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Chapter Text

   Purgatory. A small, godforsaken town in the far West of the American continent. Population: 15.
   The year is 1892, and the greatest challenge facing the pioneers who settled the uncharted lands of the American West was the lack of women. And a town without women always meant untidiness… gloom… slovenliness…
   In a town without women, men had to do everything themselves. Even those special moments lost their charm. A bar fight that didn’t start over a lady’s favor was a bar fight without heart! Yes, a pitiful town indeed where even throwing a punch wouldn’t bring satisfaction, and going back home had no appeal—since no one was waiting for you there.
   What was almost as bad was that a town without women meant a town without children. A town without women was doomed to disappear, leaving the last man to bury himself… The situation was all the more dire given that back East, there were thousands of women without a man to call their own. That left only one solution: crossing an entire continent in a wagon train to find one’s soulmate.
   It was this problem of towns without women that had brought Arthur Morgan to within a few miles of St. Louis that day—though he didn’t know it yet. And this is where our story begins…

***

   Arthur splashed his face with the cold water of a nearby creek. As the water stilled, he caught sight of his reflection. The face of a man just past thirty stared back at him. Green eyes, full mouth. A handsome face, he always thought—even with the scar on his chin. A three-day stubble and messy light-brown hair completed the look. He got to his feet and turned to face his horse.
   “All right there, boy?” he rumbled, patting the horse’s neck. The horse nudged him slightly to the left.
   “What is it, boy?” Arthur scanned the area and spotted a rugged cowboy hat lying on the ground near the creek. He strode over and picked it up.
   “I couldn’t last a day without you,” he said, patting the horse again. It was true—he was about as lonesome as a man could get. Never thought much about finding himself a lady, settling down, becoming a rancher, maybe. Living an ordinary life.
   Instead, he was a bounty hunter. His life consisted of hunting down outlaws and spending his bounty in St. Louise’s finest parlors. He enjoyed good whiskey, expensive cigars, prime rib, and luxurious baths. Maybe an occasional massage. He didn’t waste his money on gambling, though. Or women of the night. In fact, Arthur Morgan was known as one of the most honorable bounty hunters around these parts. The sort of man who’d once run outside the law but had since turned himself around—a story most folks knew better than to pry into.
   He didn’t miss the ladies. The thought of marriage filled him with dread. To him, it meant giving up the freedom to ride, explore, breathe… to live. Me, settle down? he thought as the idea passed through his mind like lightning. Now there’s a fool notion for this early in the morning… He frowned, nudging the thought aside and shifting his focus back to the task at hand. A telegram had arrived from the mayor of St. Louis, urgently seeking his help to escort a convoy.
   “What sort of convoy d’you reckon it’ll be this time?” he asked his horse as he mounted up. Talking to his horse had become second nature. Those intelligent eyes seemed to understand him better than most folks. With a tug of the reins, they set off toward St. Louis at a steady gallop.

***

When Arthur dismounted in town, the mayor was already waiting for him on the steps of City Hall, hurrying down to greet him.
   “Mr. Morgan! I knew we could count on you!”
   “I came as soon as I got your telegram, Mr. Mayor. What sort of convoy is it this time? Cattle? Horses? Settlers?”
   The mayor, a short, portly man with dark sideburns framing his wide face, chuckled nervously and scratched at his balding temple. He gestured for Arthur to follow him inside City Hall. Curious about the unusual secrecy, Arthur obliged. An old man in a reclining chair near the entrance snickered as they passed. Arthur raised an eyebrow at him.
   “Come, I’ll introduce you to your… er… cargo.” said the mayor.
   As they neared a large hall, muffled murmurs reached Arthur’s ears. A sense of unease crept over him as the mayor pushed open the massive doors. A wave of high-pitched shrieks erupted, nearly making Arthur flinch. Women. Fifteen of them, to be exact. All eyes turned to him, their faces lit with grins, hands clasped in gratitude. They seemed thrilled to see Arthur.
  “Ladies, may I present Mr. Arthur Morgan!” the mayor announced enthusiastically.
“Hurray!”
“Look, he’s handsome, too!”
“Hurray for Mr. Morgan!”
   Later, Arthur would recall the moment only faintly. It was as if he’d blacked out, the moment stealing his wits. His face froze, blank, as he fought to keep his jaw from dropping. Then reality struck, and he spun on his heel, bolting out of City Hall. The mayor rushed after him, panting, barely catching up as Arthur already reached the bottom of the steps.
   “Morgan, wait! Please, listen to me!”
   “Oh, no! Anything else—but this?! No!” he barked. The mayor kept pace, breathless but persistent.
   “At this very moment, there are fifteen men in Purgatory who are only living for these women! They sent photographs of themselves and…”
   “NO!” Arthur growled. But the mayor wasn’t deterred.
   “Consider this: fifteen potential couples, each likely to have three children. Your refusal makes you guilty of failing to assist countless souls who are in danger of never existing!”
   “That’s stretchin’ things a bit, don’t you think, Mr. Mayor?” Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a long, frustrated sigh. His horse nudged him, snorting softly.
   “Fine, you win!” he barked, pointing his index finger warningly at the mayor.
   “I’ll guide them, but I won’t get involved in their… issues.”
   “The wagon master will assist you with that!” the mayor interjected quickly, evidently relieved. He hovered a hand above Arthur’s back, steering him back inside City Hall. Arthur walked reluctantly. The old man in the reclining chair was still eyeing Arthur with a grin. Already irritated, Arthur snapped at him.
   “What’re you snickerin’ at, old-timer?” The old man rose from his chair angrily and shouted, waving his wooden cane in a threatening way.
   “I ain’t no old-timer! I’m not much older than you!” His furious expression suddenly softened, and he sank back into the chair with a quiet groan.
   “Though, once upon a time, I led a convoy of women too…” Arthur shuddered. The mayor quickly interjected.
   “Don’t pay him no mind, Arthur. He’s… uh… senile.”
   “Have you explained what they’ll be up against?” Arthur cut the mayor impatiently.“Outlaws, wild beasts, rattlesnakes?”
   “Of course!” A sudden scream pierced the air, making them both freeze. They rushed back into the hall to find all fifteen women standing on chairs, pale-faced with fright, pointing in unison at the floor.
   “Help!
   “There! A mouse!”
   “Heavens!”
   “Do something!”
   “Make it go away!”
   Arthur shot the mayor a hard look. “Of course?” The mayor hurried to shoo the mouse outside, while Arthur helped the ladies down from their perches. When calm was restored, the mayor cleared his throat.
   “Ladies! Mr. Morgan has graciously agreed to guide your wagon train to Purgatory!” He then gestured dramatically to a large wooden board covered by a white sheet.
   “All that remains is the traditional ceremony of choosing your groom!” With a flourish, he unveiled the board, which displayed neatly arranged photographs of the men from Purgatory.
   A thirty-legged stampede charged toward the board. Each photo showed a man in identical attire, as though they were lined up for inspection. Beneath the pictures were names and captions like, Broad-minded m. seeks soul mate and Handsome m. perfect for demanding, soph. young woman. The women chattered excitedly as they made their selections.
   “The ginger one, top left!”
   “With the tall fellow, I’ll feel safe!”
   “The dark-haired one, too shy to smile.”
   Arthur leaned back against the wall with arms on his belt, watching the unorthodox ceremony with mild amusement.
   “So they’re pickin’ husbands from photos—men they’ve never laid eyes on—to be their lifelong companions?” The mayor nodded.
   “And why the hell are they all dressed the same?” Arthur asked in disbelief.
   “In towns without women,” the mayor explained, “the men go to the barber first, then the photographer, who helps them dress, er, makes them more presentable. Arthur shook his head.
   “Marriage,” he muttered. “Ordinary men dreaming of extraordinary women, who, being ordinary themselves, dream of extraordinary men…” The women were now sneaking glances over each other’s shoulders, commenting on their friends’ choices.
   “Hey, yours is almost bald!”
   “A wide forehead’s a sign of intelligence.”
   Arthur noticed one young lady wasn’t joining the gossip. She looked thoughtful, as she clutched a photograph in her delicate gloved hand. She was Southern, judging by her honeyed drawl and the way her golden-brown curls framed her face, falling softly against her cheeks. Her eyes were wide and expressive and her lips full, with a teasing curve. She was petite and graceful, but her posture held a quiet confidence. She couldn’t have been older than 22. Pretty little thing, Arthur couldn’t help but notice. Seeing her thoughtful gaze, the other ladies started a round of friendly teasing.
   ”Jenny Mae, talkin’ about a ‘pickin’ a man with a good heart’-you’d think she’s fixin’ to marry a preacher instead of a farmer!
   “Well, a man with a good heart can plow a field just as fine as a man without one. The difference is, he’ll treat his wife kindly after.” she fired back, but her tone was sweet. “Say what you will, ladies, but we’re in luck—we get to do the choosing!”
   A fair point there, thought Arthur, silently eavesdropping on the exchange, despite himself. But he quickly remembered that he wouldn’t be getting tangled in these women’s business. Not with such a long, precarious journey ahead.
   A sharp cracking sound jolted Arthur from his daydream, and something thin and quick as lightning snapped his cigarette clean in half. Arthur flinched in surprise. The mayor gestured toward the culprit.
   “And this, gentlemen, is Hank Bully, the best whip in the West!” Hank Bully was a large, broad-shouldered man in his forties, with a booming laugh like a cowboy Santa Claus. He clutched his belly as he laughed, but his mirth was cut short by a sudden bang!—his cigar snapped clean in two. Arthur was the one chuckling now, slipping his revolver smoothly back into its holster.
   “Hank! Old buddy!” Arthur called out, striding over with a grin and extending his hand.
   “Morgan! Still got a taste for sophisticated humor, I see!” Hank bellowed, shaking Arthur’s hand with vigor before slapping him on the back.
   “And this, Mr. Morgan, is your deputy!” the mayor interjected, gesturing to a man approaching from behind. Arthur blinked. He had never seen such a peculiar feller. The man was tall and wiry, with fair hair, dressed in white trousers and a silk pink blouse topped with a black bow. His beige boots shone with polish, and a flower dangled from his hat. Hank’s jaw dropped next to Arthur.
   “Tanguy Charbonnier,” the mayor introduced. “French hairdresser. Call him the harem’s eunuch, if you will. His job will be to keep peace among the ladies on the journey.”
   “Evenin’, my darlings!” Tanguy greeted smoothly, removing his hat with a theatrical bow. His voice was soft, polished, and brimming with charm. After the initial surprise, Arthur decided he rather liked the feller. He extended his hand for a shake.
   “Escorting a convoy of women doesn’t frighten you?”
   “Why should it? And you?” Tanguy replied with a raised brow.
   “Well…” Arthur chuckled, scratching the back of his neck.
   “After all, they’re such delightful little things!” Tanguy pursed his lips and giggled.
   “What about heading to a place where there’s nothin’ but men?” Arthur teased further.
   “Not at all! I simply adore making new friends!” he quipped, grinning. A moment later, Arthur took a central place in the room, gesturing to the ladies to come forward, with a serious face. The room fell silent.
   “All right, ladies, a few things to consider: The wagon train will leave tomorrow at dawn! That means those of you who have two ounces of common sense still have the time to change your mind and give up this madness! Understand that west of St. Louis there’s little law, and west of Dodge City there’s hardly God himself!” The women exchanged uneasy glances, worry starting to spread among them.
   “And why're you telling us this, Mr. Morgan?” The Southern Belle’s soft drawl sliced through the room, loud enough to make heads turn. She fixed Arthur with her gaze.
   “We sure aren’t changing our minds! There’s nothin’ left for us here—our future’s out West! Am I right, ladies?” She turned her delicate chin slightly to the others. A murmur of agreement rippled through the room.
   “So don’t you be trying to scare us off, Mr. Morgan, and don’t think to call us fools again, neither!” She jabbed a finger toward him. Her tone was sharp but her lips were curling. Arthur felt a tug in his gut. It wasn’t often he was lost for words. He tipped his hat politely, signaling he had no further objections. The mayor cleared his throat, trying to ease up the tension.
   “All right, ladies. Mr. Morgan was just giving fair warning of the dangers ahead. It’s a hard journey, and you should be ready for it. But there’s no backing out now—everything’s arranged. I suggest you all get some rest. You’re setting out at sunrise! With that, he dismissed the room, and the women started to file out.
   “Boy, Southern gal’s got some spark!” Hank said with a low chuckle as they stepped into the hallway.
   “Sure…” Arthur muttered, distracted. He wasn’t really listening. His mind was stuck on the way her sharp gaze had pinned him.

***

   It was late in the night when Arthur made his way to the saloon where he had rented a room. He was looking forward to a hot meal and an even hotter bath. His horse trotted steadily beneath him. His hooves echoed against the cobbled streets.
   “Well, this one’s gonna be a doozy, boy,” Arthur murmured, patting his horse’s neck. “We’ve driven cattle and horses, even flocks of sheep, but a gaggle of women? That’s a first…”
   It was a sleepless night for Arthur. As he lay on his back, staring up at the darkened ceiling of his room, he felt… unsettled. The weight of the task ahead pressed heavy on his chest. He had no business leading a convoy of women, let alone shouldering their future.
   “You’re a fool, Morgan.” he muttered to himself, rubbing a rough hand over his tired eyes.
   At some point, sleep pulled him under, and he drifted into a vague dream—a warm light, a simple house, the sound of dog’s paws padding on a wooden floor. There was a woman, her back to him; her hair caught the afternoon light as she moved about the kitchen. He couldn’t make out her face, but when she turned, a welcoming smile was visible as she motioned him inside. The dream was soft and blurry—a faint warmth he’d never let himself long for. Before he could reach her, he was pulled back to the dim reality of his room. The dream faded away, and sleep took him under fully.

Chapter Text

   The early morning sun cast its golden light as the wagons lined up at the outskirts of St. Louis—the starting point of their journey westward. The usual bustle of travel preparations filled the air. The ladies busied themselves loading cargo onto the wagons and settling into their seats. Arthur raised his left hand high, pointing westward.
   “ONWARD TO PURGATORY!” he bellowed, as his voice cut through the clamor.
   “Easy as pie, boy. Just a straight shot for 1,200 miles,” he muttered to his horse, smirking. The sound of wheels creaking and groaning filled the morning air as the wagons began to roll out. Some of the women struggled to familiarize themselves with holding the reins, while others managed with surprising ease. Whips cracked through the air, followed by cheerful shouts.
   “YIPPEE!”

   “Giddy up, Oliver!”
   “Careful now, don’t jostle my sewing machine!”
   “WAIT FOR ME!” a high-pitched cry echoed from behind the convoy. Arthur turned his head, frowning. Miss Scarlet, dressed in the latest Parisian fashion, came running after the wagons.
   “What’s goin’ on there?” Arthur growled, narrowing his eyes at the commotion. The wagon slowed, and Tanguy leaned down, offering her a graceful hand. She climbed aboard with an air of indignation.
   “How could you give the signal to depart before I finished putting on my makeup?!” she demanded, as she adjusted her feathered hat. Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering something under his breath as he rode ahead.

***

   Just as Arthur had warned, the trail was rough and the road was bumpy. Jenny Mae struggled to stay steady in her seat, gripping the side of the wagon for dear life. Every bump sent her nearly tumbling, and her delicate frame was stiffening against the jolts. Hank was trying to get her to relax, to no avail.
   “Don’t tense up, miss Jenny! Loosen’ up, Miss Jenny!”
   Watching from his horse, Arthur let out a low sigh. At the next stop for lunch, he got an idea. Grabbing a spare belt, he nailed it into the backrest of her seat to make a sort of safety strap. He was still a bit stung by the way she’d put him in his place the night before, but it wouldn’t have been gentlemanly to ignore a lady in distress. When Jenny noticed his handiwork, her eyes lit up.

   “Well, would you look at that!” she said in a sweet voice. “A proper invention! Why, Mr. Morgan, you might've just saved my poor bones from bein’ rattled apart!” Arthur cleared his throat, the tips of his ears burning at her praise. An unfamiliar feeling.
   “Hardly a big thing, miss. Just a little somethin’ to keep you in one piece,” he muttered, tipping his hat slightly. She fastened herself in and leaned back with a sincere smile.
   “Well, I’m mighty grateful. You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you, Mr. Morgan?” For some reason, her smile struck him square in the chest, prompting him to say, with unexpected warmth,
   “You may call me Arthur, miss.” He then adjusted his hat, trying to avoid Hank’s smug smirk.

***

   After a long day of travel at a steady three miles an hour, evening fell, marking the end of the first stage of their journey.
   “CIRCLE THE WAGONS!” Arthur’s voice rang out. “WE’RE CAMPING HERE FOR THE NIGHT!”
   The women descended from their wagons, stretching stiff limbs and rubbing their sore backs. Many voiced complaints about the rough ride, a few of them bemoaning the state of their aching behinds. Their first camp set up, Jenny announced she would be cooking supper that evening. The folks rejoiced—everyone was famished.
   “I’ve made ya’ll some Brunswick stew—it’s a family recipe from back home!” Jenny’s face beamed with pride. “Mint! That’s the secret. Lots and lots of mint!” As everyone gathered round the fire, digging into their portion, their faces went from eager to… mildly disappointed. The stew was less than passable. Arthur took a cautious bite, furrowing his brow slightly as he chewed. Tasted like the stew had been cooked in a mint julep.
   “Now I understand why so many Southerners ended up out West, eh, Morgan?” Hank rumbled under his breath, elbowing Arthur in the ribs.
   “AWHOOOOOOOO!” Blood-freezing howls echoed through the valley.
   “What is that horrible howling?” asked Miss Clara, the fair-haired teacher. Her voice trembled as she clutched her shawl.
   “Coyotes. Don’t worry, Miss Clara—I’ll make ‘em hush up.” Arthur got up, heading towards the trees with his plate of stew in hand. After a few moments, he was back.
   “I can’t hear them anymore!” Miss Clara seemed thrilled. “How did you do it?”
   Arthur waved his hand, brushing off the praise.
   “Oh, it’s an old trick…”
   “What’s your trick?” Hank mumbled, raising a brow.
   “Nothing special, just invited our coyote friends to share a bit of Miss Jenny’s stew.” Why is Hank twitchin’ his eye at me like that? Arthur thought too late, as he felt the sharp presence of someone behind him.
   “Is that right, Mr. Morgan?” Jenny’s voice sliced through him like a knife. He turned, caught in her fiery gaze. She stood with her arms crossed, her lips pressed into a pout that could rival a thunderstorm.
   “Well, I’m sorry my cookin’ don’t suit your refined tastes.” she drawled, fuming. “Must be hard, comin’ from the East, eatin’ all that fancy fare! But I reckon not everybody has the privilege of bein’ a critic!” She cast a quick glance around. Folks were either hastily stuffing their mouths or staring down at the ground awkwardly.
   Twice in as many days, Arthur found himself at a loss for words because of this woman. But this time, he wasn’t about to back down. Everyone around the fire froze, waiting for his response.
   “When you said mint, Miss, didn’t figure you meant we’d be chewin’ on half a patch of it.” Jenny froze for a moment, her lips parting slightly in surprise. Then, with a sharp turn of her heel, she stormed toward her wagon. Were those tears in her eyes? Arthur wondered.
   The camp fell silent, save for the sound of the fire crackling and the occasional rustle of tin plates. Arthur cleared his throat awkwardly and glanced around. Most of the folks had finished their supper. Mrs. Palmer, the tall widow with a high bun, offered him a kind smile.
   “Now, don’t you worry, Mr. Morgan. We’ve all agreed—we’ll be takin’ turns cookin’. Little Miss Jenny won’t need to… trouble herself every night.” Arthur got the underlying message. He tipped his hat and rose to his feet.
   “Well, reckon I’d best turn in. We’ve got a long road ahead, and no tellin’ what’s down it.”
  On a warm night like this, he preferred sleeping outside, under the stars. As he lay on his back, gazing at the starry sky, he tried to straighten out the tangle of his thoughts. He sighed deeply. Maybe some scribblin’ in the journal would clear his mind… He took a small, tattered notebook with black covers and a clasp from his satchel and began to write.

Journal Entry: May 17, 1892

   First day out, and it’s already feelin’ like the longest ride of my life. Wagons creakin’, women chatterin’, and coyotes howlin’ louder than my own damn thoughts.
   They’re tougher than I gave ‘em credit for, the women. But that fiery one—she’s got a way of diggin’ under my skin. Don’t much like being called out, especially not in front of a crowd. A man like me, you lose respect, and there ain’t much left to hold onto.
   Still… reckon I didn’t need to twist the knife… Maybe I was just too proud to let it go. Funny thing is, I feel worse for how she looked than I do for what I said. Maybe tomorrow I’ll smooth things over—quietly. A man oughta admit when he’s wrong. Trouble is, I ain’t sure I like the way she makes me feel when I do.

   He snapped the journal shut and tossed it into his bag before rolling to his side. Sleep began to creep in when a voice broke the quiet night.
   “Mr. Morgan?” Arthur jolted, rubbing his eyes as he sat up abruptly. A shadowy figure stood over him—a telegram boy, of all people!
   “Telegram for Arthur Morgan!”
   “I’m Morgan,” Arthur muttered, taking the envelope the boy held out. “How the hell’d you find me here?”
   “A message entrusted to us will always reach its destination!” the boy declared proudly, tipping his hat.
   “Don’t forget the quarter!” Arthur yelled after him, tossing a coin, while the boy disappeared into the woods as swiftly as he’d appeared. Arthur unfolded the telegram, his brow furrowing as he read.

Killer escaped from St. Louis prison. Stop. Evidence points to him hiding in your convoy disguised as a woman. Stop. Be careful. Stop. Man is dangerous.

   He stared at the note, frowning deeply, re-reading it twice to be sure. How in the hell am I supposed to find him without turnin’ this whole damn place into a bloodbath? This is gonna be a real mess... 
   Arthur wasted no time waking Hank to share the grim news. They quickly agreed to keep it under wraps for now—no sense in spookin’ the women until they knew more. With this new burden weighing heavy on his shoulders, Arthur resigned himself to another sleepless night. Even with exhaustion tugging at him, he doubted he’d manage more than two hours of rest...

