you…in California. He heard you beggin’ for help.”

“I was hurt?”

“No.” His pause makes your heart pound in your chest. “But your brother…”

Brother? You try to search through your mind, struggling to find a face, a name—anything. “A brother?”

“Yes,” he answers. “You told me his name was Antek.”

The name hits you like a crashing wave. You remember the feeling of it in your mouth, then you remember. You said it before you passed out. You do know.

He was the boy in your arms. The boy pale and brow misted over in fever.

Arthur steps closer, his voice gentle. “He was very ill. You were cradlin’ him; alone and desperate. That’s when Hosea brought you to us. No doctor would help you ‘cause…well…”

“I was different,” you say, remembering the slurs that have been echoing in your mind for the past month.

Gypsie. Circus trash. Slavic scum.

You never understood why they were addressed to you, but you realize it now. You weren’t born into a wealthy family. You were born into a family of immigrants.

Your head begins to hurt again, but it isn’t as painful, for parts of this new information were already remembered. “But what about the music? The dancing?”

In the dark, Arthur’s voice is the only indicator of his presence. “Dancin’?”

You can barely see your hands in front of you. “There were wagons, men and women dancing.”

“That might be somethin’ before our time,” Arthur reasons.

You shake your head, frustrated. “It’s all jumbled. Why can’t it just be in one order? I…I remember your face, but not my family…?”

It is then that you feel a hand take you gently by the arm. Your breath hitches but you don’t try to pull away this time. “Come back with me,” he offers, his voice tentative. “Let’s get you back and rest. Then we can go to our camp on Horseshoe Overlook. Maybe the memories will come easier in time."

Go with him? To the gang? You don’t know where Horseshoe Overlook is, but you have a feeling that it is far from Blackwater.

Blackwater. Mr. Lewis.

But you know now that this gang that you supposedly were with, was the same gang that was responsible for the massacre. You don’t know how you were directly involved, but you aren’t the person you thought you were.

You aren’t a good woman. You are a wanted criminal, and it is a miracle that you’ve made it this long without being discovered.

You can’t go back now.

You nod, feeling the exhaustion tug at your limbs with an insistence that can't be ignored any longer. “Okay.”

“Let’s find our way back.” You hear him swallow hard. “Take my hand.”

Using your arm as a guide, you find his hand that has a gentle grip and take it softly, your hand is so small in his, his calloused hands showing signs of years of hard labor. You tried to remember the last time you held his hand, but the memories are like water slipping through your fingers — impossible to hold. As you walk alongside Arthur, the moonlight casts shadows that play tricks on your eyes. Every rustle of the leaves, every whisper of the wind sounds like a fragment of a forgotten melody, the echoes of your past life calling out to you from the depths of the night. You feel your heart beating faster, not just from fear or confusion, but also from a budding sense of anticipation. What if the key to unlocking all your lost memories lay just beyond the horizon, at this camp that Arthur mentioned?

Or will it reveal more things about yourself that you don’t want to know? You once thought that you were a wealthy woman engaged or married, but now you are a poor orphaned immigrant.

The journey is silent, save for the occasional crunch of dry leaves underfoot and the distant howl of a coyote. With each step, you feel a tug on your mind, fragments of forgotten dreams or perhaps buried realities trying to claw their way to the surface. You glance sideways at Arthur, studying his profile against the moon as the light finally bleeds through the trees again.

He’s rugged. His thick beard is clean now, and his face isn’t covered in mud. His nose has a scar over the bridge, indicating he’s been in more fights than the one you’ve seen. Do you know where he got that scar? How long have you known this man? You also see the mark you left on his face when you struck him in Valentine. “I’m…sorry for hurting you.”

Arthur senses your regret, his grip tightening ever so slightly. "It's alright, Kit," he murmurs, the sound of your name in his voice stirring something deep within you. The familiarity of it sends shivers down your spine, a mix of fear and longing intertwining within your chest. You find that your hand feels comfortable in his. You don’t want to let him go and you can’t figure out why. Your breath comes out of your nostrils loudly, frustrated at your own mind not helping you.

You continue walking, and it isn’t long before you reach where he had set up his small camp. You finally take the time to see his layout, a small tent, his untied horse, a mahogany bay Tennessee Walker, who grazes on a small brush nearby, and the fire, whose coals are still glowing. “How far are we from them?”

“Not far,” he answers softly, and you feel him let go of your hand. He approaches the fire, and takes a stick on the ground before stirring the coals. “You hungry?”

You fold your arms. “No.”

“Okay.” He doesn’t look at you, his eyes still gazing at the fire pit. “You can take my tent. I’ll…sleep out here.”

You aren’t sure why, but you don’t like that suggestion. You haven’t been the most kind to him, and you’d hate to take his only shelter. “That doesn’t feel right, Arthur…”

He looks up at you at the sudden mention of his name. That is the first time you ever said it out loud, at least to your knowledge. You see it in his eyes, there is something there, a hunger, a loneliness that seems to mirror your own. It’s as if in that single moment, the distance between you both isn't just physical but emotional, stretching back years, across untold secrets and shared memories. Things he clearly knows but hasn’t told you.

Arthur breaks the gaze first, chuckling softly. "Kit, I insist. You need rest more than I do." He stands erect after throwing some more wood in the fire and he begins to remove his buckskin jacket. Walking around the fire, at a distance from the tent, he rolls up his jacket like a pillow and goes to his knees. “We will head back in the mornin’.”

Your aching body and weariness remind you of your need for sleep, you yawn deeply. “Alright.” You head for his tent and crouch your way in without saying another word.

Inside, the tent smells faintly of leather, tobacco, and pine, a scent that is oddly comforting and familiar, like a distant echo from a past life. You settle into the sleeping roll that was already laid out, pulling its cover up to your shoulders. The fabric is coarse wool but warm, and as you snuggle into it, you finally give into sleep.

***

The sounds of birds chirping wake you up and you discover to be out of the sleeping roll and hugging it. The wool is pressed against your face, your nose buried in its scent. For the past month, you’ve never woken up to being in a position like this before, but then again, you haven’t been sleeping in a tent outside, but in your own room in the hotel in Blackwater.

And as your mind wakes up, so do your other senses.

You hear a metallic sound coming from beyond the tent and rising to a sitting position, you rub your eyes. “Arthur…?” you call softly, hoping that is the source of the noise.

“Mornin’,” he replies. “Got some coffee if you want some.”

You smack your lips. Do you like coffee? You don’t remember drinking it at the restaurant or the hotel. Can’t hurt to try it.

Straightening your shirt, you see your torn-up skirt. You can’t go back to Blackwater for your money and clothes. You’ll have to make do for now.

You crawl out of the tent. Opening the flap, you see Arthur by the fire, pouring a pot of coffee into a small, tin cup.

He’s wearing a different shirt, a dark green, but the hat is the same. He must travel around a lot, to pack another set of clothes with him. “It ain’t the best,” he excuses. “But it warms up the bones pretty good.”

You rise to your feet and so does he, holding out the cup to you.

You take the cup from his hands, feeling the warmth seep into your chilled fingers. The steam rises in gentle swirls, carrying with it a rich, earthy aroma that sparks a faint memory, like a whisper in the back of your mind. You wrap both hands around the cup, enjoying the heat before bringing it to your lips.

He lied to you. This coffee is the best you have ever had, or remember. Of course, that isn’t the best compliment you can think of, but you can think of worse things to conjure up.

He must see the approval in your eyes, for he looks down, almost bashfully. “You seem to be doin’ okay…after last night.”

You swallow before speaking. “I suppose it could be worse.”

He nods, smiling. “That it can.”

He pours himself a cup and drinks it slowly, you both taking in the morning view. He had set up camp in a small clearing, with an opening of the trees leading the eyes to look into a canyon and waterfall below. You aren’t sure where you are, but by the gradient of green to golden, you suppose Blackwater isn’t far.

“Why Blackwater?” you ask. “I remember the gang did it.”

Arthur offers a solemn answer. “I wasn’t there on the boat. Nobody really will tell me what happened.” He sets his cup down on the ground by the firepit. “I came in time to help them escape, when Pinkertons showed up, and things went bad.”

“You didn’t see me get shot,” you infer.”

His eyes meet yours and you see the regret in his eyes. “I was…We…” his voice trails off and he looks away. “I weren’t there.”

You look into the little bit of coffee that remains in your cup. “I was shot in the back, the doctor said it’s a miracle I’m still alive.”

“Shoah is.”

There is a moment of silence and you can’t help but wish he had more to say about the massacre. If he wasn’t there until the end, then he couldn’t possibly know about Heidi, or what happened to you. Dutch said you were dead. Could he have seen you?

Arthur begins to kick dirt into the fire. “We should get goin’. We want to make it back before it gets dark.” He walks over to his tent and begins to take it down as he speaks to you over his shoulder. “Can you go into my saddle bag and give Montana an apple?”

Your brow furrows. “Montana?”

“The stud over there.” He gestures to the Tennessee Walker with a tilt of his head. “Got him up near Colter.”

Not sure what Colter is, you walk over to the horse as he looks on at you, his brown eyes soft and alert. You see the flare of his nostrils as he takes in your sent. He doesn’t move once you approach his side, and you get on your tiptoes to reach into the saddlebag. Feeling the inside of it, you find something smooth and round. Pulling it out, you reveal a red apple.

Montana nickers excitedly, spotting the fruit in your hand.

You can’t help but smile, feeling a soft spot for him already. You extend the apple towards Montana, watching as he gently takes it from your palm, his lips tickling your skin slightly. It's a brief interaction, but one that fills you with a sense of comfort—something that’s been rare since the ordeal.

As Montana munches on the apple, you glance back at Arthur, who has finished with the tent and is now watching you. You feel something in your stomach, and you wish your body and mind would work together for once.

“He likes you,” Arthur says. “You’ve always gotten well with my horses.”

“Have I met this one before?” you ask with interest. You like the idea of having a way with animals. Maybe that’s what you did in the gang. It seems less violent and dangerous.

He shakes his head. “No, he’s new. The last one, Boadicea, you knew her. Wouldn’t let anyone else ride her except you 'n me.” His smile falls. “She was shot durin’ our escape. I had to leave her.”

The revelation hits you like a sudden gust of wind, disorienting and cold. To learn that such loyalty had been cultivated and then lost under such brutal circumstances stirs a deep sorrow within you, one that resonates with your own fragmented memories of loss and abandonment. “I’m sorry.”

Arthur watches you carefully, perhaps gauging how much of the past you remember, or maybe how much you could handle knowing. "Thank you," he replies softly, turning away momentarily as if to hide a flicker of pain that crosses his rugged face.

A silence hangs between you, thick and heavy, as the remnants of sunrise paint the sky with streaks of purple and orange.

You offer a soft smile. “Maybe we should get going.”

He nods. “Perhaps you’re right.” He walks up beside Montana, packing his tent and bedroll on the saddle. Without another moment, he hoists himself up on Montana’s back and offers you his hand. “You okay with riding behind me? Your horse is back at camp.”

You feel a sudden excitement and take Arthur’s hand. He pulls you up as though you were but a flower on the ground and you swing your leg comfortably over. You settle behind him and try to figure out where to hold on. Bashfully, you place your hands on his waist, clutching onto his jacket.

With a soft clicking sound from his mouth, Montana trots on through the trees.

“I have a horse?” you finally ask. “And you’ve kept them this whole time?”

“‘Course, she was all I had to remember you b—” and he stops himself, quickly changing the subject. “You named her Odliv.”

It comes to you naturally and you smile. “Low Tide.”

You see Arthur nod in front of you. “Right. You always said you played in tide pools when you were little.”

“In California,” you deduce.

“Yes.”

You resist the urge to lean into his body and inhale the scent of pine and tobacco you can’t seem to get enough of. “How old was I, when we met?”

He answers quickly. “16.”

You frown, realizing that was how old you were when your brother died. “I was just a child.”

“Yes.”

After a moment, you think of another question. “And how old are you?”

Arthur laughs, and you feel the vibration in his body. “How old do you think I am?” You don’t like the teasing, after asking a rational question. Your intrusive thought wins, and you slap him hard on the arm. “Ow…!”

“Remember what I did to you yesterday?” you threaten, but clearly with a hint of jest. “I wasn’t trying to joke.”

He exhales, shaking his head. “I’m too old.”

You furrow your brow. That isn’t what you would’ve guessed. By his agility in the fight, and how he lifted you in the saddle, you’d think the man would have more confidence. “You may be sun-beaten and gruff, but that doesn’t make you old.”

He laughs. “I’m 36.”

And somehow, that doesn’t bother you. “You’re only as old as you feel, Arthur.”

You can feel his body tense for a second. “You told me that once.”

Your heart skips as memories flicker like distant stars in the vast night sky, obscured yet persistent, leaving a tenderness in your head. You wonder how many of those words from your past linger in his thoughts, how many times he's replayed them during your absence.

The silence stretches between you, comfortable yet filled with unspoken questions. Montana’s steady pace picks up and you ride alongside some train tracks as they line the ground westward.

After a few more miles, you decide to ask another question. “How many are there? At camp?” You look at the landscape as you pass it by. “I imagine most will expect me to remember them.”

“They might also regret callin’ me a liar.”

“What?”

“I told them what happened, in Valentine. That I saw you. They thought I was goin’ crazy, took one too many hits from that fool. Even Dutch, he—” His body tenses again and he shakes his head. “They’re gonna believe me now.”

You can sense the growl in his voice, his determination to prove them right. But you have other concerns. These are people you supposedly know. People you’ve talked to, and shared memories with, and you don’t remember a single one. You managed to remember Arthur, so you hope that you will these people, in time. “Tell me about them, Arthur,” and you pat his abdomen, hearing his breath catch. “Tell me their names.”

And so, after relaxing, he begins as you brace yourself for the headaches that may come. “There’s John Marston, he came into the gang when he was just a kid. He picked on you a lot, especially when I weren’t around…”

Chapter Text

You wish you had a paper and pencil. So many names, though slow and steady they come, and your head hurts too much to keep track of them all.

Arthur has gone down the list. John. Hosea. Dutch. Susan. Pearson. Strauss. Javier. Bill. Abigail. Jack. Uncle. Mary Beth. Tilly. Charles. Karen. Sean. Molly. Micah. He gave his perspective on how you met them, how they treat you, and their role in the gang.

You try to hang on to each name, each story Arthur spins, a thread you’re desperate to weave into the fabric of your lost memories. But it's overwhelming, like drinking from a firehose, and you feel the familiar ache behind your eyes intensify with every new piece of information.

"Slow down," you plead as you hold onto him. The scenery passes by you at a steady pace, but with the tender knot building on the side of your head, it’s almost dizzying. “I can’t remember them all.”

“Sorry,” Arthur replies. “I got carried away.”

You find yourself clutching tighter to his jacket. “I don’t know if I can do this.”

“You can, Kit,” Arthur’s voice softens as he reassures you. “We’ve got time.” His gloved hand gently pats your hand. His touch is comforting, familiar in a way you can't yet understand but makes you feel safer nonetheless. “We’ll take it slow,” he continues, “If people start crowdin’ ya, I’ll be there to ensure they back off.”

You manage a smile. “Somehow, I don’t doubt that.”

The rest of the ride is quieter, your head resting against his back as the landscape shifts around you. The endless stretch of dusty roads, framed by the occasional group of trees, seems to mirror your fragmented memories — vast and somewhat desolate. You close your eyes and try to focus on the warmth Arthur provides, the color under your eyelids changing as shadows cast down on you over the trees.

And soon, you leave the train tracks and enter through some trees, going down a soft slope.

And suddenly, you hear a voice, quickly recognizing it as the drunken cackle you heard during the fight in Valentine. “Who goes there!”

And Arthur answers back. “It’s me! Arthur!”

You open your eyes, but try to remain hidden behind Arthur’s back. You’re here.

“Welcome back!” the man replies, almost cheerful. And you hear his voice draw closer as Arthur continues to ride.

It is then that the man sees you. “Ho-ly sh—!”

“Shut up, Bill, you want the Pinkertons to hear us?!”

Drunken Cackle, now identified as Bill, fits how Arthur described him. Brutish, boarish, with a thick beard, leather duster, and plaid shirt. He looks like he had just rolled in some mud, and you wouldn’t want to be in his sights if he wants to fight. He quickly runs back into camp, rifle held tightly in his hands. “Hey! It’s Kit! Arthur has Kit…!”

Here it comes.

“I can’t tell if he’s happy or not,” you say under your breath.

Arthur clearly heard you, for his warm laugh rumbles his body beneath your cheek.

"Either way, we'll handle it," he assures, his voice a low murmur as he steers the horse smoothly into the heart of the camp.

As you enter the camp, a wave of curious and astonished faces turn toward you. Some of them you recognize from Arthur's descriptions—like raggedy-faced Uncle with his sluggish posture.

“Oh! It is Kit!”

“Kitka’s alive!”

Arthur pulls Montana up by a hitching post and dismounts first. Tying him off, Arthur approaches you and lifts his arms. You accept his gesture and placing your hands on his firm shoulders, he helps you down.

You remain close to him, as he wraps a protective arm around you and escorts you further into the camp.

You see several tents pitched, and a couple of lean-tos. There is also a large chuck wagon and a cauldron over a fire, cooking some kind of stew.

These aren’t the wagons and tents that were in your memory. Maybe Arthur was right. A different time, when you were younger.

You look at all their faces, most smiles and bright eyes as they begin to gather around.

One woman steps forward, her graying hair styled atop her head. "Well, if it ain't a ghost," she says, her voice surprisingly tender. "Welcome home, Kitka."

You try to place her, but struggle. So many names and descriptions to sort through, and your brow pinches.

The woman, seeing the vacancy in your eyes, looks at you with worry. “What’s wrong, girl?”

You feel Arthur pull you closer to him, and while this would normally concern you, you prefer it in the midst of this confusing sea of faces. "Nothing's wrong, Miss Grimshaw," Arthur answers for you, his voice steady but filled with an undercurrent of concern only perceptible to you. “She just…don’t remember us. She got shot really bad and, erm…forgot everything up until Blackwater.”

Susan. This is Susan.

The woman’s eyes widen and she looks at Arthur with concern. “What? How the hell does she forget us?”

A woman, full-figured and blonde, scoffs at the old woman. “Can’t you just be happy she’s alive? For all we knew, she was dead!”

Susan scowls at her. “You watch your tone there, missy…! I missed her just as much as you did, if not more so! I’ve known her since she was a girl!”

Another woman, honey-blonde and slender, comes between them. “Let’s not fight, please!” She turns to you, offering a soft smile that twinkles with empathy as she steps forward. “Kit, I’m Mary Beth, it’s really good to see you standin’ here.”

Mary Beth, a kind soul, as Arthur described her. It was clear by the way he spoke that you and her had a deep friendship. And by the way she takes your hands, there is a true fondness that she has for you. No ill will or misgivings. Maybe someone you can trust.

“You were my friend,” you say, trying to will a memory into your conscious mind.

Her eyes brighten at your words and she squeezes your hands. “Yes, we often shared stories we’ve written. You were teaching me some Czech phrases.”

You remember some words that were spoken to you in your memories with that tongue. You hope that you will learn to speak it again.

Arthur's hand tightens around your shoulder, grounding you as your mind whirls with the fragments of the life you once lived. The words Mary Beth mentions stir something faint within you—a distant echo of laughter and whispered secrets under starlit skies. "Maybe," you venture, hope threading through your tone, "we could try that again.”

Mary Beth nods, and gently backs away.

Another woman, young with dark hair in a tight bun, holds the hand of a little boy.

You smile, deducing who they are. “Abigail and Jack…”

The little boy, with a twinkle in his eyes, beams at the mention of his name. “Aunt Kit!” And breaking free of his mother’s grip, he rushes to you and hugs you at the legs. “I missed you…!”

“Oh!” you gasp, more so at the name rather than his gesture. You look at Arthur. “Am I…?”

He shakes his head. “It’s…kinda hard to explain.” Arthur’s eyes are filled with that old, familiar pain—the unspoken torment of truths too tangled to unweave in a moment. Abigail steps forward, her expression soft and understanding, as she gently retrieves Jack, allowing him back into the safety of her arms.

“Sorry,” she says. “He’s just excited.”

You look at her apologetically, imagining the restraint she must feel to know you and not react similarly to how the boy had. “Don’t be,” you say.

And suddenly, come in a flock of questions, by voices you can’t yet identify.

“Where have you been all this time?”

“Did the Pinkertons get you?”

“Have you seen Mac? or Sean?”

“We thought Arthur was crazy!”

“Hey, hey!” Arthur barks. “Didn’t you hear a damned thing I said? She don’t remember!”

“And that includes you, don’t it, Cowpoke?”

There is a hush over the flock of voices as they turn to look at the one who just posed the silencing question. Your eyes fall on a man. Blonde, with a long mustache, white hat, and pot belly. He’s leaning against the table in front of the chuckwagon, eyeing the sharpness of his knife.

The feeling he gives you is evidence enough. Micah Bell.

Arthur remains still, his eyes narrowing. “Just say it, Micah.”

Micah laughs, a slick, demeaning laugh, as though he has all the cards in his hand. “Must be real hard, watching your plans fall apart, Morgan. The woman you love wandering back from the grave with no memory of any of us, especially you.”

The tension could be cut with a knife. Arthur’s jaw tightens, his fists clench at his sides. You feel an inexplicable urge to defuse the situation, yet you are more curious than anything. Love? What does he mean by that?

“I don’t know what’cher talkin’ about, Micah.”

Micah lifts his chin, like he isn’t worried about having his neck slit. “Oh, I think you do. You really thought you could keep that under wraps? All that sneakin’ off and…whisperin’…you were plannin’ to leave us, weren’t you, Morgan?” And he points the blade of his knife at you. “With that…circus whore.” And he cackles. “Must be real good…all flexible under them sheets.”

And the next thing that happens is a blur. Arthur leaves your side, a blur of brown, black, and green, as he body slams into Micah.

Fists fly, a dance of anger and old grudges, playing out under the heavy gaze of the setting sun. Dust swirls around them as your heartbeat echoes the rhythmic thumping of boots against the dry ground. You stand frozen, watching as each punch from Arthur seems to carry a year's worth of suppressed fury as he lands punch after punch at Micah’s face.

There are several cries from the women and you watch as Charles and John try to break them up.

Arthur roars with a rage that sends goosebumps up your spine. “I’LL KILL YOU, YOU SONOFA—!!!”

“ENOUGH…!!!”

The command rings loud enough for Arthur to pause for a second, just long enough for Charles to pull him off of Micah. Arthur doesn’t resist, but the fire in his eyes does not leave.

You feel gentle hands on you, and you whip your head to see Mary Beth on your left, and another girl, Tilly, on your right. They try to escort you away, but you remain planted, your only concern being for Arthur.

And that is when someone steps out of the largest tent. Tall, imposing, with dark hair and a dark vest with a gold chain. Rings on many fingers.

Dutch. It is Dutch Van Der Linde.

He doesn’t look in your direction, immediately walking over to the restrained Arthur and downed Micah. “What the hell are you doing, Arthur?!” he roars. “Is this what we do now? Start fights? Nearly beat our own men to death?!”

“Micah started it, Dutch!” A young man says. “He was saying things about Kit!”

Your name seems to do something to Dutch, as his eyes widen and his body tenses. “….Who, Lenny…?”

Lenny nods and points at you. “Kit! She’s back! She’s alive!”

“Didn’t you hear the commotion, Dutch?” Susan asks, almost perplexed that he didn’t hear it.

Dutch turns, his gaze finally landing on you. For a moment, the world seems to hold its breath. His eyes remain intense, a mix of disbelief and confusion washing over him. "Kit?" he murmurs, his voice barely audible over the murmur of the crowd.

You nod, feeling a tightness in your chest. This is the man you wanted to see. He was on that boat. He may know what happened to you. He was there. “Yes, Dutch. It is me.”

And suddenly, there is a shift in his demeanor. His body relaxes, and he opens his arms. “My child, you’ve come home…!”

Arthur looks on, confused, and Charles lets him go. He remains still and watches Dutch carefully as the leader approaches you.

Unsure what to do, you make your way over to him and accept his embrace as he holds you tightly. “We thought you were dead!”

“It is a miracle I am alive, Dutch.” You come away from his embrace and look him in the eyes. “I’ve been in Blackwater all this time.”

“Really?” Dutch asks inquisitively, his eyes reflecting a sudden interest. “And how did you find your way here?”

You look over at the still-seething gunslinger. “Arthur found me.”

Dutch's grin widens as he turns to face Arthur. “So, he did.” He turns back to you and places a firm hand on your shoulder. “Too bad Hosea had gone off to Emerald Ranch for a score, he’d love to be here while we celebrate!”

“But what about Micah?” Bill interjects, breaking the jovial atmosphere. “You still have that fight to deal with.”

Dutch's smile fades as he narrows his eyes. “I’ll deal with that, Bill,” he says in a low voice filled with determination. He looks back at everyone else gathered around him. “But for now, we’re going to have ourselves a party!”

There is a collective cheer and people begin gathering around you, their faces a mix of curiosity and joy. The sense of community, something you've been missing for so long, wraps around you like a warm blanket.

“We’ve missed gossipin’ with you, Kit!” Karen says, a laugh bubbling out of her lips. “We got so much more good stuff over the last month or so.”

Tilly, still holding your arm, escorts you to a place to sit down. It is a large log, lying in front of a small fire. Mary Beth and Karen sit close by, giggling like school girls.

Music starts somewhere in the distance and looking over, you see Javier playing a guitar, and he comes over to you. “Mind if I join you, ladies?”

Tilly giggles and that seems to be permission enough.

Javier settles down on the ground near the fire, his fingers already caressing the strings of the guitar, pulling a melodic tune into the air that gently swirls around the growing firelight. The song is a soft, happy thing that somehow carries a thread of love through its core.

But the soft moment is quickly ended when Uncle comes lopping over. “Play a good one! One I can actually sing to…!”

Javier rolls his eyes moaning, “Ay, way to ruin a moment, amigo!”

Uncle doesn’t seem to care, waving his bottle of beer in the air. “This is a party, not a soiree!”

“Dios Mio, fine! What do you want to sing?”

“Ring Dang Doo!” he cackles and by the reaction of the girls, it is clear that it is very undesirable.

Amidst the groans and laughter, Javier strums a few hesitant chords, his expression a blend of amusement and resignation. “Alright, Uncle, just for you,” he mutters, and the first notes of “Ring Dang Doo” echo into the night, bringing with it a raucous cheer from some of the other men who are in the vicinity.

The words are rather distasteful and you are relieved that you don’t know the song at all. As the laughter rises and falls around the flickering flames, your mind drifts, tugged by the playful mockery in Uncle's voice and the indulgent frustration in Javier's strumming. It’s moments like these that sharpen the edges of what you've lost—memories that feel just beyond your grasp, lingering like shadows at the fringes of the firelight. You feel a pang in your chest, a dull ache, as if your heart knows what your mind cannot remember.

The stars above twinkle with an indifference that feels almost cruel in its beauty, the vastness reminding you of everything that is missing. As the song ends and the laughter dies down, you find yourself wishing for a melody that could carry you back through the years to the moments that are now just ghosts in your mind.

Then, as if summoned by your longing, Javier switches tunes again, this time to something slower, more melancholic. The notes are deep, resonating with the unspoken sorrows.

And Karen, bobbing her head softly, begins to sing the tune.

I ain't got no father

I ain’t got no father

I ain't got no father

To buy the clothes I wear

And Pearson, the gang’s cook, joins her.

I'm a poor, lonesome, cowboy

Poor, lonesome, cowboy

I’m a poor, lonesome, cowboy

A long way from home

You swallow hard, the lump in your throat growing as the words seem to amplify your own sense of displacement. How aptly they resonate with the tide of confusion that has been your companion since waking up in this unfamiliar life. The song, meant for others' longing, mirrors your fragmented memories, flickering like the campfire before you.

And you look at these faces, faces you should know, and you realize that one of the most important is missing.

Arthur. Where is he?

You sit up straight, looking around, but you don’t see him at the table, or by the chuck wagon. You slowly rise to your feet and begin to leave the group.

“Hey!” you hear Uncle call. “Where you goin’?”

You don’t care to answer, as the music and light fade away from you as you leave. You walk back toward Montana, he’s still here. Arthur must be—

“...And I need you with me on this, son. You and Micah need to get along.”

You freeze. You have just started walking by Dutch’s tent, and no doubt he doesn’t expect you to be listening.

And you hear Arthur, speaking with great agitation. “You know how I feel about him, Dutch—”

“You went and got him out of that jail, and I am thankful, but now is not the time for grudges. Kit is back now, but I can’t have any distractions.”

“She ain’t a distraction, Dutch, but—”

“But what?”

“You—you said she drowned, Dutch.” And there is a sudden silence. “Why did you tell me she fell off the boat and drowned?”

Drowned? He thought you drowned? Can you swim? You don’t know, you can’t remember, but you’d think by living in California, playing in tide pools, you would have such a skill.

Dutch stammers and you can hear the growing frustration in his voice. “Well—well—a lot happened that day, son! Some did fall off that boat, and I didn’t see her after that! Was I to go into that water lookin’?”

“Well, no, but—”

“But nothing! She’s here now…” And then Dutch’s voice lowers, bordering threatening. “…and if what Micah said is true about you—”

“It—It ain’t true! I weren’t gonna leave, and she and I—” He stops mid-sentence and sighs deeply. “I said I have your back, Dutch. Always will.”

There is another pause and Dutch speaks with a deep satisfaction. “Good. Now go and join the party. I’ll make sure Micah lives to fight another day.”

You hear heavy footfalls draw near you, and you take a few steps back until they stop again.

“Just for the record, Dutch, I don’t regret punchin’ him.”

And Dutch replies with a great agitation, exhaling deeply. “Just go.”

You motion to hide, and you do just in time to see Arthur head off not toward the party, but into the trees. You are tempted to follow, but you can’t risk Dutch seeing you. So, you decide to return to the party. It’s best you find Susan to find out where you will be sleeping.

As you weave your way back toward the lively sounds and flickering lights of the party, your mind replays the troubling conversation. Why did Dutch say you drowned? And why would Micah say that he was planning to leave? With you? The uncertainty muddles your thoughts, mixing with things you know and what you are trying to remember.

Micah said Arthur loves you and that he tried to keep it a secret. Is it true? Or, more importantly, do you want it to be true?

You don't have a solid answer, and the gnawing uncertainty fuels a dull ache in your chest. As you approach the periphery of the gathering, laughter bubbles over from the crowd, mixing with the clink of beer bottles and the strumming of a guitar. It seems alien, almost surreal, given the storm brewing within your own mind. The warm, yellow light from the lanterns dances across the faces of the revelers, casting long shadows that sway with the music. You feel detached, an observer of their joy rather than a partaker.

Susan finally comes into view, and as she turns her head to the rhythm of the song, her eyes catch you.

You smile and approach her. “I am getting tired. Where can I sleep?”

She clicks her tongue and rises to her feet. “Say no more, girl.” And she begins to lead you away from the gathering. “Come with me.”

As you follow Susan through the throng of dancers and revelers, the smell of tobacco and whiskey mingles with the evening air, heavy with the scent of pine and earth. The sounds of the party fade as you walk further away, replaced by the soft crunching of leaves underfoot.

Susan leads you to a lean-to with other bed rolls lying there. “This is where you’ll be until we can get you a separate tent. Mary Beth and Tilly also sleep here.”

You look at her, with saddened eyes. “I left none of my things here?”

Her eyes soften and she shakes her head as she explains. “When everything had gone to hell, we didn’t have much time to pack. We took what we could, and when we thought you had died…” She shrugs her shoulders. “It didn’t make much sense to grab those things.” She rests a hand on your shoulder. “I’m sorry, hon.”

You nod. It makes sense. You can’t begrudge them for fleeing for their lives. As far as they knew, you were dead. Why would they bring a dead person’s things when they needed the bare essentials first?

Susan bids you goodnight, and calmly walks away. Alone for the first time this evening, you go to your knees and take hold of one of the blankets. Wrapping yourself in it, you bury your nose in the wool, taking in a deep breath through your nose.

It doesn’t smell like tobacco, leather, and pine, and you can’t help but feel greatly disappointed.

You curl up under the blanket, your mind swimming with fragmented memories and fleeting emotions. The night air is chillier than expected, seeping through the gaps in the lean-to. Stars peek through the slits above, a stark reminder of how small your problems seem under the vast, indifferent sky.

Despite the comforting warmth of the blanket, you shiver, the cold seeping into your bones as if chasing the warmth of the memories you strain to recall. Somewhere deep within, a flicker of familiarity stirs each time you close your eyes—visions of firelight dancing on a rugged face, laughter mingling with the crackle of burning logs, and the solitude of just two bodies being intertwined together.

Who? Is this you? What memory is this? Your head starts to hurt, but you try to push through it, follow it, will it to make itself clear to you.

Yet, as vivid as these flitting images are, they dissolve into the crisp night air before you can grasp their meaning. A frustration builds within you—a yearning to remember, to understand who you were before the world turned its back on you. The shadows of the past loom larger in the darkness, your heart beating in sync with the slow, methodical drip of a leak somewhere outside your temporary refuge. Each drop sounds like a clock, each tick marking a moment lost to the fog of your forgotten life.

***

It’s morning and you find yourself the first to rise. Sitting up you see the sleeping form of Mary Beth next to you, eyes closed and peaceful. You wonder when everyone has turned in for the night, and can only imagine that it will be a while before they join you. 

You carefully rise, pulling the blanket away from you as silently as you can. Finding your footing, you rise to your feet, and coming out of the lean-to, you stretch out your arms and arch your back. 

You feel muscles relaxing, tempting you to bend backward farther than would seem natural.

…all flexible under them sheets…

Micah’s voice rings in your ear, and you quickly straighten, feeling uneasy and disturbed by his suggestive language. 

You move quickly as your mind goes to what happened. The look on Arthur’s face, like a protective wild animal, as he showed no restraint in beating Micah’s face in. You haven’t seen Micah since, and you didn’t hear where he was taken to recover from the ordeal, or how bad the damage was. You’re curious, the temptation to explore and find out for yourself pricks at you, but you decide against it. 

You walk deeper into the camp, sneaking by sleeping figures and passing the chuck wagon and the table, which has poker cards scattered all over its surface. 

As you continue, a soft, glowing light gathers your attention, and following it, it leads you to the edge of the overlook. You see the rising sun, the glowing orb rising into the sky as it paints pastel colors behind it. 

And you see Arthur sitting on the edge. 

A soft “oh” escapes your lips, loud enough for him to notice and look over his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” you say. “I didn’t know anyone else was awake.”

His eyes meet yours and you feel a small wave of relief wash over you. His gaze is warm, and it's almost as if he understands your unspoken struggle. "I've always been an early riser," he says with a gentle smile.

"Even after the party last night?" you tease, trying to break the tension.

He looks away for a moment before meeting your gaze again. "I didn't..." He trails off, looking pensive. "It's not that I didn't want to celebrate," he explains. "I just...”

“I understand,” you say softly, sensing the tension emanating from him. “It was a long day for both of us. It must not have been easy to see me and find that I didn’t remember you.” You see him tense up even more at this and you recoil slightly, giving him space. “About Micah…”

“Don’t worry about that,” he interrupts.

You blink in surprise. “Why? He may be slicker than an oil slick, but his words clearly affected you.” You take a cautious step closer. “What he said was either a pointed deception…” your voice trails off as you nervously swallow. “Or it could be the truth.” As you study the back of his form, the sound of birdsong fills the air and the leaves rustle gently in the breeze. “Which one is it, Arthur?” You wait anxiously for his response, searching for any clue in his stoic posture.

A heavy silence hangs in the air, broken only by the sound of your own breathing. You stand there, rooted to the spot, as each second ticks by with agonizing slowness. Your heart pounds against your ribcage, almost audible in its frantic rhythm. A million thoughts race through your mind, but you push them away, focusing on the one burning question: What is the truth?

You try to keep your voice steady as you ask again, "What would you rather have it be?" Your words hang in the air, filled with uncertainty and hope. If it’s a lie, then everything stays the same. You have friends who know you and a plan to stay with them until things calm down after the events in Blackwater.

But if it is the truth...

Then the man in front of you is keeping something from you. Something between you two, something that happened. 

Arthur scooting away from the ledge, rises to his feet. After a moment he turns around to face you and you eagerly search his eyes for an answer. He takes calm steps toward you and offers his hand. “Come with me.”

What? No, you don’t want him to change the subject. “Arthur…”

“C’mon, I forgot to introduce you to someone.”

You feel miffed but he’s piqued your curiosity once again. And the temptation to hold his hand is greater than you thought it would be. 

And just like that, you slip your hand into his calloused palm and he begins to lead you back into camp. 

You’ve made the inference that Arthur doesn’t share anything he doesn’t want to. If he’s as secretive as Micah implied, then he isn’t going to give you an answer until he’s ready. 

But are you willing to let it go?

For now, you will. Just long enough to see what he’s on about. 

Though his stride is broad, his footfalls are quiet and steady. You try to keep up, but your feet shuffle too loudly in the grass. 

He looks back at you and places his forefinger over his lips. “Shhh….”

Your brow furrows, how dare he tell you to be quiet, when you have a reason to be upset? You are about to slap his arm, but a golden color up ahead catches your eye.

He’s led you outside of camp, near a patch of grass where some horses graze. In the center of them, is a golden palomino American Saddlebred mare. Her coat shines in the sun, her legs strong and graceful, her mane is braided in unique plaits and her tail is long like a bridal train. 

You know it. In your gut, you know it. She’s yours. She’s your Odliv. 

“Say somethin’ to her,” Arthur whispers softly. “You used to have a tune you’d whistle to her.”

You shake your head. “I don’t know it,” you whisper back, an emptiness filling in your stomach. 

That’s when Arthur leans close to you and his lips close to your ear, hums the tune only soft enough for you to hear. 

Your ear begins to ache, triggering a memory. 

Your dark hair wildly dancing in the wind, riding bareback across a field, hands held out like wings of a bird. 

“I’m flying!” you cry. “Arthur, I’m flying!”

You hear a second set of hoofbeats catch up with you and you look to your right to see Arthur, younger and more carefree as he rides beside you on a beautiful blood-red mare. 

The memory fades and out from your lips, comes the soft whistle. 

And in an instant, Odliv’s head perks up and she knickers curiously. When her eyes fall on you, she pounds the ground excitedly and whinnies loudly. 

You feel Arthur nudge you toward her. “Go to her before she wakes everyone up!”

You hurry your steps, maneuvering between the other horses who have also lifted their heads. You reach her and as soon as your hand rests on her forelock, she calms down, her whinnies turning into soft snorts. 

She’s soft to the touch, and you’ll let your fingers spread out and fold in, scratching her softly. She brings her head closer to you, communicating her desire to be loved. 

"She missed you," Arthur says, breaking the peaceful silence that had enveloped you. You turn to face him, but your eyes are still drawn back to the majestic creature in front of you.

"She was red, wasn't she?" Your voice is soft and filled with awe.

Arthur blinks, slightly taken aback. "Who?"

"Boadicea," you reply, barely able to tear your gaze away from the beautiful mare standing before you.

With a quiet chortle, Arthur corrects you, "Liver Chestnut."

You shrug nonchalantly. "No matter, at least I remembered."

After a brief pause, Arthur clicks his tongue and begins to walk away. "Well, I guess I'll leave you to it then." The sound of his footsteps recede as he leaves you alone with the horse, the only sounds now being the gentle rustling of leaves and the steady breaths of Odliv.

You flip around, nearly spooking Odliv, and he is walking in the direction of Montana. “What? Where are you going?” You leave your mare and hurry to catch up with him. You still have your question that needs answering. 

He doesn’t answer immediately, reaching Montana and slipping him a sugar cube. “How’ya doin’, boy?” And he gives the stud a good pat. 

“Arthur…?”

He mounts Montana and looks down at you. “I gotta meet up with Hosea. Was supposed to already…but got a little sidetracked.”

Meaning you. You are the distraction, just like Dutch said last night. Is that what he means?

You don’t want to see him go. But you don’t want to get him in trouble. “Can’t I…can’t I go with you?” You’ve come to find that you can hold your own, albeit quite suddenly, with those makeshift explosives you threw at those bandits.  

His eyes soften at that, but he shakes his head. “I’m sorry, Kitte—erm—Kitka, it’s probably best that you take it easy for a while. Spread your wings, as they say. Maybe once you get back on your feet.”

Your brow pinches. “But I’m already on two legs.”

He shakes his head, chuckling to himself. “You did take things too literal sometimes.” He takes the reins and spins Montana around, the horse’s broad muscles moving in powerful ripples. “I’ll be gone a few days. Hopefully, you’ll be meetin’ Sean before too long.” And before you can say anything more, he makes a clicking sound with his mouth, and Montana canters on out of camp. 

You watch the wake of his departure, feeling an unsettling mix of frustration and abandoned hope gnaw at your insides. Left standing alone amidst the camp's morning bustle, you wonder if your past will ever truly circle back to embrace you, or if it is destined to keep galloping ahead—just out of reach like the dust kicked up by Montana's hooves. You let out a breath you didn't realize you'd been holding and turn away from Arthur's fading silhouette.

The camp seems full yet oddly hollow as you meander back into camp, still silent while everyone sleeps. You feel rather peckish, and you remember that there were some canned goods in Pearson’s chuckwagon. You suppose it won’t hurt to have a bite, after all, you haven’t eaten in over 24 hours.

You go towards the back of the wagon, an area of camp you haven’t explored yet, and as you look around.

You stop in your tracks.

A young man, bent over and head down, is tied to a tree.

You gasp loudly, which stirs him to awaken. He lifts his head and when his eyes meet yours his eyes widen.

“Please…” he begs. “I need some water.”

You know that you are amongst a gang of outlaws, but you couldn’t imagine why a young man would be tied to a tree with a rope.

He has long, brown hair to his shoulders. It looks like it hasn’t been washed in days. His eyes are bloodshot, either from crying or fatigue, perhaps both.

You think through all the names and descriptions that Arthur gave you, and none seem to match this stranger. You take a quiet step forward. “Who are you?”

He replies with a lilt in his voice, true panic as he whispers. “Nobody! I ain’t done nothin’!” Then his head hangs low. “I am so thirsty…”

You aren’t above helping someone, regardless of why they may be tied to a tree. You see a water bucket with a ladle and walk over to it. You fill the ladle with cool, clear water and bring it to his parched lips. He drinks greedily, water dribbling down his chin and wetting the dust at his knees. After a moment, he seems somewhat revived and lifts his head again, his eyes meeting yours with a mixture of fear and gratitude.

"Thank you,” he gasps. “I thought I was going to die…”

“Who tied you here?” you ask. “Why?”

“Dutch had me tied. I…was with Colm, but I ain’t never liked that feller…!”

Colm. You don’t recognize that name. But you can only figure he’s an enemy to Dutch. But why?

“Hey…!” A bark comes from around a lean-to, and you whip around. It’s Bill, grumpy and hungover, and he’s caught you helping his prisoner. “What do you think yer doin’?!” Bill stomps over, his heavy boots stirring up small clouds of dust with each step. His eyes are narrowed in suspicion and anger as he peers at you, then at the ladle in your hand. You feel a shiver of apprehension, but your grip on the ladle tightens slightly, a defiant gesture you can't quite explain yourself.

"He needed water, Bill," you say calmly, meeting his glare with a steady gaze of your own. The air thickens with tension, the only sounds the distant calls of crows and the soft rustle of the dry grass underfoot.

Bill snorts, his mustache twitching in agitation. “Dutch says no food or water ‘til he talks!”

And you suddenly bristle, memories of unkindness shown to you your entire life flooding in quick flashes. What would you have given for just a bit of water or food when your brother was sick and dying? Despite your headache, your fist clenches around the ladle and you swing it to hit Bill hard.

The ladle connects with a satisfying thud against Bill's temple, and he staggers back, more from surprise than pain. His hand instinctively goes to his head, and he scowls fiercely at you. "Kit, what the hell—?"

"Blázen! You know as well as I do that a man's got a right to basics!" you spit out, your voice thick with emotion. "Water is not a privilege. It’s a necessity…!"

Bill stares at you, his anger simmering down into something resembling grudging respect or perhaps confusion. He rubs the spot where the ladle struck, eyes never leaving yours. "Yer memory ain’t all there, so I am gonna spell it for ya…” And he leans close, snarling a threat veiled thinly behind a whisper. "Dutch's orders are law here, Kit. Don’t forget your place, or you’ll find yourself out there with nothin’ and no one."

You swallow hard, the sting of his words biting deeper than the chill in the air. How many times had you been cast out before, left to fend for yourself in the harsh world of indifference and cruelty? You don’t know, but the thought sends a cold wave through your spine. And yet, at the same time, there's a flickering flame of rebellion within you that refuses to be smothered.

"Maybe my memory isn’t fully restored, Bill," you reply, your voice low and steady, "but my sense of what’s right hasn’t faded one bit." You hold his gaze, unflinching, the intensity of your conviction casting a palpable sensation in the air between you.

Bill's eyes narrow as he assesses you, the standoff drawing a curious crowd from the nearby tents. Whispers weave through the other members as they’ve woken to your row, the poor prisoner in the middle, shaking in his boots.

Finally, with a snort, Bill turns away, dismissing the gathering with a wave of his hand. "See to it that he don’t drown," he mutters under his breath, loud enough for only you to hear. There's something akin to admiration in his tone, albeit reluctantly given.

As the crowd disperses, you sigh deeply.

You feel a sudden hand on your arm, and you turn to see Mary Beth, her eyes a mix of gratitude and worry. “I’m glad someone else feels the same way.” And she begins to lead you away from the prisoner. You walk beside her as he links her arm with yours and she leads you around the tents. “I’ve been sneakin’ Kieran some water and scraps since he’s been here.”

Kieran? That’s his name. And since Mary Beth has been helping him, she must know more about it. “Who is he?”

“An O’Driscoll,” she explains. “They are a rival gang. Dutch and Colm go way back, been fightin’ for a while.”

“Oh. Who is Colm, exactly? Why are they fighting?”

“You were there, when it all started. You are one of the original ones.” Mary Beth stops by the horses and you eye Odliv while she grazes. “I wasn’t there, but from what I’ve been told, Dutch killed Colm’s brother and he killed Dutch’s lover, Annabelle.”

Annabelle. You think hard about the name, but it doesn’t register. You shake your head.

Mary Beth continues, “Colm is evil. He’s killed innocent women and children, and shows no mercy, like we do.”

Your brow furrows. “How is tying Kieran to a tree mercy?”

Mary Beth hesitates, her gaze shifting to the ground before she meets your eyes again. "It's not, I suppose. But sometimes..." She trails off, searching for the right words. "Sometimes we have to make choices that don't sit well with us. You know that better than anyone, Kit."

You nod slowly, unsure of what she means.

She sees the confused expression on your face and offers to enlighten you. “When there was plannin’ for the ferry robbery in Blackwater, there were conflicting ideas. Hosea and Arthur were working on a con of their own, some sort of trick on some real estate brokers. And then there was Micah and Dutch, talkin’ about the ferry. You wanted to help Arthur and Hosea, you have always been good with costumes and performances. You can distract the strongest-willed of men…!” She giggles, most likely thinking of a specific instance. “We have always been a great team.”

But you want her to continue about Blackwater. “But what happened? Did I go with him?”

She shakes her head. “Dutch said he needed you with him. To act as a hostage when he robbed the ferry.”

Your eyes widen. “That sounds…dangerous.”

“That’s what you had said. I remember you telling me how worried you were about the whole thing. You said that something didn’t seem right…” Her eyes fall. “You…seemed different. I wish there was something that I could have done, maybe took your place.”

You shake your head, patting her arm. “No. It is as it was. You can’t change the past, Mary Beth.”

There’s a long pause as the air between you thickens with unspoken thoughts, a tangle of regrets and old wounds that no amount of talking can undo. But the soft smile returns to Mary Beth’s face and she pats your hand that rests over her arm. “Let’s do the wash. Us girls always do the wash in the morning, to let the clothes dry. Miss Grimshaw gets on our tails if we aren’t busy come sunup.”

You nod. “Okay, it will be good to keep busy.”

Together, you and Mary Beth gather the worn fabrics and soiled garments scattered around the camp and find the other girls by the washboards and buckets. The fresh morning air is crisp, pinching at your cheeks as you find a place to sit among them.

The chatter among the women is light, yet it carries a weight of shared history that you can't fully grasp. You try to focus on the task at hand, scrubbing at stubborn stains that mar the fabric. As your hands move in rhythmic motions over the washboard, snippets of conversation float around you.

"Molly’s lookin’ at her face in the mirror again…” Karen says while gnawing on a long blade of straw.

The girls look over near Dutch’s tent. Molly, with red hair more blazing than fire, eyes her own reflection as though it were an unfamiliar face, one she's trying to understand or maybe memorize. You can't help but notice the way her brows furrow together, crafting a silent narrative of self-doubt and contemplation that seems all too familiar.

"Molly always did take to heart what Dutch says about appearances being as important as a loaded gun…” Tilly snarks. “But I always thought looks weren’t everythin’.”

“It’s different when you got a man to please,” Karen argues. “I should know. The better you look, the better the pay.”

Mary Beth gasps at her brazenness. “Karen!”

“What? It’s true! Any woman who has had a man knows that.”

You remain silent, the conversation drifting over you like fog settling on a meadow. The practicalities and pitfalls of love seem a distant concern to your current predicament. Yet there's an ache inside that resounds with their words, a ghostly echo of a love you can scarcely remember but feel profoundly.

As you scrub on the shirt in your hand, you notice its color. Blue. The same blue shirt that Arthur had worn when you saw him in Valentine. Your heart skips, caught in the clutches of your most vivid memory, flitting at the edge of your consciousness like a shy bird. The fabric under your fingers suddenly feels heavier, soaked not just with water but with the weight of unspoken words and a past life that might as well have been someone else's dream.

You swallow thickly, thinking about how to word your question. “Did we…Did we talk about a lot of things…like secrets?”

Karen’s eyes sparkle at your question. “Oh yes! Not much gets past us girls!”

And Mary Beth, sweet and sympathetic as ever, can sense what you are getting at. “Is there something you want to know, Kit? Something you told us and want to remember?”

You feel your hands trembling, the words building in your body making it nerve-wracking. “Am I…Am I a virgin?”

There is a sudden stillness when the girls pause their washing.

Tilly is the first to speak, her voice raised higher than her normal range. “What?”

And Karen gets to the meat of the matter. “Why do you wanna know? You pregnant or something?”

You shake your head, you feel instant regret for even asking, but you can’t back out now. “No! I just…been having these dreams…”

“Oh…? What dreams?” Karen asks with a gleam in her eye and a mischievous grin.

“I don’t know…I think they’re memories, as that is how they usually come to me, but I can’t seem to put it all together.”

Mary Beth still looks softly at you, as she wrings a flannel shirt. “You always told us you wanted to wait until marriage.” And before you can doubt her answer she adds, “You were very adamant about it. You said being a performer taught you that.”

Performer? You remember being called circus trash, and also what Micah called you yesterday. 

It lines up. If you had your heart set on waiting…

You let the shirt go for just a moment to look at the ring on your finger. “And I’m not married.”

Tilly shakes her head. “No, Kit. You ain’t.”

“It’s strange,” you laugh. “Being 29 and still…” You work on scrubbing the shirt again, tucking your chin to hide your face behind your hair. “Oh, I suppose it doesn’t matter.”

“There ain’t no shame in waitin’, Kit.” Karen says, her voice more gentle than her usual teasing. “It’s better with the right person than the wrong one.” She laughs. “I should know.”

Mary Beth sighs, lifting her head and looking all dreamy. “I’m still waitin’ for mine, too.”

At that, Tilly chortles. “Mary Beth, the right one ain’t never gonna happen for you unless they come flyin’ right outta them books you write!”

The laughter that bubbles from Mary Beth is light and unburdened, a stark contrast to the heaviness of your own heart. "Maybe I do expect too much from a man. But a girl can dream, can't she?"

Your thoughts spiral back to your own dreams, fragmented and shadowy as they are, filled with fleeting touches and whispered names that dissolve as you awaken. There's a haunting familiarity in those hallucinatory moments, a sense of belonging that you can't yet place. Perhaps, buried deep within the cobwebs of your memory, there lies an answer. They feel so real, yet so far away, making you wonder if even you kept secrets from these girls who you call friends.

You girls finish the laundry, hanging the linens on nearby branches and a line strung up between two trees. You’re surprised to see the day half gone, and while you are grateful for the passage of time, you wonder what else you could possibly do.

And as you walk past Susan, she sees you and eyes your skirt. “Just a minute, girl!”

You freeze, and brace yourself. From what the girls have told you, you prepare to be given another chore to do.

She rises from the table where she has been working on sewing a patch and gestures to your skirt. “Just what do you think you’re doin’, wearin’ clothes like that?”

You look down. You had forgotten that you cut it all up for the explosives. While it is the right explanation, it isn’t the easiest one. “I…erm…must have torn it.”

“I should say so! We need to get you something else to wear.”

You shake your head. “I don’t have any money. Or other clothes.”

Susan motions for you to follow her and she leads you to the back of Dutch’s tent. On a barrel, sits a box.

“This is the money box. Everyone pitches in money from jobs and such to take care of camp needs.”

“But this is for everyone.”

“You’ve come back from the dead and are in need of new clothes.” She opens the box without a qualm, takes out five dollars, and hands it to you. “I’d say that is a good reason.”

You hold the money in your hand. It isn’t the thirty dollars you left behind in Blackwater, but you figure you haven’t really been familiar with large sums. “Thank you, Miss Grimshaw.”

“I’ll have Strauss go to town with you. Since you’ve been back, he wants to talk about nothing but resuming business with you.”

You look up, your brows pinched. “Business?”

She nods. “Just get yourself ready and meet Strauss by the wagon. He will take you to Valentine.”

Your heart hitches. Valentine. Where it all started.

Chapter Text

You remain relatively silent as you sit beside Leopold Strauss as he drives the wagon. The last time you were in a wagon was when you sat beside Jeremy, and this fails in comparison. 

You miss him. His smile. His kindness, the subtle hints that he was sweet on you makes it all the more terrible. It’s your fault he’s dead. If you had only reacted sooner and saved him, he may still be alive, maybe a little battered and bruised, but alive. 

“…Of course, I can’t expect you to do your regular performance, but if I am to make good business, you will need to do something.”

You realize you’ve hardly been listening to him this entire trip and your face flushes with embarrassment. “Mr. Strauss, I still need you to explain to me why I have to do this.”

He scowls at you. “Were you even listening?”

You feel yourself bristle. “Forgive me for being confused, what was your name again?”

He clearly doesn’t appreciate your bite, and grumbles. “As I was saying, since your disapproval of loaning money a couple of years ago, you and I have gone into the business of selling cures. I handle the money, you handle the people. It’s rather simple.”

Cures? Does he mean…medicine?

“But…” you stammer. “I am not a doctor…am I?” That would be oddly convenient, given your need of one for the past month.

But Strauss laughs, one that quickly dissipates any theories you had. “No, no, but your knowledge in herbal remedies can help you pass for one when we need it. We have fifteen bottles left from the last batch you made.” And he nods contemplatively. “Do you think you’ll remember how to make them by then?”

Your headache begins to ebb its way back, and you find yourself having a memory. 

Your hands are hard at work, grinding dry leaves in a bowl. You have a plethora of tonic bottles before you, with labels glued on them, and tall bottles of vodka. A small copper contraption, with tubes spiraling out of it, bubbles a liquid over a small fire. 

You remember reading about something in Blackwater. A wanted poster, for a man who was selling fake remedies to dying people. They called it…

“Snake oil?” you ask, your body tensing. “We’ve been selling snake oil?”

He shakes his head as the wagon continues to rock once you cross some railroad tracks and meet the dirt road. “Not exactly. We may exaggerate a bit, but it still helps people! Enough for them to think it’s working, anyway.” His German accent seems to get stronger when he wants to be convincing.

You scrunch your nose in distaste. “That’s still dishonest.”

“You want to cast judgment? This was all your idea. You said it was better to give hope than to rob it through lending, and added some proverb from your old country.” He flicks the reins to urge the horses on. “I don’t speak Czech.”

And neither do you, at least for now. You’re remembering bits and pieces, but you aren’t fluent anymore. You hope to be, for when you speak it and hear it in your dreams, it almost feels natural, like home. A little more each day and you’ll be that much closer to who you were. 

“Just English, German, and greed, hm?”

He looks at you with a shrew-like gaze, a smile curling in his mouth. “Not greed, fraulein, money.”

We just need this money from the boat, Dutch, and we will be set for life…! Just think about it!

The voice in your mind catches you off guard, its voice sounding too much like Micah. You think about what Mary Beth had said, how you were uneasy about something before the events in Blackwater. 

“Strauss,” you begin. “Did they get the money from that ferry?”

He looks at you, his eyes studying you closely. “Why do you want to know?”

You feel offended at this. You were there, weren’t you? Mary Beth and the girls are more than willing to answer your questions to help get your memories back, but now Strauss is just being petty. You have to convince him to tell you what he knows. “Because I heard people talking. They think they know what happened to it.” It is a lie, but you have to try something. 

Strauss’ eyebrows lift. “You think they know where Dutch had hidden it?”

So they did get the money. How much was it, though? “Yes, some also argue as to how much it all was.” You shrug. “Ten thousand dollars, they say.”

And Strauss, ever proud of his knowledge of numbers, straightens as you near Valentine. “Oh, but it was much more than that, I assure you.”

More. And you thought ten grand was a large number. But before you can ask any other questions, Strauss leans close to you and speaks in a hushed tone. “Only Dutch and Hosea know where it is, and they are pretty tight-lipped about it.”

Oh. You guess that is about as far as you can go with it. 

He drives the wagon past the railroad station and carefully maneuvers around the town until you reach the general store. 

Your heart flutters in your stomach. You were just here two days ago. Amos saw you, knows you. No doubt he will ask about Jeremy. 

What will you tell him?

You motion to get down from the wagon. “I will go in by myself.”

But Strauss quickly rises. “Oh, no! I have business of my own to discuss with the owner. I need to order some ink for my ledger.”

Great. The last thing you need is your real name being tossed around town like yesterday’s paper. You step down from the wagon, feeling the squish of the mud beneath your boots. Strauss follows, his footsteps a bit more hesitant as he adjusts his spectacles, glancing around the quiet street before making his way toward the store. The sun is high and harsh, casting long shadows that seem to stretch endlessly across the muddy street.

As you approach the entrance of the general store, you hesitate for a moment, steeling yourself for whatever questions or looks may come your way. The bell above the door jingles alertly as you push it open, announcing your presence. Inside, the aroma of leather, tobacco, and dry goods fills your nostrils—a familiar smell that sends you back to when you perused the store while Jeremy talked with Amos.

Your heart aches.

“Well, I’ll be…!” You look ahead and see Amos at the counter, smiling at you. “Ms. Doe! I didn’t expect you back so soon!”

You force a smile, and make your way over to the counter. “Hello, sir, how are you?”

“Fine! Fine! Glad to see you are alright, but I didn’t expect Jeremy to start sending you back here by yourself.”

You feel yourself tense, bracing yourself for the questions. “Well, I didn’t think I’d be back here so soon, either.”

Amos nods at that. “Well, do tell him I said hello when you get back to Blackwater.”

You swallow. “I will do that.”

“Good, good. How are your headaches?”

Relieved to be changing the subject, you shrug your shoulders. “They are doing better, now that—”

You’re cut off by Strauss as he brushes beside you, inserting himself into the conversation. Before speaking, he pulls out a dark-colored bottle and sets it on the counter. “Now that she has a cure for it!”

You blink. What? Is he seriously doing this now?

Amos blinks, nearly stammering. “W-what? Cure?”

Strauss nods, his beady eyes making him look more squirrel-like than ever. “Of course! Did you know that she is a regular miracle worker?”

Amos looks clearly confused and points to you. “Ms. Doe?”

Strauss goes along with it almost flawlessly, you begin to question who really did work with the people in this scheme. “Of course, Ms. Doe came across the cure only recently, after her memories were restored!”

Your cheeks heat up, a mix of embarrassment and annoyance bubbling inside you as Strauss continues spinning his tale. You glance briefly at Amos, trying to gauge if he buys into Strauss’s absurd fabrications. Amos’s face is filled with genuine concern but undercut by a glimmer of skepticism. “Really? That quickly? By the way, Jeremy described it, it seemed like she was never going to get her memories back.”

"Well, it wasn't exactly overnight," you interject, hoping to steer the conversation onto a more truthful path. "It's been bits and pieces, feelings more than clear memories." You trail your fingers along an edge of the counter, the wood smooth under your touch.

Strauss gives a small, almost imperceptible smirk before turning his gaze back to Amos. "But what matters is that she's getting better, isn't that right? And this tonic here," he taps the dark bottle, "is part of why."

Amos picks up the bottle, examining it with a mix of curiosity and caution. "And what exactly is in this tonic?" His voice is tinged with a note of suspicion now, his eyes squinting slightly as he scrutinizes the label.

"Oh, just a secret blend of herbal extracts and essential oils," Strauss quickly replies, his voice a tad too cheerful. "All natural and completely safe, I assure you."

You try to think back on the flash of memory you had on your way here. Bottles scattered, herbs being crushed. It sounds about right, aside from the lack of mentioning the vodka. You are sure that would be in it.

You watch as Amos turns the bottle over in his hand. “And you make these?”

You nod. “Yes, that's part of what I remembered,” you say softly, your voice threading through the lingering skepticism in the air. “Making tonics… it was something from my past, or so I believe.” Your words hang between the three of you, tinged with a delicate hope that they might weave a believable narrative.

Amos’ eyes appear to sparkle. “I suppose you want me to sell these.” His expression shifts, a blend of business acumen and personal interest molding his features. "It could do well, considering the doctor in this town is more shady than most," he adds, a distrustful note flirting at the edge of his voice.

You smile tentatively, appreciative of Amos's approach. "Perhaps," you begin, cautious of speaking ill of any physician. You aren’t about to create a rivalry with someone who actually carries a license to practice medicine. “But it hasn’t failed us, yet.”

And now that the conversation is shifting in a business direction, Strauss is attuned to his third language. “Of course, we are open to discussing percentages, where both parties should obtain a profit.”

Amos nods thoughtfully, carefully mulling it over in his mind.

"Let me think on it," he concludes, sliding the bottle back across the counter towards Strauss. "I'll need to sample this, see if it's got any merit beyond just being an herbal concoct."

You feel a flicker of anxiety. The approval of your tonic could mean a new beginning, a steady income, and perhaps even a way to reconnect with parts of yourself still lost in the fog of amnesia. The weight of potential rejection sits heavily on your shoulders, but you manage to nod, maintaining a composed exterior.

“We’d be more than happy to let you keep it as a sample,” Strauss suggests. “On the condition that you spread the word. We will be selling it ourselves with or without you, though we’d appreciate the partnership.” His words are firm, yet there’s a hint of diplomacy that invites a favorable response.

Amos picks up the bottle again, turning it over, inspecting the liquid inside as if he could discern its secrets just by looking. “Alright, I'll give it a try," he finally says, tucking the bottle into his vest pocket. "We'll see what the folks around here think. If it catches on, we might just have ourselves a deal."

You exhale softly, relieved yet still entangled in a web of uncertainty. And Strauss, already prepared, pulls out a small notepad from his portfolio. “Perfect. If you’ll allow me to purchase some ink, I can draft up an informal contract. A little security for both of us, you understand…”

Amos nods. “Oh! Yes, yes, of course…!”

Amos scurries off towards the back of the store, presumably to fetch the necessary ink and paper. In his absence, an uneasy silence settles between you and Strauss. The air feels thick, pregnant with unsaid words and unasked questions.

Strauss clears his throat softly, breaking the stillness. "You're going to need to put on your best performance in selling the cure to these people.” He pushes his glasses back against his face. “They may be just ranchers and sheep people, but they do have some knowledge on good business.”

You’ve had enough for now and you decide to do what you came here to do. Not saying anything more, you take the catalogue that is on the counter and begin to peruse through it for women’s attire. 

Strauss notices what you’re doing and he leans over to look at the catalogue. “Ah, yes. A good wardrobe would help improve sales.”

You scowl at him, always thinking about money. Why are you even surprised? “As if having clothes to wear wasn’t enough?” you hiss, turning the page. “Leave me to my business and you tend to yours.”

With a harrumph, Strauss steps away from you and resumes writing in his notebook. Now having some space, you look at the new page and see a selection of trousers. 

Trousers? Hm. Have you ever worn them before? You try to close your eyes and picture it, but when you think of pants you only think of a specific pair of legs in tight work pants, attached to a body, a man’s body, with a very attractive backside…

You feel your face flush as your mind puts a face to the body and you open your eyes wide and look straight ahead, gripping the catalogue tightly. 

Just then, Amos comes back into the front of the store, with a ream of paper and an inkwell. “Thank you for your patience, Mr…?”

“Kilgore,” Mr. Strauss answers plainly. 

Amos nods, setting the items in his hands down. “Of course, Mr. Kilgore. Here is your ink and paper.”

“Thank you. I shall get to work immediately.” And turning to you, Strauss points in your direction. “I believe Ms. Doe has some things she’d like to order from the catalogue.”

Amos blinks. “Yes, of course!” And he moves in front of you. “See anything of interest?”

You waste no time, pointing to a chosen item on the page. “I want these trousers, for starters.”

***

You step in front of the mirror, wearing dark trousers and a forest green blouse with flower embroidery at the collar. Adding a brown wide-brimmed hat with oriole featherwork for good measure, you will blend in better than that torn skirt of yours did. Thankfully, Amos had some items in stock, you’ll have to wait on the remainder of your order, which was a skirt and a jacket. 

Not bad, for five dollars, but you can’t help but wonder if Amos was also doing you a favor. 

You try to study your face, almost like how Molly did while you and the girls were doing the wash. But this is still different. You actually don’t know yourself. 

You look at your long, black hair that is wavy and wild. Your eyes, hazel, but mostly green. Your skin looks sun-beaten where it has been exposed, and your face and neck are lightly speckled with freckles. You have a round face and soft lips. Not too full, but not thin, either. You have a small waist and wide hips and strong legs that are accentuated by your trousers.  You do have a smaller bust, but the shirt you wear isn’t unflattering at all, at least you don’t think so. 

You look more real than the times you looked at yourself in the hotel mirror back in Blackwater. You look more natural. Less refined like the heiress you thought you were. 

You readjust the hat on your head, and listen to the sound of your boots on the wooden floor as you step out. Strauss and Amos are still going over the contract, but they stop and turn to see you coming back in. 

“Oh, I almost didn’t recognize you, Ms. Doe!” Amos exclaims. “Sure could have fooled me if you were to point a gun and rob me!”

Strauss laughs, almost too loudly. “I do like the American sense of humor.”

You smile sheepishly. “Well, I suppose it is a good thing I am not the robbing type.”

Amos nods, thankfully joining in on the joke. “Yes, it is!”

You walk towards them, feeling the weight of the boots grounding you more firmly than before. It's an unfamiliar but comforting sensation.

Strauss resumes his task and turns the filled-out contract around for Amos to see. “If you will just sign here…”

Amos takes the pen, and signs his name. “There you are.”

The air is thick with the tang of fresh ink and sawdust, a strange yet comforting mixture that seems to tether you to this moment. As Amos hands back the document to Strauss, your eyes catch a glimpse of the door as it swings open, letting in a shaft of late afternoon sunlight that dances across the wooden floor.

And a woman, thin and tired, steps inside, letting the door close softly behind her.

Amos looks up and sees her and nods a polite greeting. “Hello, Mrs. Downes.”

She doesn’t smile, the dark circles under her eyes show evident fatigue.

Strauss feels that it is becoming too crowded and takes back the paperwork and secures it in his portfolio. “We will be back with a crate full of cures for you to sell.”

Amos grins. “Sounds perfect. Thank you, Mr. Kilgore.”

Strauss looks at you, gesturing to the door with a tilt of his head. You nod politely to Amos and follow Strauss as you both head out the door.

The woman, Mrs. Downes, brushes past you and goes to the counter.

Amos, his tone shifting to gentle and stern, shifts his attention to his new customer. “Now, Mrs. Downes, if you don’t have any money, I won’t be able to assist you. You no longer have any store credit…”

You don’t hear her response as you step outside, the ring of the bell drowning out Mrs. Downes pleading cries to give her more credit. You can’t help but let your heart sink a little. Even with all of your misfortunes, you realize that there are other people who have it worse than you.

Stepping into the golden haze of late afternoon, you feel the sharp sting of reality in your bones, a somber reminder of the harshness lurking beneath the surface of every day in this town. The sunlight casts long shadows across the muddy street, mirroring the darkness that tugs at your soul.

As you walk alongside Strauss, you see how he clutches his portfolio, a grin on his face. “You really think this will work?” you find yourself asking.

Strauss nearly scoffs. “It’s worked for the past few years, fraulein.” And he stops in front of the wagon. “Why would it fail now?” He hops back into the wagon and doesn’t offer to help you at all. You feel a little miffed, not that you really need his help, and you get yourself in the wagon, anyway.

“It could fail because I don’t remember.” You are getting more frustrated by the minute. “And if I don’t manage to figure out how to make this cure of yours, we will only have a short while before we are hung to dry.”

Strauss's lips press together in a thin line as he looks over at you, his eyes narrowing slightly. "You worry too much," he says, though the edge in his voice betrays his own concern. "Your memory has been returning, slowly but surely. We just need to keep pushing forward."

You sigh, watching pedestrians go by as he picks up the reins, backs up the team, and drives off down the street. “Easier said than done.”

He begins to look pensive, ideas of his own stirring in your head. “How have you managed it so far?” And seeing the confusion on your face, he explains. “How have your memories returned to you when you do remember?”

You look out into the town, blinking quickly as you try to explain it the best way you can. “It all depends. Oftentimes it is when someone says something, or shows me something.” You look down. “I remember things in my dreams, but they are more chaotic.” Then you remember the bandits on your way to Blackwater, and your heart beats quickly at the realization. “When I am in intense moments, things come more natural to me. Skills, that I didn’t know I had, reveal themselves when I am…what’s the word…stressed? But not?”

Strauss nods. “We could probably use that to our advantage…” And he returns his eyes to the road. “Let me think on it some more.”

As the wagon rattles along the uneven road, you find a moment of quiet introspection. The world around you sways gently with the motion of the journey, and your thoughts drift back to those intense moments that peel back the veil on your past. Each memory—a flickering image, a ghostly whisper—feels like a piece of a puzzle slowly fitting back into its rightful place, though the overall picture remains elusive. The sun dips lower, casting long shadows that dance across the path in front of you, mirroring the fluttering uncertainty in your heart.

You wonder about Arthur, what he’s doing, or whether he’s thinking of you as much as you are him. He left you so quickly to go help Hosea, and he said he’d be gone for a few days.

It seems that the person who would know about you the most, would be him.

And the troubling part is, is that you’d like to know why. Why does he seem to know you more than anyone else? Why is it his face you think of? Why do you feel drawn to him the most?

You suppose you’ll have to figure that out, because he isn’t telling you.

***

You and Strauss make it back to camp and you don’t wait for him to make a complete stop before you get down. Taking your old shirt and skirt in your arms, you make your way over to the lean-to where you are sleeping.

There, sitting nearby on a log, is Mary Beth.

You feel happy to see her, and you wave. “Hello, Mary Beth.”

She lifts her eyes and waves at you. “Dobrý den, příteli!”

You halt in your steps, hearing Czech come out of her lips is near surprising. “Did I…? Did I teach you that?”

She nods, joy radiating from her being. “Yes! It means: hello, my friend! Does it sound familiar?”

You feel your ears ache a little, and a small memory brings itself forward in your mind. A paper tablet in your hand, sitting next to Mary Beth, and you are writing down words and phrases as you teach them to her.

You nod, smiling. “I think so…did I give you words written down?”

She nods again. “You’re remembering!” Mary Beth's excitement is contagious, and her smile broadens as she shifts on the log to make room for you. "Yes, Kitka, you gave me a whole list! We were trying to learn so we could gossip privately. It made the evenings pass more cheerfully." She reaches into the pocket of her skirt and pulls out a crinkled piece of paper. “I’ve kept it with me to practice, but when you were gone…” Her smile falls. “I still wanted to, to honor you.”

You motion to sit next to her, tossing your pile of clothes on your bed roll. “Thank you, Mary Beth. I’m glad to have you as a friend.”

She nods, her frown turning into a bittersweet smile. “It wasn’t the same when you were gone.”

You try to imagine what it must have been like, though it is hard to. You can only compare it to your recent loss. Jeremy. The name evokes a pang in your chest, and you find yourself struggling to breathe for a moment. "Jeremy," you repeat softly, as if testing the weight of his name on your tongue. “He was someone I met in Blackwater. He treated me with kindness and…was killed just before Arthur found me.”

Mary Beth notices your discomfort and places a gentle hand over yours. "You two were becomin’ close, weren't you?”

You nod. “I only knew him for a month, but he was one of the good ones.” And you feel a question bubbling up inside you, and you hope that she can answer. “Were…were there others who missed me when I was gone?”

She nods her head softly. “Of course, there were. Us girls cried for weeks. Being in Colter didn’t help things much, but it was an excuse to huddle together and cry for a while.” She plays with one of her honeyed ringlets, looking down into her lap. “Charles kept to himself, Ms. Grimshaw was more bitter. Most of us were quiet. Hosea was…the saddest I’ve ever seen him.”

Hosea. You haven’t met him yet. Arthur has a lot of respect for him, describing him as the closest to a father that he’s ever had.

Then Mary Beth speaks again. “You weren’t the only one we had lost, though.”

You blink at this. “No?”

She shakes her head. “No. Jenny and Davey. Jenny was new, and we all liked her. Davey was rough around the edges, but fought well. They…both died as we were trying to flee Blackwater.” She looks over where Lenny is, as he is talking to Dutch about literature. “Lenny was sweet on Jenny, it hit him the worst.”

Your heart aches at this. It seems that loss had been a constant companion to everyone here, not just you.

“You all had to bear so much,” you murmur, feeling the weight of their collective grief mingling with your own. It’s a strange sort of bond, forged through shared pain and loss. “I wish that I could do something to ease that pain…” You chuckle bitterly. “It’s not like the cures I make can fix that…”

Mary Beth nods again, her eyes misty. Her hand squeezes yours a little tighter, offering a silent understanding that words couldn't quite fulfill. "You've endured so much, too, Kit," she murmurs, her voice soft as the breeze that rustles through the nearby trees. "But you're strong, stronger than most could ever hope to be."