Chapter Text

   When the sun rose, Arthur was already up, sipping hot coffee from a tin pot, leaning against a tree. Seemingly relaxed, his sharp eyes scanned the camp, watching for any signs of suspicious behavior. The place was quiet, most folks still asleep. Might be a good time to poke around, Arthur thought. He strolled past the wagons, casually lifting covers here and there, peeking inside. Maybe I’ll catch him slippin’… 
   “Mr. Morgan!” a lady with curlers in her hair shrieked, clutching a sheet over her sleeping gown. “I declare, what are you doing!?”
   “I apologize, Miss Scarlet! I must’ve mistaken your wagon for someone else’s!” Arthur shot an innocent glance her way, then turned to see Hank poking his head out of his wagon. Arthur gave him a quick wink. Hank smirked and nodded knowingly.
   Arthur finished his tour of the wagons but came up empty-handed. Frustrated, he made his way back to his horse. Tied to the saddle was a small bunch of flowers. Who in the hell could’ve done this? he wondered.

***

The journey resumed, bringing its share of mishaps.
   “CRACK!”
   “WAGONS HALT!” Arthur bellowed.
   “What’s the commotion!?” Hank hollered from behind.
   “I broke the goddamn wheel!” Arthur barked, muttering a curse under his breath. A tall, sturdy woman known as Franny ‘Jack’ Ross was called to help replace the wheel. Her forearms were twice the size of Tanguy’s. Admired among the ladies for her sense of humor, she quickly got to work alongside Hank. As she and Hank attached a new wheel, Arthur watched her closely, scratching his chin. Could be ‘Jack’ is the killer in disguise… She’s stronger than most men.

***

   The convoy used their break to replace a wheel and stop for lunch.
   Arthur became restless, coiled with a nervous energy that wouldn’t let him sit still. His gaze darted around, searching for even the smallest mistake from their fugitive, but he came up empty.
   He regretted not getting to know the women better back in St. Louis—if he’d done so, spotting the one who stood out now would’ve been easy. In a moment of desperation, he briefly considered ordering them all to strip down to their undergarments. But even in his frazzled state, he knew that would raise too much suspicion—and definitely cause a ruckus. Not to mention scandalize the women, no matter how pure his intentions.

   A gray cloud drifted across the sky, a harbinger of a May rainstorm. Restless, Arthur grabbed the axe and began splitting firewood. Each thunk was a blow to the head of the fugitive making a fool of him. The women sat nearby, chatting and laughing, blissfully unaware of the danger. Arthur cast a sharp glance in their direction.
   Miss Scarlet was filing her nails, holding them out for inspection every few seconds. Miss Clara and Miss Jenny were engrossed in a book, while Mrs. Palmer knitted, humming cheerfully. The others were deep in gossip, giggling loudly. Hank was dozing, and Tanguy lay sprawled in the grass, squinting up at the hazy sun.
   The scene grated on Arthur’s nerves. His swings grew fiercer. The pile of firewood behind him grew into a precarious tower, yet no one offered to move it. He noticed the women whispering among themselves, aiming discreet glances in his direction.
   “Well, don’t just sit there gawkin’!” Arthur snapped. “These logs ain’t gonna move themselves!” The women jumped at his tone, startled. Miss Scarlet let out an indignant “Well, I never!” but no one moved. Arthur paused, wiping the sweat from his brow and sighing heavily. He shut his eyes, already regretting his outburst. When he opened them again, he saw Miss Jenny striding toward him, her expression determined.
   “I’ll help,” she said firmly. “What do you need me to do?”
   “Nothing,” Arthur muttered gruffly.
   “I insist,” she shot back in an iron voice. “You frightened the poor ladies.”
   “But not you, Miss?” he couldn’t help but ask. She didn’t answer, merely grabbed a bundle of firewood and staggered slightly under its weight. Arthur let out a sigh.
   “Put that down, Miss Jenny, before you hurt yourself!”
   “I’m fine!” she snapped, regaining her balance. “Where do you want these?”
   “This way,” Arthur said, gesturing for her to follow. As she trudged along behind him, he turned back to check her progress.
   “Well, come along, princess,” he drawled with a smirk as he saw her eyes flare with fire. She hurried after him, determined not to let him see her struggle under the load.
   “She insists,” Arthur muttered sarcastically under his breath.

***

   Jenny kept her word and stacked the firewood neatly, with Arthur helping her toward the end. He opened his mouth to thank her, but before he could get a word out, she turned on her heel and disappeared behind the wagons. If nothing else, the physical effort had burned off the nervous energy buzzing inside him. As the caravan set off once more, a gentle rain swept across the landscape. It didn’t last long, but it cooled the lingering heat.
   The convoy rolled on without further incidents, and at sunset, Arthur signaled for the wagons to circle. Supper preparations began as the women took to their evening chores. Tonight, it was another lady’s turn to cook. Arthur noticed that Jenny had avoided his gaze. Her aloofness carried into the evening as she ate her meal quietly, steering clear of his glance. He didn’t have the luxury of fretting over her pride, though. His eyes darted over the camp, scanning each face, pretending to eat while his mind stayed sharp. Then he spotted what he’d been waiting for—a figure slipping away from the camp, disappearing into the dark trees. Muttering an excuse, Arthur quietly rose and followed.
   Sneakin’ off, are we? That hair looks like a wig… Could be the killer. Without warning, he lunged at the figure, grabbing her hair and knocking her over.
   “Mr. Morgan!” a familiar voice yelped. Arthur froze in horror. It was Miss Mabel, a tall girl with auburn curls and a shy disposition. To his surprise, she didn’t look angry—she smiled bashfully instead.
   “I came here to pick some fresh flowers for you! I… I quite like you, Mr. Morgan,” she stammered, her cheeks flushing red. Arthur sprang to his feet, clearing his throat awkwardly as he helped her up. He struggled to piece together a response.
   “My apologies, Miss… This was, uh, a misunderstanding. Let me escort you back to camp—it’s dangerous out here in the wilderness.” He motioned her back toward camp. Her face seemed a little disappointed. Damn it! If I don’t find this killer soon… Arthur shuddered as he followed her back to the wagons.

***

   The camp was settling into quiet as night fell, the sky lead-gray, with no moonlight to brighten the darkness. It made the shadows seem deeper, heavier. As Arthur prepared his bedroll, his head buzzed with grim thoughts. He and Hank hadn’t had time to talk much that day. The killer was still out there, hiding among them. Have I lost my touch? Arthur wondered bitterly. What good am I if I can’t protect these poor women? He pulled out his journal and scribbled a few fragmented thoughts before a faint noise caught his attention.
   Footsteps. Soft, deliberate. Someone was sneaking past the wagons. Arthur shot to his feet, scanning the camp. His sharp eyes caught a shadow slipping into the trees. His pulse quickened. This is it. This has to be him.
   Rising without a sound, Arthur moved after the figure, crouching low, his steps as silent as a hunter’s. The shadow weaved through the trees with uncanny swiftness, darting like a wildcat. It stopped in a grassy clearing surrounded by tall trees. Arthur crouched behind a bush, with one hand resting on the butt of his revolver. The figure bent low to the ground, as if picking something up. Arthur’s instincts screamed that now was the moment.
   “Alright there, partner,” Arthur growled, in a low and dangerous voice. “Stand up nice and slow, and put your hands where I can see ‘em.” His gun was already leveled, steady as a rock, aimed straight at the figure. At that moment, moonlight crept from behind a dark cloud, casting its ghostly light across the grassy field, revealing the face of the shadowy figure. It was… Jenny Mae!
   She gasped, startled, clutching a handful of wild herbs to her chest like she’d been caught robbing a garden.
   “Miss Jenny?” Arthur gaped at her, sliding his gun back into its holster. “Miss Jenny, what in tarnation are you doin’ out here at this unholy hour?” Jenny was trembling, but he could see her cheeks flush even under the faint moonlight. She tightened her hold on the herbs, her lips parting as though she were about to explain herself. Then, suddenly, her expression shifted, and the familiar spark returned to her eyes.
   “Well, if you must know, Mr. Morgan,” she drawled, “you about scared me to meet my Maker!” Arthur crossed his arms, letting out a slow breath, trying to keep his voice level.
   “Didn’t mean to frighten you, Miss, but you got no business wanderin’ these woods at night.” Jenny held up her handful of wild thyme and a few sprigs of something she couldn’t name with a little pout on her lips.
   “I was gatherin’ herbs. Thought maybe I’d try my hand at a better stew next time.”  Arthur scratched the back of his neck. Guilt prickled at him as the memory of his jest about her cooking crept back. Did it really bother her enough to take off on her own in the middle of the night? Especially with the dangers lurking that she had no idea about.
   For a moment, Arthur’s jaw tightened. He couldn’t help but feel protective of her, standing there all wide-eyed and determined. Still, she hadn’t lost her stubborn streak.
   “And what’s wrong with takin’ a stroll? Last I checked, it wasn’t against the law.”
   “‘Course not,” Arthur replied with a sigh. “But out here, it’s a damn fool thing to do.” Before she could argue, a rustling came from the bushes nearby, making them both freeze. Arthur instinctively stepped in front of Jenny, his hand going to his revolver. He felt her delicate fingers clutch his arm as her breathing hitched. A rabbit bounded out of the bush, darting into the darkness. Jenny let out a soft laugh and her grip on his arm eased.
   “Well, well, Mr. Morgan,” she teased. “Looks like you’re the one who’s jumpy tonight. What’s got you so on edge?” Arthur turned to face her, hesitating for a moment. She was so beautiful under the moonlight, he almost forgot to breathe. He took a half-step back, keeping his distance.
   “Miss Jenny,” he said in a low voice, “I got word there’s a killer among us. An escapee, hidin’ out, pretendin’ to be one of the women.” He watched as her expression shifted from curiosity to understanding, though she didn’t show any alarm.
   “Ain’t told the others. Don’t wanna stir up panic. But you’d do well to keep one eye open.” Jenny nodded slowly.
   “You have my word, Arthur… Mr. Morgan,” she corrected herself. Something about the way she said his name sent a flutter to his chest. “I won’t breathe a word to a soul, I swear it.” she whispered under her breath. Arthur cleared his throat, trying to keep his face impassive.
   “All right,” he said a bit gruffly, motioning for her to follow him. As they approached the dim glow of the campfire, Jenny glanced at him and wished him goodnight in a soft voice. Arthur gave a curt nod, barely glancing her way.
   “Goodnight, Miss Jenny.”
   As he settled into his bedroll, Arthur exhaled, and the tension in his shoulders eased as he looked up at the stars. Surprisingly, his head felt clearer that night. The campfire had dimmed to a warm glow, as the night sounds faded into a steady rhythm. Despite the weight of the situation, Arthur closed his eyes, letting himself drift off for the first time in days.

Chapter Text

   The journey westward continued, marked by a succession of natural obstacles. Several days passed without incident, yet Arthur’s worry grew with every mile. He and Hank exchanged uneasy glances every so often. The killer still moved unseen among them, and Arthur’s constant vigilance was beginning to take its toll. The weariness showed in the lines of his face. His sharp eyes darted to every rustle in the bushes and each fleeting shadow under the moonlight.
   One warm afternoon, Hank nudged him, jutting his chin toward a column of smoke signals curling into the sky in the distance.
   “You seein’ what I’m seein’?” he muttered. Arthur narrowed his eyes at the ridges. A native tribe had spotted the convoy, sending their signals up into the sky.
   “We’re comin’ into Comanche territory,” Arthur said grimly. “They’ve been restless lately. Better stay sharp. As if we didn’t have enough on our plate already…” He exhaled heavily. Later that afternoon, Arthur decided to make camp earlier than usual.
   “If I can’t find this damn killer,” he whispered to Hank, “I can at least make sure these women know how to protect themselves.”
   “What’s your plan?” Hank asked, leaning closer.
   “I’m gonna teach ‘em how to shoot. Round ‘em up.”

***

   When the ladies had gathered, Arthur placed a glass bottle atop a wooden crate with a stern expression.
   “Ladies,” he began, his voice carrying authority, “you remember when I told y’all this road was dangerous? Well, it’s about time you got yourselves ready for what’s ahead.” The women blinked at him under the late afternoon sun.
   “We’ve got five revolvers between us—not countin’ mine—so you’ll have to take turns.” Hank arranged the first group of ladies about thirty feet from the crate, handing out the revolvers. Arthur stood by, gesturing toward the bottle.
   “That there’s your target. Now, close your left eye, look at it with the other, and line it up nice and steady. Got it? All right… FIRE!” The shots rang out sharply in the open air. The bottle remained untouched—not even a graze on its surface.
   “CRACK!” A sudden noise startled the group as they all turned to see Franny ‘Jack’ Ross hurl her rolling pin, smacking the bottle clean in the middle! Glass shards scattered to the ground, and the women burst into cheers.
   “Well, look at that!” Jenny said with a smile, clapping. “Fair play to you, Jack—you smashed it!”
   “Where’d you learn to handle a rolling pin like that?” asked Miss Clara. Franny grinned, placing her hands on her hips.
   “Well, I’ve been married three times…” The women roar with laughter. Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose, shaking his head with a deep sigh.
   “This is gonna be a long day,” he muttered under his breath. He replaced the bottle with a tin can, stepping back to give the next two groups their turn. Despite their determination, not a single bullet struck the can. Arthur let out another sigh as he prepared to start individual instruction.
   “It’s too far. Even a marksman couldn’t hit that!” Miss Jenny called. For a split second, Arthur froze at her comment, then stepped forward without a word. Not bothering to reply, he took his revolver and casually flicked the cylinder to check it was loaded. He positioned himself some fifty feet away, maybe a little more—far enough that most folks wouldn’t even attempt a shot.
   “No one said it was easy,” he said, his voice calm but firm. Arthur lifted the gun, holding it steady in his hand. He stood as still as stone for a moment, breathing slowly. Then, with a sharp crack, he fired.
   The first shot cracked through the air, sending the can flying off the crate. Before it could hit the ground, Arthur fired again, his bullet catching the can mid-air, spinning it higher. He fired a third time, then a fourth. The revolver kicked in his hand as the can danced in the air like it had a mind of its own.
   One final shot, and the can flipped end over end before landing clattering on the ground, riddled with holes. Arthur let the revolver fall to his side. Faint tendrils of smoke curled from the barrel. He glanced back at the group calmly, betraying nothing of the satisfaction he felt.
   The camp went silent. The women stared, their mouths agape. A few of them clapped. Hank let out a whistle.
   “Well, there it is,” Hank muttered. “That’s Arthur Morgan for ya.” Jenny’s jaw hung slightly open before she quickly shut it, crossing her arms.
   “I s’pose even a broken clock’s right twice a day,” she muttered. Arthur allowed himself a smirk as he turned away.
   “Well,” Arthur drawled, spinning the revolver on his finger and sliding it back into the holster, “guess it ain’t as impossible as some folks thought.” His eyes flicked briefly to Jenny, whose cheeks flushed, before turning back to the group.
   “Now, enough gawkin’.” He snapped. “Let’s see if one of you can at least hit the damn crate this time.”
   Arthur began instructing ladies one by one. He corrected their stances, adjusted their grips on the revolvers, and demonstrated how to aim and control their breathing. Some of the women showed a natural knack for shooting, while others struggled just to hold the gun steady. Before long, a spirited rivalry began to bubble up among them.
   “Well, it seems Lydia thinks she’s Annie Oakley now, doesn’t she?” teased Franny.
   “At least I’m hittin’ the crate and not hurling rolling-pins at it!” Miss Lydia shot back.
   It was Jenny’s turn to be instructed. Arthur both dreaded and anticipated the moment. He stepped behind her and his hands gently settled over hers on the revolver.
   “Steady now,” he said in a low voice. She stiffened, her breath hitching. Arthur’s pulse quickened, but he kept his focus.
   “Keep your eye on the target. Aim small. Grip firm, but don’t lock up,” he instructed. She swallowed, and her hands twitched slightly under his. He leaned in just a touch closer, catching a faint whiff of her flowery soap.
   “Now hold your breath…” he murmured, as his breath brushed against her ear. Together, their hands moved, her finger pressing the trigger as the revolver bucked with a sharp bang. The bullet struck just shy of the can, clinking off the crate beneath it. Jenny let out a soft breath and turned her head slightly to glance up at Arthur with an apologetic smile.
   “Well, Mr. Morgan,” she drawled, “I suppose I’m just gonna have to improve, ain’t I?” Arthur stepped back abruptly, clearing his throat, hoping his beard would hide the heat creeping up his neck.
   “Not too bad for a first shot,” he replied, his voice a little sharper than intended. He turned on his heel before she could catch the look in his eyes, leaving her standing there with all puzzled.
   Arthur continued the lesson, with Hank stepping in to assist. Even Tanguy joined as a student—reluctantly.
   “I simply detest weapons! Such horrid things!” he exclaimed with a grimace.
   As the ladies began to gain confidence, Arthur relaxed slightly. Those waiting for their turn started chatting animatedly. The tension in the camp eased as the sun dipped lower in the sky.

***

   Evening crept closer. As Arthur busied himself teaching the ladies how to shoot, an unfamiliar figure quietly slipped out of the camp, heading toward a nearby creek with a bucket in hand. A wide-brimmed bonnet shaded her face, and her quick, furtive glances betrayed nervousness. As she hurried along the trail, two Comanche warriors on horseback appeared, blocking her path. Their intense gazes fixed on the lone woman.
   “White woman has entered Comanche land,” one of them said in a cold, unyielding voice. “She must turn back at once.” His tone carried an unmistakable threat. The woman moved with surprising speed, pulling a revolver from beneath her skirts and pointing it at the warrior who had spoken.
   “Shut your trap, redskin!” she snarled in an unusually coarse, guttural voice, aiming her gun hand steady. The horses reared and whinnied nervously. The Comanche exchanged wary glances.
   “Bang!” The revolver flew from her hand with a deafening crack as Arthur stepped out of the shadows. Startled, the woman staggered backward and fell, landing hard on her back. As she tumbled, her bonnet toppled off—and, bizarrely, so did her hair, revealing a buzzed scalp underneath.
   The “woman” was no woman at all—it was the fugitive murderer from St. Louis.
   “By the Great Manitou! White Squaw has two scalps!” one of the warriors exclaimed. His eyes were wide with horror. Keeping his gun trained on the impostor, Arthur strode down the trail. Kelly glared at him with venom but remained flat on the ground. Just as Arthur reached him, the fugitive sprang to his feet in a desperate bid to escape, but the Comanche swiftly blocked his path with their horses. With a shriek of frustration, he collapsed to the dirt once more. Arthur wasted no time tying him up.
   “This isn’t a Squaw,” Arthur explained as he bound Kelly’s wrists with practiced efficiency. “This is a fugitive who’s been hiding in our convoy disguised as a woman. Killer Kelly.” He turned to the baffled Comanche, reaching into the dirt to retrieve Kelly’s discarded wig.
   “My thanks to my native brothers for helping me smokin’ out this coyote. Here,” he tossed the wig toward them. “You may keep the “scalp” as a token of gratitude.’” Arthur glanced down at the still-struggling Kelly,
   “As for you, “my pretty”, we’ll be handing you over to the sheriff in the first town we come across.” Arthur secured the man on his horse before leading him back to camp. There, he briefed Hank and Tanguy on what had transpired.
   “A man masquerading as one of the ladies in our convoy? How utterly thrilling!” Tanguy quipped with an exaggerated shudder.
   “Hank, keep an eye on the camp,” Arthur instructed. “I’ll take this stowaway to Rabbit Creek’s sheriff. It’s not far.”
   “Sure, Arthur,” Hank replied.
   “You can tell the ladies what happened, but spare them the finer details. No need to stir up more worry than we already have.”
   At Rabbit Creek, the sheriff nearly leapt out of his chair when he saw Arthur, but quickly composed himself.
   “Well, I’ll be damned… That’s Killer Kelly, all right. Escaped from St. Louis prison a few weeks back,” the sheriff said.
   “He’s in your hands now, Sheriff. I’ve got a wagon train of women to lead,” Arthur replied, tipping his hat as he turned to leave. The sheriff wasted no time locking the killer in a cell, shoving a broom into his hands as he did so.
   “Since you like pretending to be a gal, you can start with sweeping the floors. After that, you can tackle the laundry and dishes!” He chuckled to his own joke. As Arthur made his way out, the sheriff hurried after him.
   “Mr. Morgan, wait a moment!” Arthur glanced over his shoulder.
   “There’s a bounty on this man’s head—it’s yours.” The sheriff handed him a sack of coins. Arthur tucked it away and rode back toward the convoy.