You hardly feel strong. It seems that everyone sees you as a person that you wouldn’t ever dream of being. Clever, creative, resilient. You’ve hardly proven yourself to be such things.

But one thing that you will accept is that you’re curious, and your curiosity begins to bubble in your throat, threatening to form into one single question. “What about…Arthur?” You swallow. “How was he when I was gone?”

She looks at you, studies you, her eyes twinkling at the question. “He…he was gone a lot. After headin’ out with Charles, he would go hunting on his own, even when the snowstorm was at its worst. It was like he…” She looks away, as though picturing those dark days in her mind. “It was like he became a ghost.” Mary Beth's voice drops to a whisper, "Nobody could reach him, Kit. It was as if he was chasing your shadow out there in the blizzard.” She pauses, her expression pained. “I think he felt responsible…for not being able to save you.”

You feel a knot tighten in your stomach. You remember the way he looked at you when you first saw him in Valentine. He looked rough, and not just from the fight he had just been through. His eyes had a haunting depth to them, like a well that had run dry from drawing too much water. When he realized it was you standing before him, the shock that crossed his face was almost like seeing a ghost—his ghost, the one he had been chasing in those snow-filled woods.

“But it wasn’t his fault,” you insist. “He wasn’t anywhere near that boat.”

“Oh, I know,” she agrees. “But Arthur has always been one to take things hard. He can be his own worst enemy sometimes.”

You somehow find that to be true, even with the little interaction you’ve had with him. Mary Beth is very observant, no doubt that comes from being a writer. You have a feeling that she sees what others don’t or won’t admit. “Was…was there something between me and Arthur?”

You see a smile curl on her lips. “I’ve had my suspicions…but I never could tell.” She plays with her hair again. “No doubt you two flirted at times, and I did see you two walk off together from time to time.”

You frown. “Like Micah said.”

She quickly looks at you, and takes your hand again. “Don’t listen to him. He was just trying to cause a rift between you and Dutch, especially since you expressed doubts about that ferry job.” Mary Beth's grip on your hand tightens as she leans closer, her voice dropping to a near whisper. "But between us, Kit, it was clear to anyone with eyes that Arthur cared deeply for you. More than just comrades-in-arms, there was something tender there.”

You gently pull your hand out of hers. “Well, I think that might be gone now.” You look down into your lap. “I think it doesn’t help that I can’t remember anything about it.”

She is quiet for a moment. “Maybe we can help you.”

“What?”

“Sure! Us girls, we've got to stick together, don't we? I’ve seen you struggle, trying to piece things back together. Maybe it’s time we started filling in some of those blanks for you. We can tell you about the heists, the camps...about Arthur.” Mary Beth’s eyes are warm but serious, a light shimmer of hope. “Maybe even help restore what was forming between you two.”

You feel a heat in your cheek. “I don’t know. That almost sounds like forcing it, doesn’t it?”

Mary Beth shrugs. “It wouldn’t hurt to try, would it?”

You shake your head. “I don’t know, Mary Beth. I think that we might be making something out of nothing.” You rise to your feet, brushing the dirt off of your pants. “That’s the way it is, I guess.”

Her smile disappears as she looks at you forlorn. “Are you sure? Ain’t you the least bit curious?”

You take a few steps away. “I need my memories restored, but I have to be prepared in case they never come back fully.” You look up into the sky and find nature that is surrounding you pulling you in, away from camp. “I think I'm going to take a walk," you say, turning to walk away.

“Don’t wander too far!” Mary Beth calls after you, resigned to your decision. “You might not find your way back!”

You start to walk towards the trail that goes down toward the river, stopping as you hear a soft whinny. You turn to see Odliv, eyeing you.

You smile. Maybe a ride, not a walk, would do you some good.

Walking over to her, she pounds the ground with her hoof. She’s eagerly anticipating what you might do.

You lift a hand and let it graze her back, her coat shiny and smooth. You remember riding bareback, holding your hands out like the wings of a bird. You can do this, surely you can ride a horse.

You take hold of her mane and grip it tightly. She lifts her head and remains still, clearly you’ve done this before. Stepping back while keeping your hold, you swing yourself up and over, with an agility that surprises you.

You sit atop her back and realize that you are high up. Your legs dangle at her sides and she shakes her head, letting the braids go flying.

You won’t ride far, just to the river. That should be practice enough.

You mimic what Arthur did, making a clicking sound with your mouth, and she moves forward. “Oh!” you gasp delightfully, your heart beating faster with the anticipation of this little adventure.

And as you are about to leave camp, something white catches your eye.

It is a woman, in her mid-twenties, leaning against a tree. She’s wearing a white blouse and a dark skirt. Her golden hair in a single braid and a scowl on her face.

You try to remember her name. There were so many faces…

You remember now. Sadie. Sadie Adler.

The girls told you her story. Recently widowed, Micah set her house on fire, everything she knew was taken from her.

Yes. Many have it way worse than you.

You pull Odliv’s mane and she stops. You just sit there quietly for a moment before clearing your throat.

The widow, after a moment, turns her head slowly to look at you.

You nod. “Hello, Mrs. Adler.”

She doesn’t smile, but she isn’t cold in her reply. “Hello.”

You don’t know what to say to her. You can only imagine that words are futile in a situation like this. “I’m going to go down to see the river. It seems peaceful down there.”

Sadie only nods.

You swallow. “Do you want to come?”

She looks at you for a moment, eyes narrowing slightly as if assessing your intentions. Then, with a slight nod, she answers, "Might as well. Not much else to do 'round here."

You reach behind you and pat the remaining space on Odliv’s back. “Plenty of room up here if you want a ride.”

She considers it and without saying a word, approaches your horse. You offer a hand, but she refuses by getting up on Odliv by herself. Both of her legs hang over Odliv’s left side and she keeps herself balanced without holding onto you. “You can go on. I’m ready now.”

You click your tongue and Odliv continues on her way.

The gentle trot of Odliv's hooves against the dirt path creates a rhythmic melody that blends with the whisper of the wind through the trees. The river isn't far, just a few minutes' ride from camp, but the journey there feels isolated from the rest of the world—a narrow escape into a quieter, more serene place.

“I am not really good with things like this,” you start to say. “I only know that words aren’t enough when you’ve lost someone.”

She snorts. “You’re right about that.”

“But for what it is worth, I really am sorry. I can’t imagine what it must have been like…what you went through.” Sadie goes quiet for a moment and you only hope that you didn’t make things worse. “I’m sorry…” And then you speak to yourself, “ Nehas, co tě nepálí.”

Sadie snorts again, nearly chuckling. “What?”

You blink, realizing you just spoke in your native tongue. How do you keep doing that? But the thrilling thing is, is that you know what it means. “It’s Czech. Basically, it means that I should mind my own business…” You look down, embarrassed. “Sorry, I can’t seem to control when it slips out.”

Sadie gives you a curious look. “Sounds like something my late husband would say…in his own way.” Her tone softens a bit, a distant sort of fondness threading through her words as she looks at the scenery around you. “I just wish that he heeded his own advice.”

And as usual, your curiosity bangs on the door of your mouth. “What was his name?”

Her reply comes out soft, lamented, as she speaks her husband’s name. “Jake.”

You repeat it. “Jake. He must have had a kind heart.”

“Yes, he did. Too kind.”

You debate whether or not you should ask what happened. But you decide that you know enough. If she wants to talk about it, it should be on her own terms. Instead, you think to talk about something else. “Have you been around here before?”

Sadie shrugs. “A couple of times. Where me and my husband lived, there wasn’t a place close by to get supplies unless we grew and hunted it ourselves. We had to stop in Strawberry.”

You nod. “I’ve been there only once. Jeremy and I had to pick up lumber near there.”

Sadie furrows her brow. “Jeremy? Who’s Jeremy?”

Right. She wouldn’t know him and you have only mentioned him to Arthur, Mary Beth, and inadvertently Strauss by way of Amos. “He…was a friend I met in Blackwater. He was killed a couple of days ago.”

You hear a growl in her voice. “O’Driscolls?”

“No, bandits. They wanted our goods. He was shot and beaten to death.” You look down. “I couldn’t save him.”

Sadie snarls. “They’re all the same. Doesn’t matter what they’re called.”

“You mentioned O’Driscolls. Was Kieran one of the men that did it?”

She scoffs. “Does it matter?” Looking over your shoulder, you can see the storm gathering in Sadie's eyes, the kind that gushes through like a runaway train, leaving nothing but devastation in its wake.

You shrug. “I just didn’t think that Kieran was the type of person to murder someone’s husband. He doesn’t have the look.”

Sadie looks away from you, out towards the river as you approach it. The water glistens under the faint sun, a stark contrast to the storm brewing in Sadie's heart. “It weren’t him.”

You find relief in that, as you had just shown him kindness earlier.

You stop Odliv just before the river and dismount. You walk near the river bed, picking up a smooth stone. You think to try and skip it, something you aren’t sure you’ve ever tried before, and with a fling of your arm, you throw the rock. Miraculously, it skips twice before plunking beneath the water.

“Didn’t know I could do that…!” you say and Sadie walks beside you.

She laughs, a sound like the crack of a whip in the quiet morning air, surprising and full of life. “Well, you’re full of surprises, ain’t you?”

You aren’t sure how to take her remark, so you just smile at her, feeling a lightness you hadn't felt since waking up in Blackwater with gaps in your memory like missing pages from a book. “I guess I am.”

She looks out at the water, arms crossed. “By the way folks were talkin’, you were like the queen of Sheba. Never knew people could take to missin’ a person that bad.”

Your brow furrows. “And you don’t miss Jake terribly?”

She must realize the bite of her words, for her eyes soften as she looks down. “Every day, Kit. Every single day.” Sadie's voice cracks slightly, revealing a chink in her otherwise ironclad demeanor. “I guess I’m just bitter, jealous that you had so many people thinkin’ of you. Jake only has me.”

You nod, understanding more than you wish you did. Your brother only has you, and you can’t even remember much about him, other than his name.

You place a comforting hand on Sadie's shoulder, feeling the tremor of her concealed sorrows under your touch. "I suppose we are both a bit lost in our own ways, aren’t we?" you say softly.

Sadie nods, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. "Reckon so," she replies, her voice husky from the emotion. You both stand by the river for a moment longer, neither of you are eager to break the silence that has wrapped around you like a comforting shawl.

Finally, you turn to her, squaring your shoulders against the cool wind that cuts across the water. "What do we say we head back? Or do you want to be alone out here?”

She considers it for a moment. “I’ll go back with you.”

You nod. “Let’s walk back, I think Odliv will follow us.”

Sadie looks at the palomino. “She yours?”

“Yes, I guess I have had her for a while. Arthur was taking care of her.”

“Arthur. He ain’t like the rest of them, is he?”

You shrug. “I can’t say. I know him, and yet, I don’t.”

She nods. “Must be hard, not remembering them.”

Your lips part slightly, as if to confide, but the words linger in your throat. Instead, you turn, leading Sadie back towards the path that stretches back to camp. The rhythmic crunch of gravel and dirt underfoot provides a kind of solace, a reminder of the forward motion life demands.

As Odliv trots behind you both, you watch the area around you. Since being attacked by bandits, you can’t help but feel like two women walking alone are like sitting ducks out on the open road. And yet, you have a feeling that anyone who tries anything might be in for a big surprise.

“Do you know what you used to do?” Sadie asks. “I mean, it seems like everyone around here pitches in, or does something for the gang. And since you’re one of the older members—”

“I’m not that old.”

“—I mean, old as in been here the longest.”

“Oh.”

“Anyway, I just was curious.”

You blink as you try to remember. Your head starts to ache again, and it begins at the base of your skull. You reach a hand back there, and suddenly, a flash of memory comes to you.

You are standing in front of a bank. Looking up, you see the sign.

The Bank of Lee and Hoyt.

You are dressed in a beautiful dress, a knife hidden in your bust, as there is plenty of room to conceal it without making it too obvious. You are busy. Distracting two employees from the bank, as you have lured them outside.

While the three of your band are working inside...

You’re dancing, literally bending over backward in flips and turns. You have bare feet and bracelets on your ankles.

Then you hear the back side door to the bank open. It is time to go.

And before the men even know what is happening, you reach into your cleavage, pull out two small orbs, and throw them to the ground.

A plume of violet and blue bursts forth, the men shouting in awe at the sudden burst of colors, not having a clue that you just slipped away.

You reach Boadicea, hold out your arm, and Arthur swoops you up, your body expertly swinging itself onto Boadicea’s back.

You eye the bags of gold bars and money. A man, with blonde hair and brown eyes, nods at you. “Good work, Kit. If you hadn’t done that, there would have been more to deal with in there.”

“It was a lot more difficult for the one clerk in there to say no,” Dutch, younger and livelier, chortles. “Ah, the persuasiveness of true patriots.”

But you find yourself more tuned into the praise you want to hear. The deep voice vibrates as you rest your cheek against his back. “Kit, where were we before we found you?”

The flash fades, and you find yourself on your knees, Sadie coming to your side. “Hell, girl, what’s wrong?” You rub the back of your head, grimacing as you try to rise to your feet. “No, don’t move, let me go get some help—”

“No, Sadie! It’s fine. I just…” Then you remember something. “I need to speak to Strauss.”

***

After helping you onto Odliv’s back, you and Sadie ride the rest of the way back to camp. The sun is starting to set, another day is nearly gone.

But you’re not done.

You dismount, leaving Sadie, and look about the camp for the shrew in human clothing.

And then you find him, sitting at a table by the medicine tent, looking through a ledger of some kind. He sees your shadow cast down on him and he lifts his head.

“Ah! I hope you’re here to tell me you’ve remembered how to make the cures, hm?”

“No.” And seeing the crate of cures underneath the table, you reach down and grab one. “I just want this.”

His eyes widen and he quickly rises to his feet. “No, Ms. Petrova! We only have fourteen of those left!”

You pull the cork and you can smell an earthiness waft out of the bottle. “If it is as good as you say…” You begin to bring the bottle to your lips. “Maybe it can help me.”

Strauss shakes his head. “No, no, Kitka. That is not for—” But before he can finish, the liquid has already passed your lips, a bitter taste coating your tongue as you swallow. You grimace. Strauss watches you carefully, his expression a mix of horror and curiosity. “You should not have done that,” he mutters. “It will be a waste on you. It doesn’t work like people want it to, do you understand?!”

His words hang in the air, heavy with implication, but you barely register them as a warmth begins to spread through your chest. The concoction swirls in your stomach, its potency nothing like the wine you’ve sampled at the restaurant in Blackwater. You focus on Strauss's face as it contorts with concern.

"I had to try…” you sigh, your voice teeming with desperation. “I’m tired of not remembering anything, Strauss! You have no idea what it is like…!”

Strauss's frown deepens, his hand hovering over the table, as if ready to snatch the bottle away. But he doesn’t. Instead, he steps closer, peering into your eyes as though searching for signs of adverse effects. “What you seek isn’t found at the bottom of a bottle, fraulein.” He shakes his head. “Especially not this kind.”

You feel foolish. You should have known that your own snake oil wasn’t going to cure you, or even help you. It could probably help with a cold or maybe sleepiness, but memory loss? That is too far-fetched.

You suddenly feel the sting in your eyes, the glossiness blurring your beautiful hazel-green irises.

The silence stretches between you, broken only by the low hum of activity inside the camp. Strauss continues to study you, concern etching deeper lines into his already wrinkled face. "You are desperate," he finally says, tone softening. "I understand that, but there are safer methods... perhaps we could—"

"No! I already did safe!” You feel your body tense up, an anger building inside you as other members at camp take notice. You clench your fists, unable to wipe away your tears. “I’m tired of just sitting by and doing nothing! I need something to trigger it all, every last bit of it!”

You whip around and make your steps purposeful as you walk in between Uncle and Bill as you go.

Walking a couple of yards, you turn around a large tent, finding Dutch sitting there on his cot with Molly.

He looks up at you, almost surprised. “Why, Ms. Petrova…!”

“Dutch,” you say, your voice trembling with emotion, but with also a great sincerity. “I want to work again.”

Chapter Text

“Now that we’re done with this nonsense,” Arthur grunts as he rolls his shoulders. “I have somethin’ I need to tell you.”

Hosea waves off Seamus as the blacksmith disappears into his barn. They had just finished delivering a stolen stagecoach to him, in hopes of gaining an alliance…and a way to make money. 

Arthur and Hosea have always worked well together, Hosea with his quick mouth and cunning, and Arthur with his strength and resilience. Brains and Brawn, working side by side to get the job done. 

It would have worked another time, had they had the chance in Blackwater. Before everything went to hell. 

He would have had the opportunity, the greatest opportunity he could have ever had…

“What’s that, Arthur?” Hosea walks up to Silver Dollar, his Turkoman, and gives him a good pat on the neck.

“Kit is alive.”

Hosea freezes, his palm resting on Silver Dollar’s neck. He turns to look back at Arthur over his shoulder. “Arthur, I know you want to believe that–”

“She’s at camp. I found her.”

Hosea's expression shifts from disbelief to a profound amazement, shadowed by caution. "At camp? How? When?" His voice lowers as he glances around Emerald Tanch, ensuring no other ears are nearby.

Arthur takes a step closer, his eyes intense but worn. "I saw her with some feller in Valentine—”

“Yes, Bill and Javier came back calling you crazy…” His voice trails off and he shakes his head. “I was beginning to doubt you myself.”

Arthur continues. “Well, I followed them when they left, trailed them a mile or two behind. I heard gunshots, and came riding up to find that they had been attacked by bandits.”

Hosea leaves his mount and steps toward him. “Was she hurt?”

Arthur shakes his head, almost smiling. “She fought her way through, like always.”

Hosea can’t believe it, as disbelief is etched across his face. “Arthur…” His voice softens as he lays a hand on Arthur's shoulder. "This is remarkable news, but we need to tread carefully. With everything that happened before the ferry robbery…”

Arthur's expression tightens, the fleeting smile disappearing as quickly as it came. "I know, but I also need to tell you…” He steps closer to Hosea, speaking in a hushed voice. “She doesn’t remember.”

Hosea blinks. “At all?”

“At all. She didn’t know who I was…” Arthur looks out into the Heartlands, his heart aching in places he thought were closed off. “She don’t know that…”

“She doesn’t know,” Hosea repeats, understanding what he means. “I’m sorry, Arthur.”

“It’s better this way,” Arthur clears his throat after it trembles at the beginning of his sentence. “Dutch seems to be watchin’, he’s on edge with everythin’ and everyone. It’s best that we lie low, like you said, and hope for the best.”

Hosea lowers his head, exhaling slowly. “We’ve been through worse, don’t get me wrong, but, I think that it is only a matter of time before…” He lets his voice trail off.

“I know,” Arthur says with finality.

Hosea meets his gaze. “Are you sure she doesn’t remember anything?”

Arthur nods. “Yes. If she did remember, she wouldn’t be behavin’ as she is.”

Hosea tilts his head, his brow pinched in confusion. “What do you mean, son?”

“She’s…she’s…” He doesn’t know how to explain it, not without telling Hosea everything. Everything he has been keeping from everyone.

Hosea must see it in his face. “What is it, son?”

And like a crashing wave, it overwhelms him.

***

“I’m scared…” you say as he holds your face in his hands, his thumbs caressing your cheeks. “I’m scared that this will destroy us all.”

Arthur looks into your eyes, those hazel eyes with pools of green, and how the tears flow out of them. He hates it, he hates to see you cry, for you rarely ever do, only for deepest reasons that you are too proud to acknowledge. That’s just your way. It’s who you are.

And he loves you for all of it.

“I know, Kitten,” he says softly, feeling free to speak your pet name. You both have snuck away once more outside of camp, to a secret spot beyond the river. Blackwater is a dry land full of cheek grass, rocks, and valleys. It’s the Great Plains, touching on the borders of New Austin.

It’s open, more open than the woods that you and the gang have been sequestered in. And in doing so, other things have come out in the open.

It has been developing over the last couple of years. The glances, small gestures of kindness, the flirtatious banter, and witnessing how you’ve been with Jack. All these things have drawn Arthur to you, and he has begun to think that maybe, just maybe, that he could have the chance at a new life that has eluded him twice before. With Mary, and with Eliza and Isaac.

You were there after the fallout with Mary, though you never met Eliza. Actually, you didn’t know why he had come back after a few days drunk and bitter and depressed, not until years later, under a canopy of stars, when he told you that he had loved a woman, fathered a child, and found their two crosses. You were sensitive to him, then, not expecting anything, and only giving comfort in return. For the longest time, Arthur had closed his heart off to love, hopeless and sour-faced as a result. 

But now…you’ve grown to love each other and it has given Arthur hope.

And now Micah, with his forked tongue, has been spinning ideas in Dutch’s ear. This ferry, promising money beyond their wildest dreams, is the way to paradise. And Dutch is buying it.

And what’s worse, is that they are recruiting you to help them.

“If I do this, it can go two ways…” you continue, your voice wavering as you gaze up at the endless stretch of sky above, "Either we get enough to leave here for good... or things go wrong, Arthur. Badly wrong." There's a tightness in your chest as you speak, the weight of the impending danger pressing down like an iron shroud. “I normally don’t worry about things like this, but something is telling me otherwise…” 

Arthur's eyes, usually so full of determination and quiet strength, now reflect your fears. He wraps his arms around you tighter, as if to shield you from the uncertain future looming ahead. "We'll make it through this, Kit," he murmurs into your hair, the rough timbre of his voice both comforting and resolute. “Hosea and I have been workin’ on somethin’. Maybe we can get to it before all of this.”

He feels you shake your head, stirring the fragrance of patchouli and bergamot oils that scent your hair. “I love you, Arthur, můj král.”

My King. After King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table. It was one of the first books you had read in its entirety. He thought it was a little silly, at first, to be referred to as a king, but now, the title holds a different meaning for him. It is a vow, a silent promise between the two of you, wrapped in the words of your native tongue.

Arthur’s grip tightens, his lips pressing a gentle, firm kiss atop your head. “And I love you, Kitten. No matter what happens.” He whispers it, his breath warm against the cool evening air. The tension in his frame doesn't ease, though; if anything, it tightens.

You pull back slightly, looking up into Arthur's eyes, needing to see the truth in them. “Promise me, promise that no matter what happens, we won’t leave without each other. Tell me that we’ll find a way to be together, even when the world seems hell-bent on keeping us apart.” Your voice cracks slightly with the intensity of your emotions, each word a plea tethered to the core of your being.

Arthur’s eyes soften, crinkling at the corners as he gives you a small, sad smile. "I promise, Kit. Ain't nothin' in this world or the next that could tear me away from you." His words, spoken with such certainty, make your heart swell even amid the fear and uncertainty.

You nod, feeling a momentary peace settle over you. “I want it to be eternal, Arthur.” His eyes lower to meet yours and he can see the sincerity in them.

He feels it. He’s thought about it, considered it, but was always too afraid, especially after everything that has happened prior to all of this.

He takes your hands in his, rubbing your knuckles as he considers his next words. “Then will you…?” He struggles, swallowing thickly as the moon casts its glow. “Will you…marry me, Kitka?”

Your expression says it all. Surprise, but relief. Joy that he would feel the same sentiment. “Yes, I will…” And you pull him into a kiss, your softness and hunger teasing at hidden desires that you have kept inside all of these years. You run your fingers through his hair, and he hears a soft moan in the back of your throat as he continues to kiss you hungrily.

He leaves your mouth, tracing your jawline and neck with soft kisses, inhaling the smell of your skin. You arch your neck back, opening yourself to him.

“Arth…Arthur…”

He’s become intoxicated by your smell, his hands beginning to softly wander. His heart thrums steadily, anticipation running through his veins. “Mmm…?”

You place a hand firmly on his chest, pushing him away. “We’ve waited this long…” you say, your voice trembling as you fight your own desires. “We need to find someone to marry us.”

Of course. He knows how much it means to you, and he senses the urgency of it, for many reasons.

He nods, understanding the significance of making it official, binding it beyond just words whispered in the shadow of night. “Alright, Kit. We’ll do it right.” Arthur’s voice is steady, reassuring as he pulls you back into an embrace.

***

The next morning dawns with a crispness that hints at the coming change. You and Arthur told Hosea that you were getting some last-minute supplies, and would be gone for a day or two. Arthur can trust Hosea to placate Dutch long enough for them to return, even though no one knows the reason why you both only took your horses, not a wagon cart to wheel in supplies back to camp.

Arthur watches you as you ride side by side. The dark wisps of your hair flying wildly in the wind. Odliv saddled in the embroidered leather that you painstakingly made, looks like a horse fit for carrying royalty. You look like a vision from a dream, your hazel eyes alight with determination and excitement. Arthur can't help but smile, his heart swelling with pride and love for the strong, incredible woman you've become.

As the church comes into view, a mix of nervousness and excitement bubbles up within him. He knows this is it. This is when you and him will be man and wife, and he can finally put to rest the fear of losing you forever. With every beat of his heart, he feels closer to a future he once thought impossible.

A minister, Arthur deduces by his attire, attends to a small garden on the side of the church, a small, weathered building that has seen better days, much like the two of you. It’s humble but fitting, mirroring the simplicity and authenticity of your love. As he dismounts, Arthur’s knees feel unsteady, not from the ride, but from the magnitude of the moment about to unfold.

He strides over to help you down from Odliv, his hands strong yet gentle. You take a deep breath, exhaling softly as your eyes meet his. You chuckle, the giddiness clearly evident. “Let’s go talk to him,” you say.

Taking your hand in his, he smiles down at you. “Okay…” You both walk together, calmly approaching the minister as his back is turned. Arthur clears his throat. “Ahem. Excuse me?”

The man shoots straight up, turning around and upon seeing you two, looks afraid while also trying to maintain an air of calm. “Can I help you?”

You, in your blunt way, speak plainly. “We are wanting to get married. Can you marry us?”

The man looks at you both with suspicion. “You aren’t…running away from something are you?”

You both look at each other. That is one of the nicer questions that he could be asking. And you smile as you shake your head. “No, just…running towards something better, together.” Your voice holds a hint of defiance, a sparkle of your past challenges woven through the calm of your present.

Arthur’s grip tightens around your hand, reassuring and solid. His eyes, a deep marine blue, don’t stray from yours, affirming every word silently as he nods to the man of the cloth. “Yes. We just wanted to do it right.”

The minister seems to appreciate this, as his eyes soften toward you both. “You’ll need two witnesses.”

You frown. “Oh.”

Then he grins. “Don’t worry, I’m sure the groundskeeper and his wife won’t mind. They are inside now.” He brushes the dirt off his hands. “Please, give me a moment to ask them.” And he turns around to head inside the church.

When he leaves, Arthur feels you pull on his arm. He looks down at you and sees the goofiest smile on your face. “What?” he chuckles.

“It’s happening, Arthur,” you whisper as you nearly hop up and down. You are such a little thing, a precious thing, and he finds you adorable. “We’re getting married.”

He’s glad that you are so happy. Even with the loom of what will soon happen in Blackwater, he’s glad to be sharing this small time with you, without the prying eyes of everyone at camp.

He smiles at you and brings your hand up to kiss it, leaving his lips planted there longer than necessary.

The door to the church opens and the minister waves them over. “Please! Come in, you shall have your wedding.”

You giggle cheerfully, nearly pulling Arthur along. He nearly fumbles, but quickly falls in step with you once you reach the steps.

As you both enter the church, Arthur lets his eyes wander. It is clean, and even though it is old, it looks well-maintained. The stained glass windows cast a colored light into the small space, and turning his head, he sees the light casting a rainbow of colors on your skin.

You’re a beautiful sight.

The minister begins to introduce you both to the gardener and his wife. “Mr. and Mrs. Greene, this is…” and he turns to you two.

Arthur speaks for you both. “Arthur Morgan and Kitka Petrova.”

Mrs. Greene’s face lights up, looking at you. “Oh, you’re Russian?”

You shake your head, your brow pinching. “No, Czechoslovakian.”

The woman blinks. “Oh.” And after a moment, her eyes light up. “I will be right back.” And she steps quickly out the doors of the church.

You tap Arthur and he looks down at you. “I have something I want to change into…” And you turn to the minister. “Is there a place where I can freshen up really quick?”

He nods, pointing to a small door at the front of the church. “Right in there.”

You nod your thanks and let your hand graze Arthur’s arm before letting him go, taking your satchel with you. He can’t imagine what you want to wear, but it is your wedding day. Anything to make it more special, he is going to let you.

He wishes that he had something to wear.

The minister clears his throat. “So, Mr. Morgan, how did you meet your fiancée?”

Arthur knows the poor man is just trying to make conversation while they wait, but Arthur isn’t sure how to answer that. He thinks of the easiest answer. “We, erm…we grew up together. We met in California.”

“Oh? California is quite the distance from here.”

Arthur chortles. “Shoah is. Just didn’t think to ask her to marry me up until now.”

He hears the door open, and you step out slowly. Your skirt and blouse is the same, aside from the headdress and lace apron you wear. Arthur has seen you wear kroj before, the intricate floral embroidery all done by your hand, but as the years have gone by, you’ve worn the traditional garb of your home country less and less. To see you in the fěrtúšek and the Čepení , makes him feel something.

You pause by the door, pressing down the wrinkles of the fěrtúšek . “I don’t have a way to fix it.”

Arthur shakes his head. “You’re perfect, darlin’.”

Mrs. Greene smiles as she comes back in, with a bouquet of flowers in her hand. “Yes, dear. Just lovely.” 

You try to hide the blush on your cheek behind some of the fabric in your headdress, but it is a futile effort. You approach him, your eyes not leaving him and he takes your hands gently.

The minister beams. “I guess we are all ready now?”

With one more glance at you, Arthur looks at him. “We’re ready now, sir.”

The minister nods, a gentle warmth in his eyes as he motions for you and Arthur to step forward. You both walk in between the few wood pews worn smooth from years of use. Dust motes dance in the beams of sunlight filtering through the stained glass windows, casting vibrant hues across the wooden floor. The air is filled with a reverence and a whimsy that Arthur hasn’t really felt before, or at least he can’t seem to recognize it.

The minister gestures for Mr. and Mrs. Greene to come up, given that they are witnesses and all. They step forward and Mrs. Greene hands you the bouquet. You smile at her and take a moment to bury your nose in the flowers to drink in their aroma.

Now, you’re ready.

The minister goes through the words, and, of course, Arthur easily drowns them out. He’s never been a religious man, given his chosen profession, but in this moment, under the soft glow of the church’s stained glass, he feels something sacred. Arthur’s eyes never leave yours as the minister speaks of love, commitment, and the bonds that hold two people together. Your hands are clasped tightly together, his rough and calloused against your softer, delicate ones.

Then the minister’s next words require a response as he asks Arthur the question, “Arthur Morgan, do you take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife? To love and to cherish, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do you part?”

Arthur’s throat tightens, and his voice is a gravelly whisper when he finally speaks. “I do,” he says, squeezing your hands as if to reinforce the promise. His blue eyes, usually so guarded and stern, now shimmer with unshed tears, a rare glimpse of the vulnerability he so seldom lets show.

The minister turns his benevolent gaze on you, your breath hitches, the weight of the moment settling around you like a summer breeze. “Kitka Petrova, do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband? To love and to cherish, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do you part?”

And you do not hesitate, confidence emanating through the two most powerful words, “I do.”

Mrs. Greene emits a soft sigh, clearly enraptured by these two strangers. It almost bolsters Arthur’s resolve, a reassurance that they are doing the right thing.

Then, as though you had rehearsed it, you take out a ring, your father’s ring, and taking Arthur’s hand in yours, you slip it over his finger. You gasp softly. It fits.

And fulfilling his part, he takes the ring from his pocket, your mother’s ring, and it fits your finger perfectly.

And then the final words are spoken. “By the power vested in me, I pronounce you man and wife…” And the minister looks at Arthur. “You may kiss the bride.”

Arthur leans in, his eyes locking onto yours, the world around both of you fading into a distant murmur. His hands cup your face gently, a stark contrast to the usual roughness his life demands. “I love you,” he whispers, and catches your reply in his mouth. The kiss is tender, a seal on the vows you’ve just exchanged, filled with promises of a future that both of you have so long dreamed for.

***

“Are you sure you don’t want a hotel room?” Arthur asks you while starting the fire. You both have wandered further into New Austin, finding a body of water in a secluded spot. The canyon stands as a guardian, shielding anyone from coming by and seeing them. “It just don’t seem right to not get you a comfy bed and feather pillows on your weddin’ night.”

You are in your bare feet standing ankle-deep in the water as it laps waves into your legs. “I prefer this. It’s beautiful out here, and I find myself more at home in places like this.” You turn to look over your shoulder at him. “And no one is around.”

Arthur’s cheeks burn pink and he looks down. Here you are getting him more bashful when it’s you who ought to be.

The night air is cool, carrying the scent of juniper and the distant howl of a coyote. Arthur finishes setting up the small camp, his movements efficient yet gentle, always mindful of the world around him. The fire catches with a soft crackle, its glow dancing across his features, casting long shadows behind him. He rises to his feet and still finds you standing in the water. He smiles to himself and walks up to you, stopping at the water so he doesn’t get his boots wet.

“Are you ever gonna get out of that water, woman?”

You don’t turn around, but he can hear the smile in your voice. “That’s Mrs. Morgan, to you.”

Oh, does it ever feel good to hear those words. Never did he think those would ever be spoken near him. Bolstered by the thrill of it, he comes to you quickly, scooping you up in his arms. Water drips from your legs and you screech excitedly. “Mrs. Morgan, get out of that water,” he orders huskily. 

Your giggling simmers down quickly, and your eyes meet his as he carries you. “Okay.”

He leans in and kisses you hard on the mouth, and you sigh deeply. He feels his heart pound in his chest and your arms wrap around his neck.

Tonight, the desert's vastness seems to embrace you both, the stars twinkling like countless eyes watching over your newfound happiness. With Arthur carrying you back to the camp, the sand feels warm under his boots, a stark contrast to the cool water you just left.

He sets you down on a laid-out bedroll beside the newly kindled fire, close for the light to be cast on you but far enough where its heat won’t be a hindrance.

He remains hovered over you and even if he were to move, your arms hold him there as they are still around you. He looks at you, how the light of the fire casts its glow, burning a desire in him so deep that he feels as if it might consume him entirely. "I reckon I've been waitin' a lifetime for somethin' like this," he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion. The firelight flickers in your eyes, reflecting the earnestness of his words.

You reach up, tracing the line of his jaw. Your touch is so tender, so soft, as though you are mapping out a path on a sacred map, each contour under your fingertips a treasure trove of shared secrets and quiet dreams. “And I,” you whisper back, feeling the heat of the fire mingled with the warmth of his body, “never thought it would happen.”

He snorts at that. “No, you?” His grip tightens around your waist. “I find that hard to believe.”

You nod. “It’s true. I saw how other men looked at me. Mesmerized one moment, and disgusted the next.” Your eyes cast downward, avoiding his gaze. “I thought that because of my background, no decent man would want me.” Then your eyes lift into his again, and your palm goes over his chest. “But…I don’t think that anymore.”

He knows you feel his heart pounding, beating against his ribcage.

Arthur softens, his face close to yours, his breath mingling with the chilly night air. "Kit," he says gently, the word a caress in itself, "you're more than decent. You're extraordinary." His words hover between you like the fine desert sand carried by a breeze. "And those fools who looked at you that way—”

You place a finger on his lips, stopping him. “Arthur…I want you to touch me.”

His eyes, wide with a mixture of surprise and longing, search your face for any sign of hesitation. But there is none. There's only the clear, deep need reflected back at him—a need that mirrors his own. Your breath catches as his hands, those large, calloused hands, move slowly, almost reverently, down the curve of your back. Each touch whispers promises and secret confessions, lingering in places that make both of your hearts skip and your bodies tremble.

You convey your impatience by taking his arms, guiding them to leave you for a brief moment before placing his hands on the buttons of your blouse, leaning up and kissing him at the same time. The kiss deepens, drawing out a sigh from both of your lips as if the very air you shared was laced with destiny. His fingers fumble briefly at the buttons, a testament to his eagerness matched only by his reverence for the moment. The fabric parts, and the cool night air kisses your skin, raising goosebumps across its milky whiteness.

Arthur parts for just a moment, looking at you as you help remove your blouse and begin to work on your chemise as you untuck it from your skirt. He leans away to remove his shirt, undoing each button one by one. He hears your fragmented breaths as you hurry, and he looks up to see that your chemise and skirt are now gone, your bloomers only remaining.

He freezes what he is doing, letting out a broken chuff. He knew you were beautiful, but this…this is nearly heart-stopping.

You move to cover yourself, but hesitate. “Do I…? Does this disappoint you?”

His gaze lingers on you, raw admiration etched into the lines of his face, transforming him from the rugged outlaw to a man utterly captivated by the woman before him. "Kitka," he murmurs again, and this time your name sounds like a prayer from his lips. “Never.” The moonlight dances across your skin, and it’s all he can do from not rushing forward. Instead, he takes a deep, steadying breath, and tries to calm the storm raging inside him. Every instinct in his body screams to close the distance, to claim every inch of your exposed skin with his mouth, his hands. But he holds back, allows himself this moment to truly see you, all barriers gone as you slip your thumbs underneath the waistband of your bloomers, leaning back and pushing them off.

Your movements are graceful, clearly putting your skills as a mesmerizing performer to work. Only, this type of disappearing act will ever be for his eyes only.

You seem to have more confidence, as you rise on your knees and move closer to him. You maneuver your legs to where he kneels in between them, and you take his hands as they remain on the half-unbuttoned shirt.

Your hands guide his to pull the shirt off completely, letting it fall away to join the pile of discarded clothing. The somber moon casts its silvery glow, highlighting the contours of his well-built frame and creating a tableau—a mix of shadow and light playing across his sinewed chest.

The cooler air causes him to shiver and you press your body into his as he remains kneeled in the dirt and you wrap your arms around him. He buries his head in between your breasts and you card your fingers through his hair, your long fingernails sending chills down his spine. You are so soft, so warm and welcoming.

“Make love to me, můj král,” you moan softly. “Make love to your wife.”

And suddenly awakening that deep desire, his arms wrap around your waist and he guides you down on your back. Coming up to kiss you, he presses his lips deeper into yours, as he works his boots and pants free. It is a noble task, and once his boots and pants are nothing but a pile on the dirt, you break from his kiss. You look at his naked body, his muscles glistening in the moonlight, carved as if by the harsh landscapes through which he'd roamed. His eyes, those deep pools of marine blue, are fixed on you with an intensity that sends a visible shiver throughout your body. It's not just lust that shines in his gaze but a fierce protectiveness and the tender vulnerability of a man who has lost much yet finds himself on the precipice of reclaiming a part of his soul. His hands, rough from years of labor and gunplay, trace the curves of your body with a reverence that speaks to his deep-seated need to cherish what he once thought irretrievably lost.

Your eyes on him, though full of love and kindness, make him feel nervous. It has been years since he has been with a woman, and the fact that you have never seen a man in this form before doesn’t change the way he feels.

“I’m sorry,” he utters.

You look up at him, after looking his entire body over. “For what?”

He chortles and shakes his head. “Nothin’.” Arthur’s eyes soften as he looks down at you, his gaze again tracing the lines of your face illuminated by the moon. "Just... never thought I'd deserve this," he murmurs, his voice rough like the gravel paths you both once tread in a life that feels both distant and painfully close. “Deserve you.”

You reach up, your hand gently caressing his cheek, your fingers tracing the stubble along his jawline. "Everyone deserves a chance at happiness, Arthur," you whisper, your voice as soft as the breeze rustling through the nearby trees. "Even you."

He hesitates, the weight of his past and the shadows in his eyes flickering like the dimming embers of a campfire, but then he nods slowly, accepting your words. Arthur lowers himself, his body aligning with yours as the coarse fabric of the blanket beneath melds with the softness of the earth. His breath is warm against your cheek, mingling with the cool night air, creating a symphony of contrasting sensations that reflects the complexity of the emotions swirling between you.

He takes his hand and gently grazes your inner thigh. “You want me to…?” He wants to ask if you want him to guide you through what he’s about to do, but he isn’t sure how to say it without making it come out awkward.

But you take his hand, gently, but firm, instincts taking over inexperience. “Just…” you hiss softly. “Take me.”

And he takes you like a thief.

***

The silence that envelops the night is punctuated by the distant hoot of an owl and the rustle of leaves, a natural symphony that seems to acknowledge the sanctity of this moment between outcasts. He can feel your heartbeat, strong and pure as his fingertips trace the contours of your spine, descending to the small of your back, pulling you closer until there's no space left between you.

Your body is misted in sweat and he tries to conceal his breathing as he tries to catch it. You intertwine your legs with his and leaning in close, you plant light kisses on his collarbone.

“Are you alright?” you ask innocently, reaching a hand to wipe his brow. “You’re trembling.”

He nods. “I’m fine, kitten,” he purrs, focusing on the feel of your flesh beneath his fingers as you lay beside him. 

“Did I do good?” you ask him, then chuckling at your words. “Never mind. I should not have said that.”

He kisses your forehead. To think that you are still concerned about pleasing him, when he should be the one ensuring your comfort, makes his heart swell with an affection so potent it nearly suffocates him. “Oh, kitten…” he murmurs into your hair, his lips tracing a line down to your ear where he whispers reassurances of his love. “You were perfect.”

The stars above seem to twinkle their approval of this union, and they match the bubbliness in your giggle as you hide your face in his chest. “Really?”

“Really.”

You go quiet for a moment, and he feels the soft heat of your breath on his skin as it slows. “I don’t want this to end, Arthur.” And your voice starts to tremble. “I can’t go back to camp pretending this didn’t happen.”

He couldn’t agree more. There has to be something that can be done. A way to make it last long after tonight, long when years have gone. Then something comes into his mind. An idea. He leans back to look at your glistening body, letting his forefinger trail down your neck, sternum, and to your belly. “It doesn’t have to.”

Your eyes look into his, as though searching for an explanation. “What do you mean?”

He decides to spare you any enigmatic airs, like Dutch or Hosea. It’s always paid to be straightforward with you. “We leave.”

The word "leave" hangs between you like a promise, tinted with both the thrill of the unknown and the weight of all it would mean to abandon the life you've known. His fingertips still hovering at your belly, his gaze holds yours, unblinking, as raw and open as you've ever seen him.

“Leave?”

“Yes.”

You rest a hand on his chest. “You’d do that?”

“It ain’t like I have never thought about it.” In fact, he tried it once, years ago, but it was too late then. You were there for that, but you never knew, he never told anyone. He pulls you tighter. “I don’t see how it could be a better time.” He begins to picture it. A house in the woods, a garden and maybe some horses. Maybe…even little feet running across the wooden floors, and you chasing after them.

But you, always pragmatic, ask the real question. “How?”

It would have to be when everyone is distracted. Busy. When they would least expect you to. “The ferry robbery.” The idea hangs heavily in the air, infused with fears and possibilities alike. "During the peak of the robbery," Arthur continues, his voice a low rumble against the backdrop of the night's serene silence. "We grab what we need beforehand, have it ready, and disappear before anyone notices. It’s going to be chaos — no one will see us go."

"But Dutch?" you interject, your voice a whisper tangled in concern. Dutch had been like a father to both of you, his towering presence weaving through the threads of your lives, binding you to the gang. The thought of betraying him prickles your conscience like thorns. “He needs me to act as a hostage, that’s right in the middle of it…”

Arthur's eyes soften, the lines around them deepening with understanding. “You can slip off the boat when no one’s lookin’. You’ll look like a passenger. You’ll be a woman goin’ to meet her husband. You’ve pulled off easier stories than that.”

You look at the ring on your finger and feel butterflies in your stomach. Then you realize something. “We will need money.”

Arthur nods. You’re right. If Dutch taught him anything, it is that everything comes with a price, and so will leaving the gang for good. He lets his fingers caress your body, its silky softness arousing passions deep within him again. “I have some saved. About thirty dollars.” His eyes, piercing and resolute, meet yours as he adds, "Plus whatever you can take from the ferry. It ain't a fortune but it’s a start. Enough to get us away from here, buy us some time to figure out more." He feels a swirl of excitement with the twinge of danger. And he sees how you look at him, study him.

“I need something until then.”

Need? Would that you would never want or need of anything again, as long as he’s alive and breathing.  “Anythin’, Kitten.”

Your voice is low and soft as you make your request. “I need you to call me your wife.”

He snorts. “I can’t in front of the gang, Kitten, they’ll know.”

“Manželka, ” you say. And it catches him off guard. He’s tried to remember all the things you say, and this one isn’t familiar to him.

“What?”

You repeat it again, only slowly this time. “Manželka. It means wife.”

He understands now, like a secret code, words that can be spoken out loud but no one will know otherwise. “How do you say, ‘I love my beautiful wife?’”

Your lips curve into a smile, finding amusement and warmth in teaching him. “Miluji svou krásnou ženu,” you whisper back, your voice a veil of softness in the firelight that is growing dim.

Arthur tries it out, the unfamiliar words rolling awkwardly off his tongue. “Miluji svou krásnou ženu.” He grins, his chest swelling like a child who has just begun to learn to read. “How was that?”

He sees your dilated pupils, and your hands begin to travel down his body. “I can get you to say other things if you want…”

His eyes widen at your brazenness, and he feels his cheeks burn. “Kit—” he coughs, clearly caught off guard as you touch him in the most intimate of places. 

“Why, Mr. Morgan,” you giggle, kissing his chin. “Did I make you blush?”

The flames of the fire dance in your eyes as you pull him close, his breath mingling with yours. He nods, the rough stubble of his beard brushing against your cheek. "You did, indeed," he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that is suddenly caught in the pleasantness of your mouth, and soon he is a thief once again.

***

“My God,” Hosea breathes, as the weight of Arthur’s words sink in. “I suspected you two were sweet on one another, but...” He blinks. “You…”

“Please don’t tell anyone,” Arthur says, raising his palms. “I only told you ‘cause I…” His voice falls for a moment. “I just had to tell someone.” He did it. He shared the truth. That you and him are married. Sparing the intimate details, of course, but he feels a weight being lifted, relieved that he can find someone to trust and share in his plight.

Hosea nods. “I understand, son.” Hosea looks back at Silver Dollar, his eyes weary with sorrow. “I wish that you both made it out.”

Hosea's voice carries a hint of regret, one that twitches the corners of his aged eyes, making Arthur wonder if the older man ever regrets the path they've chosen, the life on the run. "But since you're still here," Hosea continues, patting Arthur gently on the shoulder, "you've got to try to find a new life for yourself. And for her, too." His voice is gentle, a stark contrast to the usual sharpness that life demanded of them.

Arthur nods silently, his eyes heavy with unshed tears, reflecting the glaring light from the sun. He feels a strange mix of relief and desolation. Your absence was like he was missing a vital organ, and now that you’re back, he needs to approach things differently now. And it’s the hardest thing he’s ever done. 

“I can’t tell her, Hosea,” Arthur says. “She gets to be in a lot of pain when she tries to remember things. It hurts me to see her like that.” He tucks his chin, weighing out his next words. “It could kill her if she knew.”

“Maybe that’s what happened.”

Arthur’s eyes lift to look at Hosea to see a steely gaze. “What?”

“Dutch said she drowned.” Hosea pauses, his voice softening as he watches Arthur closely. "But we both know Dutch can spin a tale when it suits him." Hosea's eyes hold a spark of something unreadable—a mixture of suspicion and hope. "You found her alive, didn't you? That means there's more to this story, more than we've been told."

Arthur's breath catches in his throat, a mix of fear and determination setting into his features. He shakes his head. “I don’t want to believe that,” he admits, the words heavy as stones.

“Think about it, son,” Hosea argues. “I am the last person to want to think of Dutch in that way, but…” He pauses. “But if what I’ve heard about that ferry robbery is true…If Dutch really did kill that girl in cold blood…” He studies Arthur for a moment. “Did you ask Dutch about it?”

"Yes." His voice is barely a whisper, afraid that speaking it louder might make it real. "I confronted him. All he told me that he didn’t see her, like he's weighin’ whether I should be told the truth or spared from it." Arthur's hands clench tightly into fists, a deep-seated anger simmering beneath the calm exterior. “Like he’s protectin’ someone.” Or, he fears, himself.

Hosea sighs, his breath calm and steady. “Just be careful, Arthur.”

“You know I will.” Arthur’s reply is gruff, edged with the resolve that has carried him through more than a few tight spots. “Could you talk to him? See if maybe he will tell you what happened?”

Hosea nods. “I will.”

Arthur nods. “Thank you, Hosea.” And he turns to head toward Montana. “Kit is back at camp. She’d be happy to see you, I told her about you.” He mounts Montana and takes the reins. “I need to meet up with Charles and Javier. Trelawny is supposed to have information on Sean.”

“Oh? Where’s that?”

“Blackwater.”

Hosea tenses. “Be careful, son. Remember, you’re wanted dead or alive.”

Arthur offers a grim smile, the corners of his mouth twitching with a mix of determination and rueful acknowledgment. "Ain't my first dance with danger," he replies, tightening his grip on Montana's reins. The horse shifts beneath him, sensing the rising tension. "I'll keep my head low."

With a nod, the gunslinger turns Montana and rides southward, leaving Hosea to watch his retreat, a blend of concern and pride etched deep into his weathered face. The sun dips lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the dusty road as Arthur disappears from view.

Chapter Text

“No.”

No? After hearing Dutch give a speech about everyone carrying their weight, he is telling you no?

“Why?”

Dutch waves off your question, as though that will be enough to dismiss it. You feel something in your chest rise up, anger perhaps, but it aches with disappointment. “You’ve been saying how your memories ain’t fully back, yet, how am I to expect you to carry on like you used to?” You want to protest, but he holds out his hand. “It’s late, anyway. Why don’t you join the other women and finish up the chores before the day’s over? They could use your help.”

You clench your fists and bite your inner cheek. “Fine.” And you turn to walk away. 

You have to do something. Danger seems to be the thing that helps trigger memories faster. That cure you drank, while easing up your headache, hasn’t done anything else. 

Your stomach is growling. You’re hungry. You actually didn’t eat yesterday and have had little to nothing today. As you make more distance between you and Dutch’s tent, you see John and Reverend Swanson getting their helpings of Pearson’s stew. 

You haven’t really spoken to them much, maybe conversing with new people will be a good distraction for now. 

Bolstered with the energy from your frustration, you walk over to them. 

And as you approach, you hear Kieran, as he pleads with John over something. 

“Shut up, O’Driscoll, I ain’t talkin’ to you!” The scar-faced man barks. 

“I-I just wanna go into the bushes! My teeth are gonna fall out if I don’t relieve myself…!”

Reverend Swanson, his half-lidded eyes looking at you, skirts out a hello. “Hell-o, missssss…”

You wave half-heartedly, unsure if he can even see you clearly. But announcing your presence gets Kieran’s attention and he looks eagerly at you. “Oh! Miss! Can you please help me?”

“She ain’t gonna go watch you take a piss in the woods, you idiot…!” John bristles. 

Kieran’s eyes widen more than they already have and he quickly shakes his head. So fast, it’s giving you a headache just looking at him. “No! No! That’s not what I—!”

John sets the ladle down and steps near Kieran, his fist raised. “I’ve gotta mind to knock you out, O’Driscoll, then you’ll really relieve yourself!”

Kieran, unable to defend himself with his hands, merely leans back into the tree, turning his head and closing his eyes. “No, mister! Please!”

“John!” you yell and John stops mid-swing. He turns to look at you and for a moment, you can see his eyes soften. 

“What?”

“What’s wrong with letting him…?” You gesture flippantly towards the bushes. “You really think any of us want to have urine and bile right here in camp?”

He scrunches his nose. Maybe not for the idea, but for the words you chose to use. “Kit…”

“I’m serious.” You point to Kieran’s trembling figure. “Look at him. He’s a little twig, this slaboch.” You chortle. “Even if you weren’t armed to the teeth, you really think he can take you?”

John’s expression shifts, a mix of annoyance layered with reluctant admission. He lets out a grunt, his fist lowering as he glares at Kieran who still hasn't dared to open his eyes. “Fine,” he mutters under his breath, stepping back and giving Kieran some room.

Kieran exhales deeply, leaning forward and putting his weight on his bound wrists. “Thank you,” he sighs.

“Don’t thank me, yet,” you say and you step closer to him, an idea brewing in your head. “I think you owe me, don’t you?”

He looks up at you, surprised. “Don’t tell me you’re like the rest of ‘em?”

You feign insult, resting a hand on your chest. “I’m deeply affected.”

John snickers. “No, you ain’t.”

You grin and look back at Kieran. “We’re outlaws, Kieran, at least that is what I’ve come to find since I’ve returned.” You lean close to him, showing your teeth as you smile. “And I think, most here figure you are guilty by association with the O’Driscolls. Men who killed Annabelle and Mr. Adler, among many others.”

Kieran shakes his head. “I didn’t kill nobody! Like I told you, I only ran with them for a few months!”

“Then it shouldn’t be too difficult to tell us where they are…” You feel John’s eyes on you, awestruck while also grudgingly impressed by your cunning.

"You don't understand, they'll kill me if I—"

"But you're dead either way if you don't," you interrupt, your voice dropping to a whisper that carries the weight of finality. "Help us, and maybe there's a way out for you."

Kieran looks at you, his eyes shifting as he wrestles with the choice you gave. It doesn’t help that John, his face intimidatingly scarred, glares at him with a wolfish stare. “I…”

“Start talkin’!” John demands.

“Alright! Alright! I know where O’Driscoll’s holed up…!” You and John remain quiet, eyeing him closely. You find yourself starting at his eyes, looking for just the slight twitch or change. “He’s waiting at Six Point Cabin.”

That doesn’t ring any bells. You back away and look at John. “Do you know where that is?”

He nods. “Yeah, sis. I know the general area.”

Sis. Is that how John sees you? You remember Arthur had mentioned it was only you three for a while before anyone else showed up. Is that how Arthur sees you, too? Is that why people think you are close?

It makes sense. People can get those sentiments confused. Arthur could just as easily care for you like a sister as much as a love interest, albeit in a different way.

“I’ll take you there myself!” Kieran offers. “I never liked him, less than I like you folks.” His eyes soften a bit when he looks at you. Perhaps it was only because of your kindness that he was even willing to give up the location so easily.

That settles that, then. You smile softly, glad to have made headway on a mission of your own. You pat Kieran’s shoulder, in the same manner you see the men do with each other. “Good.” You turn to John. “You mind escorting him into the woods? I think any longer and we might have an issue on our hands.”

John chuckles, nodding his head as he reaches for his hunting knife. Cutting Kieran’s wrists free from the tree, he makes quick work at binding them again, before pointing the barrel of his revolver in his back to urge him forward. “Get movin’, my stew is gettin’ cold.”

You watch them both go, and you begin to feel the headache return. Normally unwelcomed, you begin to feel happy, and elated. You grin from ear to ear, and close your eyes to welcome a new memory.

“Give me that back, John Marston!” You are running barefoot in the grass, running after the fifteen-year-old boy who has your journal. You’ve been practicing your writing, and while it is far from perfect, you’ve made great strides in poetry.

And now, to shatter any veil of privacy, the muddy, scrappy-faced boy has pilfered your journal and has started reading its contents aloud.

At least, what he can read, given his own lessons of reading are still in progress.

He looks back over his shoulder, grinning as he holds up the journal in front of him. “I whu—whu—wait for luh—luh-ve love! Oh, what is love…?”

“John, that’s enough!” Your voice cracks slightly with frustration and embarrassment as you close the distance between you and John. The grass beneath your feet feels cool and slightly damp, a testament to the lushness of the area where the gang has set up camp. You're close enough now to grab a corner of the journal, but John, nimble and teasing as he is, leaps away.

“Gotta catch me first, sis!" His laughter peppers the air, a sound both infuriating and delightfully carefree.

You give chase, your heart pounding with a mix of anger and exhilaration. The gang's camp disappears behind you as you both thread through trees and hop over logs, the forest around becoming a blur of green and brown. John's laughter rings out ahead of you, a beacon guiding your furious chase.

Suddenly, he stumbles, his foot catching on an exposed root. With a triumphant yelp, you leap forward, seizing the journal from his outstretched hand as he tumbles into the ground. “Oof!”

You laugh victorious, holding your journal close to your chest. “Serves you right!”

You hear a soft, low laugh behind you. Turning slowly, you look up to see Arthur, mounted on Boadicea.

He’s back after riding off for a few days. “Hey, Kit.”

You smile, tucking hair behind your ear. “Hello, yourself.”

He juts his chin over to the fallen thief, as he rises from the ground, rubbing his backside. “Keepin’ him out of trouble?”

You chuckle. “He’s keeping me on my toes.”

Arthur swings down from Boadicea, his movements smooth and controlled. His eyes, that striking shade of blue, scrutinize the scene before him, lingering on your flushed face. "Looks like you could use a hand," he says with a chuckle, approaching you with an easy stride.

"You think?" you reply, your tone teasing, the remnants of your chase still coloring your cheeks.

Arthur's smile broadens, his gaze softening as he takes in your disheveled appearance—hair tousled and eyes sparkling with mischief. "Definitely," he replies, coming to stand close enough that you can smell the leather and earth on him, evidence of his long journey from wherever it was he came from. He’s been like this for about a year, gone for a few days, coming back with such relaxed posture, it is as though he travels to a place of respite.

You long for a place like that.

He turns and looks at John, a gleam in his eye.

"John," Arthur's voice holds a hint of reprimand mingled with amusement as he nods toward the journal in your hands. "You oughta know better than to take what ain't yours, especially from Kit."

John brushes dirt off his shirt and grins sheepishly. "Aw, I was just funnin'!”

Arthur shakes his head. “It seems that you ain’t as sorry as you should be.” His body tenses, and you can’t help but eye the muscles in his legs as he readies himself for a chase.

John’s eyes go wide and he turns to run.

Suddenly, Arthur takes your hand. “Let’s get him, Kit!”

The thrill of the chase pulses through you as Arthur pulls you along, your feet kicking up grass as you sprint after John. The late afternoon sun casts long shadows across the dry landscape, making your game of tag seem like a dance with the golden hour light.

You feel alive, your heart pounding in your chest not just from the physical exertion but from the closeness of Arthur. Each breath you take is mixed with the sage-like scent of the high desert and the warm, earthy smell of his presence. It's exhilarating, running side by side with him, a wild joy that makes you forget the pains of your past and the uncertainty of your future.

You open your eyes, and find yourself clinging onto a nearby tree. You don’t know how long you’ve been reliving your memory, but the sun has completely gone down. It’s dark and it seems as though you have wandered far into the woods.

You look around, unsure as to where you are. You try to see if you can find your way back to camp. A firelight, perhaps, but you can’t see none.

You remember Mary Beth’s warning. You worry that you are lost.

You aren’t an expert in navigation, and without the light of the moon, you have no way of assessing exactly where you are.

The next time you choose to give into a memory, perhaps you should tie yourself to a tree?

You exhale loudly, frustrated at your predicament.

That’s when you hear a thud, thud, thud, thud. The rustling of grasses and the snapping of twigs has you startled. You hold your breath, hoping to remain still and under detection of whatever is approaching. You lean into the tree to support your posture, and your heart pounds fiercely against your ribcage. You recall the stories that drift through camp, of wild animals and outlaws lurking in the darkness, and for a moment, fear seizes your very bones.

Then, you see a light. A light of a lantern, and it illuminates the head of a horse and the arm that holds it.

The glow falls on you, and you squint to help your eyes.

That’s when a voice breaks through the night. "Kit? Is that you?"

The relief that floods through you is immediate and overwhelming. Though, you do not recognize the voice. It is gentle, sharp, but it speaks with a clear energy, a budding excitement.

You aren’t sure what to say, except to call back. “Yes, it’s me.” Your voice trembles slightly with a mix of fear and relief. Pushing yourself off the tree, you step towards the light.

“My God…” the voice says. “Arthur was right…!”

You blink, both from surprise and from the light. Then as you let the sound of the voice enter your mind, it does become familiar.

Good work, Kit. If you hadn’t done that, there would have been more to deal with in there.

You speak his name, hoping that it will confirm your suspicion. “H-Hosea…?”

You hear the man dismount and calmly approach you. Lowering the light just so, you see his face.

Yes, it is an older image from your memory.

And you can see the shine in his eyes. “It is good to see you, my dear.” Hosea steps closer, the light of his lantern casting warm glows on the rough bark of trees and the underbrush, creating a soft halo around him. His familiar deep-set eyes hold a mixture of joy and disbelief. "You're alive," he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion.

You nod, your chest feeling tight with an emotion that you understand to be joy of seeing him again. You wish you had more to remember, but you are still happy for this reunion. “I…got lost.”

“Yes, and Arthur found you.”

You shake your head, smiling. “No, I mean that I wandered too far away from camp.” And you tuck your chin. “I got carried away.”

Hosea chuckles softly, the sound rich with warmth that banishes the cold around you. "That sounds just like you, Kit," he says, stepping forward and gently placing the lantern down on the ground beside him. His hands are slightly trembling as he reaches out, as if unsure whether you're truly real or just an apparition. Sensing the welcoming gesture, you go to him and let yourself be wrapped in his embrace.

It does feel familiar, as though it was once a source of comfort in great pain. “You always liked to wander off the beaten track,” he whispers, his breath warm against your ear. “But I’m glad you’re back now.”

You pull slightly away, looking up at him with a mix of confusion and yearning for truth. “Hosea, what happened to me? After the ferry...?” Your voice trails off and you look down. “I…I don’t remember anything.”

He nods. “Yes, I know. Arthur told me your memories are gone.”

You lift your head, and he lets you out of his embrace. “They are coming back! Bits and pieces, like how I remembered you…”

Hosea blinks. “Me?”

“Well, Arthur did tell me first about you, but I had a memory…” You turn around and take a few steps forward, not too far from the light, before you turn around. “The Bank of Lee and Hoyt.”

After a moment, Hosea grins. “Our first bank robbery.”

Your eyes widen. “That’s what it all was?”

Hosea nods. “Yes, Kitka. That was your first heist with us. You were exceptional, even then.” He pauses, his expression turning somber. “After the ferry, things went bad fast. The Pinkertons came down on us hard. We thought we lost you in the chaos.”

Your heart drops at his words, and the gnawing void in your memory seems to grow deeper, and hungrier. "Lost me?" you echo softly, feeling the weight of his words settle like stones in your stomach.

Hosea’s face softens, lines deepening around his eyes with a mix of pain and relief. "Yes, Kitka. When we regrouped, we noticed that you weren’t there. Dutch said you…”

“Drowned.”

“Yes.”

“But I didn’t. I was shot in the back.”

Hosea’s eyes widen. “Shot?” he repeats, his voice catching on the word. “Does Arthur know this?”

You shake your head, feeling the confusion stirring a storm inside your mind. “I did tell him, but I don’t think anyone knew. I…I woke up in a doctor’s office days later, and everything prior was just... gone.”

Hosea runs a hand over his face. “Do you know what kind of bullet?”

“No. The doctor spared me those details.”

Hosea nods and after a moment, bends down to pick up his lantern. “Let's get back to camp. I think I need to rest and think about this.”

You nod. You are getting tired, and want a break from the headaches.

Riding behind Hosea, you both head back to camp. Everyone has gone to rest except for those on guard duty. It doesn’t take long for you to slip into your bed roll.

As the night deepens and the stars paint a canvas of endless possibilities overhead, you can't help but let your thoughts drift to Arthur. You recall his laughter, a sound rough and warm like worn leather; his eyes glinting with mischief or darkening with stormy emotions. The memories are incomplete, fragmented by the trauma of your past, yet they flicker in and out of your consciousness like fireflies on a summer night. Arthur's image haunts the edges of your slumber, the pieces of him stitched into the fabric of dreams that dance just out of reach.

You remember the way his hand felt in yours that night after the bushwhacking—strong, yet gentle, filled with a tenderness that you couldn’t place. You suddenly recall the heat of his breath, a kiss against your forehead, one laden with fear and hope mingled together. 

You open your eyes wide, gasping for air, and you feel weighted with a bittersweet ache.

“Kitka…?” you hear Mary Beth’s soft voice whisper to you in the night. “Are you alright?”

You sigh, feeling terrible for waking her. “Yes, I’m—I’m fine.”

She is quiet for a moment, but finally gives you a “Alright, goodnight,” before turning over and going back to sleep.

You lay back down and try to make yourself more comfortable, and finally, you let sleep overtake you.

***

That headache last night must have been a doozy, you wake up with a sore head that when you sneeze, you feel like someone took a beer bottle and just threaded you upside the head. 

“You’re finally awake,” you hear Abigail say. She is walking by your tent, carrying a pail of water from rain collection. “You must have been up late.”

You rub your eyes. “I was out walking in the woods.”

She chuckles. “What else is new?”

You smile and shrug. “Hosea said the same thing to me last night.”

She nods, her eyes falling on her son as he sits with Tilly at the nearby table. “You’ve always been like that, for as long as I’ve known you.”

You feel something in your stomach, a budding question that you hope to have answered. “How long have you known me?”

She looks back at you, her eyes softening. “Sometimes I forget that you don’t know.”

“I’m sorry.”

Then there is a spark in her eye as her frown turns into a smirk. “You must have also forgotten that you rarely ever apologize.”

You blink. “I don’t?”

“Well, when you’ve done somethin’ wrong, you’re quick to own up to it, but you’ve never been emotionally apologetic if that makes sense.” She eyes your expression and follows with an explanation. “It’s like, there are those people that apologize for apologizin’ too much.” And she chuckles. “You weren’t one of them types.”

You look into your lap, glancing at your dark hair as it rests over your shoulder. “Oh.”

“I’ve known you for about five years.” Then she looks at her boy again, a loving affection evident in her smile. “It weren’t long after I came here that I had Jack.”

You nod, Arthur has already filled you in on the details as to who Jack’s father is. “John is good to him?”

That’s when you see her frown. “He ain’t anythin’ to him.”

You think back on your memory of chasing John through the woods, the joy and excitement still lingering. “That doesn’t sound like him.”

She looks at you, her face laden with bitterness. “Well, it is.”

You want to say sorry, but after what she had just told you, you swallow it down. “Maybe I should give him a good beating.”

She snorts. “Good luck with that.”

“I have a feeling he respects me, in a sister sort of way.”

She nods, her brow relaxing but for only a moment. “He did seem to miss you when you was dead.”

Her comment sends a shiver through you, that word—dead. It's hard to reconcile with the notion that everyone thought that you were gone, yet here you are, breathing and feeling and puzzling through the fog of lost memories. "Was it hard?" Your voice is barely a whisper, afraid of the answer yet desperate for it. “I didn’t mean to cause anyone grief.”

Abigail rolls her shoulder. “We ain’t a stranger to death. Davey and Jenny died the same day.”

You nod. “Yes, I know.”

“But…with you…” She looks at you, her eyes softening. “Jack cried the longest time. I couldn’t comfort him enough. Kept sayin' he missed his 'Aunt Kitka'. Broke my heart to see him like that."

You touch your chest, feeling a warmth spread through you at the mention of Jack considering you to be family. You remember hearing him call you that when you first got here, and now you are beginning to understand why. "You’re like my family.”

Abigail nods, brushing back some loose strands of her hair. “Yeah, we are.”

Her words settle over you like a comforting blanket in the chill of a desert night, and for just a moment, the sharp edges of Blackwater's events, now a harsh reality, soften. "I want to thank you for being patient with me." Your voice is threaded with a genuine, albeit brittle appreciation. “I want to remember the things we shared, things we’ve talked about…”

Abigail gives you a knowing look, one of empathy. “Don’t worry too much over it. If your memories come back, they do. If they don’t, that don’t mean we care about you any less.” She bends over and pats your hand gently, a gesture so motherly that it catches you off guard. "You take your time, Kitka. These things, they can't be rushed." Abigail stands, smoothing her skirt before offering you a small smile. "You should get dressed, ol’ Miss Grimshaw will be on your hide before too long.”

You smile, and she returns to her work, leaving you to change.

***

“Okay, you go on ahead and get yourself a gun,” John tells you as you dismount. Kieran sits on the back of Old Boy, John’s mount, and Bill sits on Brown Jack. “And then this O’Driscoll will take us to the hideout.”

You nod and give Odliv one good pat before turning in the direction of the gun store. You three, and Kieran, managed to slip out of camp without Dutch noticing, as he seemed pretty occupied having a tete-a-tete with Micah. He’s been recovering like a lazy no-nothing in camp since sustaining some decent head injuries, and you can’t help but wish that it rendered the bastard an amnesiac instead of you.

Your steps make that disgusting squish squish as you walk across the mud, and you avoid the odd stares of men and women as you walk past them. Well, gee. You suppose not many women out here are seen wearing patched-up skirts and wide-brimmed hats. Nobody around here knows of your background, so that can’t be the reason they are staring.

You walk up the creaking, wooden steps to the gun store and let yourself inside.

The bell above the door jingles softly as you enter, announcing your presence to the gunsmith who looks up with a raised eyebrow as he stands behind a counter. He's a wiry man, middle-aged and dark-haired, with sun spots that line the bridge of his nose.

"Can I help you, miss?" His voice is soft and deep, with a friendly air but also representative of the store he maintains. Masculine.

“Yes,” you begin, trying to sound confident. “I am looking for a rifle.”

Your request seems to catch the man off guard for a moment, but he recovers swiftly, setting aside the cloth he was using to polish a set of pistols. “A rifle, you say? What kind are you looking for? Something light? Or maybe something with a bit more kick?”

You ponder his question, memories still eluding you on this subject. You seem to be familiar with weaponry, given your instinctual response during the bandit attack. However, you seemed to be drawn to a certain type of weapon…

“You got anything with explosives?” you ask, and seeing the reaction on his face, you feel instant regret.

The gunsmith’s eyes widen just a fraction, and he pauses, the cloth in his hands forgotten. For a heartbeat, it's as though the air between you thickens with suspicion. "Explosives? Well, now, that's not exactly standard fare for hunting or protection," he remarks cautiously, his formerly relaxed demeanor shifting subtly. "Uh, what exactly is your husband planning to hunt with something as dangerous as that?"

You blink and realize that you are still wearing your mother’s ring. You still can’t bring yourself to take it off. “Oh, I’m not married. It’s for me.”

He seems to freeze for a moment and clears his throat. “You want to hunt with explosives?”

You realize your mistake, the remnant of your expertise, and a hint of your past life creeping into the conversation unwittingly. "No, nothing like that," you quickly cover up, an uneasy chuckle escaping your lips. "I was just jesting. What I meant was something more along the lines of a rifle for... protection. Something sturdy."

The tension in the air slightly eases as the shopkeeper resumes his task of polishing the pistols, though his eyes still hold a trace of doubt. "Protection, huh?" he muses, and he turns around to look through select cases. After a minute, he opens one of the glass doors, and grabs a rifle, with a grey-stained maple stock and blue steel. He places it gently on the counter between you, the metal parts gleaming under the shop's dim lighting. "This here is a Springfield. A favorite among settlers and lawmen alike. Reliable, accurate, and reasonably powerful without being too cumbersome to handle," he explains, his fingers grazing the wooden stock reverently. “I can also add a scope on it, good for hunting those quick-footed pronghorn from long distances.”

You nod, your interest piqued despite your lingering discomfort from the earlier gaffe. You lean closer to inspect the rifle, your fingers tracing the smooth curve of its stock, a familiarity in its weight and balance slowly seeping back into your memory. "It feels right," you admit quietly, more to yourself than to the gunsmith. “I’ll take it.” And you rest it on the counter. “Do you have any handguns?”

At this he grins. “I think I have something that you might be interested in…” And bending down behind the counter, you hear some rustling and the closing of a wooden box. He rises back up and rests a large handgun on the table.

You feel a twinge in your head, an image of Charles grinning at you as he hands the very same gun to you.

Sure wish I had mine looking like yours. You ought to show me how to make that incendiary buckshot…

You reach to your temple and rub it softly as you eye the gun. “That’s a nice looking sawed-off.”

The gunsmith nods, his eyes flickered with surprise. “Yes, I’m sorry, I thought you didn’t know your guns.”

You chuckle softly. “I guess there’s a lot I don’t know about myself either,” you reply, the wry smile fading as the words sink in, swirling with the fragmented flashes of your past that occasionally pierce through the fog of your amnesia.

The gunsmith watches you for a moment, his expression softening. "Well, if you’re interested, I can cut you a deal and throw you in some extra ammo.”

You try to add up the amount in your head, the numbers coming easily to you. You figure this is from the practice of working with Strauss, selling those cures for the last few years. “Well…”

“I’ll throw in a gun belt.”

You grin and nod your head. “Deal.”

The gunsmith nods, polishing up the Springfield and the sawed-off shotgun one last time with a practiced ease. As he does so, he continues to chat, asking you about your plans in Valentine, careful not to pry too deeply but clearly curious about the new face in town with an unusual interest in firearms.

You make small talk, keeping your answers vague and noncommittal. As he hands over the shining weapons, the gunsmith offers a friendly piece of advice, “Just be careful out there. Valentine attracts all sorts, and not all have good intentions.”

“Thank you,” you say, swinging the Springfield rifle over your shoulder and holstering the sawed-off comfortably in your holster at your hip. “I’ll keep that in mind.” And you step out of the store.

You see John and Bill across the way, and they haven’t noticed you come out yet. Given a window of more time, you take the chance to head in the direction of the general store. You hope that maybe your orders from the catalogue might have come in, even though it has only been a few days.

You walk up the steps and just as you open the door to the store, you hear something as you come in.

“You don’t understand…!” A shrill cry fills your ears, stopping you in your tracks. You look ahead and see the woman you saw the last time you were here. You think back and then you remember her name.

Mrs. Downes.

She looks distraught as she points to something in Amos’s hand. “I heard what that German said when he was talking to you! That bottle could cure my husband!”

You feel a chill up your spine. She’s talking about Strauss. About your cures. That snake oil you’re trying to sell.

Your breath catches in your throat as memories collide, each piece of your past jostling for space in your mind. You remember Strauss and the cures, how often he used sweet words to mask the bitterness of deception, though benevolent your tinctures are. The sight of Mrs. Downes, her desperation clawing its way out through her voice, tugs at you. And you can’t help but feel something for this desperate woman.