***

   It was late at night when Arthur neared the camp. The sound of galloping broke the quiet, making him turn.
   “Wait! Wait for me!” Arthur halted. His hand instinctively brushed the grip of his revolver, until he spotted a figure riding hard toward him. A tall, slender, dark-haired woman came into view. Her horse was panting from the chase.
   “At last I managed to catch up to you!” she gasped. “Some bandit took my place back in St. Louis! He’s hiding in the wagon train!” Arthur gave her a reassuring smile, raising his hand in a calming gesture.
   “He isn’t any longer, Miss. He’s in the hands of the law now.” The woman’s shoulders sagged in relief as she looked skyward.
   “Oh, thank the Lord!” Her eyes searched Arthur’s face. “Did you catch him?”
   “Yes, Miss,” Arthur said plainly, tipping his hat. “Had a little help along the way, but we got him.” She blinked at him in awe. “Then I thank you, Mr…”
   “Morgan. Arthur Morgan, at your service, Miss.”
   “Maggie Bell.”
   “Well, Miss Maggie,” Arthur said, motioning with a nod, “let’s get you to camp. I reckon they’re celebratin’ already. You can tell the ladies how you rode clear across God’s creation to catch up with us.”
   As they rode towards the camp, Arthur couldn’t help but glance at her again. The woman had grit, no doubt about it. She’d traveled God-knows-how-many miles on her own, all to warn them about the killer and reclaim her place. That kind of determination merited respect. She didn’t carry herself with airs, either—there was something graceful in the way she sat her horse, like she belonged in the saddle.
   The camp glowed softly in the distance. The flickering light of the fire casted dancing shadows on the trees. Laughter, the strum of Tangy’s fiddle, and the chatter of women drifted toward them on the cool night breeze. Arthur smirked to himself. Figured they’d be partyin’. As they approached, their silhouettes drew the attention of Hank, who was keeping watch at the edge of the camp, with a rifle propped in his arms.
   “Who goes in there?” he rumbled suspiciously, squinting at the newcomers.
   “Arthur, dumbass!” Arthur called back dryly as he and Miss Maggie stepped into the light.
   “Arthur?” Hank’s bushy brows shot up. “Didn’t think you’d be bringing company.”
   “This here’s Miss Maggie Bell,” Arthur said, gesturing toward her. “She chased us clear across the prairie just to warn us about Killer Kelly.” Hank let out a low whistle, grinning widely.
   “Well, I’ll be damned. Ain’t that somethin’! Welcome, Miss Bell. Now get yourselves in there-everyone’s waitin’ on you, Arthur!”
   Arthur and Maggie dismounted and headed toward the fire. Arthur’s eyes immediately began scanning the group. He caught himself doing it again-searching for Jenny-and forced his gaze away. Gotta kick that habit. When he finally spotted her sitting on a tree trunk near the fire, looking calm and safe, he exhaled a quiet sigh of relief.
   “Ladies,” Arthur said, in a firm, but warm voice, “this here’s Miss Maggie Bell. She rode after us to warn about the killer who’d taken her place.” A murmur of astonishment spread through the group. Some of the women gasped softly, exchanging uneasy glances.
   “Killer Kelly has been caught!” Arthur added. This time, the cheering was louder, and a palpable wave of relief swept through the camp. Arthur’s tone softened slightly.
   “I didn’t want to set off a panic, but ever since I got word ‘bout him, I’ve been on the lookout. With the help of our native brothers, we brought him in. He’s sitting in a jail cell where he belongs.” He turned to Maggie with a small, respectful smile.
   “As for the bounty for his capture, it’s yours, Miss. Please, take it as an early wedding gift. Welcome to the wagon train.” He handed her the money with a polite nod, and the camp erupted into the loudest cheer yet. Maggie took the bounty, clearly overwhelmed by the reception. She turned to Arthur.
   “I don’t know how to thank you, Mr. Morgan.” Arthur tipped his hat slightly. As the women surrounded Maggie with questions and warm smiles, Arthur took a step back, watching the scene with quiet satisfaction.
   “Arthur Morgan”, Hank muttered as he approached, slapping Arthur on the back, “you’re somethin’ else.” Arthur gave a small shake of his head, mumbling something too low for anyone to catch, dismissing the compliment. Despite himself, his gaze drifted toward Jenny. She was sitting with a group of ladies, her laughter just loud enough to carry over the chatter. But when she caught him looking, her smile faltered, and her eyes darted away, flying intently on something-or nothing-over her shoulder. Arthur’s chest tightened. A faint unease crept in—What has he done now?
   The party went on late into the night. Hank picked up his banjo and the lively strumming prompted a round of singing from the ladies. Laughter filled the camp, but Arthur’s gaze kept drifting back to Jenny. She was perched on a log across from him. Her delicate figure glowed in the warm light. Yet, no matter how often his gaze lingered, she seemed resolute not meeting it. She toyed with the hem of her dress or brushed imaginary lint off her lap—her focus everywhere except on him.
   Arthur leaned against a tree, chewing over the possibilities. He didn’t recall saying anything to offend her… not recently, at least. Though, with women, he learned, sometimes it wasn’t about words at all. Still, he savored her figure sitting there. The soft glow of the flames gave her face an almost angelic quality. A few unruly honey-blonde gold locks slipped from their place, grazing her cheek with a maddening kind of innocence. Her lips—full and slightly pursed—drew his attention more than he cared to admit. Finally, her eyes flicked up to his—brief, almost startled—and met his for a heartbeat. For a fleeting moment, her hazel gaze softened, as if searching for something in his face.
   His chest tightened at the sight, a jolt rushing through him. But just as quickly, she blinked and turned her eyes. She flashed a polite, somewhat strained smile at Maggie Bell, who had seated herself near the fire. Arthur, none the wiser, leaned back against the tree and replayed the moment in his mind. Damn woman could drive a man to distraction without lifting a finger.
   As if guilty of a crime, he felt the need to get away. He moved to the edge of the camp to light a smoke and gather his thoughts. He needed the tobacco to steady his nerves. There wasn’t any use pretending anymore—he was drawn to Jenny Mae. A woman engaged to be married, her fiancé eagerly awaiting her in Purgatory.
   When had he realized it? That night when he followed her to the woods… or maybe when he taught her how to shoot. It was only tonight, though, that he’d let himself admit it. He felt like a fool. Him, Arthur Morgan, losing his wits over a lady? The thought was laughable, and yet… there he was—sighing, trying to catch her eyes, thinking about her all the damn time.
   He was playing a dangerous game. He’d have to cut this nonsense at the root. Starting tomorrow, he’d be polite, but distant. A true gentleman. Lord forbid anybody picked up on his longing. He was supposed to be their guide and protector, not some would-be charmer stirring up trouble! And if there was one thing women were good at, it was gossip. It wasn’t just his honor on the line—it was hers too.
   Something else gnawed at him, and it made him loathe himself—Jenny’s indifference. She could hardly bear to look at him. Maybe she despised being stared at by him all the time. He’d have to stop making her uncomfortable.
   He finished his smoke, flicking the butt into the dirt. As he exhaled through the nose, calmness settled over him. Yes, he’d end these foolish notions here and now. He’d bury this yearning deep within. No lady would steal his wits, no matter how charming her smile or enchanting her eyes. Reassured by his own resolve, he went to settle in for the night. The clamor of the party slowly faded, replaced by the quiet hum of the wilderness. Arthur opened his journal, deciding to scrawl down his thoughts one last time—the final word on the matter, he vowed.

Journal entry: June 15, 1892

   Some nights, a man don’t feel like himself. Like he’s wrestlin’ somethin’ he can’t even name… somethin’ clawin’ its way out from inside. Sat by the fire tonight, watchin’ the flames flicker and crackle, but my mind’s been burnin’ hotter. Can’t quite put my finger on what’s wrong—or maybe I can, and I’m just too damn stubborn to face it. 
   There’s a fine line between what’s right and what’s tempting, and I reckon I’ve been toein’ it all wrong.
   Ain’t no use in losin’ your head, not when folks are countin’ on you. That’s the thing about this life—there ain’t room for foolishness, ain’t room for… distractions. Start lettin’ yourself think too much, and you’re already one foot in the grave. Still, I wonder what it’d be like to just… hell, never mind. Don’t do me no good to wonder.
   Time to get my head on straight, be the man I’m supposed to be. There’s a job to finish, and that’s all there is to it.

Chapter Text

   The next morning, for the first time in a while, Arthur woke feeling well-rested. He stretched lazily, then rose to pour himself a cup of coffee. With Killer Kelly behind bars, his mind finally felt at ease. The events of the previous day already seemed distant, like they’d happened weeks ago. Pulling out his journal, he flipped through the pages and noted the date—it had been mid-May when they set off from St. Louis.
   Coffee pot in hand, Arthur settled under the shade of a cottonwood tree near his bedroll, the journal resting on his knee. He hadn’t done any doodling in a while, and the notion struck him. He sipped slowly, letting his eyes wander and soak in the lush greenery around them. They’d picked a fine spot to camp the previous afternoon. The landscape stretched wide and open, rolling hills melting into the endless prairie. Tall grass swayed in the breeze, shimmering like waves under the morning sun. The air was alive with the sweet, lilting songs of meadowlarks.
   This—this right here—was why he’d taken to the life of a bounty hunter. Chasing down outlaws had kept him out in the wilderness, far from the crowded streets and prying eyes of the townsfolk. Out here, he could breathe. Nature was a second home, though sometimes it reminded him of those years riding with the gang, back when he wasn’t much better than the men he hunted now. He shook off the thought with a slight frown, focusing instead on the quiet peace of the morning. A small stream wound lazily in the distance, flanked by more cottonwoods whose silver-green leaves shimmered in the sunlight.
   On days like this, when the world wasn’t demanding too much of him, he’d stop and let himself appreciate it. Just for a little while. Arthur flipped the journal open and pulled a stub of charcoal from his pocket. Without much thought, his hand began tracing the stream’s curves in his journal, adding rough strokes for the cottonwoods and shading the ripples of water.
   A shadow fell across the page—the faint outline of a head. Arthur’s hand paused mid-stroke—someone was peeking over his shoulder at his journal.
   “My, my, Mr. Morgan, you’re quite the artist!” Arthur snapped the journal closed and looked up sharply, meeting Miss Maggie’s wide grin.
   “Don’t be shy now, that drawing’s somethin’ else!” He felt the heat rising up his neck, creeping into his ears. This is why he kept his distance from women. They always had a way of making him blush.
   “Hardly, Miss Maggie. Just a doodle…” he muttered, clearing his throat. Her smile softened before she turned and went on with her business. Arthur glanced around the camp. The early light cast long shadows on the bustle of morning chores. The ladies were busy, preparing to set off—tying down tarps, packing supplies, and brushing off dust from their dresses. He noticed how they smiled at him when they passed by, some even nodding his way. Hero of the Convoy, that’s what he was now. A sense of pride swelled in his chest—something he hadn’t felt in a long time.
   Sheriffs never had time for such gratitude when he brought in outlaws; they were more concerned with paperwork and justice served. But these women? Their thanks had a different weight. A warmth. Still, guilt followed close behind, like a shadow. A past like his didn’t deserve admiration. Redemption? Wasn’t much of a thing for men like him. But at least he could be proud of one thing—he’d only thought about Jenny three times since sunup. Not bad for a man wrestling with his own thoughts. Until she came strolling by, carrying a bucket of water. She stopped when she saw him, setting the bucket down as if she suddenly had all the time in the world.
   “Mornin’, Mr. Morgan,” she said with that soft Southern lilt that unsettled him just a bit too much. Arthur pretended to be occupied with his journal, keeping his head low, only glancing up at her briefly.
   “Miss Jenny,” he muttered, giving her a slight nod. He expected her to move along, but she didn’t. Instead, she stepped closer and leaned just enough to peek at the journal in his hands. Arthur stiffened, his fingers twitching against the page. His thoughts scrambled—thankfully, there weren’t any mentions of her in this entry, but her interest made him jumpy all the same. He cleared his throat, trying to mask his unease.
   “You up early,” he said casually, not looking up. She shrugged with a playful smile.
   “Some of us have chores to tend to, while others…”—she jutted her chin toward the journal—“seem mighty busy scribblin’.” Arthur huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head.
   “Relax, Mr. Morgan, I’m teasin’.” Her grin widened. “You’re Marshal Morgan, haven’t you heard what they’ve been callin’ you since last night?” She tilted her head, studying him. “Guess you’ve earned it.”
   “Weren’t meanin’ to,” he muttered, glancing at her sidelong. Why wasn’t she leavin’? She’d barely acknowledged him at the party last night, and now she wanted a chatter? Her expression shifted.
   “So… how’s Miss Maggie?” she asked, her tone light but pointed. Arthur blinked, caught off guard.
   “She’s all right, I guess,” he replied slowly.
   “You’re really taken by her, ain’t ya, Mr. Morgan?” She crossed her arms loosely, her eyes narrowing ever so slightly. Taken? Arthur felt his mind turn over the words. Taken by Miss Maggie? He mulled it over a moment longer, then realization hit him. Was little Miss Jenny… jealous for attention? The thought amused him more than it should’ve. An invisible grin tugged at the corner of his lips. Why not toy with her a little, see where this went? You’re playin’ with fire, Morgan, the voice in his head warned, but he couldn’t help himself.
   “Sure,” he said finally, drawling delibaretely. “I really admire her spirit. Ridin’ like that, all by herself… You gotta respect a lady with spirit, don’t you think?” He glanced at her, gauging her reaction. Her expression soured and the faintest hint of fire sparked in her hazel eyes. She pressed her lips together, clearly searching for a retort. Arthur smirked inwardly, knowing he’d struck a nerve. But before she could respond, he added quickly,
   “But if anyone’s got spirit, it’s you, Miss Jenny.” She blinked at him, suspicious.
   “Don’t you patronize me, Mr. Morgan.”
   “I mean it,” he said seriously. “Back in the woods that night, when I told you about the killer? You hardly flinched. You kept your mouth shut. Some women would’ve babbled, set off a panic. But you didn’t.”
   “I told you already, Mr. Morgan. I ain’t no dimwit.”
   “You sure ain’t that,” he agreed with affirmation in his voice.
   “And do you know why I wasn’t scared?” She took a step closer. “Because I never doubted you’d catch him.” Arthur opened his mouth, but no words came out. He tipped his hat instead, the only gesture he could muster. Her tone softened further.
   “I trust you, Arthur,” she said quietly. His heart skipped and his chest tightened. “I mean… we all do.” He tipped his hat again, a silent acknowledgment. Words weren’t his strong suit, not for moments like this. Jenny smiled faintly. She picked up the bucket with ease and turned away, leaving him sitting.
   Arthur exhaled sharply, tension flooding out of him. Darn woman, he thought bitterly. Why did she have to go callin’ me by my first name just when I was doin’ a fine job of ignorin’ these foolish thoughts? Her words replayed in his head as he rubbed his eyes in frustration. I trust you, Arthur. They echoed, lingering like a warm touch. He shook his head, muttering under his breath.
   “Arthur Morgan, you damn fool.”

***

   As much as Arthur enjoyed the spot of their current camp, they were well past the usual time to set off. Reluctantly, he went to find Hank to get things moving.
   “WAGONS HO! HANK, SOUND THE DEPARTURE!” Arthur barked. Hank blew into a small brass trumpet, signaling everyone to prepare to leave. Arthur urged his horse to trot alongside Hank’s wagon. Tanguy was perched next to him. Their grins widened as Arthur approached.
   “Well, if it ain’t Marshall Morgan!” Hank roared teasingly.
   “Shut your mouth,” Arthur snapped with a hidden grin. He couldn’t help it—especially after that brief exchange with Jenny earlier. Hank eyed him with suspicion.
   “You ain’t gonna start gettin’ smug now, are you?” Arthur didn’t bother replying, simply gazing ahead at the trail.
   “Everything all right, Hank? Tanguy?” Arthur asked after a pause in a casual tone, though his thoughts had been anything but. “Been so busy watchin’ for that damn killer, I haven’t had time to check up on y’all.”
   “The problem with women drivin’ wagons,” Hank drawled, glancing ahead, “is you never know which way they’re gonna turn. Look there.” He pointed to the wagon ahead of them. Sure enough, a hand poked out from under the canvas, signaling a left turn, only for the wagon to veer sharply to the right. Arthur and Hank burst into hearty laughter, though Tanguy didn’t seem amused. His eyes scanned the horizon nervously.
   “I have a bad feeling, Arthur!”
   “A woman's intuition, I imagine.” Arthur said without much concern. Hank snorted, trying to cover it up with a cough. But then, Arthur frowned at the horizon, some of Tanguy’s tension starting to creep in his own thoughts. Something felt off…
   Before Tanguy could retort, a sudden TSHAK! sliced through the air. Arthur’s hat jerked as an arrow pierced clean through it. The feathered shaft quivered from the impact. They froze. No one was laughing anymore.
   “Comanche,” Arthur muttered grimly. On the distant ridge, shadowy figures appeared, their outlines glowing in the orange glare of the sun. Warriors sat tall on their horses, lined up in a formidable row.
   “Watch the convoy, Hank,” Arthur said, his voice low and serious as he adjusted his hat. “I’ll go talk to the Chief.”
   “What’re you gonna say?” Hank seemed concerned. Arthur sighed, reins in hand.
   “Ain’t got the faintest idea.”
   “Be careful, Arthur,” Hank said earnestly. “WAGONS HALT!” His voice boomed over the convoy.
   Arthur nudged his horse forward, riding alone toward the Comanche. The arrow still poked out of his hat. The convoy watched anxiously as his silhouette grew smaller against the horizon.

   Arthur approached the Chief, slowing his horse to a steady walk. The Chief sat regally atop his mount, with his feathered headdress flowinglike a cascade of colors in the wind. His sun-worn face was stoic, unreadable. He didn’t speak, nor did he acknowledge Arthur’s approach, simply waiting for him to break the silence. Arthur raised his hand in greeting.
   “Greetings, Great Chief,” he began, keeping his tone steady. “I reckon the Comanche are far too brave to make war on a few Squaws just passin’ through. We mean no harm. In fact, last night, some of your warriors helped me stop a threat to my convoy. To show our gratitude, we’ve brought gifts for our Indian brothers.” The Chief’s expression didn’t change. He raised his hand, halting Arthur’s ramble.
   “My eyes see no gifts,” the Chief said in a calm, deep voice. “If you offer more beads and trinkets, keep them. We have no need for such things.” Arthur took a breath. Here goes nothin’.
   “I’m offerin’ somethin’ to make your warriors the most elegant on the Plains,” he said, trying to sound persuasive.
   “Headdresses adorned with peacock and ostrich feathers. War paint—red lipstick, blue and green powders, black mascara. Fine satin and lace garments, coats trimmed with fur. All the latest from Paris!” The Chief’s gaze sharpened slightly, though his expression remained stoic. Arthur felt a bead of sweat roll down his temple.
   “Where are these offerings?” the Chief asked finally. Arthur nodded.
   “Give us ‘til sunset, and our Squaws will present them to you in a show. You can take what you like—save the women themselves.” The Chief studied Arthur for a long moment before giving a single nod.
   “The white man will wait for us at sunset,” he said simply, raising his hand to signal his warriors. With that, the Comanche turned their horses and rode off, disappearing into the haze of the horizon.
   Arthur let out a sigh of relief. Sweating and exhausted, he turned his horse back toward the convoy. As he drew closer, the camp erupted in cheers. He rode straight to Hank and Tanguy, his hat still pierced by the arrow.
   “Tanguy,” Arthur called with urgency. “Dress the women up. Do their hair, their makeup—whatever you gotta do. We’re givin’ the Comanche a fashion show tonight!” Tanguy’s jaw dropped, but he quickly recovered, his hands clapping together in excitement.
   “Magnifique!” he exclaimed.
   Hank glanced at the arrow in Arthur’s hat and muttered under his breath, “You sure don’t do anything halfway, do ya, Morgan?”

***

   The camp was in utter commotion. Arthur darted back and forth, keeping a close eye on the preparations.
   On makeshift chairs fashioned from overturned barrels, the women sat, waiting their turn for hairstyling. Some were already dressed in luxurious gowns.
   Tanguy Charbonnier was busy styling and applying makeup to the ladies with a mix of urgency and calm precision. It was clear he was in his element, thoroughly enjoying himself. He hummed a tune as he maneuvered his scissors, entirely focused on his work.
   On the table beside them lay a heap of fabrics, hats, furs, and parasols—all the latest Parisian fashion. Some of the women hesitated to part with their cherished items.
   “I bought this hat on sale in St. Louis!” one said mournfully, setting it on the table with reluctance.
   Arthur paced impatiently, biting his nails. He felt like a host preparing for a grand event, fretting over whether everything would go smoothly. As he wandered, a scent wafted toward him from the pot bubbling over the fire. He caught a faint whiff of… mint. Mint!?
   “Whose turn is it to cook dinner?” he barked at Miss Lydia as she walked past him. She jumped, then glanced toward the pot.
   “Miss Jenny, sir!” Arthur felt his blood run cold for a moment before a resigned calm washed over him. Well, if their Indian brothers remained in good spirits after dinner, there wouldn’t be much to worry about.
   “Don’t you fret, Mr. Morgan.” Jenny appeared behind him as if from nowhere. “This time, I only added a pinch of mint to the stew.” He nodded absently, his gaze drifting to her stained apron.
   “Miss Jenny, why aren’t you ready yet!?” She began untying her apron, turning her back to him.
   “Could you help me with this knot, please?”
   Arthur untied the bow at her back with trembling hands. It wasn’t tied tightly at all, he noticed. Jenny turned and, with a single motion, removed the apron. Though she was still wearing her dress underneath, the simple act struck Arthur as far too intimate. A thought raced through his mind of what else he’d like to help her remove. He turned away to hide his face, as if she could read his thoughts. Jenny hurried off toward the wagon where Tanguy had set up his impromptu salon.
   Evening came, and the reception for the natives turned out to be a friendly affair. After the introductions and pleasantries, everyone gathered around the fire. The Chief sat in the center, with Arthur to his right, and Hank right next to him. Surrounding them were the warriors, seated shoulder to shoulder, while across from them sat Tanguy and the women. Dinner was served.
   “We’re happy to invite our Indian brothers to share our evening meal!” Arthur gestured toward the pot. Praying silently to the Almighty, Arthur closed his eyes and shoveled a spoonful of stew into his mouth. To his surprise, it was… acceptable. He cast a sidelong glance at the Chief. The Indians seemed to have no complaints. However, when offered a second helping, they responded with hilariously creative excuses:
   “No, thank you. My medicine man forbade it!”
   “No, thank you, I’m fasting!”
   “Thank you, but I’m already full!”
   “I wouldn’t want to spoil it!”
   “Do you happen to have any baking soda?”
   Arthur snorted softly, exhaling a breath of relief. Then he addressed the Chief.
   “And now, Chief, the surprise we promised! Our ladies have prepared a fashion show for your enjoyment!” The group quickly cleared a path for the women to parade down, while Tanguy positioned himself to the side, a megaphone in hand, ready to narrate.
   The fashion show began. One by one, the women stepped onto the makeshift runway at Tanguy’s cue, showcasing their outfits and makeup. Those who hadn’t had their turn yet were clustered behind a wagon, peeking over each other’s shoulders to catch a glimpse. Tanguy’s voice echoed theatrically.
   “And here we have our ‘Forget-Me-Not’ model! A light-blue ensemble featuring a lace skirt, a dark velour belt, and a muslin vest! The bolero is entirely threaded with lace…”
   Franny ‘Jack’ Ross shifted nervously in a pink floral dress that bore no resemblance to her usual attire. She carried her rolling pin over her shoulder.
   “And now, Franny will present our ‘Gardenia’ model!” Tanguy announced.
   “Good luck, Jack!” Miss Mabel patted her on the shoulder. “What’s with the rolling pin?” She asked in astonishment.
   “The first one who laughs,” Franny warned, “is getting whacked!”
   To everyone’s surprise, the Indians’ reactions were far from mocking. They clapped and cheered exuberantly in their distinctive warrior style. The Chief pointed at Franny and asked Arthur:
   “Two horses for this Squaw?”
   “Sorry, Chief,” Arthur replied with a laugh, “but the women aren’t for sale!”
   Then it was Jenny’s turn. She peeked shyly from behind the wagon before stepping onto the “runway” with tentative steps. Arthur, who had been anticipating her appearance more eagerly than he cared to admit, felt his breath hitch. His gaze was fixed on her delicate figure, as was everyone else’s, so he didn’t bother hiding his admiration.
   Her hair was styled in a modern fashion, with a few untamed curls brushing her delicate neck. Her hazel eyes, accentuated by black mascara, were stunningly seductive. Arthur silently applauded Tanguy’s skill. As for her lips, painted a deep rose-pink and slightly parted in an unintentionally flirtatious way… Arthur had to summon every ounce of willpower to redirect his thoughts.
   Jenny glided down the runway with a soft smile. Arthur could easily imagine her strolling along the promenade in St. Louis, unintentionally enchanting everyone who glanced her way. What he found most captivating was her unconscious allure—innocent yet coquettish.
   Jenny reached the end of the runway, twirled gracefully, revealing layers of lace peeking from beneath her skirt, and began her return walk. Tanguy narrated enthusiastically, describing her dress, which perfectly complemented her porcelain complexion.
   “Our Jenny wears the ‘Winter Rose’ model in mint green! The skirt boasts three layers of petticoats…”
   “Well, Arthur,” Hank bellowed beside him, elbowing him with a grin, “you might just grow to like mint after all, huh?”
   Arthur coughed awkwardly. “Yeah, the stew wasn’t bad,” he muttered, though he had a feeling Hank wasn’t talking about dinner.

***

   The fashion show transformed into a lively jam session. Hank pulled out his banjo, and the ladies burst into cheerful song. Tanguy picked up a fiddle, striking it with theatrical flair. The Comanche clapped enthusiastically, keeping rhythm. Hank’s singing echoed through the megafone.
   
   “Promenade forward and back, do-si-do

   Circle right with your arm around her waist

   If she ain’t too wide…”

   The music soon gave way to dancing. Everyone sprang to their feet around the fire, grasping hands awkwardly. It was impossible to tell who was dancing with whom. Hank grabbed Miss Clara by the waist and spun her around in a wide circle. The Chief shuffled merrily around Franny, keeping a wary eye on her rolling pin.
   Arthur stood a distance away from the fire, leaning against a wagon in the shadows. He lit a cigarette with a faint smile. The evening couldn’t have gone better, he thought with satisfaction. From the corner of his eye, he noticed Hank gesturing to him, beckoning him to join the revelry. Arthur waved back, smiling as he shook his head. He had never cared much for dancing. Hank rolled his eyes and turned away.
   Arthur frowned when he then saw Hank approach Jenny and whisper something into her ear, nodding in Arthur’s direction. Jenny followed Hank’s gesture, her gaze landing squarely on Arthur. His heart plummeted to his boots. Jenny began moving toward him, in light steps. Her mischievous smile grew as she approached. She bounced slightly on her toes, holding out her hand toward him.
   Before Arthur could say a word—or mount a defense—Jenny grabbed his hand with more strength than he expected from someone so petite and led him toward the center of the campfire circle. He allowed her to guide him as if under a spell, stumbling clumsily after her. His cigarette fell forlornly from the corner of his mouth, landing in the dirt.
   As they neared the fire where the others were dancing, Jenny spun lightly and placed her soft hands in his large, calloused ones. Arthur had never held her hand before. The sensation was… intriguing. He swallowed hard, feeling a bead of sweat trickle down his neck. Jenny beamed at him. Her hazel eyes sparkled with a playful light.
   Arthur shut his eyes, took a deep breath, and decided to surrender to the moment. After all, he was already melting under the warmth of Jenny’s gentle touch. Taking the lead, he twirled her around, losing himself in the whirlwind of music, laughter, and firelight… until her voice snapped him back to reality.
   “You see, Mr. Morgan,” she teased, “it’s all right to dance now and then, isn’t it? I swear it won’t ruin your reputation as a gruff, brooding gunslinger.”
   “Gruff and brooding?” he echoed, slightly offended. “That what you think of me?” Jenny simply rolled her eyes playfully in response. At that moment, a pair of hands reached under Arthur’s elbow, forming a loop and pulling him away from Jenny. Before he could resist, he found himself swept into the larger circle forming around the fire.
   The celebration lasted well into the night. No one gave a thought to retiring for the evening. Hank wandered around with a flask in hand. Sharp, unmistakable scent of strong spirits wafted from it. He offered a swig to anyone who passed by. Jenny, however, was quick to scold him.
   “Mr. Hank, you ought to know that alcohol destroys both the mind and body—and awakens the beast within men! And that goes for tobacco too!” she added, turning to point an accusatory finger at Arthur just as he was lighting a cigarette. Arthur couldn’t help but think that he was already wrestling with some beastly urges, entirely sober at that, and hastily buried the thought deep within himself. Fortunately, the general merriment kept everyone too distracted to notice his wistful glances and quiet sighs. Still, he reminded himself to be more cautious.
   As if on cue, the Chief raised his hand, signaling the end of the festivities. His warriors instantly fell silent. The horizon was already tinged with the soft pink glow of dawn.
   “The leader has a pure heart,” the Chief proclaimed solemnly, addressing Arthur. “The caravan may safely cross Comanche lands. But first, we shall smoke the pipe of peace!” They all sat in a circle on the ground, with Arthur and Hank joining the Chief and his men. The pipe was passed from hand to hand, each person taking a puff before passing it on. Jenny, however, couldn’t resist offering her opinion.
   “Great Chief, you ought to know that tobacco is terribly harmful to one’s health!” she declared sternly. The Chief stared at her in astonishment, while Arthur and Hank barely managed to stifle their laughter.
   “And now,” the Chief announced, recovering his composure, “the white man and the Comanche shall bury the tomahawk.” He held up a feather-adorned tomahawk as a symbol of their truce. Arthur nodded and grabbed a spade.
   “Allow me to help you, Chief.” He began digging into the ground. After a few shovelfuls, his spade struck something hard. The metallic clang echoed in the early morning stillness. Startled, Arthur reached into the shallow hole and pulled out a dirty, unassuming lump. Upon closer inspection, he realized it was a nugget of pure gold. Arthur extended it toward the Chief, intending to offer it as a token of respect, but the Chief shook his head firmly.
   “Let the white man keep the gold—he is the one who found it.”
   “I can’t believe you found gold!” Hank exclaimed, clapping Arthur on the back, uttering a curse with a grin. Arthur said nothing, staring at the nugget in his hand with a mix of disbelief and awe. Finally, he nodded in gratitude toward the Chief.
   The Comanche escorted the caravan on horseback to the edge of their lands, wishing them safe travels from that point onward. The Chief and his men, laden with the gifts they had received, saluted them with cries of farewell before turning their horses back toward their hunting grounds. Arthur rose on his horse and waved his hat to say goodbye, watching as the Comanche rode away. Then, mounting his horse once more, he joined the caravan as they resumed their journey westward, leaving the rising morning sun behind them.

Chapter Text

   The journey pressed on through the endless Kansas prairies. The lush green cottonwoods and babbling streams had given way to a monotonous expanse, where nothing thrived but the swaying sea of tall grass. As June neared its end, the temperatures were bearable, yet the air hung warm, muggy, and oppressively still. Arthur squinted against the sun, lazily wiping sweat from his brow as the heat pressed against his skin like a heavy hand.
   “We’re coming up on the canyon,” he said to Hank, pointing ahead into the distance. “There’s a bridge we can cross.” After another half hour of rattling along the rough trail, they halted abruptly at the canyon’s edge. Below them yawned a jagged abyss, and what was once a sturdy wooden bridge now dangled pitifully, its rotting ropes swaying forlornly in the breeze. Arthur buried his face in his hands, while Hank let loose a string of curses.
   “You mean there was a bridge?” Hank muttered, shooting Arthur a disbelieving glare.
   “We’ll have to find another crossing,” Arthur groaned. “It’ll cost us days!” The two men fell into a frustrated silence. Arthur’s gaze shifted southwest, where the sky had begun to take on an unnatural, sickly green hue. The prairie itself seemed to hold its breath, and the air—already stifling—had grown eerily still.
   The animals were the first to sense trouble. The mules began to snort nervously, stamping their hooves and twitching their ears. Blades of grass swirled lazily in the air, mingling with specks of dust that stung their eyes and nostrils. The women gasped, shielding their faces with shawls, while the mules let out plaintive, trembling whinnies that forebode disaster.
   They were in Kansas—a land notorious for its ‘twisters’— tornadoes capable of devastating entire landscapes and ripping houses clean from their foundations. Arthur had witnessed a hurricane once before, though he hadn’t been in its direct path.
   The low, guttural rumble, as though the earth itself were groaning in pain, sent a shiver up his spine. He turned his head toward the sound’s source and spotted it: a growing black cloud in the distance, twisting like a monstrous serpent and advancing steadily toward them with a dreadful, high-pitched whistle.
   “Twister,” Arthur muttered, his stomach tightening. Then he shouted:
   “HANK! TWISTER! HEADING STRAIGHT FOR US! FREE THE ANIMALS!” Arthur leapt from his horse, his voice rising over the mounting wind that now howled around them with a fierce determination.
   “Ladies, Tanguy, out of the wagons! Leave everything and follow me! QUICK!” he bellowed, noticing the panic that froze them in place. His sharp commands snapped them into motion. Hank hurried to release the mules as Arthur grabbed Jenny’s hand. Her eyes met his—they were wide with fear but steady—she didn’t panic. He gestured for the others to follow and pointed to a shallow depression in the ground about a hundred yards away. It was their only chance.
   The group dove into the ditch as Arthur ordered them to lie flat, bury their faces, and cover their heads with their hands. Above them, the wind roared like a hundred freight trains, devouring everything in its path. Arthur heard wagons groan and collapse, barrels splitting open with thunderous cracks. The cries of terrified animals pierced the din. Here comes the worst part, Arthur thought in a flash. Just don’t let it sweep us up, he prayed. He pressed Jenny down harder, his arm shielding her back as debris flew overhead.
   The world turned into chaos. Dust and grit bit at their faces, and shards of wood splintered against the ground around them. A barrel hurtled past, smashing to pieces mere feet away. The noise was deafening—a mix of thunder, screeches, and a piercing wail that seemed endless. Arthur saw and heard nothing else. He clenched Jenny’s hand tightly, anchoring himself in that small, tangible connection as the storm raged above them, unstoppable, furious, growing in intensity—a colossal force of death, ready to sweep them away with its immense scythe.
   And then, as quickly as it had come, the fury began to subside. The roaring wind softened to a distant howl, and the air grew still. Dust settled, revealing a desolate landscape. An eerie silence fell over the prairie, broken only by the faint creak of splintered wood and the distant cries of unsettled mules. Arthur raised his head cautiously, blinking against the lingering dust. Jenny stirred beside him, and he exhaled a deep sigh of relief.
   “EVERYONE STILL ALIVE?” he called out hoarsely, his first thought spoken aloud. Groans and nods confirmed that all had survived, though their expressions ranged from shaken to dazed.
   “Jenny, are you all right?” he asked in a soft voice. He didn’t even realize he’d used her first name; it had come out naturally, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. She nodded silently, giving no indication that she’d taken offence.
   Arthur scanned the others for injuries. They were disheveled, dusty, and torn but miraculously unharmed. Another sigh of relief escaped him. “We were lucky,” he said solemnly. “This wasn’t a strong twister.”
   “Lucky?” Miss Scarlett exclaimed, holding up a tattered stocking. “What about this? It’s ruined!” The group turned to her with pale, incredulous faces, unsure whether to laugh or cry.
   Arthur stepped out of the ditch to assess the damage. The prairie was a scene of ruin. Wagons lay overturned, barrels and supplies scattered. The ground was churned, grass flattened, and rocks dislodged from their places.
   “We’ll need to spread out,” Arthur said firmly. “Gather everything we can—clothes, supplies, anything intact. I’ll round up the mules.” He whistled sharply, and his horse galloped toward him, letting out a low, distressed whinny. Arthur calmed him with a steady hand before riding out. Following tracks in the soft, torn earth, he found the mules and horses huddled behind large boulders a few hundred yards away. They had instinctively sought shelter there, spared from the worst of the storm.
   As he tied the mules, Arthur noticed something. Beyond the rocks, a narrow passage had been revealed—a natural bridge connecting the two sides of the canyon. His heart quickened with hope. Could it be wide enough to cross? He edged closer, inspecting it carefully.
   When Arthur returned, the others had righted the wagons and begun reloading what supplies they had salvaged. Of the nine wagons they’d started with, two were beyond repair. They’d have to cannibalize them for parts to fix the others.
   “I’ve got good news and bad news!” Arthur called out, approaching on horseback. The group turned to him expectantly.
   “What’s the good news?” Hank barked, his voice tinged with nerves.
   “I’ve found a passage less than half a mile from here,” Arthur said. Cheers broke out among them.
   “And the bad?” Hank pressed, frowning.
   “The bad news,” Arthur sighed, “is that it looks like we’ll have to cross it on foot.” Resigned murmurs rippled through the group. After all they’d faced—the hidden killer, the Comanche, the tornado—this seemed almost laughable.
   “We’ll save days of travel,” Arthur assured them. The group nodded in agreement, ready to press on. They spent the rest of the day salvaging what they could and repairing the wagons.
   “We’ll make camp here tonight,” Arthur announced, watching as the massive orange sun dipped low against streaks of dark purple clouds in the west. “We’re all hungry and exhausted. Let’s rest, and at first light, we’ll head for the passage.”
   This world has its consolations, Arthur thought, glancing at the calm horizon.

***

   At dawn, as the sun broke over the horizon, Arthur urged everyone to prepare for departure. He wasn’t sure why, but an impatient drive pushed him to press onward. It felt as though some latent competitive spirit had awakened within him.  But who was he competing against—nature, God? He couldn’t say. Like many folks who’d endured consecutive trials, he carried an unfounded hope that everything would turn out all right in the end. Now, this pass before him presented itself as a new challenge, a daunting task demanding their resolve.
   Arthur sat tensely atop his horse, overseeing the preparations with restless energy. The others, however, did not share his peculiar optimism. The women, though uninjured, were still visibly shaken by the twister; Hank was grumbling and irritable. Only Tanguy retained his usual, inexplicable cheer.
   After a brief ride, following Arthur’s guidance, the caravan reached the narrow pass that spanned the canyon. It was, as we mentioned, a naturally formed bridge—breathtaking in its raw beauty, but perilously dangerous. When the group laid eyes on it, they cast sideways glances at Arthur, as though to confirm whether he was joking. Hank was the first to speak.
   “You mean to drive mules and wagons across that?” he scoffed, shaking his head in disbelief. The women murmured in agreement.
   “Got a better idea?” Arthur snapped, bracing himself for exactly this kind of reaction. “We just need to be efficient and very careful,” he added, addressing the group in a firm, commanding voice.
   “Well then, Morgan,” Hank challenged provokingly, “lead the way!” Arthur frowned but immediately began issuing orders.
   “Everyone out of the wagons, now! Unhitch the mules! We’ll get them across first, then the wagons. Hank, you’re going first to scout the path. If it’s clear, you stay on the far side to guide the rest over.”
   Hank muttered a curse under his breath. He moved to the edge of the pass, pausing to assess its width. Below him stretched an abyss. Its jagged rocks were littered with the bones of unfortunate creatures that had met their end there. Vultures circled overhead, grimly reminding them of what awaited those who fell.
   Yet, as Arthur had insisted, the pass was just wide enough for the wagons to cross—barely. For Hank himself, broad-shouldered as he was, walking it posed no issue. With cautious steps, he ventured onto the path. The surface was unexpectedly smooth, whether naturally or from centuries of wind erosion, but that also made it treacherously slick.
   The group watched Hank intently, their eyes glued to his every move. He advanced slowly, occasionally testing the ground with his foot and marking certain sections with chalk as he went. At last, he reached the far side, stepping onto solid ground. He turned and waved both arms triumphantly, and the group let out a collective sigh of relief. He signaled for the others to begin.
   Arthur started with the mules, guiding them across with practiced efficiency, calming the animals with a soothing voice. Hank awaited them on the far side, ensuring their safe arrival. One mule stubbornly dug its hooves into the ground just shy of the canyon’s edge. Arthur tugged at her reins, but she wouldn’t budge.
   “Damn stubborn critter,” Hank muttered impatiently.
   “Come on, girl, you can do this,” Arthur murmured soothingly. “Easy now… I won’t let you fall. Let’s go…” Bit by bit, the mule relented, yielding to Arthur’s calm persistence.
   Arthur then turned his attention to the wagons and the women. He secured the wagons with ropes and organized the group: some of the women to pull, others to push. Arthur took up position at the front, hauling alongside them. Franny proved particularly helpful, throwing her strength into the task nearly as much as Arthur did. The other women, however, were less adept. Some whined, others trembled, and a few openly panicked.
   “I can’t look! I just can’t look!” wailed Miss Clara as they approached a particularly narrow section.
   “You have to look, Miss Clara!” Arthur growled through gritted teeth. “Unless you fancy being vulture bait!”
   The wagon creaked and tilted dangerously, groaning over the rough terrain. At times, Arthur felt they had some close calls, but he refused to let his fear show on his face.
   Jenny, thankfully, was not among the panick-stricken, Arthur noted. He deliberately saved her for the final crossing. He placed Franny at the front to lead the pull while he and Jenny worked from behind. Just a little more, Arthur thought. This was the last wagon, and he was almost ready to exhale in relief.
   But then, as the wagon rolled over the narrowest part of the pass, the rear wheel hit a jagged outcrop and let out a loud crack. The wagon groaned and tilted to the side, dragging Arthur and Jenny with it. Jenny’s foot slipped, and to Arthur’s horror, she let out a blood-curdling scream as she started to fall. The women shrieked. Hank turned pale, his mouth agape. Tanguy gasped and pressed his hand to his face. The entire scene unfolded in less than a heartbeat.
   Arthur lunged forward and managed to grab Jenny’s hand. But their palms were slick with sweat, and her hand began to slip from his grasp. Franny, helpless at the front of the wagon, peeked around but couldn’t reach them. The rest of the group stood frozen, holding their breath as they watched the drama unfold.
   Arthur locked eyes with Jenny, seeing sheer terror in her face—the kind of fear only the brink of death could bring.
  “Jenny,” he said urgently in a low, firm voice, enunciating each word so she would understand him through her panic. “You have to push yourself up with everything you’ve got while I hold on. Listen to me—I won’t let you fall!” She tried but failed, her strength giving out.
   “Come on, once more! You can do it! COME ON!” Arthur roared, his voice thick with desperation. With enormous effort, she managed to lift herself just enough for Arthur to grab her other hand. Then, with his powerful arms, he hauled her up by the waist and onto solid ground. Jenny collapsed into his arms, half-conscious. The group erupted into cheers and applause, collective sighs of relief spilling from their lips.
   Quickly, Arthur tied a rope around Jenny’s waist, securing her to the wagon, and instructed Franny to pull forward. He positioned Jenny, who was slowly regaining her senses, in front of him and shielded her with his body as they continued to push. As they reached the end of the pass, Hank stepped forward to help Franny and then supported Arthur and Jenny, both of whom looked pale and shaken.
   “That’s it, Miss Jenny, you’ll be alright.” Hank assured her as he took her hand.
   “Morgan, you stubborn sun of a gun!” Hank patted Arthur on the back, who dropped into a crouch, chest heaving as he struggled to catch his breath. He glanced at Jenny and felt an overwhelming urge to pull her into his arms right then and there. But before he could act, the others crowded around them.
   “Mr. Morgan, the good Lord must’ve sent you to guide us! You’ve got the nerves of steel. I don’t know what we’d do without you!” Mrs. Palmer showered Arthur with praise for his bravery and composure. Everyone assented in unison. Jenny was whisked away into their midst, leaving Arthur standing in the middle of the commotion, torn between relief and something much deeper.
   He suddenly realized his entire body was trembling. He clenched his hands into fists, trying to suppress the turmoil within. During the tornado, he had acted instinctively, with no time to dwell on the “what ifs.” After all, Jenny had been by his side then—her presence had steadied him, given him strength, even as he braced himself for the twister to swallow them whole.
   But now, having felt the terror of losing her—even for a split second—Arthur found himself questioning his feelings. They had crossed the pass, but the edge he was walking emotionally felt far more precarious. He feared it might tip him into a chasm from which, he feared, there would be no return.
   Once they ensured everyone was accounted for and unharmed, they hitched the mules back to the wagons and pressed westward, wondering if they might finally catch a moment’s respite.

Chapter Text

   As it turned out, their hopes were fulfilled. The next stretch of the journey passed without major incidents, much to the relief of the group that had already endured so many hardships. The respite from constant turmoil was a welcome change. The landscape they traversed mirrored the monotony of the journey. They had now entered the high plains, where the ground became gently undulating. Endless expanses of dry grass stretched as far as the eye could see. The days were uneventful, long, and warm, and the sky a dazzling blue without a single cloud.
   During this quiet period, everyone retreated into their own thoughts. As is often the case on long journeys, the challenges they had overcome together had brought them closer. Around this time, everyone began addressing one another by their first names. Arthur often heard his name now, but there was only one voice speaking it that stirred an indescribable sweetness in him.
   The nights by the fire were as quiet and serene as the days. The women busied themselves with knitting, small chores, or soft chatter, while the men stared pensively into the flames.
   Arthur, like the others, succumbed to a certain melancholy. He frequently wrote in his journal, recording the events of their travels but also his inner unrest. One of his most poignant entries came a few days after the tornado and their passage through the canyon, as his thoughts still wrestled with the whirlwind of events they had endured. Ever since the moment he thought he had lost Jenny, he had reluctantly admitted to himself that his reaction was excessive for someone who merely fancied a woman. No, it wasn’t mere attraction anymore. It was—dare he say it?—affection.