Amos holds a bottle close to himself, shaking his head. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Downes, but it was like I told you a few days ago: you have too much money owed to me from your other purchases, and I can’t extend credit to you anymore until that balance is paid.”

Her hand trembles as she holds it out toward the bottle. “But my husband needs it…!” Her lip trembles. “He is very sick.”

“Take him to the doctor, like I told you! He might be able to prescribe something better for him.”

Then suddenly, she snaps. “Dr. Howard doesn’t have a cure for Tuberculosis…!”

Her voice echoes with despair, reverberating against the walls of the general store, stark and raw in its desperation. You stand there, rooted to the spot, your own heart hammered by memories of sickness and helplessness. Antek, your brother, sick and pale for months, miserably clinging onto you as though you were the only thing that could save him.

You close your eyes tightly, and a single tear trickles down your cheek. You feel the weight of that memory this time, and since you have discovered it once before, it doesn’t cause your head any pain. But that does not mean that there isn’t an ache. You exhale sharply, and while not intended, it alerts both Amos and Mrs. Downes of your presence. 

Mrs. Downes's eyes, red-rimmed and swollen, meet yours across the space. There is a sudden recognition in her eyes, as they widen and her mouth goes agape. “It’s you…!” She hesitates but takes a step forward. “You make the medicine…!”

You are unsure what to do, and you’re tempted to quickly turn around and leave the store before you are pulled into something you might regret. But you see how her despair turned to hope, and you can’t bring yourself to walk away. 

Amos looks at you apologetically, his brow pinched with a mix of embarrassment and frustration. “I’m sorry, Ms. Doe, I’ll be right with you.” And he tries to get Mrs. Downes’ attention. “Now, ma’am—”

But Mrs. Downes cuts him off, her attention still turned on you. “Please,” she cries, her hands now clasped as though in prayer. “Have pity on us.”

Your brow furrows. “I’m not sure what you’re asking.”

She takes a step toward you, the creaking floorboards beneath her feet accentuating the uncomfortable feeling the tension gives you. “Your cure could save my husband…Just one bottle? I—I’ll make it up to you. I just…”

You want to tell her that it won’t work for that. You want to tell her the truth. It is mild, but good enough to make one think it is working. You know that now. You remember the herbs you use. It isn’t meant for anything chronic. 

But what do you do? Risk ruining the operation Strauss has crafted here? That will only create a trail that others are bound to follow? Leading them to the gang and jeopardizing their safety. 

You can’t do that.

You glance around the sunlit store, feeling the weight of their gaze. Amos shifts uncomfortably, clearly wanting to resolve this situation without further complications. You sigh softly, a sound almost lost amidst the soft rustling of goods and the distant murmur of the bustle just outside. The decision sits heavy on your shoulders, a burden made tangible by the desperate hope in Mrs. Downes’s eyes.

“You have my sympathy, Mrs. Downes,” you begin, your voice unsteady with the weight of your own secrets. “But Tuberculosis is—”

“I know how bad it is…!” she cries. “But your medicine could save him.”

“How far gone is it?” you ask. “If it is too far along, the cure might ease some pain, give him a brief respite, but it won’t save him,” you explain gently.

You see the surprise on Amos’s face. “But it restored your memory?”

You need to provide an explanation. “Amnesia is different than a near-death disease.”

Amos nods, still puzzled but accepting your words as the final judgment on the matter. Mrs. Downes’s shoulders slump, the faint glimmer of hope in her eyes dimming as she absorbs your explanation. “I still want it.”

Amos blinks. “Mrs. Downes, you can’t afford it!”

You can see that you won’t be able to talk her out of it. “Give her a bottle, please, Mr. Sims.”

Amos looks at you. “What?”

“They’re my cures, and I can choose how I want to sell them.”

“But what about your associate Mr. Kilgore, don’t you think you ought to consult him?”

You feel yourself bristle at this. While he means well, you find it irritating that he assumes you can’t make your own decisions.

You stare hard at Amos, your gaze firm and unyielding. "Mr. Sims, I appreciate your concern, but this is my decision. Mr. Kilgore trusts my judgment in these matters," you say with a quiet authority that silences any further protests he might have.

Reluctantly, Amos pulls the bottle back from behind the counter and sets it on the counter. “Here.”

Mrs. Downes reaches for it with trembling hands, her eyes wet with unshed tears. "Thank you," she whispers, her voice choked with gratitude. She clasps the bottle close to her chest as if it's a precious lifeline.

As she turns to leave, you feel a pang of sympathy mixed with doubt. You wonder how long it will prolong the inevitable, and you wonder if she will end up blaming you for it. You hope that you don’t stick around long enough to find out.

Once the door clicks closed, Amos again clears his throat. “Now, how can I help you?”

***

After getting some food for the journey, you step out of the general store. Your order from the catalogue hasn’t come in yet, so you will, unfortunately, have to come back into town another day. You walk along the muddied street of Valentine and make your way back to Bill, John, and Kieran.

John sees you first, narrowing his eyes at you. “What were you doin’ over there?”

You mount Odliv, readjusting the rifle on your back. “Got some food.”

“Wish I had known that,” Bill grumbles. “Would have had you get me some pomade.”

John casts a disturbed gaze at Bill. “Are you for real?”

Bill’s cheeks turn red. “What?! It makes my hair look good.”

John snorts. “Sure…like as if that’s what—”

“Oh-kay…How about we move along?” You interject, not eager to hear this conversation continue.

John nods, grateful, and elbows Kieran as he sits behind him. “You ready to do this, Kieran?”

Kieran nods, his voice shaky. “Y-yes, sir.”

John backs up Old Boy, and you and Bill follow him out as he rides through Valentine. “You better not try anything. You will not make it out alive if you do.”

As the three of you trot along the dusty pathway, the mid-afternoon sun casts long shadows over the land, giving it an almost melancholic feel. The air is filled with the scent of dry earth and the distant sound of cattle. You ride in silence for a while, each lost in their own thoughts until John breaks the stillness as he asks Kieran a question. “What is Colm doin’ hidin’ out at Six Point Cabin, anyway?”

Kieran shifts uncomfortably, his eyes darting around as if the answer might be lurking in the brush beside them. "Colm mentioned it's because the law's been tightenin' the noose in Strawberry. They have to keep moving. Colm's layin' low, gatherin' strength."

You glance over at John, catching a hint of worry flickering in his eyes before he looks away, focusing on the trail ahead. "Makes sense," he mutters, his voice carrying a note of unease. Surely Colm’s gang isn’t the only one feeling the pinch. 

Bill, riding up beside you, leans towards you and speaks in a low tone. "You think Dutch can handle Colm this time?" His question hangs in the air like the dust kicked up by your horses' hooves.

This time? You think back to what Mary Beth had said about the O’Driscoll’s. You imagine you yourself had encountered them at one point, but of course, that has eluded you for now. But you can sense things aren’t the same as the glory days. Lately, Dutch's fiery speeches, his eyes blazing with determination, also add a touch of desperation. You look at Bill and nod slowly, more out of hope than conviction. "He has to," you say quietly, your words nearly swallowed by the wind.

“Colm ain’t much different than you folks,” Kieran bravely says, and of course, this gathers a negative reception.

“We ain’t nothin’ like Colm…!” John snaps. “You know nothin’ about who we are and what we do.”

Bill, with his usual grim humor, chuckles darkly. "We may be outlaws, but we ain't no cold-hearted murderers like them O'Driscolls."

The conversation drops as the group continues riding through the stretching shadows of the evening. The silence is oppressive, heavy with thoughts unspoken and plans yet to be fully realized. You sense the danger, and this excites you. Danger is what you are after. Danger is what will get you closer to finding out who you are.

You come up on a grassy hill, with a cluster of trees up ahead.

“It’s just up this hill,” Kieran explains.

John nods and takes charge. “We should leave the horses here.” And just before the top of the hill, you three stop your horses and dismount. “Kit, you make sure you got your guns. I’m lookin’ forward to seein’ you use them.”

Bill chortles. “Yeah, I can’t wait to see Colm go up in a blaze of glory…!”

Blaze. He must mean the incendiary buckshot.

But, alas, you have yet to relearn how to make it.

John watches Kieran as he dismounts, quickly grabbing him by the arm and pointing his revolver into his side. “You’re comin’ with us, and you better not try anythin’.”

Kieran raises his hands, shaking his head fearfully. “I won’t, I promise. Just want to help, I swear!”

Despite the assurance, John's grip on Kieran tightens as you all move stealthily toward the cluster of trees. The sun has moved across the sky now, casting a golden hue that makes the edges of the world seem to glow. It's a tranquil kind of beauty, a stark contrast to the tension threading through your group. Yet, there's a thrill that pulses beneath your skin, a remembered echo of your past life with the gang, and it stirs something deep within you. It’s happening. You are that much closer…

As you approach the trees, you instinctively crouch, and the men do the same. And it is just in time, too, for you hear a couple of voices.

John instantly covers Kieran’s mouth, pointing his revolver into the milksop’s temple. Kieran freezes, holding his hands out to show that he will keep still.

You focus your attention on the voices and look down the hill. Sure enough, there are two men, dressed in black coats and green bandanas. These must be them. O’Driscolls. At least two of them, anyway.

The conversation between the O'Driscolls is muffled by the wind, but you catch snippets of their dialogue—something about a meeting point and the times they expect to rendezvous with others. Your heart beats faster, each throb echoing a morse code of danger and anticipation. John's eyes meet yours, a silent communication passing between you like a current through the crisp air. He nods slightly, indicating for you to keep your position while he and Bill edge closer to the unsuspecting O’Driscolls.

You appreciate his effort to keep you safe, but this isn’t what you came here for. Still, you let them go on ahead of you and while keeping watch on Kieran, your eyes follow them as they descend carefully down the hill.

Bill moves with surprising stealth for his size, blending into the shadows like a predator stalking its prey. You remain crouched, watching quietly with your sawed-off pointed at Kieran, though it isn’t really necessary.

John and Bill's approach is a silent dance of precision and patience, skills honed from years of living on the fringe, outside the law. The ground beneath them crunches softly, draping the moment in thin layers of suspense that threaten to snap with any misstep. Stray beams of sunlight pierce through the branches, but they remain concealed.

The two O’Driscolls are completely unaware when Bill and John pull out their knives simultaneously, and stab each in the neck, killing them instantly. You wait just another second, before John waves you down.

“Okay, Kieran,” you whisper. “Let’s go.” You nudge Kieran forward and he complies with little to no resistance. You remain crouched as you hurry to meet them and find a large tree to hide behind.

Taking a peek, John looks over at what you have to deal with. “They got three workin’ girls with them.”

“Great!” Bill grumbles. “I didn’t want to kill no hookers.”

But they’re women. And you’re a woman.

Your heart begins to pound and you look down at the patched-up skirt you are wearing. You suddenly get an idea, a risky idea, but you feel confident as it begins to stew in your mind. Holstering your sawed-off, you remove your gun belt and remove your hat.

John glances over at you and raises a brow. “What are you doin’?”

“Working,” you answer and begin to unbutton the first three buttons of your blouse, exposing the lace of your chemise and little cleavage.

John and Kieran’s eyes widen and you ignore their gaping mouths while you remove your hairpins and fix up your hair.

You are going to do what comes naturally.

Entertain and distract.

“Turn around,” you hiss at them and wait for the men to look the other way while you lift up your skirt and secure your gun belt around the waistband of your bloomers. Letting your skirt fall back down, you see that it is clearly concealed. At least you won’t be going in completely unarmed.

Pushing up your bosom as best you can, you decide that’s the best you got for the time being. You then remove your shotgun and hand it to Kieran. “If you use this on anything other than O’Driscolls…” you lower your voice and make it as convincing as possible. “I will not hesitate to put a bullet between your eyes.”

Kieran nods. “I won’t, I swear!”

You nod and looking at John, you give an order. “Don’t shoot until I say.” And then you come out from the cover of the tree. You veer off to the left to make it so that you appear you are coming in from another direction and walk confidently toward the cackling group of O’Driscolls.

Your large hips make your walk look tantalizing, and you hope that this plan will work. Your heart pounds against your ribcage and as you near the hideout, you try to take slow, steady breaths.

You see the three women, dressed scantily clad, as they lean and press their bodies into the men who have their hands on them.

Slowly, you approach, your lips curled into the sweet smile of a seasoned performer, your gaze lowered in feigned shyness. The men turn, noticing your arrival with leers that make your skin crawl underneath the facade. One of the younger O’Driscolls, a scruffy boy barely out of his teens pulls out his revolver, pointing it at you. “Oy! Who goes there…!”

You pause, pouting your lip and resting a hand on your hip. “Don’t tell me that I weren’t invited?” You adopt a more juvenile way of speech, making yourself appear younger and more stupid than you are. “These girls always have the best pickings, and I want my chance, too…!” you whine, being sure to stomp your foot for good measure. 

The girls, already tipsy, squint their eyes and study you for a moment. “Blanche?”

You blink and decide to roll with it. “Yes, girls! You clearly need to get some eyeglasses…!” You punctuate your last word with a high-pitched giggle and, miraculously, the girls join you.

The young O'Driscoll lowers his revolver slightly, the suspicion in his eyes faltering as he glances at the girls for confirmation. "Well, if Blanche is with you girls..."

You smile wider, stepping closer and lowering your voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Got anything to drink?" You gesture to a bottle peeking out from one of the men's bags. The young O’Driscoll, now somewhat convinced and possibly swayed by the appeal of your feigned innocence, nods eagerly, reaching for the bottle. "Sure thing, darlin'. You look like you could use a good swig."

He hands it to you and you are sure to bat your eyelashes and sway your hips before bringing the end of the bottle to your lips. The liquid instantly burns like fire, and you try with all your strength to not recoil and throw the bottle as far away from you as you can. You take several good gulps before making a satisfied sound with your mouth and wiping your lips in an uncouth way. “Thank you, sweetie, I was…” And you look into the man’s eyes, evidently mesmerized. “…thirsty…”

You hear some warm chuckles from some of the men, picking up on your suggestive language.

Your lashes flutter again and you lean a little closer, using the momentary distraction to your advantage. “So, boys, what’s the occasion?” you ask, injecting a playful curiosity into your tone. Your gaze drifts across the motley assembly of O'Driscolls, noting their relaxed postures. As they laugh and joke amongst themselves, you carefully observe their unguarded expressions, searching for any hint of deception or danger.

One of the older men, stubbled with a crooked nose, grins at you, his teeth yellowed from years of tobacco use. "We're celebratin' a successful raid on a stagecoach.” And he lights a cigar before taking a deep inhale. “Colm’s gonna be meetin’ us later to pick it up.”

You pout your lips. “Colm…? He’s not here?” You cast a feigned sigh and arch your back, bending backward. Some of the men’s mouths go agape at your sudden flash of flexibility and reaching your arms back, your hands touch the ground. You flip over and rise back to your feet. You clearly have their attention now. “I was hopin’ I’d see him…”

The men sigh in awe, appreciating your display of agility as much as your feigned disappointment. "Don't worry, darlin'," a man with a crooked nose replies, smoke curling from his lips. "Colm will be here soon enough, and you can charm him just the same."

“Wow, Blanche!” One of the girls gasps, smiling. “I didn’t know you could do that…!”

“Must make it really nice in the bedroom…!” Another giggles, wiggling her hips suggestively. “You ought to teach us all that trick…!”

You remember the comment Micah had made and it takes everything in your power to not react. Instead, you chuckle along with them, your heart pounding with the adrenaline of performance and danger. "Oh, I've got plenty of tricks up my sleeve," you say, giving them a wink that promises mischief but discloses nothing. Your voice drops to a husky whisper as you lean forward, conspiratorially. "But a girl’s gotta keep some secrets, don’t she?”

A few men nod, their eyes following every contour of your movement with poorly disguised admiration. You feel a prick in your head and in a quick flash, an image appears in your mind’s eye. 

You are high up. Standing on a small platform. You eye a thick rope, taut between two beams. You hear gasps and moans, hundreds of eyes on you as you lift a foot and place it gingerly on the rope. 

Your attire, tight around your small frame, doesn’t drag or hinder your movements. You hear a woman calling your name, her maternal voice cheering you on from below.

“Máte na to, Kitka! To je moje dcera!”

You feel your heart pounding and you begin to walk.

The vision fades as you stare at the men eyeing you. The atmosphere is thick with smoke and laughter – a dangerous cocktail that makes it easy to forget the perilous line you tread.

But you are on the line, and you will not dare to fall off of it.

You feel you are coming into your skin, your body becoming more familiar to you than it has in a long while. Your mind is working in two directions, thoughts of how to keep these people entertained and distracted, while also working on how to destroy their hideout, send the women off, and end these O’Driscolls in a blaze of glory.

The first thing, of course, is to be rid of the women.

You look over at the girls, still sitting in the laps of the men. “Girls…” you begin. Your voice carries a new tone, one that’s both coaxing and authoritative. "How about we show these gentlemen what real entertainment looks like? Just us girls, hmm?" The sparkle in your eyes is infectious, and slowly, you watch their curiosity change into excitement.

The women glance at each other, a silent agreement passing between them.

They rise, a collective swirl of skirts and laughter, prying themselves from the grasp of their admirers. You lead them to the center of the gathering, forming a circle. They look to you, expectant, the air buzzing with anticipation.

“Let’s give them a show they won’t forget,” you whisper, your hand taking that of the girl next to you and you lead them toward the trees. “We will be right back, boys!”

You hear the excitement buzzing from the men as the women follow you into some bushes. You know this must look crazy in the eyes of Bill and John, and you also know they must be itching to kill some O’Driscolls. You have to work quickly.

Once out of the sight of the men, you stop and turn around. “Girls, we need costumes.”

One of them blinks and looks at you confused. “Costumes?”

“Yes!” You take her by the shoulders and try to sound as convincing as you can. “Didn’t I tell you about Colm?”

They look at each other, then back to you. “No…”

“Well…Colm is into…role play.” You don’t know how you’re able to come up with this, given that you are a virgin, but it is clear that you aren’t ignorant. Karen has probably made sure of that.

The girls grin at you and nod. “Oh…”

“Yes, so you will need to run back to town and get some hats and gun belts. He likes to be chased by a lady bounty hunter.”

“But what about you?”

You wave off the notion. “I will keep these boys entertained. You saw how I can handle it.”

One of the women nods, clearly inspired by your daring plan. "Alright, Blanche, we'll be quick," she asserts with a newfound sparkle of adventure in her eyes. They turn, skirts rustling as they dash back towards the town, leaving you alone to return to the men.

As you step back out of the bushes and into the clearing, the chatter resumes, louder and more excited as they see you return.

The young O’Driscoll, cheeks turning red with drunkenness, clearly notices that the other girls aren’t with you. “Hey! Where did they go?”

You flash a sly grin, shrugging nonchalantly as you address the gathering crowd. "Oh, those girls? They've gone to fetch something special... a surprise to spice up the night." Your tone is teasing, suggesting all manner of possibilities as their imaginations begin to turn.

Confusion and anticipation mingle in the gathering and they eye you as you walk among them. “In the meantime…” You begin. “I need somethin’ to drink…” And you point to the young O’Driscoll. “And someone to warm up…”

The other O’Driscolls start whooping and hollering, encouraging the young O’Driscoll to go to you. “You’re about to get your first real taste of a wild night,” one of them hollers as the young man, cheeks flushing with a mix of nervousness and excitement, steps forward.

You take his hand, feeling the calluses that are beginning to form, such a young pup joining the soon-to-be harsh life, and you lead him towards the old cabin not too far off. The men’s eyes follow you both, and you walk with a confident sway as you hear the excited breath of the man tailing you.

You reach the cabin and walk in first, pulling him in quickly behind you.

Your heart beats rapidly. You aren’t really going to let this man sleep with you, but it is making you nervous still. You aren’t sure why, but something feels strange about it, like you almost know what to expect, like you know it should be better than what this boy is offering.

And before you can have a chance to think more about it, the young man is removing his gun belt, hands trembling.

You just stand there, faking a smile. “Well, aren’t we eager…?”

“This is my first time…” he says, his voice shaking.

You tilt your head, assessing him with a gaze that's at once both gentle and calculating. "First time?" you echo softly, your voice carrying an undercurrent of something unspoken, maybe even a little melancholic. "Well, let me tell you something, lad," you continue, moving closer as his eyes follow you. “It’s mine, too.” And before he has a moment to react, you take the gun from his belt, hold it by the barrel and hit the side of his head with the grip. With a dull thud, he is rendered unconscious and falls to the floor.

You stand over him for a moment, feeling the rush of adrenaline slow down, replaced by a sinking feeling of necessity. You're no stranger to violence, yet each time it becomes like second nature, awakening the instincts that you so desperately seek every day.

Quickly, you tie his hands and feet with some rope that you found, letting your thoughts wander to how and why it was there in the first place. You drag his body to the window facing away from the view of the other men, and seeing it is broken, you carefully lift the boy and shove him out the window.

You wipe your hands and looking about the cabin, you see the young O’Driscoll’s gun on the floor. You walk over, bend down to pick it up, and going over to a table, you set it down quickly.

You assess the room around you, and your eyes are drawn to the fireplace. Up on the mantle, hangs a dusty double-barreled shotgun.

And your heart skips a beat. You hurry over to it and stand on your tiptoes to reach it. As soon as it rests in your hands, you feel your head buzzing with a burning warmth.

You go to the table and unload the bullets from the shotgun. You search the cabin, and looking underneath the table at the center of the room, your heart flutters with excitement.

Moonshine.

Your head starts to ache, but you grin. Here it comes.

And as the memory floods your mind, you mirror the actions of your vision. Moonshine in hand, you return to the table and eye the bullets. Carefully using your long fingernails, you pop off the bullet caps. You then pour the moonshine inside the bullets and lightly secure them, making sure that no liquid escapes.

You did it. You made incendiary buckshot.

Now it is time to destroy the cabin.

You find several bottles of whiskey and Kentucky bourbon and using the sheet on the old, dingy bed, you tear out several pieces. Opening the bottles, you stuff them with the shredded cloth, leaving some hanging out of the mouth. You see matches on the table and take them in your hands. With the shotgun over your shoulder and the bottles in your arms, you quickly step out.

You take a look to your left and see the men aren’t looking at you, yet. You still have a few seconds before the jig is up. You strike a match, lighting the first bottle, and you throw it into the opening of the cabin.

As the bottle shatters against the cabin wall, flames lick up the aged wood, climbing hungrily towards the roof. You don't wait to watch the fire spread; you're already moving to your next target, adrenaline surging through your veins. Your steps are quick and precise, a dance of necessity and survival you've learned over the last two decades.

“Alright, boys!” you shout, pulling your sawed-off from underneath your skirt. “Who’s ready to be entertained…?!” And you make a single shot in the air. 

That is your signal, and just as you have made the call, shots echo from the other side of the hideout, with John and Bill shouting their battle taunts as they follow.

The men shout, clearly taken by surprise as they see the harlot-turned-hellion, defying the roles they've cast for you in their narrow minds. Gunsmoke fills the air, mingling with the acrid sting of burning whiskey and wood. Your fingers wrap tightly around the seasoned stock of the shotgun, its familiarity a comforting weight as you level it at the nearest outlaw.

You see the sparks and fire as the incendiary bullets rip from the gun’s barrel, creating a tunneled inferno as it hits its target. The O’Driscoll immediately catches on fire and he turns around, screaming as he falls into the dirt.

“You thought you could hide from us?!” Bill taunts. “You're not hidden no more!”

As the chaos unfolds, your mind begins to ache as it races back to the days when the circus tent would erupt into frantic excitement, but this—this is a different kind of performance. Your heart pounds against your ribcage like a drum, syncopated with the gunfire and shouts. You move fluidly, dancing around men who fall near your feet, each one more surprised than the last at the ferocity housed in your slight frame. The earth beneath you vibrates with the staccato of footfalls and gunfire, melding into a symphony of survival and revenge.

Your eyes fall onto John, as he uses the bunt of his gun to crack an O’Driscoll’s nose. “You’re makin’ this too easy…!” he roars, a harsh sound that cuts through the chaos like a knife. He's relishing this, the fight, the challenge—it’s what he lives for. But your thoughts stray, always one step ahead, always on survival.

Suddenly, a memory flashes in your mind—Arthur's face, his eyes brimming with excitement as he looks behind him to shoot at someone pursuing you.

“You’re too slow…!” he taunts and he steals a glance at you.

You laugh, hands holding tightly on the reins as you ride Odliv, your feet bare and a shot gun over your shoulder. “You think we made him mad?”

Arthur chortles, ducking just in time for a bullet to fly over his head. “Wouldn’t be the first time, Kit!”

“Next time we need money, I’ll pick the job.”

“And have you rob me of watchin’ you hypnotize the rich?” His eyes gleam, and you can still see his smile from underneath the bandana that covers his mouth. “Never.”

As your mind lingers on that fleeting memory, a sharp pain ripples through your skull, pulling you back to the grim reality at hand. The harsh reverberations of the ongoing battle snap you out of your reverie. You shake your head slightly, trying to dispel the fog of nostalgia and focus on the enemies who are clearly still trying to fight back.

“Kit…!” you hear John shout and you look up to see him take a shot at an O’Driscoll who had his gun aimed at you. “You better focus!”

You nod sharply, feeling the weight of choices - from circus rings to shootouts – settling upon your shoulders. John's right, this is no time for memories, however desperate you want them. You tighten your grip on your weapon, readying yourself as another wave of O'Driscolls charges forward.

And you take them on like an outlaw.

Chapter Text

The last gunshot rings through the trees and the surrounding air is cast in a fog, not from rain or bad weather, but from gun smoke. You finally lower the shotgun, its weight now becoming too heavy as the adrenaline wears off. 

You’re surrounded. Surrounded by piling bodies of dead O’Driscolls. 

“Well, Hell…!” Bill cackles, clearly too happy for the fight. “I was itchin’ to get that out of my system…!” And he looks over at you, giving you a respectful nod. “Sure started to wonder when you was gonna be back.”

You furrow your brow. “I am back.”

He shakes his head, you must not be getting it. “Naw, I mean the real you. The real Kitka Petrova!”

John walks over a body after looting it, tucking some found riches in his pocket. “Yeah, that was really somethin’, like old times!”

You feel a jittering in your heart and you place a hand over it. “You mean to say I’ve always been like that?”

John nods. “Sure am. Hosea would be proud.”

You find yourself smiling. If this is the real you, and they approve, then you must be doing something right. Maybe taking the risk in doing this mission was just the thing you needed to get in the right direction. 

But then a cracked voice shouts behind you. “You think you can defeat us…?!” You turn around, and see the young O’Driscoll. Blood from the beating you gave him caked on the side of his head and his gun pointed at you. “I knew you was trouble…!”

You freeze, too shocked to move. 

And just as Bill and John retaliate, drawing their weapons, another shot echoes. 

The boy’s eyes widen and without another word, he falls to the ground with a soft thud. The shot did not come from behind you, but ahead of you. 

You see movement to your left and as you turn your head slowly, you are stunned by what you see. 

It’s Kieran, with your rifle, smoke still coming from the barrel. He just saved your life. 

You are all silent for a moment, perhaps waiting to see if another O’Driscoll will come out of nowhere, but after a minute or two, there are none. 

You find yourself opening your mouth, speaking humorously. “I suppose I didn’t tie the knots tight enough.”

“No kidding,” John breathes. 

You look at Kieran, who finally lowers the rifle. “I guess we’re even, now,” you exhale.

He nods, looking at you suspiciously, not fully believing you. “If you say so.”

“No, no, no,” John says, waving his hand. “While it’s always a pleasure to kill some O’Driscolls, we’re still short one.”

Bill growls, nodding his head, and storms over to Kieran. “You said Colm was gonna be here!!” 

Kieran instantly cowers, dropping your rifle without hesitation. “I weren’t lyin…! He-he-might come back!”

“Not after all that, you idiot!” John snarls, eager to lay a punch on him.

But you step in between them, holding out your hand like you’re trying to tame an angry wolf. 

And that’s when you feel a sharp pain in your side. 

“Ack…!” You bend over, your left hand going to the spot that stings and burns. 

“Kit?!” John goes to you, his brows pinched in deep concern. “What’s wrong, sis?”

You look down and you lift your hand. Your blouse has a dark spot and a long tear in it. You’re surprised you didn’t feel it or see it, but your blouse is a dark brown and you were caught up in the moment of the fight. 

But the pain is coming in waves now. “I’ve been shot…” You try to inspect the wound, still retaining some decency as you turn away and lift your shirt. 

John places a hand on your back, coaxing you to move. “We gotta get you back—“

There aren’t any holes in your flesh. It looks like a terrible scrape, or like someone took a chisel and marked a chunk out of your skin. “I'm fine,” you interrupt, moving away from him. “It’s just a grazing.”

You hear John sigh. “Still, you need to get back soon.” And he returns to look at Kieran, his eyes narrowing. “After we figure out where that bastard Colm is.”

Still looking at your wound, you say what you were going to say before your injured interruption. “I overheard them saying there was a stagecoach robbery. Colm was on his way here from another hideout.” You grimace, bunching your shirt in your hand and putting pressure on your wound.

John looks at Kieran, his gaze steely and intense. “You know where it is?”

Kieran shakes his head. “O-only this-s-s one…!”

You look up and study Kieran’s face, you can tell that he is petrified, but there’s no hint of deception. You lower your head as the pain in your side increases and try to speak calmly. “He’s telling the truth.”

Kieran’s eyes shift between you three. “I can make it up to you!” He points to the cabin as it continues to burn. “There’s gotta be money in the chimney! Colm always keeps a stash hidden every place he goes!”

John’s raspy voice rings out in irritation. “If it ain’t burned up first! Ever think about that?”

But only the front of the cabin is in flames, it still has to reach the back. Maybe there’s still a chance to find out. Feeling emboldened by your survival, you begin to walk toward it. “I’ll go see.”

But a hand grabs your shoulder, pulling you back. “Oh no, you don’t!” And John whips you back around. “Hosea would have Arthur kill me if I brought you back not only as you are, but burnin’ besides.” And with a hint of a smirk, he points his revolver at Kieran. “You go get it. And you better make sure you come back out with some cash.” 

Kieran nods hesitantly, his eyes darting from the smoking cabin to John's grim expression and back again. You watch him approach the cabin, each step tentative as if the ground might give way beneath him. The tension in the air is palatable, like the low rumble of thunder before a storm.

“Hurry up!” John roars, pointing his gun skyward and shooting once. Kieran nearly jumps in the air, and hurries toward what’s left of the door as the flames eat it away.

Your breathing becomes shallow, the sting from your side rising with each pulse of your heart. You lean against a nearby tree, the rough bark pressing into your back, providing a strange comfort amidst the chaos. From this vantage point, you watch as Kieran disappears into the smoky maw of the cabin, his form swallowed by the thick, billowing smoke. Your heart continues to pound in your chest, an erratic drumbeat in the quiet of the dying fire’s hiss and crackle.

“You think he’ll find it?” Bill’s voice breaks through your thoughts, his tone laced with skepticism.

You glance at John who just watches for the opening. “No loss, either way.”

You scowl. “And we aren’t like the O’Driscolls at all,” you say with agitated sarcasm. “I wonder what Hosea would say seeing us now, acting like vultures around a carcass.”

John frowns, the lines on his scarred face deepening. "Hosea ain't here, Kit. We gotta do what we gotta do to survive. Besides, he’s an O’Driscoll, you know that."

Your gaze shifts back to the cabin and just when you are about to give in and go in there after him, Kieran rushes back out, clutching a small, metal box.

“He’s got somethin! He’s got somethin’!” Bill cheers and practically leaps over bodies to get to the young man. Kieran, half-choked by smoke, stumbles toward you all, the box clutched to his chest like a lifeline.

As he nears, his coughing subsides enough for him to wheeze out, "Found it in the chimney—nearly missed it with all the smoke…!”

He offers it to you, not John or Bill, and you take it from him. You try to open it, but it’s locked.

“Hey, what the—?”

And before you can finish, John snatches it from you, and with his hunting knife in hand, he slips it under the lid and pries it open. You all gather close and look inside the box.

And there, perfectly wadded, is a roll of cash. A thick roll.

John manages a smile. “I guess it weren’t all for nothin’.” And discarding the box, he holds the wad of cash and begins to divide it amongst you, leaving a large portion of it for the gang’s collection.

You get a nice take out of it. One. Hundred. Dollars.

There was six hundred dollars just sitting in that tin.

You tuck your share into your bosom, feeling the weight of the bills pressed against your flesh. Aside from the thirty dollars you had woken up with after Blackwater, this is the most amount of money you have ever seen. You don’t feel guilty for having it. After all, it was Colm you stole from, not an innocent family or lonely traveler.

“We should get goin’,” John says calmly and sheaths his knife. He turns to leave and after sharing a glance with Bill, you both follow.

After walking a few paces, John quickly stops, turns around, and looks behind you. “Except you.”

You then realize he is talking about Kieran.

“What?” Kieran asks, his voice trembling. “Y-y-you’re just gonna leave me here?”

“It’s better than killin ya, get lost!” John waves him off with a large sweep of his arm. 

Kieran shakes in his boots, his voice trembling. “I’m just as good as dead if you leave me! Colm ain’t gonna be happy about this.”

“And how is that our problem?” Bill roars.

“So, I’m one of you now…!” He says it with more courage than what he usually gives, and this causes John and Bill to pause for a moment.

You’ve been watching this exchange and you aren’t sure if this is a regular occurrence or not. It doesn’t make sense to leave him, after helping you by revealing this hideout and finding you some cash.

But most importantly…

“He saved my life, John,” you remind him. “You’re just going to let that go?”

You see his eyes shift to you and soften. You know now that he looks up to you, in a way, in a sisterly way, and after what Abigail said, he clearly missed you more than what he was willing to let on.

John’s lips press into a thin line, a visible struggle playing across his features as he weighs your words against his instincts. His gaze flickers back to Kieran, who stands shivering slightly, his eyes wide with a mingled fear and hope.

Finally, John lets out a long sigh and nods curtly. "Alright, but if you get yourself in trouble, don’t go cryin’ to me.” He points to you. “Cry to her, God knows she’s the softest one in the bunch.” You can hear the light teasing in his voice, clearly trying to hide it behind the gruff tone he’s taken. He turns back around and continues to head toward the hill, where your horses wait on the other side.

You feel a mixture of relief and responsibility settle on your shoulders, realizing that you may have just made a decision that will impact the gang forever. After Bill and John are a few paces away, you turn and look back at the new member. “Come on, Kieran,” you say softly, gesturing to him to follow. He nods quickly, almost disbelievingly, and meets the pace of your stride.

"Thank you," he murmurs, his voice barely carrying over the rustling leaves around you.

You nod, feeling the weight of his life now partially in your hands. "Stick close, keep your head down, and please, don’t make me look stupid.”

***

You ride carefully back to camp with the boys. You also make a point not to wince or groan, though you are in a great deal of pain. You keep your hand on your side, hoping that the bleeding has stopped by now, but you don’t want to stop and look. You just need to make it back to camp, and prepare yourself for what may happen.

You already know that Dutch is going to question where you have been. Micah may even be well enough to hiss words into his ear, no doubt making you sound more of an enemy than you would ever intend to be. It seems that is what Micah does best.

The crisp evening air snaps against your cheeks as you guide Odliv along the familiar path, the rhythmic hoofbeats a comforting, yet somber tune. John and Bill are quiet for the ride back, and you aren’t too upset by that. You don’t mind peace and quiet, the time to gather your thoughts.

You wonder if Arthur is back. If he managed to find something about Sean, like he mentioned. You are eager to know, Sean is another person that knows you, someone who has a piece of a puzzle that you are trying to put back together.

After a little bit longer, you see the trail that leads to camp, and you feel your heart beating just a little bit faster. It is darker now, and just as the sun sets, you can spot the glow of the camp’s fire.

“Hey! State your business!” It’s Karen.

“Guess who?” John asks, speaking enough to identify yourselves.

“Well, well, well…!” Karen says, a lilt in her voice. “Was wonderin’ if you’d come back at all!”

“Shut up,” John barks back and you can’t help but wonder if there is a hidden meaning there.

You can feel the eyes of the other gang members on you as you ride into camp, their curious glances like prickles on the back of your neck. You dismount with a quick swing of your leg and once your feet hit the ground, you feel a sudden twinge in your side and wince. “Ack…!”

“Hosea…!” John calls out. “Kit’s hurt!”

That was not what you wanted. The last thing you need is to have everyone flocking over to you, worrying over just a bullet graze.

The girls, aside from Karen who remains guarding the camp, are the first to reach you. Concern is clearly etched into their faces, as their gentle hands take you and escort you to the nearby table.

“What happened?” Mary Beth looks you over.

“Are you hurt?” Tilly wipes some dirt from your brow.

“What did John do?” Abigail asks.

You aren’t able to answer any of their questions, as they all come at you all at once. You shake your head lightly, trying to assure them without using too many words. "It's nothing," you manage, though the throbbing in your side argues otherwise. Mary Beth looks skeptical, her eyes narrowing as she inspects the wound more closely.

"Just a scrape," you repeat, hoping to dissuade further inquiry.

“Let me be the judge of that,” Susan, with a lantern in her hand, pushes her way to the table and pulls up a chair beside you. “Move aside, girls…” And seeing where your hand is placed, she quickly grabs it and pulls it away from your side.

The movement is enough for the pain to sharply course through you and you bend into your side. “Ow…!”

She holds the lantern up close and squints to focus her vision. “You got shot, alright.”

You then hear Hosea’s voice as he approaches. “Shot?”

His tone is a mix of worry and disbelief. Hosea, always the peacekeeper, never likes hearing about injuries, especially when it comes to someone he considers family. You see the concern in his eyes as he kneels beside you, his weathered face etched with years of hardship but always maintaining that gentle kindness.

"Yes,” you answer. “I didn’t realize it until after we took them all out.”

Hosea’s brow furrows. “Took who all out?”

“O’Driscolls!” Bill growls, with an edge of excitement in his voice. “It was like old times, Hosea. You shoulda seen her!”

Hosea turns to look back at you. “Can’t seem to recall the old times including Kit getting shot.”

You frown. “I guess I am not as nimble as I used to be,” you manage a weak smile, trying to lighten the mood despite the throbbing pain that suggests the bullet did more than just graze you.

“What’s this about O’Driscolls?”

Those gathered around you turn to see Dutch and Micah, walking up to you with narrowed glances.

John steps forward, standing right behind you as you sit in your chair. “Kit got Kieran to talk, and we attacked one of their hideouts. Got a good payout, too.”

Dutch looks at you, arching a brow. “Did she, now?”

You swallow and nod your head confidently. “Yes, I did.”

“Well, ain’t she just a go-getter?” Micah says condescendingly. “For someone who can’t remember a lick, she seems pretty eager to get back into the saddle…get us in trouble.”

Hosea furrows his brow. “I hardly see a bunch of dead O’Driscolls and a handful of cash trouble, Micah.”

And Micah doesn’t have an answer for that, only lifting his chin and snickering, like he’s got a winning hand and terrible poker face.

Dutch looks at you. “You got Kieran to talk?”

You nod. “All it takes is a gentle hand.”

He almost laughs at that. “You always did have a way with people, Kit,” Dutch says warmly, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Even when they’re as stubborn as mules.” He glances at Hosea before turning to walk away. “You make sure she gets treated for that wound,” he calls over his shoulder. Micah only leers at you before going in the opposite direction. Good. You hate seeing him try to be Dutch’s shadow, even after the sun has gone down.

Hosea nods, giving you a concerned look. “He’s right, you know,” Hosea says softly, his voice low as he takes your hand. “You’ve got a knack for this, but don’t push yourself too hard.”

You smile, feeling a sense of pride. “I just want to be myself again.”

Hosea shakes his head, his expression softening. “We need to get this cleaned up before it gets infected.”

Susan nods, and gestures for Mary Beth to bring some clean cloths and whiskey. "Mary Beth, if you could also prepare some of that poultice we have in the medicine wagon and meet me by the lean-to. It’ll help with the inflammation."

Mary Beth nods firmly, bustling away to fetch the items while others clear a space around you on the table. Hosea pats your shoulder and you look up at him. You can see the relief in his eyes and you can’t help but feel a little guilty for worrying him. You watch as he walks away and gestures for the onlookers to carry on as they were.

“Come this way, Kitka,” Susan beckons, helping you stand up and walk you back to your tent. “Tilly, come with me.” She helps you sit down and without a second thought, helps you unbutton your shirt. “Let’s see how bad it is…”

As Susan carefully peels back the fabric, her hands are steady but her brow is furrowed in concentration. The cool evening air brushes against your skin, sending a shiver down your spine from the sudden rush of cold.

“Cut through your chemise, too,” she says regretfully.

“Yes, ma’am,” you say and she gently moves the fabric around to get a better look at your wound.

Leaning back, she rolls up her sleeves, preparing to treat your wound with the practiced care of someone who's seen too many injuries in her lifetime. “Tilly, get me some water.”

Tilly nods, and turns to leave the tent just as Mary Beth returns with a bottle of whiskey, cloth, and a mortar filled with crushed herbs. Sitting down, she sets everything down beside you, and Susan takes the bottle of whiskey. You can already sense what is about to happen.

Tilly quickly returns, and stands by with a basin of warm water and the clean cloths, ready to assist.

“Ouch!” You grimace as Susan begins to clean the wound. The sharp sting of whiskey follows, making you suck in a breath through clenched teeth.

"All right, Kit," Susan sighs. “You’re going to have to hold still for just a little longer. Mary Beth, please finish mixin’ the poultice while I finish cleanin’ this up.”

Mary Beth nods, her hands deftly working the mortar, grinding the herbs with a pestle. The scent of yarrow and chamomile fills the tent, a gentle earthy aroma that contrasts the gunpowder and woodsmoke on your skin.

You’ve been treated by a doctor only recently, but somehow, nothing seems to compare to the gentle care of these three women, who have been by your side through thick and thin. Each touch and motion is infused with a kinship that no formal medical training could provide. They move around you with a seamless choreography, one born of many nights spent huddled in dimly lit tents, tending to one another's bruises and breaks.

If you had any doubts as to where you were, you don’t anymore.

You are home.

***

“Ah…! It is sooo good to be back with you all again…!” An unfamiliar voice bellows loudly into the night, causing you to rise from your rest. After being bandaged and given one of Mary Beth’s shirts to wear, you are cleaned up and ready to recover. You managed to close your eyes for just a few minutes, before the sound of hoofbeats and the loud Irish accent came storming through camp.

And, of course, you’re too curious for your own good.

Easing yourself out of your bedroll carefully, you step outside the tent, steadying yourself against the wooden pole. The camp is alive with energy, a stark contrast to the quietude that enveloped it just moments ago. Lanterns are lit, casting flickering shadows across the faces of your companions gathered around a figure near the campfire.

You see faces who weren’t there before. Charles. Javier. They are back.

And there, standing on a crate with a lopsided grin, is a red headed young man in a gray shirt. “…Uncle Sean is back! And don’t you worry, Ms. Grimshaw, old crone. I’ll keep dem girls in line, if I have to whip’em, I will…!”

Tilly, standing nearby, yells back at him. “I’d like to see you try…!”

Sean. This is Sean Macguire. But if he’s back, then…

Where’s Arthur?

You look over at Charles and he meets your gaze and smiles politely. You haven’t really talked to him much, but he seems the type to be friendly when it calls for it.

Carefully holding your side, you walk over to him. “Hello, Charles.”

“Hi, Kit.” He notices your hand. “You okay?”

You shrug it off. “It’s just a grazing. I’ll manage. But…” your voice trails off as you glance around, hoping to catch a glimpse of the one face you want to see more than any other. “Arthur—is he…?”

Charles's expression softens, understanding immediately who you're asking about. “Ah,” he says, a hint of sympathy in his voice. “He hung back for a bit. Lookin’ to see if the bounty hunters had left anything valuable.”

Your eyebrows raise. “Bounty hunters?”

Charles nods. “Mmhm. That’s how we got Sean back.” You both look back at the already inebriated Irishman, who can barely keep his balance on the crate as he raves on about how much he loves everyone and to have fun tonight. “Now I’m having second thoughts.”

You chuckle, but that causes your side to hurt more. “Ouch.”

“Hey, you should take it easy.”

“Oh, I intend to, I just wanted to see what the fuss was about before I try to get back to sleep.”

Charles shakes his head. “If you say so.”

You hear music begin to play and look to see Javier with his guitar and those gathered begin to sing. “You sing, Charles?”

He shakes his head. “Nope.”

“Oh.” You pause, and think to ask him a question. “Do I?”

Charles raises an eyebrow, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "You? Sing?" He chuckles softly, leaning back against the wagon. "Can't say I've ever heard you, but I figure if you wanted to, you'd have a voice worth listening to."

You smile tentatively, appreciative of his compliment. “I like you, Charles.”

He smiles back warmly, chuckling. "You’ve always spoken your mind, Kit. I learned that quickly when I met you six months ago.”

You tilt your head, and your smile fades. “Did I? Does that offend you?”

He looks at you funny, then shakes his head. “Of course, not. I appreciate it. You've always got a way about you that's...calming. Even in times like these."

Appreciation shadows your face as you look around at the ragged band of outlaws, finding comfort in the familiar albeit battered faces. The fire casts dancing shadows and for a brief moment, the flickering light seems to illuminate a path directly to Arthur as he strides back into the camp. Relief floods through you so powerfully that your knees nearly buckle.

Arthur's eyes search the crowd until they land on you. His stride quickens, his face a mix of concern and something deeper, softer.

But Dutch catches him, calling his name. “Arthur…!”

Arthur stops in his tracks, changing directions and walks toward the charismatic leader. “You seem to be in a good mood…”

Charles must see the dissatisfied look on your face, for he chuckles softly. “Everyone’s always fighting for his attention. But you needn't worry. He's always made time for you."

You watch as Arthur laughs at something Dutch says, throwing his head back in a display of genuine amusement that you've seldom seen recently. His laughter is a warm sound in the cool night, inviting yet somber when laced with the undercurrents of the looming dangers that shadow your gang. It's a rare sight that softens the edges of your worry for just a moment.

As the music grows louder and the singing more fervent, you feel an unfamiliar ache to join in, to let go of the burden of secrets and fears for just a little while, but you want to talk to Arthur. You have questions you want answered.

Leaving Charles, you make your way over to the rugged outlaw as he continues to converse with Dutch.

Dutch is smiling, with a newly lit cigar in his hand. “…We’re havin’ a party! We’re celebratin’!” Then just as he sees you coming, his smile dissappears. “Do you mind, Kit? Arthur’s just got back, and—”

Arthur holds out a hand, clearly trying to calm Dutch down. “No, Dutch, it’s alright.” And not waiting for a response, he turns to look at you, his eyes soft. “How’ve you been? Gettin’ along fine?”

You nod, trying to get into the conversation, despite Dutch’s intense gaze. “Yes, I have.”

“She’s been gettin’ along, alright,” Dutch quips as he begins to walk away. “Gettin’ herself shot.”

Arthur quickly looks at you, his eyes narrowing with worry. "What?" His voice rises slightly, an edge of panic threading through the gruffness.

You quickly shake your head, trying to dismiss his concern. "Arthur, it’s—it's nothing, really." You place your hand on your side, indicating where the bullet touched you.

But he’s still catching up. “You got shot?!” Arthur’s voice booms, louder than you intended, and a few heads turn in your direction. You wince, not wanting to make a spectacle, but his concern is palpable, radiating from him like the heat from the distant campfire.

“It’s just a graze,” you try to reassure him, your voice softer now.

And thankfully, he mirrors your tone, lowering his voice slightly. “When?”

“Today…”

“What happened?”

You look around, avoiding his gaze. “Erm…Well…Arthur, erm…” You tuck some loose hair behind your ear. “John, Bill, and I, we—we…We raided an O’Driscoll hideout.”

“An O’Driscoll hideout?” He steps closer to you, and you quickly pick up the familiar scent of tobacco and leather. “How did you figure out where they were?”

“Erm…Kieran told us.” You punctuate your answer as though it were a question, your heart racing at the close proximity to Arthur.

Arthur nods his head, almost approvingly. “Dutch got him to talk, huh?”

That’s when you hear John’s voice behind you. “No! She did.”

Arthur turns to look at John, his brow pinched in confusion. “What?”

“Is that all you’re here to say? ‘What?’” John chortles. “Kit’s back, Arthur! You didn’t think she was just gonna sit around and do nothin’, did you?”

Arthur looks confused, letting his head tilt backward as he eyes the two of you. “Back?” Then he looks at you, his eyes widening a little. “Y-you remember everythin’…?”

You shrug your shoulders. “Well…no…I remember a little of where I came from…and I learned what I can do with explosives and, uh, incendiary buckshot…” You look up at him and grin as you proudly list off the things that you’ve learned. “I can do all those things…!”

Arthur looks at you, almost with skepticism. “Really?”

John nods. “Yeah! She set their cabin on fire and we managed to get some money.” He holds up his beer as though to drink a toast to you. “It was a good day.” And he brings the bottle to his lips, takes a long sip, hands it to Arthur, and walks away from you to go relieve himself in the bushes outside of camp.

You look back at Arthur and he’s quiet. His gaze is piercing, as if trying to convey what he wants to say but isn’t choosing to. But you don’t like being kept in suspense. “What’s wrong?”

“Are you crazy, woman…?”

You nearly scoff, not affected by his reaction. “No…” But you still punctuate your reply as though it were a question.

He almost begins to pace, but stops to look back into your eyes as he gestures to the trees beyond the camp. “You—you just got back, still tryin’ to figure things out, and you go runnin’ off shootin’ O’Driscolls?”

You shrug. “Well…It’s better to shoot O’Driscolls than at innocent people, Arthur…!” And you think of another reason. “It helps the gang, doesn’t it?” He doesn’t answer and you can see his muscles tensing. You want to be calm and reason with this overprotective behavior he’s exhibiting. You step closer to him, but not too close. “Look, I figured that…The last time that I was able to…” You flippantly pantomime with your hands, like you are crafting something. “…whip up stuff, when I figured out any kind of skill that I had, I was in danger—”

“So you did this just to put yourself at risk, is that—is that it?”

“Yes! That is what I did…!”

Arthur throws his head back to look at the sky, chortling in a frustrated way and throws up his hands. “You’re so stubborn…!”

You rest a hand on your hip. “And you’re not?” You lean toward him, tilting your head to look at him with your right eye. “You’re not stubborn at all?” You laugh. “Arthur Morgan…! You’re one to talk!” And you laugh too hard, hurting your side. You bend into it, placing your hand on the wound. “Ow…!”

He crosses his arms, looking at you as though you kind of deserved that. “Where’d you get shot?”

And you answer pathetically. “My side.” And you try to recover with making it not so big of a deal. “It’s just a graze, the bullet barely touched my skin, I’m fine.”

Arthur begs to differ.

“You’re fine?” His voice carries a mix of anger and concern, a tone you’ve come to understand all too well. “You call bendin’ over and clutchin’ your side ‘fine’?”

You straighten up, still feeling the sting but ignoring it best you can. “Susan took care of me.” And you gesture to the campfire where Hosea sits with the others. “Hosea even said she did a good job. I’m fine.” Arthur just stares at you, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. You feel that you need to be honest with him, maybe he can be convinced that you weren’t so crazy to risk your life. You begin to speak softly, almost pleading for his good nature to listen to you. “Arthur, it felt really good to do that.”

He swallows. “It did?”

“Of course, it did! I feel more at home now than I have in a while. I mean…Kieran is now one of us!”

He raises a brow. “Is he?”

“Well, he still has some earning to do, but I think people will start trusting him now.”

“You want him to stay?”

“He’s a gentle soul, Arthur.” Arthur goes quiet for a while, and you begin to question if there’s something more going on. You can't shake the feeling that something is troubling him deeply, something he isn't voicing. "Are you alright?

He looks away, then back at you, his eyes searching yours as if debating how much to reveal. Then he nods. “Yeah…We got Sean back.”

You look over to where the Irishman sits, with Karen on his lap. “Yeah, I see that,” you chuckle. “Some people seem to be happy.”

He laughs at your joke. “But not all?”

“Maybe not.”

“You remember him?”

You shake your head. “No, but I have a feeling I will regret it when I do.”

Arthur laughs and tucks his chin, saying something under his breath. “…funny…”

“What’s that?”

“I said you’ve always been funny.”

You can’t help but raise an eyebrow and tilt your head, teasingly asking, “Funny looking?”

His cheeks almost burn pink and he ducks his head again, shaking it. “No.” And as though wanting to change the subject, he quickly asks you a question. “So, how’d you handle it?”

“Handle what?”

“The O’Driscolls?”

You shrug nonchalantly. “I don’t know, it just…came natural to me.” He looks at you and you figure he’s asking for more of an explanation as he begins to take a drink of the beer in his hand. “I just saw they had three women with them…and figured if you can’t beat them, join them.”

At your words, Arthur instantly spits out his beer away from you, coughing as he tries to regain his composure. "You what?" he splutters, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth.

You can't help but laugh at his reaction. "Arthur, I said if you can’t beat them—"

“I heard what you said! What do you mean by that?”

The corners of your mouth twitch in amusement as you try to explain it to the concerned outlaw. “I mean, that I pretended to…be one of them!” He looks at you with great skepticism. “I’m serious! I walked up there…” And you begin to reenact the way you walked, your hips exaggeratedly swaying. “Just…like this…” And you twinge your side. “Ow…! And…and they believed it.”

He still looks at you, like you just grew another arm. “They believed it?”

“Yes! Well enough to get one to…walk into the cabin with me.” The way he looks at you is utter shock, his eyes as wide as the plains, his skin almost pale. “Why, Arthur! You look like you’ve seen a ghost!”

He swallows thickly, his voice a low rumble when he finally speaks. “Just…never thought you’d do somethin’ like that…”

Oh…he thinks you did it. You shake your head. “John…John said that is something that I’ve done before. Entertain and distract.”

“Well that part’s right, but, not about bringin’ men in cabins wit’chu…”

You look at him nonplussed. “Arthur, I didn’t do anything. It’s fairly simple, I knocked him out, tied him up, and threw him out the window.”

He almost looks relieved, a light chuckle breaking through his disbelief. "You threw him out the window?" he asks, sounding more amused now than anything.

"Yes, and not gently either," you admit with a shrug, feeling a flutter of pride at your own resourcefulness under pressure. Arthur shakes his head, the corners of his mouth turning upwards. You remember that boy you tied up, and what happened afterward. “I want you to know…Kieran saved my life.”

Arthur's eyebrows lift, surprise momentarily displacing the earlier tension. "Kieran?" he echoes, his voice tinged with a mix of disbelief and curiosity. His stance shifts as he grips the neck of the beer bottle, the dim light from the campfire casting shadows across his face. "How'd that happen?"

You nod as you explain. “The man I tied up? Well, I guess I didn’t tie him well enough…He could have shot me, but Kieran got to him with my own rifle.”

Arthur looks at you, surprised. “Your own gun?”

You almost roll your eyes. “Yes, my own.” You pause, remembering the weight of the rifle in your hands, how it felt like an extension of your own body. “I bought two guns, figured I should if I am going to be helping—”

He shakes his head. “No. No, you’re not gonna be doin’ that.”

“What? I just—”

“I know what you just did, but if anyone had a brain they wouldn’t have let you step near an O’Driscoll hideout.” He shakes his head. “Marston and his half-eaten…”

“I’m trying to get my memories back!”

“Risking your life? That really worth it?”

You fold your arms, not willing to relinquish your decision. “I feel like my headaches are mild in comparison to that…Arthur, it felt good to not feel like a delicate little flower. I…I don’t want to be delicate.”

Then he says something under his breath, but you catch it this time. “That’s a fact…”

“What?”

His eyes widen and he pauses, clearly trying to come up with something else. “I said…there’s a rat…!” And he points by your tent, looking at you to see if you’ve bought it.

You cross your arms. “That isn’t what you said.”

Not denying it, he lifts his brow. “Will you take it then?”

Indignant, you lift your chin. “I don’t know if I want to. You seem to do that when you don’t want to answer questions you don’t want to answer. Like a couple days ago.”

He sighs, clearly understanding what you’re talking about. “I had to go.”

“Oh, you did? You couldn’t just stay for a few minutes to talk to me?” He avoids your gaze for a minute. He’s doing it again. “Arthur Morgan, if we grew up together, that might as well make us friends, right?” You pause, but he doesn’t answer. “Right?”

He sighs, relenting, and he closes his eyes as he tucks his chin. “Right.”

You grin, satisfied that he agrees with you instead of making up an excuse. “Okay, then. So if I ask a question, you just say that you don’t want to talk about it instead of slopping off on me like that. Fair?”

“Fair.” And after a moment, his eyes soften and a small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “You’re talkin’ different.”

“What?” Your brow pinches and after thinking about it, you begin to wonder if it’s true. “Have I always talked…different?”

“No, you’re just…soundin’ more like yourself.”

You smile and you can’t help but feel something. Relief? Flattered? You aren’t sure, but you’ll take it. “I guess that’s a compliment?”

He blinks softly, his blue-green eyes never leaving you. “Yeah. It is.”

A silence falls between you, letting the sounds of the singing and partying waft over to you. As the sound of raucous laughter and the strum of a guitar drift closer, you feel a strange mix of comfort and unease; it's like stepping back into a life that both is and isn't yours. Arthur watches you, his gaze fixed as if trying to read your thoughts from across the small space between you.

“Arthur…?”

He nods at you, speaking more calmly than before. “Yeah?”

You swallow, nervous about asking the question that is begging to force its way out. You’ve asked a similar question to the girls but you feel more anxious this time, for whatever reason. “Were we close?”

His intense gaze flickers back and forth between you and the dense forest behind you. The dancing flames of the fire can break bye to cast shadows across his face, adding depth to the already visible lines of worry etched into his skin. You can feel the weight of his unspoken thoughts hanging in the air between you. "What do you mean?" he finally asks.

"I mean...were we close? Did we have deep conversations? Share secrets?" Your impatience seeps through your words as you lean against the table, watching him closely. He falls silent, causing your impatience to grow even more. "Arthur?" you prompt him.

Finally, he answers with a flippant tone. "We grew up together."

But that response isn't enough for you. "That's what you always say. I want to know if there are things that I told you that I didn't tell anyone else." Your voice betrays a hint of desperation as you search his face for any signs of recognition or understanding.

“Maybe.” There is a heaviness in his answer, a sort of resignation, but it still maintains a vagueness that bothers you.

You’re eager to know and so you reply quickly. “Like what?”

Then he stammers, his words coming out in a jumbled mess. “I-I-I don’t know! I don’t know what you may have told anyone else.”

Your eagerness deflates and your brow furrows in frustration. “That’s not helpful at all.”

He responds with agitation, as if nothing ever pleases you. “Well, I’m sorry.” But then his expression softens and he lets out a remorseful sigh. “I’m sorry.”

“Arthur, I just want to be normal.”

He lets out a rough chuckle. “We ain’t normal, Kit.”

“You—Well, I hoped you knew what I meant…!” You roll your eyes and let out a self-deprecating laugh, fully aware of the fact that you are both wanted outlaws. “I want to be myself again. I feel like I’ve been getting closer and closer…” The weight of your words hangs in the air, the unspoken truth of the necessity of your memories constantly weighing down on you.

He clears his throat, encouraging you to talk with a gesture of his hand. “Well, what parts do you remember? What parts of you spurred on besides relearnin’ your skill set?”

“Well, for one thing, I grew up in a circus.”

He nods, his brows lifted in a soft surprise. “That’s true.”

You’re almost astonished, glad that your mind wasn’t actually playing tricks on you. “Really? That’s true?”

He smiles softly. “Yeah.”

And then, suddenly, you begin to hear a gramophone playing, a light waltz music sweeping through the night air. Dutch steps out of his tent, finding Molly and asks her to dance.

You look back at the tired cowboy sitting next to you. “Do you dance, Arthur?”

He leans back, caught off guard by your question. “Me?” He looks away bashfully. “Hardly much of a dancer.”

You look on and watch the two dancers, smiling as a memory brings itself to the forefront of your thoughts. “I remember dancing.”

“Do you?” After thinking about it, he nods. “Oh, that’s right, you told me.”

“Yes, I think it was my family. The circus? I think we were all dancing in a circle. I was little then.” You laugh at the thought. “I practically danced around today, doing backflips for the O’Driscolls.”

He gazes off into the distance, his expression wistful as he reminisces. “Yeah, you were pretty good at those.”

You turn to him with a quizzical look. “Was I?”

He nods, a small smile playing on his lips. “Mhm. You tended to use it a lot when you were tryin’ to get people to look the other way.” He sits down at the nearby table, finally relaxing after a long day of dealing with bounty hunters and Sean Macguire. “We could always count on you to do that.”

You sit next to him and you let out a sigh. “People don’t seem to want to count on me now.” You can’t help but feel a pang of disappointment and uncertainty in your abilities, even with what you were able to accomplish today.

Arthur looks at you softly, with empathy. “That ain’t true.”

His words offer a semblance of comfort, but the skepticism lingers in your heart, like a stubborn stain. “Is it though?” You go quiet for a moment and glance over at the dancing couple again, Dutch and Molly’s movements fluid and synchronous under the ethereal moonlight. “I just want people to trust me.”

He sets the beer bottle on the table, his attention seeming to have drifted elsewhere. His eyes scan the camp, taking in everything with a sense of unease. “Seems like people should be wantin’ that from you.”

You look at him, raising an eyebrow and speak with a hint of skepticism in your voice. “Really? You mean who should I trust?”

His gaze meets yours, a flicker of earnestness softening the rugged lines of his face, his sincerity surprising you. “Exactly.”

A small laugh escapes your lips as you look away. “Even within the gang?” you ask, half-jokingly.

But his response is serious and unwavering. “Shoah. You never know what things’ll do to people.” The weight of his words hangs heavy in the air, reminding you of the constant danger and unpredictability that comes with this type of life.

“I see…” Your voice falls to a hush as you process his words. You can feel his gaze on you, waiting for a response. After a moment, you decide to lighten the mood, going back to something you were talking about. “Anyway, so, you don’t dance.”

He lifts a hand in response, as though it will sway you from the topic. “I never said I don’t dance.”

You lift your chin and look at him through half-lidded eyes. “So you do dance?”

He chortles. “I’m just not a good dancer.” The twinkle in his eyes tells you there may be more to it than he’s letting on.

“Can I be the judge of that?” Easing yourself off the chair without too much protest from your sore body, you turn around and offer a hand to him, his marine eyes staring into yours. “Will you dance with me?”

He hesitates, offering an excuse as his gaze flickers down to your side. “With your injury?”

You pout, a soft plea in your voice as you drop your arm. “Arthur, please.”

He scoffs, clearly torn between concern for your well-being and his own inner feelings. “I don’t wanna hurt you.”

But you’re determined, knowing that this moment may never come again. “I don’t want to be delicate.” He is quiet for a moment, his eyes flickering with something that you can’t quite place, but you feel something in your stomach, something warm and cold, heavy and light at the same time. “I’m not going to snap in two, I can bend backwards whenever I want.”

He chortles, tucking his head almost bashfully. “Yeah. Shoah.”

You offer your hand again. “Arthur…Will you dance with me?”

His reluctance begins to melt away at the desperation in your voice and he finally gives in, taking your outstretched hand and leading you away from the table and to a better spot. The music swells and envelops you as you guide his hand to your waist, the uninjured side, of course, and you take his other hand in yours.

The music, a soft, haunting melody that seems to drift on the evening breeze, wraps around you both like a whisper. Arthur's hand is steady on your waist, surprisingly gentle for a man of his stature and reputation. His other hand grips yours, fingers interlaced with a firmness that speaks of protectiveness rather than possessiveness.

You look up into his eyes, intending on being light and humorous, but you can’t find it in you. And you see it in his eyes, too.

Something about the way the moonlight catches his gaze, lends a vulnerability to his rugged features that tugs at your heart. He’s a mystery, and unlike your memories, it isn’t something you can throw danger at to get it to confess.

So, at least for now, you will let it go and let him hold you.

Chapter Text

“If it involves the gun store, I can only imagine what it could be,” you laugh as you hang laundry to dry. You have been talking with Abigail to help make the chores go by faster, and with Jack running in between you, the laughter often drowns out most of what Abigail has been saying.

Despite the sunshine and banter, there’s a heaviness to the day—like the calm before a storm you can feel pulsing just beneath the surface of the soil.

“Jack!” Abigail chides. “You gotta find somewhere else to be.”

You don’t blame Jack for wanting to have a little fun. Ever since he went on that fishing trip with Arthur a few days ago, he’s been a little more anxious, running around and asking questions. And to be honest, so have you. 

Arthur had come back from the fishing trip, feigning a smile as he returned Jack to his mother, and you could tell something was off. 

You left feeding the chickens to meet him, but he quickly went into Dutch’s tent to speak with him, and so you had changed course, acting like you were busy cleaning off the nearby table.

That’s when you heard Arthur say it: he saw Pinkertons.

The news hit you like a bucket of ice water, chilling to the deep recesses of your spine. Pinkertons meant trouble — they were always trouble. You knew the gang was always on a thread-thin line, balancing between the law and complete anarchy, but this... this was a noose tightening.

And since, then, regardless of who heard it, the air has been thick with tension. Arthur didn’t share his news with you, perhaps to protect you, but it has only got you thinking more about your past, as if that didn’t consume your thoughts already.

Jack grabs your legs, leaning out and taunting his mother. “Aunt Kit doesn’t mind!”

But you reach down and playfully grab him and pull him away from you. “Don’t you dare pull me into this, Brouček,” you chuckle. “You best do what your mother says.”

His laughter rings through the air as he scampers off, a dust cloud marking his path. Abigail shakes her head, a weary smile tugging at her lips. “That boy will be the death of me,” she sighs, folding a sheet neatly and placing it in the basket.

You nod, feeling the weight of her words more than she can imagine. "He's a spirited one, that's for certain," you reply, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear and watching Jack disappear between some of the tents.

As you return to your chores, your mind can't help but wander back to Arthur. His usual sturdy demeanor seemed fractured, like a well-worn leather strap finally giving way under too much strain. You remember the way he looked around nervously, eyes darting to the treelines as if expecting an ambush at any moment. That isn’t the Arthur you’re learning to know, the one who faces danger head-on with a cocky grin plastered on his face.

“Your mind went somewhere else again,” Abigail teases, taking the shirt that you have failed to fold out of your hands.

You shake your head, jostling yourself. “I’m sorry, Abigail, I just keep wondering what they’re up to?”

“I already told you. John is havin’ Arthur get a rifle from the gun store.” And then she lifts a brow. “That doesn’t really get your mind wanderin’, does it?”

You force a smile, your nerves tightening like the strings of a corset. "No, I suppose not," you lie smoothly, taking the shirt back and folding it with deliberate care. Your fingers tremble slightly, betraying your calm exterior.

Arthur getting a rifle should be simple, mundane even, yet nothing feels simple now. He could be out on a dangerous job, maybe even a secret mission to take out a Pinkerton leader, you don’t know, that’s what’s bothering you. “John didn’t tell you much else?”

Abigail furrows her brow. “He ain’t the type to talk.” She takes down a blanket from the line and begins to fold it. “Most of the time he just flaps his jaws and says somethin’ nasty.”

“What is going on between you two?” She gives you a look and then you add, “Amnesia, remember?”

She sets the folded blanket down in a crate. “What, Arthur ain’t fillin’ you in on all those details?”

You shrug. “We don’t talk about everything.”

“That’s surprisin’.” Abigail leans in slightly, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "You and Arthur, everyone can see there's somethin' between you two. You ain't foolin' nobody, Kitka."

Your heart quickens at her words, but you don’t seem to be convinced. “I guess everyone knows something that I don’t.” You take the folded clothes back in your arms and prepare to deliver them to their owners. “If there was something between us, you’d think he would have said something already.”

Abigail sighs. “I don’t know, Kit, Arthur ain’t the outspoken type.” She points a thumb in the direction of Arthur’s tent, which is attached to the weapon’s wagon. “He usually keeps his thoughts in a journal.”

This gets your attention.

You nod, a plan forming in your mind. "I see.” You readjust the clothes in your arms, still moving carefully due to your healing wound in your side. “I guess I will go put these away,” you sigh, though it's more of a pained grimace as the confusion inside you, not your injury, twists tighter.

With the pile of clothes still in your arms, you make your way across the camp, dropping off each item to its respective owner with quick, polite exchanges. Your mind, however, remains fixed on Arthur's journal. It feels like an intrusion, a betrayal of the trust you're not entirely sure exists between you and him yet it might hold answers to the questions tangling up inside you.

Reaching Arthur's tent finally, the camp noises dim around you as if it is another realm entirely. Aside from dropping off clean clothes on his trunk, you really haven’t set foot in his tent, his space. Though now, you are tempted.

Setting his shirt and pants on the trunk, you let your eyes wander about his sleeping quarters.

It isn’t disorganized, but it exudes a lived-in warmth, with nuances of a man who has seen too much yet clings to remnants of a simpler life. There are old photographs pinned against the wagon’s side right above his cot, one catching you by surprise.

It is a photo of Dutch, Arthur, Hosea, and you. John isn’t in it, you aren’t sure why, but you are wearing the same outfit you wore when you robbed that bank.

You look so young, so serious with your unsmiling expression, but there is a light in your eyes as you stand beside Dutch and right behind Arthur as he sits in a chair.

He, too, is young. They all are. All handsome in their own way.

How did you end up with these folks? Did you find them intimidating at all? You don’t feel anything, except for the memories that you’ve already recalled, nothing seems to pop out at you, and your head doesn’t hurt.

You spot a mugshot of Lyle Morgan, who you deduce is Arthur’s father, and a photo of a dog. You can ask Arthur about it when you see him again.

You lean away from the cot and look around some more. You don’t see the journal, but you do notice two pictures on his makeshift end table. Looking around to be certain that no one is looking, you make your way over and pick the first one up.

The photograph is old. At least thirty years old. The woman in the photo has a soft expression on her face and light-colored eyes. Of course, the photograph is in black and white, but you don’t seem to recognize her anyhow. You flip it over and see there is some writing on the back.

Beatrice Morgan.

“Oh,” you say softly. “His mother…”

You place the photo back on the table, gently, as if the very act of touching it could fray the edges of Arthur's hidden vulnerabilities. Next to Beatrice's photo is another, this one smaller and the frame newer. As you pick it up, your fingers tremble slightly — perhaps from the cold that sneaks in with the breeze.

It is of another woman. Young, dark hair, pearl earrings, with a mole on her cheek.

You don’t recognize her, either, but you feel as though she is important somehow. You flip it over. Nothing. So, you don’t even get a quick answer. She had to have been someone important, otherwise he wouldn’t have put it near his bedside. You have a sinking feeling in your chest, an ache that seems to not have a place. You put the photograph back.

You see a flower on the nightstand, too, and a drawing from Jack, but there really doesn’t seem to be anything else here. No journal, no secrets, what else could there be—?

You see something beside some throwing knives. It looks like a newspaper clipping. It’s rather small, but you decide to pick it up and read it.

April 15th 1887
BRAZEN BANK ROBBERY
THREE MEN AND A WOMAN SOUGHT

Major T.J. Bellard has been a cashier at the banking house of Lee and Hoyt for a number of years but nothing prepared him for what transpired last week. "It was about 2 o'clock. There was a commotion outside, and so three of my associates went out to see what was going on. It seemed to draw the attention of other clients out of the bank, leaving me the only soul inside. Then, three men, strangers to me, came through the door and walked up to the counter. One of them, the eldest of the three, was a fine talker and engaged me in conversation. Suddenly the largest, a big, sullen young man, brandished a firearm and held it up to my face.

"Throw up your hands," the third one said, who appeared to be the boss. The other two repeated the order with an oath and the leader said, "My fine patriotic friends and I are going to relieve you of that gold and introduce a few folks to the benefits of civilization." They came around the corner and the counter, and grabbed some sacks which contained $5000 in gold. They demanded to know where the rest of the money was, and I pointed out three sacks containing silver, but it was too bulky for them. They retreated and one warned against sounding an alarm. Once they left, the commotion outside ended, and I saw a flash of embroidered red and black run past the window. It was a woman, young and barefooted, and it was clear that she was with them. I was never so terrified in my life," Mr. Bellard told a reporter.

The robbers are reported to have lingered in town, and there are unproven claims that the men and the woman traveled to hovels and shanties and even a home for orphans and gave handfuls of the ill-gotten gains to the poor…

It is your first robbery. And it briefly mentions you. You stare at the clipping, the ink blurring slightly as your hands tremble. The memory of that day is still a bit foggy, but the rush of adrenaline and fear is something you can almost taste even now. The description of the woman in red and black–it couldn't be anyone else but you.

You look down at your feet. Your shoes have always felt cramped and hot in the leather, not because the boots are too small or are of bad make, they just feel…restrictive.

You set the clipping down, and leave Arthur’s tent.

And just as you come out, you see another set of red and black.

Micah, in his red shirt and black jacket.

“Leavin’ him a present, were you?” he asks, a hint of suggestion on his tongue. “Don’t he have to be here for that?”

You decide not to give him the satisfaction of an answer and decide to walk away.

“Hey, I’m talkin’ to you…!” And he reaches out to grab you.

Your reflexes, honed from years of darting through circus crowds and avoiding the grabs of rowdy spectators, kick in before you fully register Micah's intent. You twist away, slipping out of his grasp as smoothly as a shadow flits through the moonlight.

"Nemám ti co říct, Micah, leda v jazyce, kterému nikdy nebudeš rozumět… " you hiss. “Ty blázne z přírody!”

It seems to only interest him more, his laugh filthy as he takes a step toward you. “You can speak that way anytime, sweetheart.” And he tips his hat. “I got the gist of it…” And he backs away before you get the chance to scratch him.

You clench your fists, your long fingernails digging into the skin of your palms. If you weren’t so curious to get to the bottom of what happened in Blackwater, you’d be keen on being rid of him. But he knows something, something that could connect the missing threads of your past. You resolve to keep a closer eye on Micah, despite the distaste it stirs within you.

As you walk away, your thoughts are tumultuous. You can’t help but feel the weight of those unread chapters of your life pressing down on you. The sun is still high in the sky, but the day feels like it is dragging its feet. It seems that others are trying to keep busy, waiting for an attack from the Pinkertons.

Even Dutch and Strauss have gone into town. Dutch said he had some plans, as usual, and Strauss, of course, wanted to check in on the cures and how many have been sold this past week. You are just waiting for him to get back and confront you about giving one away for free to a desperate woman, but since you’ve grown more confident in your own skin, you aren’t worried about the repercussions.

You walk past the clothesline and see that Abigail is gone. The laundry must be finished, which means moving on to the next chore.

You see Susan, grinding some more herbs, and you decide to approach her. “Ms. Grimshaw?”

Without saying anything, she sets the pestle down and holds out a hand. “No, Kitka, I’m not lettin’ you chop wood.”

You had asked her that earlier today, but she told you no. You are getting bored with the same old thing, and since you’re still recovering, it seems that the delicate treatment you tried so hard to avoid is all that it has been. Your shoulders droop and you sigh. “I’m not here to chop wood, ma’am.”

“I guess you need more chores?”

“Yes.”

She thinks on it, then shrugs. “I don’t have anythin’ else for you to do.”

You blink. “What?”

She waves you off. “Girl, you’ve been chewin’ my ear all day about how bored you are and how useless you feel, all the while still with a wound in your side.”

You instinctively place your hand there, as though the mere mention of it will make it worse. “I don’t want to be taking advantage of your kindness.”

She chuckles. “Kindness? You’re like a daughter to me, Kit. It ain’t nothin’ to do with kindness.” You smile softly, understanding her meaning. If she ever did love you, this is the way that she is showing it. She waves you off again. “Now, go on and rest for a while. You’ve earned it.”

You decide to take your leave, far be it for you to argue with her. As you begin to walk about the camp, you spot Odliv in the distance and you get the urge to go for a ride. Smiling to yourself, you make your way over to her.

“M-miss Kit…!”

You stop and looking in the direction of the voice, you see Kieran walking up to you. You smile gently and wave. “Kieran…”

“I-I-I see you ride Odliv bareback?”

You look back at your horse and shrug your shoulders. “Yes, what of it?”

“I was polishin’ saddles, and-and came across one that nobody’s usin’. Maybe you can use it?”

You think about it. You don’t mind riding bareback, but you really haven’t been riding fast or for long distances. Perhaps a saddle would be good. You turn back to Kieran and nod. “Maybe. Can you show it to me?”

Your answer clearly delights Kieran, as he smiles broadly and motions for you to follow. “This way…!”

He leads you to a spot near the horses, where some other saddles rest near a crate. It looks like a makeshift workplace, and you assume this is where Kieran goes to do his work. You’ve noticed he keeps to himself, trying to stay out of everyone’s way, as most do show their indifference to him.

Well…aside from Mary Beth. Since his freedom, and his slow integration into the gang, she’s been keeping him company, making his face beet red most of the time.

Kieran bends down and picks up a dark leather saddle and turns around to show you. “What do you think?”

Your head feels a buzz as you recognize it. This is your saddle. The one you remember from your memories of riding Odliv with Arthur and the rest of the gang. You reach out a hand to graze your fingers across the floral embroidery, a traditional pattern from your home country. Did you make this? Was it your mother's? You don’t know, but it isn’t something you can easily purchase at a stable or from a catalogue. 

“I’ll use it,” you say softly. Kieran nods and motions to give it to you. As he transfers it into your arms, you feel its lightness, which is surprising. It would make sense, given all the traveling your family must have done, no need to burden your horse. “Thank you.”

“Sure, Miss Kit.” And he turns to return to his work.

You turn around and make your way over to Odliv, her head perking up once she senses you. Her eyes follow you as you walk to her side and she remains still, clearly understanding what you are about to do. Putting on her saddle, you see how it suits her, her golden coat against the dark leather makes a beautiful contrast, like wheat against the dark earth. Your hands act as though on their own accord, securing the cinches and the breast strap. You back away to get the full picture, and your heart flutters a little at the anticipation of the ride.

After packing yourself a small lunch, and putting on your gun belt with your sawed-off, you mount up and ride Odliv out of the camp.

You decide to take the trail that leads to one of the roads you’ve traveled before. If you go westward, it leads you to Valentine. You don’t want to go that way, you’ve spent enough time over there, and after the incident with the working girls, you are afraid to be recognized. You look eastward and become curious as to where it should take you.

With a clicking sound from your mouth, you steer Odliv in that direction.

The ride is relatively quiet and peaceful. You find yourself relaxing in the saddle and letting your free hand hang down at your side. You regard the nature around you. On the left are high plateaus just in the distance, bushes and drying grass, the other is scattered trees that appear to slope down to a lakeside only several yards away. How diverse this land is!

The sun rides high in the sky, its light casting golden hues over the landscape, making the waters of the lake in the distance shimmer like a thousand tiny stars. It's a sight that nearly takes your breath away, and for a moment, you forget all about your past troubles and the empty spaces in your memory.

As you continue along the way, you begin to hear a strange thundering behind you, the sound soft but slowly gaining in volume. Tempted to look back, you turn your head slowly and see a rider coming at you at a full-blown gallop. In the distance, it is hard to see who it is, but by the way they move, you aren’t sure you want to find out.

Kicking Odliv’s barrel with your heels, she starts in a gallop and you grip the reins tightly, before nearly falling off. You haven’t ridden like this since returning to the gang, and you haven’t had much of a chance to adjust to it, but right now, you don’t have the time to practice.

Odliv is fast, and you’re grateful, but the rider behind you is gaining. You blame your rusty horsemanship and the late start you had on them.

You keep your eyes focused ahead, should you need to vault over some kind of obstacle.

And out of nowhere, they catch up to you. “OUTTA THE WAY…!”

Wait. That voice! You’d know it anywhere by now.

Just as you turn your head, you see the buckskin jacket and black hat rush past you.

“Arthur…!” you call out and upon hearing his name, he pulls back on the reins, and Montana skids to an abrupt halt. You slow Odliv down and canter up to him.

He's breathing heavily, drops of sweat beading on his furrowed brow, a look of urgent confusion etched across his rugged features. "Kitka," Arthur says, his voice thick with emotion and surprise. He looks at you as though you scared the living daylights out of him, but he speaks to you with an unusual calm. “We gotta go.”

“Go?” you ask. “Go where?”

He looks behind you and his breath hitches. “Follow me.” And before giving you a chance to respond, he spurs Montana on and they gallop off.

That’s when you hear gunshots in the distance.

Oh no. He’s in trouble.

But you aren’t about to stay and talk sense into angry lawmen. You aren’t that good at persuasion. 

You gallop after him, your heart pounding in rhythm with the hooves of Odliv hitting the ground. The familiar exhilaration of a high-speed chase washes over you, tinged with a fear you can't shake—the fear of losing Arthur again, just when you've found him.

As his figure grows larger before your eyes, the landscape blurs into a mix of green and brown. The gunshots grow distant, more faded, as if the very earth is encouraging your escape. Dust kicks up from Montana's hooves, creating a storm behind him that you can barely see through. But you don’t need clear vision; you just need to keep close to Arthur, as you catch up to ride along beside him.

You think to ask what happened, but you can ask when you are out of harm’s way.

***

After riding several miles, you have lost the law. You’ve stopped the horses in a thick forest up north, past a place called Moonstone Pond.

After dismounting, rather carefully, you remove Odliv’s bridle and let her drink from the water, letting the bridle fall with a metallic plop. Arthur had already dismounted and now sits on a nearby log, removing his hat and wafting cool air in his face.

He looks bulky, sitting hunched over like that, his large hand on the crown of his hat, his head down.

The air nearly crackles with tension, questions you have that need asking, but the immediate necessity of dealing with what just happened takes priority. It frustrates you, the need to be blunt, but you know that tact is the strategy here. You realize that this is your acting and con skills going to work. You have developed the ability to read people, or are at least relearning it.

“How’s your battle wound?” he asks casually as if you hadn’t just escaped the law.

“Fine,” you answer in the same manner. Feeling the need, you begin to remove your boots, pulling up your pant legs to get to the laces.

Arthur lifts his head and looks at you, his face expressionless. “What’re you doin’?”

You lift up your foot with skilled balance and pull off the boot with ease. Staying balanced on one foot, you switch feet and do the same with the other. Once your feet are free, you wiggle your toes in the grass and sigh. “That is so much better.”

Arthur lets out a chuckle. “Was wonderin’ when you’d do that.” He shifts on the log, eyes now scanning the expanse of trees shadowing you both from the late afternoon sun. His face, usually set in lines of determination or concern, relaxes for a moment as he watches you. "You always hated boots," he murmurs with a hint of nostalgia, his voice low and almost aching.

You look at him, your shoulders drooping. You want to just sit with him and ask him if he will tell you more, but first things first. “What happened in Valentine?”

His eyes flicker to the ground before coming back up at you. “We shot the whole town.”

Your heart sinks. “What?!”

“Leviticus Cornwall showed up. We robbed one of his trains a few weeks back, stole some oil, he’s riled up. Sent the Pinkertons after us. They nabbed John and Strauss…but I took care of that…” He rubs a hand down his face. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

Arthur’s confession hangs heavy between the rustling leaves and the creak of the log under his weight. The sun is beginning to enter the dusk, the shadows turning his face into a mask of remorse and desperation. You draw a deep breath, feeling the knot in your stomach tighten—anger, fear, and concern mingling together like a storm cloud that has blocked the sun. You take careful steps toward him and sit down beside him.

“It seems that is what we are good at.” You look down at your hands, imagining how many towns did you shoot up throughout your life? You haven’t remembered shooting a gun, but you just got done shooting O’Driscolls without so much as a second thought. “Blackwater, now this.”

Arthur nods, not arguing with you. “Yeah.”

You turn to look at him, though he doesn’t meet your gaze. “We’re going to have to leave Horseshoe Overlook, aren’t we?”

He looks up, casting his eyes toward the horses as they rest. “Looks that way.”

You exhale, your body feeling more heavy than you had hoped to feel today. “This isn’t the way we used to do things.”

Arthur turns to look at you, his eyes reflecting a certain curiosity. “What things?”

You clear your throat. You aren’t about to tell him that you were in his tent when you came across the newspaper clipping, but you have to explain what you mean. “I mean, back then, when we used to rob the rich and give money away.” You tuck some hair behind your ear. “But now we just kill people.”

Arthur’s body tenses slightly, his tone coming out as defensive. “I shoot those as need shootin’. That’s how Dutch has always done it.”

You find that hard to believe. Not after what you’ve heard and seen. You think about Heidi and what had happened to her. As far as you can tell, she didn’t need shooting. “Not anymore, he doesn’t.”

Arthur sighs, signs of fatigue coming out in his pinched brow and slumped shoulders. “I know that what just happened in Valentine weren’t good, but—”

“I’m talking about what happened in Blackwater, Arthur.” There is a silence that falls between you and after a moment, Arthur rises to a more erect sitting position. You exhale and look away. “It seems like nobody wants to talk about it.”

“I hear that.”

You pick at your long fingernails, getting dirt out from underneath them. “If I was on that boat, it means I saw what happened.”

“Yeah.”

You turn to face him, and his deep blue marine eyes meet yours, reflecting the uncertainty and confusion that you feel. He looks just as lost and in the dark as you are. “I just wish I could remember what happened,” you say softly.

Then his brow pinches, a pained expression crossing his face. “Why? Ain’t it bad enough just to know that things went to hell?”

You shake your head, not even sure how to answer. Your words come out jumbled, stammering as your emotions begin to swell. “I don’t know, I just…I just—I can’t—There’s just something deep in my bones, Arthur, deep within my soul that there’s something going on. I…can’t help but wonder…if…if that is going to make or break something.”

Arthur's gaze softens, the harsh lines of his face easing into a more thoughtful expression. He reaches out, his rough fingers brushing lightly against your arm, grounding you back to the present. "Kit," he starts, his voice low and gentle, a stark contrast to the usual gruffness. "Maybe it’s best that you don’t know…I see what rememberin’ things does to you. I—” he cuts himself off for a moment, his lips forming a flat line. “I hate to see you hurt.”

His words, though meant to comfort, only serve to stir up more turmoil within you. You nod slowly, trying to digest the gravity of his statement. It was true that each fragment of memory retrieved has sent a wave of pain and confusion through your heart, but the unknown seems just as menacing, if not more so.

"I appreciate that, Arthur," you say, patting his hand. “But I need to decide that for myself.” And seeing the expression on his face, you add, “You can’t always be there to protect me.” This seems to cut him even more, though that wasn’t the intention. Then, you remember what Mary Beth said, how he blames himself that you had supposedly died. “Arthur, I meant—”

He shakes his head, bringing his hand to his lap. “It’s alright, Kit.” And he swallows. “Not a delicate flower, right?” He feigns a smile and a chortle, but you can see right through it.

“Arthur…”

He rises to his feet, rolling his shoulders. “We need to head back to camp. We gotta pack and move somewhere else.”

You guess that’s that then. You rise to your feet, brushing invisible dirt off your pants. “Where?”

“Don’t know.” He avoids your gaze, almost purposefully this time. “We will just have to see.”

***

Clemens Point. Your new camp. Dutch had sent Arthur, of course, to go and scope out a new place to hide from the law and he took Charles with him. You were glad of that. It’s evident that Charles is one of the good ones, and you know that he wouldn’t put anyone in danger unnecessarily.

It was a long wait back at camp, even with spending the majority of the time helping everyone pack up their belongings, your eyes often drifted to the tree line, wondering when and if they’d be back with good news.

“We will be gone before the law finds out where we are,” Hosea tried to reassure you. “You’ll believe that once your memories come back.”

You figured this has happened more than once, which makes you realize that if things were better, you’d probably all be settled in a ranch or an actual house by now, enjoying the pleasure of riches, health, and safety.

Broken dreams, broken plans, and broken promises.

You continued on without saying much of anything, your mind going back to your last conversation with Arthur. He seemed really hurt by what you said, when all you were trying to do was to lighten his burden a little. You don’t want him to worry about you. If your head hurts in the cause of remembering, so what? You’d be whole again, and that seems to be what everyone wants for you.

At least, you think they all do. You want them to.

And before you were about to get the idea of going out to look for them, Charles returned to camp, announcing to all that he and Arthur found a spot better than the one that Micah had suggested. A place called Clemens Point. It was supposedly secluded, by a large source of water, and was near a town that could be promising.

That was enough for Dutch to make the call, ordering everyone to get moving.

You rode behind the caravan on Odliv, growing more comfortable on the saddle than you have ever in a wagon. She made an even stride as the landscape changed from arid and cool, to humid and warm, and you weren’t sure if you liked it. Your skin instantly felt sticky and hot, and you questioned if you ought to be wearing dark jeans and a red shirt with yellow flowers on it. But you like red, yellow, and black, so you were stubbornly going to stick with your decision.

As the gang turned off the road and into some trees, you got the feeling that you were close.

That’s when you heard Dutch loudly exclaim up ahead, “This is perfect, Arthur. Just perfect…!”

You’ve since begun to settle into the camp, everyone falling into their place as though you’ve been here for months already. You have your own tent now, covered and private, sequestered between two trees just behind the medicine wagon, much to Strauss’s delight. Any way to remind you to keep making cures, right?

But not too far is Arthur’s wagon, and beside his is Dutch and Molly’s. Just beyond the camp, is the lake, and the promise of fish to eat carries the promise that the gang won’t starve.

After a long day of setting up camp, you finally turn in for the night. You crawl into your tent and change out of your clothes into a nightgown made of cotton, which will help combat this heat, even in the evening.

Wanting to let in some air, you peek out of your tent just as the sun sets. Without affecting your side too much, you rest on your stomach and prop up your head on your elbows, and get a nice view of the lake. The golden orange hues blend into the darkening blue of the water, creating a tranquil painting that calms your unsettled mind. The sound of the gang’s laughter and the occasional clinking of bottles drifts over, a comforting reminder that you're not alone, even if part of you sometimes wishes to be.

You watch as figures move around the camp, silhouettes, and soft voices as people settle for the evening.

And there, on the lake’s edge, stands a tall, broad-shouldered silhouette, the glow of a cigarette illuminating his fingers. He brings the cigarette to his mouth and he nonchalantly looks over his shoulder. The light illuminating his face, you can tell that Arthur is looking straight at you.

His gaze holds something unreadable, a mixture of concern and an almost imperceptible longing, as if the distance between your tent and the lake was not merely physical. You realize that despite the chatter and laughter all around, both of you have been navigating a silent storm of your own.

Letting the flap fall back into place, you create a barrier that settles your heart a little. Then, turning around and laying into your bed roll, you fall asleep.

***

“You need to go, ségra…” Antek coughs, though he doesn’t try to move out of your arms. “You’ll die if you stay…”

Your eyes shine with unshed tears, the tightness in your chest increasing the longer you try to keep it all in.

You had to stop and rest. Carrying him on your back has taken its toll and after banging on the door of two doctor's offices, you are weary of begging.

It’s terribly hot, the sun beating down on you as you sit on a street corner, and you can feel the heat of Antek’s fever. You wish that your circus band could have waited just a little longer, but you know better than anyone, they have to keep moving. They are out of money and in order to make more, they have to travel. That’s the nomadic way of life.

“Kitka…?” your brother’s voice is growing weaker, not the spry, energetic voice that you know. He looks so small, so frail for a twelve-year-old. He could juggle heavy stones for hours without tiring, and walk the wire as well as anyone, but now…

You wipe the sweat from his brow, shushing him gently. “I’m here, bratříček. I’m here.”

You hear someone coming and you look up and see a man and woman, dressed in fancy daywear and noses upright. You try to lock eyes with them, but it seems as though they are purposefully trying to avoid you.

“Please,” you beg. “Help us. My brother, he’s very sick. Can you spare any change so I can get him some medicine?”

The woman averts her eyes, clutching her parasol tighter, while the man frowns and quickens his pace, muttering, “Immigrants. Nothing but lazy gypsy vermin…”

The sting of their rejection is more painful than any other slur they could throw at you. You aren’t a stranger to it, but you didn’t need help, then. You weren't subjected to the mercy of strangers, to the cold indifference that seemed as harsh and unyielding as the desert around you. But here you are, cradling your brother's feeble body against the backdrop of an unkind world.

Your parents, dying in that terrible fire two years ago during a fire-breathing stunt, you and Antek have been all that remains of the Petrovs. You stayed with the traveling circus, vagabonds and carpetbaggers with dreams, and the closest to a family that you have. But they clearly had their own lives to lead. And with the promise to reunite as soon as possible, they moved on.

Tears finally spill over as you rock Antek, murmuring comforts that feel as hollow and brittle as the street debris beneath you. You're not just out of options; you're out of hope. The ache in your heart mirrors the empty streets, where even the dust seems to settle with a weight heavier than before.

“Shh, bratříček, don't fret,” you whisper, though your voice hardly carries past your lips.

You begin to sing a lullaby, one that your mother had sung when she carried both you and your brother in her arms when bad dreams kept you up at night. The words come out whimpering, sorrowful, as the tears continue to fall. One tear falls and lands on his forehead, but he doesn’t stir.

You pause in the middle of your singing. “Antek…?” you ask, your voice so soft it hides beneath the stillness of the day. The world around you appears to dim, the sounds of pedestrians and wagon carts becoming faded and distant. Panic claws at your chest when you feel no rise and fall in Antek's chest, his breath as absent as the compassion in the eyes of the passersby. You shake him gently, your voice barely a whisper, broken by fear, "Antek, please."

But he doesn’t move. His eyes closed and his mouth parted from the last words he had spoken.

Antek is dead.

You bend and hide your face in his hair, holding him close to you as you cry. You do not care who sees or hears you, for grief has swallowed you whole, rendering the judgments of the world insignificant. The sound of your sobbing is a lone mourning cry in the bustling indifference of San Francis. You remember how Antek used to tug at your sleeve with a mischievous smile, urging you on to new misadventures. Now, the coldness of his skin is all that you feel now that his heart has stopped beating.

The minutes stretch like hours under the relentless heat of the sun, but you continue to hold him, refusing to move. What can you do? You can’t just bury him in the ground. There needs to be a ceremony, words to be said. You don’t have money or a way to do that. You worry you will have to dig a grave with your own bare hands.

“Miss…?”

The sudden voice startles you, but you’re so weak, that your head turns slowly to look up. You see a man, in his early forties, with blond hair and brown eyes. He doesn’t look like a regular San Fernandian, or anyone around here, for that matter.

You blink, feeling the tightness on your cheeks from the tears that have since fallen and dried. You try to speak, but your voice is too hoarse.

Without saying anything, he takes a canteen from his shoulder and offers it to you. “It’s water.”

You hesitate, the distrust woven into the fabric of your life makes you wary of strangers. But the parched feeling in your throat overpowers your caution, and you take the canteen with trembling hands. The water feels soothing as it flows down, quenching the thirst that had gone unnoticed amidst your grief.

Once you have had enough, you hand it back to him, your hand returning to hold your brother.

The man points to the boy, speaking hesitantly. “Is he alright?”

“My brother. He’s dead,” you say flatly, your voice still hoarse but you can speak now that your thirst is quenched.

The man's face softens, his eyes reflecting a sorrow that seems to go beyond mere sympathy. He removes his hat in a gesture of respect and looks down at Antek's lifeless form. "I'm sorry for your loss, miss. If you need help... with arrangements or anything,” he offers, hesitating as he comes closer. “I can help.” You only blink, but he must see something in your expression, an opening, a vulnerability that invites him to try some more. “My name is Hosea. Hosea Matthews.”

You swallow. He doesn’t appear to show any prejudice or malice. After what you have endured, you feel desperate for any bit of kindness and in your fatigued state, you are almost tempted to give it. “Kitka,” you say. “Kitka Petrova.”

He nods, smiling softly. “Ms. Petrova, if you’ll let me take your brother, we can see about laying him to rest. Properly, as he deserves.”

Your eyes roam over Hosea’s face, searching for any hint of deceit. But all you find is a genuine concern etched into his weathered features, something that almost resembles the kindness you had known in your parents before tragedy scorched its way through your life. It's strange and unsettling, this offer of unbidden help, but the temptation to accept is too great now.

You nod your head. “Okay…”

And with that, he bends down near you, and gently takes Antek from your arms. Your arms feel lighter, empty, and your eyes never leave his limp form as you struggle to rise to your feet. Hosea waits for you and once you’re standing, he motions for you to follow. “Come,” he beckons. “My child.”

Chapter Text

It has been about three days, and your dream plagues you from time to time. A piece of your past is more clear to you, you have found that your personality is revealing itself as well. You are more blunt, you are silent and observant, always watching the dynamics between gang members unfold before you.

You have been healing well, to the point where you can bend backward without feeling a twinge. No doubt there will be a scar there, but it doesn’t bother you, it isn’t like you expect anyone to see it, except for you.

And since you are feeling better, you have the desire to get back to work. With most of the members, you’ve proven yourself as a valuable outlaw, and most seem to think you are your old self again, even if you still struggle to remember everything.

But Arthur, you sense, knows differently. He watches you with those deep blue eyes that seem to carry entire oceans of secrets and sadness. At times, when the firelight flickers across his face, you catch him staring at you from across the camp, a thoughtful furrow knitting his brow. You wonder if he thinks about your identity, that maybe you aren’t your full self. You can’t help but think that he holds you at a certain standard, though he only restates over and over that you should take it easy, and stop asking questions. Let it all come to you, naturally.

But time isn’t on your side. Things are changing in the gang, and no amount of running is going to change that. The sooner you find out what happened in Blackwater, and the months leading up to it, the better.

You need to go back to work.

Arthur, Dutch, and Hosea have left to go fishing. You are passing the time, again, by doing chores and helping Abigail keep tabs on Jack. He is an energetic brouček, a little beetle, one that is constantly moving, buzzing around, asking questions, and trying to get his father to play swords with him.

You remember your brother, and the things you used to do with him when he grew to be underfoot. Even when your parents were alive, he was your responsibility.

Passing by Pearson’s wagon, you stop to grab three apples and hear Sadie grumbling to herself. She has a knife in her hand and is chopping vegetables.

Sadie has maintained a sour expression since you’ve known her, that isn’t new, but there is something about the way she handles the knife, how she keeps her head down and brow furrowed, that you know something is different. You have a feeling that it won’t be long before she kills something…or someone.

And you aren’t about to let it be you. You take your three apples and walk away calmly, looking for Jack.

Walking toward the water, you spot the boy, drawing shapes and lines in the sand.

You approach him carefully, not wanting to startle him in his intense focus. "What are you drawing, Jack?" you ask, kneeling beside him in the sand. Your voice is gentle, a soft murmur blending with the sound of the lapping waves.

Jack looks up at you, his face lighting up. "It’s a horse…!” he looks down at the drawing and frowns. “At least…I tried.”

You tilt your head and eye the drawing. It doesn’t look too bad. He is still only a boy and can only improve with time. “I can tell what it is, Jack! It reminds me of Odliv.”

Jack looks back up at you, his face beaming. “That is what I was thinking, too!”

You hold up the apples in your hands. “Can I teach you something?” And you motion to sit down on a nearby log. “Come sit by me.”

Jack sees the apples in your hands and compelled by curiosity, he sits next to you. You turn at the waist and you give him one. “Watch this,” you say and scooting back to give yourself some room, you toss one apple in your hand and then catch it. You repeat this action a couple of times before you take the second apple and juggle them together. You watch Jack’s eyes as they go round and round, following the apples as they leave your hands, go into the air, and come back again. “Okay, Jack, can you toss me the next apple?”

Jack eagerly holds up the remaining apple, his small hands gripping it tightly. He tosses it toward you with more force than necessary, but your quick reflexes save the moment. You catch it just as it seems destined to hit the ground, and deftly add it to the rotation of the two you’re already juggling. You manage to keep it going for a few more seconds, before you fumble it and the apples fall from your hands. “Oops,” you chuckle, and you bend over to pick them up. “Antek was always much better than I ever was…”

“Who’s that?” Jack asks.

You look back at him and smile softly. “He was my brother.”

Your voice fades as the memory of Antek tugs at your heart, a sharp reminder of the pain that still lingers. "He used to juggle," you continue, picking up an apple and feeling its weight in your hand, almost as if it holds a piece of your past. "And now I am going to teach it to you.”

Jack’s eyes light up and he takes one of the apples from your lap. “Can you really teach me to do that?”

You nod your head. “We can certainly try!” And so, you begin the lessons. “First thing is to practice your reflexes. You want to be able to catch objects really fast.” You set the other two apples on the ground and open your hands to him. “Toss me the apple.”

He looks down at it, his brows pinched in thought, and he tosses it to you. You catch it. “See? Now, I will pass it to you. You ready to catch it?”

Jack nods, his face a mixture of determination and delight. As he reaches out his small hands, you gently toss the apple back to him. He fumbles briefly but manages to secure it in his grasp, a triumphant grin spreading across his face.

"Good job," you encourage, your heartwarming at his enthusiasm. "You want to be able to catch it without hesitation before moving on to the next step.”

You see a small shift in his lips, turning downward. “How many steps are there?”

You chuckle. “What? Did you expect to juggle three apples today?”

He shrugs his shoulders. “Maybe.”

You don’t want to discourage him, but you also don’t want to give him false expectations. “It’s like your drawings, Jack,” you explain. “You don’t think Arthur got to be good at drawing without practicing, did you?”

He shrugs again. “I guess not.”

Your head begins to ache at the base of your skull, and you blink at that thought. How did you know that Arthur draws, anyway? You haven’t seen him do it. Or, maybe you have? The aching feeling in your head tells you that there is something to what you said. Maybe he draws in his journal…?

What if you’ve seen his journal before?

Oh, this changes things. If you can get to those memories, maybe you can find more answers.

You shake your head, you will have to think about it later. Right now, you are spending time with Jack. “See my point? But if you practice, you will be able to juggle way better than me.”

This seems to encourage him, for his sweet, little smile returns. “Really, Aunt Kit?”

The warmth in your heart spreads to a gentle glow as you nod and reply, “Really.”

***

After a good while of teaching Jack to juggle, feeding the horses, and mending some pants, you decide to take a break. You haven’t put on a pair of shoes since you took them off near Moonstone Pond that day, and the lake’s glistening water is quite tempting. Swatting at some mosquitoes, you walk between Arthur and Dutch’s tents and reach the lakeside. The sun is dipping low, casting a sheen over the surface that dances with every gentle ripple. You walk along the dock and sit down at the edge, letting your feet dangle into the cool water. It’s refreshing, a stark contrast to the sticky heat of the day. As you watch tiny fish dart around your toes, you hear a faint sound in the distance.

You lift your head and look to your right, down the lake and in the distance, you see a boat. You discover that the sound is singing, and the singing is possessed by three men on that boat.

You tune into the sound of their voices, tempted to stand and rise to your feet, but the coolness is such a relief. You don’t sense a threat, as the voices do sound familiar.

Then you see the silhouettes. The hats and build of the three men.

It’s Arthur, Dutch, and Hosea, and they are singing like school boys being let out for the summer.

To them we dance this 'round, 'round, 'round
To them we dancе this 'round, 'round, 'round
And he that is a bully boy
Come pledgе me on this ground, ground, ground
Ground, ground, ground, ground…!!

Their laughter reaches you and it is quickly hushed as their boat nears the dock. They don’t seem to notice you yet, but you decide that you might as well get up. You lift your feet out of the water and carefully rise to your feet.

Arthur rows the boat up near the dock and lets out a sigh.

“Alright…!” Dutch exclaims, his voice sounding more relaxed than it has in the last few days. “I think…I…well, I mean we are gonna be okay…!”

Arthur first steps out of the boat, his back turned towards you as you remain on the dock. Hosea, draping a canvas bag over his shoulder, steps out of the boat and sees you, nodding in silent greeting. You wave at him.

Dutch continues as he gets out of the boat at last. “I always know…Whenever I got you two by my side, things are gonna be just fine.”

Hosea and Arthur share a glance with each other before Hosea turns to head into camp. Dutch walks off as Arthur takes hold of the boat and pulls it more onto the shore. 

You find yourself watching him, his movements deliberate and strong, the muscles in his arms flexing under the strain. He hasn't noticed you yet, too caught up in securing the boat. The sun as it continues its descent casts a golden hue over the scene, touching Arthur's body with light, making it seem almost ethereal against his rugged features.

Your heart clenches and you decide to leave, lest you find yourself standing there all day. The sound of your wet feet padding on the old wooden boards of the dock finally alerts him of your presence. 

He turns around to see you. “Hey, Kit.”

You wave at him as nonchalantly as you can. “Hello, Arthur.”

“How’re you feelin’?”

You shrug. “Aside from this humidity, I am doing fine.”

He kicks at a rock and watches it plunk into the lake. “Your…side doin’ alright?”

You find yourself looking down at it, as if that is the way to assess it. You look back up at him and nod your head. “It’s healed well. I can bend backward and twist without hurting.”

He manages a smile. “That’s good.”

You gesture toward the camp with your hand. “You’ve been busy with Dutch and Hosea.”

He nods, his eyes looking out over the lake. “Shoah. Got some fish to eat.”

“That will be good. People seem to be getting tired of rabbit stew.”

Arthur chuckles. “There is also Rhodes, so we can get some supplies. Maybe some canned strawberries and such.”

“You’ve been to see it?”

Arthur nods and then looks at you, his eyes carrying a shyness that you’ve only seen a handful of times. “If…you’re willin’ to sit with me for some stew, I can…tell you about it…?”

Your heart gives an odd, unexpected flutter at his invitation, and you find the corners of your lips curving into a gentle smile. "I'd like that," you say, your voice softer than you intended, carrying the faintest trace of vulnerability.

Arthur's smile broadens, almost a look of relief painting his features. He gestures towards the camp and you continue to walk off the dock. You hop down and he looks down at your feet. “Still not wearin’ any boots?”

You chuckle, tucking some of your long hair behind your ear. “Wish I had done it sooner, it didn’t occur to me that the bottoms of my feet were rough for a reason.”

He nods, biting his lower lip.

You both walk together over to the large stew pot. You notice Mary Beth and Karen looking at you funny and you tilt your head at them. They share a giggle and turn around with their stew plates to go eat at the round table.

Arthur lets you serve yourself first and you scoop up a large helping before stepping aside and letting Arthur have his turn. Waiting for him, you let him lead you over to a more private spot, the log that you and Jack had been sitting on earlier.

You glance back toward camp. “Don’t you want to sit with everyone else?”

“Nah,” he says bluntly. “They will hear about Rhodes from Dutch and Hosea, anyway.” He steps over the log and sits down. “C’mon.”

You mirror his action, stepping over the log and then smoothing your skirt, you sit down beside him. Your eyes are drawn to the lake water and you ready your fork to begin eating the stew.

Arthur takes a forkful of the stew, blowing on it gently before taking a bite. You do the same, savoring the warmth that spreads through you with each swallow. There's a comfortable silence between you two, punctuated only by the occasional call of a bird or the rustle of leaves in the breeze.

After a couple of bites, you decide to initiate the conversation. “So, Arthur, tell me about Rhodes.”

Arthur explains how he, Dutch, and Hosea ended up there in the first place, spotting the sheriff and his deputy while transporting criminals. They came across a familiar face, Josiah Trelawny, and that name didn’t ring a bell. Arthur explains that you and Trelawny got along really well, and despite his proclivity to vanish, you always welcomed him when he would come waltzing back, and it wouldn’t be long before you and he would have a scheme lined up. You nod your head as you process this, as you’ve begun to understand what your role has been in the gang.

He also explains that the town Rhodes has two feuding families: the Braithewaites and the Grays, and according to Trelawny, it has been going on for decades. Dutch seems really interested in them, and wants to find out the reason for the feud, be it gold, or some other untold riches.

You feel somewhat excited by all of this, as it could mean more jobs for you and more potential to unlock key memories.

“Where is Trelawny now?” you ask, almost too excitedly.

Arthur studies you. “He’s with a caravan. Been stayin’ with them a while.”

A caravan. “You mean…nomadic people?”

Arthur nods. “Yeah, I guess so.”

This, too, excites you. While it may not be your people, to know there is a group that moves around like that...it’s strangely comforting. It reminds you of the circus, the thought of the open road and the familiar churn of travel stirs something deep within you.

Arthur watches you closely, no doubt seeing the distant look in your eyes, the way your gaze softens at thoughts of a life once roamed, a life enigmatic yet full and vibrant. "You always loved the road," he says softly, the corner of his mouth uplifting in a half-smile. "Said it were always like it were callin’ to you, whisperin' secrets only you could understand."

The notion tugs at your heart, a blend of nostalgia and connection. You look at him. “How did you know I needed to hear that?”

He leans away from you, and you can tell he is about to brush it off. He shrugs. “Just know, I guess.” His eyes tell a different story, one of profound connection and unspoken words hanging between you like the heavy Southern air.

“Maybe we should visit him,” you suggest, trying to anchor yourself to the present rather than drift into the past's inviting arms. “Trelawny, I mean. And maybe I can help Dutch find out more about these two families.”

You see him tense up as he uses his fork to stab some meat in the stew. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

You furrow your brow. “I said I’m feeling better, Arthur. And I’ve been learning more about myself. I can do things. I can help.”

He shakes his head. “You can’t just be throwin’ yourself at things like you did with John. He weren’t thinkin’ about you.”

“And you are? Arthur, at least we can go see him. What harm would that do?”

You watch him carefully for any sign that he may give in. Arthur looks down, the lines around his mouth deepening with worry. After a long moment, he sighs and meets your gaze again. “Alright, Kit," he says, his voice low and even. "If it’ll ease your mind, we’ll go. But we gotta be careful, there’s a lot more comin’ from different sides. It ain’t like Valentine.”

You nod, already excited for the prospect of doing something other than chores. “Thank you, Arthur.” And you face forward to continue eating your meal, your left hand holding onto your plate instead of having it sit in your lap.

You can see Arthur from the corner of your eye and his eyes suddenly fall to your left hand. “Why are you still wearin’ that?”

You turn to look at him and after swallowing your food you ask, “Wearing what?”

He points his forefinger at your hand. “That.”

Setting your plate down on your lap you lift your hand in front of you. Oh. He means the ring. Your mother’s ring.

“I don’t know,” you answer. “I can’t bring myself to take it off.”

“You know people will start talkin’,” he says solemnly. “Strangers will think you’re…” He blinks, his words coming out soft and slow. “You’re…”

You offer to fill in the blanks. “Married? Engaged?” You shrug. “So?”

Arthur's gaze hardens slightly, and he looks away, out towards the dimming horizon. "It ain't about what they think, Kitka. It's about keepin' you safe. If folks start askin' questions—"

"How does that put me in danger?" You interject, feeling a little frustrated with his questions. “If anything, this might protect me. Strangers who would dare yell slurs at me or hurt me might think twice if they suspect that I have a husband or fiancé.”

Arthur's eyes flick back to yours, the blue of them almost steely under the fading light. "Maybe," he concedes, his voice gruff with worry. He sets down his plate and takes off his hat, holding it in his hands. "Or maybe it gives 'em more reason to come lookin'. You know how these towns work, Kit. Secrets don't stay buried for long."

You narrow your eyes at him, feeling bold to speak freely. “Exactly, Arthur.” And as you look at him, you see something in his eyes. Guilt, or perhaps fear. “There are things that I am still trying to figure out, and I know that you have secrets just as much as everyone else.”

Your words hang between you like the humid air, suspended and poignant. Arthur shifts uncomfortably in his seat, his hands fiddling with the rim of his hat—a gesture you've come to recognize as his way of grappling with unease.

And after a pregnant pause, he looks away from you.

You’re done here.

Taking your now empty plate, you rise from the log and step away. “I’ll speak to Dutch in the morning, you’re more than welcome to come with me to see Trelawny.”

And with that, you leave him to his stew.

***

You’ve risen up quite early this morning, too excited to sleep. Taking some food and a canteen with you, you walk over to Odliv and cinch her saddle. You look out and see the sun beginning to rise and the soft rustling as others begin to wake.

You had hoped that Arthur would join you, and knowing that he’s an early riser, you now come to realize that he won’t accompany you to see Trelawny.

You let out a long exhale and Odliv reaches with her neck to nip at your shirt. You laugh and pat her neck. “I’m fine, Odliv, really.”

You decide to drag out your departure just a little longer, reaching into your saddlebag and pulling out a brush. You make generous sweeps down the mare’s coat, watching dust and short hair shed fly into the air.

You find peace in it, a soothing sensation that fills your mind, and as slow and gentle as the strokes of the brush, a melody is found deep in your throat, and you begin to hum it softly.

You’re swept away in the music, your hand still guiding the brush along Odliv’s dock, her coat nearly glistening in the morning light.

The tune, a fragment of a song your mother used to sing in the evenings under the canvas tent, rises and falls with each stroke, weaving old memories into the new light of the day. Just as you're about to loop the melody again, you hear footsteps approaching. Not wanting to appear startled, you continue your grooming, and don’t turn around.

“Never heard that tune before.”

Your heart betrays your intended calm, and you look over your shoulder to see Arthur standing behind you. “No?”

He shakes his head. “No. You’ve never sung in camp.”

This surprises you. It seems that your life has always been surrounded by music, so why wouldn’t you express it with your voice? “Why?”

He comes up beside you, standing by Odliv’s head and stroking her muzzle. “You said that after your brother died, you wouldn’t ever sing again.”

Arthur's words weigh heavily on your spirit, dredging up grief that you've been trying to accept. You pause in your grooming, the brush momentarily frozen in mid-air, as if suspended by the poignant reminder of promises made in sorrow.

"You remember that?" Your voice is barely a whisper, tinged with a soft sadness. “My brother died a long time ago.”

He nods his head. “There’s a lot of things I can’t forget.”

You feel the song still in your throat. If you vowed to never sing again, you aren’t sure you feel that way anymore. But at the same time, you so desperately want to be the way you were. What are you going to do?

You resume your grooming, the brush now gliding slower as you ponder. The sun casts a soft glow around you, as if trying to ease the weight of your thoughts. "Maybe it's time I healed from the pain," you murmur, more to yourself than to Arthur.

Arthur doesn't reply right away, his eyes lingering on the horizon before they return to you, filled with a mix of understanding and something else—perhaps hope. "Maybe," he agrees quietly, his voice rich with the same warm tone that often carries stories around campfires.

"You think it's possible?" You ask, turning to face him fully now, searching his eyes. “Even if I can’t remember it all?”

He shrugs. “It ain’t for me to say, Kit,” he admits. “But I hope that it will be worth it.”

“It will,” you say confidently and finally let your arm fall to your side with the brush in hand. “Are you coming with me to see Trelawny?”

He pauses for a moment, as if weighing the question, then nods. "Yeah, I reckon I will," he replies, his voice rough like gravel yet soothing in a way that only familiarity can bring.

You smile. “Thank you.”

He nods and begins to walk toward Montana, when his name is called in the distance.

“Arthur…!” It’s Hosea and he comes over with quick steps.

Arthur, taking Montana’s reins, leads him as he walks a few paces toward the older outlaw. “What is it?”

“Dutch wants you and Kit to meet him in Rhodes. Bill is with him.”

Arthur blinks, surprised. “Kit, too?”

You are surprised that Dutch is already in town. You didn’t hear or see him leave this morning. When did they head out?

Hosea’s brow furrows, unamused by Arthur’s question. “Yes, Kit, too. Dutch said they could use her knowledge on dynamite.”

Dynamite. You are remembering your chosen weaponry, but you’ve only recently handled incendiary buckshot and handmade explosives. Not dynamite. That’s wires and switches and such. “Are you sure that’s what he said?” you ask.

Hosea lets out a chuckle. “Is everyone losing their faith in me?” He gestures to Odliv. “Just go on. Take your guns with you.” And before you can respond, Hosea turns to leave.

You feel a little miffed, you want to see Trelawny, not interact with Dutch and his plans. But, on the other hand, he is giving you a job. This could mean danger, and more chances to remember.

You meet Arthur’s gaze, he seems to be waiting for you to say something.

You raise a hand and place it on the saddle. “I guess we are going to see Dutch?”

He nods. “I guess we are.”

***

The first thing you’ve noticed about Rhodes is the red dirt. It coats everything, from the sides of wagons to the hem of women’s dresses. You imagine your feet will be caked in the red soil by the time the day is over.

You follow Arthur as he leads the way. Once you pass by the train station, you quickly spot the general store on your left and the bank on your right. You can already see opportunities here, even before speaking to anyone.

Arthur stops just outside of the sheriff’s office and dismounts Montana. “Wait here,” he tells you, and you don’t find it necessary to insist you go inside. Your eyes follow him as he goes up the old, white steps, and lets himself in. Just as the door opens, you catch Dutch’s voice, loud and boisterous as ever, before the door closes.

You feel Odliv shift the weight on her back hoof and toss her head. You don’t like to wait, either, but it gives you a moment to look at the town some more.

There is a strange air about the place, and it isn’t the humidity. It could be from the rooting tension between the two families, like the old Romeo and Juliet story. You just hope that the ending will be different.

Your thoughts are interrupted as a man in a dusty suit and a wide-brimmed hat approaches you. He tips his hat, revealing a thin smile. “Miss, you’re new here, ain’t you?” he asks, his voice laced with a curious tilt.

You nod, returning his greeting with a cautious smile.

He gestures down to your feet. “Ain’t seen a woman go around without any shoes.”

You arch a brow and decide to use your quit wit against him. “Never seen a man in a dusty suit approach a lady without introducing himself.”

The man chuckles, a deep, gravelly sound that makes you uneasy. “Fair point, miss.” He tips his hat. “Just call me one of the few remaining patriots of the South.” And just as you hear the door to the sheriff’s office open, his eyes flicker and he backs away. “You have a good day now, ma’am.”

You hear the footfalls go quickly down the steps and come right beside you. “Who the hell was that?”

You look down and see the scowl on Arthur’s face, his tone protective and alert. “No one that I couldn’t handle,” you answer confidently. 

He looks away from you, his eyes scanning the horizon for any sign of the man in the dusty suit, but he's already disappeared into the throng of townsfolk. "You sure?" Arthur's voice carries a hint of concern that belies his rugged exterior.

You nod, and confidently reassure him. "I can handle it, Arthur. Probably just some local trying to get into our business.”

Arthur grumbles under his breath and turns. You see Dutch, Bill, and two other men come out of the sheriff’s office, their movements purposeful and direct.

Dutch spots you and gestures in your direction. “Gentlemen, please allow me to introduce you to Katrina MacDonald.”

You blink, but figure they are all using aliases in this town. And just like instinct, you smile and nod your head in greeting.

The older of the two, with a strawberry-blond mustache, looks clearly inebriated as he stumbles. “A Scottish maid, if I ever did see one…” he drawls. “Sheriff Gray at your service…”

“Pleasure,” you state.

The younger, practically flashes his badge in your direction, tipping his hat. “Deputy Archibald MacGregor, ma’am.”

You smile, at least he isn’t drunk.

Dutch goes to mount The Count with a grunt and gestures to a nearby wagon that is parked. “We are going to ride along with the deputy! Got some shine to dispose of.”

Shine? He means moonshine.

Your heart flutters for a moment, one of your treasured ingredients for incendiary buckshot. The feeling it gives you when it bursts out of the barrel of a shotgun is an adrenaline rush like no other. That was clearly awakened when you raided the O’Driscoll hideout almost a month ago.

And Dutch tells Arthur to ride with the deputy, the rest will follow. Readying yourself on Odliv, you steer her around as Archibald drives the wagon on. As you regard the men that you ride beside, you notice something peculiar. All of them are wearing badges. Since when did Dutch, Bill, and Arthur become deputized?

You want to ask, but hate to interrupt Archibald’s yakking on, as it catches your attention. “…And your friend is behaving himself?”

Trelawny. He’s talking about Trelawny.

Arthur nods as he sits beside his fellow deputy, oblivious that you are listening in. “Oh…yes, I-I think he’s learned his lesson.”

“Congratulations on becoming a temporarily deputized citizen of Scarlett Meadows County…” He begins to talk about hierarchy, reminding you all that he’s in charge here, and that is when you start to lose interest.

You look around as you pass through town and take a road that leads through humidity and tall trees that have witch’s hair dangling from the branches.

“…I did tell you about the Braithewaites?”

Sacra! You should be paying attention. You steer Odliv closer, approaching Archibald's side as he continues to drive.

“Old cotton family who had a fortune at one point, now they are dealin’ in moonshine. As soon as we destroy one, another pops up. Not to mention that Catherine Braithewaite has an expensive horse breeding operation that she needs to maintain…”

Arthur asks a question you are about to ask, “I thought there was gold that these families were fightin’ over?” You would have had a little more tact, but it gets the point across.

“That’s the rumor, but it happened so long ago, I don’t know for sure if it’s true.”

Arthur chuckles. “Must be tough bein’ rich, huh?” You can hear the edge in his voice, and you can’t help but feel the same.

Then suddenly, Archibald’s voice rises, and he pulls back on the reins. “Woah…! Do you see that?”

You look up ahead, and just off the road is a fallen wagon and debris scattered.

“Let’s have a look,” Archibald says as he begins to descend from the wagon. “Keep your eyes open.”

Arthur, too, gets down, and your own curiosity causes you to swing your leg over and dismount.

You feel the soil beneath your feet, somewhat clay-like and damp, and you stroll over to the wagon while Arthur and Archibald take a look around the wreckage.

You see a suitcase and a trunk, already opened and pilfered through. This could be an accident, or intended. Your heart sinks a little as you see that the straps that would hitch the horses have been cut away.

“This was a robbery,” you say softly.

Arthur caught part of what you said and he turns to look at you. “What?”

“Hey!” Archibald calls to you both. “Come look at this.”

You and Arthur walk over to Archibald, who has a card in his hand as he’s crouched over a dead body.

Your breath hitches and Archibald looks at you. “You probably should have stayed on your horse, ma’am.”

You shake your head. “I’m fine.”

He looks at you nervously, as though he’s unsure how to respond. But Arthur nods at him. “Who is it?”

“Looks to be important. Suit and tie…and a clean bullet to the forehead. Looks like the work of the Lemoyne Raiders.”

You blink. “Who?”

“They’re what’s left of the war. Men who still think we are still fighting the north. They hate the government, or anyone in authority. They call themselves patriots.”

Patriots. You think back on that odd man who came to greet you.

“I think…” you begin to say, but keep your mouth shut.

Archibald tucks the card in his vest pocket. “We should carry on, I will send someone out here to clean this up.”

Without a proper burial? You bristle at this. Cleaning up isn’t properly putting someone to rest.

But you see everyone, including Arthur, get ready to leave.

Looking at the face of the dead man one more time, you return to Odliv, mount up, and continue on your way.

***

“How’re we gonna handle this…?” Dutch asks with a low rumble. Archibald started rambling again and as you all are crouched in between two trees that stand as pillars, you can tell Dutch’s patience is wearing thin.

You have your shotgun, rifle, and sawed-off, and you’ve never felt so heavy before. You caught the deputy by surprise, carrying all that ammunition and still walking barefoot, and you’re surprised he hasn’t said anything.

Archibald changes the course of his sentence, replying to Dutch’s question. “Well, the way I see it—”

“Actually, let the lady here decide. She’s familiar with stills and has a knack for finesse when silence is preferred…” Dutch turns to look at you and you feel those dark eyes of his burn into you with an intensity that almost makes you falter. But you hold his gaze, your own expression unreadable. “Katrina, see if you can interrupt their operation before we get our hands dirty.”

“Her?” Arthur asks, and you can tell where he is going with this.

Dutch pushes, his eyes narrowing. “Yes, her.” He readjusts his crouching position to shift the weight to his other leg. “I was going to have you go with her, but since you have doubts, maybe Bill can join her?”

Bill seems excited at that. “Oh yeah…” And he reveals sticks of dynamite, pulling them out of his coat pocket. “I’ve been lookin’ forward to this.”

“Just like with that train back near Colter?” Arthur asks with a smirk.

Bill’s eyes narrow at Arthur. “Can’t you just let it go?!”

“Gentlemen…!” Dutch chides, his voice sounding more frustrated by the second. “Miss MacDonald, go by yourself. Think you can handle that?”

Not wanting to come off as inadequate, you move over to Bill and quickly take the dynamite from his hand. "In moments like these, Bill, cunning is required," you start, your voice steady despite the thundering of your heart. You glance back towards Arthur for just a fraction of a second, seeking a sliver of reassurance or perhaps affirmation. But instead, you get an emotionless glance. “Just the stills, right?” you ask, clarifying your objective.

“I guess. You let us handle the men. Let’s remember to leave them alive,” Archibald says quietly.

Turning around, you continue on your way.

The goal is simple, destroy their stills. You aren’t sure why Dutch said you have expertise with these sorts of things, the still you used for your tinctures was small, not something used for moonshine. But he’s giving you a chance, and you’re going to take it.

You see a man, his back turned, as he is getting something out of a wagon. To get past him without being spotted, you get into the murky bog. Your skirt grows heavy as it absorbs water, but you remain crouched and move slowly.

Once you're close enough, you steady your breath and reach for the smallest stone at your side. With a practiced flick, you send it skittering across the mud, drawing the man’s attention from his task. As he turns his head, you seize the opportunity to slip past him and make your way towards the still, if he needs to be knocked out and tied, you will leave that to the men.

And just as you’re about to cross the water onto land again, you hear a thud behind you. Turning quickly, you see Arthur and he has just taken care of that moonshiner and is hogtieing him.

One down.

You continue on your way, your feet barely making any sound, rendering you undetectable. You hear a small hissing sound, and you recognize it immediately. Following the sound, you peek around a moss-covered tree and see another man as he looks over a large still.

It is a big one. No doubt, it produces a lot of moonshine. Explosive moonshine.

You remember the dynamite you snatched from Bill and your heart races with the thrill of seeing flames and sparks fly. But first, you need to be rid of this man. Seeing a barrel, you spot an empty beer bottle. Perfect.

You carefully make your way up to the man, and he still hasn’t noticed you. Once the bottle is in range, you pick it up, stand, and swing down onto the man’s head.

He crumples to the ground, unconscious, without a sound aside from the soft thud of his body meeting the earth. You quickly check his pulse, ensuring he's still alive; Archibald’s orders were clear, no unnecessary deaths. Satisfied, you move towards the still.

The large copper contraption emits a sour stench that makes you scrunch your nose. If this is moonshine, they may as well be using the bog water and rotted lemons as their base. No matter, you have a job to do.

You take the man by the shoulders, and drag him until there is a good distance between him and the still. This is about to get loud and ugly. You walk back to the still, readying the dynamite and you place it in the crook of the still where the pipe meets the barrel. A strategic position, ensuring maximum damage. You light the fuse, its spit sizzling softly, then you retreat back to the safety of the trees.

Your heart thumps in your chest—heavier than when you danced atop tightropes with the circus or when you swung high above audiences, who never knew the weight of your performances. Memories flash through your mind, quick and sharp as the dynamite’s fuse.

The explosion isn’t just sound and fury; it's catharsis. The boom rolls over the landscape like thunder across the open plains, and the once sturdy still erupts into a concoction of metal, fire, and smoke.

Any normal person would high tail it and run, but you stop to turn around and see it, your eyes scanning over the entire scene.

That’s when you hear gunshots.

“Hey! That belongs to the Lemoyne Raiders…!”

Oh no. If you were wondering if you had already met them, you don’t doubt that anymore.

You need to help take them out, especially considering bullets are flying. You see a large crate and running to it, you slide behind it just as bullets fly after you. You remove your rifle, and ready yourself for the fight.

You hear quick footfalls behind you and the sound of their body making contact with a wall. “You alright, Kit?”

It’s Arthur. You peek from over the crate and seeing a raider blow his cover, you aim and fire. The bullet rips from the barrel and makes its mark, and the man falls to the ground.

“Just fine!” you reply. You see a crate of dynamite near a group of them and switching to your shotgun, you check that it is loaded with your favorite bullets. Aiming carefully, you pull the trigger, and a burst of flames erupts from the barrel. Once it reaches the dynamite it explodes, just in time for more raiders to ride in on a wagon. But, of course, their little plan to increase their forces is quickly diminished.

“Think I still need protecting?” you ask, your words with a little edge to them.

Arthur advances and takes out two more raiders. “I didn’t say all that to make you feel weak, Kit!” he says, his voice carrying out amongst the gunshots and battle cries from the raiders.

“Then what was it?!” You aren’t sure why you’re bringing this up now, but with the intensity of the moment, you might as well. It seems this is the only way you two can ever have the chance to talk.

Arthur reloads his rifle, glancing over the top of the knocked-over wagon with sharp eyes as he covers another angle. “It was because I care, Kitka,” he shouts back, ducking as a bullet whips past his head. “And part of that means I don’t want to see you get hurt!”

You grit your teeth as you use the last of your incendiary buckshot. You switch back to your rifle and advance forward. You reach some old shanties and you see the debris of dead bodies. You take cover, just as another raider bursts out a door and takes a shot at your head. The bullet whizzes right past you, and suddenly, there is another pain in your temple.

A memory.

But you remember the last time this happened, if John hadn’t been there, you’d be killed.

You grit your teeth and try to fight the memory that wants to force its way in. “No! Not now!”

Your heart races in your chest, making you want to give into it, to seize it. It could be important, but you just can’t let it happen.

And as you try to fight it, the headache gets stronger.

It’s one of the worst you have felt in a good while.

You try to aim at a raider as he makes his way to Arthur but the weight of your sawed-off feels like a ton of bricks. Your hand falls and you try to call out to him, but no words come.

And just as you see him spot the raider and shoot him, the world around you fades to black.

***

The world feels dizzy as you complete a fourth backflip. Your eyes are painted, your lips red like a pomegranate, Your body is dressed in red, gold, and black.

Men gasp in awe as you spin in a circle, your dress billowing out in waves.

Another distraction, another ruse, you’ve done this hundreds of thousands of times, and after a few more twirls, flips, and leaps, you know that the job is over.

With one simple dip in the shadows, you disappear.

You walk out of the saloon, laughing to yourself. And navigating your way to your horse, you mount and ride off.

The darkness is only in the shadows, but for the light of the moon, you can see everything. You are on your way to the rendezvous point, where Arthur and John will meet you with the money they had taken.

But as you continue to ride, you feel something is off. It is too quiet, as though it were a silence before the storm. Your horse senses it too, his ears twitching nervously, nostrils flaring as if he could smell the danger lurking in the serene night.

You urge your mount to quicken, the rhythmic gallop syncing with your heightened pulse. The moon casts long shadows that dance ominously about you and you look back.

Just as a bullet flies past you.

“Come back here, Romani!” a grim voice calls after you. “Your bounty is mine…!”

Had you thought to look and see the bulletin near the saloon, you would have seen your wanted poster. Though the amount is only fifty dollars, it is enough for ambitious bounty hunters to get their feet wet.

“I’m more valuable alive!” you call back, still hoping to outride the hunter.

Another shot is heard, and you realize that he doesn’t care how he brings back your body.

And in your realization, you near the meeting place, but also, the edge of the cliff.

Your horse slides on his hooves, neighing loudly, but the rock is too slick after the rain, and he rolls on his side, you falling off and rolling over the edge.

Your hand instantly reaches for a young tree that is growing in a large crack, and if you weighed more than you do, it would surely break.

“Ah…!” you cry, and you hold onto the tree for dear life. You try to pull yourself up, but as you do, the tree shifts in the crack and you know now that the best thing to do is to remain still.

You hear the boots of the bounty hunter as he slowly walks over to the edge. He looks down at you, and the glow of a cigar is the only way you can see the conceited grin on his face.

“Well, well, well…” he chuckles. “Looks like you are at my mercy.”

You still feel a bite on your tongue and decide not to give him the satisfaction. “I’d rather let go and let you be short fifty dollars.”

But this doesn’t seem to change his mind, as he crouches down and points his gun at your head. “No difference to me, sweetheart.” Then you hear the sharp click. “A dead Romani is a good Romani.”

You feel your heart drop. This is the first time you have ever stared into the barrel of a gun. You cling to the tree and try to come to terms with your impending death.

Then a shot rings out.

You stare into the eyes of the bounty hunter, as he falls forward and over, passing you and falling to the ground below the cliff.

Your breath is choppy, your arms feeling weaker and weaker. You don’t know who just killed that bounty hunter, it could be another one for all you know.

You hear spurs jingle and the footfalls of boots on the rock, an almost satisfying click-clack.

The figure leans over and after a pause, they speak. “Since when did the Kitka Petrova fall from great heights?”

The low timbre and little joke amongst the threat of peril reveal all that you need to know.

“Just help me up, Arthur…”

Arthur’s hand reaches down, strong and steady, grappling yours with a firmness that belies his gruff exterior. With a heave that speaks of his unyielding strength, he pulls you up and over the edge, back onto the rocky ground. Your legs wobble slightly as you regain your footing, but he doesn’t let you go.

You look up into his eyes, and a sense of gratitude overwhelms you. Without even thinking, you reach behind his neck and pull him into a kiss. You feel a hint of resistance, perhaps by surprise, until you feel the press of his lips melt softly into yours.

The world around you fades into a blur, the crisp air and the stark rock face all but disappearing as Arthur's arms wrap around you, pulling you closer. His kiss deepens, and for a moment, you forget the dangers that led you here, the cascading troubles of a life on the run.

You’re twenty years old, and your first kiss is with Arthur Morgan.

The moment is fleeting, as you feel him pull away gently and you open your eyes to see a look of discomfort crossing his face. You are taken aback, feeling confused and embarrassed as he looks away and clears his throat.

“Erm…” His voice is hoarse and uncertain. “Sorry,” he mumbles, avoiding your gaze. What was a moment of whimsy and romance, now feels awkward and fleeting, leaving you wondering what had just happened.

“Arthur…?”

He scratches the back of his head. “There’s…there’s somethin’ you should know…”

“What, Arthur?”

“Well, I’ve got—”

“Morgan!”

You and Arthur turn around and see John riding up to you both. “Why didn’t you wait for me, huh? I could’ve gotten shot at or somethin’!”

Acting as though nothing has happened, Arthur waves John off. “Quit your whinin’, Marston!” Then he turns to look at you and smirks. “This is why we shouldn’t take him on jobs.”

“I can hear you, you know!” John barks.

Arthur tucks his chin, clearing his throat again. “We should get back to camp. Bessie will start worryin’.”

You decide that it is best to let it go. If he isn’t going to encourage it, or talk about it, you may as well account your kiss to moon sickness. “When does she ever not worry?”

Arthur chuckles. “You’re right about that.”

***

You feel a gentle pat on your cheek, sounds around you becoming more clear.

“Kit…!” Arthur calls out to you. “Kit…?”

You open your eyes and your head throbs heavily. You smell smoke and feel the heat of fire.

“C’mon, sit up.”

With a hand supporting you, he helps you to a sitting position. You bring a hand to your head and apply pressure to massage the ache.

Arthur’s hand doesn’t leave you as he searches your eyes. “What happened?”

And you counter with a question of your own. “How long was I out?”

“A couple minutes. I took care of the rest of the raiders.”

You nod, taking a deep breath. “I’m sorry.”

“What happened?” he asks again.

You open your eyes again and look at him, your gaze falling to his lips. You feel your heart pounding in your chest, your mind and body craving the feeling you felt when your memory flooded through you.

It was like a chain reaction. An explosion, and that reverie has ignited a spark.

And you are still delirious, coming out of a high.

You reach for him, take him by the collar, and pull him to you.

“Kit—?” His question is instantly silenced, as your lips collide together.

You expect him to resist, to gently push you away like the time before, only you are prepared for it, you expect it.

But instead, his hands support your head, his body presses into you as your back is against the wood siding of the shanty. You hear his deep inhale, exhaling a guttural moan that would send shivers down the spine of any less emboldened soul. A passion reborn, stoked by the fires of near-death and raw survival. His fingers weave through your dark locks, a contrast to the dusty grime on his hands. He pulls back just enough to see your face, eyes searching for something, his marine irises cascading hope.

He parts his lips to speak, but you don’t want to talk, your hands taking his face and pulling him back, feeling no resistance from him at all as his lips surrender to your insistent mouth.

“Morgan…!”

He pulls away from you quickly, and you instantly feel that familiar confusion and dread as he rises to his feet and walks around the shanty. He spots someone and calls back to them. “Here, Bill!”

“Well, hell! I thought you was dead! Is Kit alive?”

Arthur continues to catch his breath. “Yeah! She’s…she’s alive.”

“Good! Bring that moonshiner back to the wagon. Dutch is havin’ me take the shine back to camp!”

“Where’s Archibald?”

“He’s takin’ the moonshiners to jail!”

You still sit up against the siding and watch Arthur pause before turning to look back at you. You see something in his eyes, perhaps a desire to continue, or maybe something else.

He walks back to you and offers his hand. “Let me help you up.”

You don’t hesitate to take it, and when he motions to let you go once you are on your feet, you hold it tightly as he starts to walk away.

He looks at you, down at your hand, then back to you.

“I was twenty,” you start. “On that ledge, remember?”

You can swear you see the light in his eyes go dim. “Yeah, I remember.”

You swallow and continue to look deep into his eyes, your grip not loosening. “You were going to say something to me, do you remember what it was?”

His eyes shift as he searches your face. You feel the suspense in the air acting like the locomotion of a train to your heart, pumping faster and faster, soon to run out of track.

He speaks softly. “No, I don’t.” He then licks his lips. “Is that why you kissed me?”

You admit, you are feeling something else for the rugged outlaw, but there is so much distance between you, secrets and lost memories, you don’t feel it is right to jump into something while he hasn’t told you it all.

You swallow thickly. “I kissed you because…I remembered, and I…” You feel your face grow hot and you blink softly. “I wanted to feel it again, the way it felt back then.”

He takes a deep breath, the tips of his ears turning pink. “You…feelin’ alright now?”

You nod. “Yes.”

After another moment, he pulls his hand gently out of yours. “That’s good. We should meet up with Dutch.”

And this, like your memory, feels the same. “Right.”

You pick up your sawed off from the ground and follow behind Arthur as he walks back to the tied-up moonshiner that you had knocked out. He picks him up with ease and has him draped over his shoulder and you both continue to walk until you cross the boards used as a bridge and join Bill, Archibald, and Dutch.

Dutch sees you both and grins. “There you are! Good work, you two.” And he turns to the deputy. “And that is how it is done.”

Archibald nods his thanks, his face misted with sweat though he hardly lifted a finger. “Thank you, gentlemen…” And he looks at you. “And ma’am. It won’t be long before we are rid of all moonshiners and their ilk!”

Dutch opens his arms and claps Archibald on the shoulder. “Indeed, we will, sir! Indeed we will!” And in a majestic way, he sweeps his arms over to the wagon as Bill sits at the reins. “We will take care of this refuse for you and we will see you back in town real soon.”

Archibald nods, and after cutting the ropes on their feet, and with his gun firmly in hand, he begins to escort the moonshiners back to the paddy wagon. “Get goin’, you no-good-piece-of-white-trash…!”

And once the naive deputy is out of earshot, Dutch turns to you. “I had my doubts, Kit, but you really do seem to be like your old self. You handled yourself well out there.”

You nod your thanks, the headache slowly ebbing away. “Thank you, Dutch.”

He gestures to Odliv, a content expression still etched on his face. “Why don’t you go back to camp and tell Hosea the good news? I’m sure he will think of something we can do with that shine, and no doubt he will want to include you in it.”

Your eyes fall on Arthur, who hasn’t looked at you since carrying that moonshiner over.

Not getting a response from you, Dutch speaks again, his voice more pushy. “Well, go on, then! Bill ain’t gonna tell it like you will!”

You decide to go, your bare feet making small swishing sounds as you walk through the mud and grass.

You hear Dutch say something to Arthur, but you’re too far now. You hope he isn’t talking about you, telling Arthur that you are nothing but a big distraction, but you will never know.

You reach Odliv, who has been waiting patiently for you.

Climbing onto Odliv's back, you feel the steady rhythm of her hooves against the earth as if they might pound the confusion from your mind. The ride back to camp is quiet, save for the rustle of leaves and the occasional call of a distant bird. You find comfort in the monotony, feeling it as more of a need than a pleasure. There needs to be silence in between the chaos and the volume of explosions.

There needs to be a balance.

There needs to be a truth and a lie.

There needs to be forgetting and remembering.

You just wish you knew what to do with this feeling in your heart. 

Chapter Text

Now that your back is turned, Arthur lets himself lift his eyes and watch you go. Your skirt is muddied and wet from traipsing in the water, your hair a mess from being unconscious on the ground. For a moment, he had thought that was it. Your headache so great, you died. He finished off the remaining raiders to hurry to your side, patting your face and calling your name, until you woke up.

And boy, what a surprise it was, when you slipped your hand behind his neck and pulled him in for a kiss.

He had thought that you had come to your senses. That the light went on in your mind and you were finally remembering. Why else would you kiss him after a battle? It had to be that you recognized him. Remember him as your husband.

But then you had to go on and mention it was because of the memory you woke up from. The kiss you gave him on that cliff after he saved you from a near-death experience.

He lied to you when you asked if he remembered what it was, what he was going to say all those years ago.

But what was he to do? Just come out and say, “I was gonna tell you that I had a woman and kid waitin’ for me. It weren’t right to kiss you back.” Hm? Was he?

No. No, he was not about to do that.

And here he is again, back to where he started. Caught in between truth and lie. And letting you go when he wants you to stay.

He feels a hand on his shoulder. “C’mon, Arthur! You ride with me.”

Arthur doesn’t feel like riding with Dutch. He would much rather be by himself right now. Just find a secluded spot, take out his journal, and write the things that he wishes he should have done or said in real life before the moment expired.

The taste of you still lingers on his lips. Mint leaves and canned strawberries. Two things that you’ve always preferred over anything else, but you are oblivious. He knows you more than you know yourself.

And that’s his trouble.

He whistles for Montana, who comes trotting over as Dutch mounts The Count. And they ride off, going off the road.

“Have a bit of trouble back there, Arthur?”

This is quite the shift from singing praises just a moment ago. Arthur watches Dutch as he rides beside him with a suspicious gaze. “What you mean?”

Dutch wears a soft grin, his eyelids soft as he lifts his chin. “It just seemed like you took your time taking care of those men.”

“We handled it just fine, Dutch. Just some raiders.”

“Oh? Not Braithewaites?”

“No, looks like the raiders were buyin’ it from ‘em.”

Dutch rolls his shoulders as they cross a small body of water. “Well, I guess if Archibald didn’t ask too many questions about it, neither should we. These folks are just backward hicks from the middle of nowhere, they’re fools to deputize us.”

“You seem to be enjoyin’ it.”

Dutch senses the dig and scoffs. “Well, Arthur, I ain’t the one that’s really enjoyin’ themselves, am I? Seems like you’ve been gettin’ a bit too comfortable around these parts.”

Arthur's jaw tightens, his grip on the reins growing firmer. Dutch always had a way with words, poking where it hurt the most. But if he isn’t about to let him have his way this time. “I don’t like bein’ here any more than you do.”

“That isn’t what I mean. Ain’t nobody like it here.”

Arthur’s eyes narrow. “What’re you talkin’ about, then?”

“Kit.”

Arthur sighs, rolling his eyes. “I already told you, Dutch, I ain’t—”

Dutch cuts him off, speaking in an accusatory tone. “I see you watchin’ her, followin’ her, you sure she isn’t distractin’ you? Maybe if she wasn’t over there, you would have handled the raiders much more easily.”

Arthur doesn’t acknowledge that accusation. “You just said she did a good job. You asked her to come along.”

“Yes, I did. Might as well use her while she’s here, right?”

Arthur doesn’t appreciate that word. Use. Like as if you were disposable, but he doesn’t acknowledge that, either. “She needs to recover, she—she ain’t ready.”

“And you get to make that call? Do you own her or somethin’, Arthur?”

Arthur furrows his brow. “Of course not.”

“Good. ‘Cause these two families, I think we can play both sides, and we are going to need everyone to do their part. Kitka, especially.”

But we can’t forget the favorite. “Micah, too?”

Dutch gives Arthur a sideways glance. “Yes, including Micah. You know as well as I do, that he ain’t the last to step up.”

He ain’t the first, neither , Arthur thinks. But he isn’t about to say that out loud.

***

“They got Micah!”

“Who’s got him?!”

“The Sheriff in Strawberry…!”

Arthur stands by Dutch. He was just in the middle of receiving another lecture about bucking up and having the leader’s back when the young man came riding up into camp. They had just found Horseshoe Overlook, and these past several days have been sluggish. Quiet, yes, but also sluggish.

“There’s talkin’ of hangin’ him!” Lenny adds, his eyes white with fear and worry.

Arthur can’t hide the smile on his face. “Here’s hopin’.”

And Dutch doesn’t hesitate to reprove him. “Arthur! If you were in the same situation, he’d go rescue you.”

“I doubt that.”

For the last six months, Micah has been all talk and flattery. Sure, he knows how to use a gun and can be a great ally when it suits him, but everything else about him just spews sick and twisted. Maybe he stumbled upon the gang too early, and bypassed the O’Driscolls, as they seem to be a better match made in hell.

“Arthur,” Dutch says, gesturing to Montana. “Go take Lenny into town, get him a drink, and then go get Micah.” And after a moment, Dutch rests a hand on his shoulder. “You could probably use one too, for…you know…”

Yes, he does know, every day without your presence is a reminder of what he failed to do.

He doesn’t say anything more, but motions for Lenny to follow. He hoists himself upon Montana and they both ride towards Valentine.

Lenny watches Arthur closely, everyone has been careful around him since the events in Blackwater. The cold from Colter didn’t help things either, and Arthur doesn’t doubt that everyone would rather soon forget about all of it.

But he can’t.

“You doin’ okay, Arthur?”

Him? Arthur isn’t blind to the fact that Lenny was sweet on Jenny. Sure, they never went beyond the small flirtation, but it really could have been something. You kept telling Arthur that you wanted to help them get together.

“I want them to have what we have,” you said, your whispered breath tickling his skin.

Arthur’s grip tightens on the reins, his chin tucked into his jacket.

“Arthur?” Lenny asks.

“I’m fine, Lenny.” He looks ahead as they reach the main road. “Let’s just…get you a drink. You can calm your nerves a bit, don’t think about Micah right now.”

Lenny shakes his head. “Micah, I swear, he was lookin’ for trouble.”

As they trot into the muddy streets of Valentine, the town buzzes with the usual chatter and clatter. The sky, a palette of dusky pinks and deep blues, stretches overhead, giving off a sense of tranquility that seems almost contradictory to Arthur’s stormy heart. He hitches Montana outside Smithfield's Saloon and waits for Lenny to follow.

They both walk up the steps and Arthur swings the saloon doors open, taking in the smell of cigar smoke and whiskey, and hearing the piano play a bouncy tune. Some working women look him up and down, nearly licking their lips, but he doesn’t even glance their way. His heart's too wrapped up in thoughts of you, as if you were a ghost haunting every corner of his vision. After all, you’d been haunting him in the winds of Colter for the past couple of weeks. 

Inside, the wooden floor creaks under their heavy boots, and the barkeeper, a middle-aged man with a thick mustache and a gruff voice, nods at them. “What can I get you, folks?”

Arthur leans on the counter and Lenny mirrors his movements. “A couple of beers, please.”

The bartender nods and gets right to it.

“Just one drink, right, Arthur?”

Arthur nods absentmindedly, his mind going elsewhere. Everything still feels fresh in his mind and he worries that he will never be free of it. Free from loving only long enough to feel pain.

Mary.

Eliza.

Now you.

And each time, aside from Mary, it was kept a secret. He felt that maybe, if no one knew about it, it couldn’t be used against you both. No one could threaten to destroy it, or harm you. It was the mere association with Arthur that got Eliza killed, even in her cabin in the middle of nowhere. And his distance couldn’t protect her. Or his son. 

And his closeness couldn’t protect you.

But then he saw you. Right there in the open street, just after scratching his face.

And you couldn’t recognize him.

Was it some kind of sick joke? Just someone pretending to be you? No, not when you sounded like that, looked like that, felt like that. He’d know you like he’d know his own heartbeat, irregular as it sometimes is. It felt like the world slipped sideways, like one of those dreams where you can’t quite grasp what’s real and what’s not. But the pain in his chest was real enough, sharp and piercing. And it tore him in pieces when he had to bring himself to walk away.

The large glass of beer slides into Arthur’s arm as it rests on the counter, startling him from his thoughts.

Lenny has already picked up his and lifts it towards Arthur. “Cheers, Arthur!”

Arthur forces a smile and they clink glasses before he brings it to his lips and drinks.

And drinks.

And drinks.

***

“LENNNNAYYYYY!!!!”

Arthur struggles to find his footing as he wanders through the saloon. For some damned reason, he has lost track of his pal, his comrade, and no matter how many times he calls his name, that damned boy won’t answer.