Journal Entry: June 29, 1892

   I’ve never felt that kind of fear before—sharp and sudden, hittin’ me straight in the heart. I’ve known loss, of course, but this feelin’ was different. Something I can’t quite put into words. 
   I can’t shake it; it’s haunted me ever since, like a shadow that won’t leave my side. And it scares the hell out of me.

   He also sketched often, capturing whatever caught his attention. Wild animals trailing the caravan provided inspiration, as did the people in camp. Sometimes, he would secretly draw Jenny, only to hurriedly scratch out the drawing for fear that someone might see. In those moments, he felt like a guilty man.
   Jenny seemed to think that her trembling “Thank you, Arthur,” on the day he saved her hadn’t been enough, because the next day she sought him out at his wagon. Arthur was sitting on a low stool in front of a small mirror propped against the side of the wagon, shaving. He was shirtless, with a small towel draped around his neck. He had just brought the razor to his face when she startled him.
   “Arthur!” she called softly. It wasn’t too loud, but it was enough to make him flinch and nearly nick himself.
   “Sorry! I didn’t mean to startle you,” she said, her voice apologetic.
   “It’s fine…,” he replied, pausing with the razor still in hand, waiting for her to explain why she’d come. Her gaze flicked down to his bare chest and shoulders for half a heartbeat—quick enough to pretend she hadn’t—but he noticed. He felt exposed. Not that he had anything to be ashamed of—every muscle was well-defined, his chest dusted with a fine patch of hair that thinned over his stomach, only to disappear beneath the waistband of his trousers.
   “I just… I s’pose I didn’t thank you properly the other day…” She sighed lightly, her words trailing off.
   “Well, I wanted to thank you again.” she finished. Arthur looked at her seriously.
   “Jenny, you don’t have to thank me,” he murmured. “Anyone would’ve done the same.”
   “I don’t think they would’ve,” she replied quickly. “I mean, I don’t think they could’ve. If you hadn’t been there…” Her voice faltered. They both shuddered at the thought.
   “Well, anyhow, what can I do for you?” she asked. Arthur raised a brow.
   “I’d say I’d cook you something special, but since you don’t like my cookin’…” she added sheepishly. There was something so endearing about the way she said it. Arthur started to shake his head.
   “I could patch your shirts!” she offered quickly. “Do you have any torn ones?” Arthur thought for a moment. He doubted she was much of a seamstress either, but he wasn’t about to say it.
   “Sure, maybe I’ve got a couple,” he said slowly. Her face lit up.
   “Perfect! Get them ready for me, and I’ll get right to work.” It hadn’t been necessary, of course, but Arthur thought that perhaps her scent might linger on his shirts afterward, and that was enough to make him agree. A pathetic reason. Truly pathetic.
   “Just as long as I don’t mistake them for Mrs. Palmer’s work afterward,” he teased with a faint smirk. Weeks ago, she might’ve been offended by the jab. Today, however, she smiled and reassured him,
   “No, of course, I’ll do it myself.” After a few seconds of awkward silence, they exchanged polite nods, and she began to walk away. Arthur sighed and a strange flutter stirred in his stomach; just as he brought the razor back to his neck, she startled him again, her head peeking out from behind the wagon.
   “Don’t shave it all off!” she exclaimed.
   “Why?” he barked in surprise.
   “I mean, the beard makes you… manly,” she said with a sly smile and a sparkle in her eyes. This time, she truly left. Arthur stared at his reflection in the mirror with his brows raised. He grabbed the scissors instead of the razor, trimming the beard to tidy it up, but left more than he’d originally intended.

Journal entry: July 3, 1892

   She caught me shavin’ the other day… Told me not to go clean-faced, said the beard made me look ‘manly.’ Nearly nicked myself right there. Had to go chop some goddamn firewood for an hour afterwards just to… take the edge off. Damned if she doesn’t know how to keep a man off balance.

   When Arthur rose the next morning, he noticed his shirts neatly stacked on the table by his wagon. Atop them sat a small bar of soap and a note written in a delicate, feminine hand:

In case you’re running low on shaving soap. It might not have much scent, but I hope it’ll do.

– Jenny

   Arthur sighed like a smitten schoolboy and quickly tucked Jenny’s note into his journal. Jenny’s handwriting… Jenny’s soap… Jenny’s scent on his clothes… This day was shaping up to be fine indeed, and the sun had barely risen. Whistling a cheery tune, he began to change into one of the freshly mended shirts. He scanned the camp for Jenny, but she was nowhere in sight. Instead, his eyes met Hank’s, who gave him a knowing look, shaking his head as if to say, Morgan, you’re hopeless. Arthur decided to ignore him.
   Yet, he frowned. Just how careful had he been? How many others, like Hank, had picked up on his feelings? Over the past few days, he had been, admittedly, anything but subtle. He found himself constantly looking for her, lingering near her wagon without any real reason, and inventing excuses to speak to her over the smallest matters. Lately, he had allowed his thoughts to wander to places they had no business going—vivid fantasies that made him curse himself afterwards. At night, he’d toss and turn, replaying small, sweet moments from the day, only to vow to banish her from his mind. Yet every morning, his resolve melted the moment she greeted him with her cheerful “Good mornin’, Arthur.”
   Jenny, of course, seemed entirely unaware of his quiet torment. Cheerful and effortlessly charming, she returned his gaze with a polite smile that made his insides churn. Sometimes, Arthur thought he caught a hint of something behind her teasing remarks, but he dismissed the idea bitterly. She’s like that with everyone, he reminded himself. Always kind, always quick-witted. “Little Miss Jenny”, as everyone fondly called her.
   Over the following weeks, the group seemed to fully recover from their earlier hardships, and conversations began to shift toward the future. Hesitant at first, then with growing confidence, they started to dream aloud about their new lives in Purgatory. Hank had regained his usual good humor, and the women chattered excitedly about their hopes and plans. Evenings around the campfire grew more intimate, with stories of the past shared more freely.
   One warm July night, the faint scent of pine in the air hinted the Rockies might not be too far ahead. Arthur was stoking the fire when Mrs. Keen, a kind but nosy widow, startled him as her voice broke through the hum of conversation:
   “How is it that you never married, Arthur?” she asked bluntly. Arthur coughed, buying time to think of an answer. All eyes were on him now, their curiosity unguarded. Even the mules seemed to lift their heads as if awaiting his reply.
   “I guess… no one would have me,” he said gruffly, avoiding Jenny’s gaze. He prodded the fire unnecessarily with a stick, hoping the conversation would move on.
   “Oh, come now!” Mrs. Keen exclaimed. “A fine, noble, handsome man like you? Why, you’re a perfect catch!” Arthur flushed deeper than the flames before him. Fine, noble, handsome? he thought. These women don’t know the half of it. He tried to deflect with humor.
   “Sure, a regular dandy and charmer,” he muttered sarcastically, eliciting a few faint chuckles. He dared a quick glance at Jenny. She wasn’t laughing. Mrs. Keen shook her head in disbelief.
   “I just can’t imagine it!” she said, looking around as if expecting agreement from the others.    Arthur said no more, burying his thoughts in the crackling fire.

***

   After a few more days of travel, the faint outlines of the Rocky Mountains began to appear in the distance. Arthur had felt their nearness ever since that faint scent of pine had reached him. But now, as he finally laid eyes on them, a quiet thrill stirred within him, mingled with uncertainty—these mountains posed a new challenge, greater in every sense than almost anything they had faced so far. In just a few more days, they would find themselves at their very foothills.

Chapter Text

   That morning, as they rolled up to the foothills of the Rocky Mountains, Hank—whose wagon led the caravan—turned to Arthur.
   “Well, it’s been easy so far, hasn’t it, Arthur?” Riding beside him, Arthur snorted.
   “Yeah, a real picnic.” He narrowed his eyes. Though he had devised the best route through the mountains, he still anxiously wondered how the women would react when he’d break the news of the next step. Hank and Arthur brought the wagons to a grassy incline that wound upward and disappeared into the rocky heights. There they halted, and Arthur addressed everyone.
   “We’ve reached the critical part of our journey—the Rocky Mountains.” He glanced behind him, as if anyone could miss the towering giant ahead, its peaks lost in the clouds.
   “If we cross these,” he assured them, “we’re nearly at the end—only the desert stands between us and our destination.” Arthur watched to see how his words landed. The women stared back blankly, waiting for him to get to the point.
   “We’ve survived a lot—killers, Comanches, twisters… These past weeks, we’ve been fortunate with a calmer stretch of road. I reckon you’re all eager to reach Purgatory. I also believe you’ve brought along precious items from home—mementos of your former lives. Now I must ask you to consider what you’re willing to part with.” He paused. A murmur rose among the women.
   “What do you mean, Arthur?” Miss Clara asked.
   “We need to lighten the wagons—it’s the only way the mules will manage the ascent—and even then, it’ll be a rough haul,” he added. The women continued to blink in confusion, not understanding.
   “I think what Arthur means to say,” came Jenny’s voice from the back, “is that we need to unload everything we don’t need from the wagons.” The women exchanged glances, eyebrows raised.
   “That’s right,” Arthur agreed, giving her a grateful look.
   “Before we begin the climb,” he nodded toward the trail, “take out everything that’s unnecessary—especially heavy and bulky items. Keep only what’s essential.” Reluctantly, the women began to remove items. There were all kinds of things: bathtubs, porcelain vases, paintings, sewing machines—even a small stove.
   “My heart aches,” said Mrs. Palmer. “Feels like I’m abandoning a part of myself.” She gazed sadly at her sewing machine.
   “Do like I do,” said Miss Scarlet. “Don’t look—just toss!”
   “First the Indians took our things, then the tornado… now this blasted mountain!” Miss Lydia complained.
   Miss Mable clutched a portrait in a gilded frame depicting an elderly woman. She sighed and set it down. “Aunt Muriel will never forgive me!”
   Hank and Arthur watched from the side. Hank whistled and scratched his neck. “Well, whoever comes along after us is in for a treat!”
   “Yeah…” Arthur said grimly. His conscience pricked at him, but they had to press on. Unburdened, the column began to ascend slowly.
   “Easy enough for me,” Jenny told Arthur with a smile. He was riding beside her wagon. “I don’t have anything but clothes and trinkets.” Arthur’s gaze slid to the locket around her neck that he hadn’t noticed before.
   “A keepsake from my mother,” she explained, following his gaze and clutching the locket in her hand. Arthur pondered. He had never asked her about her past; she had never volunteered anything either. I have nothing… she had said. He felt an overwhelming urge to look after her.
   What could have driven this girl to join a caravan heading west? He could hardly believe she hadn’t had suitors back home. He suddenly realized he didn’t want to know. The last thing he needed was to be jealous of young fellers who were strangers to him. Yes, jealous—there was no point pretending.
   The caravan advanced slowly but steadily, climbing higher with each passing mile. They watched as the landscape transformed around them. A cool, pleasant breeze began to stir, replacing the stifling heat they’d endured for weeks. Soon, grassy expanses gave way to towering trees, their dense foliage creating dappled shade along the trail. At one point, the path was interrupted by a swift woodland stream. Luckily, it was shallow enough for the mules and wagons to cross without much difficulty. They came to a particularly steep incline, flanked by precarious slopes where sharp stones tumbled down in loose cascades.
   “EVERYONE OUT OF THE WAGONS!” Arthur bellowed. “THIS PART WE’RE DOING ON FOOT!” The women reluctantly climbed down, muttering under their breath.
   “If we lighten these wagons any further, we’ll be left with nothing but the wheels!” one complained.
   “I don’t even know why we brought wagons at all—we’ve hardly any luggage left, and now we’re climbing on foot!” another griped.
   “PUSH THE WAGONS!” Arthur’s voice thundered, unyielding. He knew this was one of the toughest sections of the climb, but just beyond the bend was a spacious plateau where they could stop for lunch. That knowledge drove him to push the group harder, ignoring their complaints. Nevertheless, he was quick to jump in and help whenever they hit a snag. The ascent was grueling, no doubt about it, but it wasn’t nearly as treacherous as their crossing of the canyon.
   “There’s no way empty wagons can be this heavy!” Miss Lydia grumbled. “I’ll bet the mules are hiding inside!”
   Only Franny didn’t complain. She tied a rope around her waist, mule-like in her determination, and began pulling the wagon alongside the animals. Arthur grinned widely at the sight. His eyes sought out Jenny, who was pushing one of the wagons with her delicate hands. She was clearly struggling, yet her face was resolute, glistening with sweat but focused on the task.
   Finally, they reached the plateau—a grassy clearing encircled by pine trees, with a breathtaking view of the valley and the road they’d already traveled. Here, the group took the opportunity to rest and eat. The mules grazed on the lush grass, snorting softly and swishing their tails.
   After a much-needed break, the caravan resumed its climb. The wagons no longer needed to be pushed, and Arthur estimated they’d reach the highest point by evening, where they could make camp for the night. As they climbed, the sounds of the wilderness grew more pronounced, echoing through the mountains. Mountain goats grazed near the trail, scattering nimbly whenever the wagons drew too close. Once, they even spotted a lone, majestic elk crashing through the underbrush. A low, distant growl sent a ripple of unease through the group.
   “Bears,” Arthur explained. “Don’t worry—they won’t bother us if we don’t bother them.” Can’t say the same about wolves, he thought, but wouldn’t share out loud. They needed to reach the plateau before dark.
   As the altitude increased, the temperature dropped noticeably. The thinner air made breathing slightly more laborious.
   “Get out your warm clothes and blankets,” Arthur advised. “We’ll be needing them at this height.” They came upon a particularly treacherous stretch of trail, overshadowed by a jagged cliff. The path was narrow, forcing them to slow down and proceed with utmost caution. But the rewarding view ahead was magnificent—the mountain bathed in the golden light of the afternoon sun, and a dark blue lake rippled far below. Just as the sun dipped below the horizon, they reached the plateau.
   “Well, ladies,” Arthur called out with pride, “we did it! We conquered the mountain! We’ll camp here tonight—get a fire going and warm ourselves up with a hot meal.”
   Though exhausted, the group was in high spirits. Their earlier struggles already faded into memory. Hunger added to their chatter, and they eagerly gathered around the fire as the aroma of stew filled the air. It was Jenny’s turn to cook. Anticipating her usual culinary misadventures, they dug in without complaint, surprising Arthur. Perhaps this was her best stew yet, he thought.
   After dinner, the women brought out their knitting needles and began humming tunes. Their soft singing resonated through the crisp mountain air. Arthur and Hank watched from a distance, each lighting a cigarette.
   “Gotta hand it to them, Hank,” Arthur said, exhaling smoke, “their morale is unbreakable.” He felt a surge of pride for all they’d accomplished together. Despite everything—killers, storms, and mountains—they had remained hopeful and resilient. In truth, Arthur had learned more from them than he ever expected—about kindness, perseverance, and sacrifice. Qualities he hadn’t encountered much in his years hunting outlaws. He thought back to the day he almost refused to escort the convoy. The thought of not meeting Jenny made his heart clench. His expression softened as he took another drag from his cigarette, his mind drifting.
   “You alright?” Hank asked, noting his thoughtful demeanor.
   “I’m fine,” Arthur replied gruffly, clearing his throat. He dropped the cigarette to the ground, crushing it beneath his boot. “Just tired.” And he was—physically, yes, but even more so emotionally.
   “AWHOOOOOO!” A chilling howl echoed through the mountains, making the women shudder. Arthur dispelled their fears, promising he would stay up to keep the fire going and guard against the wolves and other predators prowling for food. The truth was, he just wanted to spend the night under the stars. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this high up in the mountains. The crisp mountain air felt good in his lungs, and even better for clearing his thoughts.
   He settled by the fire in his bedroll with his boots off, letting the pale blue flames hypnotize him, slowly lulling him into sleep. The sound of rustling from the nearby tent pulled him back. A figure emerged—Jenny. The fact she was wearing a dress and not her nightgown, suggested she hadn’t even prepared for bed. She had a knitted shawl draped over her shoulders, and her hair was loose, tumbling down to her back and framing her face.
   Arthur’s pulse quickened—he’d rarely seen her hair down. In fact, he’d never seen it down before. He mentally added this unexpected image to his private collection of musings. He immediately sat up, now wide awake.
   “Can’t sleep,” she said in response to his questioning look.
   “AWHOOOOOO!” A distant howl echoed through the mountains. Arthur thought he saw her shudder lightly.
   “Come closer to the fire,” he said, gesturing for her to sit. Jenny obeyed.
   “Damn wolves,” he muttered.
   “Why don’t you just toss them my stew?” she said with a mock-serious tone, staring into the flames. Their eyes met, and both burst into laughter. Damn it, Arthur thought. When did making fun of herself become so damn alluring? Hell, was there anything about her that wasn’t?
   He stole a glance at her from the corner of his eye. Her loose hair caught the firelight, glowing a golden-red hue. His gaze drifted to her profile, from her lips to her neck, down to the slight curve of her collarbone peeking from under the shawl, and lower still… He quickly looked away and poked at the fire, trying to distract himself. Jenny shifted and, he swore, moved a few inches closer. Their shoulders were nearly touching now.
   “You’ve probably camped like this a thousand times before, all alone in the wild,” she said.
   “Yeah,” he confirmed. “But I was always so focused on tracking down outlaws, I didn’t much take in the scenery.”
   “That sounds dreadful,” she said earnestly. “Can you even enjoy yourself sometimes?”
   “Oh, sure.” He chuckled lightly. “A few years ago, after a good chase and a hefty bounty, I’d always end up in some saloon in St. Louis. I liked to order a big plate of prime rib and a hot bath.” He smiled at the memory.
   “Not a deluxe bath, I hope, Mr. Morgan?” she teased with a knowing grin. He felt his cheeks warm.
   “Well… maybe,” he admitted in his most innocent voice, tilting his head. Now, all he could picture was Jenny giving him a deluxe bath. He rubbed his eyes, trying to banish the image. Jenny rolled her eyes but kept smiling. For a moment, silence stretched between them, broken only by the crackle of the fire.
   “You said a few years ago. And now?” she asked.
   “Got tired of it all,” he replied nonchalantly. “Now… I prefer something like this.” He gestured at the fire.
   “Even on a cold night with wolves nearby?” she asked with a soft laugh, clutching her shawl more tightly.
   “Yeah. Why not? It has its perks.”
   “Like what?” she pressed. He hesitated, glancing at her. Finally, he said, “Depends on the company.”
   She blinked, then forced a smile. Damn it, Arthur thought. Now she’s uncomfortable. Another silence fell, softer this time. The fire popped quietly.
   “What’s the mood like in the caravan these days?” he asked, eager to change the subject.
   “We’re fine,” Jenny said with a shrug. “After all, we have you.” She turned her hazel eyes on him, the firelight dancing within them. His stomach flipped.
   “You’re always so dedicated to taking care of everyone. But who looks after you, Arthur Morgan?” she asked in a low voice. Arthur felt his tongue tie itself into knots. He smiled to hide his nerves.
   “Ain’t nobody got time for an old bounty hunter.”
   “Someone should make time,” she said seriously.
   “Well,” he replied with a strained grin, “if you find someone like that, let me know.”
   “Will do.” She nodded. Arthur noticed her shiver again. He thought about offering his coat, but she stood up before he could.
   “Well, goodnight, Arthur.”
   “Goodnight, Jenny,” he replied, watching her as she slipped back into her tent. He sat by the fire a while longer, his thoughts consumed by Jenny—her loose hair, her soft lips, her hazel eyes. The fire began to die down. Deciding he’d played sentry long enough, he finally retreated to his tent.

***

   Arthur lay in his tent, hovering in that hazy state between being awake and dreaming, yet fully aware it was a dream. A dream he didn’t want to wake up from.
   Jenny sat astride him, with her golden hair cascading loose. Her lips were slightly parted as she gazed into his eyes intensely. His hands slid beneath her underskirt, gliding from her calves to the curve of her thighs, and then higher, tracing her soft, silky skin with his rough, calloused fingertips. He moved quickly, as though afraid the dream would dissolve into nothingness at any moment.
   With gentle urgency, he cupped her ass and pulled her closer. She moved against him, and her warmth enveloped him—it was a perfect, maddening tightness. She let out a sound—a mix between a moan and a gasp—that sent a surge through his body, hardening him even further.
   Above the waist, she was bare. Her breasts hovered just above his face, their rosy tips tantalizingly close, like two ripe cherries begging to be tasted. He obliged, brushing his teeth lightly over one, then teasing it with his tongue in slow, deliberate circles. Her body responded with a shudder, and she moaned deeper this time. He groaned in response, trailing soft kisses along her neck, seeking her lips, needing to taste her. Their rhythm deepened. He drew her closer, holding her firmly against him as she rocked her hips. She moaned again, and he leaned up, finally capturing her lips.
   A thunderous snore coming from Hank’s tent shattered the moment, jerking Arthur awake. Arthur cursed under his breath in frustration, panting. His body was tense and aching, and his hand moved instinctively. A few rough strokes brought him release, but it only left him more agitated. He sat up with his face buried in his hands, his forehead damp with sweat.
   “You moron, Morgan,” he muttered in a hoarsely, shaking his head. And yet, guilt refused to take root. Instead, the dream lingered vividly, leaving him with one thought: if a dream could feel this consuming, what would the real thing be like?