Hell.

The world seems to spin a little, his vision distorted by colors of gold and purple, he feels warm and fuzzy, like a peach.

Arthur likes peaches. They kinda remind him of—

He hears an odd sound as he walks up the stairs, his large hand trying to grip onto the railing. Reaching the top and walking the balcony, he sees a crazy young man trying to balance a glass on his head.

Ynnel?? Wait, no. Lenny! It’s Lenny!

“Lenny, mah boah…!!!”

Arthur tries to quicken his steps, nearly shoving a woman who gasps at his forwardness, though it almost appears like it isn’t unwarranted.

But, of course, Arthur could care less.

He reaches the boy and takes hold of the railing. “What. Are. You. Doin’?”

Lenny’s cheeks are ruddy, a grin on his face. “I don’t—” He fumbles with the glass and it falls off of his head onto any innocent folks down below. Lenny lets out a hiccupped chortle, looking at Arthur with the goofiest face he has ever seen.

Somehow, there is another beer in Arthur’s hand. Well, he isn’t about to complain. He brings it to his lips and lets the liquid sour down his throat, it filling his belly with a sloshing sound that is almost as sickening as it is satisfying. He smacks his lips, lets out a deep sigh, and leans over the railing.

Lenny leans as well, swaying from side to side as though he were dancing. This is hilarious, and Arthur cackles loudly.

“Well, why ain’t you never married?” Lenny asks suddenly.

And Arthur, drunken Arthur, is quickly reminded of his failed attempts at marriage and the one success he managed. He isn’t about to tell Lenny that he is, in fact, married. The memory has begun to be buried. Buried deep, too deep, and tangled up in a mess of sorrow and lost dreams. He shakes his head instead, taking another swig from the bottle that warms his insides but does little to chase away the chill of his truths. “I reckon marriage ain’t for everyone,” he slurs.

“Just say no one would have ya, Arthur! Be honest with yourself…!” Lenny laughs and takes another drink.

Arthur finds it comical. Hysterical. If only he could have been as successful as an outlaw just as successful he was in keeping his marriage a secret, he’d be better off. He wouldn’t be here, drunk as a skunk, pining for a woman who acts like he is a complete stranger.

Well, If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.

So he picks up another bottle and drinks.

And drinks.

And drinks.

***

“Eugh…” Arthur feels as though his head is going to explode. Every heartbeat sends a throbbing pulse through his skull, his stomach twisting and turning. He brings a hand to rub the ache behind his eyes, the dull throbbing piercing through his irises. 

He did it. He got drunk. Severely drunk.

He rolls onto his side, opening his eyes to the brightness of day. “You moron, Morgan,” he groans. And he struggles to get up. If he thought lying down was awful, standing up is worse. He feels it in his stomach and before he can get the chance, he keels over and vomits.

And as he bends over, he sees a fleck of gold come out from under his shirt and it hangs in front of him.

He wipes his mouth, wishing he had some water to wash it down with, but his eyes are drawn to the gold chain…and what it holds. 

His heart sinks and he takes between his fingers the ring that he had put on that chain just weeks ago.

He didn’t want it to be on his finger. Not when it was too risky. People wouldn’t pay any mind to you if you were wearing one, it’s your mother’s, but him? Dutch and the rest of them would surely figure it out.

He was planning on putting it on, as soon as he met up with you again. With only your few possessions and love for each other, that was going to be your lives from then on.

He looks at the ring for a bit longer, then slips the chain back under his shirt, hiding it close to his heart where it belongs. The weight of the gold feels heavy against his chest, a constant reminder of what he’s lost—and what secrets he must keep even from those closest to him.

Arthur staggers to his feet, steadying himself against the rough bark of a nearby tree, and looks out onto the horizon.

That was you. He knows it deep in his soul, and far be it from him to let you be lost to him ever again.

Turning, carefully, he makes his way back to Valentine, where Montana waits for him.

He’s got a lot of ground to cover.

***

“Arthur!” Hosea sees him coming and waves him over as he stands by the wagon full of moonshine. It has been a couple of days since the destruction of the stills, and there’s no doubt in Arthur’s mind that Hosea has an idea.

Arthur salutes the man, speaking in a low tone. “Hosea…”

Hosea’s smile doesn’t falter and he turns to gesture to the wagon behind him. The bottles glisten as they catch the light that peaks through the trees, giving off the illusion that the cargo is more precious than it ought to be. “What do you think?”

Arthur manages a smirk and chuckles softly at his surrogate father’s excitement. “I think you got a lotta moonshine on your hands.”

“Oh yes, we do. And I’ve been coming up with something. A plan!” Hosea then rests a hand on the side of the wagon and looks back at Arthur, a certain gleam in his eye.  “For both of you.”

“Both of who?” Arthur blinks. 

And Hosea, good ol’ cunning Hosea, casually shrugs and lifts his eyes upward. “Oh, I don’t know, someone with a knack for performances.”

And then Arthur understands. He means you. Of course, it would be you. But Arthur has yet to tell him about what happened back at the still. Against the wall of a shanty. He takes a deep breath and exhales, speaking quieter and taking another step toward him. “Hosea…”

He must see it in Arthur’s face, for he lowers his hand and raises his brow in concern. “What’s it, Arthur?”

“Somethin’ happened…”

Hosea searches his son’s face. “What? What’s wrong?”

Arthur rubs the back of his neck, recalling the feeling of your hand there, and the pressure you applied to bring him close. “She kissed me, Hosea.”

It takes but only a moment for it to register, for his eyes brighten and his smile returns. “Does that mean she…?”

Arthur shakes his head, quickly dispelling any hope that Hosea just had. “No. She doesn’t know.”

But this will not do. Hosea’s brow lowers and his gaze intensifies as he crosses his arms. “Arthur, you need to tell her.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“You know why I can’t.”

Hosea clicks his tongue, shaking his head. “No, I really don’t. It seems that you are making something out of nothing.”

But he does have cause. He knows he does. Hosea hasn’t seen it happen. He doesn’t see how the light goes out of your eyes, how your face contorts in pain. How tense you become. He takes another step toward Hosea. “This last spell she had, this last one knocked her out for a few minutes.”

“Okay? Was she in any danger?” Hosea’s tone indicates he’s hardly bothered by it, as though Arthur is just making up another excuse. Maybe he overestimates your resiliency. Maybe Hosea has too high of expectations for you. Or maybe he’s questioning Arthur’s own capabilities? 

Well, he wants to reassure Hosea that he protected her this time. “I kept her safe.”

Hosea swings an arm in Arthur’s direction. “Well, there you go, then.”

He baited him, and he felt for it. Hosea has always been like that. A sly fox, leading the conversation even when you might think it was your idea and by your lead all along. “Hosea—”

Hosea cuts him off, pointing a finger in his direction. “Maybe if you tell her, you can save her from any pain. If only you’d just spare her the trouble of figuring it out on her own!”

Arthur shakes his head. “It ain’t that simple.”

But Hosea is persistent, nodding his head and being more assertive in his tone. “It is. Tell her.”

Arthur feels the tightness in his chest, an aching weight on his shoulders that makes them droop. He lowers his head, most of his face being shielded by his hat. “I can’t.”

There is a pause, with nothing but the sound of birds warbling their afternoon songs. The high-pitched sound of bugs could almost make the earth vibrate. But Arthur wouldn’t notice. He feels like he is already sinking. Hosea exhales and runs a hand over his face. “Arthur, you’re just as stubborn as they come.” He clicks his tongue and rests his hand on his hip. “Why won’t you tell her?”

Arthur speaks it so softly, Hosea can barely hear it. “I can’t lose her again.”

But it reaches his ears and, dissatisfied, he shakes his head, looking down at the ground. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Hosea, imagine if she did know. If she did remember that somethin’ happened between us.” He watches for Hosea’s reaction to those words. They both know the truth, and share suspicions of what happened in Blackwater. So much has happened, and things are far from over. You are still in danger, regardless of what you know and don’t know. Arthur stands beside Hosea now at the wagon and leans his body into it. He looks around them, letting his eyes follow the dirt path that leads to the camp. He thinks about everyone there. The lives that rely on him. The people he cares about.  “Things are changin’, times are changin’. Our lives ain’t the same since Blackwater. Anythin’ could happen. Pinkertons. The law. Even whatever this...” He gestures to himself, indicating his own giants he wrestles with. “…this thing is. If I just let things go, if I just let things be, then—”

Hosea places a hand on Arthur’s shoulder, trying to speak the truth in a way so Arthur can hear him. “This isn’t about being some martyr to lost love, Arthur. You won’t be the only one suffering.”

But Arthur doesn’t care about himself. He has a purpose for burying his pain. “You’re wrong. She won’t be sufferin’.”

Hosea removes his hand, briefly throwing it in the air before clapping his leg in frustration. “She already is suffering! You don’t see the agony in her face? She knows! Deep down she knows, and wants to remember! She knows something is going on and we’re not telling her!” He points at Arthur again. “You’re not telling her!” His raised voice echoes into the trees and they both breathe sharply. If they can manage anything right now, it is to be discreet. Hosea lowers his head, letting out a sigh slowly. “What would you rather have? You tell her now and get it out in the open, or she finds out after months of headaches to only wonder why you never told her?”

That is an interesting question. What would he rather have? If he could tell her now, how would he do it? What would he say? Whatever he chooses, it can’t be like this. “Times not right, we’re still settlin’ into camp—”

Hosea interjects with a harsh truth, his voice calm, but sharp. “Arthur, there comes a time when you stop making excuses and just do it.”

And suddenly, Arthur hears a soft voice, pouring out like honey, making his hairs stand on end. “Do what?”

Arthur and Hosea quickly turn to see you, in your dark pants and oriole-feathered hat, watching them curiously. Arthur had forgotten that Hosea called you here and he feels the color run from his face. Did you hear all of that? You don’t look like you have, but stealth and masking are your strong suits. You could have been right behind him and he wouldn’t have noticed. 

Hosea grins a toothy smile and claps Arthur’s shoulder. “Just—playing dress up!” He gestures to the stunned outlaw, giving him a gentle shake.  “Arthur, here, see, doesn’t like to pretend…” There is a subtle dig with the word pretend , but Arthur pretends to not notice.

You arch your perfectly shaped brow and give them both a playful smirk. “He doesn’t?” You can't help but tease, almost as if you know exactly what Arthur's response will be.

And Arthur answers flatly. “No, I don’t.”

You continue to walk over to them, smiling and still barefooted. “What are we dressing up for?”

Hosea lets out a warm chuckle and spreads his arms wide in a welcoming gesture. “I love your attitude, young lady! I knew that I felt the ache of your absence for a lot of reasons!”

You slow your pace and come to a halt beside Hosea, placing a hand on your hip in a gesture of casual confidence. Arthur's eyes immediately drift towards the curve of your body, tracing the alluring silhouette created by your tight-fitting jeans. The cotton hugs your curves in all the right places, accentuating your feminine figure and drawing his attention. A faint smile plays at the corners of his mouth as he takes in the sight before him, though it quickly disappears when your hazel eyes glance in his direction before addressing Hosea. “What, you had no one else to be the entertainment around here?”

“Of course not, but you could barely juggle to save your life.”

You laugh. “I know.” And you switch to a calm demeanor, speaking almost in a strictly business sort of way. “What are we doing?”

And so, without no further delay, Hosea begins to debrief you both on his plan. “Advertising, my dear! Advertising!” He gestures to the wagon of moonshine. “We’re going to waltz right up to the Braithewaites and see if we can’t be rewarded for doing the neighborly thing of returning it to them. What do you say?”

You lift a brow and suppress a chortle. “We’re dressing up for that?”

“Maybe not this, necessarily, but we are coming before southern aristocracy!”

You look down at your pants, a pensive look on your face. “Well, I suppose I can change into a nice skirt…”

“That’s my girl! Go on and change, and meet us back here.”

“Alright.” And with that, you turn to walk away. 

Once you’re out of earshot, Hosea speaks, but still with his voice lowered. “You owe me for this, Arthur.”

“Thank you, Hosea,” Arthur exhales. 

But his gratitude nearly diminishes when he feels Hosea’s index finger in his chest, it almost feeling like a tip of a blade. “And you will tell her.”

Arthur swallows. “Once I—once I can figure out what to say.”

Hosea looks almost irritated, like a parent too tired to continue disciplining his delinquent child. “I know words don’t always come naturally for you, Arthur, but with her, it never was difficult.”

Arthur lowers his head. Hosea is right. You and him used to talk often and willingly, but you weren’t under such strain. He wasn’t fighting his own fears and reservations in an effort to protect you. He speaks quietly, his eyes not lifting once to look up. “Not anymore.”

“And who’s fault is that?” Hosea’s question nearly catches Arthur off guard. He was expecting some empathy, but it is clear that Hosea isn’t having it this time. ”Remember what I told you.”

Arthur remembers, it’s been playing in the back of his mind since their conversation at Emerald Ranch. To leave; to build a life for himself and get you out. “I know.”

“I meant it! And you’re right, things are changing; things are taking a turn for the worse. I’ve been telling Abigail the same thing—”

This is surprising. “Abigail?”

“Yes! You think I want to see her and her son killed? For some dreams that don’t ever seem to be realized? She needs to think about her son. Whether or not John decides to join them is his choice. Maybe…maybe if they leave that might motivate him as well. For now, my concern is for them.”

“What about everyone else?”

“They are old enough to make their own choices. But Abigail is scared. Aside from you, and Kit, she’s got no one really to help her. I know how you feel about John, I know you have some anger towards him. You were young once. You didn’t always make the right choices.” And after a moment of thought, Hosea decides to add, “Mary was one of those choices.”

Arthur feels himself bristle at this. He knows he’s made mistakes, but it doesn’t help any to bring them up. “What, you think I should have stayed with her?”

“Of course not! I just wish you didn’t have to go through that in the first place.”

There is a brief pause, filled with unspoken thoughts. “Did you always think that Kit and I would end up together?”

Hosea tilts his head and shakes it slowly. “Didn’t expect it at all, doesn’t mean that I never hoped for it. It’s just that you were the loner type for quite a while.”

He was. But he had a reason. When he found the two crosses that marked the graves of his woman and child, he didn’t really feel like living. “I guess…things don’t always happen as you predicted them to.”

“No, they certainly don’t,” Hosea responds with conviction, his sharp tone chastising Arthur once again. “You hit the nail on the head, Arthur,” he continues, driving his point home. "Which is why you need to gather the courage you're always using in those gunfights." There is a brief pause as Hosea studies Arthur's face, searching for any sign of understanding or compliance. "I mean it," he adds firmly.

Finally, after a moment of hesitation, Arthur nods in agreement. “Alright.”

There is movement at the corner of Arthur’s eye and he turns to see you return. You are wearing a blue pinstripe skirt that goes nicely with the white button-up and dark vest you were already wearing. And it doesn’t hurt your figure, either. Anything you wear, even the simplest of garbs, makes Arthur feel weak in the knees.

Hosea resumes his energetic persona, greeting you with great elation. “Ah, look! Perfect!”

You bashfully lower your gaze, brushing off invisible dirt from your skirt. “I know it’s not that…fancy, Hosea…”

But Hosea just shakes his head dismissively. “We’re not looking for fancy, we’re looking for clean and neat! And maybe then they won’t think we’re the scum at the bottom of their shoe.” He lets out a short laugh and turns to face the wagon. “Alright, let’s get on this wagon. Arthur, you drive.”

“You Shoah?” Arthur asks.

“Of course! And the lady can sit up there with you. I’ll sit in the back.” Hosea replies, a warm smile spreading across his wrinkled face.

You come closer, your brow lifted in concern and empathy as your voice conveys great selflessness. “Oh, Hosea, the back can be so uncomfortable. Please, let me—”

But Hosea interrupts with a dismissive wave of his hand before lifting himself to the back of the wagon with a grunt. “No, don’t you worry about me,” he insists. “I’m going to go ahead and sit back here and regale you all with what I've learned about these Braithewaites…” He lets out a mischievous chuckle, his eyes sparkling with ideas not fully spun yet.

Arthur, after hesitating, goes over to help you up onto the wagon. Offering a hand, you look into his eyes and take it. A sense of relief washes over him, glad that you aren’t rejecting his aid. He feels the softness of your hand in his, and resists the temptation to hold onto it just a little while longer. 

Climbing onto the seat, you settle next to Arthur, the wood and leather creaking under your combined weight. With a gentle flick of the reins, the wagon begins to roll forward, the wheels carving tracks into the soft mud of the trail. You pull your skirt neatly around your knees and look ahead, not starting any conversation. He decides to focus on the road, listening to the gentle clicking of the moonshine bottles, careful not to drive too fast, or too slow.

You speak suddenly, almost making Arthur jump in his seat. “So, Hosea, you were saying?”

Hosea clears his throat. “Well, I mentioned the horses to Dutch, and he is going to send John to look into it…In the meantime, we will make a formal introduction and get into their good graces so we can play both sides…All I keep hearing is that they hate each other so much they can’t see past it.”

Arthur nods. The past three days he’s been busy keeping up with two of them in particular, a Braithewaite girl and a Gray boy. Two young lovers, forbidden from one another, like a watered-down version of Romeo and Juliet. He can empathize with their plight, to a degree, given the secrecy and keeping their heads down, which is probably why he’s been willing to help them. The fools.

It seems that fate always has a stick where the sun doesn’t shine, for it always finds a way to prick at Arthur where it hurts the most.

Hosea continues on thoughtfully. “I’m sure there’s money in all this somewhere, if we can only get in the middle of it.”

***

Well, Master Braithewaite turned out to be Mrs. Catherine Braithewaite. A crotchety old woman with a southern drawl that exudes bitter molasses. With your sweet-appearing demeanor and Hosea’s quick tongue, you all managed to drive away with some cash and the moonshine. Upon her order, Arthur is to drive the wagon to Rhodes, to deliver the moonshine to the saloon and give it away. That’s right, for free.

Arthur sees Rhodes in the distance, and his thoughts are interrupted by Hosea’s mischievous chuckle. Arthur looks briefly over his shoulder, to see Hosea pulling something out of a canvas sack.

It is an old hat.

“Well, my dear, this is where we put those skills of yours to use.” And he holds the hat out to you. “You are going to be my poor stepchild, who owes me a great debt after gambling our family fortune.”

Arthur looks over at you to see your eyes sparkle, taking the hat and replacing the one on your head with it.

“And Arthur—”

Arthur shakes his head quickly. “No, not me.”

“You are just going to be the mute driver. Killed your mother for making you angry. You aren’t good for much else but driving the wagon.”

Arthur hears you chuckle and just as he looks back at you, you straighten up and bite your lower lip. The corners of your mouth turn up ever so slightly, betraying the hint of a smile as you adjust the hat on your head. The ruse is simple, pitiable yet convincing. Arthur can see by the look in your eyes that you already know how to play the part; life itself being an extended performance.

You look down at your hands, your voice soft but full of energy. “I can already imagine them being stained with cards. Chips flying everywhere as I flip a table in anguish.”

Arthur snorts, shaking his head. “You sure do have a wild imagination, Kit." His voice carries a mix of amusement and admiration, the roughness softened momentarily by the gentle tease. "Just make sure you don't actually start throwin' things around in there."

And you reply with a little quip of your own. “Just don’t give me any dynamite, and we will be just fine.”

As the wagon rolls down the dusty road to Rhodes, the tension in the air shifts subtly. And Arthur knows that he will have to remain silent until they are out of town again. He’s nearly forgotten about the badge on his shirt, and quickly takes it off and tucks it in his satchel before they pass the first building that leads into town.

Turning down the street, he pulls up behind the saloon.

“Show time,” Hosea whispers, and gets off the wagon. “Why, Fatima! You best put your back into it today and bring that case with you!” he barks at you, already playing the evil stepfather role quite well.

Arthur watches you, as you step down from the wagon with a practiced slump, your shoulders rounded and head bowed, embodying the downtrodden, penniless stepdaughter to perfection. Arthur’s eyes scan the bustling streets of Rhodes, taking in the townsfolk who pause to watch the new arrivals with a mix of curiosity and suspicion.

You lift the heavy crate with a surprising ease, and Arthur lifts his brow. Your eyes lift to meet his and you put on a grin before switching it to a sour expression as she speaks noticeably slower to him. “Now, you stay there, Fenton! Don’t you leave this here spot until we come right back!”

He merely grumbles. And you continue with your task of lifting the crate and following Hosea.

Arthur continues to watch you two as you approach the saloon from the back. Two men stand outside, looking bored out of their minds.

Hosea waves over to them. “Gentlemen, gentlemen! Quite the town you got here, we just moved in from up north!”

The men just stare and as their eyes move to you, they seem to appear more interested. Arthur feels himself tense up, watching their gazes linger just a little too long for his liking.

One of the men replies, his eyes not leaving you. “Hey…”

Hosea continues. “Hello…! My name is Melvin, and this is my stepdaughter Fatima. Don’t pay her no mind, she’s quite worthless, bled my family dry. But if it weren’t for her mother, I’d have cast her out ages ago.” He barely pauses for breath, his fast tongue almost throwing the men off guard. “How’d you boys like a couple of bucks?” He pulls out some money from his pocket and holds out the cash to them. “We are into advertising, which is to ensure that people buy the correct things. And we would like to advertise to the good patrons in there.”

The men cast glances at each other, shifting on their feet with unease. “I don’t know…”

But then you step forward, putting on a pathetic expression, your words coming out soft and juvenile. “Please, sirs, we don’t mean no trouble. Just need to get this crate inside and talk to those fine folks in there. Mother’s been ailing something fierce and we need every penny we can scrape together.” You lower your face and even from where Arthur sits, he can se a solitary tear stream down your cheek. “It’s my fault we have no money.”

Your plea, layered with a thick layer of innocence and desperation, seems to soften one of the men. One scratches his head, looking from Hosea to you, his expression wavering. "Well, alright then.” And taking the money from Hosea, they both begin to walk away, eager to spend their new dollar. “Just quick-like, ya hear?"

Hosea nods enthusiastically, clapping the man on the shoulder. "You have my word, sir. Quick as a wink," he promises, ushering you forward with the crate.

Once the door closes behind you, the air is left with silence. Arthur shifts in the wagon seat, carefully watching for anything that might seem odd or unnerving. He may be playing as the dumb idiot, but he isn’t going to act like one, especially if the situation demands something strong and quick on the draw.

Several minutes go by before the sound of music erupts from within the saloon.

He looks up and through the window, he can see you behind the bar, pouring drinks for men that begin to surround you. You perform little tricks as you do so, from bending backward to pour into a glass, to flipping a bottle elegantly from hand to hand. Your movements are fluid, mesmerizing the crowd with every delicate yet confident motion. Amidst the chaos of laughter and drunken banter, Arthur can't help but marvel at how you can make even the mundane act of serving drinks look like a dance.

All he cares about is that you are safe, managing deftly within the lion’s den. The crowd’s attention clings to you, their eyes caught up in the contortion of your arms, the swift flick of your wrists. Even from a distance, Arthur watches anxiously, noting every man who steps too close or looks too long at you.

It seems as though time passes by quickly, for it is already dark and the noise inside turns into a raucous. He hears glasses break, whoops and hollers, but he still finds you behind the bar, serving drinks like there is no tomorrow.

That’s when he hears another wagon pull up.

Turning, he sees several men, in old army hats and getup, leap off the wagon and hurry into the saloon. He instantly recognizes them.

Lemoyne Raiders. And they are not happy.

He has to get you and Hosea out of there before everything goes to hell. Leaping down from the wagon, he reaches for his rifle. Already armed with his volcanic pistols, he makes quick steps as he enters the saloon from the back.

He hears a deep voice call out from within the saloon. “You!”

And Hosea’s meek reply. “Me?”

“You’re the bastards who stole the liquor we was gonna buy…!”

Hosea quickly tries to settle the situation. “Gentlemen, we are merely in advertising. Have a drink!”

But it doesn’t work. Just as Arthur reaches the back opening to the bar, he hears the first gunshot.

He sees you duck, a quick scream escaping your lips and he crouches down right beside you. “Kit…!” You look up to find him and he hands you one of his pistols. “I saw them ride up. They ain’t too happy with us.”

You almost chuckle at that, checking the ammo in his gun. “You think?”

A gunfight ensues, patrons and cowards alike trying to flee the drunken bash while the Lemoyne raiders try to act on their revenge. Arthur gets up long enough to take down several of them in a matter of seconds, a skill that he is known for.

Despite the ringing in his ears, Arthur moves like a shadow, his figure etched against the dim lantern lights that start to swing overhead.

He turns to see you take a shot, your hand, though unfamiliar with his weapon, aims with dead accuracy. Even so, he knows your movements by heart—every duck, weave, and shot feels like a dance you’ve both rehearsed for years.

“Sure wish I had my sawed off,” you grumble. “Would be nice to see this place burn a little.”

Your brazenness is coming out in bursts. Arthur always knew you to have a playful obsession with fire, you pyromaniac, but it seems to become more prominent as you are placed in more dangerous situations.

“There’ll be time for that,” Arthur comments, and he finds an opening to get out of cover. He leaps over the counter and turns back to you. “We gotta get out of here!”

You nod and reach for him. Taking your arms, he helps you over the counter. Then suddenly, your eyes look up behind him and you point. “Arthur…!”

Turning, he sees a Lemoyne raider descending down the stairs, taking aim at him. He quickly draws, shooting the man down and he falls over the banister.

Arthur’s relief is momentary before he shifts his focus back to you, scanning your body for any injuries with a furrowed brow. “You still alright, Kit?”

You nod, brushing off dust and debris from your clothes, an attempt to regain some composure. “Never better,” you declare, though your voice trembles with an excitement. “We need to find Hosea.”

Right. It’s best that you don’t leave him behind. Instinctively taking your hand, Arthur leads you up the stairs, looking frantically for the onery man.

And just as he reaches the top of the stairs, he spots him, struggling in the grip of another raider.

Arthur doesn't hesitate. He pulls you along, his grip on your hand firm as his other hand reaches for his gun once more. As you approach, he lets go of your hand and moves with that same predatory grace that always seems to surge forth in these moments of dire need.

The raider holding Hosea is laughing, his teeth yellowed and nearly rotten. “I’ll show you for stealin’ our liquor!!!”

And with a simple click, Arthur pulls the trigger. The raider's laughter abruptly ends as he crumples to the ground, a dark stain spreading across his shirt. Hosea gasps for air, pushing the lifeless body off him with a shake of his head.

Arthur rushes over, extending a hand to help Hosea up. "You alright, old man?" he teases, pulling him to his feet and patting him on the back.

“It’s never the wrong time for jokes with you, is it, Arthur?” he gasps, rubbing his neck for a moment before continuing the escape.

You three hurry out through the french doors to the balcony. The air is nice and cool compared to the stuffiness inside the saloon. Rushing over eaning against the railing, you spot the wagon below.

“I love heights, don’t you?” you murmur enthusiastically, a wry smile tugging at the corner of your mouth despite the adrenaline coursing through your veins.

Arthur glances at you with a smirk, the kind that softens his rugged features momentarily. "Yeah, just as much as I love getting shot at," he retorts. His eyes scan down the street and he spots more raiders coming. He turns to Hosea. “You first, old man!”

And Hosea, not waiting for another prompting, takes the leap of faith and lands in the wagon.

Arthur then turns to you. “Ladies, first!”

And the look you give him nearly sends his heart to his throat. A flirtatious glance with half-lidded eyes as you lift your chin. “Such a gentleman…” You then climb over the railing, taking a deep breath to steady yourself. You glance back at Arthur whose eyes are fixed on you, filled with a fierce protectiveness, despite his knowledge that you could do this in your sleep if you wanted.

“Could we speed this up?” Hosea calls worriedly. “We’ve got company!”

You let go and fall gracefully to the ground, rolling to break your fall. You rise quickly to your feet and you climb up the wagon and take the reins. “C’mon, Fenton! Don’t want to keep Mama waiting!”

Arthur chuckles to himself, admiring your audacity even in the face of danger. He climbs down with a practiced ease, landing next to the wagon with a thud that sends a cloud of dust swirling around his boots. He leaps up beside you, grabbing the seat just as you crack the reins. The horses quickly turn around and gallop down the street, nearly missing a man walking along the fence line.

But of course, this commences the chase, as some mounted Lemoyne Raiders ride after you.

Arthur curses under his breath. Readying his rifle as you continue to drive. “Can we go one day without someone trying to shoot us?” he grumbles, squinting against the dust your wagon kicks up.

You shrug, eyes on the road, the reins tight in your grip. “Wouldn’t be much of a life if it were quiet, that would be bezvýznamný,” you reply, a hint of your native tongue coloring the edges of your words.

“Say what’chu want, but I’d rather not die.”

“What happened to your confidence, Arthur?” Hosea teases, as he holds onto the sides of the wagon for dear life. The remaining bottles of moonshine click and clack loudly as you make another turn.

Arthur takes another shot and downs a raider. “How’s that for confidence?”

You laugh loudly, a thunderous laugh, and Arthur didn’t realize how much he missed it until now.

After some more turns, shots, and dodges, you three manage to eliminate and escape the raiders. You pull the wagon into a secluded spot and let the reins drop with a long exhale.

“We made it…!” you cheer. “That was some fun!”

Arthur rolls his shoulders, letting some of the tension go. “Shoah…”

Hosea lets himself off of the wagon, stretching his legs a little, his muscles aching after that ride. “That was some good driving, Kitka! Remind me to bring you along for the next getaway chase.”

Arthur swings his leg over the edge of the wagon and hops down to stand beside Hosea, a wry smile playing at his lips. "Well, if it ain't for Kit's drivin', we'd probably be riddled with bullets by now."

You walk by Arthur, a soft smile on your face. “I’d say it was your confident shooting. Couldn’t have done it without you, King Arthur.”

Arthur’s heart nearly stops. King…?

He turns and meets your eyes. In them, he sees a mixture of admiration and something deeper, something that he doesn’t want to misinterpret. He takes a step closer, his large hands lingering by his sides, holding back from drawing you into an embrace.

He swallows. “Why did you call me that?”

You shrug and look down at your feet. “I’m not sure. It seems fitting, doesn’t it?”

Of course, what was he thinking? “I guess so.”

Arthur looks over at Hosea, who has been watching you both with a gleam in his eye. “Well, I guess we can figure out what to do with the rest of this shine tomorrow. For now, I think I have a bedroll calling my name.”

You nod. “I agree.” And you turn to look up at Arthur. “Ready to go back to your kingdom, Arthur?”

He squints slightly, a ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips. "I reckon that kingdom's nowhere nearly as grand as the one you're imaginin’."

You chuckle softly, your eyes catching the moon’s light as it rises into the night sky. For all he can imagine, you could be his Guinevere, his queen. “I guess you’re right,” you sigh, and you turn to get back on the wagon. 

But in this moment, he realizes that it only matters if you know it, too.

Chapter Text

“Hosea said you did amazing work last night,” Mary Beth says while you sit and mend clothes with her. There never seems to be a shortage of holes, tears, and frayed hems with a gang full of gunslingers and troublemakers. You figure it is a good balance, from fleeing bullets and angry men to sitting down quietly and sewing. 

You tuck your chin. “It felt good to be out,” you say, pulling a thread tight after knotting it. “I seem to be getting the hang of things.”

Mary Beth agrees. “I should think so. Though I do think I’ll miss having you hang around camp once you start workin’ again.”

You look up at her and smile. “Oh, you’ll have Kieran to keep you company.”

Her eyes widen and flicker to you then back to her sewing. “You’re implyin’ somethin’, I know it.”

“Oh, I’m not implying anything. I’m saying it right to your face. No hidden meanings at all.”

She giggles bashfully, lowering her head as though she were trying to hide. “I do like talkin’ to him.”

You find it sweet. Kieran really is a gentle soul. You’ve seen how he is with the horses, and you’d swear that he prefers their company over people. 

Well, except for Mary Beth. But you’ve deduced this already. 

But you also find it peculiar that despite the men she depicts in her stories, she’s taken with a soft-hearted man who’d rather pick up a brush than a gun. You’re quite curious as to how that turned out, but you decide just to be happy for her. 

“I’m glad, Mary Beth. You deserve to be happy.”

Her eyes lift to look across the camp and a smile appears on her face. “And what about you, Kitka? Don’t you want a… nápadník?”

You quickly look at her, your cheeks burning. “A beau?” you cough. “What a thing to say!”

“Everyone deserves happiness, Kit. Don’t you think you ought to be included?”

Your mind goes to the strange dreams you’ve been having. Hands touching you, caressing you, blurred visions that you want to put together but can’t. You’re still trying to decipher dream from memory, since that kiss…since the words King Arthur rolled off your tongue. 

It’s like there is an invisible wire, hooking into your heart, and pulling you toward him. Towards Arthur. 

But you hate the mystery, the secrets that you know he’s keeping. He’s been willing to tell you about yourself. Things you used to do, little habits here and there, but he rarely ever wants to talk about himself. 

That journal. That stupid journal that he always keeps on his person, if only you could find a way to get it. 

“Have you ever caught a glimpse into Arthur’s journal?” you ask her. 

“No, I’ve tried to win a chance while playing dominoes, but even if I did win, he probably wouldn’t let me take a look.”

You notice that Mary Beth is still looking ahead and so you turn to follow her gaze. Kieran is brushing Montana and Arthur is standing there talking to him. You can’t help but mirror Mary Beth as you watch them talking as casually as you’ve ever seen them together. Arthur has always made a point to be intimidating around the ex O’Driscoll, but you can tell he’s holding back, compared to how he treats others he finds irritating. 

You eye his satchel as it rests against his hip, no doubt his journal is in there. 

And in a burst of energy building in your chest, you begin to concoct an idea. “Mary Beth?”

“Yes?”

“How would you like to help me with something?”

Her eyes light up and she immediately sets her sewing aside. “Of course! What is it?”

You gesture toward the two men with your eyes and you watch her follow in its direction. “I need you to get Arthur’s journal.”

Her eyes widen and she looks back at you, her mouth going agape. “What?”

“I know that you’re a pickpocket, Arthur told me.”

She sits up straight and her excitement shifts to caution. “Yes…but…are you sure you want me to steal Arthur’s journal?”

You need to convince her that this is important. “I need to know what he’s not telling me, Mary Beth. I can ask questions, thrust myself into dangerous situations, and have dreams, but I can’t wait for every headache before I learn more things about myself and the people that I’m supposed to trust.” You study her face, and watch her eyes soften. “We will put it back, I won’t keep it forever.”

Mary Beth wrings her fingers, flexing them as though to warm them up for her new task. “I’ll need a distraction. Arthur can be pretty wiry.”

You grin, rising to your feet. “Leave that to me.”

You brush the dirt off your pants and look down at her. “Give me a minute or two before you do it.”

She nods and you turn to leave. 

You pass by Jack and Abigail as they sit at the table. She’s watching him as he tries to juggle two apples, his eyes sparkling with excitement. “Look, Aunt Kit! I’m doing it!”

You smile wide and wave as you pass them by, and looking ahead, you see Kieran and Arthur spot you coming. How are you going to do this? You need to exploit their weaknesses, their interests. 

For Kieran, it is easy, but for Arthur? Well, that’s the reason why you need the journal. You don’t know what his interests are. 

“Hello, Miss,” Kieran smiles, tucking his brush into one of his jacket pockets. “I’m gonna do Odliv next.”

You nod your thanks, slipping your hands in your back pockets. “Thank you, Kieran.” You’re about to look at Arthur and say something to him before Kieran speaks again. 

“I noticed something odd about Odliv the other day.”

You look back at him, brows lifted. “You did?” Arthur's gaze has followed your exchange, curiosity piqued. You take a breath, seizing the moment to draw him into conversation, keeping him distracted while Mary Beth prepares for her precarious task. "What was odd about Odliv?"

Kieran leans in closer, lowering his voice as if sharing a secret that could shift the conversation. “She does tricks.”

You blink. “Tricks?”

“Yes, she’s your horse, didn’t you teach them to her?”

You try to think back on the memories you’ve uncovered, but none seem to bring up Odliv doing anything special. “What has she done?”

Kieran beams and counts them on his finger. “She’s snatched things right out of my back pocket. If it’s hanging out, she will grab it.” He uncurls another finger. “She also bows, whenever I lower an open palm in front of her, she will lower her head and extend her leg.” And then, a final finger. “She even plays dead if you finger shoot near her.” He looks over at Odliv who is eating grass, oblivious to your conversation and he scratches the back of his head. “Learned that one the hard way, didn’t I?”

Arthur, who had been silent, chuckles deeply, his eyes lighting up with a mix of amusement and interest. “It’s obvious that Odliv’s got more smarts than half the fellas we've robbed.”

You look to Arthur, raising a brow. “You knew she did those things?”

Arthur looks down at you, his expression softening, with a tinge of guilt. "I might've seen a thing or two," he confesses, then his gaze drifts to the horizon, pondering. "It's fitting, ain't it? Even your horse is as clever and mysterious as you."

You feel a flush of warmth at the compliment, though you aren't sure how to respond. The connection between you and Arthur has always been a complex tapestry of unspoken words and shared glances. It feels like each moment together adds another thread, silently strengthening the bond you've been afraid to fully acknowledge since waking with no memory of him.

“I wish that you could have told me,” you say, letting your lips curl into a playful smile. “I would hate to have my horse fall dead on me while playing gunfights with Jack.”

Arthur chuckles and from the corner of your eye, you see Mary Beth, walking nonchalantly but carefully approaching Arthur from behind. You quickly turn your attention back to Arthur, smiling sweetly.

And he mirrors your smile. “You know, Kit, I’m kinda glad you came over, it saves me the trouble of lookin’ for you.”

You rest a hand on your hip, continuing the conversation while your focus gets taken by the pickpocket close by. “Well, you knew where I was, Arthur, doesn’t a good king always have a watchful eye on his subjects?”

You see the tips of his ears turn pink and he quickly shifts his eyes to Kieran, who only looks puzzled. “Kit, you best quit jokin’.”

Arthur's discomfort is almost palpable, and you can't help but feel a touch of guilt for pushing him, even in jest. However, you’ve found his bashfulness endearing, contrasting sharply with his otherwise rugged exterior.

“Well?” you tease. “It’s true, isn’t it? A king watching over his kingdom?” You give him a light nudge with your elbow, the smile lingering on your lips growing wider as you see him struggling to find a retort.

Arthur finally lets out a sigh, his features relaxing into a rueful grin. “Guess if you keep teasin’ me, I ain’t gonna tell you what I was gonna ask you.”

You blink, and look to see that Mary Beth is really close now, he still hasn’t noticed. “What?”

Arthur lifts his hands and his chin, shaking his head. “Nope. You ain’t gonna hear it.”

You grab his arm and try to put on your most pitiful expression. “That’s not fair, Arthur! I was only playing with you.”

His eyes soften, the corners crinkling in amusement as he looks down at your grip on his arm. “Alright, alright, Kit. I can’t stay mad at’chu.” He pauses, glancing around before leaning in closer. “I was thinkin’…maybe we could go stop by and see Trelawny?”

Trelawny? He’s going to take you to Trelawny! You had almost forgotten about that, getting caught up in moonshine and dancing. He is doing you a kindness and is offering to go with you.

And here you are, plotting against him in the form of trickery and thievery.

You see Mary Beth, as quiet as a whisper, reaching for Arthur’s satchel.

“Who is Trelawny?” Kieran asks.

“Oh, a man who’s slicker than an oil slick…” Arthur chuckles, looking over at Kieran as he explains.

You and Mary Beth both lock eyes for a brief moment, just long enough for you to shake your head, trying to signal for her to abort the mission.

But Mary Beth, ambitious and eager as ever, misinterprets your gesture as encouragement. She delves deeper into Arthur's satchel with a deft hand that belies her nerves. You watch, heart hammering in your chest as Arthur continues, oblivious to the theft unfolding under his very nose.

"Trelawny sounds like a charlatan,” Kieran says cautiously. “Are you sure you wanna go see him?”

“Kieran, just ‘cause I went fishin' wit’chu, don’t mean you can worry about me like I’m your friend. It’s your own skin you gotta worry about.”

Your heart pounds in your chest as you still watch Mary Beth, who finally retrieves a small, leather-bound journal from Arthur's satchel. Her eyes gleam with triumph, but you feel a pang of guilt wash over you. Arthur is being nothing but kind and forthcoming, even bringing up old Trelawny at your silent behest, and here you are—letting him be robbed by his own camp. Your conscience gnaws at you like a hungry dog, leaving your insides twisting uncomfortably.

As if summoned by your troubled thoughts, Arthur turns slightly, and you fear he might catch Mary Beth in the act. But instead, his eyes meet yours, and there's an undeniable warmth there that makes your heart skip a beat. Somehow, you muster the strength to maintain your composure, forcing a smile that feels more like a grimace.

"Kit, you okay?" Arthur asks, his voice tinged with concern. "You look like you seen a ghost."

"Just thinking is all," you manage to say, voice barely above a whisper. "Lots on my mind, Arthur."

Arthur nods slowly, his eyes still studying you intently, as if trying to read the unsaid words hanging between you. "You know you can talk to me, Kit. Whatever it is."

You nod, feeling the weight of his sincerity. It makes it all the worse when you see Mary Beth tuck the journal away and make for your tent, undoubtedly on her way to sneak it in your belongings.

You sigh and look up at Arthur. “Thank you.”

He pats Montana’s neck, smiling. “You ready to go?”

You blink. “Now?”

“Why, shoah! There’s still daylight.”

Well, you might as well. You shrug and nod your head. “Okay, let's go.”

He swings onto his horse with a practiced ease reminiscent of the many years he's spent in the saddle, living this ever-transient outlaw life. “How about you ride with me? Let Kieran take care of Odliv for you.” And as if on cue, Kieran makes his way over to your mare, brush, and treats in hand. 

Ride behind Arthur? You haven’t been on his horse since he brought you back to the gang. But you don’t see any harm in it.

You gather your strength and hoist yourself up behind him, hands finding their comfortable place around his waist. He doesn’t startle; rather, his body relaxes back into yours, making your heart flutter in a way that surprises you. The familiar scent of leather and tobacco envelops you, and for a moment, it's as if nothing has changed between you two.

Then suddenly, Arthur calls out. “Charles!” You nearly jump and looking around the bulky outlaw, you see Charles come walking up.

“What’s wrong?”

“I need you for some business in town, c’mon.”

Charles nods. “Okay.” And he goes to his horse Taima.

Business? What does he mean by business? You poke Arthur’s side and wait for him to look back at you. “Was this all your idea, or someone else’s?”

Arthur has a guilty look on his face. “Dutch wants me to ask Trelawny about some bounty hunters he’s heard about.”

Your brow furrows. You were hoping that this was a leisurely trip. Not some inquiry to soothe Dutch’s worries. But, at least you get to go. “Oh.”

You try to mask your disappointment with a tight-lipped smile, but it's clear Arthur notices. “Don’t worry, Kit, we’ll make it quick. Then you can talk to Trelawny to your heart’s content,” he suggests, his voice light and optimistic. “God knows he can talk the bark off of a tree…”

That flicker of hope rekindles your spirits and once Charles has mounted Taima, Arthur kicks his horse gently into a slow trot, leading away from camp and through the trees that guard the hideout. The rhythm of Montana’s hoofbeats adds to the song of birds and the lovely quiet as you hold onto Arthur. You soon leave the trees and turn onto the open road, the dirt is its familiar red as you all head towards Rhodes.

You ride in silence, holding onto Arthur and unaware that you let your head lean closer and closer until your cheek is flush against his back.

“Don’t fall asleep on me, now,” Arthur teases. His voice is low and carries a hint of amusement, but the underlying warmth tickles a smile onto your lips despite the turmoil inside. 

“I won’t,” you reply, though the steadiness of his heartbeat against your cheek and the gentle sway of the ride make it a tempting prospect.

And Charles, always thoughtful and watchful, asks Arthur what the business is. “So, where are we going?”

“Rhodes. Dutch wants us to talk to Trelawny about these bounty hunters that are comin’ for us.”

“Okay, should be easy since you’re deputized now, right?”

You feel Arthur’s laugh rumble through his body. “I guess we will see, won’t we? That’s what Dutch calls, hidin’ in plain sight.”

Charles only hums thoughtfully. You think that if you weren’t here, Charles may be more apt to say more. Instead, the ride continues in silence.

***

It isn’t long before you reach the outskirts of Rhodes. Not entering the town, Arthur steers Montana left onto a smaller path and Charles follows.

“I think it’s just up here,” Arthur says, and that encourages you to look around.

You see nomadic wagons, vardos, that have had their wheels locked in place by bricks and structures built around them. They were of the traveling kind, once, but you can see how that has changed. You also notice the old paint on the wagons, stories, and patterns painted like in the art of your people, but now they are faded away and covered in the red dirt that scatters Lemoyne. You don’t see anyone here and you aren’t sure if you are glad or disappointed.

But one thing’s for sure, there is no Trelawny.

“I reckon it's the one with the fire outside,” Arthur says, then he pats your leg, startling you. “You want me to help you down?”

You nod, a flutter of nervousness dancing in your stomach as Arthur offers an arm to help you gently slide off Montana's back. Your feet touch the ground, the soil gritty and warm beneath your feet. He then swings his leg over, landing on the ground on the other side of Montana with a dull thud. As he gives Montana some oatcakes, you stretch your legs and take in the quiet desperation of the place.

Charles dismounts and starts to look around. “Let’s take a look.”

You walk up to the nearest vardo, with the fire pit burning outside, letting your hand rest on the railing before walking up the steps. You hear Arthur follow close behind you, his breath steady and calm. You notice some herbs hanging just over the threshold, finding something comforting about it, before stepping inside.

But as your eyes adjust to the light, you feel your heart sinking.

The place is in disarray. Food has fallen to the floor, furniture is broken, and there are drops of blood.

“This does not look good…” Arthur says lowly. He sees it, too.

You make careful steps as you walk further, scanning about the place.

You hear Charles come in and you hear the tone in his voice shift to almost predatory. “Someone got here, first.”

And Arthur replies in kind. “Check the house.”

You are already on it. You follow the trail of blood, careful not to step in it, and it leads you into the next room, where you see a wash basin and a mirror. You glance at yourself for a brief moment, your wild, dark hair unmanageable in its waves, as it tries to remain in the braid you had done it in this morning.

The blood and footprints continue out the back and as you step out of the vardo, you see a distinct trail of horse prints. “Arthur…!”

You hear the hurried steps of the men until they are right behind you.

“What is it?” Arthur asks.

You simply point to the tracks. “I think someone took him.”

“Could be the hunters,” Charles says.

Arthur nods, sighing exhaustively. “Well, we better go find ‘em.” Whistling for Montana, you hear the soft whinny in the distance, only getting louder as he trots to Arthur. Once he’s close, Arthur mounts up and pats him on the neck. “How long ago do you think it was, Charles?”

You turn to see Charles hoisting himself onto Taima and he studies the ground. “Hmmm…maybe 12 hours at most?”

“Alright. There’s no body, so Kit could be right.” Arthur looks at you and offers his hand. “C’mon.”

You take his hand, the warmth and rough texture of his skin grounding you as he helps you up onto the back of Montana. The horse shifts slightly under the added weight but remains steady, a testament to the trust and training Arthur has instilled in him.

As Montana trots forward, following the hoof prints with Charles leading on to track them, you feel a sudden dread. You hope that these bounty hunters, while maybe successful in apprehending Trelawny, are too confident to think that they might have someone after them. You hope that they have stopped to rest nearby, and that you can rescue the magician unscathed. 

“Do you think they’ll kill him?” you venture to ask. 

You pull away from Arthur’s back to see him shake his head. “That man can talk himself out of anythin’. Not to say that he don’t come away without a few bruises.”

You are reassured by his confidence, but you still feel uneasy. You find yourself tightening your grip around his waist. 

He pats your left hand. “Ain’t nothin’ to worry about.”

You like these subtle gestures, these hints of kindness that is reminiscent of the looks and glances that you remember. You and Arthur were close, that much is certain, but exactly how close? You’ve already been struggling with this, and you feel stupid for even wondering. It seems that everyone else that you’ve talked to has sensed there is something, or, was, something between you two. And, given the memories you’ve relived, it is more complicated than a sibling-like affection. 

Maybe you two flirted a lot? Perhaps on the precipice of something more, and confessions were never made? Yes, that would make sense. That would explain why Arthur was so relieved to see you alive, and gave vague answers whenever you asked. Why would he tell you he was sweet on you when you couldn’t even remember him? Or even reciprocate those feelings?

Do you reciprocate them now? Does he actually love you?

Maybe if you follow through and read his journal, now that you have it…

But that guilt returns at the pit of your stomach, tugging at your heartstrings. You remember what Arthur had said about trust. Now, should he question whether or not to trust you? 

“Hey, look…” you feel Arthur’s voice through his back. You lean away and in a spot between some trees, you see a campfire and two men sitting beside it. Their horses, two dark-coated Morgans, stand nearby with their heads lowered. “Let’s go see what these fellers have to say.”

He steers Montana near the camp and Charles trails closely behind. The men look up to see you all approaching, their gazes weary and suspicious. You read their expressions, and see their bodies tense and put out their cigarettes. 

These are some of the men you could be looking for. 

You feel Arthur pat your leg again and he turns to speak low to you. “Wait here.” You grab his arm as he starts to dismount and he pauses to look at you. “Be a good girl and wait for once.”

The way he says it, instantly makes your hand recoil from his arm and he smirks. Once his feet are on the ground, he turns to approach the men. 

“S’cuse me,” he begins, his voice more friendly than you had predicted it would be. “Were lookin’ for our friend.”

You see Charles dismount Taima and walk up slowly, his eyes watching the tree line. 

The man sitting in the chair leans forward, his elbow digging into his knee. “No…I don’t think he’s here…” his tone is almost condescending like he’s talking to a child who can’t seem to find his confiscated toy. 

Arthur only chuckles, and you can tell that he doesn’t appreciate the man’s tone, but plays along anyway. Hosea might have said that Arthur doesn’t like playing dress-up, but he can use a charismatic air when it suits him. He isn’t stupid like he often pretends to be. “Nah…You seen a strange sort of feller…sort of…formal?”

The man’s eyes narrow, and Charles walks up beside Arthur, his steps like a prowling panther. He must see something. “Strange…?” the man lilts. “Sure…” They’re taunting you three. This is like a verbal standoff, each party waiting to see who will strike first. “Formal? No…” he leers. 

Then you see something on the ground and just as it catches your eye, Charles picks it up quickly. “He uses a cane…much like this one.”

And there it is. You instantly see the men rise to their feet as Charles and Arthur take fighting stances, their hands hovering near their handguns. 

Arthur’s voice instantly changes from friendly to foe, his tone a deep growl as he resumes the character he’s most known for. “Now…alright, you two…” and then he raises his voice. “Where the hell is he?!”

The smaller man lunges at Charles, making himself look like a twig in comparison. “You better take your woman and get outta here!” 

“She ain’t none of your business.” Charles immediately grapples him just as the other man takes a swing at Arthur. He dodges, only to look back at you as you begin to slide off Montana’s back. 

“Kit, stay there…!” Arthur growls, more so at the situation rather than at you. 

Your feet land on the ground and instead of rushing over like you wanted, you stay where you are, your right hand placed on the saddle. You watch the fistfight ensue, questioning why neither Charles nor Arthur have drawn their weapons. It wouldn’t be because of you. You are no stranger to gunfire, as you so expertly have shown these last few weeks. 

Arthur and Charles each land hard punches into their opponents, clearly establishing who has the best chance of winning. The resounding thuds and fist against flesh bring you back to that first day you saw Arthur, or, at least the first day you saw him in Valentine, all covered in mud and a sour expression. 

You see Charles grip the smaller man by the collar and throw him forward as though he were barely a sack of apples. And at the same time, Arthur lands a final punch into his opponent’s skull, either killing him instantly or rendering him unconscious. You gasp at the brutality of it, but you aren’t about to cast judgment. These men are clearly out to kill you all or bring you in hogtied, and they didn’t have any qualms throwing the first punches. 

Charles holds the man down with a boot in his chest, growling threateningly, “You stay there…” He leans on him, applying pressure and giving him a frightening glare as Arthur leaves the other man to make his way over. You fight every urge within you not to hurry to them, clutching tight onto Montana’s mane as he calmly waits. 

Arthur reaches the bounty hunter and once Charles steps away, Arthur towers over him, picking him up by the throat, and readies a closed fist. “Now, where is Trelawny?”

The man holds up his hands, what was once confidence and spite is now cowardice and mush. “I don’t know anything…!” he cries, but you can already tell without even seeing his face, that he’s lying. 

You offer up the information to help speed things along. “He’s lying, Arthur!!”

Arthur pauses a moment, before punching the man once in the face, though it looks more like a backhanded swing. “Tell me where he is…” he seethes. 

“You go to hell!!” The man grunts. “You, the Indian, and that two-bit who—!”

Arthur doesn’t let him finish, punching him once again, this time breaking his nose. “The next thing that comes out of your mouth better be his location. Tell me now!!”

“Okay!” the man screams, partly from the pain but also the terror. “I’ll tell you…! They took him to a cabin, over by the cornfields.”

But Arthur needs specifics. “Which cornfields?!”

“Left! Just down the path by Braithewaite Manor.”

And that’s when Arthur punches him in the face. And again.

You see it in each swing, a similar rage when he was beating Tommy. This isn’t about intimidation anymore.

But you can’t let him finish. Even if the man was hateful to Charles and insulted you.

“Arthur…!” you call out and you run to him.

Arthur lands another punch. Any more and this guy will be dead.

You reach Arthur just in time to grab his arm and hold it back, feeling the tense muscles beneath his rolled-up sleeves. His breaths are heavy with anger and exertion, each exhale vaporizing in the hot air. You lean close, your voice a sharp whisper in his ear. "Arthur, stop!”

He hesitates under your grasp, his eyes blinking as if coming out of a trance. He turns his head and looks up at you and you see it in his eyes. “He hurt you,” he murmurs, barely audible.

The man is out cold, but not dead. You reach your free hand and use your long nails to comb back his sandy, unruly hair that has grown longer over the past few weeks. He’s shaved once or twice, but he’s due for a good clean-up before too long. “They’re only words, Arthur…” you say, a feigned attempt at reassurance. You know that words can cut deep, but right now you need him to focus on something else. "It's alright." His gaze meets yours and you see the pain reflected in his marine eyes. Slowly, he blinks and you feel his arm relax under your touch. With a sigh, you release your hold on him.

He exhales, and gets off the bounty hunter, backing away. It falls quiet between you three for a moment, with nothing but the sounds of his heavy breathing as it slows.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, humidity and sweat trickling from his brow. “You good, Charles?”

Charles chuckles. “I think I should be askin’ you that.”

Arthur nods, agreeing, but not finding any humor in it. “I’m fine.” He then gestures to the horses. “Let’s get Trelawny.”

Charles nods. “I don’t suppose you want to ride through the Braithewaite’s place?”

Arthur gives a firm, “No.”

Charles grins. “Thought so.” And he begins to walk back to Taima. “Follow me, I think I know a way around.”

Arthur doesn’t move initially, clearly still rattled. You approach him gently, your nails grazing the skin of his forearm before taking it. “We need to go, Arthur.”

Your touch brings a faint, almost imperceptible smile to his lips, even amidst the turmoil churning within him. He allows himself to be led, his large hand enveloping yours, the calluses on his fingers a rough contrast to your softer skin. As you walk beside him, you sense the shift in his demeanor, the subtle drop in his shoulders as the tension begins to fade. Yet, there remains a shadow, something unspoken that lingers in the air between you.

As the two of you follow Charles on Montana through the brush, the scent of sage and damp earth rises with each step you take. The sun dips lower, giving you your last warning before darkness. You don’t fear the dark, but you know that if you don’t find Trelawny before then, it will only be that much harder later.

“What do you think they want with Trelawny?” Charles asks. You almost appreciate it, as it helps to focus on the task at hand.

Arthur, returning to his gruff demeanor, gives a direct answer. “If it involves us, that is our only concern. He’d sell his own sister to save train fare!”

If this is really what Trelawny is like, you begin to wonder if the excitement you had in seeing him is going to be very short-lived.

“Why does Dutch even mess with him?” Charles asks.

“He’s got his uses, under all that talk and show, and loyalty matters to Dutch.”

Loyalty. You’ve heard Dutch say that numerous times, like a battle hymn of the gang. You can be as gruesome or as gentle as they come, but if your loyalties are elsewhere, that is where he will draw the line.

You just don’t know if it will ever be enough to keep the fragile peace within the gang. You’ve seen how doubt can fray even the strongest of bonds, and in the wild, where trust is as scarce as water in the desert, loyalty is both a treasure and a trap.

***

After riding behind the Braithewaite’s land, you three cross through fields, and come up on a hill. You see an old cabin, its wood greyed from weather, years, and wear.

Arthur pulls back on the reins and Montana comes to a gentle stop. “This must be it.”

You three dismount, this time you slide down without waiting for Arthur’s help. Arthur dismounts, pulls out his repeater, and begins to walk past you, meeting up with Charles to walk up to the cabin. You linger.

And just as Arthur nears the cabin, the front door bursts open.

“Let’s get you outta here!” A gruff voice barks. Two figures, one in a ridiculous top hat and the other with pants much too big for him, come out of the cabin, dragging a man between them. His black hair is disheveled and his shirt is splotched with blood. He also has a distinguished mustache, characteristic of a man with class.

Your heart sinks and lifts at the same time. This has to be Trelawny.

They don’t seem to notice you three at all, as they make their way to a campfire. “After that shack, this will be remembered like a good time…!” Top hat jeers, bringing Trelawny close to the flames.

You reach into Arthur’s saddle, and pull out his rifle. You need to shoot with something, even if it isn’t your coveted shotgun. You hurry over to Arthur, just as he draws his weapon and aims at them.

“Put the man down, gentlemen…” Arthur warns, and Charles follows suit.

And, surprisingly, Big Britches lets go of Trelawny and makes a break for it. The other, doesn’t stick around either, letting Trelawny fall hard to the ground and taking off.

Charles doesn’t wait, turning to you as he chases after them. “Cut him loose! We will handle this.”

But you don’t have a knife and just as you are about to ask, Arthur pulls out his hunting knife and hands it to you, handle first. He passes by Trelawny, looking at him almost with a smirk. “You’re still alive?”

Trelawny tries to look up. “Allegedly.” You can detect a light accent. Sounds British, you aren’t sure. You crouch down and work on freeing his hands and that is when he looks up and sees you. “Dear God, why if it isn’t Miss Kitka…!”

You feel a hand on you and look up to see Arthur. “You got this, Kit?”

You can only nod and watch him as he takes off to join Charles in the hunt.

You then turn your attention to Trelawny. “Hello, Mr. Trelawny.”

Through his bludgeoned face, he grins, but it must hurt, for he winces. “I must have been given false information, for my sources said that you were dead!”

After cutting his ropes, you do your best to help him to his feet. “Sources?”

Trelawny tries to be flamboyant but it seems that every move he makes is a painful one, and so he resorts to just walking as you make your way back to the cabin. There is a chair just on the porch, and you want to get him there before he collapses. “Why, yes, dear girl! Dutch gave me inventory as to who all survived and who was missing. You weren’t among either category.”

You brace yourself for a moment, the news of Dutch's words sending a chill down your spine. The implications of not being on any list meant you were forgotten, erased as though you had never been a part of it all. Pushed aside, maybe even deliberately. The thought tightens your chest, but you can’t let it get to you. “Well, I was lost, but not dead.”

“So, who found you?”

You help him get onto the porch and gently ease him into the chair. He lets out a groan, though he attempted to hide it and you take a step back to give him some air. “Arthur found me.”

Trelawny nods, smiling. “That Arthur is like a bloodhound on a trail. Always was the best at tracking and finding what he was after. You’re lucky he likes you.” His words are tinged with a trace of irony, suggesting years of entangled paths and shared secrets.

A gust of wind sweeps through, carrying with it the scent of earth and distant rain, your eyes lift to see the cornfields below, and a gunshot rings out.

Ravens, a whole flock of them, fly out of the fields, their wings flapping like sheets of blackened leather tearing through the sky.

A second gunshot snaps you back, a reminder that danger never quite leaves your orbit; it merely circles, lying in wait.

“They can handle themselves,” Trelawny cuts into your thoughts. “But I’ve learned not to hold you back from anything.”

Turning back to Trelawny, you study him. Will he try to deceive you, con you, or will he be honest? Arthur did say you and Trelawny had a good working relationship. Maybe it can still be that way.

You want to go help Arthur. You’re torn between Arthur and your memories.

What will you choose?

You look down at Trelawny, who seems hardly concerned for anything besides his aches and pains, understandably.

You grip the rifle tightly in your hands.

And leap from the porch.

Breaking into a run, you feel the grass beneath your feet, the rows of corn drawing closer with every stride you take. The ground is uneven, rocks and dirt clods making your footing precarious, but you're used to it. Used to the harsh and unforgiving landscapes.

You reach the fields and you don’t see Arthur or Charles. You hear the rush between corn stalks and you try to isolate the movements.

“Did you get him?” Charles asks out loud.

“Nah!” Arthur replies.

Maybe you can help.

You run down near another section of corn slowing your steps once you are in between two rows. You pause and listen carefully.

And as you walk, your foot bumps into something soft. You quickly jump back, and see that it is a pack. It isn’t Arthur’s satchel or any of Charles’ gear. Maybe it was the bounty hunter? The ground looks recently disturbed. This just happened.

You hold your gun at the ready and continue moving between the stalks of corn.

And just as you step between another two rows, a rope goes around your neck, tightens, and pulls you backward.

“Oh, look what we got here…!” a voice seethes, not too loud to alert anyone of his whereabouts. The rope pulls taut against your throat and you grip it, trying to pull back with all your might. “Shoulda stayed back home, little miss.”

You can’t spit back a response, your breaths coming in wheezing gasps as you claw at the rope. Your fingers scrabble for purchase, struggling to loosen the noose that bites into your skin. Panic flares hot and quick in your chest as the dirt scuffs your calves while you're dragged backward.

Through watering eyes, you see a glimpse of a memory, your head throbbing for the lack of oxygen as well as the reverie that decides to appear at the worst possible time.

But it is brief. You’re looking at a man, with dark hair and hazel eyes, smiling at you while he puts a rope around his neck.

“The trick, little fox, is in neck itself,” he says in broken English. “You flex muscle first, and then throw head back, just in time to let hand slip through…” He pretends to pull tight on the rope and his neck muscles bulge as he flexes. Throwing his head back, there is instant slack, and his hand slips through the gap and he pulls the rope loose. He pauses and looks at you with great confidence.

“That’s dangerous, Tati!” you cry, the awe of the trick and danger making you anxious.

He waggles his finger at you, shaking his head. “That is what make it spectacle, Kitka. But always remember, control keep you safe. No rush; panic the real enemy.”

His voice echoes in your mind as you force yourself to calm down despite the desperate situation. Remembering your father’s teachings, you flex your neck muscles hard, then suddenly snap your head back. It creates the gap and just before the hunter pulls tighter, you slip your hand through and pull forward with all your strength.

The surprise of this action causes the bounty hunter to stumble and you use his imbalance against him as you roll forward into the dirt. He tumbles in after you, groaning as he hits the ground.

You need to act quickly. This man was just about to kill a woman by strangulation. He won’t hesitate to try something else.

You rise to your feet, picking up Arthur’s rifle.

You swing it to aim directly at the bounty hunter as he tries to get to his feet, his face a mixture of shock and fury. "Stay down," you command in a voice that’s steadier than you feel, your gaze locked onto his. He grudgingly complies, going to his knees.

“I’ve got money,” he says, his grin more disturbing than it ought to be.

You arch a brow. “Tempting…” Then you cock the hammer back. “But no.”

You fire.

The gunshot echoes across the barren landscape, a harsh reminder of the ruthlessness required for survival in these parts. The bounty hunter collapses in a heap, his gambit for mercy lost in the cloud of gunpowder and desperation. You stand over him, chest heaving, trying to catch your breath as the reality of what just happened hits you. You could have died. Again. If it weren’t for your instincts and memories popping up to help you, the last thing you might have felt was that rope around your neck.

The shot must have alerted Charles and Arthur, for you hear their voices draw near.

“What was he shootin’ at?”

“Don’t know!”

Then you see Arthur, in his black shirt and dark jeans rush through the corn. He digs his heels when he sees you, gun in hand and standing over the bounty. “Kit…!”

“I got him,” you breathe. “How many more?”

And you get your answer when you hear gunshots. You three turn to the sound and deduce where they are coming from.

From where you stand, you’re in the direct line of sight of a tall barn, and from the distance, you can see flares of light from bullets being shot from the barrels of their guns. Two distinct flashes. One above and one below. 

“The shots are comin’ from that barn!” Arthur shouts, making a run for it with his repeater.

You glance at Charles, only to see him nod at you before following Arthur in the advance.

You feel the rush of adrenaline return to you and feel your legs break in a wide stride, your muscles contracting and releasing as your feet pound into the soil.

Though it is just the three of you, it is enough to send the men in the barn retreating inside.

“You left Trelawny?” Arthur asks you as you run beside him.

“He’ll live,” you say. “He can chew my ear off in a minute.”

He laughs, and a chuckle escapes your lips.

Arthur reaches the stairs first, and you watch him and Charles run up them. You halt, and back up, remembering that there was a man in the loft above.

You notice how the railing extends around the deck, where the roof juts out.

You swing the rifle over your shoulder and hurry up the stairs, running to the edge of the deck. Jumping up onto the railing, you reach high and jump again, clinging onto the edge of the roof. You pull yourself up and keep crouching as you carefully walk up the slant of the roof.

Just as you reach the siding of the barn, you see that the opening to the loft is just a leap away, but of course, it is on the adjacent wall. It will take some skilled maneuvering to leap and grab onto the edge without falling. You will have to swing yourself around to reach it.

You hear gunshots below.

“Where’s the other bastard?!” you hear Arthur roar.

You know where he is. And you’ve got him.

You ready yourself, your heart racing so fast you can almost hear it outside of your body. You feel your legs tense, like coiled springs, and you take one deep breath—centering your focus. There's a gust of wind that rustles through your dark hair as you position your feet, calculating the force and trajectory necessary for the leap.

With a push fueled by necessity and adrenaline, you launch yourself from the roof, arms stretched out.

Just as Arthur steps back out of the barn, looks up, and sees you.

“Kit…!” he shouts.

You keep focus, your eyes on the edge of the loft, and your hands grip it like a vice. Your arms, shoulders, and back work in perfect harmony as you use all of your strength to lift yourself into the loft.

No doubt, the hunter knows you are here.

Rising to your feet you swing back the rifle into your hands and study the floor. There are piles of loose hay, and dark corners of the room.

If only you had some matches, you need to keep them on your person from now on.

You take a careful step into the open space, listening for any sign of movement or breathing.

A faint shuffle to your left catches your attention, and you swing the rifle in that direction, the barrel steady in your hands. You take slow, measured steps toward the source of the noise, each footfall silent on the wooden planks of the loft. Your heart is a drum in your chest, but your breathing remains controlled, slow, almost as if you're back on stage, performing under the big top with only the burning torches to guide your movements. You inch closer to the shadow tucked behind an old, dusty stack of crates.

"Come out," you command, your voice steady despite the pounding in your chest. "You’re lucky it is me and not those men down there. I will make it painless.”

A tense silence hangs in the air following your words. The shadows seem to grow deeper as if to conceal whoever hides within them. For a moment, there's nothing—no movement, no sound, not even the whisper of the wind through the barn’s broken slats. Then, slowly, a figure emerges from behind the hay, with a gun of his own in his hand.

He chortles. “It’s either you or me, lady.”

Your gaze hardens, locking onto the figure who dares to challenge you. The hint of familiarity in his stance and the cold glint of his gun does nothing to deter your resolve. You've faced worse than this, and nostalgia for past circus performances where danger was a mere illusion doesn't weaken your grip on reality—or your courage.

You feel a hint of wit on your tongue and you speak with a calm that could put a glassy sea to shame. “I think we know who it is going to be.”

And you fire.

The deafening crack of the rifle splits the stillness of the barn like a thunderclap tearing through silence. The shot echoes, reverberating off the wooden walls, as the man falls back against the hay with a thud. Dust swirls around him, catching in the slanting beams of twilight peeking through the opening of the loft.

“Kit!!” you hear Arthur call, his voice tinged with worry. “Answer me!”

You hurry to the edge of the loft and look down to see Charles and Arthur looking back at you, their necks thrown back. “That was the last of them, I think,” you say.

Arthur shakes his head. “Can’t you stay put for just one minute?”

You shrug, smirking. “You didn’t tell me to this time.”

Charles lets out a laugh and when Arthur quickly looks at him, his smile fades quickly.

Arthur's expression softens when he looks back up at you, the lines of worry on his brow easing somewhat. "Just get down here safely, alright?" His tone is gruff, betrayed by the concern lacing every word.

You nod once, brisk and business-like. Swinging the gun back over your shoulder once again, you carefully descend by crouching down and grabbing the edge of the loft, letting your body hang over, and gently dropping to the deck with a soft thud. You quickly bounce back around onto your feet, arms wide like you had just walked a tightrope. “Tááák! Dělal to.”

Arthur rolls his eyes. “Show off.” Then he sweeps his arm in the direction of the cabin, where you left Trelawny. “Let’s go see how badly they beat up the slippery little feller.”

You only beam and begin to walk down the steps.

As you approach the cabin, the fading sunlight casts a cooler glow against the heat and red dirt, painting everything with an azure hue.

You see Trelawny, still sitting on that chair, slumped and resting after the undoubtedly terrible beatings he endured.

“Put your feet up, why don’t you?” Arthur teases.

And you turn to the gunslinger scowling, but not hiding your smirk. “Arthur…!”

But Arthur’s expression softens as you all reach the porch. “You okay?”

Trelawny maintains a more jubilant tone, despite his injuries and tries to dismiss his pain with wit. “Always better than I look, dear boy,” Trelawny quips with a theatrical wave of his hand, though the strain is evident in his expression.

Arthur nods, steps up onto the porch, and offers to help Trelawny. “Who was they?” he asks.

“Bounty hunters, of course. They worked with Cole Stoudemire.” Arthur helps him down the porch and Charles brings the horses around, including a brown leopard-coated Appaloosa.

“Did they ask about us?” you ask, knowing that was the whole purpose of Arthur coming here. You figure that it doesn’t make sense to bother Trelawny with your own questions, at least not until he has recovered.

The look in Trelawny’s eyes gives you the answer you need, but he speaks anyway. “They weren’t looking for me, per se.”

Arthur lowers his voice, speaking more seriously. “Wha’d’you say to ‘em?”

“I told them I was an intellectual, come down here from Oregon.”

You nod. “I suppose they didn’t believe you.”

He almost chortles at that, though dryly and he carefully pulls himself onto the Appaloosa. “You folks stirred up a hornet’s nest in Blackwater.”

Blackwater. That name gives you a deep-seated dread in your stomach, as though your instincts are telling you something. You can’t let go of the need to find out what happened, and it always seems that your pursuit of the truth keeps being pushed back. Another day. Another recovery. Another moment to think about things.

But it will come. Soon, you promise yourself.

Arthur turns away at Trelawny’s comment. “So I keep hearing.”

Right. He wasn’t there, either. You keep forgetting that.

You look up at Trelawny. “Maybe you should stay with us. Dutch might want to speak to you anyway.”

Trelawny nods his thanks. “I believe that I will take you up on that, Miss Kitka. You were always a woman of culture and hospitality.”

You snort. “I may have lost my memories, but I know for a fact that I was never a debutante or a woman of class.”

Trelawny furrows his brow, confused. “Memories?”

You wave him off. “I will discuss it with you later.”

Arthur nods. “Just head back with Charles. We’ll catch up wit’chu later.”

Trelawny nods and looks down at you. “It’s so good to see you, dear girl.”

And you smile, watching both him and Charles ride off.

You and Arthur are alone now. If you had a horse to ride, you could easily head back to camp on your own.

“Kit…?”

The sudden change in Arthur’s voice catches your attention and you turn around to look back at him. “Yes, Arthur?”

He scratches the back of his head, his lips forming a flat line. You study his features. The sweat on his forearms, his broad shoulders. It seems that every day you notice more and more about him, more things that you didn’t seem to pay attention to before. He’s like a map, a new territory that you cross over time and time again. You had become frustrated that you didn’t know him, and yet, you have more reason to believe that you do.

“You…” he swallows, and his eyes slowly lift to meet yours. “You did good today.”

His compliment warms you, but there's an edge to his tone that suggests there's more he wants to say. The air between you is charged, heavy with unspoken words and shared pasts only half-remembered. You nod, unsure of how to bridge the gap that memory loss has carved between you.

"Thank you, Arthur,” you reply softly, reaching your right hand across your chest to clasp your left arm.

He takes a few steps closer to you, his brow still lifted and his ears turning pink. “And…thank you…for…erm…for stoppin’ me.”

“Stopping you?” Then you remember. That bounty hunter in the small camp. “Oh.”

“I just…There are a few things that I just can’t let go, one of them things bein’ words like that. To Charles, the gang, or you.” His eyes glance downward for a brief moment before looking back at you. “Especially you.” He takes a deep breath, hesitating for a moment before continuing. "I reckon I've been through a lot, and I ain't always handled it well. But you... you've got a way of calming the storm in me. It’s like you know the right thing to say or do, even when you don't say anythin’.” He chortles. “Like when you came at me in Valentine. You’ve always had them long fingernails. Never thought you’d use ‘em like that on me.”

You find yourself smiling at that, never thinking that looking back on that day would be a fond memory. “A lot has happened since then, hasn’t it?”

He nods. “Shoah has.”

After a minute of silence, you feel it is time to go. Taking a few steps back you walk to Montana. “Ready to head back to camp?”

Arthur's gaze lingers on you a moment longer before he nods, the lines around his eyes softening slightly. "Yeah, let's get back," he says, his voice a low rumble that seems to stir something deep within you, a memory not quite within reach.

He mounts first, then helps you up, and once you are holding onto him, he gently spurs Montana onward, and trots into the night.

***

You both arrive late to camp and are quiet to dismount Montana and go to your tents, only saying a polite goodnight to each other. Taking a lantern with you, you enter your tent to navigate your way to your pack that has your nightgown and begin to search for it.

And suddenly, your hand touches something smooth and firm.

Your heart leaps into your chest, the memory coming back to you from earlier today. Pulling it out of the bag, you find Arthur’s journal in your hand.

You had wanted so badly to read it. So badly to uncover hidden secrets that lie within the wanted man you so desperately want to know.

But now…

You exhale slowly, and after pulling out your nightgown, you slip the journal back into your pack. You will find a way to return it to its owner.

Come morning.

***

You manage to slip the journal back by having it look conspicuously misplaced under his cot. You saw his expression on his face this morning, surprised and looking around himself as he sat at the table following his morning coffee. He looks through his satchel, trying to conceal his worry as he searches for it. If anyone knows that his most prized possession has been out loose and free, there may be a free-for-all for the hopeless romantics and curious souls to try and find it. 

That’s when, after helping with the laundry, you pretend to find it, and return it to him.

He is grateful, and after reassuring him that you did not look in it (which was the truth), he tucks it back into his satchel without another word. 

Chapter Text

“Ah, c’mon, Kit. You know you love stuff like this!!”

You admit, you do. The flames rise high into the sky, and columns and walls make a maze throughout the tobacco fields. 

You were only just complaining that you have to shoot your way out of the Gray’s fields, as you can’t blame these people for wanting to defend the land. 

But Sean knows your irrefutable adoration for the pyres, as it was evidenced in the glow of your face as you threw the first fire bottle onto the moonshine-soaked plants. You and Sean had just crouched low, sneaking past guards as you poured the Braithewaites' leftover shine from that libation-filled evening at the saloon. It was heart-pounding work, for if you got caught, it would all be over. 

Arthur is not with you this time. You were surprised that he didn’t insist he go with you, or try to talk you out of it. Instead, he asked if you had all the ammunition you needed, told you good luck, and left you to it. Maybe he’s putting more faith in you? Maybe he’s finally believing you are your old self?

Or maybe he’s distancing himself from you, a distraction? 

It’s hard to believe it, not since after what he told you, thanked you, for grounding him when he needed it. It seems that you two are a team of your own. 

You hear the thrilled cackle of Sean as he runs ahead of you, shooting a Gray worker as he leaps from behind a wagon. “Take that, ya bastard!”

You scowl, eager to just get out of here. “Sean, let’s move!!”

“What do you think I’m doin’?” he quips, taking a sharp turn through an opening in the flames. “We can escape through here! I think there was a wagon in the back!”

The heat of the flames feels as though they could melt your skin, anything that was once damp from the rain is drier than bone now, you didn’t think everything would take to the flames so quickly, but now you are close to being consumed yourself. 

Running through the opening before flames start to creep, you see the wagon and two shire horses that are still tied. They are clearly anxious, their eyes white and hooves pawing the ground. 

Instantly you remove your knife. After the business with Trelawny, you went to the fence that was by the caravan and purchased yourself an obsidian knife. It’s natural but also intimidating, a perfect fit for you. 

“Let’s leave the wagon,” you say, going to the dark bay shire mare. “We should just take the horses.”

“Let me look through it first!” Sean insists, already climbing up the wagon before you protest some more. 

You cut the mare free and you pull yourself up into her back with ease. You whisper to her, rubbing her neck to calm her down long enough to stall your departure. You see how the expanse of the fire reaches into the sky, its smoke-like billows filling the air with an acrid stench of burning leaves. It is like a large cigar and someone just blew it in your face. 

“I got somethin’!” Sean calls out, reappearing from the back of the wagon. “Dem fools were dumb enough to leave the payroll when the fire started!”

You reply with dry sarcasm. “Lucky for us.”

He gets on the back of the other shire. “Let’s go, then! We’re done here.”

You bump the mare’s barrel with your heels and she gallops without any more prompting. You don’t want to run back through where you came, instead following the fence line. It is longer, but at least you won’t get shot at. 

And thankfully, you both haven’t been spotted once you disappeared into the flames. 

You can hear echoes of “where’d they go?” and “keep searching!” as your eyes follow the property line. The glow and brightness of the flames make you think of its draw. While you don’t think you are insane, you can see why others in the past have taken to the flame’s use. Omnivorous power consuming all in its path, that force divine. 

You almost become hypnotized but Sean calls out to you again. “They will definitely be after the Braithewaites now!”

“You think?” you snort, and you instantly feel the chill of the night air now that you are at a good distance from the pyre. “I still think that it won’t be long before they put two and two together. They may be caught up in their prejudice, but they are not stupid.”

“C’mon, you don’t really think that, do you? Arthur, John, and Javier will be off to play the other side for some horse flesh. Do you think they would allow it if the jig was up?”

You look ahead, and you both turn down the road. “For all we know, they could be playing us. Word travels fast. We may have not seen Pinkertons yet, but if we make too much noise…”

“You’re startin’ to sound like Hosea…!”

You roll your eyes. It feels as though he’s a little kid with a stick, poking it in your side. “That doesn’t insult me, Sean.”

“Oh, then what does?”

You look and scowl at him, unamused by his teasing. You still don’t have any memories of working with him in the past, but you have a feeling it wasn’t much different than what happened tonight. 

After a beat, he chuckles, his laughter echoing into the night.  “You’re the closest to a big sister I’ll ever get, Kit. I love playin’ wit’cha!”

You shake your head. If he doesn’t keep his mouth shut, he might lose his head one day. 

***

You smell like fire and smoke. Though it doesn’t bother you, you know others, especially Susan, have made comments to you when you’ve used dynamite or other combustible materials. Even though it is late, once you’ve arrived back at camp, you’ve resolved to go to a secluded spot on the lake and wash the smell, dirt, and moonshine off of your skin, hair, and clothes. 

You hitch the shire mare to the hitching post next to Montana. Maybe Arthur can use her, or you both can share her when there’s a need. She’s a gentle giant, and you can imagine yourself standing on her back, performing tricks as she parades about the camp, it would be quite the spectacle. 

You walk quietly between sleeping gang members until you reach your tent. When you pull back the flap, you can tell that warm air has been trapped in here all day, and after you retrieve your nightgown, lye soap, and some floral oils that you made, you leave the flap open to let cooler air in. 

It is a warm night and aside from the occasional cloud that covers the moon, there is enough light to see. Still, you use one of your longer matches to light your way through the camp and you make your way down to the lake. 

You need to find a secluded spot, and walking several yards in the woods just beyond the shoreline, you come to your regular place where you’ve washed before. From here, the only way anyone would see you is if they were honestly looking, and given it being dark, you should be able to bathe undisturbed. 

You carefully watch your footing as you hop down the embankment and feel the sand and pebbles beneath your toes. That’s when you notice something on the ground. 

A pile of clothes, easily discarded, and a black hat resting on top of it. This isn’t just any pile of clothes, they’re clothes that indicate another person is here. 

Without them. Naked. Bare. 

And given the black leather hat, you have a good idea as to who it is. 

You feel the color flee from your face as you lift your eyes to the lake. 

Oh, dear Lord…

You find yourself frozen. Heart pounding. Face cold. You might as well be in Colter, or whatever the hell that place was called. All sense of flight has left your body as you stare at the bare back of Arthur Morgan. 

Thankfully, or not, his lower half is concealed beneath the dark depths of the water. He must have just emerged from the lake, for his hair is soaked and combed back, droplets cascading down his muscular shoulder blades. The sky should be filled with twinkling stars, but tonight they are overshadowed by his radiant presence. Like a mythical creature rising from the depths, he stands before you, his skin glistening in the moonlight that manages to filter through the dense canopy of clouds above you. Your heart races as you take in his handsome features and powerful aura. It's almost as if time has stopped and you two are the only beings left on this planet.

The night air brushes against your skin, charged with a sudden tension that makes the hairs on your arms stand upright. You weigh your options — to retreat silently into the shadowed embrace of the trees, or to announce your presence in hopes of dispelling the awkward potential of this encounter.

But your indecision is interrupted, when the fire reaches the end of your match, burning the tips of your fingers.

You gasp, alerting him of your presence.

Without even looking back, Arthur curses loudly, diving headfirst back into the water. Your face flushes with embarrassment as you quickly turn and flee into the darkness of the woods, heart racing with fear and shame.

But you run into the embankment, your face ramming into the rock and dirt that supports the land above.

You fall back, the ground catching your fall as you groan in frustration and pain. Your heart races, not just from the shock of the tumble but from the sudden intimacy of the moment before. You hear a splash behind you — Arthur is out of the water.

"Kitka?" His voice is a mix of concern and you hear him stop. “Don’t move.”

You only groan, your head still aching and you roll on your side, your back facing him.

You hear a soft rustling, hurried breaths as Arthur puts on his clothes. Your head won’t stop throbbing and you gingerly touch a spot on your head, feeling a small bump already forming.

After a quick moment, you feel a gentle hand touch your shoulder trying to encourage you to lie on your back.

“Oh, kitten…” he says quietly, empathetically, barely above a whisper.

You grimace, your head still hurting. “Wh—What?”

“Kitka,” he says, but you know that is not what you heard. “You alright?”

You open your eyes, and see Arthur, fully clothed, his shirt and pants wet from the lack of being able to dry off his body.

His eyes, those deep pools of marine blue, are filled with a concern that knits his brow and softens the usual roughness of his expression. "I didn't mean to scare you," Arthur murmurs, his voice laced with regret as he helps you sit up. The moonlight catches in the droplets on his shirt, making them glitter like tiny, scattered stars. You’re struck by the sight, momentarily forgetting the pain throbbing at your temple. "You always manage to find trouble, don't you?" Arthur chuckles softly, but there's an underlying seriousness that pins you more firmly to the moment than his gaze.

You suddenly gasp, trying to back away from him. “I’m so sorry, Arthur! I didn’t—”

He holds up his hands. “It’s alright, Kit.”

“—I didn’t see anything! I—”

“Kit, hush now. I know you didn’t.” His voice is gentle, almost soothing, but you can tell there's a tension beneath it, like the coiled spring inside a watch. “Your head…” Arthur’s fingers lightly trace the outline of the bump, being careful not to press too hard. “That’s gonna look bad if you don’t put somethin’ on it.”

Your head hurts still and you only grimace.

“Are you…?” he tentatively asks. “Are you havin’ one of them spells?”

You shake your head. “No.” You open your eyes and look at him, and your eyes travel down his neck to the opening in his shirt. That’s when you see something golden, a chain of some kind as it hangs and disappears underneath the rest of his shirt.

He must see you staring, as he looks down and then quickly reacts to button up the rest of his shirt.

Now, you feel worse, getting caught for staring. You look away.

“You, erm, want me to walk you back to camp? Make sure you get back okay?” he asks. 

It’s kind of him to offer, after all that, but you did come out here for a reason. You shake your head. “No, I…I really need to wash up. I smell like smoke.”

Arthur chuckles softly. “I take it things went well with Sean?”

You feel yourself a bit more at ease, thankful that Arthur is moving on from the awkward moment. "As well as they ever go with Sean," you manage a small smile that doesn't quite reach your eyes. "He's crazy."

Arthur laughs, a rich, deep sound that echoes slightly in the cool night air. His presence is oddly comforting, despite the tumultuous embarrassment you feel. “Maybe just a little bit.” Then his eyes soften as he watches you, the tension easing from his shoulders. “You sure you’re gonna be alright? I’d hate to leave you if it’s serious.”

You look up at him, considering the steady concern etching his features. His concern isn't just surface-deep, and it stirs something within you—a deep-seated gratitude mixed with a tinge of pain. "I'll manage, Arthur. Always do," you say, trying to muster more assurance in your voice than you actually feel.

He nods, clearly not convinced but respecting your decision. “Alright, Kit.” And he rises to his feet. “I’m going to be headin’ out to the Grays tomorrow, so I might not see you ‘til late.”

You nod. “Oh, um. Okay…”

He goes to his remaining things, picking up his gun belt and hat.

As he adjusts his hat on his head, the moonlight catches the glint of his gun, a silent reminder of the life you both are entrenched in. Arthur pauses, looking back at you with a lingering gaze that feels like it's trying to memorize your features. "You take care now, Kitka," he says, and with that, leaves you to your bath.

You just sit there a moment, and finally begin to process what happened. You saw a man. A shirtless man. If you had seen anything more than his back, what would you have done? What would you have felt?

The dreams you’ve had, glimpses of body and light, make you question everything that is real and what is not. The way he looked at you, not with embarrassment or shame, unlike how you felt, but with warmth, almost as if he recognized something in you that you hadn't even recognized in yourself. Those beautiful eyes of his, always so full of life and pain, seemed to search deeper than anyone else ever dared.

You shake your head, dispelling the wandering thoughts as you rise to your feet. You take a few steps toward the lake, getting the sudden urge to look around and check your surroundings. If you had just accidentally stumbled upon Arthur…

Would there be anyone else watching you?

You wait a moment or two, and after feeling safe, you begin to strip down to your bare skin.

With the lye soap in your hand, you take your first steps into the water, its depths coming up to your calves.

I prefer this.

You lift your head as the sound of your own voice fills your mind. You blink, your breath hitched.

You look around again. No one is around.

Returning your eyes to the water, you take a deep breath and continue into the lake.

It’s beautiful out here, and I find myself more at home in places like this.

You stop, your voice coming to you again. Another memory. A blip, a little fragment of something you said to someone.

But who? When?

Your heart beats a little faster at the possibility that these memories might finally start making sense. They come to you, broken and scattered, like pieces of a puzzle you never had the picture for.

You wade deeper into the lake, the water now reaching your waist, embracing the coolness against your skin. It soothes the healing wound on your side, as it itches sometimes, like the bullet wound on your back that has undoubtedly scarred.

You dip the bar of soap into the water and begin to work a lather, scrubbing your body and hair. You feel days of work, sweat, and grime wash away, as though it could also remove any fears or reservations you may have.

You look down at your torso, your belly and the tightness of your skin. You run a hand along your skin, over your navel, eyeing your breasts and the beads of water and frothy soap as they travel down them.

Are you beautiful? You can be convincing when you are dancing, so there has to be something to it all.

What if Arthur had seen you like this?

The thought lingers like smoke in the still air, twining with the tendrils of steam rising off the water's surface as it combats the night’s heat. You want to push the notion away, to scrub yourself harder as if to wash away the vulnerability that comes with such musings. You can't afford distractions—not when every sense must be tuned to survival, job after job, recovery after recovery, thought after thought.

But, your mind continues, possibly imagining if such an event were to take place. What would you do? Turn around and let his eyes roam your body, like you so desperately wanted to roam his?

What if Arthur had seen you like this?

Would you be upset?

You gasp as you realize what your answer would be.

You wouldn’t have minded at all.

***

“Kitka! Clear the table!”

You’re all staying in an old barn, a camp to help weather the storm. You have been helping Susan peel potatoes when Dutch and John come bursting through the door, carrying Arthur between them.

“What is it?!” you ask, standing straight up from the chair.

John meets your eyes. “He’s been cut up, sis. Bad.”

You turn to the table and with a wide sweep of your arm, you clean the table off from some tin plates, forks, and empty beer bottles. Arthur groans and even though he wears a coat, you can see the blood seeping through the wool.

That’s more than a cut. It’s a stab wound.

“Who?!” you ask, your eyes never leaving him. This winter’s been hard on you all, and so Arthur, Dutch, and John ventured out to look for some food and possibly some money.

You didn’t realize they’d be coming back like this.

“O’Driscolls,” Dutch growls just before he and John help lay Arthur on his back. He clutches his side, where the wound is. “They ambushed us. Never thought I’d see them out in weather like this.”

John’s gaze is steely, clearly still visioning the fight. “Dutch killed Colm’s brother.”

You feel a sudden dread within you, knowing good and well that Colm won’t let that go.

Annabelle, who had gone up to join you, looks on at her lover. “Dutch…?”

He looks at her, holding out a hand to cease her worries. “Don’t fret, Annabelle. We handled it. But they'll retaliate for sure.” He looks down at Arthur, his mind going elsewhere. “I just don’t know how.”

Your focus shifts back to Arthur as you sit down beside the table, taking one of his large, calloused hands in yours. His eyes meet yours, a blend of pain and reassurance flickering through them. He tries to speak, but can’t, and all you can do is reach out with a cloth and wipe the blood from his chin, a fresh cut now marking his skin.

Hosea stands on the other side of the table, placing his hands on Arthur. “We gotta get his coat off. See if we can clean this up.” He moves his hands about Arthur’s shoulders. “C’mon, son. You need to sit up.” 

Arthur grimaces, but wordlessly, aside from a few aching groans, struggles to rise to a sitting position. Hosea instantly goes to unhook the buttons from Arthur’s coat, and he looks at you. “Help me, Kit.”

You nod, your hands steady despite the tremor that threatens to uncoil within you. You move to Arthur's other side, fingers deftly working on the buttons that Hosea hasn’t yet reached. Each button feels like a milestone in a race against time, your fingertips brushing against Arthur’s damp shirt as his coat is removed, the fabric sticking to his skin. He’s soaked clean through.

Hosea nods. “Good, now his shirt.”

Your breath hitches. You really haven’t seen Arthur without his union suit on. Most of the men don’t walk around half-naked, and neither do you. You have that sense of privacy about you, and it feels weird to be expecting the opposite of Arthur, even when he’s wounded.

“Are you deaf, girl? Help him!” Susan barks as she makes a poultice, her concern for Arthur intensifying her usual stern demeanor. With a shaky breath, you grip the hem of Arthur’s shirt and begin to peel it away from his skin, trying not to linger on the bruises blooming across his chest and back. As the fabric lifts, revealing more of his injuries, a pang of worry tightens in your heart.

But also intrigue.

Once his shirt is removed, your eyes fall on his chest, his muscular pectorals etched with scars, each one telling a story of survival. His skin is a canvas of his life as an outlaw, marked by the brutality and beauty of a rogue existence. You can't help but feel a rush of closeness, seeing him so vulnerable and yet so strong.

Arthur catches your gaze, his blue eyes piercing through you when you lift your eyes to meet his. He doesn’t speak, his face still pinched with pain, and you quickly pull your hands away.

“Now,” Hosea sighs. “Let’s see what the damage is…” And as he begins to examine Arthur’s abdomen, his face darkens. “You kill the bastard that did this?”

Arthur manages one word. “Yeah.”

Hosea nods. "You did right, son," he says in a low voice, full of that old, unyielding grit that defined him. Arthur just nods again, his jaw clenched against the pain.

Your mind races as you stand by, feeling useless yet necessary in this moment. The irony isn't lost on you; a life spent learning to disappear into the shadows, only to find yourself starkly visible in the harsh light of crisis. Your hands are trembling, not from fear, but from a sudden surge of emotions that you struggle to contain. It’s as if seeing Arthur so raw and exposed has peeled back your own veneer, exposing something within you that you had been suppressing these last two years, since you had kissed him on that cliff edge.

And it frightens you.

***

You slept in, so you didn’t get to see Arthur before he left to meet up with John and Javier. And you are relieved. You’re still embarrassed, still jumpy after the thoughts that lingered in your head.

Even while doing your chores, you need something to keep your mind busy. Something that you can do that will distract you from the haunting images of what could have been.

And as though your thoughts summoned him, Strauss approaches you while you feed the chickens.

“Good morning, Miss Petrova,” he says, and you can already tell by the sound of his voice that it isn’t just a casual greeting.

You finish tossing the grain in your hand before looking his way. “What do you want, Strauss?”

He takes a hesitant step toward you. “I think it is about time to return to our business of cures.”

You sigh. You were hoping to do away with it altogether. “I don’t remember how to make it. That is gone now.”

Strauss frowns slightly, adjusting the spectacles on his nose as if to scrutinize your sincerity or perhaps search for signs of your old self peeking through. "I believe, with a little guidance, it will come back to you, Miss Petrova. Much like riding a horse, one does not simply forget."

You shrug. “Even so. I can’t do anything for it now.”

He pushes up his glasses, the humidity making them slide down every few minutes. “But we do have some bottles left. I never got to deliver the rest of them to Mr. Sims in Valentine,” he says this begrudgingly, and you know that he blames Arthur and the shootout that took place. Strauss’s face shifts with an uncomfortable mix of disappointment and calculation, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly as he considers his next move. "You could deliver them," he suggests, almost eagerly. "It would be good to establish something here until you remember how to make them."

You raise an eyebrow at him. While you don’t want to help Strauss, going alone to Rhodes and a change of scenery is appealing. It also doesn’t hurt that you can sell the cures how you want, without gimmicks or lies, without Strauss standing behind you, watching for what you say.

You put on a smile, setting the pail of feed on the chicken coop that the gang now has. Looking at the ledger you know who helped make that possible. “Alright, Strauss. I’ll take them to Rhodes.” Your voice is measured, betraying none of the reluctance that pulls at your insides like a stubborn weed. “But that’s it, Strauss. After this delivery, I’m done with the cures.”

Strauss's thin lips curl into a semblance of a smile, tilting his head. “We shall see about that, fraulein…” And he walks away. You shiver, relieved that he has left you alone once more.

You realize, after settling in the silence for a moment, that you might as well go now.

So, you go to the medicine wagon to retrieve the remaining cures. There are seven left, and putting them in a smaller box, you carry it with both hands to the wagon.

As you walk past Pearson, his head lifts up and he spots you. “Oh, hello, Kitka!”

You stop and look over at him. “Good afternoon, Pearson.”

He eyes the crate in your hands. “Where are you going?”

You look down at the crate as though the answer were there. You have a feeling as to why he is asking, and so you try to be as vague and as disinteresting as possible. “Delivering these,” you reply, gesturing towards the box. “To Rhodes.”

Pearson nods, his bushy mustache twitching as he squints at the hot sun beating down. “Be careful out there, Kitka. Rhodes ain't too friendly these days, what with all the Gray and Braithwaite business that’s been happening.” He pauses, studying you, then waves the butcher knife in his hand. “Look, why don’t I go with you?”

Here it comes. You shake your head. “I think I can handle it fine, Pearson, but thank you.”

He shakes his head, already beginning to remove his apron. “I insist!” and with an energetic toss of his apron, he maneuvers around his butcher’s table and approaches you. “I have some supplies that I need to pick up, anyway.”

You don’t have the energy to argue. Maybe once you deal with this cure business in Rhodes, you can leave Pearson there and take a long walk. “Fine.” But you make it clear with a stern tone, “Pearson, this is strictly a supply run. No detours.”

Pearson, puffing up slightly as if taking on an unexpected adventure, nods vigorously. “Of course, Kitka. Straight to Rhodes and back.” He claps his hands together as he follows you to the wagon. He offers to take the crate and load it in the back and you allow him the kindness. While he puts the crate in the back, you climb up the wagon and take the reins. He comes up to the front and notices your subtle message that you are in charge of this trip.

You both look at each other and you raise a brow, challenging him. He swallows, then nods, accepting your silent assertion of control, settling into the seat beside you. The wagon creaks as the horses shuffle, eager to move. "All set?" he asks, a nervous twitch in his voice betraying his usual calm demeanor.

You nod, flicking the reins lightly, and the wagon begins to move, and you ride in the direction of Rhodes.

After a mile or two of silence, you pass a large boulder that marks a fork in the road, one leading to the Braithewaites and the other to Rhodes. That’s when you see a couple of men on horses.

Pearson grabs your arm, his grip tight. “O’Driscolls!” he says under his breath.

You focus your gaze. Sure enough, the dark coats and green bandanas are a dead giveaway. “Act casual,” you say quietly. “They may not recognize us.”

You steer the horses left towards Rhodes, averting the gaze of the men as you drive past them.

You make it a few feet before you hear them call out to you. “Stop the wagon!”

Pearson curses under his breath and you pull the reins. “What do they want?” he asks.

“I don’t know. They couldn’t have found out about the raid at the cabin…?” you ask, more so yourself than Pearson. You listen for the men as they ride up to you and in the corner of your eye, you see the glistening of a gun.

“Get down from there!” One of the men barks. Raising your hands, you and Pearson get down from the wagon. You both walk over to the side and you eye the gun closely.

“Don’t say anything you’re going to regret,” you say to Pearson.

“We’re just minding our own business,” Pearson says to the men. “Why don’t you mind yours?”

The remaining O’Driscoll on his horse grins. “We just wanna have a little talk with yas,” his accent is thick, and he speaks in a friendly manner that you know is mainly for show. You eye him suspiciously, not answering. “Honest!” He looks down at the O’Drisoclls around him. “Put your guns away, boys!”

They hesitate, but lower their guns. You relax slightly, and lowering your hands, you keep your right near the sawed-off at your hip. “What do you want?”

The O’Driscoll grins, revealing the lack of teeth. “Don’t you think this has gone on a little too long?”

Pearson’s eyes narrow, clearly just as suspicious as you are. “What are you talking about?”

“The feud between our leaders. Dutch and Colm. Don’t you think it is gettin' out of hand?”

Whether you agree or not, you know that your opinion doesn’t matter. Still, you decide to indulge the O’Driscoll. “Maybe…” Then you narrow your eyes at them. “We have bigger problems to deal with than you.”

“Exactly, which is why our leader has suggested we talk.”

You raise a brow, shifting your weight on one leg and jutting out your hip. “Talk?”

The O’Driscoll nods his head, his voice raising at his frustration. “Yes, a parley to make a truce! Stop all this nonsense and this fightin'. Just Dutch and Colm.”

Pearson growls, taking on an aggressive tone that nearly surprises you. “You think Dutch would meet with him? After all that has happened?”

“It’s been a long time. Wouldn’t it be worth it to have some peace?” The O’Driscoll’s voice comes out softer, as though he is trying to plead to your pathos. 

Pearson turns to you, lowering his voice, but they can still hear what he is saying. “I don’t know, Kit, maybe that is a good idea. This has been going on long enough. You were there when it happened, don’t you remember?”

“I don’t have to.” You turn back to them, your brow furrowed. “We’re not doing it.”

The way he looks at you, you are prepared to see the guns pulled out on you again. “Oh, I think you are.”

“Oh, so you want to talk about peace but you are now threatening our lives?” You pause, narrowing your gaze. “Do you want to know what happened to the last O’Driscolls who tried to cross me?” And you wait for it to register in their thick skulls and as soon as you see their eyes widen, you nod your head slowly. “Yeah, that’s right. Your little hideout at Six Point Cabin? That was me." And you point your thumb into your chest. “I did it. It only took three of our men to kill twenty of you. You really think you want to try me this time?”

Pearson reaches to grab your arm. “Kit—!”

And you quickly shirk it away, your mind already reeling with a wave of passionate anger. “Don’t touch me, Pearson!” You turn back to them, taking on an offensive stance and you see their hands hover over their guns. “I’ve had enough! We are dealing with Pinkertons, the law, everything else! It’s about time this ended.” You do the same. “Now I suggest, that you get back on your horses and leave. Or I will be forced to use other means to be rid of you.”

The mounted O’Driscoll's eyes narrow with a dangerous glint. “You wouldn’t dare.”

A wicked smirk curves your lips as you mockingly reply, “That’s what last O’Driscolls thought, before I burned their cabin to the ground.”

With a swift movement, you pull out a stick of dynamite from your jacket and flicker a match in your hand. “You’re cornering a tigress, O’Driscolls, and she bites.”

The mounting tension seems to finally get through to the O’Driscoll as he stammers, “You’ll regret this!”

A cold, calculating gaze settles on him as you confidently retort, “I highly doubt that. The only thing I might regret is not putting you out of your misery right now.” The gleaming fuse burns down dangerously close to the dynamite, echoing the fervent ticking of your own heart.

Pearson tries to stop you again, afraid that you will actually follow through. “Kit…!”

But you dodge his advances, and wave the dynamite in the air, taking a step toward them. “Get lost, O’Driscolls!” Your voice carries over the dusty plains, full of a ferocious resolve that even surprises you. The O’Driscolls, visibly shaken by your outburst, mount their horses with less swagger than before. “Tell Colm that a woman ran you off! Tell Colm to continue to run while the Pinkertons haven’t caught up to him yet!" They cast wary glances back at you as they ride off, the sound of hooves thundering away from you until they fade down the road.

You stand there a moment, chest heaving in anger, and you squelch the burning fuse with a quick pinch of your fingers. Pearson, eyeing you silently. You have a feeling that their attempt at peace was all a rouse. There was no way that they really meant a single word. Perhaps they had thought the guns and vague threats would be enough to convince a portly cook and a small, barefooted woman, but they were wrong.

Either way, you don’t want this to reach Dutch’s ears. You know enough to understand that just simply breathing the name of Colm will send Dutch into a fiery rage, complicating things even more with plans of revenge and bloodshed. No, this incident is better left buried deep under the weight of today’s other troubles.

As Pearson cautiously approaches you, his large hands open in a placating gesture, you soften slightly but remain vigilant. "Kit," he begins, his voice edged with a careful blend of concern and caution, "I reckon you might've scared 'em off this time, but they'll be back, and in greater numbers. We ought to tell Dutch, get ahead of this."

"You think I don't know that, Pearson?" you snap back, though your anger isn't truly directed toward him. “But we can’t tell Dutch.”

He blinks, surprised at the implicated secrecy. “What?”

You whip around and stare at him intensely in the face, determined to bring your point across. “You heard me! If you know what’s good for you, for the gang, for Dutch, you won’t speak of it to anyone.”

His words stumble out of his mouth, tripping over each other in a desperate attempt to understand. "Why?"

A sigh escapes your lips as you try to calm him down, but you know he won't rest until he has answers. “Trust me. I have a feeling that it could be used against us.”

“What are you talking about?”

You lower your voice, as though it would be too much for even the birds to hear you. “What if someone, who wanted to ruin us, could see it as an opportunity?”

“Like who?”

And the name rolls off your tongue before even thinking it. “Micah.”

“What?”

“Something is going on, Pearson. Something that involves everything we have worked for. And I think it started in Blackwater.”

For a moment, Pearson falls silent, his mind racing as he processes your words. "What the hell was that back there?" he demands, his tone laced with urgency and suspicion.

You can feel your confusion growing, thrown off by his abrupt change of subject. "What?"

“How you stood up to those O’Driscolls. I’d normally expect you to sweet-talk your way out of any situation, but that? That was a display of raw brutality I've never seen in you before.”

You turn your gaze towards Rhodes, the searing heat of the sun not even registering against the burning rage inside of you. “I guess I’m growing into a new skin.”

***

After getting back on the wagon and listening to Pearson tell a navy story or two, you reach Rhodes. You find some relief, as you were hoping for a silent trip. Pearson, having run out of tales, now focuses on the task at hand, looking for any establishment that might have what he needs. “There’s the general store,” he murmurs, his voice low as if wary of drawing too much attention.

You pull the wagon up near the store and secure the wagon by applying the break. Not waiting for him, you leap down from the wagon, your hand gliding along its side as you walk to the back.

Lifting the gate, you take hold of the crate of cures, pull them to you, and bring them to your chest before carrying them off the wagon. You meet Pearson’s gaze and he looks awkward standing there with his hands free. “You want to do your business first, or shall I do my sales pitch?” you ask.

“You go ahead. I want to take time to peruse.”

You nod and calmly walk up the steps and into the general store.

The front counter is just right up front and the clerk looks up from polishing some silver.

“Mornin’,” he greets, though it is far from friendly. His voice sounds like gravel, and the only hair he has left remaining on his head is on the sides.

You put on your best face, shaking off the encounter with the O’Driscolls from your mind. “Sir, what if I told you that I had a business opportunity for you?”

The clerk's eyes narrow slightly, scrutinizing you as if trying to weigh your worth from your appearance alone. He places the cloth and silver down with a deliberate slowness, his movements calculated and cautious. "Business opportunity, you say?" His voice is tinged with a hint of skepticism as he sets his polishing down. “Of what sort?”

You smile and coming closer to the counter, you carefully set the crate of cures down in front of him. “The best sort.”

"You see, these are top-tier remedies from all the way out West,” you begin, your voice steady, woven with the hint of excitement that businessmen fancy. “Harvested from the herbs that only America can grow, you can soothe the common cold, fight off infections of the sinuses, and ward off headaches." You tap the wood of the counter, methodically tapping your long nails to raise tension. “I hear with all this heat and humidity, people complain of a lot of those.”

The clerk leans forward, his eyes peering over the bottles of amber liquids and bundles of dried herbs arranged meticulously in the crate. "That so?" he murmurs, his skepticism not entirely vanquished but teetering on the brink of curiosity. As he reaches out a gnarled hand to pick up one of the bottles, you watch him closely as he reads the glued labels. “Where do you get these?”

“I make them,” you say confidently.

And he chuckles. “You a doctor or something?”

No, but you need to convince him you know your craft. “Well, let's just say I've had my fair share of ailments and found the conventional treatments lacking,” you answer with a hint of mystery in your voice. You lean in slightly, lowering your tone as if sharing a secret. “Years traveling and studying plants have taught me a thing or two about herbal remedies. You learn a lot when you have no other choice but to heal thyself.”

He raises a gray brow. “I hear that. Ain’t nothing a doctor can do for snake bites.”

You nod thoughtfully. “These cures can help someone recover after being bit by one.” And you lean forward, lowering your voice. “Charcoal can help with the bite itself.” And you wink. “A free tip, from me.”

His curiosity now piqued, the clerk nods slowly, the lines of skepticism on his face starting to smooth. "Well, I'll be," he mutters under his breath, a hint of respect threading through his tone. He sets the bottle back into the crate and looks up at you with newfound interest. "How much?”

And you’ve got him. Reaching into the crate, you pull out a notepad. “Compared to how much this will improve lives, mere pennies.”

***

After sticking a deal to sell the remaining cures, you wait for Pearson out by the wagon. You didn’t want to be in there any more than you had to, and you wanted nothing more than to be alone, still.

Thankfully, you don’t have to wait too long, for Pearson comes back out with his own crate of supplies and loads it in the back of the wagon.

“Mind if I drive?” Pearson asks.

You wave him off, walking away. “Be my guest.”

He blinks and stammers as he asks, “Where are you goin’?”

“Walking. I need some air.”

And you continue on, without waiting for a reply. 

You ignore the glares of the well-dressed women and curious looks from the men who lean against a fence as you walk out of town. The earth is hot beneath your feet, but it isn’t painful. You rest a hand on your gun as it sleeps in your gun belt, and it helps relax the muscles in your arm. You didn’t realize that you had been clenching your fist until now, you must look like a sight.

You remove your hat and swat it at your face, creating a cooler, but still warm gust of air. Seeing shadows cast overhead, you look up to see birds flapping their wings and singing their songs. How odd, things seem sometimes, humans and their complicated lives compared to the simplicity of a bird flying high. Would that you were a bird sometimes, so that you could escape your troubles.

Or, really, you could be the cat, leaping in the air and catching the bird in its mouth.

Or, better yet, a tigress.

The name that Arthur called you, the one it was clear he didn’t intend for you to hear. Kitten. It sends a feeling down to your stomach, like a stone sinking into the depths of a cold, calm lake.

You don’t recall him calling you that in any of your memories, is it new? It must be. Your memories, they seem, are as stubborn as the weeds that grow along the roads in Lemoyne.

You haven’t realized how long you’ve been walking, your thoughts taking you far beyond the road your feet have been on. Looking around, it is clear you’ve passed the trail that leads to camp and you are coming upon some old borders made of stacked stones.

And you notice something in the distance. A group of riders, talking to someone off the road a ways.

The last time you tried to act casual, they ended up being O’Driscolls, so you decide to use caution. You walk tentatively, keeping your eyes on them.

They have a few horses on leads and they are talking to two men who seem to look about like a copy of each other, but they aren’t.

You look at the other three men, two on horseback, one on the ground.

You get a closer look and you recognize them.

Arthur, John, and Javier.

You stop. You weren’t expecting to see them until later.

The conversation seems to end, and John and Javier turn to ride off, unknowingly towards you. As soon as you and John lock eyes, he has Old Boy trot faster.

“Kit!” he calls and when he rides up beside you he stops. “What’re you doin’?”

You shrug. “Just walking.”

Javier catches up and waves. “Hola, señorita.”

You wave back. “Hello, Javier.” You gesture over to where they had just been with the horses. “Those belong to Mrs. Braithewaite?”

John smirks. “Not anymore, they don’t.”

Arthur approaches then, his walk as he leads Montana is steady and deliberate, eyes locked on yours as if trying to decipher a puzzle only he could see. "We had to 'borrow' them for a bit," he says, his tone dry, a hint of mischief flickering in his marine blue eyes.

You nod, understanding the nature of their errand. “I guess Dutch will want to hear about it.”

Arthur nods. “Yes.” Then he looks up at John. “You boys go on ahead and tell Dutch what happened. I will be there in a bit.”

John steers Old Boy and looks back at you. “You comin’, sis?”

You don’t look at Arthur, for fear that your internal struggle will become more evident on your face. You try to answer as casually as you can. “No, not yet. I think I will continue on my walk.”

John only shrugs and Javier waves again. “Okay, see you in a bit.”

And you watch them both continue down the road, knowing camp isn’t too far.

This is the first time that you’ve seen Arthur since the mishap. You keep your eyes to the ground, eyeing the red dirt that has now caked your toes. You want Arthur to continue on his way, save you the embarrassment of letting your eyes wander his body again. But at the same time, you don’t want him to leave.

Arthur doesn’t move, though. Instead, he steps closer, closing the gap with a few measured strides. The silence stretches between you, thick and palpable as the southern heat. You can feel his gaze heavy on you, a mix of confusion and concern etched across his rugged features.

You finally lift your eyes to meet his and you feel your cheeks burn hot. You swallow, your mouth dry and tight like cotton.

He smiles and points to the hat in your hand. “You better put that hat back on to keep the sun off your face. You look like you got sunburnt.”

You know that isn’t what it is, but you put the hat on anyway. “I probably should go back to camp. Get some water.”

“Oh, I have that.” And he turns to Montana’s saddlebag, rummaging through it. After a moment, he returns to you, handing over a canteen. “Fresh creek water.”

You take the canteen from his hands, your fingers brushing against his slightly, sending a shiver up your spine despite the heat. You unscrew the cap and drink deeply, more to give yourself a moment to collect your thoughts than out of thirst. The cool water, however, is a balm to your parched throat.

Arthur stands there quietly and when you finish, you hand it back to him. “Thank you,” you exhale.

“Shoah.” He swings it over his shoulder, and it rests on his satchel. “You mind havin’ company on your walk?”

You blink, your eyes darting in any direction but his face.

He must sense it by now, for you hear it in his voice. “Kit…? Is this about…what happened last night?”

You look back at him. “What?” Your voice is barely audible, a mixture of anxiety and fear threading through it. You hadn't expected Arthur to bring up what happened last night, not when he made it seem like it wasn’t that big of a deal.

Arthur shifts his weight from one foot to the other, his gaze softening. “I mean,” he starts, “It ain’t like you…” Then his voice fades.

What? Like what?

You want to ask, but your throat is still thick with cotton, embarrassment.

And to help things, you decide to change the subject. “I saw O’Driscolls.”

Arthur's expression shifts immediately, his casual demeanor tightening into the sharp lines of vigilance. "O’Driscolls?" He glances around the open landscape, as if expecting them to materialize from the hazy heat mirage on the horizon. "Where?"

"Just over the next rise," you say, pointing vaguely toward Rhodes. “At the fork before you hit town. Pearson and I saw them.”

He lowers his voice, his expression darkening. “What happened?”

You tell him what they wanted, a feigned offer of peace. And like you, Arthur doesn’t buy it.

“Ain’t nothin’ good ever come from Colm,” he rumbles. “The name Colm only means trouble at the top of your voice.”

You can’t agree more.

You both go quiet for a moment, the only sound coming from the chime of Montana’s bridle when he shakes his head.

“Erm…” Arthur begins. “Still gonna go for a walk?” He scratches the back of his head. “Or mind havin’ me tag along?”

You think about it.

The idea of company doesn't sound too bad anymore, especially with the O'Driscolls lurking about. "Yes, let's go," you answer, finally meeting his eyes. There's a hint of relief in his gaze, maybe even a flicker of something warmer, something that tugs at the frayed edges of your memory, as usual. “So as long as you don’t share any navy stories.”

Arthur chuckles warmly, taking Montana’s reins again. “I won’t. I swear on my honor.”

You chuckle at that and turn. You begin to walk north and walking to match your stride, Arthur walks beside you, leading Montana.

You continue silently for a little while, Arthur not getting on his horse once. As the road stretches ahead of you, the sun beats down on your skin and the humidity fills the air. After a few more miles, you both veer off into Dewberry Creek, its once-running waters now reduced to being bone dry. The cracked earth and parched grass make you long for the cool relief of water to dip your feet in, but you soldier on. Your footfalls crunch against the dry creek bed as you search for any sign of moisture in this desolate area.

“There’s some shade,” Arthur points out, and you see a spot under some trees in a low embankment. “We can sit down in there, maybe even make a fire.”

“A fire?” you chuckle. “It’s blazing hot out here.”

“A fire-lover like you don’t wanna make a fire?” he teases, shaking his head. “And I thought I knew you.”

You know he’s teasing, but you can’t help but be bothered by that statement. “Well, you’re supposed to know me better than I know myself.”

He looks back at you and his eyes soften. “I didn’t mean nothin’ by it, Kit.”

You sigh. “I know…”

The two of you settle under the shade of the gnarled trees, Arthur gathering a few dry sticks despite the heat – more out of habit than necessity. He doesn’t start the fire, instead, he lays them down neatly beside him and stretches out his legs. You sit beside him, pulling your knees close to your chest and you watch Montana graze on what little grass there is.

“I’m not going to tell Dutch,” you say after a moment of silence. “About Colm, I mean. It’s best that he doesn’t know.”

You expect him to disagree, but when you see him nod his head, you are surprised. “That might be best. Dutch seems to really have it out for Colm. More than he ever used to.”

You nod. “I remember that day.”

His eyes light up in surprise when they meet yours. “You do?”

You nod. “I remember being in that barn, Dutch and John bringing you in after being stabbed.”

He nods his head, his eyes lowering as he recalls the events. “Never thought an O’Driscoll would get me like that.”

“You…you still have that scar?”

“On my chin?”

You shake your head, your heart already fluttering as the word forms from your lips. “No…” And your eyes fall down to his abdomen.

You see his hands twitch, like he knows what you are asking before you even know the request. And silently, you watch him as his hands go to his shirt, untucking it from his pants before lifting it up, exposing the rugged skin beneath. He isn’t wearing his union suit, no doubt reducing the amount of layers he wears to combat the heat.

But his skin, as soon as you see it, you feel the thud thud thud of your heart in your chest. Why does this excite you? It’s just skin.

You reach out a hand and his eyes follow your fingers as they trace the faded scar—a harsh reminder of a life filled with danger and narrow escapes. The mark is jagged, like the path of a river on an old map, making its crooked way along the side of his abdomen. He doesn’t flinch at your touch, as though it were…welcomed.

"It ain’t the worst I’ve had,” he chortles. “Believe me.”

You lift your eyes to meet his, the sound of your pounding heart drowning the song of the birds and buzzing of the bugs around you. “No?”

“No…” he whispers, your eyes locked on each other. “What…?” he begins, and he licks his lips slowly. “What does yours look like?”

His question hangs in the air, heavy as the summer humidity. You hesitate, your fingers still lightly tracing the edges of his scar. Then, slowly, you pull back your hand and look away, your heart caught in your throat.

“I don’t…” you start, trying to gather the courage to even speak. He knows where it is. It is in the same spot where he is marked. Your side. On an intimate space of skin that you’ve never shown anyone, aside from the women at camp as they tended to you.

He waits patiently, giving you time to answer. Does he know what he’s asking?

You know where your life is. You know that a man has never seen you in such a way, aside from the doctor who treated the bullet wound in your back. But even then that was different. This is…this is…

“I’m—I’m sorry, Kitka,” Arthur stammers. “I shouldn’t have…”

“No,” you answer, turning your body back to him. “It—it’s okay.”

And as you finish your sentence, you begin to remove your jacket. Arthur watches you, his eyes soft, as you set your jacket aside. You begin to untuck your shirt from your skirt, and without exposing too much, you pull your shirt and your chemise up to where your breasts begin, exposing your abdomen and the wound on your side.

You feel scared, nervous, as your hands tremble slightly, revealing an intimate part of you. The scar is more than just a mark on your skin; it's a testament to your survival, to the life you've clawed through, every bit as rugged and brutal as the landscapes of the West. Though it was only recent, it could have been any of those times, and it would still be the same.

Arthur's gaze is gentle, understanding—filled with an empathy that seems to transcend the musty air between you. His fingers twitch slightly as if to reach out, but he holds back, respecting the space you've claimed around your vulnerability.

"It's strange," he says softly, his voice thick with emotion. "It’s so much like mine.”

You want him to touch you, to feel his hands against your skin. Keeping one hand holding your clothes, you reach out and take his hand. He looks up at you, surprised, as you follow through and bring his fingers to the scar.

His touch is tentative at first, as if he fears the contact might bring you pain, but then his fingers trace the raised line of your scar gently, a silent acknowledgment of shared suffering. Your heart pounds in your chest, loud against the quiet space between you, your breaths shallow. This moment holds more intimacy than any embrace you could have conjured up in your dreams, as it feels so much more real.

And, softly, tenderly, his touch changes from mere fingertips to his whole hand, running it along your side and towards your back. Looking into his eyes, you feel the pull as he brings you close, this intimate exchange shifting into something different.

You don’t resist him, or push away, as your body soon becomes flush with his. He puts both of his hands on your waist, pulling you into a protective embrace. Your head rests against his chest, and you can hear the steady beat of his heart—each thump echoing a silent promise of safety, a reassurance that he is there, he is real. His chin rests on the top of your head, and after a moment, you pull your head away to look at him.

That is when you see it in his eyes, you can read it now. The desire.

And before you know what is happening, he’s leaning in and kissing you.

It isn’t a chaste peck, but soft. He kisses you once. Twice. A third, each time grows longer and deeper. Then you kiss him back, feeling his hands move along your skin, and a moan escapes you suddenly before you can catch it, inhaled in his own breath. The kiss deepens, and you find yourself lost in the sensation, in the reality of Arthur Morgan. His presence enfolds you completely, a stark difference from the cold echoes of your amnesia-riddled past.

Arthur’s hands are gentle as they explore your back, traveling upwards underneath your chemise. Your hands have let go of your shirt now, all ten fingers deep in his hair, scratching his scalp. You let out another moan as his hands move towards your front, his forefinger and thumbs just under your breasts. So close, you arch your back in anticipation. 

You only part briefly, long enough for you to moan his name, “Arthur…?” It is a question, a question of what is happening. What does it mean?

And as though he understood you, his lips part from you again to go to your neck as you expose it to him instinctively. “Kit—Kitten…”

You find yourself falling backward, his hands returning to your back to help you down, as he continues to pepper you with kisses.

His breath is warm against your skin, each kiss trailing fire that lights electricity in your brain, in your core. The fabric of your chemise whispers against your body as Arthur's hands expertly navigate, his touch awakening the latent emotions deep within you—emotions you thought would never come.

“Oh, god, Kitten…” he moans into your ear, his hand going to lift your skirt. “I never thought…”

“Me neither,” you groan. “Even if we aren’t married…” you hiss. “I don’t care.”

And at your words, he stops. Instantly. It is as if he has been struck dead or frozen.

He lifts up his head and looks at you. His eyes, usually so full of fire and determination, soften momentarily with a hint of sadness, perhaps a touch of fear. "Kitka," he begins, his voice rough like sandpaper, yet tender in a way that sends shivers across your skin, "I care. I care more 'n anythin’." You watch him as he lifts away from you, gently pulling your skirt back down and quickly covering his lower half with your jacket. He runs a hand through his hair and looks down into his lap, his ears pink. “I had forgotten…” He chortles. And looks up into the sky. “I know it’s important to you.”

You are confused. How would he know that it was important? Then it dawns on you. 

“I told you,” you say softly. “That I am a virgin.”

Arthur looks back at you. “Yes.”

You feel a sting in your eyes and you blink several times to process what he is saying. “But…but why?”

You see a vein pop in his neck, as though it is words wanting to come out but he is resisting. “Because…I shared a secret with you.”

You study him closely, your body still trying to keep up. Your body is still craving his touch, his hands, his lips against yours. “What was that?”

He swallows thickly. “That I…” He pauses and his hands clench into fists. “That I weren’t one…”

He’s been with a woman. You aren’t sure how you feel about it, well, you don’t feel one thing about it. Sad? Miffed? Jealous? All of them at once.

Arthur's gaze lingers on you, heavy with a storm of unspoken words and lingering regret. His mouth opens slightly, as if to add more, but then snaps shut, a decision made perhaps in the realization that some truths are better left buried in silence. Then he swallows, his lips parting again. “It…It was—”

"You don't have to explain, Arthur," you find yourself saying, though you can’t help but wonder what woman had his heart before you ever had the chance to. You think back to the picture on his makeshift end table. The woman with the pearl earrings and soft smile. Could it have been her?

He nods, a hint of resignation mixed with residual tension coloring his features. The air between you is thick with the unsaid, the past clinging to the dust kicked up by your recent conflict. Then he looks at you again. “But if you…”

You shake your head. “No, I don’t. I don’t want to know.”

Arthur clears his throat, looking off into the distance where the horizon blurs into the setting sun, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink. “Okay.”

You bring your legs up to your chest again. “I think I want to go back now.”

Arthur's jaw tightens, and he nods slowly, respecting your decision. After taking a couple of deep breaths, his body relaxing, he hands you your jacket. Then he stands, offering you his hand, his silhouette etched against the dying light. "Let's head back then," he says, his voice low and rough like gravel.

Though your heart aches, you take his hand, feeling the roughness of his skin against yours, a reminder of the rugged life he leads. As you both ride back to camp on Montana, the silence isn't just between you; it envelops the world around you, muffling the sounds of the distant coyotes and the rustle of the trees along the red-earthen trail.

A silence that is louder than the most deafening scream.

Chapter Text

That night he wrestled with himself, clutching onto his wool blanket as he tried to resist the urges deep within him. The scent of your hair and feeling of your skin under his fingers made him feverish, his body trembling under the weight. He thought that he could handle it, to be able to look at you every day and treat you like a friend, a gang member, like he treats everyone else. 

But he couldn’t. 

Not when he’d come so close. So close to losing himself. 

He couldn’t sleep. The thought to relieve the throbbing ache was a torment, but it wouldn’t be enough. Since he’s had you, it could never be enough. 

Reveries haunted him, moments of pure ecstasy in those small escapes that you two made. It became harder and harder to come up with excuses for leaving, to find a quick robbery or something valuable to bring back. 

He had to get up. To get out and ice the heat in his body. Fumbling out of his tent, nearly crashing into his shaving station, he bolted for the lake, the midnight moon watching him pitifully. 

He didn’t care that his boots would be full of water, his clothes soaked and heavy, when he crashed into the lake. The splash reached his arms, his face, and he dived headfirst. 

The water was cool enough, but he wished it were colder. Maybe it could stop his heart from beating. Maybe his torment could end. 

He came back out of the water, his clothes sticking to his skin. He ran a hand up his face, followed with carding his fingers through his hair. The water droplets trickled down his forehead, off his nose, his breaths haggard and tired. 

He cursed under his breath. Maybe it was time. He knew that you wanted him, that much was true. There was clear chemistry between you and he wanted to please you, to answer the call in your eyes as you looked at him. 

But to what end? Did you still love him? Lust was one thing, but love is another. If he gave into you now, he knew that would betray the person that you were, despite what you had said. 

He cared. He cared more than anything.

***

It has been four days since Dewberry Creek.  Arthur rises to the afternoon after another sleepless night, and he braces himself to see your face. He needs to tread carefully, your heart being too tender and passionate, the last thing he needs is to make you feel less than the person you are. 

He changes into a white shirt and his leather vest, and combing his hair back, puts on his hat. 

You, Karen, Bill, and Lenny went to go rob the bank in Valentine. They had asked Arthur, but he vocalized resistance, to which you immediately stepped in and volunteered. It didn’t surprise him, but what did was your eagerness to go. He could tell that you wanted to leave, to be away from him. 

And he didn’t blame you. 

So, taking your shotguns and dynamite, you rode on Odliv and followed them out of camp. He waited all afternoon, not going out to explore or hunt like he usually did when he wasn’t doing Dutch’s bidding, instead, he entertained a game of dominoes with Hosea and Tilly, even chopping several cords of wood. He watched Jack attempt to juggle three apples, not two, and drew a picture of Odliv for the boy, as requested. 

He waited all day, and finally, when he heard riders coming in, his heart nearly betrayed his attempt to conceal his excitement. 

But only Lenny, Karen, and Bill showed up, with twelve thousand dollars in saddle bags. 

“You should have seen her!” Lenny explained to Hosea and Dutch. “She blasted her way through those safes!”

“This wasn’t the subtle, sly Kit, but the brazen, infamous Kitka Petrova!” Bill added, his laugh rolling into the excitement. “Glad she came and not Arthur.”

He didn’t care. What he cared about was that you weren't there. 

And that was three days ago. 

“Karen?” Arthur asks as he finds her guarding camp. “Did Kit ever say where she was goin’?”

Karen arches a brow at him, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Why? You think she got lost or somethin’?”

He lowers his brow as well as the tone in his voice. “Karen…”

“Okay! Hell, Arthur, she said she wanted to get away for a bit, clear her head. Maybe she was afraid the law would follow her back to camp.”

Or maybe you just didn’t want to see his face.

He takes a step back from Karen, tucking his chin. “Thanks.” And he turns to walk away. 

He returns back to camp, walking over to where Montana and the shire mare are tied. Arthur figured that you had brought her back from burning up the tobacco fields, he didn’t get the chance to ask you before you left for Valentine. 

He pats her back, a good amount of dust rising, and she swishes her tail. Reaching into his satchel, he pulls out some burdock root and feeds it to her. 

“There, have this, girl,” he hums softly. He pats her neck while she munches away at the root, and he feels a strange feeling come over him. 

What if you don’t come back?

That would be ridiculous. You wouldn’t just leave. 

But what if you did? You can hold your own out there, you clearly have remembered enough skills and know-how to talk or shoot your way out of a situation. There really wouldn’t be anything to keep you here, besides to maintain friendships that you have formed over the last fifteen years. 

He walks away from the mare, returning to his tent to sit down and gather his thoughts. 

And just as he’s about to pick up the flower that reminds him of his mother, a shadow is cast over him. He looks out and sees Dutch at the mouth of his tent. 

“Arthur.”

“Dutch.”

“I need you to go into Rhodes.”

“Why?”

Dutch narrows his eyes. “Do I need a reason?”

Arthur slumps his shoulders. “I’m just tired, Dutch. It must be real important to get me off this cot.”

“Well. It is.” And Dutch backs away from the tent. “Come on.”

Reluctantly, Arthur pulls himself up, stretching his arms and rolling his shoulders. As the day goes on, he feels the fatigue increasing, but he doesn’t have the energy to tell Dutch no. He follows Dutch out of the tent, his boots crunching softly against the dry earth. The heat becomes apparent as he steps out from the shade of his tent. Another hot day. Another day of Braithewaites, Grays, and his own personal troubles.

As they walk, Arthur can't help but think about you. The unsettling silence between him and Dutch only amplifies his concerns. It’s been days since he last saw you, which wouldn’t be unusual given the tasks each of you would undertake in the past, but it’s different now, and the worry claws deeper into his chest.

“Dutch,” Arthur finally speaks up, his voice hoarse from the dust and the lack of sleep. “What’s this trip really about?”

Dutch keeps his eyes ahead, a tight smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "We gotta meet with some of the Grays. They got a proposition for us, might help us turn the tide against those damned Braithewaites."

Arthur nods, though he knows good and well that a meeting with the Grays could mean something else. After burning the fields, and stealing the horses, regardless of the face of the gang member, they will soon catch on.

He had helped the two forbidden lovers, and after talking with Beau Gray, he had come to find that there really isn’t much treasure left. He tried to tell Dutch that, but he’s hell-bent on finding out for himself.

“Bill, Sean, and Micah are already there,” Dutch continues. “Go into town and meet them. Micah will explain everything.”

Micah, now that is a sour taste in his mouth. Since he tried to beat the living daylights out of that good-for-nothing bastard, Arthur has made the point to avoid him, lest he get the urge to beat him again. It also was by Dutch’s insistence, as he had planned missions that would separate them.

Arthur’s steps slow as he processes Dutch’s words. The thought of dealing with Micah twists his insides, but orders are orders, especially when they come from Dutch. They walk up to Montana and Dutch stops, then places a hand on Arthur’s shoulder.

“Now, son,” Dutch begins. “I miss singing your praises.”

Arthur nods. “I know.”

“You are the best I’ve got.”

Arthur nods again. “I know.”

“And I need you here. With me. Right now.” Dutch pauses, letting his words sink into the humid air. “You said you had my back, do I still have your loyalty?”

This feels more like an accusation, rather than a question. Arthur has been devoted to Dutch and his cause for twenty years. He’s put the gang before everything else.

And now look where that got him.

Arthur swallows the bitter taste of betrayal festering at the back of his throat. He searches Dutch’s eyes for some hint of the man who once treated him like a son, but the gaze that meets his is cold and calculating. The once unbreakable bond they shared seems to fray with each passing day.

“Yes, Dutch,” he answers. “Always.”

Dutch lets his hand fall off Arthur's shoulder, giving a satisfied nod. “Good. Now, go.”

Arthur walks around the hitching post to meet Montana’s side. Taking hold of the saddle, he mounts up, takes the reins, and rides out of camp.

***

When Arthur reaches Rhodes, he looks down the street for the three men he’s supposed to rendezvous with. Casting his gaze toward the bank, he sees the three figures. Sean leans against the column of the bank, Bill stands, his leg bending on the first step, and Micah, sitting down, is slouched as he eyes his knife.

The sight of Micah, even from this distance, sets Arthur’s jaw on edge. The man's presence is like a bad omen, poisoning the air around him. Still, he urges Montana forward, clop-clopping down the dusty street towards the trio. As he draws nearer, Sean straightens up and gives Arthur a nod, swinging his repeater over his shoulder.

“About time you showed up,” Micah says, standing and sheathing his knife. “Was wonderin’ if you’d sleep the whole day away.”

Arthur remembers that they are still in the open street. They already look conspicuous enough standing by the bank like a bunch of thugs, so he simply raises his hands. “Let's keep it quiet, Micah. We don't need to draw any more attention than we already have."

Micah smirks, his eyes gleaming with mischief as he glances around the eerily quiet street. “Oh, Arthur, always so serious.”

Bill chuckles, shifting his weight. “He’s right, you know. This is supposed to be a secret meetin’ with the Grays.”

Micah turns slowly to look at the boarish man, narrowing his eyes. “Was I talkin’ to you?”

Sean looks visibly bothered and begins to walk. “Are we gonna stand here arguin’ or are we doin’ dis ting?”

Arthur swings off Montana, his boots sending up a small cloud of dust. He slaps the horse’s flank lightly, sending him to the hitching post. “We’re doin’ it, Sean. Let’s go,” he says, leading the way down the street.

Bill, picking up his pace, motions to take the lead. “We’re supposed to meet the Grays at the saloon.”

And walking in front of him is Micah, hands on his gun belt as he struts like a demented peacock.

Arthur snorts. He really thinks he’s in charge here.

Micah turns around, walking backward, as he glares at Arthur. “Somethin’ funny, Morgan?”

Arthur looks back at him, with a more intimidating stare. “Yeah. I think it’s funny that we’re doin’ this. Doin’ this while thinkin’ we’re gonna come out of this with some gold.”

Bill looks back at Arthur over his shoulder. “Dutch says—”

“Dutch says a lot of things. That’s his gift.” Arthur doesn't realize until it is too late that he said it out loud. He notices how the three of them stare at him, gazes threatening.

But Arthur doesn’t recant or apologize. It’s the truth.

“You better watch your mouth, Cowpoke,” Micah seethes.

“Or what? You gonna shoot me yourself?” Arthur’s voice is ice, his gaze steady and unyielding as he meets Micah’s fiery eyes. The tension between them could cut through the quiet of the street, sharper than any knife.

Micah’s smile twists into a sneer, but before he can retaliate, Sean steps in, pushing Arthur. “C’mon! The longer we hang out here, the worse I feel it in me bones.”

Arthur sees how uneasy Sean is. He’s normally chomping at the bit to get some action, shoot a couple of fools. But right now, he’s the most anxious Arthur has ever seen him.

Looking away from Sean, he can see how bare the town actually looks. There are only a few men standing out by the street, and they are all watching their group like hawks.

Sean is right. Something doesn’t feel right.

But Bill and Micah keep walking. Arthur pats Sean’s shoulder. “Keep your eyes open.”

Sean nods quietly, sweaty hands gripping his gun tighter. They follow behind the two others, their steps careful and calm.

Arthur sees the eyes of the men standing by following them. He senses that something is going to happen, but he isn’t sure when.

“Somethin’ don’t feel right…” Arthur says.

And Micah throws his hands in the air. “Enough with the yella talk, Morgan! If you want to run like a coward, go ahead…!”

As Micah rambles on angrily, Arthur notices a glimmer of something blinding the corner of his vision. Turning up, he sees a hat, and the barrel of a gun peeking out from the building’s sign.

And it’s aimed at Sean.

“Sean…!” Arthur runs into the young man, just as the shot echoes.

But he hears the contact, the ripping through flesh as they pummel to the ground.

Arthur quickly gets up, seeing the shot in Sean’s chest, right beneath his collarbone. Close to his heart.

“Awww….!!! Sean!!” Arthur yells, trying to dodge bullets and help him up. Sean’s eyes are wide, his mouth opening and closing. “We’re gonna get you outta here, boah!” Arthur says, trying to reassure him. He pulls out his pistol. “Just gotta take care of these fools!!” Arthur turns around to shoot at a couple of the Grays and their posse, taking them out with deadly accuracy. He resumes his task, dragging Sean’s body carefully behind a wagon. He props him up against the wheel, looking at Sean’s fearful expression as he tries to breathe. The bullet might have gone through a lung.

Oh, Sean!

Arthur swings his rifle over into his hands. “I’ll kill you, you bastards!!” And he stands to shoot three more of the Grays. “Still think this was a secret meetin’?” he asks.

“Shut up, Morgan!” Micah sneers.

Arthur's eyes flare with a burning rage, the kind that had long smoldered in the pit of his stomach, now unleashed as he stands over Sean, defending his fallen brother against the encroaching danger. He turns back to check on Sean, whose breathing grows more labored by the moment, his face paper-white and his eyes heavy. “Stay awake, Sean.” He says as he reloads. “We’ll get you back to Karen.”

Sean almost perks up at that. “Karen…? Oh, that lass could…” his voice falters as he continues to struggle.

Arthur needs to focus, the sooner he, Bill, and Micah dispatch these men, the sooner he can get Sean back. If he isn’t going to make it, at least he can die with folks who care about him.

Micah advances, running toward the gun store. “Morgan, with me!”

“I ain’t leavin’ Sean!” Arthur insists, shooting another Gray.

“Suit yourself! More fools for me…!” He is getting too much enjoyment over this, and Arthur grimaces at the thought. This could have all been easily avoided. It is unnecessary. All of this trouble, this bloodshed…for gold that doesn’t even exist.

“Morgan!” Bill calls. “I see an opening! I am going after Sheriff Gray…!”

Arthur looks to see Bill leaning against the side of a building, his legs coiled and ready to make a break for the Sheriff’s Office.

“No, Bill! We need to stay together!”

But he doesn’t listen, as he runs as fast as his legs can carry him into the office.

Arthur hears a crash nearby, and turns to see shattered glass and Micah’s hand sticking out of the broken window, shooting bullet after bullet as mounted riders come galloping through town.

Lifting his rifle and looking through the sights, Arthur takes one down, a clear shot to the head.

The chaos continues, spiraling as the dust rises and falls, each gunshot echoing through the air like a death knell. Arthur’s mind races, thinking about the quickest way to end this thing.

And so, he does what any gunslinger would do. He sets his sights on the heart of the fray, pushing forward, boots kicking up the dust and grit of the road. His rifle is an extension of his arm, a deadly precision as he picks off one rider after another, each bullet a whisper of death in the din of chaos.

Soon, it will all be over.

***

Arthur holsters his weapon, fists clenched as he looks at the dead body of Sheriff Gray. What a mess. What a waste. They were fools to think that they could use Bill as a way for surrender.

Little did they know who they’d be messing with.

“You okay, Bill?” Arthur asks the boar.

Bill steps over a body while descending the stairs, holding his injured shoulder. “Yeah.” He gruffly looks around. “How the hell was I supposed to know it would end up like this?”

Arthur feels himself bristle at the oaf’s question, as he quickly makes his way over to Sean. He begins to list off the reasons why it was a bad idea. “First, you should've listened when I said to stay together. Second, rushin' in like that without a proper plan just got more men on us quicker.” His voice is harsh, a reflection of the chaos and frustration still simmering within him. “And if that weren’t enough, they set us up before, Sean and Kit burned their fields, we shot at their men, should I go on?!” He bends down to help Sean up, his body weak. He doesn’t have much longer.

“Go easy on him, Morgan…” Micah says, his tone more condescending than a mark of peace. “It ain’t like he wasn’t tryin’. We needed leads, since you were too busy makin’ eyes at that kitty cat of yours.”

Arthur rises, using his strength to hold Sean upright. “If I didn’t have to get this boy back to his girl, I’d be dealin’ wit’chu.” The air intensifies, and Micah lifts his chin, smirking.

“You don’t scare me, Cowpoke.”

“And that’s why you’ll least expect me, Micah.” Arthur's gaze flickers over to the horizon, where the sun threatens to dip below the jagged line of distant mountains. Time was slipping, fast, and here they were squabbling amongst themselves. The air cools as a breeze sweeps through, stirring up the scent of gunpowder and blood—a grim reminder of their sins. “I’m leavin’. You boys get out of here.”

Bill doesn’t wait for another invitation, and he hurries back to Brown Jack. Micah watches Arthur as he helps Sean on the back of Montana, glaring at him, before sauntering off into the shadows between the buildings.

“I’m gonna get you back, Sean,” Arthur says softly. “It’ll be alright.”

“Arthur…” Sean groans and losing strength, he can’t say anything more.

Arthur urges Montana forward, galloping through the town, taking the road that leads back to camp. He tries to balance speed with gentleness, feeling Sean grow weaker as his hold loosens by the minute.

The path is rough and uneven, the stones scattered across the dirt road clattering under Montana's hooves. The sky, hued with the colors of an ending day, casts dark shades on all things below. As Arthur pushes the horse forward, his mind spins with thoughts of you—your smile, your courage, the way you’ve glanced his way.

And the way you ignored him before you left.

He hopes you are back. Back waiting for him.

The campfire's glow is visible now, a beacon through the encroaching dusk. Arthur feels Montana's muscles strain against the final stretch, the horse's breaths coming in sharp, hot puffs that match his own anxious heartbeats. As they approach, he sees a gathering. Voices mingling together.

He calls out to the group. “I got Sean here!” This draws the attention of some of them, Karen included. Arthur quickly dismounts and goes to help Sean off the horse, and he practically falls into Arthur’s arms. “He’s…” And Arthur’s eyes meet Karen’s and he can see the worry in her eyes. “He’s…”

There has been a tension in the camp before he got here, he can see that now. There are people still talking, faces looking at him then back into the group, as though they are torn to which situation they should be focusing on.

Arthur carries Sean into camp, Karen following close behind.

“What did you do, you idiot?” Karen asks Sean in her usual way. This is how she always is, but Arthur knows she’s trying to disguise her genuine concern with harsh words. Sean's barely conscious, mumbling something indecipherable as Arthur lays him down near the campfire, propping his head on a saddle.

Dutch comes over, his face stern yet lined with worry. "What happened out there?" he demands, crouching beside Sean, examining the pale skin and mist on his brow.

Arthur’s brow furrows. “Bill didn’t tell you?” And making sure Sean is comfortable, he rises to his feet. “The Grays jumped us, that’s what happened!” There is a deafening silence in the camp. And those who weren’t focused on Arthur are now staring at him. “If I hadn’t seen the man on the roof…” Arthur looks back at Sean, his hand tenderly held in Karen’s grasp. “I guess it don’t matter.”

And it doesn’t. Everyone can see that now. Dutch kneels down beside Sean, lowering his head. 

Sean turns his head slowly to Karen and smiles weakly. “You’re such a bonnie lass…”

Karen chortles bittersweetly. “Oh, shut up. Don’t know if I should kiss or kick you.”

Then Sean’s smile fades. “That’s the one thing I’ll miss the most…” And just as he finishes his sentence, he turns his head, and closes his eyes.

He’s dead. Sean is dead.

The camp falls still as a tomb. Only the crackling of the fire dares disturb the heavy silence that blankets the group. Arthur doesn’t move, frozen, his jaw clenched so tight it could shatter stone. Karen's eyes well up with tears, her tough facade crumbling as she clutches Sean's limp hand tighter. “Sean…!!” She wails, taking his body and holding him close to her bosom.

Dutch speaks with a low roar, his face darkened. “First Jack and Kit, now this??” Then in a rage, he rises to his feet. “They will regret ever crossin’ us!”

Wait. Jack? Kit?

Arthur’s face runs cold and he grabs Dutch’s arm as he begins to walk towards the other members. “What are you talkin’ about, Dutch?”

Dutch only looks at Arthur, not answering.

But Hosea speaks. “Arthur…” Hearing his father’s voice, Arthur lets go of Dutch’s arm, turning to face him. “The Braithewaites took the boy…” He pauses for a moment before speaking. “And we found Odliv. She wandered back to camp…without Kit.” Hosea’s voice cracks with emotion. “There…was blood on the saddle.”

No.

“I saw some tracks. It looks like they might have taken her as well,” Charles adds, removing Arthur’s worst fears, but the gnawing dread doesn't subside. Instead, it festers within his gut, twisting tighter with each passing second. Arthur takes a few steps back, his hands clenched into fists at his side.

"Taken her?" His voice, usually a commanding growl, breaks with an unfamiliar fear, the shadows of the fire accentuating his furrowed brow. “And Jack?”

“I want my son back!” Abigail cries, as Tilly and Mary Beth support her. “Please, Arthur…Dutch…” Her eyes are full of pain, pleading. “Who knows what they’ll do to him!”

Arthur looks over at John and he sees it in his face. A rude awakening. The same thing he felt when his own son was taken from him, but without the chance of a reunion.

Dutch places a hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “I know you’ve just come back, Arthur…” Arthur looks at Dutch and sees the resolve behind his eyes, the old spirit he used to have, the old Dutch, who is still deep inside him. “But ride with me. With us.”

Arthur's chest heaves, each breath heavy as if he were dragging the weight of the world behind him. “I ain't going nowhere else, Dutch. We ride,” he declares with a hardened determination, though the ghost of fear for you still claws at his heart.

Dutch nods, then makes the resounding call. “Micah, Bill! You stay here and help Karen tend to Sean’s burial.” He makes his way over to The Count and hoists himself on the Arabian’s back. “The rest of you men…” And with a loud voice, he makes the order. “Ride with me…!!!”

***

Arthur slides off of Montana, securing his rifle and repeater over his shoulder. He was a fool. A damned fool. Thinking that he could have some time. Time to process it all, to wait for the right moment to say something.

But now, you have slipped through his fingers again. How many times will he let it happen before it is too late?

It might be too late now.

And John, poor John, now has to deal with his own guilt. His own regrets. His son, his only son has been taken despite so many eyes watching him. The look on Abigail’s face, worry stricken with grief, was enough to break Arthur’s heart.

He will help his brother. If he never gets restoration, John will.

“Alright,” Dutch begins as he addresses everyone as they gather near the gated entrance that leads to the Braithewaite Manor. “Let me do the talking. We go in, and hard, but not until I say. Once we’re in, we search for the boy, and bring him back.

Arthur’s brow pinches. What about you?

As he’s about to ask, Dutch gestures for all of them to follow. “Let’s go.”

“Dutch—”

“Not now, Arthur…!”

The men, walking side by side, walk boldly towards the manor. Arthur has seen it enough times to memorize every window, every door, every possible exit. But his mind isn’t on the manor; it's on you, wondering which room you are in. If you are hurt, frightened, or completely unaware of what is about to happen or what has been happening.

As they approach, the light from the moon leaves dark shadows in the trees, the fields, and amongst the men’s faces. Arthur carries his own resolve. His own mission. His own fury.

Dutch holds out his gun, calling for those within the manor. “Get down here, you inbred trash…!” The sound of Dutch's voice, booming and menacing across the silent expanse, stirs something in the darkness. Shadows shift within the manor, and for a moment, everything is eerily still—a calm before the storm. Arthur’s hands tighten around his weapons; he's ready, always ready, but tonight each grip feels like another signature.

Suddenly, the front doors to the manor open, and three men step out. They are armed, their fingers tensed around the triggers of their rifles. The air is thick with tension as they stare down the intruders, their eyes filled with disdain and defiance.

The head Braithewaite sneers, his voice laced with scorn. "You low-lives are trespassing. If you don't want to die, I suggest you high-tail it back to the hovel you came from."

But Dutch, ever the charismatic leader, responds with a sly grin playing on his lips. “You have our boy, and we ain’t leavin’ without him.”

Arthur casts a quick glance at Dutch. Twice now he has neglected to mention you.

“You best leave, because you aren’t going to leave with anything here except your lives!”

"Your little threats have no ground against men who have earned their lives by taking them from incestuous ex-slavers like you." Dutch’s voice changes to a dark growl, almost surprising his own men. “Give us the boy. Now." He twists the Braithewaite's words, his persuasive tongue weaving a web of desperation and fear. His threats hang in the air, suffocating like the smoke of a burning bridge.

The tension reaches its peak, like a tightly wound coil ready to snap. Arthur sees Dutch's hand migrate slowly to his gun. He knows it's time.

And Dutch delivers the final line. "Your lives must have no meanin’, then."

With a sudden explosion of violence, Dutch's gun roars, sending a bullet tearing through the man's chest. Blood splatters, a chilling reminder of the brutality that lies within the heart of this rescue mission. Shots ring out, screams echo, and the air becomes a battlefield filled with smoke and fury.

And Arthur, letting nothing hold him back, shoots at every Braithewaite that his eyes land on. Shot for shot, pound for pound, the bodies fall. One less obstacle preventing him from getting to you. 

He almost doesn’t want to wait until all are dead out here. Regardless of how many may lie in wait inside, he’s tempted just to rush right in and blast his way through. He will search every room, every crevice, until he finds you.