Chapter Text

   For several days, the convoy trudged through the mountains without much incident. Aside from the abundance of wildlife that occasionally caught the women’s attention, there was little excitement to break the monotony. Soon, the dense forests gave way to grassy meadows and open clearings, signaling the beginning of their descent from the Rockies. The downward trek was twice as easy as the climb had been. Hank led the way, cheerfully mimicking the sounds of a train whistle as he guided the group along the trail.
   For Arthur, however, an undefined restlessness began to stir within him, not unlike the feeling he’d had after the tornado. He chalked it up to nerves about the next leg of their journey. If he’d been more honest with himself about his feelings, Arthur would have recognized exactly where that unease was coming from.
   That dream… Since it had visited him, Arthur had taken a step back, trying to convince himself that what he felt for Jenny was nothing more than physical attraction, heightened by months of abstinence. That’s all it was, he reasoned, confusing emotions with the natural tensions of a man starved of certain comforts. Clinging stubbornly to this belief, Arthur remained oblivious to the fact that his inner turmoil was on the verge of evolving into something much fiercer—anger.
   As the caravan descended the mountains, the women chattered excitedly about Purgatory. Their lively talk of the future grated on Arthur’s nerves, though he couldn’t quite admit to himself why. One day, much to everyone’s surprise, Arthur snapped at them in an uncharacteristic sharp tone.
   “Don’t get carried away with all your daydreaming,” he said, gesturing at the rugged landscape around them. “There’s still one hell of an obstacle in our way—a merciless enemy—the desert.”
   Despite his sour mood, Arthur’s familiar defiance stirred within him. He was determined, as always, to see them through this next challenge, just as he had all the others. Days in advance, he began warning them to conserve water. He took it upon himself to fetch and carry bucket after bucket, ensuring they were stocked. By the end of the third day, the group had taken to calling him “Bucket Boss.”
   “Go on, laugh it up,” he told them dryly, wiping the sweat from his brow as he pointed skyward. “When that sun starts burning, we’ll be fightin’ over these supplies.”
   “Didn’t you say we’d be following the river?” Hank muttered.
   “Parts of the river can dry up!” Arthur snapped, resembling an overworked parent answering a toddler’s endless questions. Yet, when Jenny asked him the same thing a little later, Arthur explained patiently in a gentle manner. Hank, who had overheard, snorted and rolled his eyes.
   Water wasn’t Arthur’s only concern, though. He insisted they stockpile chopped firewood for the journey (“Nights in the desert are colder than a witch’s heart!”) and ration their food supplies carefully. He also taught them how to protect themselves from heatstroke, and pointed out landmarks—unique rocks, or tall cacti—that they could use to navigate and avoid the most dreaded fate of all: wandering in circles.
   Arthur even took it upon himself to care for the caravan’s animals, ensuring they were well-fed and watered. The group appreciated his efforts, but they couldn’t help noticing how obsessive he’d become. His fretful preoccupation with every detail was both reassuring and, at times, slightly amusing. Yet Arthur couldn’t stop. Somewhere, deep inside, he knew the desert wasn’t the only thing he was fighting.

***

   The final stretch of the desert, though not significantly more dangerous, was by far the most exhausting. The group was thoroughly worn out from weeks of rolling on wagon wheels, setting up and breaking down camp, eating the same monotonous meals, and enduring the relentless heat.
   Arthur’s sour mood only worsened in the following days. He paced around the camp, snapping at people over the smallest things, and spent the evenings glaring into the fire with a brooding expression. Matters came to a head when he lashed out at poor, bewildered Tanguy for no apparent reason. The women began whispering among themselves. Hank shook his head grimly and muttered disapproval under his breath. Eventually, they all agreed: “Mr. Morgan must be fed up with all of this already,” and “We’d best leave him alone.” Over the next few days, the group gave Arthur a wide berth, speaking to him only when absolutely necessary.
   This newfound consideration only served to irritate Arthur further. He was painfully aware he wasn’t behaving as a leader ought to, and guilt gnawed at him whenever he barked at someone undeserving. Yet no matter how much he tried, he couldn’t shake his mood.
   Jenny, in particular, seemed to bear the brunt of his retreat. Arthur began avoiding her at every turn. Whenever she appeared, he would find some excuse to slip away. His evasion became so obvious that Jenny finally attempted to confront him about it. But Arthur, steadfast in his avoidance, never gave her the chance. Defeated, Jenny gave up, and their interactions dwindled to a curt nod or a terse “Good morning.” By the final days, even those exchanges had ceased entirely.
   For Arthur, this strained distance weighed heavily. It drove him further into his own mind, leaving him restless and consumed with self-reproach. He even stopped writing in his journal. When he did attempt to put pen to paper, he found himself staring at the blank page, aimlessly tapping the nib until he gave up altogether. And yet, beneath his icy demeanor toward Jenny lay a storm of emotions roiling within his chest. At night, he tossed and turned, wrestling with feelings he couldn’t name and lacked the courage to confront, let alone act upon. His only solace came from watching Jenny from afar, ensuring she never caught him looking.
   On a few occasions, he saw her open a small chest and take out a photograph of a young feller. Arthur watched, hidden in the shadows, as Jenny ran her thumb gently over the image, her gaze wistful and distant. Teddy Degan, her fiancé. A man Arthur already despised without ever having met. In those moments, a sharp tension gripped his jaw, his fists clenched instinctively, and a red haze clouded his vision. His chest burned with a fierce anger he couldn’t understand, and he chastised himself for such irrational reactions.
   And so, Arthur’s final days of the journey were marked by silent torment, suffocated longings, and an unshakable sense of being at war with himself.

***

   The day before reaching Purgatory, Arthur called out to Hank.
   “Barring problems, we’ll reach Purgatory by tomorrow afternoon. Ride ahead and let them know we’re coming,” he said grimly.
   “Alright, Arthur,” Hank nodded, muttering under his breath, “Ride ahead, he says…”
   “What was that!?” Arthur snapped, but Hank just rolled his eyes and urged his horse forward
   “Tanguy!” Arthur called out, and Tanguy practically jumped out of his skin. Realizing the feller was skittish, Arthur made an effort to soften his tone.
   “We’ll be arriving in Purgatory soon. Can you see to the women—fix their hair, makeup, all that?” Tanguy exhaled in relief and nodded. “Of course, Arthur. Leave it to me.”
   “Good,” Arthur replied, satisfied. “I’ll be in the wagon. Need to lie down a bit.” He climbed into the wagon, lay back, and draped a towel over his face to block out the merciless sun shining through the pale canvas. The heat was oppressive, and Arthur fidgeted restlessly, drenched in sweat, until sleep finally took him under.
   In his dream, Tanguy was fussing over the women’s hair, crafting impossible hairstyles. The women were enraged, yelling at him. Arthur stirred uneasily, rolling onto his side. In the hazy state between sleep and wakefulness, he heard shouting—uncertain if it was real or part of his dream.
   “Hands in the air! This is a robbery!” a gruff male voice barked impatiently.
   “Every trip to the hairdresser feels like robbery!” a female voice retorted.
   “Yeah, I feel shabby too!” another chimed in.
   “Did you hear me? Hands in the air!” the man repeated angrily. Arthur jolted awake, instinctively reaching for his revolver. He leapt from the wagon and, now fully alert, could make out the heated exchange more clearly.
   “What did you say!?” one woman shouted.
   “Do you even know who you’re talking to!?” another cried.
   “And take off your hat when you address a lady!” Arthur recognized Franny’s unmistakable voice. When he arrived at the scene, there was a man sprawled on the ground, half-unconscious, with Franny standing over him, rolling pin in hand and a fierce scowl on her face. The women around her were clapping and cheering.
   “Arthur!” Tanguy came running, out of breath. “A robber! The women handled him!” Arthur tied up the would-be thief, then turned to the women with a wide grin. They smiled back—it seemed like the first time they’d seen him smile in two weeks.
   “Well, ladies, it looks like you’re ready for married life!” Everyone burst into laughter. Staying true to form, Arthur avoided glancing at Jenny to see if she’d laughed, too.
   Tanguy finished the last of his preparations, and soon all the women were groomed and ready to meet their future husbands. Arthur couldn’t help but steal a look at Jenny. She was so beautiful it physically hurt him. At that moment, he spotted Hank galloping back toward them.
   “I spoke to the men! They’re ready and waiting for us,” Hank reported. Arthur nodded.
   “What’s this?” Hank gestured toward the tied-up bandit, still unconscious.
   “Throw this fool on a horse. We’ll deliver him to the sheriff in Purgatory. He tried to rob our ladies,” Arthur said with a smirk. Hank cursed, then grinned.
   “Want Tanguy to fix your hair too?” Arthur teased with a smile.
   “Looks like you’re in a better mood,” Hank remarked. Arthur waved him off dismissively. Raising his hand, he bellowed,
   “EVERYONE BACK IN THE WAGONS! ON TO PURGATORY!”
   About an hour later, as the afternoon sun still hung high in the western sky, the caravan rolled into its destination. They spotted a large wooden sign, weathered and crooked, that read “PURGATORY.” After four months of grueling travel, their journey had finally come to an end. The women peered curiously at the deserted streets and crumbling buildings.
   “Well, it’s hardly a town—it’s all falling apart!” one remarked, unimpressed.
   “Like when you order something out of a catalog—it never looks like the picture!” another said gloomily. The wagons pulled up to a large banner strung across the main street that read “WELCOME!” and came to a stop.
   In the middle of the street, a row of men stood in formation, clean-shaven, neatly combed, and dressed in their Sunday best. Standing a step ahead of them was a short, stout man, his arms spread wide in a gesture of welcome. He addressed the crowd:
   “Welcome, ladies and gentlemen!” Then, turning to the men, he called, “Alright, boys! A-one, a-two…” and began conducting. The men burst into a song meant to welcome their brides, but the harmony was so atrocious it was painful to hear. The women watched with forced smiles, while the mules brayed loudly in protest. The brides whispered to one another through gritted teeth:
   “Let’s hope they’re better husbands than they are singers.”
   “Oh no, there’s several verses!”
   When the song mercifully came to an end, Arthur dismounted and approached the stout man with long mustache.
   “Horace Odger, I presume, mayor of Purgatory?” he said, extending his hand.
   “And you must be the famous Arthur Morgan! God bless you, son!” Horace gripped Arthur’s hand firmly.
   “Let’s not waste any time!” Horace shouted to the crowd. “The wedding ceremonies will take place right after the introductions! Then we’ll have a grand celebration!”
   “You heard the man, ladies!” Hank bellowed. “End of the line! Everybody out!” The women scrambled out of the wagons, each clutching a photograph, eager to find their grooms. Couples began meeting, exchanging polite greetings.
   Miss Clara, the schoolteacher, approached a tall, dark-haired young man. “Do you know how to read and write?” she asked.
   “No,” he replied with a sheepish grin, “but I reckon I’ll learn soon enough with you around.” He tipped his hat to her.
   Franny stood face to face with what seemed to be the shortest man in the group. They sized each other up for a moment before she suddenly exclaimed: “What a charmer!”
   “Good afternoon, ma’am,” he replied with a wide smile.
   Horace and Mrs. Keen bowed politely to one another.
   Meanwhile, Arthur slipped behind one of the wagons, breathing heavily. He couldn’t bear to watch Jenny meet her fiancé. He had to step away before the temptation to do something foolish—like sock the man in the nose—overwhelmed him. He debated whether to simply ride off without saying goodbye. Just as he resolved to leave, he heard Jenny cry out:
   “What about me?!”

Chapter Text

   Arthur felt his heart drop. Peering out from behind the wagon, he saw Jenny standing alone. Her face turned crimson as all the couples turned to stare at her. Instinctively, he took a few steps toward her. He saw her cheeks flush and her eyes fill with tears. An uneasy feeling crept over him, mixed with a glimmer of hope. But he remained silent, watching her intently.
   “What about me?” she repeated, her voice trembling as she looked around desperately for an answer. “Where’s my groom?” Arthur turned a dark gaze on Horace.
   “Where is Jenny’s fiancé?” he asked quietly, but with menace. Horace stepped toward them with his hands raised, as if to defend himself. Clearing his throat awkwardly, he began:
   “Well, uh, he’s in jail… where he’ll be staying for a little while.”
   “In jail?” Jenny whispered. Arthur glanced at her. She had gone completely pale. A few women gasped, while the men stared at the ground uncomfortably.
   “What, is he some kind of criminal?” Arthur growled. The thought made his blood boil. His face flushed red with anger.
   “Far from it! Let me explain!” Horace said quickly, clearly unnerved by Arthur’s demeanor.
   “Last night, Teddy Degan was… well, celebrating. Burying his bachelorhood, so to speak. He, uh, got a little carried away and caused some damage at the saloon. So, you see, he’s just serving some time.” Jenny looked at Arthur, her eyes brimming with fresh tears. Everyone was staring at her with pity. Meanwhile, Horace inspected Arthur and Jenny, his eyes darting from one to another, as if an idea had formed in his mind…
   He spoke in a tentative voice, “Now, uh… forgive me if I’m speaking out of turn, but what if… what if you, Arthur, acted as Miss Jenny’s chaperone in the meantime?” Arthur looked as though he’d been struck by lightning. He had no idea what kind of expression was on his face, but he knew every eye was fixed on him. He didn’t dare look at Jenny.
   “How long are we talking about?” Arthur finally managed, struggling to keep the excitement out of his voice.
   “Oh, maybe three or four weeks! A month at most!”
   “A month?” Arthur barked. A whole month in a house with Jenny? He felt his head spin. With great effort, he managed to keep his expression neutral.
   “Now, hold on just a minute!” he began, though he had no idea what he was going to say.
   “You’re not suggesting we send her back East, are you? That would be a death sentence!” Horace exclaimed, scandalized. “And leaving her all alone in the house with that gang bursting into town…” He stopped himself. A murmur rippled through the newly paired couples as they exchanged nervous glances. Arthur felt the heat rise to his face, then immediately drain away. Jenny’s chaperone… the words echoed in his mind.
   A thousand thoughts raced through his head. He summoned the courage to glance at Jenny—her eyes were red from crying, and her gaze was cold and dark, fixed squarely on him. What was on her mind? he wondered. If only he could talk to her alone, take a moment to process… The silence grew heavy and oppressive—everyone was waiting for his response. Finally, Arthur let out a resigned sigh.
   “Fine, of course I’ll be her chaperone…” A collective murmur of relief rose up. A few of the women even clapped.
   “Hurrah for Arthur!” Horace shouted, and the others joined in with cheers. Arthur’s eyes sought out Jenny’s once more, but her expression was unreadable.

***

   After the multiple wedding ceremonies were conducted in a modest little building that served as the Town Hall, Courthouse, and Auction House all in one, the newlyweds (along with Arthur and Jenny) crossed the street to an open area designated for celebrations.
   After the initial shock of the situation, Arthur had calmed down slightly. He tried to convince himself that he had agreed to be Jenny’s chaperone purely out of goodwill, not for any hidden personal reasons. It was easier to think of it that way—anything else would weigh too heavily on his conscience. Horace gave Arthur his pay for escorting the convoy safely, and handed him the key to Teddy Degan’s house, saying it would be theirs to stay in until Teddy was released. Arthur still felt like he was caught in a long, surreal dream from which he might wake at any moment. Even so, he pocketed the key and thanked Horace politely.
   At that moment, Hank approached him and Arthur stiffened. Things had been chilly between the two men recently, and if anyone had even the slightest inkling of Arthur’s feelings toward Jenny, it was Hank. But that wasn’t why he had come over now. He clapped Arthur on the back in his usual boisterous way and said:
   “Arthur, we could use a hand with the music program. You heard those fellers singing earlier…” Hank glanced over at the men, shaking his head. Arthur smirked and rolled his eyes.
   “What do you say, partner? Like old times?” Hank gave Arthur’s shoulder a firm squeeze. Arthur sighed but gave a confirming nod and a wink.
   “You’ll take the harmonica, and… who’s on the fiddle?” Arthur asked.
   “Tanguy,” Hank replied, gesturing toward the feller with his chin. “The stage is set; we’re just waiting on you.”
   Arthur followed Hank onto the makeshift stage, noticing the couples whispering and nudging each other as he climbed up. Hank handed him a megaphone, and Arthur sighed again. Once, in what now felt like a different lifetime, Arthur and Hank had formed an impromptu band at events like this. Hank could sing and play just about anything, while Arthur filled in wherever needed.
   Arthur glanced back at Hank and Tanguy, giving them the signal. A lively tune started up, and Arthur began to sing, the words coming back to him as though no time had passed:

  “Do-si-do,

   Promenade,

   You know where, and I don’t care…”

   The crowd quickly paired off and began to dance. After a few songs, Hank allowed Arthur to take a break. Hank and Tanguy launched into a familiar melody meant for couples to waltz to. Arthur stood off to the side, watching them whirl around the dance floor. That’s when Jenny appeared behind him.
   “I didn’t know you could sing,” she said softly, close enough for her words to reach only his ears. Arthur barely managed to suppress a shiver. He turned to face her—her tone betrayed a hint of disbelief, but she was smiling. Her mood had clearly improved, Arthur noted.
   “There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” he replied cryptically. She narrowed her eyes at him.
   He then offered her his hand, which she accepted, eyebrows raised, and led her to the dance floor. Since they were already about to live under the same roof, surely a single dance wouldn’t raise suspicions, he reasoned. Yet, as he noticed the subtle smirks and significant glances directed their way, a tension began to rise within him. Those looks irritated him, stirring a suspicion—or was it a certainty?—about their meaning. He took them as ridicule, as though everyone was waiting for him to break the gentlemanly code and openly court Jenny. That’s what they want, the bastards, he thought angrily. The realization enraged him further.
   Here he was, doing everything in his power to bury his feelings, avoiding even a single improper glance in her direction, let alone an unpermitted touch. From the start, he had tried to be a proper gentleman. And yet she—so innocently unaware of the effect she had on him—kept testing him, provoking him in such sweet and irresistible ways that he felt his heart might burst from his chest every time she looked at him. Even now, as they danced, he was melting from her closeness. What irony, he thought bitterly. As though he were the punchline to some cruel joke.
   Jenny noticed his pensive expression and asked, “Is anything the matter?” He looked at her darkly. At that moment, the music stopped, and they separated. Arthur turned and left the floor, muttering some lame excuse under his breath, leaving her confused. The instant he walked away, regret gnawed at him, but he didn’t return. He rushed past Horace, who might’ve called out something teasing.
   The celebration carried on well past midnight. Arthur spent the remainder of the evening at the bar, practically hiding from everyone. He’d downed one too many shots, and his mind hovered on the edge of drunkenness, though his body still moved with its usual steadiness. When the festivities finally ended, someone was sent to escort Arthur and Jenny home, as neither of them knew where Teddy Degan’s house was. Purgatory was a small town, so after less than fifteen minutes on foot, they arrived at a modest, but cozy house on the edge of town.
   Arthur had been silent and brooding the entire walk, while Jenny, after a few failed attempts to spark conversation, had given up and adopted a similarly sullen demeanor. Their guide, unsure what to say to such an odd pair, tipped his hat in farewell and disappeared down a side street, leaving them in awkward silence. They climbed the porch steps, and Arthur wordlessly pointed to the door for Jenny to enter first. She gave him a bewildered look. What, does he expect me to carry her over the threshold? his sluggish, alcohol-clouded brain thought wryly. The anger he’d been feeling earlier was dissipating, replaced by an unnaturally cheerful mood.
   Jenny gave Arthur a sharp look and muttered through clenched teeth, “You’ve got the key. Horace gave it to you.”
   “Ah, right,” he mumbled, fumbling through his pockets as Jenny shifted impatiently.
   “Here it is!” he exclaimed triumphantly, producing the key and clumsily moving to unlock the door. Jenny snatched it from his hand and unlocked the door herself. Arthur raised his eyebrows at her sharp movements, unsure what he’d done to earn them. They entered the dark hallway that led to the sitting room—Jenny walking purposefully, Arthur stumbling over the threshold. He straightened up and grinned at her. Jenny rolled her eyes.
   “What now?” Arthur asked, raising his hands in mock confusion, only to let them fall to his sides when she didn’t respond. Jenny lit a lantern and began briskly moving around the house, opening cupboards and wardrobes. She found some worn but clean bedding and began preparing a sofa near the wall for sleeping. She gestured to it. Arthur squinted at her. Jenny’s movements seemed oddly slow to him, though he suspected that was the drink muddling his senses.
   “Lie down,” she ordered, her usual sweetness absent from her tone. It suddenly occurred to  Arthur that she might be angry with him.
   “What’s wrong?” he asked naively. She shot him a look full of disdain.
   “You reek of liquor!” she hissed. “Alcohol…”
   “Yes, yes, I know,” he interrupted, mocking her accent, “brings out the beastly urges!” He felt himself bristling again at her tone. So this is what his days in this house would look like? She’d act like a proper wife, while he played the dutiful husband—minus any of the privileges—serving only as a placeholder for the real thing. But he said none of this aloud, of course. Somewhere in the back of his mind, the little light of reason still flickered faintly.
   “Since I can’t reason with you right now,” Jenny said, her voice trembling with anger, “I suggest you get some sleep.” She pointed again to the makeshift bed.
   “Fine.” He shrugged, resigned. He had been tired ever since they’d arrived in Purgatory that afternoon. This day seemed like it would never end. He cast a glance at the shabby sofa, which, to his weary eyes, looked infinitely more inviting than his usual bedroll. He looked sadly at Jenny, and for a moment, it seemed her expression softened. She’s so beautiful, he thought. Suddenly, he felt an overwhelming urge to throw his arms around her.
   Jenny still stood by the sofa, with a stern gaze fixed on him. Her arm was extended as if ordering him to lie down. He sat, or rather collapsed, onto the sofa, then immediately lay back. He heard Jenny let out a quiet sigh. He wanted to say something to her—something important, he knew—but his mind couldn’t form the words. He heard the rustle of her skirt and knew only that he didn’t want her to leave.
   “Jenny…” he murmured, reaching out and touching her soft forearm. “Stay, please… please…” His voice faded as he drifted off to sleep. She hesitated for a moment, ensuring he was truly asleep, before gently slipping her arm from his grasp. She sighed heavily.
   “Arthur Morgan, you silly man,” she whispered.