The shooting continues. Each man, armed with their own specialty, fights fiercely, fueled by a mix of adrenaline and determination. The old oaks around the Braithewaite Manor absorb the sounds of gunfire and human anguish as if they are mere whispers of the wind.

Arthur’s mind races as he ducks behind a broken cart, reloading his revolver with practiced ease.

“There’s only a few left!” Dutch calls out. “Let’s get ‘em, boys!”

Arthur exhales. He knows it will soon be over.

***

"They must have barricaded the doors!" Hosea grunts, still making an attempt to get two large doors open. Arthur and the gang have managed to get inside the manor, taking out any remaining Braithewaite that dares to stand in their way.

Arthur has continued to call your name, but has heard no answer. His thoughts have been clouded, distorted, and spun around as he took each shot and gave each punch without mercy. If he discovers you are dead…

John and Arthur reach the Hosea and Dutch as they continue to try and get the doors open. Backing away from the door, Dutch turns to John and Arthur. "Go out the balcony. See if you can get in from the outside.”

John pats Arthur's shoulder blade, his voice conveying his own urgency and eagerness to get his son back. “C’mon, Arthur!” Turning away from the door, Arthur follows John out to the balcony. Circumnavigating the building, they discover a door that offers promise. John takes the bunt of his rifle, ready to beat down the door, but Arthur stops him. Leaning his body against the door, he nods for John to follow suit.

Understanding, John presses his right shoulder into the door and begins to count. “One…two…” And on three, they push as hard as they can. Second by second, the objects behind it start to give way.

They fall through the door with a good crash, seeing two men in with their guns pointed. Swift as the wind, Arthur rises, taking his pistol, and dispatches them both, painting the room in splattered crimson.

Arthur pauses as the room falls silent, aside from the continued attempts by Hosea and Dutch on the other side. His breath is haggard, his eyes wild as he searches the room for any sign that you were, or still are, here.

He feels a shove in his shoulder. “Arthur!”

Shaking his head to jostle himself, Arthur follows John to the other door. They work together to remove the barricades blocking the large doors and Dutch comes barging inside.

“Alright, let’s have a look around.”

They embark upon a meticulous search. And then, amidst the silence, a faint whimper escapes the confines of a wardrobe. Arthur’s eyes ignite with curiosity. “Kit…?!”

He reaches the wardrobe’s handle, gripping it until his knuckles turn white.

He wrenches the door open, revealing an older woman—a portrait of desperation—tumbling out into the room.

Without missing a beat, Dutch addresses Catherine with a disdainful tone. "Well, well, if it isn't Mrs. Braithewaite."

Catherine's eyes widen with fury. "You--you Yankees! Filth...S-s-scum!" Her voice trembles, betraying the feigned angst.

But Arthur isn’t interested in her taunts. He wants justice, a reckoning for the havoc she has wrought. Without giving Dutch the chance to interrogate her, Arthur stands in front of Catherine as she cowers on the floor, cursing at them. 

And suddenly, in the corner of his eye, something catches the light from within the room. On an armoire, sitting with an obsidian knife, is a gold ring. 

Arthur’s heart sinks like a stone, and he quickly bypasses Charlotte to grab the knife and ring. He holds the wedding band to the light and sees the engraving inside it. Your mother’s name quickly reveals to whom it belongs. 

Holding your things tightly in his hand, he returns to Catherine, snarling with a deep heat in his belly. "Tell me where Kitka is!" Arthur growls, his voice laced with an intensity that could rival a raging wildfire.

Catherine, however, merely sneers at him, her wrinkles more defined. "You will get nothing out of me!"

Dutch, never one to shy away from intimidation, points his gun at Catherine and asks, his voice dripping with menace, "Where. Is. The boy?!"

Without missing a beat, Catherine spits in Dutch's face, her defiance undeterred.

John steps forward, his pistol cocked and ready. "Enough games," he says, his voice low and dangerous. "We ain't here to play! Give me my son!!"

Arthur keeps his gaze locked on Catherine, his heart pounding in his chest. He needs answers, and he needs them now. Every second without knowing where you are feels like true agony. He’d kill her now, if she didn’t have the information they need.

Dutch wipes off the spit firmly, with a grimace of disgust.

This is the final straw. Grabbing Catherine by the collar, he drags her forcefully across the room, her screams echoing through the abandoned building. Arthur and John exchange a glance and hurriedly follow, Arthur tucking the knife and wedding ring away in his satchel. The tension in the air is thick, and suffocating, as if it could choke the life out of them all. This violence, this desperation, shakes Arthur to his core. But he wrestles with his own anguish knowing that you are still not found. He needs to keep his head, lest he loose it.

Then suddenly, as John and Arthur continue down the stairs, they hear a shout.

“John!!! Get down here!!”

They quickly descend the stairs, and they are joined by Hosea and Lenny, who had been searching the lower floors. 

And with them, is Jack.

“Jack…!” John cries and nearly shoves Arthur out of the way as he reaches the last step, going to his knees and hugging his boy.

“Pa!!” Jack sobs, clutching onto John as if he would never let go. Arthur watches the reunion, relief briefly washing over him before the gnawing in his gut reminds him of you still missing.

"Where's Kitka?!” Arthur presses Lenny immediately, a stern frown etching deep trenches onto his face.

Lenny only shakes his head, taken aback by Arthur’s aggressive questioning. 

“We searched the whole house. Kit isn’t here.” Hosea's voice is steady but bears a trace of frustration. The news strikes Arthur like a bullet, his hopes dashed again, but he stifles the despair rising in his throat.

Arthur turns to Dutch who is still dragging Mrs. Braithewaite. “Kit ain’t here.”

Dutch’s face darkens, and Arthur is grateful that he is finally reacting to your disappearance. “Javier, let’s burn this place down!”

Javier nods, and he and Charles begin to douse the curtains and furnishings with moonshine and whatever sprits they can get their hands on.

Mrs. Braithewaite wails, but they fall on deaf ears.

Arthur hears the strike of a match and the place soon alights with fire, flames quickly devouring the wooden structure with a greedy hunger. The group quickly make their exit from the once extravagant mansion, Dutch dragging Catherine out by the collar and John carrying Jack in his arms.

“Get the boy home, son!” Hosea calls out to John. It is best that Jack doesn’t see any more than he already has.

And John doesn’t need to be told twice as he hurries back to Old Boy to bring his son back to his mother.

As the rest rush out of the mansion, in contrast to the heat of the inferno within, the cold night air bites at Arthur’s skin, hairs rising on the back of his neck.

Once at a safe distance, Dutch throws Catherine to the ground with a snarl, like a predator cornering its prey. Hosea stepped forward, his voice a dangerous calm. "Tell us, woman. Why did you take Jack and Miss Petrova?"

Catherine looks up at him, a mix of fear and defiance in her eyes. “You stole my liquor!” she sobs. “You stole my horses…!”

Arthur turns back to Catherine, his stare hardened like the steel of his revolver. "Listen here," he begins, the gravel in his voice matching the crunch of gravel underfoot, "I ain't got time for your tales. Kitka means more to me than anythin', and if you harmed a hair on her head, I swear—"

The threat hangs in the air, heavy and undeniable. Arthur's fists clench at his sides as he takes a step forward, but Hosea stops him.

But Dutch doesn’t relent, pointing the barrel of his gun at her face, pulling the hammer back.

And finally, through gasps and sobs, she confesses the truth. "That…trollop...was given to Angelo Bronte. My guess she’s in Saint-Denis." Then she snarls. “Or on a boat to Italy…!”

Arthur's heart sinks like a stone in deep water. Italy? Saint-Denis? The uncertainty gnaws at him, twisting his insides as the cold night air does nothing to cool his rising fury. He swings his gaze away from Catherine, chewing on the inside of his cheek, the taste of iron filling his mouth.

Dutch brings his revolver back, pointing it in the air. “Now, that wasn’t so hard was it?” He turns to Hosea. “You know anything on this Bronte?”

“No, Dutch, but I can only imagine what kind of a man he is, being in Saint Denis.”

Arthur speaks to Hosea quietly. “I can’t lose her…”

And Hosea places a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “You won’t…”

Dutch doesn’t say anything, instead walking away. “Let’s go.”

Hosea hesitates to follow, pointing to the cowering mistress on the ground. “What about her?”

“Leave her!” Dutch calls back and after a pause, everyone holsters their weapons and follows Dutch out.

Arthur takes slow steps away from the mansion, seeing Montana waiting for him up ahead. Behind him, he can hear the wails of the mad woman, nearly echoing the despair he feels deep inside.

He will not let you slip through his fingers. You are not the sand or the dirt beneath him, but the air. His oxygen, the very essence of what keeps him tethered to this brutal world. The thought of you, somewhere far and unfamiliar, possibly in danger, ignites a fire within him that no amount of reasoning can quell.

As he mounts his horse, the soft nicker of Montana offering a brief solace, Arthur’s mind seers his objective into his heart. He pulls out your ring from his satchel and as he looks at it, with a sting in his eyes, he realizes that nothing will get in the way of retrieving his most valuable possession.

His wife. 

Chapter Text

You never thought you would end up here. In a tub of water, your skin being scrubbed raw. Two women comb oils through your long, dark hair, pulling your head back as they comb through the knots and waves. The water is hot, nearly scalding. You prefer the icy coldness of the lake, the stars in the sky, not the burning lamps and pairs of eyes staring at your body.

Your mind has been trying to follow what has happened in the last several hours. The last few days. After the robbery in Valentine, you, Karen, Bill, and Lenny had successfully escaped the law.

But the escape that you wanted still wasn’t achieved. You wanted more time. You couldn’t bear to return to camp just yet.

“You three go on ahead,” you say. “I want to be away for a bit.”

Karen grins. “Suit yourself, Kit. But don’t be upset when we have a celebration without you!”

And they ride off.

You rode further into the Heartlands, finally stopping at Moonstone Pond. It was still as peaceful as you remembered it, despite the ruins of a cabin once destroyed by a fallen tree. You dismounted and hurriedly took off your boots, those stupid heeled shoes, and went into the water to cool the heat in your feet.

You remembered what you were capable of. Joining Karen in her rouse of damsel in distress, it was quick to pull all bank clients into the performance.

So, when Bill and Lenny came in, you forced your way into the back of the bank, and blew up the safes. Though it drew the attention of the law, your escape was quick, and no one was shot.

You knew then what your purpose has been in the gang.

But your mind, as you cooled your body in the water, had begun to wander to other things. To Arthur. To what he had shared with you, what you wanted him to do.

Were you really going to compromise your values to finally have what you had been waiting for? You felt embarrassed, but what was more embarrassing was the fact that Arthur had stopped it all, for you. He reminded you of what you had kept sacred.

He was right. It was honorable.

When he told you that he had been with another woman, how did you react the first time?

When the sun went down, you set up camp and after eating a can of strawberries and some mint that you picked, you laid down to fall asleep.

That’s when a dream came.

You come out of Abigail’s tent, brow misted and dark circles under your eyes. It is over now, and after several hours of travailing, Abigail has finally given birth to a son.

Susan told you to go find John, and you aren’t sure if you want to. But, ever obedient to your surrogate mother, you go look for him.

Under the canopy of the pine trees of Montana, you navigate your way through the camp. Those who are awake look up at you expectantly, but you don’t want to share the news with them first. They know enough, by the shrill cries of the babe, that the baby is alive.

You find John, at the edge of camp, smoking a cigarette.

You take a couple of steps toward him and swallow. “John?”

He doesn’t turn around immediately, but you are patient.

When Abigail told John she was pregnant, something changed in him. It was clear that they were fond of each other, but it also became clear as to whom had carried the majority of it. Abigail was a pretty thing, a beautiful woman that he could hold and love on each night, not really considering the repercussions of it. In part, that is one of the reasons why you have resolved to wait until you meet the right person, to be sure that the one you are with can carry the responsibility of loving you and any children you might make together.

Finally, John turns around, but he doesn’t speak.

You step forward and speak softly and gently. “You have a son, John.”

His eyes search yours, you can see the sharp disbelief in them, the accusation that darkens his eyes. The fear.

And without saying anything to you, he turns and walks further into the trees until he is out of sight.

“John…!” you call after him, but stop. It is best to leave him alone.

You stand there for a few minutes, letting your breath calm to slow puffs of air. You don’t like to see such turmoil, when there should be joy and celebration. It may not be ideal for a baby to be born into such a family, but a child is treasured, and precious. You remember when your own brother was born, how your mother helped you to hold him for the first time. The wonder you felt isn’t much different than how you felt when you held Abigail’s son and handed him to her.

Your shoulders drop. You need to rest and lie down. Maybe you can catch some sleep before the sun rises.

You turn and walk in the opposite direction of where John went, finding a quiet spot just outside of camp. You check the ground with your feet for pine needles, and sweeping them away, you lay down on your back.

Your cast your eyes at the expanse of the sky, as the dark silhouette of the trees reach high like fingers. You rest your hands on your stomach and begin thinking what it might be like to have a child yourself. Where would you like to be?

Who would you want to father it?

And as though he heard your thoughts, a warm voice calls to you softly. “Susan told me it’s a boy.” You quickly sit up and turn to see Arthur’s silhouette. He raises his hands. “Didn’t mean to startle you, Kit.”

You sigh, relieved that he can’t see the red in your cheeks. “It’s alright, Arthur. I thought you had gone to bed.”

He walks toward you. “I couldn’t sleep.”

You nod. “The baby’s got some lungs on him.”

You hear Arthur chuckle softly. “Shoah.” After a pause, he comes closer and sits down next to you, and lays down on his back. “This is a nice spot.”

You nod and feeling the fatigue creep up again, you roll down onto your back. “I needed some air.”

“I didn’t see John.”

“Yes. I told him he has a son. He…took off.”

Arthur's voice is quiet, thoughtful. "He's got a lot on his mind, no doubt."

You turn your head to look at him, seeing only the dim shape of his profile against the light of the night sky. "We all do," you say softly, your thoughts drifting to the days that lie ahead, and the past that you’ve already lived. “But we will all be here to help him.”

Arthur snorts, almost bitterly, and this surprises you. “He’s lucky, the bastard.”

Your eyes widen. “Arthur…!”

You hear Arthur’s breath hitch, catching himself saying something he didn’t intend to say out loud. “You know what Dutch said about children in camp.”

“Yes, I do,” you sigh. “But, I think he’s changed his mind.”

Arthur goes silent for a moment, and you hear his steady breathing. “Too late.”

Your brow pinches. “Too late?”

He looks away from you. “Nothin’.”

Ah, a secret.

There’s a pang in your chest at Arthur's dismissal, but you let it lie for now, rolling back to look up at the stars. "We should go back soon," you murmur, though the stillness around you feels too precious to disturb.

Arthur doesn't respond immediately. Instead, he turns on his side to face you, and even in the dim light, you can see the softened expression on his face. “I need to tell you somethin’.”

And with the sudden shift, you wait for him to speak again.

“Remember on that cliff…” He begins, and you hear him swallow. “I was tryin’ to tell you somethin’?”

You remember that day. Vividly. You were so young, then, so naive when you kissed him. That was five years ago. “Yes, I do.”

He pauses before speaking again. “I was tryin’ to tell you…that I had a woman and son waitin’ for me.”

Your heart tightens, feeling as though it’s being squeezed in an unyielding grip. "…Had…?”

That’s when he goes quiet for the longest time, and it isn’t until he speaks again that you realize it is because he is weeping. “They…ahem…were killed in a robbery. Two years ago.”

The revelation stirs a tumult of emotions within you—shock, disappointment, but also a deep, piercing sadness. It's a sudden understanding that explains so much of his past behavior, his hesitations.

And as though knowing your next question, he speaks again. “I couldn’t have brought ‘em here. Dutch would’ve—” He cuts himself off.

“I understand.” And in the dark you reach out and find his hand, taking it gently. “I’m sorry.”

Your fingers entwine with his, a tangible connection in the vast emptiness that has suddenly enveloped both of you. The night seems colder now, more isolated, as if even the stars have drawn back, shrouded in their own secrets.

Arthur’s grip tightens around your hand, his voice a whisper carried on the cool breeze of the night. “You’re the only one who knows…”

“I won’t tell anyone.”

“Thank you.”

You find your thumb caressing his hand. “What was his name?”

“Isaac. He was four.”

You whisper the name, trying to picture what he would have looked like. A young boy, full of life and laughter. Maybe having his father’s hair, or his beautiful eyes. “You must miss him terribly.”

“Yes.”

“And…her…?”

He clears his throat before answering softly. “…Yes.”

He loved her, you can tell by the sadness in his voice. You feel a sadness too, partly for yourself, and also in the shared grief of a loved one. Your parents. Your brother.

And Arthur has shared this pain with you, making something special between you two.

You feel you ought to share something with him, a secret that you have held close and sacred, maybe he would understand, if not anyone else. You take a deep breath, the cool night air filling your lungs as you muster the courage. “I’ve never been with a man.” His silence makes the color flush out of your face, and you instantly regret opening your mouth. “I haven’t told anyone because…” and you close your mouth.

But then he squeezes your hand, a gesture heavy with kindness and understanding. “Kitka,” he says softly, his voice so low it almost blends with the rustling leaves around you. “That ain’t somethin’ to be ashamed of.”

You nod, feeling a small weight lift off your shoulders, but the vulnerability hangs thick between you, opening a door that you hope and pray never closes.

***

You woke up the next day, feeling different. Feeling guilty. You were cold to Arthur, after he had tried to preserve something that you had kept about yourself. It is clear that you had later told Karen, Mary Beth, and Tilly your secret, but the fact that Arthur had known for years and never used it against you says greatly about his character.

You needed to figure out what to say to him. You wanted to pull him aside and truly talk about things, maybe even explore what has formed between you.

You spent the entire day riding, exploring, going down to Emerald Ranch, buying some dynamite and moonshine with your earnings from the robbery, and picking enough herbs to fill your saddlebags. It was good to be out in nature, in the cooler air, away from the humidity. You wished that you never had to leave the area with the gang. It saddened you how much has changed since that day in Valentine.

The next day, you decided to go back. You were ready. Courage mustered, you mounted Odliv and rode southeast toward Lemoyne.

You came through Rhodes and just as you were outside of town, you saw something that shook you.

Three Braithewaites, gallop hard from the direction of camp, with Jack in their arms.

The boy had a sack over his head and he was held tightly as they galloped. And in you, a protective instinct ignited.

“Hey…!” you called out to them. “Let him go!”

And they saw you. You couldn’t risk shooting them, lest they drop the boy or worse. Instead, you kicked Odliv into a full sprint, closing the distance between you and the Braithewaites. Your heart pounded in your chest as you drew nearer, the cold grip of fear mixing with a fiery determination.

Jack recognized your voice, his muffled cries could be heard from underneath the bag over his head. “Aunt Kit…!”

As you rode beside one of them, he turned to face you, a sneer spread across his face. “You’re that dancing lady at the saloon, aren’t you?”

And seeing the look in his eyes, you had little time to react before he took the grip of his gun and hit you upside the head, knocking you unconscious.

***

You woke up in the Braithewaite manor, and while bound and tied to a chair, you overheard Mrs. Braithewaite arguing about what they were to do with you. You were not the desired target, though you were unsure why. Jack was nowhere to be seen, and that only worried you more.

So, when Catherine and her son first came in the room, that was the first thing you cared to ask. “Where’s Jack? What have you done to him?”

The man slapped you hard across the face. “Should have gagged you!”

“Enough!” Catherine barked. “You don’t hit a lady.”

“She ain’t no lady,” he sneered, eyeing your attire and bare feet. “She’s heathen.”

But Catherine was calm and quiet. “No, she’s Romani.” Your eyes lifted up at her, surprised that she would have any knowledge about that. “Like those that live just outside of town.”

You nodded, still perplexed. “But they aren’t my people,” you explained. “They’ve been gone a long time.”

She studied you. “Bronte may have use for you,” she said thoughtfully. “Maybe even more than the boy.”

Her son looked at her, brows raised. “But mama—”

She whipped around to strike him. “You hush!”

But this information was enough for you. Enough to use your skills of speech and persuasion to perhaps save the boy. “Then why keep him?”

Catherine looked back at you, eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

Your voice was shaky but determined, a stark contrast to the frailty you felt tied to the chair. "If this Bronte has more use for me, then let the boy go. He's just a child, and need I remind you, comes with more of a risk. He has a whole gang of murderers and thieves who are looking for him.”

Catherine paused, considering your words. “And what of you? Isn’t there anyone who’d risk hell and heaven to come after you?”

You lowered your head. “No.”

Whether you truly believed that or not, it must have been convincing enough.

For she agreed.

She had you remain bound, then after a bag was thrown over your head, you were put in a wagon and delivered to Bronte.

You waited outside while one of the Braithewaites went in to explain why they had brought an adult woman and not a small boy. But it must have been forgiven, for you were quickly brought in, and taken down a darkened hallway and into the washroom. Two women met you there, where they removed the bag off your head, stripped you of your clothing and dignity, and forced you into the bathwater.

And now, you’re here.

The women speak in a different language, so you can’t understand them. You don’t remember ever hearing it before, but one thing’s for sure, it isn’t Czech or any form of Slavic tongue. You know that you have a fighting chance if you try to take them out, but you would only have seconds before someone would come in and drag your naked self somewhere else.

For now, this is the safest place you can be. 

Then suddenly, the women remove their hands, setting down their sponges and combs. “Alzarsi!” one barks at you.

You only look at her, confused. She knows that you can’t understand her.

But she then grabs your arm and starts to pull you upwards. “Alzarsi!”

She wants you to get up. You try to stand without slipping in the tub, while also covering yourself. They look at you with raised brows, laughing to themselves, saying more words in their native tongue.

You don’t need to know what they are saying, their eyes darting between your breasts and your hips. You aren’t exactly the standard of beauty.

“Do I…? Does this disappoint you?”

Your breath catches, and they fiercely dry you off with a towel.

“Kitka…Never…”

His voice…Arthur’s voice. Why would he be saying that to you? Your head doesn’t hurt. Could this be a made-up reverie or a wishful daydream? You had wondered what he might say if he saw you, out on the lake…

If he found you beautiful, nothing these women could ever say would matter in the scheme of things.

Leaving you, one of the women picks up something that was folded. Unraveling it, she reveals a simple blouse and skirt, resembling the uniform they wear.

Are…are you to be a servant? A slave?

“Vieni,” she begins, holding them out to you. “Mettiti questo.”

She must want you to put them on. You don’t have a clean chemise or bloomers to wear, but you suppose it won’t matter.

Taking the clothes, you begin to put them on, feeling their tense eyes on you as you try to hurry. Once your blouse is buttoned, the other woman begins to grab your hair, braiding it into one long cord and weaving it in a knot at the top of your head. You want to ask them what their plan is, but you have a feeling they won’t answer you.

As the women finish arranging your hair, you catch the flicker of concern—or perhaps curiosity—in one’s gaze. The room is thick with their whispered conversations, but their words are as elusive as wisps of smoke, leaving you still grappling with uncertainty about your place in this strange new world. You can't help but feel like a pawn in someone else's game, maneuvered and positioned with no say of your own. The notion gnaws at you, an itch beneath your skin that you can't shake off.

One of the women tugs at your arm. “Vieni… ” And they start to walk out of the washroom. You follow.

As they lead you out of the room, through a series of winding corridors, your mind races with possibilities—each more unsettling than the last. How will you be able to navigate this place when you don’t know their language? Or a way out?

You don’t plan on staying here, but you will do whatever you can to bide your time until you are able to plan your escape. No fires or explosions. Subtlety this time, like a flame on a wick. You have to burn silently, unnoticed until you can find the right moment to blaze freely. You've learned from your time in the circus, and with the gang, that sometimes the most effective performances are those unseen by the audience until the final reveal.

As you continue down the hallway, you hear the distant clink of glasses and a warm laugh, a pretentious laugh, and a light coming from another room. You brace yourself, having the feeling that whoever is in that room, is the one calling the shots. 

You watch the women enter the room ahead of you and you hesitate. You aren’t sure what to prepare for and you turn to look down the hallway. Maybe if you start now, you can find a way to escape.

“Come here, signorina.”

English. He speaks English.

You step into the well-lit room, to the left there are windows, revealing the darkness outside. You don’t know if they can be opened, but you see another door going into another room. Four men stand in attendance to a middle-aged man sitting down, wearing a silk robe. His hair is dark and shines from pomade. He’s grinning at you, but it isn’t in any way that conveys benevolence.

“I apologize for hasty attention to your…uncleanliness. We can never trust the Briathewaites to bring merchandise clean.”

You only stare at him, but your body clearly tenses. Merchandise. That is what he calls it? You have the feeling that you weren’t brought here to be a servant.

“My name is Angelo Bronte,” he states, placing a hand on his chest and leaning forward as if to formally bow.. “And you are in my city…and in my house.”

You swallow, methodically planning what you might say. The last thing you want to do is make this man angry. Being surrounded by armed men and women at his attendance, he is no different than Dutch or any man who has a semblance of power. You need to tread carefully. “And what city would that be, Mr. Bronte?”

He pauses, looking up at his men. “You hear that voice? Soft like honey. A little accent, can’t you hear it?” He talks about you as though you aren’t even in the room. You try your best to conceal your agitation, especially when he turns to look back at you. “Saint Denis, signorina.”

Saint Denis. You might have heard of it while overhearing conversations from townsfolk in Rhodes. And from the distance you traveled (you only had to gauge it by sound, given you had a bag over your head), it isn’t far from the Braithewaite mansion.

“And you own this city?” you ask.

Bronte leans into the sofa, smiling smugly. “Let us just say that I am letting the mayor borrow it for a while, but yes. Nothing goes on here that I do not know about.”

His words send a chill down your spine, but you maintain an outward calm. You understand the power men like him wield; it's not just the wealth or the armed men—it's the knowledge, the connections, the sheer influence over every soul in the city.

“What do you want with me?” you ask bluntly, deciding that it is appropriate enough to cut to the quick with this question.

He leans forward again, resting his elbows on his knees. “It is my understanding that you are a woman of many talents, yes?”

You can’t help but raise a brow, unsure as to what he is implying. “Such as…?”

He smiles suggestively. “Such as disappearing acts, handling explosives with a delicate touch, and twisting your body in ways most can’t fathom,” Bronte continues, his gaze sharp as if trying to peel back the layers of your soul. “The circus... it teaches unique skills, does it not?” You stiffen slightly, realizing he knows far more than you could have ever thought. How would the Braithewaites know all of that? “But I am more interested in the…hypnotic skills that you possess…”

You feel yourself backing away, but the body of one of the woman servants stops you. “I am not a harlot, Mr. Bronte.”

His face tightens momentarily, a flicker of annoyance crossing his otherwise composed features. “I would never presume so, signorina,” Bronte responds smoothly, his voice lowering to a more persuasive tone. “What I am interested in is your capacity for subtlety and discretion. You see, there are certain... investments that require a delicate hand, skills that you have honed over your years in the circus. And, some might benefit from your ability to…entertain. Consider it... an employment opportunity."

You weigh his words carefully; the air in the room feels heavy, laden with unspoken threats and possibilities. "And if I refuse?" you ask, letting your eyes meet his unflinchingly.

His eyes darken, and you feel something enter the room, something intangible. “Then you will become what you insist you are not.”

His threat hangs in the air like a noose, tightening with each silent second that passes. You draw in a slow, measured breath, trying to keep your composure despite the rising panic. “Will you set me free if I do this?”

He studies you. “Do you not know what employment means?”

You swallow. “An employee can quit.”

He laughs, turning back to his men. “La lingua su questa ragazza! Non sarebbe bello sfruttarlo meglio?” The men laugh, and you know better than to not laugh with them. He turns back to you. “Then perhaps I should have rephrased it. Instead of an employment opportunity, consider it a form of alliance. One where you can use your talents to our mutual benefit, and in return, you get to keep your life—and maybe even a bit of freedom.” He leans back onto the sofa, touching the tips of his fingers together. “But make no mistake, signorina, in this world, nobody is truly free.”

You pause, letting his words sink in. Freedom was a relative term, but you have heard Dutch spew it for years. You believed it, and still do, but you see the dark merit to what Bronte is saying. Even if you have free agency, there is always someone on top, someone with the puppet strings.

And all the puppeteers seem to want to make you dance for them.

For now, you will dance, but when the time is right, you will find your scissors, and cut yourself free. You nod slowly, conceding this moment but not the war. "Fine," you say quietly, your voice steady despite the turmoil swirling inside you. "I’ll do what you ask. But understand this, Bronte—I’m no one’s puppet.”

Bronte smiles, a toothy smile that makes you shiver. “My dear, I wouldn’t have it any other way.” He stands, extending a hand to you. You hesitate, the sense of danger palpable, yet you place your hand in his, knowing full well the symbolism of this gesture. His grip is firm, reminding you of a serpent testing its potential prey before the strike. “Estella will show you to your room. Of course, it was intended for someone…younger than you, but we will make changes.”

One of the women, now Estella, takes you by the arm and leads you away. As you leave the opulent room and back into the darkness, the shock begins to wear off.

What have you done?

Chapter Text

Arthur feels your hands on his chest as you push him away. This forces your lips to part and he feels the dread of it, knowing it is time to go.

“No…” he groans and he takes your face in his hands. Seeing your smile, he goes in for another kiss, your lips parting to let in his tongue, his breath, with a longing that’s almost painful in its intensity. It tastes of a bittersweet flavor of impending separation, making him lose his willpower to pull away from you.

And just as his lips part, you begin speaking. “We have to go back…” your voice is barely above a whisper, trying to catch your breath. “They’ll be suspicious.”

“Let ‘em,” he says huskily, letting his hands fall down to grip your waist. “It ain’t like I get to spend time with my woman whenever I please.”

“Arthur…” you chide. “You think this is easy for me, either?” You place your hands on his chest again, thankfully not pushing him away. “We’ve managed this secrecy for almost two years. They’re bound to have caught on by now.” Your eyes soon express worry. “Especially that new man, Micah. He’s always watching me.”

Arthur pulls you close to him, his protective nature expressed in the gentle way he holds you. “If Micah even thinks of doin’ anythin’, he won’t live long enough to try.”

You pull away, looking up into his eyes. “Do you think Dutch knows? Hosea?”

Arthur shrugs. “Maybe, but they’ll never know just exactly what all this is.” He leans in and kisses your neck softly. “That I love you.”

He feels the vibration in your neck as you hum, your head falling back. “You’re too good to me,” you moan. “Such an honorable man…”

There have been moments, he will be the first to admit, where it has become too difficult to bear. To have to hold back his desires to touch you, to feel you in ways that you’ve never had been touched before, it can be torture. He’s grateful for the days in camp that he has to keep his distance, for there are times where the mere smell of you sets his blood ablaze with a fire he dares not unleash in the open. But tonight, under the cloak of the trees and the promise of secrecy, he allows himself this small slip into the world where only you and he exist. Where he can at least be near you without the several pairs of eyes of the gang watching him.

"Arthur," you whisper again, your breath catching as his lips trace your collarbone, sending visible shivers down your arms and neck. “Careful…”

And that is your way of telling him to not go any further. Settling himself, he pulls away from you and exhales slowly. “I’m sorry.”

You card your fingers through his hair, your nails sending chills down his back. “It’s okay…”

He gazes deeply into your eyes, the moonlight casting shadows that dance across your soft features, your plump lips and dazzling eyes. “Kit,” he begins, his voice a blend of frustration and tenderness, “I admit this ain’t easy sometimes. It’s like livin’ with a ghost of someone I can barely touch. But I'd rather have you like this than not at all.” He sees the milkiness of your skin, the red welt he left on your neck, the redness in your cheeks. “You’re a hard woman to resist.”

You tuck your chin, chuckling bashfully. “Arthur, honestly…”

He takes your hand and kisses your knuckles tenderly. “Honestly.” As the wind whispers through the long grass, you both stand in silence for a moment, the weight of hidden truths pressing between you like the cool night air. Arthur's hand tightens around yours, and reaches his other hand to brush a stray lock of hair from your face—an intimate gesture that makes you smile warmly. “I guess we should head back now.”

You nod. “Yes, Arthur.”

He lets go of your hand and you both begin to head back to camp. Walking through the trees, the space between you grows wider and wider. It’s what you’ve always done: return back to camp from different directions at different times. Sometimes, Arthur has even left from your meeting places to go hunt or rob a stagecoach, to return after a few days. He’s always liked to hear your plans of secrecy, using your creative ways to develop new excuses to be together without any suspicion.

But he knows you’re right. You won’t be able to keep it a secret forever.

But if being with you has taught him anything, it is that it is all worth it.

***

There has been a thickness in the camp. A restlessness from some members, while it feels like others are twiddling their thumbs. Karen continues to mourn the loss of Sean, and she seems to be taking up the bottle more than normal. Despite Tilly and Mary Beth’s efforts to keep her sober, she shoves them off, sulking and mourning in a corner where she can’t be disturbed.

And Arthur, poor Arthur, is eager to go to Saint Denis, find this Bronte, and get you back.

He’s tried to not take out his frustration on anyone, though his replies are usually short and without feeling.

He sits at the table, hands around a cup of coffee that has gone cold, his face imprinted with a pinched gaze.

And stirring him out of his thoughts, a hand is placed on his shoulder.

He looks up and sees Hosea.

“Arthur, you need to rest.”

The thought of rest makes him angry, and Arthur shrugs Hosea’s hand away. “No.”

Hosea goes to sit down beside him, his voice carrying tenderness and empathy. “I’m trying to do the best I can. I’ve even sent John to go looking, but Arthur…” Hosea pauses. “You’re no use to Kit if you’re too weak to function.”

Arthur exhales. He knows he’s right, but every time he closes his eyes, it’s another dream. Another thought of you and the way you make him feel. “I just can’t sleep, Hosea. We killed all those people, stirred up such a mess…nothin’ is goin’ right.” He lowers his head even more, as well as his voice. “Every time I close my eyes I see her starin’ back at me.”

Hosea nods, his eyes softening with the weight of understanding. "I know, son. I know it's hard. But Kit—she's tough, tougher than most. And if there's one thing I'm certain of, it's that she’s out there waiting for us to find her."

Arthur would like to believe that. But after the last time, he isn’t sure how many second chances he’s allowed to have.

He then feels the presence of someone else behind him and seeing the look on Hosea’s face, he knows who it is.

“Is he gonna listen to you, Hosea?”

“Trying to, Dutch.”

Dutch pulls a chair and sits on the other side of Arthur. “You need your rest, son.”

Arthur finally brings the coffee to his lips. “So everyone keeps tellin’ me.”

Dutch pats Arthur’s shoulder. “Kit will be fine. She always seems to talk or blast her way out of anything,” he says with a wry chuckle that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Remember how she faced down those bounty hunters in Montana? Walked right into their camp bold as brass." Dutch's voice carries a hint of admiration mixed with bitterness.

Arthur sets the coffee down, untouched again. His jaw tenses as he recalls the echoing gunshots, the scent of blood and gunpowder on your clothes, and how you went to sleep as if nothing had happened. “Yeah,” he mutters, his voice thick with emotion. “She’s got more guts than most men I know.”

Dutch nods solemnly, his eyes drifting off to the lake. “Trust me, Arthur. She doesn’t need you worrying over her. We will go to Saint Denis, and see what we can—”

Suddenly, Lenny’s voice calls out from just outside of camp. “Dutch! We’ve got a problem!”

Dutch and Hosea look out while Arthur turns his body around.

Being escorted by an armed Lenny are two men in suits and bowler hats.

Arthur narrows his gaze, recognizing them immediately. Pinkertons. Agent Milton and Agent Ross, to be exact.

“Not a problem…” Milton says, strutting into their camp like a peacock. “Visitors…” Arthur quickly stands to his feet, watching them closely. “…A solution.” And soon, others from the camp begin to gather, conveying their distrust of the two men walking in here.

Milton stands too boldly amongst men and women who are no stranger to killing. “Good day, fine people.” His eyes wander to Dutch, who remains seated, unperturbed by his presence. “Mr. Van Der Linde…” And then he gazes upon Hosea who comes to stand beside Arthur. “Mr. Matthews, I presume?” Then his eyes meet Arthurs. “Ah, Mr. Morgan, so good to see you again.”

Arthur isn’t falling for this false sense of formality, given the last conversation they had a month or so ago.

And Dutch doesn’t seem to either. He doesn’t even glance the agent’s way when he speaks to him flippantly. “What do you want, Agent Moron?” His voice is smooth, layered with a thinly veiled hostility that only those who know him well can detect.

Milton clears his throat, adjusting the brim of his hat with a gloved hand, a smirk playing on his lips. “We are here on official business, of course. It wasn’t difficult to find your lack of human decency amongst the civilized world.”

That’s when Dutch rises from the chair, moving steady, his voice between a growl and a threat. “This place…ain’t no such thing as civilized. It’s man so in love with greed, that he has forgotten himself and found only appetites.”

“And I suppose that gives you leave to take and kill as you see fit?” Agent Milton retorts, his voice sharp like a blade sliding across a whetstone.

Arthur watches the exchange, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. The tension in the air could be cut with that knife. He can feel the angry glares from the others around him, sharing in Dutch’s view of the world around them.

Arthur knows that Milton is far from righteous, too far from heaven to cast judgment.

Milton continues, “You aren’t nothing but a killer, Mr. Van Der Linde, but I’ve come to make a deal.”

“You’ve made your deals,” Arthur says, emboldened by his desire to see Milton off and to focus on his true priority. “I didn’t take it the last time, and none of us will, either.”

Milton narrows his eyes. “I had assumed you were a degenerate, Mr. Morgan, but I never took you for a fool.” He looks at Dutch. “If you were given the opportunity to sacrifice yourself to let the others live in peace, I don’t think you would have the guts to actually do it.”

Then, there is a sudden harmony of clicks, hammers being pulled back as the others standing around pull out their guns.

“I think it’s time for you to leave now,” Susan hisses towards Milton.

He takes a step back, his brow furrowed into a scowl. “You’re making a big mistake, all of you.”

And Dutch, emboldened by the surge of loyalty surrounding him, takes a step toward Milton. “No mistake here, Mr. Milton. You see, we know exactly what we are. But you, you wear a badge thinking it cleans the blood off your hands.” His voice lowers. “Stop following us. We’ll be gone soon.”

Milton’s face tightens, his lips a thin line of restrained fury as he scans the circles of cold steel aimed at him. “I’m afraid I can’t, and when I return I will be back with fifty men. You can run from this place, you fools! But we will never stop until every one of you dies!”

Lenny reaches for him. “Get goin’!”

But Milton pulls his arm away. “Get your hands off me, boy!” And without saying another word, he turns to walk away, Agent Ross following close behind.

They are all silent for a moment, waiting for the repulsive agents to be out of earshot. Lenny, eyeing them, follows after them, undoubtedly to make sure they go. 

Arthur feels a hand on his shoulder and turns to see Dutch. “Thank you for having my back there, Arthur.”

Arthur nods. “What are we going to do now, Dutch?”

“We leave. We find a way out of here, and get gone.” And seeing the look on Arthur’s face, Dutch exhales. “We will get Kit back, too.”

“Thanks, Dutch.”

“Don’t know why you’re so worried…”

Arthur swallows. “She…Jack said she tried to save him. That’s how they got her.”

Hosea, who has been listening, adds, “It’s clear she risked her neck for him. I have a feeling that Jack was the main target, which leaves the question…”

“Why her instead?” Arthur asks.

“Exactly. John should be back soon, we will see what he has to say.”

“For now,” Dutch says with finality. “We need to pack and find a new place to camp.”

“Maybe I can help.” The three men turn to see Lenny, who has come back from following the agents out. “I know a place not too far from here. A big house. Called Shady Belle. There are some men holed up there, but if we take ‘em out…”

“Say no more, Lenny,” Dutch interrupts and turns to Arthur. “Arthur, you, Lenny, and Javier go and clean up the refuse. We will meet you there once we are done here.”

Arthur nods, feeling the weight of responsibility pressing down on him like the hot breath of the southern sun. His heart, still raw and aching for you, fuels his determination to clear out Shady Belle. He leaves to gather his pistols and rifle from the weapon wagon and checks the load.

"You alright, amigo?" Javier asks, eyeing him with a concerned gaze.

“I’m Fine.”

“That isn’t really convincing, but I won’t pester you about it.” Javier claps a reassuring hand on Arthur’s back and after arming up, the three of them mount their horses and they make their way out of camp.

“Follow me,” Lenny calls out and he picks up the pace.

The ride to Shady Belle is laden with a tense silence, the only sounds are the rustling leaves and distant animal calls that resonate through the dense woods. What a mess they are making out of things. Sean, Mac, Davey, Jenny, who else will fall before freedom? Or will death be the end of them all?

He doesn’t know, but Hosea’s warning to leave only grows louder and louder in his mind. But if he is to do that, there’s no way that he is going to leave without you. For there would be no point otherwise.

After kicking up red dust, the humidity making it stick to their horses’ legs, they reach the road that leads into a rundown mansion. They dismount their horses at a distance, and stop at the entrance to the property, a brick wall that acts as a guardian.

Their backs to the wall, Arthur glances around. He sees wagon carts full of dynamite, men standing all around. They look and breathe like Lemoyne Raiders.

He’s had enough of these fellers. Enough of these games that they all play. He’s coming to his own crossroads and he isn’t sure how long he can walk down this path without collapsing under the weight of his own heart. A heart that bleeds endlessly for you, even if he believes you to be lost to fate’s embrace.

Inside, his mind races through the plans, counting exits, and memorizing faces. Beside him, Lenny nods, waiting for him to formulate a plan that will ensure their victory.

And so, with his rifle in his hands, his eyes regarding the two men at his side, Arthur finds his resolve hardening like the dried mud on their boots.

And readies himself for the fight.

***

After removing the bodies and reaping the rewards from their onslaught, Arthur doesn’t meet Dutch and the gang at the front of the mansion with Javier and Lenny. He goes on to Saint Denis to find John. He hasn’t been back, and doesn’t know that they have moved camps.

He keeps a close watch on the road as he heads east. The deeper he gets, the more marshes, bayous, alligators, and odd sounds he encounters. He’s grateful that Montana doesn’t start easily, lest he get thrown off and left in unknown territory.

People he passes by don’t smile at all, a characteristic of this region. It is every man fending for himself.

The trees open up to sandy and wet marshes and he crosses a bridge, under a sign that reads Saint Denis.

In the sky, a plume or dark smoke fills the air, causing Arthur to flare his nostrils in disgust. The foul smells fill his nose and his brow furrows as he takes in the dirty streets and low glares.

He’s here. This is what Milton calls civilization.

He’s far, far away from open country. Land that he loves.

He needs to find John, but upon taking in the city, he can see that this task is not going to be as quick and easy as he had hoped.

It’s been a while since he has set foot in a city as large as this, most of the places he’s been can be reduced to an entry and an exit, with a few buildings in between. If he isn’t careful, he could get lost before even trying to turn around.

He follows the road he came in on, the street passing by trains before leading him deeper into the city.

Now, if he were John, where would he be?

Then it occurs to him, the saloon.

Riding along, he sees a man walking and calls out to him. “‘S’cuse me, partner…” he begins and the man lifts his head to look at him. “Could you tell me where the saloon is? Could go for a whiskey in this heat.”

The man nods, as though agreeing with him. “I know what you mean.” Then he points out in front of him. “Stick to this street until you reach the second corner, then make a right. Can’t miss it.”

Arthur tips his hat. “Thank you.” Then carries on.

He nearly reaches the street corner, when he hears jeering coming from behind him. Looking back he sees an oncoming trolley and quickly steers Montana out of the way.

As it passes, he sees a string bean of a kid hanging onto it calling out to something behind him. “C’mon! Run like the goats got loose!”

And a raspy voice shouts back to him. “You come back here, you little runt!”

He’d recognize that voice anywhere. It’s John!

And sure enough, John gallops right past Arthur, riding a new horse.

“Marston!” Arthur calls to him, but it is clear that John hasn’t heard him. Whatever mess he’s gotten himself into, Arthur isn’t about to abandon him. He grips the reins tightly, and with a quick nick of his spur, Montana gallops forward and down the street.

Turning down the street, Arthur catches a quick glimpse of John as he dismounts the horse. The boy must have jumped off the trolley and John nearly rams into a vendor before disappearing into an alleyway.

“Sonofa—” Arthur groans, and swings off of Montana, who whinnies excitedly. “Stay here, boah!” And then he takes off after John.

He tracks him by the wake he leaves behind. Women shrieking and men yelling, “Hey, get back here!” Arthur doesn’t need to ask where a snipe-legged kid and a man with a scar went. All he need do is follow the chaos, John’s typical signature.

Somehow, Arthur starts to find it comical. If he were to go back in time, though he most certainly can’t, he would be in a similar situation. Only, he’d be the young boy they are chasing after. Arthur lets out a cackle, pushing through the crowded street as a vendor hollers, “Watch your step!”

The next alley John ducked into is shadowed and narrow, cluttered with wooden crates and stray cats that scuttle away at the sound of his boots. Arthur slows his pace, narrowing his eyes to adjust to the lack of sunlight, listening for any sign of John or the kid.

He suddenly hears a crash and he runs.

Pushing through a metal gate, he turns his head to the left to see John leaning over the boy as he has a hold of him by his collar. “Give me my stuff, you brat!”

Arthur approaches from the side and sees what the boy has in his hand, John’s hat.

The boy offers it back to John. “Here!”

John rips it out of the boy’s grip with his free hand and puts it firmly on his head. “And Bronte? Where’s he?!”

“Out on Flavian Street…Big House…across the park!” The boy sees Arthur at the corner of his vision and changes his expression. “Help me, sir! This man’s beatin’ me!”

Redirecting John’s attention, he turns to see Arthur walking up to them. “Kinda looks like you deserve it,” Arthur smirks.

“Arthur,” John greets before looking back at the boy with a raised fist. “You better not be lyin’!”

The boy’s eyes widen, looking at the two towering men with intimidating faces. "I’m a good boy, I wash!”

Satisfied, John lets the boy go, letting him fall hard on his back.

Arthur takes an aborted lunge at the kid. “Now, get lost!!”

The boy scrambles to his feet and runs away, disappearing around the corner.

Arthur lets out a chuckle, slapping his leg. “Are you in the habit of chasin’, Marston? Chasin’ sheep, chasin’ O’Driscolls, chasin’ derelict boys?”

“Shut up,” John sighs, kicking a pebble. “Ain’t no way to talk to me after tryin’ to help you get your woman back.” This stops Arthur and he turns to John, who gives him a knowing look. “You really think folks don’t know by now? It’s clear you’re sweet on her.”

But no one knows that you’re his wife, and Arthur will keep that secret for as long as he can. Arthur tries to downplay it, waving John off. “It ain’t just because of that,” Arthur admits. “She’s been with us since the beginnin’.”

“You don’t got to explain it to me, Arthur. She’s been like a big sister to me. I know that if I were gone, she’d do the same for me.”

Arthur nods, the lines deepening around his eyes as he goes to John and pats his shoulder. “Thank you, John.”

And not one for sentimentality, John waves it off. “Ain’t nothin’.” He casts his eyes to the sky, above the roofs of the buildings that stand like tall trees, a concrete wilderness. “It’ll be dark soon.” Then he looks back at Arthur. “We can go see about this house, then we can go back and report to Dutch.”

Arthur shakes his head. He can’t wait that long. Dutch is the one who makes the plans, but it is he and the others that execute them. And as of late, Dutch’s plans have been far from glorious, or successful. “I say we find Bronte and confront him ourselves.”

John’s brow pinches. “Just us? Arthur, we don’t know how many—”

“We will look less intimidatin’ that way. Maybe we won’t have to do any killin’. I’m tired of it.”

John's eyebrows shoot up, surprise flickering across his face before it settles into a reluctant nod. "Alright then, just us two," he agrees, clapping Arthur on the back with a loud smack. "Let’s hope your plan is better than Dutch’s would’ve been."

***

If Arthur is to describe Angelo Bronte’s home, big would be the word to use. Not as large as the mansion they just found in Shady Belle, but it is new, clean, and well-maintained. Fine living, for certain.

John stands beside Arthur as they view it from across the street.

“So, we’re doin’ this?” John asks, clearly still skeptical.

“We are,” Arthur answers with finality. “Unless you wanna just head back to camp?”

“I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

Arthur is thankful. Perhaps the experience with Jack has shifted something in that half-eaten brain of his. He seems more sure now, as though he knows what stakes are hinged on their actions tonight, but is willing to help Arthur in his plight. They cross the street, their spurs jingling with each step but settling just as quickly as they are sounded, a silent testament to the subtlety needed for what they’re about to do.

They need to appear inconspicuous, so all large weapons are tucked away with their horses. Arthur, being naturally intimidating, tries to make himself look softer by relaxing his face and his hands.

As they approach the house, they stand in front of the gaze, where an armed man stands behind it. “State your business,” the man demands, his tongue laced with an Italian accent.

“S’cuse me,” Arthur begins. “We’re here to see Mr. Bronte about some…important matters.”

The man eyes Arthur suspiciously. “Such as?”

Arthur has to play aloof. He needs these men to think that he isn’t here to rescue you, it’s possible that they don’t know who he is or who he’s affiliated with. “I hear he’s come across someone…special recently. And I’m interested.”

The man steps closer to the gate, lowering his voice. “Are you an investor?”

Arthur is quite surprised to be handed such an opening, but he isn’t one to shy away from it. “I represent one. You think they’d come themselves?”

He looks Arthur up and down, nodding. “Should have known by your attire.” And with a gesture to another man beside him, the gate is opened. John and Arthur share a look, one that unveils surprise while also communicating, “We better not mess this up.”

“Follow me,” the guard instructs, walking toward the house.

As soon as they step inside, they are greeted by the opulence of dark-stained furniture and gold-framed paintings. They make an immediate left into a parlor and the guard gestures to a sofa right in front of them.

“Sit down. Mr. Bronte will be here to meet you shortly.” And he quickly leaves the room.

Arthur feels it odd that they aren’t being watched, but somehow, it wouldn’t surprise him if they actually were. With careful movements, he sits down on the sofa and John sits beside him.

“Keep your head, Arthur,” John speaks quietly.

Arthur lets himself chuckle. “I was just about to tell you that.”

John fidgets in his seat, unable to calm his jittery nerves as they both wait. His eyes dart around the luxurious room, taking in every detail from the lavish furnishings to the intricate artwork hanging on the walls. "Fancy place," he comments, trying to sound nonchalant.

Arthur nods, a small smirk playing at the corner of his lips. "Shoah is."

Sensing that Arthur expects him to stay quiet, John takes the opportunity to scan the room once more, trying to distract himself from the tension building in his gut. "I suppose you want me to let you do all the talkin'?" he finally asks.

Arthur's eyebrow raises in amusement. "Why, you think you got somethin' better to say?"

Feeling already defeated, John turns away with a shrug. "Just askin'," he mutters under his breath. The weight of their mission and the looming possibility of failure weigh heavily on him as he awaits their fate in this opulent setting.

And suddenly, footsteps approach and a loud voice greets them. “Gentlemen!” Jumpy, Arthur, and John quickly begin to rise, turning to see a well-dressed man with dark hair and dark eyes. The man, Arthur assumes as none other than Mr. Bronte, motions for them to sit back down. “Oh please, please, remain seated.” Hesitating, Arthur and John slowly sit back down. Smiling, Mr. Bronte walks to the sofa across from where they sit and sits down, with three guards standing nearby with guns in their hands. “I was told that your investors sent you here to speak with me. I am quite curious as to what they have to say.” He leans back into the sofa, making himself comfortable. “But first, I’d like to know who your investors are.”

Arthur corrects him. “Well, it’s just one investor, Mr. Bronte.”

After a pause, Bronte chuckles, almost incredulously. “Who is it?”

“Leviticus—Cornwall.” Arthur fumbles with the answer, having to come up with it on the spot.

And Bronte clicks his tongue. “Ah. The oil magnate who is trying to take over the whole…continent!” He laughs, and his men chuckle with him, as if on cue. “Yes, I’m sure he’s got many fingers in every pie, does he not?”

Arthur nods. “Indeed he does. He’s very skilled at dealin’ with people as well as oil.”

Bronte's laughter echoes through the room, bouncing off the expensive oil paintings on the walls. “Of course, of course, but why has he sent you all the way to Saint Denis? There’s no oil in Saint Denis.”

“Well, no, but there are finer things than oil,” Arthur answers eloquently.

Then Bronte’s smile changes, and his eyes reveal recognition. “So you are interested in what I’ve recently acquired?”

“Mr. Cornwall is interested,” Arthur replies coolly. “Mr. Cornwall would like to know what’s so special about her.”

“How did he hear that I have her?”

Arthur goes quiet for a moment, carefully choosing his words. “The best way that I can explain it, while keepin’ my employer’s matters…as private as possible…There’s a few things that don’t reach his ear, especially when it comes to where she is from.”

Bronte leans back in his chair, studying Arthur with a shrewd gaze. “Ah. So you do know?”

“Yes, we do,” Arthur confirms.

“And where is she from?” Bronte presses, as though testing him.

“She’s a prized member of a gang, is she not?”

Bronte tosses his head from left to right. “Yes, I suppose she is, but I was hinting at something different.”

Arthur knows you better than anyone, so these questions are almost too easy. “What, the fact that she was in a circus?” he chuckles, as though it is now common knowledge.

“Mr. Cornwall’s sources must be well-informed for him to find that information so quickly. It’s quite a secret!”

“Well, how did you come to know it, Mr. Bronte?”

Bronte grins, eyeing Arthur closely. “You are quick on your tongue, Mister…?”

“Kilgore, Tacitus Kilgore.”

Bronte looks at John, expectantly. “And you?”

“Rip Van Winkle,” he answers without missing a beat.

“Ah. I see.” Bronte pauses then claps his hands once. “So, what does he need my…investment for? What services does he require?”

“Mr. Cornwall ain’t prepared to say until he knows what she is capable of.” Then he leans forward, putting on a mischievous grin. “If you catch my meanin’.”

Bronte chuckles, nodding his head. “Yes, yes, I understand you completely, Mr. Kilgore. In fact, you’ve come at the most perfect time!” He begins to rise from his seat. “I have some other investors here as well.”

Arthur blinks. He hadn’t thought of that possibility. “Do you?”

Bronte nods slowly. “Oh yes, word travels fast, Mr. Kilgore. She is about to showcase her skills this evening. Would you like to join us?”

Arthur and John share a glance. Then Arthur gives the answer. “We’d be delighted.”

“Very good! Very good!” He pauses a beat as he eyes the two men up and down. “Unfortunately, your attire is not suitable for such a high-class event. It is a very formal affair, you see.”

Arthur stands up, slightly flustered, and John follows suit. “Well, I do apologize, but we came as soon as we—”

Bronte dismisses the apology with a wave of his hand. “Oh, there's no need to make excuses to me, Mr. Kilgore. I will make the excuses for you,” he chuckles. “Now, if you would kindly follow me this way, you will see the precious treasure we have acquired from the marshes of Lemoyne.”

They obediently follow Bronte and his entourage down the dimly lit hallway. The flickering light from ornate lamps cast shadows on the walls, creating an eerie atmosphere. Not a sound can be heard except for their footsteps on the plush carpet beneath their feet.

Arthur's heart pounds in his chest as he feels a sharp nudge in his shoulder and John's urgent whispering beside him. "There's more people," John says, panic lacing his voice. "How are we gonna—?"

"Keep your head, John," Arthur replies quietly, trying to hide his own fear.

"But what if she gives us away?" John asks, his words trembling with anxiety.

"She won't," Arthur assures him, but he fears his own heart will betray them.

They cautiously enter the large room, one side bathed in darkness while the other is brightly lit. The air is heavy with the scent of rich wines and exotic fruits, an ominous sign of the sinister gathering taking place. Two men in sleek black suits stand at one of the circular tables, their presence alone radiating danger and power. These must be Bronte's other guests, and Arthur knows they will not take kindly to uninvited intruders.

Arthur also notices several armed men lining the wall. 

Bronte greets the two men with a gesture of open arms. “Gentlemen, gentlemen! We have other guests that are joining us this evening.” He turns and gestures to Arthur and John. “These men represent none other than Leviticus Cornwall, the wealthy oil magnate. This is Mr. Kilgore and Mr. Van Winkle, come fresh from the oil fields.”

Ignoring the dig, Arthur nods politely to the two men. “Gentlemen.”

Bronte begins by introducing the younger of the two. He’s tall, has a dark mustache, and slicked-back hair. “This is Colonel Alberto Fussar—”

Mr. Fussar suddenly stands, his face contorting into a sinister smile that sends shivers down Arthur's spine. "I am all too familiar with Mr. Cornwall," he says in a low, menacing voice. "We have had quite an...arrangement."

Arthur's throat tightens as he forces himself to move forward and shake Fussar's hand, feeling the weight of their lives hanging on this one false introduction. “He speaks highly of you, sir. Had he known you would be here, he would have come on over himself.”

Mr. Fussar seems to like that remark, as he smiles smugly. “Give him my regards, Mr. Kilgore.”

Arthur nods, and Bronte continues with the introductions, gesturing to an older, stout man whose buttons threaten to pop from his dress shirt. “This is Hobart Crawley, a Confederate major in the war. A grand hero!”

Crawley tucks his double chin. “You flatter me, Mr. Bronte.”

And as if that was permission to quit, Bronte discards any further compliments toward the man and goes right to the business at hand. “Now, I need to remind you, gentlemen, the purpose of the evening. If this investment pleases you, I accept certain monetary donations for my cause,” he chuckles in a near-suggestive way and the wealthy men join him. “Now, keep in mind, that it is first come, first serve, as the Americans say, and she will make you great riches.” Then he claps his hands. “Portatela dentro!”

It is then that a light focuses on the other side of the room and you step out with two musicians.

John grips Arthur’s arm, but quickly lets go.

Your attire is sparse, revealing your alluring body. A long, flowing skirt in shades of gold and red drapes over your curves, with a daring slit up the side that exposes a tantalizing glimpse of your thigh. Your bodice is adorned with a tightly woven, exotic garment, a shimmering gold girdle that matches the colors of your skirt, as it wraps a thin chemise that falls off your shoulders. On your head sits a regal headdress, intricately designed with delicate beads cascading down the sides of your face. Your lips and eyes are expertly painted, enhancing the milky white complexion of your skin under the glow of the lamps. But it is not these adornments that catch Arthur's attention. It is your countenance - eyes cast downwards, mouth unsmiling - conveying a sense of shame, sorrow, and perhaps even defeat.

It is everything Arthur can do to not stand up and go to you, but he knows it isn’t time yet. Instead, he grips the armrests of his chair, his knuckles turning white.

Keep your head, Arthur. Keep your head!

And Bronte, with a flamboyant tongue, introduces you. “May I present, Dáma Motýl!”

You stand there a moment, your eyes still not looking up. Arthur wants to call your name, to get your attention. He wants you to know that he’s here, that he has come for you. But the lights on Arthur’s side of the room go dim, enshrouding him and the other men in darkness.

Just as you look up.

The musicians begin to play a seductive tune and as though controlled by it, you lift up your arms, bending them, and you begin to dance.

Your movements are fluid, hypnotic, a mesmerizing blend of strength and vulnerability. Each sway of your hips and every arch of your back speaks a silent story of longing and loss. You weave through the shadows cast by the flickering lamp light, each step an echo of your circus days, yet tinged with a feeling of sorrow that only Arthur can seem to grasp.

To the other men, who have immediately grown silent, it is merely a dance of pleasure and seduction.

But as your husband, it enrages Arthur. What did Bronte say or do to you to put you up to this?!

“Superb…!” Crowley gasps. 

Bront emits a guttural chuckle. “She’s also skilled in…other things, of course. But she’s easy on the eyes, which doesn’t hurt.”

Arthur swallows, nearly stammering as he poses a question, afraid to learn the answer. “Mr. Bronte, does she…is she a…?”

“No, no, no.” Bronte shakes his head. “If I understand what you are thinking, the answer is no. This is one of those instances where you look, but don’t touch.” Bronte chuckles, wagging his finger at Arthur. “No touching, Mr. Kilgore!”

The other men laugh and Arthur leans back into his seat. “I see.”

“Are you meaning to say that Mr. Cornwall is looking for something more physical, hm?”

“It’s just a question. Leviticus Cornwall doesn’t leave one stone unturned.”

“That is a true statement,” Mr. Fussar agrees. 

Bronte seems to be swayed by Fussar’s validation. “A wise approach, but people are more likely to spend money on things they cannot have.”

John nods, lifting his brow in a sign of recognition. “A wise approach.”

And Bronte smiles at him, the darkness making his features more sinister. “Indeed.”

It is then that Arthur asks another question. If he can keep Bronte talking, maybe he can dig up some information that will help him later on. “Have you ever met Leviticus Cornwall?”

“Oh, no, I’ve only heard of him. You know, it’s quite interesting how they never show a picture of that man anywhere. Is it because he’s too ugly to show his face?” He begins to laugh and his men and even Mr. Crowley, but not Mr. Fussar, join him. “So ugly that he needs to pay someone to dance with him?”

It is clear to Arthur that Bronte enjoys the backhanded compliment, but he isn’t too afraid to insult someone openly. 

“The only thing Mr. Cornwall likes people to see is his moneh,” Arthur answers. 

Bronte stops laughing and studies Arthur. “Ah, a very-well spoken answer, Mr. Kilgore.”

Suddenly, the music changes. A sharp, jagged melody that shows suspense. All of the men turn their attention to you again, and you have a long stick in your hand, the end of it alight with fire.

“Oh!” Bronte exclaims. “This will be good.” He leans toward Fussar. “This was my special request.”

You move about your side of the room, the trail of fire following you as you spin once. He can see how your hand begins to shake, as you slowly bring the flaming end to your mouth. Then suddenly, in a burst of light and glow, you breathe the flames in a far stream of heat. 

Arthur’s heart catches. He knows while you are drawn to fire, the very same act of fire breathing is what killed your parents. 

But he watches you do it again, dancing on your feet delicately as you turn in the opposite direction and spew flames like a dragon. 

And just as quick as it happens, it stops. In a quick motion, you put the end of the torch in your mouth, extinguishing it, and smoke escapes your lips. 

Bronte rises from his seat, applauding. “Bravo! Bravo! That was perfect, my little butterfly.” Though you can’t see him, he waves you off. “You may go now. Let the men speak business.” A laugh rolls off his tongue and Arthur watches you bow your head and be escorted out by the musicians. The lights return to his side of the room and Arthur’s eyes need to adjust, though still not leaving where you had vanished from his sight. “You seem entranced, Mr. Kilgore. I hope you’ll pass it along to your investor.”

“Indeed, I will.” Then something occurs to him. “She stays here with you?”

“Of course, we must protect her at all costs. She’s very valuable.”

Arthur is quick to ask, “How soon are you accepting investors?”

Bronte seems amused by his question, nearly looking ravenous for the opportunity to have more money and power. “Well, of course, you all need time to think about it.” He clicks his tongue. “Why don’t we…do something a little bit different? The mayor is hosting his ball in a few days, as you all are aware. Would that be plenty of time for you all to make your offers?”

The men nod their heads collectively. “Yes, of course.”

“Very well. I look forward to seeing you all there.”

Mr. Fussar and Mr. Crowley both rise from their seats, bow politely, and are promptly escorted out of the room by two guards. 

John pulls on Arthur’s arm. “Let’s go…”

But Arthur pulls away, walking over to Bronte. “Mr. Bronte, if I may…”

“Of course, Mr. Kilgore.”

“I already know Mr. Cornwall is interested. He trusts my judgment in decisions like these. But, you see, I will have to return to him and let him know before he wires any moneh.”

Bronte clicks his tongue. “Mmm. So you’re wanting to…take out a loan, perhaps?”

Arthur feels himself bristle. The idea of loaning you out is far from appealing to him. “I don’t know what’chu mean by that, but what I was gonna propose, was that we take her with us now.”

Bronte tilts his head from left to right, his brows lifted. “Well, that leaves me short-handed, does it not? I’m going to need some assurances or some sort of collateral before you take my treasure with you.”

“What kind of collateral?”

“Well, there is something that I am…missing and I would appreciate two…brutes like yourselves to retrieve it for me.”

Arthur raises a brow, the tone of Bronte’s voice making it all seem suspicious. “What is it?”

“You’ll know it when you see it. It is in the cemetery.”

Grave robbery? He wants Arthur and John to rob graves in the cemetery? He should have known this would be coming. No matter where he is, there is always a job. Always something for him to do so others don’t get their hands dirty.

But if it can build trust, and if it satisfies him, you will be let go, albeit on a temporary basis. But that will be a problem for another time. What matters is bringing you home with the least amount of bloodshed. 

“And that will be enough to satisfy this…collateral you’re wantin’?”

Bronte nods his head. “As long as you bring her back to the party. That will be the second part of our deal.”

Arthur blinks. He had hoped that he would never have to return to Saint Denis again. “You still want us there? Our thought was to bring her to Cornwall tomorrow.”

“Why, of course! Mr. Cornwall can’t be the only one to experience Dáma Motýl. He will just get her first, and the party is the perfect time for investors to see her in her full form.” He pauses, grinning mischievously. “Unless you just leave her and take her after the party. Your choice.”

“I understand.” He looks at John, who nods, then he looks back at Bronte. “We will take her now.”

“Excellent. Bring me my lost treasure and she’s yours for the next three days.” 

Arthur nods, not saying anything more, and takes his leave. John follows close behind and he hears the steps of two armed guards escorting them out. 

Once they are back into the humid air, Arthur sees how much time has passed. It’s pitch black and while Arthur is disgruntled that another day has gone, he’s glad that this will give them cover as they go to the cemetery. 

“I guess we go now, Rip,” Arthur says. 

“Looks that way, Tacitus.”

They walk out of the front gate and make their way back to their horses. Montana perks up upon seeing Arthur and once he’s close, Arthur gives him a good pat. “How’ya doin’, boah?”

With almost a rehearsed synchronization, John and Arthur mount their horses and ride away from the hitching posts. “Follow me, I know where it is.”

Arthur lets out a chortle. “Been all over town, have you?”

“Shut up,” John snarls.

They ride together for a minute or two in silence. Arthur looks up at the lights, the wires for the trollies that are suspended above their heads. Hardly any trees. There aren’t even any stars in the sky. 

And finally, John speaks. “That was too easy.”

Arthur lowers his head and nods, speaking in low tones. “That’s just what I was thinkin’.”

“You think he’s usin’ us?” 

“He most certainly is. But we need to keep bein’ polite and well-mannered. We don’t want to mess this up.”

John shakes his head, his pinched brow revealing the deep lines of worry etched into his face. The shadows cast over his scars only accentuate his troubled expression. “I feel so uneasy about this, Arthur. I just keep thinkin’ if it were Jack we was tryin’ to get...”

Arthur’s gaze softens as he thinks about the boy and what his fate could have been. “I know. I’m glad he is back at camp. Safe.”

John looks down, letting himself be vulnerable. “I blame myself.”

Arthur looks at John, shaking his head. “You can’t think like that, John.”

“If I had been there to watch him, if I weren’t so…Kit wouldn’t’ve risked herself to save him.”

Arthur lets out a heavy sigh. “If I know Kit, and I think I do, she don’t regret savin’ him.”

“I owe her, Arthur.”

Arthur sighs. “We both do.”

***

They find the cemetery in short order. It feels as though it is tucked away in the darkness, but it isn’t too far from the main business of the city. Arthur and John dismount quietly and try to approach the cemetery as calmly as possible.

John reaches it first, and finds the gate to be unlocked. Perfect. As he pulls the gate open, it lets out a soft creak, making them freeze for a moment.

They wait. And after a second or two, John opens the gate the rest of the way.

They enter.

The moon, half hidden behind scudding clouds, casts an eerie glow over the gravestones and mausoleums. They tiptoe between the plots, the only sound the crunch of gravel under their boots and the distant hoot of an owl. Arthur can't help but feel the weight of all those souls long gone; it's a heavy feeling, like a sack of flour strung across his shoulders.

John whispers, almost too low for Arthur to hear, "How are we gonna find anything in this place?"

Arthur nods, his eyes scanning the darkened landscape. "Yeah, I know. But Bronte said we’ll know when we see it.”

“Maybe he just wanted to get rid of us, then do whatever he wanted to Kit.”

This hits Arthur like a brick. “Don’t say that, Marston…”

John’s breath hitches, realizing that probably wasn’t the best thing to say right now. “She’ll be fine, Arthur. C’mon, let’s keep lookin’.”

As they move deeper into the labyrinth of tombstones and statues, a sense of urgency suffuses Arthur’s movements. The ground underfoot is uneven, the threat of stumbling ever-present, but his mind barely registers these physical distractions. His thoughts are consumed with you—your memory like a lantern guiding him through the darkness.

They come near the edge of the cemetery, with a row of family columbariums and mausoleums. That’s when Arthur hears a scraping sound.

“John!” he breathes. 

“I hear it…!”

“Let’s go.”

As they near it, it seems as though the world grows more quiet, a thick suspense as they walk steadily toward the source of the sound.

The sound grows louder, like fingernails scraping against wood, making the hairs on Arthur’s neck stand on end. As they draw closer, the source of the sound becomes clear—coming from behind two large doors.

Someone is in there, undoubtedly with Bronte’s treasure.

Moving synchronously, they flank the sides of the doors, readying their weapons. In the faint light of a nearby flame burning on a mausoleum, they look at each other.

Counting on his fingers, John numbers one, two…

And in a burst of energy, they kick the doors open.

“You boys find my pappy’s watch ye—?!” John’s outburst is cut short when they discover that there’s no one there. Just a series of urns.

That’s when they hear a burst of gunshots behind them.

Great. They’ve been spotted!

Turning around, they find cover behind some gravestones as bullets fly by in their direction.

“I think this was a trap!” John yells.

“You think?!”

Arthur peeks over his cover. Aside from small torches attached to some mausoleums, there is little light amongst the fog. The flashes when bullets rip from their guns are the only indicator of their positions. But if Arthur and John are to make it out of here alive, they will need to fight through these attackers.

Arthur’s mind races, not just with the adrenaline of the firefight, but with the thought that you are still in Bronte’s estate. Could this have been a distraction meant to draw them away from you? The possibility fuels his resolve as much as it twists his gut. He leans out, fires three quick shots toward the last flash of gunfire, then ducks back as a bullet chips the edge of the gravestone near his head. Hearing a collection of moans in the distance, he knows he has hit his targets.

"We gotta move, Arthur!" John shouts, reloading his gun swiftly. The cemetery sprawls out like a macabre maze, and their attackers are using the tombstones and statues as cover—ghosts in the foggy night, eerily silent between the thundering reports of gunfire.

Arthur nods, his jaw set. "Alright, on my mark," he mutters, scanning the inky darkness. His eyes, now accustomed to the low light, pick out shadows that don't belong to tombstones. He tightens his grip on his weapon, the pistol as familiar as the weight of his own heart, aching for the moment he can return to you.

"Three... two... one..." Arthur counts under his breath and then, with a warrior's yell, they dash from behind their cover. Bullets slice through the mist, weaving deadly patterns in the air. Both men zigzag toward their attackers, they see they are no mere shadows; they're flesh and blood, desperate men probably hired by Bronte to keep them distracted. Arthur feels the weight of each bullet he dodges, the stakes higher now knowing you might be in danger. He catches glimpses of his foes—a glint of a gun here, a silhouette darting there.

And as though time has slowed, Arthur raises his gun and annihilates his enemies with dead precision as they flee.

John, in likewise fashion, takes down several others.

The oncoming bullets stop just as they slide behind another set of graves.

“Is that the last of ‘em?” Arthur asks while catching his breath.

John peeks out from behind the tombstone and looks around. “There’s a light, Arthur! In one of the tombs.”

“Probably another trap,” Arthur figures.

“I don’t think so. That is where they was comin’ from…” John rises to his feet and moves in the direction of the light.

“Marston…!” Arthur calls, but the man ignores him. After a moment of hesitation, Arthur grumbles and follows after him. “We better make this quick. I don’t doubt that gone unnoticed.”

The light flickers, casting shadows that dance across the aged stones, creating phantoms in the dark. As they draw closer, the source of the light becomes clear—a small, solitary lamp, resting on a partially opened tomb, its marble lid scantly resting.

Daring to peek inside the tomb, John notices a small, velvet pouch. He picks it up and opens it. “Ho-ly…!”

Arthur hurries to him. “What! What is it?”

John holds it so that Arthur can have a look. And when he sees what’s inside, his eyes widen.

A gold watch, some rubies, and a pair of pearl earrings.

“Treasure…” John sighs. “And my pappy’s watch.”

Arthur allows himself a chuckle and pats John’s shoulder. “Trap or no, this should be enough to satisfy the Italian.”

And suddenly, in the distance, a police whistle echoes from the other side of the cemetery. Arthur curses under his breath.

“Time to go, John,” Arthur hisses, his eyes darting around for the quickest escape route.

“You don’t have to tell me twice…!”

Together, they crouch low and make a dash for the cemetery’s wrought iron gates, their boots pounding against the cobblestones, echoing in the quiet night like a death knell.

It is time to return to Bronte.

***

“We could have had our own carriage brought,” Arthur says while they exit Bronte’s estate. “Cornwall spares no expense for his interests.”

Bronte waves off the notion with a flick of his hand. “It is my pleasure. He can apply the expense to his donation when he wires me my money,” he chuckles. “I do want to thank you for retrieving my belongings. It is difficult when you hire men and they turn out to be complete buffoons. I’m sure Mr. Cornwall understands.”

Arthur makes a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “He most certainly does.”

Seeing movement from the corner of his eye, Arthur turns to see a large man carrying you in his arms. You are fast asleep, and this worries him. “What—what’s wrong—?”

“Oh, do not worry, Mr. Kilgore. We gave her a little something to help make your journey easier. She can be a little…feisty.”

Arthur tries to sound appreciative. “Oh, erm, thank you for accommodating us.”

“Where are you staying?”

Hell, Arthur hadn’t thought of that. It wouldn’t be smart to lead them to camp. But he doesn’t know where there would be any—

“The Bastille Saloon,” John answers confidently. “We got two rooms there.” John looks at Arthur quickly and nods, conveying, I got you, brother.

Bronte seems pleased with this. “Ah! Perfect. My men shall see you safely there.”

This makes Arthur uneasy, but if he argues, it might raise suspicion. He nods his agreement, keeping his expression neutral as he follows the man carrying you out to the carriage. John keeps pace beside him, his eyes scanning for any signs of trouble.

Once seated, the carriage moves forward, and Arthur hears Bronte call out to him.