Chapter Text

   When Arthur woke up that morning, he had no idea where he was, what day it was, or even his own name. For a moment, he thought he was still in his bedroll, camping out somewhere in the damned desert. Slowly, his mind began to process his surroundings. Without opening his eyes, he felt the softness of a proper bed beneath him, heard the clinking of dishes in another room, and caught the smell of oatmeal cooking. Then came the splitting headache.
   He jolted upright from the sofa he’d apparently slept on, wincing as his muscles protested every move. He looked around the unfamiliar room. The harsh sunlight poured through the windows, stabbing at his eyes and intensifying his pounding head. And then, like a flood, the memories of last night rushed back. Shame hit him like a freight train. He’d gotten drunk. Not for the first time, of course. But he’d gotten drunk in front of Jenny—who, judging by the noise, was the one clattering dishes in the next room. Did he say or do something inappropriate? He couldn’t remember, and the thought twisted his stomach into knots.
   Just then, Jenny appeared in the doorway, an apron tied around her waist and her hands resting on her hips. Oh, right. He lived with Jenny now. His mind knew this, but it was still hard to wrap his head around. She stood there looking so domestic, like a proper wife, he thought with a flicker of humor. But her expression was far from comical—she stared at him silently, clearly waiting for him to speak first. Arthur cleared his throat awkwardly.
   “Mornin’.”
   “Good morning,” she replied in a cold tone. “Though it’s hardly morning anymore.” Arthur chuckled uneasily, unsure how to respond. He vaguely remembered some sort of disagreement the night before, but the details were fuzzy. Had he insulted her somehow? Deciding it was best to keep quiet and let her take the lead, he shifted uncomfortably. His headache felt like someone driving nails into his skull.
   “Got any coffee?” he croaked.
   “In the kitchen,” she replied, nodding toward the door. Arthur stood, trying his best not to sway. The sofa groaned pitifully under his weight as he rose. He shuffled toward the kitchen. Jenny stepped aside to let him pass. He was painfully aware that he probably reeked of booze and sweat.
   Jenny followed him into the room. Arthur poured himself a large tin mug of coffee while she busied herself with the oatmeal. She scooped two steaming portions into bowls and placed them on the table. Arthur stared at his portion, his appetite nonexistent.
   “I found some clothes for you,” she said after a moment, her voice softer than before. “They’re… not perfect, but they should fit. I think.”
   “Thanks,” Arthur muttered, his shame mounting. He avoided meeting her gaze.
   “You might want to wash the ones you’ve got on now… when you, uh, get cleaned up.”
   “Jenny, you don’t need to wash my clothes,” he said, picking up the spoon just to give his hands something to do. The oatmeal was bland as paste, but he ate it without complaint.
   “Of course I don’t.” Her reply was brisk, and silence settled over them. Finally, she broke it.
   “I made a list of some things that need doing. Stuff I could use help with.”
   “Sure,” Arthur said quickly, eager to prove himself useful.
   “I’ve been through the house… there are things we need from town. The pantry’s low, and the house hasn’t been kept up well…” Her voice trailed off, and Arthur guessed she was thinking about how this was the kind of conversation she should be having with her husband, not him. He glanced around the house—sparse furniture, worn and shabby. It definitely lacked a woman’s touch.
   “Whatever you need, I’m here,” he said simply, finishing the last bite of oatmeal.
   “Thank you,” she replied curtly, then began listing tasks:
   “You’ll need to go to the general store, the tailor, the blacksmith, and the apothecary. Oh, and the post office. If you’re quick, you should be back by dinner.”
   “Dinner!?” Arthur exclaimed, surprised. His head was still pounding, and this wasn’t exactly how he’d imagined spending his first day off. But he didn’t want to argue with Jenny. He sighed.
   “Fine.”
   “Only…” She hesitated.
   “What?”
   “Well… I’ve looked everywhere, but I can’t find any money.”
   “No money?” Arthur repeated, frowning. “Hmm. He must’ve stashed his savings somewhere.” He noticed the discomfort on Jenny’s face. They both avoided mentioning her fiancé.
   “I have a little money I brought from home. It’ll be enough to get started,” she said quickly.
   “Jenny, you’re not spendin’ your money. I’ll borrow—”
   “Absolutely not,” she interrupted firmly.
   “Horace paid me yesterday for escortin’ the caravan. And we’re not discussin’ it further.”
   “Fine,” Jenny said, though she still seemed hesitant. She left the room and returned with a clean set of clothes.
   “Here. Wear this,” she said before leaving again. Arthur changed into the clothes. Teddy Degan’s clothes. As if he needed another reason to hate the feller. He stood stiffly, glancing down at himself. The waistcoat glimmered in shades of emerald and gold that felt more suited for a carnival. The ruffles on the cuffs brushed against his wrists annoyingly, and the trousers clung in all the wrong places. He tugged at the red silk tie and considered cutting it loose.
   “Damn fool thing,” he muttered under his breath. The suit was garish—nothing like what Arthur would normally wear. If he’d seen a feller dressed like this on the street, he’d have struggled not to mock him. It must’ve cost a fortune, completely out of place in Teddy’s rundown home. Degan must’ve fancied himself some kind of dandy, Arthur thought with disdain.
   At that moment, Jenny returned. If she snickered, she hid it well—though the corners of her mouth twitched.
   “Here’s the list. And please leave this letter at the post office,” she said, handing him a slip of paper and a white envelope. “I’m writing to my parents to let them know I’ve arrived safely.” She added, though Arthur hadn’t asked. He looked at her warmly, wondering once again what had driven this young woman to travel so far. And at the end of her journey, to find shock and disappointment waiting for her. His chest tightened, and that forbidden thought surfaced again—what if? He pushed it away. Taking the letter, he nodded.
   “Sure.”
   “Well, see you at dinner, Arthur.”
   “Yeah.” Arthur turned and walked out the door.

***

   When he stepped onto the street, he pulled out the list and gave it a quick once-over. He hoped he could manage to finish all the errands before dinner. This arrangement isn’t so bad, he thought, trying to convince himself. If he could just keep his thoughts from wandering where they shouldn’t, maybe living with Jenny wouldn’t be so terrible.
   It was a flimsy lie, of course, but Arthur was stuck in a situation he couldn’t walk away from. Philosophically, he decided he’d just have to make the best of it. However, the town greeted him with the same knowing glances and smirks as the night before. At the general store, the shopkeeper greeted him warmly.
   “How’s the missus?” he asked. Arthur muttered something vague in response. He received the same treatment at the hardware store and the pharmacy.
   “Send our regards to the lady!” people called to him from the street. Arthur’s annoyance began to simmer. As he passed by Horace Odger’s house, he noticed the curtains twitch and caught sight of Horace and his wife peeking out from behind them.
   “It worked!” she whispered to her husband, clearly pleased.
   “Now all he’s gotta do is marry Jenny, and Purgatory will have the best sheriff in the West!” Horace replied with a satisfied grin. Arthur couldn’t hear their words, but the smug smiles on their faces told him everything he needed to know. He frowned darkly.
   This is all Horace’s fault, Arthur fumed silently. Putting him in such an awkward position without going over the details first! All the optimistic thoughts he’d entertained just minutes ago were quickly replaced by doubts. So much was unclear, and it hadn’t even been 24 hours since he and Jenny began living under the same roof. Who was going to handle the finances? Should he let Jenny cook for him and wash his clothes? Where were they each supposed to sleep? Horace had vaguely mentioned three or four weeks—what if it took longer? Arthur wasn’t used to staying put in a house. Usually, he’d take his pay and ride off into the unknown, free to go wherever he pleased and do whatever suited him.
   With his mind a jumble of frustration and uncertainty, Arthur made his way back to Teddy Degan’s house. The closer he got, the angrier he became; and by the time he stepped onto the porch and caught the familiar scent of dinner wafting through the air, he felt like he was stuck in some kind of bad joke.

***

   Mint! Damn stew with mint! She did that on purpose, Arthur thought bitterly as he stormed into the house, simmering with frustration. Jenny was in the kitchen, stirring the pot with such vigor it was as if the stew had wronged her personally. Her hair was a bit disheveled from the steam. She glanced at Arthur, pressed her lips together, and said nothing. He scowled at her.
   “Take your boots off and change into these!” she finally snapped, pointing to a pair of overshoes by the door. Take his boots off? The pot on the stove started whistling, and the stew began to boil over. Jenny rushed to pull it off the heat. Now the house smelled of burnt stew laced with mint. Arthur’s patience reached its limit.
   “What?” Jenny barked, catching Arthur’s dark glare, as if it was his fault the stew had boiled over. Well, isn’t this just perfect, Arthur thought. They were having their first “marital” spat.
   “What?” he threw back at her.
   “I can see you’re upset,” she said curtly, wiping at the stovetop with a rag.
   “I’m just tired, that’s all,” he muttered, trying to rein himself in.
   “No wonder, considering yesterday you—” she stopped herself, shaking her head. “Did you get everything on the list?” she demanded instead.
   “Yes,” he gritted out.
   “What’s happening in town?” she asked.
   “What’s happening in town?” he echoed sarcastically. “I’ll tell you what’s happening in town! Everyone’s asking me, ‘How’s the missus?’ and ‘Send my regards to your wife.’ They’ll be printing an engagement announcement in the papers next!” Jenny shrugged, her lips pursed. Arthur pressed on.
   “And here I am, running around town doing some pointless errands like a goddamn errand boy! Jenny’s eyes flashed as she threw the rag onto the floor.
   “I knew it!” she shouted. “I knew this would happen! Not even a single day and you’re already— You can’t even— Oh, never mind, Arthur Morgan!”
   “Can’t even, what? I did everything you asked me to do! You’re sendin’ me into town just so you don’t have to look at me!” he shot back, stung.
   “I’m sending you into town so you don’t have to look at me!” she yelled in a trembling voice. “I don’t want you to feel trapped in this house, like you’re stuck spending time with me. This past month, you’ve been avoiding me so much, I thought I imagined that we ever knew each other!” Her voice cracked, and tears welled in her eyes. Arthur realized, belatedly, what was really going on. He tried to say something to soothe her, but she pressed on and her voice was thick with tears. Oh no. Women’s tears. Jenny’s tears.
   “If all this is too much for you, if I’m a burden, then go!” she cried, gesturing to the door. “Don’t mind what anyone else says. I’ll… I’ll be fine.”
   “Leave you alone?” Arthur asked, staring at her like she’d lost her mind. “Didn’t you hear Horace yesterday? Bands of outlaws are coming into town, robbing—”
   “I don’t want to be your burden,” she interrupted, waving him off. “I see how you look at me,” she said, her voice softer but still trembling. Arthur’s heart sped up.
   “Like you can’t stand the sight of me. I know you’ve had enough of all this… You’re a bounty hunter, not a man of the house! Oh, Arthur, you’ve done so much for us. You brought us here safely, you saved my life! I… I’m so grateful. I’m sorry for sending you on errands… The last thing I want is for you to feel like…”
   “A husband,” they both finished at the same time, and their eyes met. Then they both laughed, hers through tears, his bitterly. And then, without warning, she flung her arms around his neck. When Arthur had daydreamed about being close to Jenny, hugs had never been part of the fantasy. But this was warm and comforting, and it felt strangely familiar. They stood there for a few moments. Arthur awkwardly patted her back before sliding his hand into her hair, gently stroking it. He closed his eyes. Her floral scent filled his lungs, and he felt the buzzing in his head quiet. It seemed they’d just had their first “marital” reconciliation as well.
   She pulled away first, wiping her eyes with the corner of her apron. Arthur felt he ought to say something in response to her outpouring of emotion.
   “Jenny,” he began haltingly. “I don’t mind being here with you. It’s just… I’m not good at these homey things. Today, I just needed to rest and unwind.”
   “Then,” she asked hesitantly, “you’ll stay?” She looked up at him with such sweetness and innocence that his chest ached.
   “Of course,” he assured her. She smiled shyly, sniffling. Pulling out a handkerchief, she dabbed at her eyes.
   “Looks like our dinner’s burnt,” she said forlornly.
   “Best news I’ve heard all day,” Arthur quipped, and she shot him a glare that made his stomach flip.

Chapter Text

   In the days that followed, Arthur found himself marveling at how easy life with Jenny was—effortless, simple, and surprisingly comfortable. Everything about her felt familiar, as though this life they were sharing was the most natural thing in the world.
   True to her word, she stopped sending him on errands around town. To his relief, stew wasn’t on the menu every evening. Instead, she cooked other Southern dishes that were surprisingly good. “From my grandmother’s recipes,” she explained to him once with a hint of pride in her voice.
   Arthur no longer tried to hide how often his eyes wandered to her—how could he? She was always there, always within his line of sight. And though she never acted inappropriately—not a glance, not a touch that could be called forward—his stomach was in constant knots around her. Sometimes, her hand would rest on his arm just a second longer than necessary, yet not long enough to make it seem intentional. It drove him mad. Even the most skilled temptress couldn’t have ignited in him what Jenny did with just one fleeting touch. It was both blissful and torturous—a steady teasing that left him lightheaded and yearning.
   And her scent—it was everywhere in the house. Even though he never once caught her bathing, she must’ve done so when he was sleeping. The faint floral aroma clung to the air, to the fabric of the furniture, and, maddeningly, to him. He smelled of her soap, too, since she used it to wash his shirts.  She polished his boots, straightened his bedding, and even prepared a warm bath for him now and then. He never asked her to, but the gestures pleased him all the same.
   Arthur felt constantly torn between two opposing emotions. Sometimes, he let himself give in to the moment, pretending this life wasn’t a fragile illusion. In those moments, he imagined, even hoped, that it was real. Other times, the weight of reality hit him like a blow, reminding him how fleeting this was, how limited their time together truly was. Those moments left a dull ache in his chest.
   They talked often, for hours on end, about everything and nothing. Late into the night, they shared their dreams, their hopes, and their wildest imaginings. Jenny spoke about her childhood. Her stories were vivid and full of humor. Arthur often found himself laughing aloud, as though he’d lived through those moments alongside her. Once, she slipped and mentioned a young feller’s name. Arthur couldn’t resist teasing her, asking if he was one of her suitors. Jenny flushed crimson and quickly changed the subject, making him chuckle quietly to himself.
   Arthur spoke to her of his adventures as a bounty hunter, and she listened, wide-eyed with curiosity. To his relief, she never asked him about his past. Arthur was grateful—there wasn’t much humor to be found there, he thought darkly.

***

   The late afternoon found them sitting on the patio, as they had every afternoon for the past few days. Dusk crept in, and long shadows began dancing across the land, as the sky blushed with hues of amber and rose. They shared a large bench, relaxed, each lost in their own wandering thoughts. Arthur opened a bottle of beer and took a long swig. He side glanced Jenny mid-swig, who refrained from scolding him but frowned at the bottle like it was a personal enemy of hers.
   “Ever had a taste of beer? Arthur offered the bottle. “Wanna try it?” She hesitated for a split second, and to his surprise, reached for the bottle and took a tiny swig.
   “Oh, this is nasty!” She grimaced as she handed the beer back to him. He took another swig trying hard not to think of the fact that her lips were touching the bottle a second ago.
   “Tell you what… let’s play a game.” said Arthur playfully.
   “What kind of a game?”
   “Oh, it involves drinkin’…” he watched her expression, slightly amused.
   “Not for me, that game of yours, then.” She said with a wry smile.
   “It’s called ‘Truth or Dare’” he offered. “It’s a fun way to get to know each other.” He could see he sparked her curiosity. He threw the bait, and anticipated.
   “All right,” she said after a brief hesitation. “What do I have to do?”
   “First, fetch another bottle of beer.” He gestured toward the house lazily. Jenny hurried to perform the request. She returned quickly from inside the house, handing him the bottle, and sitting a bit closer to him on the bench, he noticed. She waited for further instructions, as he opened the bottle for her.
   “All right, this is how it goes: I’ll ask ‘Truth or Dare’ and you get to choose. If you choose ‘truth’ you need to answer my question. If I feel you’re lying,” he looked at her meaningfully, “you take a swig. If you choose ‘dare’,” he jutted his chin to the bottle, “you take a swig. The same goes for me.”
   “Wait, what would your ‘dare’ be? Can’t just be drinkin’…”
   “My ‘dare’ can be whatever the hell you come up with.” he said, his imagination running wild with the possibilities. She nodded in understanding, expectant.
   “Truth or Dare?” he asked.
   “Truth.” She replied.
   “Why wouldn’t you look at me that night when I rode back to camp with Maggie Bell?” She glanced at him, smiled and drank from the bottle without hesitation. So she doesn’t wanna say, he thought.
   “Well, that’s not fair!” he rumbled disappointedly. I’m not tryin’ to get you drunk!” Maybe I am, on second thought. Either way, he wins. A pang of guilt struck him but he put it aside. This was way too much fun.
   “Ok, my turn!” She exclaimed eagerly. Arthur felt uneasy.
   “Truth or Dare?” She asked. He eyed her for a moment.
   “Dare,” he said, regretting it immediately.
   “Show me that journal of yours that you’re always carrying about.” He cleared his throat to cover up his nervousness.
   “Truth.” He changed quickly. Jenny shook her head and tutted, smiling.
   “All right,” she paused to think of a question. “What did you think of me when you first met me?”
   “I thought you were stubborn like a damn mule…,” she scoffed. “And that you’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever met.” She looked at him, searching for sarcasm in his voice. There was none. She fidgeted. He made her feel uncomfortable, he realized. But it was the truth.
   “Truth or Dare?” He hurried to ask to ease the tension.
   “Truth.”
   “Ok, what did you think of me?” Was she going to be as honest as he’d been? She pondered for a moment, then shrugged.
   “Same as all of us in that room—this is exactly the kind of man we need to escort us across the country.” He was mildly disappointed. Maybe it was the truth, but it wasn’t juicy enough for him.
   “Now me!” She was excited like a child about to get a candy. “Truth or Dare?”
   “Truth.”
   “When you shot that can, was that just for show-off?” Arthur glanced at her sideways as he drank his beer, a smile tugging at his lips.
   “Yes!” He exclaimed. They both roared with laughter. “You should’ve seen your face! I s’pose even a broken clock shows the right time twice in a day!” Arthur imitated her southern accent in a pretend-girly voice.
   “Oh, shush!” Jenny held her stomach in laughter. When they regained their composure, he added, “I wanted to show you who’s boss… I’m not proud of it… You know I don’t like to brag…”
   “I know.” She assured him. They both grew serious for some reason. He looked straight in her eyes, wondering if he should even ask what he was about to ask.
   “Truth or Dare?”
   “Truth.” she said in a low voice, sensing his somber tone.
   “Are you going to be happy with Teddy Degan?” he stilled his breath. Was it too risky? The light of the sunset made way to the dark of the night, with lanterns being the only light source. They cast their glow around, but their faces were mainly out of the light. Even in the dark he could see her cheeks turn pink. She didn’t expect the question. She stammered.
   “I… I mean… that’s a silly question, Arthur. How can I answer that?” He didn’t press, waiting as she searched for words. She settled for a philosophical answer.
   “I s’pose everyone hopes to be happy in marriage, but marriage isn’t about happiness… It’s about duty and companionship…”
   “Fair enough.” He said lazily. “But you haven’t answered my question.” He eyed the bottle in her hand. “Take a swig,” he ordered. She scowled at him, but obeyed.
   “Truth or Dare,” she asked, equally serious as he was a moment ago.
   “Truth,” he said simply, knowing he’d have to answer whatever it was that she wanted to know. Not because of silly game rules, but because he wanted to.
   “Why haven’t you married? And I want the longer version.” Arthur let out a shallow sigh, leaning fully into the backrest, throwing his head back. He took a large swig of beer. Jenny settled in the chair, straightened her skirt and sat up, quietly anticipating.
   “I’ve had two great loves”, Arthur’s voice rumbled, as he glanced at her. “I’ll start with the second one, since it’s less painful…” he paused. Jenny was listening intently, her face serious. He ran his hand over his beard.
   “Alright, truth is, I was young, not much older than twenty, and greener than spring grass. Met a woman—older than me, smart, kind… beautiful in her own way. She worked… well, she wasn’t the kind of lady society looks kindly on, but I didn’t care. To me, she was a queen. She taught me a lot—about life, about myself. I thought I loved her, thought maybe she loved me, too. But when I told her, she just smiled… soft, like she knew somethin’ I didn’t. Told me I was a good man and deserved more than she could give. Said I’d find it someday, and I’d know it when I did.” He glanced at Jenny with a faint smile, as if remembering something bittersweet.
   “She was right, I guess. But back then… it stung somethin’ fierce.” He shrugged and his voice softened. “She was too good for the life she had, and too smart to tie herself down to a fool like me. Guess I owe her for that.” Jenny didn’t respond but it was obvious she was fully immersed in his telling.
   “What about your first love?” She asked hesitantly. Arthur’s gaze wandered into the dark. He sighed and rubbed his hand at the back of his neck.
   “Her name was Mary. Met ‘er when I was barely more than a boy, fourteen maybe. She was just thirteen, livin’ rough like me, both of us scrappin’ to survive. Times were hard back then, and hard times make fast friends.” He paused, his voice taking on a softer tone.
   “Mary was different from the world around her. She had this way about her—soft-spoken, kind, always lookin’ out for folks, even when she didn’t have much herself. I swear, the girl could find beauty in a pile of dirt. She used to braid wildflowers into her hair, blue ones mostly. Said they made her feel pretty.” He smiled faintly, as if the memory brought warmth even now.
   “We used to dream together, talk about all the places we’d go once we got outta the city. She wanted to see the mountains, the ocean, all the things she’d only heard about in books. And I… well, I just wanted to see her smile.” Arthur’s voice faltered for a moment, and he cleared his throat.
   “She got sick one winter. We didn’t know what it was—just thought it was a cold, somethin’ she’d shake off. But it wasn’t. By the time we realized, it was too late. I sat with her ‘til the end, holdin’ her hand, tellin’ her all the places we’d see someday. She just smiled at me...” He took a deep breath, steadying himself.
   “She was ‘bout your age when she died, younger maybe. The sweetest creature I ever met.” Jenny listened intently, her eyes welling up with tears. “She had wide, innocent eyes, quite like yours… except hers were blue… and when she smiled, it made my heart sing…”
   A tear rolled down from Jenny’s eye. Before he could stop himself, Arthur reached forward and wrapped his palm around her cheek, brushing the warm tear away, grazing her lips slightly. What she did next completely threw him off balance—she kissed the tip of his thumb softly, wrapping her pretty little lips around it, sucking the tear away. This sent a thousand tingling sensations down his spine. He looked at her like he was seeing her for the first time in his life. Her eyes were deep and alluring. He leaned into her, breathing in her flowery scent, and wrapped his hand around the back of her neck, pulling her closer to him.
   Her gaze was set on his lips. Was this yet another dream? Was she really as eager as he was? He looked her in the eyes as if asking for permission, and she leaned into him instead of an answer. He pressed his lips onto hers, carefully, as if half-expecting her to pull away. She didn’t. Instead, she kissed him back, and her lips were the sweetest thing he’s ever tasted. They kissed in soft, searching bursts. Each kiss was a tease, a lingering touch before pulling back for the briefest moment, only to return with greater intensity. He parted her lips slightly with his, and the touch of her velvety tongue made him see stars.
   They kissed needily, as if they were thirsty for one another. Any lingering doubt he had in his mind had vanquished. His destiny was to kiss her and to never stop. But when she pulled back for just a moment, her eyes were wide with uncertainty and he knew he had to stop. He parted from her and took her by the shoulders. He needed to make a distance to resist the urge to lose himself in her all over again.
   “Jenny, I…” he murmured, lost for words. She went for another kiss, but he backed off. Her cheeks turned pink in a confused mix of embarrassment and hurt, unsure what she’d done wrong. Her eyes widened in a naive stare, as if they were asking ‘don’t you want this?’.
   “Jenny, I want you.” He answered her silent question.. “More than anything in the world, I want you… But it wouldn’t be proper, wouldn’t be right…”
   “Are you toyin’ with me, Arthur Morgan?” She asked with her voice raised slightly, and a familiar spark returned to her eyes. “Seducing me, so I’d lose my senses over you?”
   “Now, wait a minute.” He grew a bit irritated. Incredible how she managed to rile him up so easily, when seconds ago they were all over each other. “Who was seducing whom in this scenario?”
   “Never you mind, Mr. Morgan! You won’t see me seducing you again! Now let go of me!” She pushed his hands that were still holding her, turned on her heel and strode back into the house, leaving Arthur to contemplate his life choices.
   He sighed heavily. What was he supposed to say? That he wanted her so badly he dreamt about her almost every other night? That he fell for her the moment he laid eyes on her back in St. Louis? That he spent the entire journey hoping for a lingering glance or an accidental brush from her? That his whole body twitched every damn time she’d glance at him, and in the past week that was almost all the time, since they were living under the same roof?
   But he couldn’t say any of those things. He feared he’d already done enough damage and her honor could be ruined. Luckily, he was so good at pretending, that most folks thought he hated chaperoning her. That was his only chance. But he’d need to leave. Soon. He’d need to pay a visit to Horace, and explain how much he missed his life as a bounty hunter. He’d negotiate a deal with Horace. Jenny’s honor was going to remain intact. She was going to be happy with Teddy Degan. At least he hoped so…
   And what was the alternative? Putting her on horseback, riding out with her to… Where? The life of a bounty hunter wasn’t fit for a lady. In Purgatory, she would live a decent life. Damn that Teddy Degan and his bachelor party. Arthur decided to visit the mayor first thing in the morning.