“Remember, Mr. Kilgore! Look, but don’t touch!” And then his laughter rings into the night, soon fading into the night’s fog.

As the carriage rattles down the cobbled street, Arthur sits next to you, watching as the moonlight dances across your peaceful expression. He’s eager to hold you close, but given the urgency of the situation, and John’s watchful eye, he merely adjusts the blanket you are wrapped in.

“Why did he give her that damned stuff to make her fall asleep?” John asks with a snarl.

Arthur shrugs, his eyes not leaving you. “I don’t know.”

“Maybe to prevent her from escaping? From fightin’ back?”

“It don’t matter now.” Arthur looks over at John, determination etched on his face. “We have to find a way out of Saint Denis. We can't risk being followed.”

“They seem to be watchin’ us.”

Arthur nods. “I know. We may have her back, but this ain’t over.”

“It never really is.” The weight of their situation weighs heavily upon them, reminding them of the constant danger they face in their line of work. “I’ll kill ‘em if they hurt my sister.”

The carriage stops right in front of the saloon and John is the first to step out. He nods his head at the driver and eyes the two armed men who have been following close behind this entire way. A couple of men who step out of the saloon eye the carriage, whispering fearfully to one another before quickly making themselves scarce.

Arthur looks to you, still sleeping. He doesn’t know how long you will be asleep for, but he isn’t going to waste any time getting you as far away from Bronte as possible. Carefully taking you in his arms, he maneuvers out of the carriage without fumbling or missing a step in his descent. Your head falls into his chest and his heart catches. Trying to be as calm as he can, he backs away from the carriage and turns to Bronte’s men. “Please give Mr. Bronte our gratitude. We will see him in three days.”

They nod wordlessly, and don’t make any motion to leave.

John tugs on the elbow of Arthur’s shirt. “Let’s go, Tacitus.”

Arthur begins to back away slowly toward the saloon, his eyes still watching the men on horseback. And then, finally, his back reaches the saloon’s front doors and he lets himself in.

Inside, the saloon's clamor dulls to a murmur as patrons turn, their curiosity piqued by the sight of you cradled in Arthur's arms. The air smells of tobacco and stale beer, a stark contrast to the crisp night outside. Arthur navigates through the crowd, his demeanor that of a man on a mission, determined yet cautious. He doesn't speak, merely nods curtly to those who acknowledge him. His eyes scan every corner, every face, looking for signs of trouble. John follows closely behind, his hand resting on the butt of his revolver, ready for any sign of danger.

Arthur reaches the front counter, which acts as a bar while also as a guest check-in. The man, who is in the middle of cleaning glasses, has his back turned.

Arthur clears his throat. “Ahem. Pardon me, mister, but can we have a couple of rooms please?”

The man’s posture changes as he turns around. “Yes, I believe we—” And as soon as he looks at you, his eyes widen. “My god, is she alright?”

Arthur looks down at her. She does look concerning. He looks back up. “Oh, she’s just tired from the long journey. It’s been a long couple of days.”

The bartender nods his head slowly. “I can tell.”

John begins to exhibit impatience, as he steps as close as he can to the counter and leans into it. “The rooms, mister?”

The bartender, momentarily lost in his concern, snaps back to attention. "Right, of course. That will be four dollars a night.”

Arthur, his hands not free, looks at John pointedly. After a pause, John sighs, reaching into his coat pocket and pulling out some cash before slipping it to the bartender. Taking the money, he reaches beneath the counter and pulls out a pair of keys, sliding them across the polished wood towards Arthur. "Room seven and eight, upstairs to your left. You and your…” His eyes look down at you.

And Arthur replies softly, almost tenderly. “My wife.”

“—Wife, can have the largest room, that is eight. And your…friend there can take seven. If you need anything, holler."

John grabs the keys and starts for the stairs, his boots thudding against the wooden floor. Arthur, still holding you in his arms, follows him. As you both ascend the steps, the creaking of old wood under your collective weight seems to echo through the building. The atmosphere feels heavy, laden with the unspoken fears and secrets of all those who have stayed here.

At the corner of his vision, Arthur sees John eyeing him as they walk up the steps. “What?”

“Nothin’…It’s…just that you said she was your wife.”

Arthur furrows his brow, using aggression to dismiss the notion. “People would’ve been askin’ questions if I didn’t say she was.”

And John mirrors his expression, asking a pointed question. “Since when did you care what folks thought?”

“It ain’t about me…” And he looks down at you.

John seems to understand, his expression softening. “Right. I just…just the way you said it.”

Arthur shoots a defensive look at him. “How did I say it, John?”

John shrugs, quick to want to leave the discussion. “I don’t know. It’s just weird.”

“The whole day’s been weird. C’mon.”

They reach the top of the stairs and walk down the quiet hallway. Rooms seven and eight are at the very end and John, with the keys, unlocks room eight.

It is completely dark, with only the moonlight coming through the window. Arthur, once his eyes adjust to the darkness, spots a large bed and carries you over to it. He gently sets you down, and pulls the throw blanket over you, tucking it gently around your shoulders. "Rest now, Kit," he murmurs, brushing a stray lock of hair from your forehead. His touch is tender, belying the roughness of his hands.

Arthur stands there a moment longer, watching you in the moonlit room, then turns to see the shadowed form of John as he stands nearby. “Alright, I don’t know how long she’s gonna sleep, but I figure I’ll get us all somethin’ to eat.” He begins to leave. “You good to watch the door?”

“Outside the door?”

Arthur replies as though he’s stating the obvious. “Yes, John, outside the door.”

John pauses, and Arthur can see the silhouette of his head shaking. “No. You watch outside the door, and I will get somethin’ to eat.”

Arthur lets out a long sigh. “Fine. Bring somethin’ with strawberries, will you?”

“Yes, I will. I know those are her favorite.”

“Thanks, John.”

They both head out of the room. Closing the door behind him, he watches John head back down the hallway where they came. Feeling the fatigue and weight of the past few hours events, he leans against the wall beside the door, his eyes momentarily closing. The corridor is quiet, save for the distant sound of a piano from the saloon below, playing a somber tune that seeps through the floorboards. They're not out of danger, not by a long shot, but for now, this silence is his reprieve.

***

A bone-jarring crash jolts him awake, and he recoils from the wall as adrenaline surges through his veins. The sound came from the hotel room, violent and chaotic—nothing like the groggy stirrings of someone emerging from deep slumber. 

And he had left you alone in there, vulnerable.

Panic tightens around his chest; he didn’t even think to check the windows. What if someone had broken in?

Driven by urgency, Arthur bolts to the door and flings it open. The darkness of the room envelops him, pierced only by a faint glimmer creeping through the window. Heart racing, he whips his head toward the bed.

You are gone.

“No…!” he gasps, dread clawing at his throat as he rushes to the window.

That’s when he hears it—the soft pad of footsteps on the carpet behind him, followed by an unexpected weight crashing onto his back.

The figure is surprisingly light but their grip is ironclad; long nails sink into his flesh like daggers.

Wait, long nails?

“I don’t care that you work for Mr. Cornwall…!” hisses a voice laced with defiance. “I am not going anywhere with you!”

Though low and sharp, the voice drips with a sweetness that sends conflicting emotions spiraling within him. He struggles to speak as your chokehold constricts tighter around him. “K—Kit…!” His breath catches as desperation mingles with the slow lack of oxygen.

But then your grip loosens, and your voice raises. “Arthur…?” The recognition in your tone is a mixture of confusion and relief, washing over him like the first rains after a long drought. 

He reaches for his neck, gasping for air. “Man, thought I’d try not to get scratched again…” he chuckles bitterly.

You quickly release him and go to the floor. Arthur whirls around, his hands reaching out to steady you as the moonlight filters through the window, illuminating your features—hazel eyes wide, face flushed with the remnants of anger and fear.

And your eyes glisten with tears. “Oh, Arthur…!” You let out a soft gasp and cover your mouth. “Arthur…! I’m so sorry…!”

“It’s alright.”

You reach out, your fingertips brushing against his smooth, clean-shaven face. “Is it really you?”

“Yeah. It’s me,” he replies, his voice a low murmur that visibly stirs something deep within you.

You blink in disbelief, and a single tear escapes, rolling softly down your cheek like a precious gem. “You came for me.”

“Of course, I did.” He takes your trembling hands in his strong grasp, enveloping them with warmth as he gently caresses your knuckles with his thumbs. “When a man loses– loves –his woman, he goes after her.”

You blink again, stunned. “What?” your voice trembles and Arthur feels his heart racing with a whirlwind of emotions—relief, joy, and an overwhelming sense of love that had been missing for far too long.

“You heard me.” He’s willing to risk so much in telling you, but it can’t wait any longer. “I love you, Kit. Have for a while, have for a long time. I’ve been so scared since you’ve forgotten…” He bows his head. “We kept it secret for more than two years…until…” Then his voice falls as his lip begins to quiver. 

You don’t speak for a moment and it is almost agony for him, but then you smile. You smile bittersweetly, sympathetically, as you reach up to cup his face. Your hands so gentle, so sweet, Arthur could die now and be content. “I’m sorry, Arthur. What’s in our past…is lost to me, now, but I’ve felt something. A pull towards you, even though my mind couldn't remember.” Your voice is barely above a whisper, but in the quiet room, it echoes like a confession. “I’ve loved you…I do love you.”

Arthur’s face softens, the lines of worry and time smoothing out for just this moment. “That’s all I needed to hear,” he says and lifts a hand to wipe your tear with his thumb.

“I’m afraid I might not ever remember everything, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Arthur's voice is tender, his eyes gentle as he looks at you. "Don't be sorry for things beyond your control, Kit. We've both seen enough to know life don't always give us what we plan for. What matters is now, this moment."

You nod and you lean into his touch. “It’s like we’re starting over, isn’t it?” You say it so softly, posing the question as though you are afraid to admit it.

Arthur smiles at you. “I guess so.”

You search his eyes as you speak barely above a whisper. “So, what do we do?”

He looks into your eyes and feels the weight of the past lifting, replaced by the promise of a new beginning. He feels a deep resolve the determination not to repeat the mistakes of yesterday. He begins to lean toward you, speaking softly. “How about…?” he starts to say, his breath mingling with yours, but it makes his heart flutter in a way that words seem impossible. 

His lips find yours, hesitant at first, afraid you might break or fade away like a mirage in the desert sun. But you press deeper, confirming the reality of the moment, the connection that defies memory and time. His kiss grows bolder, a silent language of years unsaid, weaving through the spaces between you two.

And as your fingers weave through his hair, the door opens.

“You’d think they don’t know what strawberries are, by how they—” John immediately stops talking as soon as he sees your two forms in the light of the window, still entangled in the gentle embrace. His expression flips from bewilderment to a knowing grin. “Well, it’s about damned time.” And he quickly tips his hat in apology before slipping away, closing the door behind him with a soft click.

The interruption breaks the spell momentarily, but Arthur gives a low chuckle, his voice resonant in the quiet room. "Guess I shoulda told you John’s here too," he murmurs, his smile lingering as he gazes down at you.

You let out a quiet laugh, the tension easing from your shoulders. "Maybe," you reply and he can feel the pounding of your heart against his as it still races from the kiss and the sudden interruption.

Arthur knows it is late. And while he has so many questions, you all need your rest before you try to escape Saint Denis. He tucks some of your loose, dark hair behind your ear and plants a soft kiss on your forehead. “Get some sleep, Kitten,” he whispers. “We can talk in the mornin’.”

“Okay,” you reply. And hearing you yawn, he takes that as his cue to leave. He gently removes himself from you and heads for the door.

“Arthur…?”

He stops mid-stride and turns to look back at you. He sees your elegant form, even in that simple black dress, you are the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. His heart aches with a longing he thought had died months ago.

“Yes, Kit?” Arthur’s voice is soft, filled with the warmth of the emotions swirling within him.

“Don’t go far,” you say quietly, the vulnerability in your voice almost making him reconsider his decision to leave the room. “I mean…well…”

He turns back to face you. “What, Kit?”

You begin to fiddle with your hair, looking down at your feet. “Can you…stay with me? Not like…I mean…”

Arthur smiles softly, stepping back toward you. "Of course, Kitten," he replies, his tone gentle, reassuring, for nothing else matters but granting this simple request. He crosses the room and pulls a chair close to the bed and you pull back the covers and climb in. Sitting down, he reaches out and takes your hand as you lay down, feeling your gentle fingers in his.

You turn your head on the pillow to face him, looking into his eyes. “Goodnight, můj král.”

And hearing that name flow off your tongue, sets things right in his world, even for just a little while.

“Goodnight, Kitka.”

And he watches you fall asleep. You’re his again. 

Chapter Text

You drag your feet out of your tent, rubbing your eyes. You’ve been with the gang for about a year now, and have come to know the few members that are in it. You’ve also begun to learn your place under the protection of Hosea. Since he brought you here, he’s taken on an almost fatherly role, and is eager to prove to the leader, Dutch Van Der Linde, that you are a valuable member. 

But one thing you’ve been struggling with these past few weeks, is sleep. 

It is not because you aren’t comfortable or go to bed at a terrible hour, no, it is because of an instinct you’ve had since you were young, since Antek was your responsibility. 

A simple whimper, or a whisper of your name, would wake you and you’d go to him. You’d find him wherever he was, and cradle him in your arms until he was comforted and fell back asleep. 

But now, that instinct has transferred to someone else. 

Your feet finding their way in the dark, you pull the tent flap back and the whimpering grows louder. It is a juvenile cry, a voice announcing disrupted reverie with things that really happened. 

You go to the boy, finding his sleeping form on his cot. Sitting down so you aren’t imposing on him, you gently bring him into your arms. 

He clings to you, completely unaware. In fact, he never knows, caught in a veil between sleeplessness and dreams. 

“Please, don’t…!” the boy cries. “Leave me alone…!”

“Shhh…” you whisper softly. “It’s alright.”

You’re tempted to hum, to sing the lullaby you know so well, but you can’t bring yourself to do it. Instead, you rock the fourteen-year-old back and forth. 

And after several minutes, his body relaxes and his breathing slows. 

You lean down and kiss the top of his head, something he’d never let you do while he’s awake. He reminds you so much of him. So much of the brother that you lost. 

“Sladké sny, John,” you say. 

Sweet dreams. 

***

Tap! Tap! Tap! “Arthur…? Arthur, you in there…?”

You awake to John’s soft whisper behind the door, somehow still attuned to his voice. You motion to rise, and find yourself pressed against something firm. 

Something more firm than a pillow. 

In the darkness, with the moon still casting a faint glow through the window, you lift your head slowly…

And see Arthur sleeping beside you. 

He lays on top of the comforter, his boots off and toes twitching in his sleep. Your body is turned toward him, as though he were your anchor, and your body a sea vessel. You could drown in his eyes if he were to open them and look into yours. 

You smell the tobacco and leather and smile, now you know why you’ve taken to liking it so easily. 

You don’t want to break it, this fragile moment, this vulnerability. To see him so calm and peaceful stirs your heart in ways that you had wished to remember. He’s been stern, sullen, savage, but now he’s reduced to peace. 

You reach up, carefully taking his face in your hands. He still doesn’t move. 

You can’t believe it. He loves you. Arthur has loved you, and you two have loved each other for the past two years or so. And it was a secret? It is clear that many suspected something, but you can’t fathom how you both managed to not be open about it. 

You don’t remember. You hoped to have a dream about that day, the day you both declared your love for each other. You want to remember it, to feel it, like you did that kiss on the cliff nine years ago. You try to piece it together, to try to imagine when and where it was, but you are coming up empty.

You may not get your memories back. You may never find out what happened that day in Blackwater. All you know is how it left you and how it made Arthur feel. Your heart aches for him, knowing that he suffered alone, not sharing it with anyone. 

You have a feeling that is over now. 

Tap! Tap! “Arthur…!”

John isn’t going to wait. Soon he’ll open the door and see Arthur like this. The poor man is too private of a person, that would surely upset him. 

Planting a soft kiss on Arthur’s nose, you carefully let yourself out from under the covers and crawl out of the bed. Arthur slumps deeper into the pillows and it takes every bit of you to not return. 

But John’s tapping might eventually wake your neighbors and you hurry to the door. Turning it quietly, you open the door and meet John’s eyes. 

His eyes widen. “You’re awake…!” You quickly back away from the door and he steps in before you close the door behind him. Before you can do anything else, John quickly wraps you in his arms. “Hell, I missed you!”

You smile and pat your brother on the back. “I missed you too, John.”

He’s quiet for a moment and you feel him squeeze you tighter. “Thank you…for…I don’t know how to say it.”

You tighten your arms around him. “Is he safe?”

John answers through quivering lips. “Yeah. Jack is safe.”

You sigh. You’re relieved that the Braithewaites fulfilled their end of the deal. 

Deal. You remember the one you made with Bronte. Or rather, the one you were forced to make, and your heart sinks at the thought. 

“This isn’t over.”

John sighs and lets you out of his arms. “I know, sis, but we gotta go.”

“Now?”

And you hear Arthur speak quietly behind you. “Now.”

You and John turn to see him sitting up on the bed, putting on his boots. “The sun will be up soon. We need to get out of Saint Denis before Bronte’s eyes see us.”

You nod, remembering what the Italian had said to you, the underlying threat that he knows everything that goes on in “his city.” “Just tell me what to do.”

His eyes meet yours and he smiles. “I’ve missed you.”

You feel your cheeks burn and you tuck your chin, biting your lower lip. 

It is then that John’s eyes widen as he regards the bed. “Wait, did you two—?”

You quickly whip around, slapping John’s arm. “No, John! Quit with that…!”

He recoils, rubbing his arm. “Ow! Hell, woman!”

“Be quiet!” Arthur whispers, rising to a standing position. “We need to move. Now.”

Arthur’s right. Time is of the essence. There isn’t much to gather up, you didn’t have anything with you except for the clothes on your back, but you don’t have those anymore. Arthur and John gather their things quietly. The less attention you draw to yourselves the better.

“If we go out the front, people will see us,” John whispers. “The Saloon never closes.”

He has a point. As you three silently think about it, your attention is drawn to the window.

You get an idea.

"Let's use the alley," you suggest, voice barely above a whisper. Your eyes scan the shadows cast by the moonlight, outlining a narrow path free from the usual nighttime drifters and drunks.

Arthur nods in agreement, his face set in a grim determination. "Good thinkin’," he murmurs, and carefully opens the window. He sticks his head out and lets a puff of air escape his lips. “That’s a long way down.”

You come up behind him, letting your fingers trace along his back. “What, are you afraid of heights, Mr. Morgan?”

The teasing tone in your voice makes him chuckle, a low rumble that momentarily lightens the tension. "Not at all," he replies, turning to give you a quick, reassuring smile. "Just considerin' our options."

John is already moving towards the window, his usual impatience taking over. "Well, let's not dawdle here chattin' about it." He swings one leg over the sill, then stops and looks back at the two of you. "Are you comin’ or not?"

Arthur checks the pistol holstered at his side before he nods at you, signaling it's time to move. You edge closer to the window and look down as John grabs a drain pipe and shimmies on his way down. “Didn’t think you were a climber, John.”

Arthur nudges you. “He’s had a bit of practice recently.”

“Shut up…!” John barks through clenched teeth, trying to keep quiet.

And in a playful gesture, Arthur makes a sweep of his arm toward the window. “Ladies first.”

You do the honors, first removing your shoes. “I’m glad to be rid of these…” And after hiking up your dress to allow mobility in your legs, you see Arthur’s eyes cast downward. “Well, Arthur, I thought you were a gentleman…”

He clears his throat and looks through the window and down at John. “Keep a lookout, Marston!”

With a quick, playful wink thrown his way, you take Arthur’s offered hand and helps you into the window frame. The cool metal of the drainpipe feels uneasy under your grip; it's older, less reliable than the sturdy beams and ropes you had mastered back in your circus days. But necessity pushes you onward, and with careful, measured movements, you use your bare feet against the brick of the saloon to support your way down. Once your feet touch the ground, you look back up. “Careful, Arthur. That drain pipe might give out under your weight.”

Arthur's laughter rolls down from above, a rich sound that briefly warms the chill of the evening air. "I reckon it'll hold just fine," he calls back, already halfway through the window. 

You watch as he positions himself carefully, his movements deliberate and practiced—a reminder of the many times he's escaped tighter spots than this. You can’t help but eye his backside, biting your lower lip. “The view is quite nice from down here…”

John chuckles from his spot by the alleyway, glancing up at the scene unfolding above him. "Will you two quit flirtin' and get a move on?"

Arthur lands beside you with a soft thud, his boots stirring a small cloud of dust from the dry ground. He straightens himself and gives you a lingering look, his eyes gleaming with a mix of amusement and something softer, something achingly tender. "Quit flirtin', he says,” Arthur mocks gently, adjusting the brim of his hat. "As if there's somethin' wrong with admiring beauty under the moonlight."

You feel a blush creep on your cheeks and you cover them with your hands.

“Hell,” John mutters. “I liked it when you forgot you two had a thing.”

You glance at John, the corners of your mouth tilting up in a faint smile. "Well, it's hard to forget when he's always reminding me," you tease, nodding towards Arthur.

Arthur chuckles, his gaze still fixed on you with that same tender look. He reaches out, brushing a stray lock of your hair. “John’s got a point, though. We best move on.”

You sigh, nodding your head. “Did you bring your horses?”

John nods. “I hitched ‘em around the corner last night.”

Arthur nods approvingly. “Good thinkin’, John.” And he makes his way down the alley. “Maybe the wolves ate all your brain after all.”

John shakes his head, letting out a sigh. You pat him reassuringly and after sharing a look, you both follow Arthur out.

Sure enough, Montana and Old Boy are hitched nearby, waiting. After checking the coast is clear, you three crouch low in the shadowed areas of the street and reach the horses. John wastes no time in mounting Old Boy. “If we go down this way, it leads out toward Lagras. It’s quieter, but it’s longer.”

Arthur hoists himself on Montana and offering his arm, you take it and use it to swing yourself up behind him. You immediately take his waist, pressing your body close against him. “Quiet is what we need.”

John raises a brow. “Are you sure you can handle that?” he teases.

“Drive, Marston…!” Arthur orders under his breath.

And together, you three gallop down the street that leads to the outskirts of the city.

You three remain quiet as you pass through the slums of Saint Denis and little by little, the view becomes less shanty and wooden fences, and more marsh, water, and moon. It feels good to be leaving Saint Denis, though you know in three days you will have to return.

You remember what Bronte told you before he gave you that strange tea. “Get as much information that you can from this oil magnate. I want to know everything about his operations, who he’s tied up with, and how deep his pockets run. Understand?” His words were wrapped in velvet but carried the sting of iron nails. You had nodded, unable to anticipate the whirlwind your life would become thereafter. “When you return, I want you to report back to me, and then I will have your next task.” You aren’t sure how you are going to manage this, considering you aren’t going to see Mr. Cornwall at all. Maybe Hosea can help you figure out a plan that will placate the Italian, long enough for you to navigate your way out of his clutches. 

As you ride through the cooling night, the murmur of insects and distant cranes seem almost comforting compared to the chaos of the city. Arthur’s presence in front of you is steady and warm, his body a familiar contour against your own. You remember nights like these, before memory slipped away from you like sand through fingers—nights filled with whispered secrets and stolen kisses, hidden beneath the vast expanse of stars.

You hope to be married to this man one day. Maybe, when all of the chaos is over. The thought brings a bittersweet ache to your chest, a mixture of longing and fear. Fear that the same fate which had torn you from Arthur before could strike again, leaving your dreams as nothing more than whispered wishes in the wind. But tonight, under the canopy of the night sky, those fears are momentarily calmed by the palm of his hand as he gently places it over yours.

You let out a deep exhale, resting your forehead against his spine.

“Won’t be long now, Kit,” Arthur says softly. “You’ll be home.”

***

The ride was long, and it took everything that you had to stay awake. You didn’t want to run the risk of falling off, but you also wanted so desperately to be awake to soak in the time with Arthur. The landscape changed hardly at all, the woods and marshes thick with wildlife, you could hear alligators rumbling as they sensed the horses.

And you get to watch the sunrise just as you near Shady Belle.

John leads the way to your new home, a narrow road that is guarded by trees. Curious, you weakly look around Arthur to see someone guarding the entrance.

It is Charles.

And before he can even ask who it is, he sees John, then Arthur, then you.

“Hey!” he calls out to everyone. “They got Kit! Kit’s back…!”

The announcement creates a chain reaction in you and you squeeze Arthur tight, your eyes stinging with tears. You weren’t sure when you would be amongst your family again.

The relief flowing through you feels like the first rain after a long drought, refreshing and vital. Arthur's grip tightens around your hand in response, it both protective and reassuring. The familiarity of the gesture stirs memories deep within, flickers of your past life with him igniting in your mind.

Charles follows you three into camp and you see people begin to gather around the horses. John dismounts and embraces Abigail, who shares relief to have him back after two days, and in the joy that you have returned.

Arthur, twisting at his waist, helps you slide off Montana and land on your feet.

As Charles approaches, his face breaks into a broad smile, his weathered features softening with genuine affection. "Can't believe my eyes, Kit. We thought..."

Tears brim in your own eyes as he reaches out, pulling you into a rough embrace, the kind only shared between those who have endured hardships together.

“You just can’t seem to get rid of me, Charles,” you chuckle, and you hear others laugh softly with you. He holds you out at arm's length and you smile. “I’m so happy to be back.”

You begin to walk towards the group and feel Arthur close behind you, it makes your heart flitter knowing he's there, like a shadow you’d long forgotten the shape of but immediately recognize once it’s cast again. The rustle of leaves and the soft murmur of voices welcome you back into the fold, and for a moment, everything feels slightly surreal.

Sadie steps forward with a grin, rough and resolute as she was when you last saw her. “Did you get to kill anyone while you was gone?”

You snort and wrap her in a hug. She doesn’t resist and you feel her pat your back once.

You let her go and look around at the other faces. Mary Beth, with tears in her eyes. “Dobrý den, příteli.”

And she nods, mouthing the words back to you.

“Aunt Kit…!!!” Jack charges at you, and you scoop down to pick him up. You hold him tightly, planting soft kisses on his head. He giggles joyfully. 

“Oh, Jack, I’m so glad you’re safe!”

Keeping him in your arms, you look out to see more familiar faces: Tilly, Jack, Kieran, Lenny, Bill, Pearson, Uncle, Susan, Hosea…

And your eyes fall on Karen. She doesn’t wear a smile, her eyes convey a deep sorrow. Something isn’t right. “Karen?” The gathering falls silent and you take a step toward her. “What’s wrong?”

You feel a hand take your arm and you turn to see Arthur. “There weren’t a good time to tell you…”

Your brow pinches and you set Jack down. “What is it?”

He swallows, his eyes soft. “Sean…is dead.”

The news hits you like a punch, sudden and breath-stealing. For a moment, you can't breathe, the world around you blurring into a mess of colors and sounds that make no sense. Sean—the young, vibrant lad with so much life ahead of him—gone. Your knees weaken, and if not for Arthur catching you, you would have fallen to the ground.

“Sean? Dead?”

“Yes, darlin’,” Arthur says as you lean into his arms. “I couldn’t…”

“You did all you could, Arthur,” Hosea says solemnly. “Nobody blames you for that.”

Karen begins to sob and Tilly hugs her. What was starting to be a happy reunion is turning into a somber remembrance. The air grows thick with the scent of sorrow, as if the very atmosphere mourns with you. You pull yourself from Arthur's arms, standing straight despite the heaviness in your heart.

"We need to honor him," you say, your voice steady though it trembles at the edges. “Did he have a burial?”

You see Karen nod. “Yes.”

“But it was rushed,” you assume. “If you all ended up here, you must have left recently.” Everyone nods, validating your assumption. “What happened?”

“Kit!” The booming voice coming out of the mansion has everyone turning around. Dutch comes out, his smile not meeting his eyes. “How did—?” And then he looks at Arthur and John. “You boys brought her back?”

Arthur nods, a hand laying protectively on your shoulder. “Yeah, Dutch. We did.”

Dutch tilts his head. “Bronte had her?”

“Yeah, Dutch. He had plans to use her,” John answers with a bite  

Dutch raises his brow, his eyelids lowering as he studies you and your attire. “For what, I wonder?”

You feel a twinge of discomfort at Dutch's tone, but you stand firm, meeting his gaze with a quiet strength. "Doesn't matter now," you say, the edge in your voice sharper than intended. "I'm not a pawn in anyone's game anymore."

Dutch chuckles lightly, a sound that doesn’t feel comforting at all. “Of course, you’re not, Kit. You’re one of us,” he assures with a sweeping gesture that encompasses the somber group. His attempt at reassurance doesn't settle the unease in your stomach; his words sound hollow, almost rehearsed.

“Thank you, Dutch,” you reply cautiously, not fully convinced of his remark. “But it isn’t over, yet.”

Hosea steps closer. “What do you mean, Kit?”

You feel everyone’s eyes on you now, much more than you would prefer. Every performance, every time you walked a tightrope or danced, none of them have given you so great anxiety.

You feel Arthur squeeze your shoulder and he looks at Hosea. “It’s been a long trip, Hosea…”

Hosea seems to understand, giving a soft nod. “We can talk about it later. For now, get some rest, have something to eat, and we'll gather by the fire tonight. We need to discuss our next steps as a family.” His voice carries a weight, an undercurrent of solemnity that matches the circumstance.

You nod, grateful for the momentary reprieve. As the group disperses, Arthur’s grip on your shoulder lingers a little longer, his presence reassuring amidst the swirling uncertainty. He leans in close, his voice low and steady. "You alright, Kit?"

You nod slightly, too exhausted to muster more. "Just tired, Arthur. It's been... a lot."

Arthur’s eyes search yours for a moment longer before he nods understandingly. "Let’s get you set up then, Susan’s been keepin’ your things safe.” Just as he starts to lead you, you grab his hand and pull him back. You see his ears turn pink at your open gesture and you catch Mary Beth and Pearson watching you.

“I want to see Odliv. She here?”

Arthur smiles. “She found her way back to us.” Expecting for him to let go of your hand, he doesn’t and you can’t help but smile. “Let’s go see her.”

As you walk toward the horses, you catch Mary Beth’s grin and you avert her gaze by staring at your feet with every stride. Your cheeks burn and you know it won’t be long before she will start with her parade of questions when she catches you alone.

Arthur leads you past the edge of the camp, where the horses are tethered, their breath misting in the air. Odliv, your faithful mare, hears your approach and lifts her head, nickering softly. Arthur chuckles beside you, his hand still warm in yours. "She missed you, Kit," he says softly, his eyes not leaving you.

You reach your free hand up to her and pet her slowly. “I don’t deserve her,” you say soberly. “Twice now, we’ve been separated. I’ve failed her.”

“Don’t say things like that.”

“It’s true,” you sigh. “If I were a good owner, she wouldn’t have been put in danger those times.”

Arthur shakes his head, the frown creasing his brow deepening. “Odliv ain’t holdin’ no grudges, Kit. Animals know who loves 'em, and with that mare, there’s no doubt of your love and care.”

You lower your head and smile. You know he means every word.

You squeeze his hand. “Thank you, můj král.”

He squeezes it back. “You’re welcome.”

You feel your knees feel weak, the fatigue finally unable to be fought off. “I think I’m ready to lie down, now.”

“You want me to carry you?”

“And have everyone see?” You feel your cheeks grow hot. “I don’t think so.”

Suddenly, he lifts you effortlessly, a mischievous twinkle in his eye as he ignores your protest. "Well, I reckon they've seen worse," he murmurs with a low chuckle, and you can't help but laugh, the sound mingling with the morning air.

Arthur carries you back toward the camp, his arms strong and stable, your arms wrapped around his neck. If you were concerned about the stares when you were holding hands, you are certainly getting your fill of them now as he strides confidently through the camp. Despite your chiding, you feel a sense of comfort being thus enfolded, his presence a shield against the world.

As he sets you down gently next to a small, fire-warmed tent, you catch sight of Mary Beth again. She is sitting by the fire, a book open in her lap, but she's not reading. Her eyes follow you and Arthur, a soft smile playing on her lips. She knows, perhaps more than others, the trials that love can bring; and in her look, there is an understanding, almost an encouragement.

Arthur notices your glance and follows it to Mary Beth. He gives her a brief nod, an unspoken acknowledgment passing between them before he turns his focus back to you.

"You gonna be alright here while I get some water?" Arthur asks, brow furrowed slightly with concern.

You nod, feeling the soft earth beneath you, the warmth from the fire. “Don’t be too long, or I might just sleep where I’m at.”

He lets a warm chuckle escape his lips before he rises and walks away.

You feel Mary Beth’s gaze still on you and without lifting your eyes, you decide to call her out. “Alright, Mary Beth, you going to tell me why you haven’t turned a page yet?” You keep your voice light, teasing, though a part of you genuinely wants to understand her silent conversation.

She closes her book with a soft thud and leans towards you, her expression open and a bit wistful. “I think I’ve found somethin’ much more interestin’.”

You look up at her and lift a brow. “Oh?” Then look back down again, fiddling with a button on your dress. “I don’t know what you mean.”

She must tell you are messing with her, for she tosses her book at you and you catch it in your hands, laughing.

“Come now, don’t play coy with me, Kit,” she chides gently, her voice rich with the drama of a seasoned storyteller. “It’s clear as day. You and Arthur, whatever it is that’s brewin’ between you—it’s somethin’ fierce.” She shakes her head. “I’m startin’ to regret not takin’ a peak at that journal when I snatched it.”

You shake your head. “I didn’t, either.”

She gasps. “What?! After all that? I did that thievin' for nothing?”

You chuckle softly, shaking your head. “Not exactly…” While the idea of keeping a secret gnaws at the back of your mind, you have a feeling it would be mute. “I think it’s safe to say…” You bite your bottom lip, thinking of the last kiss you shared. “I think we’re in a courtship.”

Mary Beth’s eyes light up, a grin spreading across her face, as if she’s just heard the most delicious gossip. “A courtship, is it?” Her tone teases, but there’s an undeniable warmth there, a sisterly kind of approval. “Well, I reckon that beats any love story in all the books I’ve read!”

You look at her incredulously. “Even with all them…love scenes?”

She blushes, gasping. “Don’t mean to tell me you’ve—!”

And you quickly hold up a palm, shaking your head. “No! No, it hasn’t…come to that…”

She nods. “Oh, good! ‘Cause that would have meant I missed your wedding.”

You’re grateful she still respects that aspect of you. Even though it was only just a week or so ago, you would have gone that far with Arthur, if he hadn’t stopped you. You smile and shake your head. “No, we aren’t married.” You sigh, the weight of the unspoken words heavy between you. “But I wouldn’t mind it.” Your voice is a whisper, a confession that feels as vast as the open prairies you used to explore in.

Your fingers go to trace where your mother's ring would be, but when the Braithewaites kidnapped you, you woke up to find it gone. You figure it’s lost now, perhaps sequestered away along with the other supposed treasure the Braithewaites were supposed to have. Your heart sinks a little deeper, but you figure that you’ve lost so much already, that there isn’t a point in dwelling on the pain of its loss. 

Mary Beth reaches out and takes your hand, giving it a comforting squeeze. “Well, maybe that can still happen for you.”

You nod. “Maybe.”

“Hope you ladies haven’t been talkin’ bad about me.” You twist at your waist and look up to see Arthur with a tin cup. He squats down and when he meets your eyes, he offers it to you. “Be a shame since I weren’t there to defend myself.”

You chuckle softly and bring the cup to your lips to drink the water. It isn’t like the fresh water from the Heartlands, but you are so thirsty, you don’t care.

Mary Beth rests her hands on her hips, a playful smile on her face. “Kit won’t speak ill of you even if her life depended on it.”

Arthur raises an eyebrow, a wry smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “Is that so?” His voice is teasing, but there's an undercurrent of something more tender, a softness reserved just for you.

“Yes,” you reply, your voice barely above a whisper, the knowledge of years of friendship and love making your answer more confident, more intimate. You finish your water and hand the cup back to him.

“Would rather you bruise my ego if it meant you lived.” He takes the cup and holds it by the rim in between his fingers. “I reckon you oughta get some rest, now.”

You nod. “Okay.”

He helps you to your feet and you walk over to the small tent. Crawling inside, you see your belongings and sigh, glad to see them again. You lay on top of your bedroll and tucking your arm underneath your head for support, you find yourself falling asleep.

***

By the time you wake up, it is dark again. It feels like in the last few days you’ve hardly seen the sun. You can’t wait to go back to sleep again, to sleep the darkness away. You keep having more dreams and the promise of morning after rest excites you. 

This last dream you had was about your family. The circus. The first day you had begun performing on horses. You had trained a gelding to parade in a circle as you stood on his back, keeping your balance as he cantered around and around. 

The thrill excited you in your dream, and when you woke up, the excitement was tinged with a headache. They’ve been occurring less and less, but occasionally you’ll have a good one, and this is one of those times. 

You rub your temple as you crawl out of the tent, and you hear Javier playing on his guitar nearby. There are others gathered around, swaying to the song that he plays and sings. It is a contrast to the sullenness you all felt earlier, given the revelation that Sean had been killed. 

Oh, Sean. He had a way to get under your skin, despite his propensity to annoy you for sport. You still don’t have any memories of him, but you will hold onto the new ones. 

As you rise to your feet, Javier looks in your direction and spots you just as he finishes his song. “Ey, Kit, come join us!”

You smile and stretch before approaching them. As you look at all of their fire-glowed faces, you don’t see Arthur among them. Maybe he went to go rest like you did? Where does he sleep?

Tilly, holding Karen’s hand, pats an empty space on the other side of her. “Sit by me, Kit.”

Brushing past Karen, you sit opposite Tilly and feel Susan pat your shoulder as she walks behind you. 

“We should celebrate now that Kit is back!” Uncle insists. “I could use a party.”

“You just want a reason to get drunk,” Charles grumbles. 

Uncle chuckles undeniably. “And what’s wrong with that?”

Charles groans, shaking his head.

You’re glad to be back. Though most of your past still eludes you, this feels familiar and safe. The opulence and luxury in Saint Denis could never compare to the open air and fire smoke. 

You look around and notice that your best friend, Mary Beth, isn’t among you. You turn to Tilly and whisper close to her ear. “Where did Mary Beth go?”

She gives you a mischievous side eye and smirks. “Gettin’ some inspiration for her next novel.”

Karen actually lets out a snort. “And it’s about time too.” She reaches across Tilly and pokes your thigh. “You’re next, Kit. I see it comin’ for you.”

Trying to ignore your blushing cheeks, you shake your head. “You presume too much. Mary Beth could be alone.”

Tilly looks around with exaggeration. “Oh? Do you see Kieran around here?”

And you quickly retort with, “Well, I don’t see Arthur here, either. Are you going to tell me—?”

“I’m right here.”

Your words are swallowed in your mouth at the sound of Arthur’s voice behind you. You and the girls turn at your waists and your eyes travel upward in a pleasurable way. 

But when you meet his eyes, you don’t see a smile. “Arthur? What is it?”

He gestures behind him with a light toss of his head. “Hosea and Dutch wanna talk to you.”

Oh. It must be about Bronte. 

You nod and motion to get up, lifting your dress so you can step over the log. You find it a relief when he offers his arm to you and smiling, you take it and let him escort you toward the mansion. 

“Where do you sleep?” you ask. 

“Inside. John and Abigail are in there, too.”

“And Dutch?”

Arthur nods. “Him too, Molly’s with him…sometimes.”

Your brow pinches. “Sometimes?”

You both near the house and you can hear the raised voice of Hosea, he sounds upset. 

Arthur leans close to you and speaks quietly. “I’ll tell you later.” And with that, he opens the door and lets you step in first. 

Inside, the room feels warmer than the night air, crowded with intense emotions and thick cigar smoke that makes the walls seem to close in. It is dark, aside from a light coming from another room.

You feel a gentle hand on your back, and hear Arthur speak to you quietly. “In here.”

With a gentle push, Arthur guides you towards the lit room. Walking into the threshold, you see Dutch Van Der Linde standing near the fireplace, his broad back illuminated by the flickering light of a lantern, while Hosea sits at a table covered in maps and papers, a look of frustration evident on his face.

“There is nothing for us here, Dutch. There are much better places that we could go to that would prove more successful. I say we move out as quick as possible and lay low.”

“But Kit has given us an opportunity here!” He looks up at you, his eyes looking at you with great intensity. “Haven’t you, Kit?”

You shift on your feet. “I wouldn’t say that it is an opportunity…” you begin. “I would say that it is something that I didn’t have choice but to do it.”

Hosea looks at you with concern. “What did Bronte have you do, Kit?”

You look up at Arthur, and you can see the tightness in his jaw. You aren’t sure if he knows, but the fact that he was the one who got you…

He must have seen you. Dressed that way, dancing with fire.

You swallow and look back at Dutch. “He wants me to spy for him.”

Dutch’s expression shifts, the lines around his mouth tightening as he processes your words. Hosea rubs his forehead, the weight of the situation evident. "Spying, Kit?" He glances between you and Dutch, shaking his head slowly.

Dutch steps closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “On who? Us?”

You remember all of the information that Bronte had on you, your past with the circus, and the talents that you’ve mastered over your lifetime. You shake your head. “If he knows who we are, he has other means to get that information.” You pause. “He believes that I’m under the care of Mr. Cornwall’s men.” You look up at Arthur again. “Entertaining them.”

Arthur’s eyes narrow slightly, a shadow of distress flickering across his features, quickly masked by a hardened resolve. "That rascal Bronte," he mutters under his breath, his voice laced with a tinge of anger and concern. “is a sick bastard.”

Dutch smirks lightly, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “The important thing is, Kitka, what do you think of all this?” Dutch’s hand reaches out, resting it on your shoulder with a weight heavy enough to feel like an anchor pulling you back into this life of shadows and schemes.

You look around the room, the eyes of the men who had become your makeshift family starting back when you were just a girl. Oh, how things have changed, from that portrait you took with them to now this.

You swallow. “I think I cannot raise suspicion. If he has any idea of who we are or where we are, we might as well turn ourselves in to the Pinkertons now.”

“You think he has connections with them?” Hosea asks.

You look at him, unflinching. “It wouldn’t surprise me. He had me dance in front of some of his “investors,” he calls them.”

“Arthur mentioned this party,” Dutch says methodically. “At the mayor’s house. Bronte wants you there?”

You sigh. “Yes, he does. To probably entertain or get information, no doubt.”

Dutch nods, stroking his mustache. “And so will we.”

Hosea clearly dislikes this idea. “Dutch! It would be enough having John and Arthur go back with her. But to have us there will be like wearing a target on our backs. A sign that says, ‘kill me now!’”

Dutch’s eyes gleam with that dangerous kind of excitement that you’ve learned to both respect and fear. “Sometimes, Hosea, the best place to hide is right under the enemy’s nose.”

“Like how we did in Rhodes?” Arthur steps forward, his presence like a shield in itself. “I’m not letting her walk into that lion's den again, Dutch. Not this time.” His voice is firm, resolute, and it’s clear that his decision is final.

You look up at Arthur, feeling a mixture of relief and concern wash over you. His protectiveness brings you a sense of security, yet the danger of not doing what Bronte wanted of you feels just as threatening. The lines on Arthur's face, carved deep with the turmoil of past regrets and unspoken promises, seem to tighten. The silence that follows is charged, each person in the room holding their breath, knowing the gravity of what defiance might bring.

"Then I reckon we best be prepared," Dutch finally says. “You, me, Kit, and Hosea will go. Just us.” He looks at you. “You will spy for us, as well as for him.”

What?

“He wanted information on Cornwall,” you remind him. “How do you suppose that I do that when I am not anywhere near him?”

Dutch dismisses your concern with a statement of his own. “I thought coming up with stories on a dime was one of your many talents.” He grins slyly. “I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

Arthur’s jaw clenches, a silent fury building like a storm on the horizon. It’s clear that he doesn't want you anywhere near those men, but he’s too hesitant to say anything.

Dutch turns to Hosea. “Any objections, friend?”

The room falls silent as you all wait patiently for Hosea’s verdict.

Hosea lets out a slow, deliberate breath, his eyes reflecting a tempered spark of resistance. "Dutch, my concerns don't change the tides," he starts with a weary tone, the weight of years spent on the fringes of society pressing down upon his words. "But if we're to do this, we need to look our best, act our best, and above all, keep our intentions hidden deep beneath the surface." Hosea's gaze flickers to you briefly, a silent message of both warning and reassurance passed in that short exchange. "Kitka is capable, but even the finest blade can snap under too much pressure."

Dutch nods, seeming satisfied with Hosea's cautious endorsement. His hand pats Hosea’s back, approvingly, and he motions to leave the room. “I guess that’s the plan then. We have two days. I suggest you find some dirt on Cornwall, Kit, and ready yourself for the ball.”

He turns around the corner to head up into his room, leaving the three of you in the silence of the decision.

You can’t remain silent for long, your eyes casting pleading glances to Hosea. “Are we really doing this?”

He nods slowly. “I believe so, my dear.”

Your brow furrows, a heated anger building in your chest. “Just to obey? Without question?”

Hosea answers tiredly, running a hand down his face. “It is less of a matter of question and more about the results, Kit. This could go either way, and if we are able to charm our way to Bronte, we might come out of this better off.”

“He has his tendrils all throughout the city, Hosea,” you say. “I don’t think he’s open to having any allies right now.”

Hosea lowers his head, his face showing more fatigue and age than in the past few months. You imagine this has all taken a toll on him, and you have a feeling, by his downcast gaze, he has burdens that weigh heavy on his heart and mind. “And I don’t think we are applying for that position.”

“You think Dutch wants to take Bronte out?” Arthur asks lowly.

Hosea shrugs. “I don’t know, Arthur, but if Bronte is the one with money and power…Well, you know how Dutch is.”

Your heart beats a little faster at the implications, cold dread mingling with the adrenal rush of an impending heist. The thought of going head-to-head with Angelo Bronte, a man as notorious in these parts as the plague, sends shivers down your spine. Yet, there’s an undeniable thrill in the challenge, to have Arthur there this time, at your side, finding Bronte’s weakness and exploiting it, after what he was planning on making you do. 

But you feel defeated still. “I don’t know where to begin, if we only have two days.”

Hosea shrugs. “Perhaps start where we last saw Cornwall’s signature.”

Arthur’s brow pinches. “Valentine?”

“No,” Hosea says calmly. “The oil fields.”

You nod slowly, absorbing Hosea's words. The oil fields - of course. Where the influence of men like Cornwall spreads thick like the black gold that seeps from the ground. "The oil fields," you repeat, tasting the words, your mind already turning over every known detail about the locale.

Arthur leans against the wooden table. “I guess we gotta start somewhere.”

Hosea nods. “It would be best if you left at first light.” He eyes you both. “You should go together.” And a small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “I have a feeling you two make a great team.”

Arthur looks at you, openly taking your hand. “I reckon we do.” And you feel the heat in your cheeks. 

Hosea’s smile grows. “Good.” And he gently waves you off. “Go ahead and do what you need to do to get ready, Kit. I want to talk to Arthur for a moment.”

You give Arthur a reassuring squeeze before releasing his hand and stepping away. As you leave Hosea and Arthur to their private conversation, you can’t help but feel a tingle of excitement mixed with nerves. The oil fields are dangerously guarded, but you’ve navigated perilous situations before, in fact, you just escaped from one.

But what excites you the most, is to be able to enter danger with Arthur by your side.

You step out into the evening air, hearing the faint music and singing from the fire. You think to look for Mary Beth, curiosity entering your mind and you walk down the front steps. 

“Glad to see you back…” The voice of Micah Bell makes you stop in your stride. You turn on your heels to see him leaning against one of the columns of the mansion. He tips his hat at you, but it still speaks vile. “We…missed you.”

You tilt your head, your eyes narrowing. “Oh, Micah, don’t ever say things you don’t mean. It isn’t a good look for you.”

And just as you see his jaw tighten and his face darken, you turn and walk away. 

You just realize that you’d prefer Bronte to Micah. At least he can make a convincing liar. 

***

You and Arthur left at dawn. Riding Montana and Odliv, you took with you enough provisions for the trip and your chosen weaponry. 

Catching the sunrise, you and Arthur ride North in the direction of the Heartland Oil Fields, where you know Cornwall’s operation is still going strong. As you ride, the air changes from thick and humid, to clear and crisp, and you find yourself taking more deep breaths and enjoying the scenery.

It feels odd to be back this way again, as though it has been years, but it is only months. You find yourself constantly looking Arthur’s way, and when he turns to look at you, you don’t avert his gaze, but hold it, just long enough before you have to focus on what is ahead of you.

The journey is mostly silent, the unspoken words hanging between you like the mist that clings to the morning fields. You appreciate these quiet moments, knowing well that they are fleeting, especially as you draw closer to your destination, where the unknown may greet you.

Arthur finally breaks the silence as you near a hill covered in sagebrush. “You ever get that feelin', Kit? Like somethin's waitin' right over the next hill?” His voice carries a mix of anticipation and caution, typical of a man who's seen as much as he has.

You nod, understanding completely. “Ano, every time.” Your use of your native tongue slips easily now, and you find yourself thinking and speaking it more and more. “But this is quite literal, isn’t it?”

You both reach the top and stop for a moment looking out at the landscape below.

Arthur chuckles, leaning over the saddle horn. “Yeah, I guess. But I also meant it not so literally.” He pauses a moment and lets out a deep sigh. “I mean that you get to a point where you’re tired, but if you just make it to the next hill—”

“And the next one? And the next one?”

Arthur laughs, getting your point, and finishes his thought. “But you never seem to get there.”

You study him for a moment. “Do you think this is a fool’s errand?”

He shrugs, “I don’t know what I think. It all seems like a mess, all this with Bronte. I just…” He sits back up and looks away from you.

“You think he’s going to hurt me, don’t you?”

Arthur shifts uncomfortably in his saddle, the leather creaking under his weight. He doesn’t meet your gaze this time, instead staring out across the sprawling expanse before him. His jaw clenches, a telltale sign of his inner turmoil. “It ain’t just about him, Kit,” he finally says, voice lower than usual, strained with unsaid thoughts. “It’s about this whole damned situation. We’re walkin’ into trouble, and I can’t stand the thought of you gettin’ hurt.”

You let the silence settle around his words, feeling the weight of them pressing against your chest. The brisk wind picks up, dust flying and you have to squint your eyes. You two are alone here, the most you have been in a while. You’ve tried to remember what Arthur has told you, keeping your love a secret, but it has all come empty, aside from the blips that you’ve had in your dreams for the past few months. “Have you ever thought about…you know…leaving?”

That’s when he looks at you, eyes widened at your suggestion. “Have you?”

You shrug. It hadn’t really occurred to you, at least not until recently. You can sense things are changing, twisting into something that you can’t control. Dutch’s plans have become more erratic, more, well, planless. He seems to make decisions on a whim. “I don’t know, I just think that we can’t do this forever.”

Arthur's brow furrows as he considers your words, the tension in his shoulders palpable even from a distance. "Kit, I...," he starts, his voice trailing off as he searches for the right words. The afternoon sun hangs high, making everything look bright and heated, yet there is a coolness to his words. "You ought to know how I feel about all this. It's like every day we're spinnin’ our wheels, gettin’ deeper in with no clear way out. And after... after what happened to you, I can't help but think maybe there's somethin' better than this life." He pauses, the lines of his face softening as he turns away again. “And here we are, doin’ what we always do.”

You nod. It is almost like you can’t escape it. As though this is as ingrained in you as the memories you’ve recovered. “Do you think we’d ever have a chance?” you ask softly. “At a normal life? If we really wanted it?”

Arthur's gaze shifts back to you, the blue of his eyes piercing and deep, like the vast ocean during a storm. He takes a step closer, his presence towering yet comforting as the distance between you lessens. "Kit, if there's one thing I've learned," he starts, his voice rough with the dust of the trail and the years of hardship, "it’s that a normal life ain’t just somethin’ you pick off a tree. But with you...yes, I think we might find somethin' close to it."

He reaches out to you as you sit on Odliv beside him, and his hand finds yours, calloused yet gentle, and for a moment, the turmoil of your situation fades under a sliver of hope.

“We need to help the gang see that.”

He nods. “We can try.”

And after another moment, you continue on.

You ride down the other side of the hill and as you navigate around large rocks and bushes, Arthur calls to you. “There’s somethin’ up ahead.”

You both pick up your speed and you notice it. A tall, wooden structure, and as you draw closer, you see that it is an oil derrick. But Cornwall’s operation is much larger than this.

Arthur has Montana come to a stop and he dismounts. “Let’s have a look.”

You might as well. You pat Odliv on the neck and dismount.

Arthur walks toward the oil derrick and puts a hand on one of the beams. “This don’t look too old…”

You take a look at the area. There are boxes and canned goods strung around everywhere. It reminds you of when you were looking for Trelawny.

Speaking of, where is he? Did he disappear when things in Rhodes went to hell?

“Kit…” Arthur interrupts your thoughts. “Come here…”

You look up and you see Arthur, crouched down and looking at something. The way he spoke, suggests he’s looking at something that isn’t good.

You find your way over to him, walking around a stack of crates to get to him. You walk on a wooden platform and you see a hole deep in the middle of the oil derrick.

But your eyes return to Arthur as he is hunched over a dead body.

Your breath catches and you come closer. You have seen death before, but what shocks you is to come across a dead body out in the middle of nowhere. You remember what that deputy in Rhodes did.

“Is there anything to tell us who he is?”

In his hand, Arthur has a piece of paper. He rises to a standing position and offers it to you. “Just this letter. His name is Varley.”

You take the letter from him and read it aloud. “It is very regrettable that you have rejected the various extremely generous purchase offers presented to you by Cornwall…” You lift your eyes to look at Arthur. “Leviticus Cornwall…”

Arthur points to the letter. “The letter implies that Mr. Varley refused to sell out to him. My guess is they didn’t like it that much.”

You look at the body of Mr. Varley, the state of the oil derrick, the scattered goods everywhere. This wasn’t an accident.

Arthur looks down at Mr. Varley, shaking his head. "They made a proper mess of him," he murmurs, his voice tinged with the kind of detached sorrow you've come to recognize. The kind that shows he's seen far too much, yet still finds the heart to care.

You fold the letter and offer it back to Arthur. “Keep this in your satchel. It’s important.”

He takes it from you, brushing his fingers with yours, and puts it in his satchel. “Think Bronte will find it interestin’?”

“I’d say knowing that a man you want to utilize isn’t afraid to kill those who cross him is pretty important.” You find your eyes going back to the body again and your heart sinks. “How long do you think he’s been dead?”

Arthur looks over at the body. “I’d say not that long. It was recent. Charles would have a better clue, maybe. Days.”

“Someone might be looking for him.”

Arthur shakes his head. “I don’t think so.”

“How do you figure?”

“A man on his own like this would have risked or given up everythin’ to strike oil.” His lips flatten to a thin line. “If he had someone, he would have brought her with ‘em.”

You watch him closely as he speaks, and you have a feeling that there is a deeper meaning to his words, a vicarious feeling that he’s placing on this poor victim of lost dreams. “Maybe we should tell the sheriff in Valentine,” you suggest. “It’s not far.”

Arthur shakes his head. “He don’t care. Besides, someone would’ve come across his body before us.”

“Maybe.” You pause, letting something roam in your thoughts. “Maybe we should bury him.”

Arthur nods. “Would if I had a shovel. A shallow grave out here is only prey for coyotes.”

He’s right. You’d want to do it right, anyway. But you will need proof long after his body is gone. “I wish there was a way we could get a photograph.”

“What?”

“I feel like that letter won’t be enough, Arthur. Bronte could say that I just as easily made it up.”

Arthur looks back at you, speaking as candidly as he can. “Well, I have a camera.”

You blink and let a smirk play on your lips. “Well, aren’t you just full of surprises?”

Even in this dismal situation, Arthur looks down bashfully. “I’ve been takin’ photos of gunslingers.” He begins to pull the camera out of his satchel. What does he all keep in there? “‘Course, all of ‘em so far I’ve had to duel.”

“And they lost, I suppose?”

Arthur nods, positioning himself in front of the body to take a picture. “You’d be supposin’ right.”

And with a gentle click, your proof is captured in that little, black box. “I guess we keep going then?”

Arthur nods, his eyes not leaving the body as he puts the camera away. “Yeah.”

You reach and take his hand, and feel his fingers tighten around yours. You begin to back away from the site and feeling your pull, he follows. 

You walk back to your horses, mount up, and carry on. 

***

You and Arthur ride up on an incline that overlooks the valley into Cornwall Kerosine and Tar. The clank clank of the pump jacks is loud enough to make you want to turn around and head back. What a disruption of the beautiful land that makes up the Heartlands! 

“This is awful,” you say. “It’s worse than when I last passed through here.”

Arthur grumbles. “That’s Cornwall’s signature, alright.”

The land is dark, like tar, and you see men in the distance, walking around the building that stands as a memorial to the land that once was. You look over to Arthur and see he is using his binoculars, pointing them in the direction of the oil plant. 

“There are more guards, too,” he observes. 

You nod, chortling. “No doubt there are, especially after that stunt you and John pulled a couple of months ago.”

You see his smile as he moves the binoculars in a slow sweep. “That was one of our better ideas, even though the law showed up real quick.”

“Would I have gone with you? If I was my old self by then?”

He lowers the binoculars to look into your eyes. “I wouldn’t have wanted you to.”

You scoff. “Arthur—”

“I mean it. In fact, I don’t think you would have wanted to, either.”

You blink. “No?”

He shakes his head as he puts his binoculars away. “No.”

You feel your shoulders droop and exhale slowly as you look out over the Heartlands. “Arthur, I didn’t die, and I don’t intend to. I know you thought that I did, and I know that I’m not exactly who I used to be, but I’m here now.” You pause a minute to look into his eyes. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He’s quiet for a minute and without saying anything, he dismounts his horse. Your eyes follow his movements as he walks over to you, stopping on the left side of Odliv. He holds out his arms to you. “C’mere.”

You don’t know what he’s doing and you still sense the urgency to reach the oil plant. “Arthur—”

He motions for you to get down with a quick rotation of his wrists. “C’mon.”

You exhale and, leaning down, you support yourself on his shoulders. He takes you by the waist and helps you down. “What is going on…?”

Your voice trails off when he pulls you into his embrace, his arms pulling you in tight, your face sinking into his chest and you instinctively inhale his scent. You feel him bury his face in your hair and you hear his steady breaths as he holds you. 

“I’ve…” he begins, his voice muffled. “I’ve been holdin’ it back but I couldn’t wait no more.”

You can hear the weight in his words, causing a chain reaction of aches to well up inside you. “Hold it back?” you ask as you blink away unshed tears. “Why?”

“‘Cause you still don’t remember, though you love me, but I…I’m at a different place than you.” 

“I’m sorry for that.”

“I ain’t mad at you, Kit. I’m just…” He leans away from your body and you look up at him and you see something in his eyes. “You just have no idea what it was like…” His lip quivers and he pauses before speaking again. “To have to go on livin’…knowin'…” You feel his hand hold your chin, encouraging you to keep looking in his eyes. “There’s so much I wanna do…but even just to hug you when you’ve only just—” He exhales sharply, his lips forming a thin line. “I don’t wanna scare you.”

“A hug isn’t going to scare me, Arthur,” you say with a soft smile, your brown pinched in sympathy. Then your voice lowers. “A kiss won’t, either.”

“But if I kiss you…” He stops, swallowing thickly. “I don’t know if I can…” His hand that is on the small of your back begins to grip your jacket, the fabric bunching in his fingers. 

You’re finally beginning to understand him. This entire time it wasn’t about not having faith in you, or not trusting you. It was fear. Fear of losing you. To go through that pain another time, when he’s lost so much already. You bring up your hands to caress his face. “Kiss me, Arthur.” Then you caress his cheek. “It’s alright.”

You see the fear in his eyes. The restraint. You can only imagine it’s the pent-up ache and loneliness from losing you, finding out you’re alive, to learning you don’t remember the past two years of love and secrecy. You can only imagine what he must be feeling, the desire to hold you close and not let go. He can’t just ease into it. He’s all or nothing. 

His hand trembles as it holds your chin. 

“Go on,” you whisper, almost a little too eagerly. “Go on and let me love you.”

He nearly grimaces and he emits a cry, so low and soft that you’re almost taken by surprise. This is so much more than what you’ve made it out to be. Something deep within his being, on the edge of this stupid task you’ve set out on. He’s breaking apart, after holding himself together for so long. 

Your hands go to his neck and you bring him to you, letting him tuck his head in the crook of your neck. 

And he sobs. 

He begins to feel heavy in your embrace and goes to his knees, you bending over as your arms remain around him. His close proximity makes his hat push off his head and he clutches onto you tightly, suppressing his sobs and his groans as this ache finally comes to the surface. 

“I missed you…” he cries into your jacket. “I-I’ve…”

You press your cheek against the top of his head, smelling the crisp wind in his hair. “It’s alright.”

He chokes on his words, his hands gripping you like a vice. “I didn’t wanna…I couldn’t go on no more…!”

You say nothing, only holding him close. 

“I couldn’t—can’t take it!” he cries. “Oh god…!”

You finally go to the ground and he rolls into you, letting his weight be supported in your arms, letting himself be held for once. 

“Let me carry you, Arthur…” you whisper into his hair, planting a gentle kiss there. “Let it go…”

His grip only tightens, so tight that you feel like you could break in two, but you don’t care. There’s something in this moment, something fragile in the vulnerability, that you dare not threaten its catharsis. Arthur is raw, unfiltered, unadulterated as you hold him, finally releasing the grief he felt when he thought he lost you and the joy of seeing you again. 

This is what you saw that day in Valentine, a mere glimpse of it in his eyes when he had a hold of your wrist, what he wanted to express as he called your name. To have to hold it in as you tried and are still failing to figure all of this out, was pure torture and agony for him. 

“I’m not going anywhere, Arthur,” you say. 

“You better not…” he groans. “Don’t leave me, Kit.”

You adjust your arms, cupping his face in your hand as you pull away to look in his eyes. “Never.” And you kiss him deeply, instantly getting a response as his hands go to the sides of your head, pulling you into him. You roll as he falls backward, landing on his chest as you kiss him deeper. 

You can sense the urgency in his kiss, his mouth as you let him in, unlike the one you shared in the hotel room. You know now that he was holding back, even then. 

Such self-control. Such strength. 

Such love, for a man like him to want to protect you. 

His hand travels down to your back and he takes the lead, rolling you over and supporting your head in the crook of his other arm. When you touch his face, you can feel the tear streaks on his cheeks and you emit a soft moan in empathy. 

When you told him you loved him, in the hotel, you meant it, but you didn’t know how deep it ran. 

Until now. 

And suddenly, as you come to this reality, you feel the slow ebbing in the back of your head. A heaviness in your eyes. 

No…not now…!

You pull away from Arthur, your lips lingering long enough for him to nibble at your bottom lip. Then his face whitens as he realizes how heavy you are becoming in his arms. 

“Kit…?!” he breathes, worry leaving his lips as he tries to catch his breath. 

You try to speak, but the pain is too great. You grimace, close your eyes tightly, and reach for the sides of your head. 

“Is it another one?” he asks. “Kit? Tell me what to do…!”

It is too painful, swallowing you whole, you don’t want to go, you want to stay and bring him to you, to kiss him with hunger, but you want the pain to go away. 

So you surrender. 

***

“I’m going to get you…!” you playfully taunt as you chase Jack. Since learning to walk, he’s been keeping Abigail on her toes, and so you’ve been spending more time at camp to help her. You were worried that would upset Dutch and Hosea, but you’ve come to learn that they’d rather have laughter than cries and screams in camp.

And you’re good at making Jack laugh.

“No! No! No!” You know to disregard this, as Jack’s favorite word is no. Whether he’s eating his favorite treats or being chased around, it's always the same gleeful stubbornness. But today, his laughter fills the air like music, a sweet release from the tension that often knots at the edges of camp life.

You scoop him up, spinning around until you're both dizzy with laughter. He shrieks, delighted, and you blow raspberries on his little, round belly.

“Jsi stále rychlejší a rychlejší, brouček! Brzy tě nebudu moci chytit!”

Jack’s giggles continue as he tries to squirm from your grip. “No, Kit, no!”

“Yes, you have such fast little legs!”

You hear footfalls in the dirt come up behind you and so you begin to turn around. “Abigail, I think you must have given Jack some sort of tonic, because—”

But it isn’t Abigail, it’s Arthur.

He must have just returned from another job, it is evidenced from the dirt on his clothes and the cuts on his knuckles. But he’s smiling, so it must not have gone too bad.

Arthur's eyes soften considerably as they land on you, Jack still in your arms, his small body bubbling with unrestrained laughter. You feel a surge of warmth, despite the heavy layer of dust coating your own spirit from the week's weary tasks.

"Seems like Jack here's got the better of you, Kit," he says with a chuckle. “Who knew all it would take was a two-year-old rascal?”

You purse your lips and narrow your eyes as you try to conceal your smile, but the effort is fruitless; Arthur always had a way of teasing a smile out of you, even in the grimmest times.

"Maybe he's got the better of me," you concede, settling Jack in your arms. "but only because I let him."

Arthur steps closer, his gaze lingering on your face as he offers to take the boy. “Let’s bring him back to his mama,” he says softly and you pass the giggling Jack over to him. He holds him so expertly, and you know it is because of his experience with his own son, since he had told you of that tragedy when Jack was born. “I wanna talk to you.”

Your smile fades and your brow pinches. “Something wrong?”

He doesn’t answer, but begins to walk into camp. “Just wait here.”

You watch him stride away, Jack's laughter echoing through the camp, mixing with the crackling of fires and distant murmurs of other gang members. The late afternoon sun marks the day already half gone, but you feel like it has just begun. Your heart also beats a little faster, not knowing what to expect from Arthur's solemn tone.

Arthur returns without the boy and gestures to Boadicea, who is hitched to a tree nearby. “Care to ride with me?”

You tilt your head. “Just to talk?”

He shrugs, rolling his eyes. “Or we can walk.”

You look down at your bare feet, letting your toes dig into the soft South Dakota earth. “I don’t mind walking.”

Arthur nods, with a soft chuckle. “Imagine that.”

You look back up and swat him playfully. “Don’t make fun of me.”

Arthur grins, the lines by his eyes crinkling as he leads you away from the bustle of camp. The two of you walk side by side, your strides matching almost perfectly despite his being longer and more assured. Silence stretches between you like an old, familiar blanket, comforting enough until he finally breaks it.

"I found an abandoned house an hour’s ride from here,” Arthur says casually. “They left a money box behind.”

“Is that where you were?” you ask. “Where did you get the cuts on your hands?”

He offers a mischievous grin. “Someone got there first.”

And you mirror his expression. “I take it you were the one who got the box?”

He nods. “And a nice new watch.”

You laugh. Arthur has always been very straightforward, but you've noticed that when he manages to find humor in his adventures, it means he's in good spirits. It's a relief to see, especially after the tense weeks that have plagued the gang. Things seem to get hard before they get better. John has just returned after being gone a year, and while everyone else has welcomed him with open arms, Arthur has kept him at arm's length.

You understand why, but you have to keep it to yourself.

“So, I reckon we’ll have a bit more cash for supplies,” he continues, kicking a small stone along the dirt path. “Abigail can get some things for Jack.”

“It’s good that you look out for him.”

Arthur replies with a bitter tone. “Someone has to.”

He falls silent again, his gaze wandering to the horizon where the setting sun painted the sky a fiery orange. You watch him, noticing the way his jaw clenches and unclenches. The lines of worry seemed more pronounced today, and you wonder if there’s more he’s not saying.

“You ever think about leaving all this?” you ask. “I sometimes wonder how Abigail plans to raise Jack as long as she stays with us.”

He shrugs his shoulders. “I ain’t got the right mind to leave.” He lowers his head. “Even when I have a reason.”

Your heart can’t help but sink at this. You know that he’s grieved the loss of his son these last four years. You tried to give him space, as you know only time can heal the ache. You should know, it still hurts sometimes when you think of Antek.

Arthur’s voice softens, a rare vulnerability seeping through the rough edges. “Kit, there ain’t a day goes by I don’t think about Isaac. But it’s this life that keeps me going, now — keeps me from thinking too much, y’know?”

You nod, understanding all too well the escape that constant movement can give. You both walk off the beaten path, further into the trees. You notice how the leaves above you look like stained glass windows, letting the light through the beautiful green. “I understand. Since being with the gang, my life has purpose again, and that has helped me with the loss of my brother.”

You continue silently for a little while, until suddenly, Arthur holds out his arm to stop you. “Shh…” he says as you are about to speak to him and you close your mouth. With a silent gesture, he points ahead of you towards a cluster of bushes. You focus your gaze, and suppress a gasp.

It is a doe and a fawn. They haven’t noticed you both, grazing peacefully on the tender shoots. Arthur’s hand tightens slightly on your arm, his eyes softening as he watches the creatures. It's a rare moment of tranquility in a life otherwise filled with chaos and danger.

“Reminds me of…” he murmurs, his voice barely a whisper as if afraid to admit anything out loud.

You then reach for his hand, and take it softly. His breath catches, which is loud enough to startle the doe and she and her baby take off deeper into the woods.

His eyes focus on his hand as it is clasped into yours and when he looks up at you, he is met with your smile. His hand tightens its grip. “You’ve always been there, Kit,” he says softly. “Even when I weren’t the most kind.”

You furrow your brow. “When were you ever rude to me?”

“Maybe I should have been more attentive to you…”

You sense a shift in the air between you and you study him curiously. “Arthur, are you alright?”

He nods his head, a smile growing on his lips. “Yeah, for the first time in a long while…” His gaze lingers on you a moment longer before he looks back where the doe disappeared. “I reckon I am." When he looks back at you, he brings your hand to his chest and holds it over his heart. You can feel the steady beat, quick and strong. “Kit, I ain’t a good man…”

You shake your head. “It isn’t for you to judge that.”

He continues. “Let me finish. I ain’t. I’ve done things I ain’t proud of, but…” He takes off his hat and holds it in his free hand. “I can’t go on knowin’ that I ain’t got a reason to fight anymore. Or, at least, if that reason don’t feel the same way…”

You blink. “Arthur…?”

“Kitka…I…I love you.”

The words hang in the air between you, thick and undeniable. Your heart pounds against your chest so fiercely you fear he might feel it through your hand still pressed against him. His confession, raw and uncertain, echoes the very fears and hopes tangled deep within your own spirit.

You swallow hard, the words you need to say arenot coming out as they should.

Arthur swallows thickly. “I can understand if you don’t feel the same way…I know things change over the years…It’s just that these past few months…I’ve started wonderin’ if I did any amount of good in my life to have another chance…to feel special to someone, and here you were, bein’ so kind and gentle to me as I’ve fought my own demons from my past.” Then a soft smile softly appears on his face and he looks down. “And how you’ve been with little Jack, it’s…it’s the nicest thing I’ve witnessed in a long spell.”

You feel a warmth spread through your body, reaching every cold corner left untouched from the years of living in the shadows, always ready to disappear at a moment's notice. Tears prick the corners of your eyes as you realize the weight of his words, the depth of his vulnerability. It’s just as special and rare as seeing that doe and her baby, a precious moment that you don’t want to ever disturb.

His eyes meet yours again and they search you for a moment. “Well, ain’t you gonna say somethin’?”

Your breath catches in your throat, and for a moment, the world around you falls silent except for the steady beat of Arthur's heart under your palm. The words you've longed to say, the feelings you've buried deep within, now claw their way up, desperate for release. "Arthur," you begin, your voice trembling with emotion. “I’ve loved you. For the longest time, I’ve loved you. I just want you to be happy,” you sniff. “Always.”

You feel his heart beat even faster under your palm and he steps closer to you, closing the gap so that your bodies are pressed together. He takes your face in his hands, and you look up into his eyes. “It would make me happy if you’d be my woman.”

You giggle. “Your sweetheart?”

“My darlin’,” he says and he leans in to kiss your cheek softly. “My kitten…” And he kisses your other cheek.

Your cheeks feel hot but you let them burn. He’s never called you kitten before, but it fits. “And you’ll be my man?” You ask quietly, your voice still quivering with emotion. The look in his eyes is tender, filled with a warmth that ignites a spark of hope in your heart. “My strong hart?” And a tear falls down your cheek. “My king?”

“Always,” Arthur replies, his voice low and sincere. He draws you closer into his embrace, the familiar scent of leather and earth enveloping you, and you lean into it. “If you’ll let me.”

You think about the atmosphere in camp, and the danger of the life you lead. If others were to know, what could this mean for Arthur, the gang’s enforcer?

You gently push him back and when your eyes meet he looks at you with curiosity. “What’s wrong?”

“What if the others know?”

He goes quiet for a moment before speaking. “Do you want them to know?”

You think about it then shake your head. “No.”

He relaxes his shoulders and then takes hold of your waist. “It might be a little challenging to keep it a secret,” he says, with almost a flirtatious air.

And you respond in kind, “But secrecy is one of my many talents.” And you wrap your arms around his neck, bringing your faces close together. You can feel his soft breath on your face, on your mouth.

Arthur chuckles, the sound deep and reassuring. "That's true enough, Kitka. I've seen you disappear into thin air more times than I can count." His fingers trace along your waist to your back, a touch so gentle it could be the breeze itself. “Just as long as you don’t go disappearin’ on me.” He then holds you tighter, his hands traveling down to your backside, making your breath catch.

Settling in the feeling of his hands, you bite your lower lip. “You can always track me down, can’t you?”

Arthur’s laugh rumbles softly in his chest, and the sound stirs a curious blend of comfort and excitement within you. “That I can, Kit. You leave a mark deeper than you reckon.” His gaze lingers on you with a mix of admiration and earnestness that makes your heart flutter uncontrollably.

“What kind of mark are we talking?” you tease.

At your words, you see his eyes migrate to your lips. “I can think of a good one…”

And leaning in the rest of the way, he closes the gap between your lips, kissing you gingerly. You can tell he’s being deliberate, this being your first real kiss now that he’s reciprocating your feelings and as he pulls away, you quickly bring him back. Arthur laughs from his throat and his response is immediate, deepening the kiss with a passion that has been simmering under the surface, restrained by fears and doubts only whispered to the wind. His hands grip you more firmly, bringing an intensity that makes your pulse quicken, your heart pounding against your rib cage as if trying to break free.

But you are already flying.

And you doubt you will ever come down.