Chapter Text

   With sunrise came a newfound resolve. Arthur dressed quietly and left the house without a backward glance. He descended the porch steps swiftly and strode down the empty street. He feared that if he slowed down for even a moment, his determination might waver. He had thought of leaving Jenny a farewell note, some explanation for his departure, but writing wasn’t his strong suit—except in his journal. In the end, he decided against it. He could only hope she would understand. Maybe even forgive him.
   As he walked briskly, doubts crept in. Was he doing the right thing? He turned the question over and over, but the answer was always the same: Jenny was promised to Teddy Degan. What could Arthur offer her? An uncertain life as the wife of a bounty hunter? A man who lived hand to mouth, with no roof of his own and no guarantee of safety? That wasn’t a life for anyone—least of all someone like Jenny.
   Then there was the hardest truth of all: even if Arthur abandoned everything and tried to start fresh, would Jenny even want him? He replayed the kiss from last night in his mind—sweet and searing, a memory both cherished and agonizing. But it was quickly followed by the sting of her anger, the fiery look in her eyes, and the way she’d pushed him away. I won’t seduce you anymore, she’d said. The words echoed in his mind as he clenched his fists.
   Before he knew it, he was standing outside the Town Hall. He hesitated for a moment, looking up at the modest building. No guards stood at the entrance, so he pushed through the doors and strode inside, heading directly for Horace’s office. He passed a startled clerk without a word, and found the mayor at his desk, buried in paperwork. Horace glanced up, a polite but wary smile crossing his face. He immediately took note of Arthur’s dark expression.
   “Arthur! To what do I owe the pleasure?” he asked, trying for warmth. Arthur didn’t have time for pleasantries.
   “Alright, Horace, when is this circus going to end?” Horace froze and his smile faltered, catching the seriousness in Arthur’s tone.
   “I assume you’re talking about Miss Jenny’s chaperoning arrangement? Now, Arthur, I know you’re not the type for a domestic life, but it’s only been a few days… Surely you’re not suggesting we send Miss Jenny back East?”
   “‘Course not,” Arthur snapped. “I’m here to make a deal. Is there any way Teddy Degan can get out of jail a little early?” Horace leaned back in his chair, scrutinizing Arthur.
   “I’m sorry, Arthur, but that’s not how things work. This may be a small town, but we take the law seriously. Imagine the chaos if we didn’t.” He gave an exaggerated shudder. Arthur rolled his eyes.
   “What about posting bail?” Horace adjusted his glasses and shifted uncomfortably. “Let’s see…” He rummaged through a drawer, pulling out a stack of papers. After a moment, he extracted one and began scanning it closely.
   “Yes, yes…” Horace murmured, his finger tracing the text. “Hmmm… it doesn’t look good.” Arthur stood impatiently, his boot tapping against the floor. He expected Horace would try to stall.
   “Surely a few broken glasses at a saloon don’t make a feller a criminal?” Arthur said with a chuckle. “What are his charges anyway?” Horace glanced up at Arthur, hesitating. Arthur decided it was time to bring out the big guns. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a gold nugget he’d found on the Comanche lands and placed it on the desk.
   “Is alternate currency acceptable?” he asked casually, glancing at Horace, whose eyes widened at the sight of the gold. The mayor sat up straighter and his demeanor instantly shifted to one of barely concealed excitement.
   “Well, in that case… yes, I think we can work something out.” Arthur exhaled, his chest loosening just a bit.
   “Just a few formalities to keep it all official,” Horace said, motioning for the clerk.
   “Draft two copies of a bail release order for Teddy Degan!” The clerk hurried off and the rapid clacking of typewriter keys filled the office. Arthur crossed his arms. His gaze never left Horace, who had suddenly become uncharacteristically cheerful.
   “One copy for us, the other for you—as proof of payment, of course,” Horace explained. “And I’ll sign both, as I am also the judge.” He chuckled pompously, his chin wobbling with the movement. Arthur barely resisted rolling his eyes. When the clerk returned, Horace and he signed the documents. Horace handed one copy to the clerk with brisk instructions.
   “Take this to the jail and give it to the guards. On the double!” The clerk darted off. Horace handed Arthur his copy and said,
   “There you go, Arthur. He should be out by tonight!” Arthur accepted the paper with a curt nod.
   “You’re almost free!” Horace beamed. “Why don’t you go and tell Miss Jenny the good news?” His grin stretched wider.
    “Yes, I’ll inform Miss Jenny,” Arthur replied coldly, suppressing the urge to throttle the man. He stepped outside, leaning heavily against a post. He’d done it. Teddy Degan would soon be free, and by tonight, Jenny might well be a married woman. The thought sent a dull, aching throb through his chest. He unfolded the release order and scanned its contents without really seeing the words.

Bail Release Order No. 032

Accused: Teddy Francis Degan

Sentenced: 90 days in jail.

Charges: Assault and battery, destruction of private property, resisting arrest, and assorted misdemeanors.

   Arthur froze, cold sweat breaking out across his forehead. Assault and battery? Destruction of private property? Resisting arrest? The words painted a damning picture. Teddy wasn’t just some rowdy drunk—he was violent. Was this the man Jenny was meant to marry?
   Without hesitation, he rushed toward the house, his mind racing. He’d told himself it was one thing to let Jenny find happiness with a decent man, but this? Horace had lied—the sentence was three times as long as he’d suggested! Could he stand by and let Jenny marry this lowlife? If Degan so much as laid a finger on her, Arthur would—he didn’t even need to finish the thought. He knew exactly what he’d do.
   Rushing down the street, Arthur tried to piece together what he’d say to Jenny. He had to warn her. He’d tell her everything—lay it all on the table. Hell, he’d propose to her himself! And then, he’d let her decide. Reaching the house, he bounded up the steps. His eyes immediately caught on a white note pinned to the door with a dagger, and his stomach dropped. Ripping the note free, he scanned the words, his heart pounding.

Degan,

We have your wife. If you want her pretty skin to stay intact, you’ll pay off your gambling debt + ransom.

Have $700 in banknotes ready. You know where to find us.

P.S. Don’t even think about involving the law. You’re not that dim.

   Arthur’s grip tightened on the note as his blood ran cold. He searched the house, just in case, but it was empty, as he expected. He mounted his horse and galloped toward the saloon with blood pounding in his ears. He knew he had to remain calm—only by keeping his wits about him could he ensure Jenny’s safety. This new crisis had driven Teddy Degan entirely from his mind, except to add one more sin to his list of suspicions: Degan was a gambler.
   But that wasn’t the worst of it. Even before he’d read the ransom note, Arthur had recognized the telltale signature—the dagger pinning the message to the door. He hadn’t even needed to read it to know who he was dealing with. It was his old gang—the men he had ridden with, robbed with, and shared bread and blood with.
   Arthur tried to gather his thoughts. He had the upper hand, he realized. The note made it clear that the gang believed they had taken Degan’s wife. That meant they had no reason to expect Arthur. He’d need to use that to his advantage. Still, it had been more than a decade since he’d severed ties with them. Were they still the same crew? Did they still ride under the same leader? He’d have to find out.
   The ransom amount struck him as too low for the gang to bother with a kidnapping. It was likely Degan owed money to one of the members… Arthur could even hazard a guess at which one based on the handwriting. It made him shudder. Still, the sum was beyond Arthur’s means.
   He rode into town and burst into the saloon. Heads turned to see who had barged in so boldly in broad daylight. Arthur stood in the doorway with a wild stare. With a sweeping glance, he took in the scene—men lounging with pints of beer, lazily playing cards and smoking. Off-tune music tinkled from a self-playing piano in the corner. Arthur stepped forward, and every gaze remained fixed on him.
   “Folks,” he said in a firm voice. “Jenny… Miss Jenny has been kidnapped…” Gasps rippled through the room. “…over a gambling debt owed by Teddy Degan.” Arthur finished. The men exchanged glances before turning back to their drinks.
   “Didn’t you hear me?” Arthur barked. “Miss Jenny’s been taken by a gang that… that I believe I can locate. We need to put together a posse and—”
   “Now hold on there, Arthur,” one of the men interrupted. “We barely know the girl!”
   “Yeah,” another chimed in. “Why should we get involved in Degan’s mess? He dug this hole for himself!” Arthur shot them a look of pure disdain.
   “Didn’t you say earlier that gang’s been raidin’ your town and robbin’ you?” The men fell silent.
   ”They come around sometimes, sure, but they don’t cause much trouble. Unless you cross them, that is…”
  ”Doesn’t this place have a sheriff!?” Arthur demanded.
   ”He’s dead,” someone muttered from the back. Silence fell again.
   “I see how it is,” Arthur growled. “I’ll get her back myself.” He turned to leave but stopped, suddenly remembering the ransom. “Can any of you at least help with the money?”
   “How much is it?” someone asked. Arthur sighed heavily.
   “Seven hundred dollars.” Low whistles of disbelief followed. One man slapped his forehead, knocking his hat off.
   “I’ve got about $200,” Arthur admitted. “From my pay. That’s all I’ve got.”
   “Give us a bit of time, Arthur. We’ll see what we can do.” The men scattered, heading out into town. Arthur waited anxiously, silently praying that Jenny was unharmed, wherever she was. Less than half an hour later, they returned to the saloon. Among them, they had managed to gather $500. They’d told their wives what had happened, and the women had generously offered their savings. Arthur remembered the gold nugget.
   “Has anyone seen Horace?” he asked. They shook their heads. Arthur did a quick count—he had the requested sum. He turned, preparing to leave.
   “How will you find them, Arthur?” someone called after him.
   “Is there a secluded cabin near town? One you can’t see from the main road?”
   “There’s one like that about a half-hour’s ride west of Purgatory,” someone offered.
   “Then I know where to start.”
   “Be careful, Arthur! Good luck!” They tipped their hats in unison as Arthur mounted his horse and rode westward at a gallop.

Chapter Text

   Now we must take our readers back a few hours, to the very moment Arthur had stormed out of Teddy Degan’s house and headed toward the Town Hall. Let’s leave Arthur to his own path for now and focus instead on a certain inconspicuous bush nearby. Not long after Arthur had disappeared from sight, two shadowy figures crept behind it, using its cover to stay hidden. They crouched there silently, peering out just enough to keep an eye on the house’s windows.
   Jenny had risen earlier than usual that morning. Her chest felt heavy with emotion and her eyes red from crying. She had spent most of the night in tears, haunted by the fallout of that fateful kiss with Arthur and the argument that followed. She wept because she felt trapped in an impossible situation with no way out.
   Will you be happy with Teddy Degan? he had asked her. Of course, she knew the answer—she could never be happy with anyone but him—Arthur. Coming downstairs to the sitting room, she found the sofa Arthur had been sleeping on empty. A faint unease washed over her as she searched the house, but he was nowhere to be found. She opened the front door, stepped onto the porch and glanced around. Nothing. She left the door ajar—a small part of her hoped he might return at any moment. The two men behind the bush shifted and narrowed their eyes as they spotted her.
   “There she is—Degan’s woman!” one of them hissed.
   “How d’you figure?” the other grumbled.
   “Don’t you see her? Living in his house, you moron.”
   “But where’s Degan?”
   “How the hell should I know? Probably passed out in the saloon.”
   “Well, he’s about to sober up real quick, hah!”
   “Shut up, idiot. Let’s move in closer, see if she’s alone.” Crouching low, they crept from the bush toward the house, using its side wall to shield themselves from view of the street.
   Jenny, not one to dwell on ominous thoughts, dismissed her unease. Arthur had probably gone for a walk, she reasoned, and she busied herself with her usual morning chores. That’s when she heard footsteps on the porch. She let out a small sigh of relief. He’s back, she thought. But something about the steps felt off—there were two sets. Turning to see who it was, she froze. Two rough-looking men were advancing toward her.
   Everything happened in an instant. She didn’t even have time to scream, let alone resist. One of the men lunged at her, clamping a massive, calloused hand over her mouth to muffle her cries, while the other tied her hands and feet with alarming speed. The men’s presence overwhelmed her senses—the stench of manure, tobacco, and cheap liquor, the coarse rasp of their hands against her skin.
   Jenny managed only a fleeting glimpse of her attackers before darkness enveloped her. They had thrown a sack over her head and gagged her, ensuring she couldn’t make a sound. Then they lifted her as though she weighed nothing and carried her out of the house. Before her mind could even process what was happening, she felt herself hoisted onto a horse—or at least she assumed it was a horse—and the group galloped off in an unknown direction. Her fear, disorientation, and the overwhelming physical assault were too much. Jenny’s world faded, and she lost consciousness.

***

   Jenny awoke at some point, her mind groggy and confused, as if surfacing from a terrible nightmare. But when she realized she couldn’t see anything even though her eyes were open, the memory of the attack came rushing back. Bound, blindfolded, and on horseback, a wave of paralyzing fear swept over her. Her entire body trembled uncontrollably.
   Her captors said little, their voices were drowned out by the rhythmic pounding of hooves. The fresh, unfamiliar scent of the air told Jenny they were far from town. She thought briefly about throwing herself from the horse to try to escape, but she was tied too tightly, and the fall could easily kill her. A panicked thought seized her—they meant to kill her and leave her in the woods. But her practical side countered: if that was their intent, they would’ve done it already. Surely, they wanted something from her. It was a kidnapping. The realization didn’t comfort her, but it gave her a sliver of hope. For now, she had no choice but to wait and see where they were taking her.
   She didn’t have to wait long. The men soon pulled up their horses and dismounted, hefting Jenny down with little care before carrying her inside some structure. She heard the muffled hum of voices—others were there—but she couldn’t make out what was being said. She was unceremoniously plopped onto a wooden chair. They bound her hands behind her and tied them to the backrest, while her ankles remained restrained. The sound of footsteps approached.
   “Take the sack off her,” a hoarse voice ordered. A moment later, light flooded her senses as the sack was yanked away. She squeezed her eyes shut reflexively before cautiously opening them, darting her gaze around the room in panic. Her mouth was still gagged.
   She found herself in a low-ceilinged room with stone walls and a wooden floor. It was sparsely furnished. An open doorway led to what seemed like a kitchen, where a few women moved about. In front of her stood two men, just as rough-looking as her captors, who now loitered in the far corner of the house. These new faces regarded her with interest.
   “Well, well, well,” one of them drawled. His straw-colored hair stuck out in tufts beneath a battered hat. His face was weathered, and his blue eyes were unsettlingly sharp. He reeked of alcohol. “Degan sure hit the jackpot, lucky bastard.” The other man, who’d ordered the sack removed, studied her carefully. He shook his head.
   “I don’t like this, Micah. Especially with the law breathin’ down our necks.”
   “Oh, he’ll come, Dutch.” Micah rasped with a lecherous grin. “I’d show up for a little lady like this.” His eyes raked over Jenny, making her shudder in disgust. She glanced at the man called Dutch, who seemed a shade more… civilized? Disheveled, bruised, and shaken, with a torn sleeve exposing her shoulder, Jenny caught Dutch’s gaze lingering on her neckline. He must have seen her tense because he said,
   “Don’t worry, Mrs. Degan. We’re not that kind of gang.” Jenny glanced at Micah, whose smirk suggested otherwise. Mrs. Degan? she thought. They think I’m Teddy’s wife. Dutch shot Micah a sharp glare.
   “Enough of this. Go stand watch.” Micah muttered under his breath but left the room. Dutch turned his attention back to Jenny. He leaned forward and yanked the gag from her mouth, giving her some relief. Sitting down on a backward chair across from her, he rested his arms casually on the backrest.
   “Mrs. Degan,” he began smoothly, as if they were in a parlor and not a bandit hideout, “do you know why you’re here?” Jenny, though shaken, noticed how refined he looked compared to the setting—elegant black trousers, a crisp white shirt, and a silk vest adorned with a red pocket square. He seemed oddly out of place. She hesitated, deciding how much to reveal.
    She regretted not spending her girlhood reading tales of kidnappings and bandits instead of romance novels—perhaps then she’d know how to act now. Still, instinctively, she sensed she shouldn’t be too defiant or appear overly frightened, though the latter was much harder to manage. So, she resolved to speak the truth unless it might endanger her. Finally, she spoke, her voice barely above a whisper:
   “I… I assume I’ve been kidnapped.” Dutch smiled faintly, almost kindly.
   “Your husband, Mrs. Degan, has accrued a substantial gambling debt with my boys. That debt must be repaid—one way or another. Were you aware of that?” Jenny shook her head. Dutch seemed to believe her, as he continued, “He’s been given until sundown to pay up. For your sake,” he added with a significant glance, “I hope he does.” Jenny’s blood ran cold.
   “And if he doesn’t?” she dared to ask. Dutch leaned in closer, his tone dripping with rehearsed menace. “I got a saying, Mrs. Degan… we shoot fellers as need shooting… save fellers as need saving… and feed ‘em as need feeding. We’re gonna find out what you need.”

***

   Jenny didn’t even try to decipher Dutch’s strange turn of phrase. She glanced around the room, as if hoping to spot something—anything—that might aid in her escape, but there was nothing. She was painfully aware of her predicament. Her “husband,” Teddy Degan, wasn’t going to appear; he was sitting in a jail cell. And she wasn’t foolish enough to mention that to these men. As for Arthur… who knew where he was? Just then, the man she recognized as one of her kidnappers burst through the door.
   “Boss, we’ve got company.” The room buzzed with sudden activity. Guns were cocked, rifles checked, and every man in the place scrambled to take up positions by the windows, peering out from behind cover. Dutch turned to Jenny with a crooked smile on his face.
   “Well, Mrs. Degan, it seems fortune might be smiling on you after all.” Jenny’s heart pounded so hard she thought it might burst from her chest. Could it be the sheriff coming to save her? she wondered naively. But tied to the chair as she was, she couldn’t crane her neck far enough to glimpse the scene outside.
   “Javier, keep me updated,” Dutch ordered a man by the window in a calm voice, despite the commotion. He still sat in his chair, one leg crossed casually over the other.
   “It’s one rider… alone, boss,” Javier reported.
   “Excellent,” Dutch said, sounding almost relieved. “I wasn’t expecti—” Javier cut him off with a sharp curse. Dutch’s curiosity piqued, and he turned toward the man.
   “What is it?” Dutch demanded impatiently. Javier hesitated, clearly rattled.
   “Boss, you’re not gonna believe this… it’s…” His voice faltered.
   “It’s what?” Dutch barked.
   “It’s Arthur Morgan!” Dutch froze as if struck by lightning. His face twisted in astonishment and his eyes were wide with disbelief. Jenny, too, let out an audible gasp, her confusion matching his. Arthur Morgan? How did this gang know him?
   “Arthur…!?” Dutch finally managed to sputter, rushing to the window. He crouched low, positioning himself on the opposite side from Javier. He peered out cautiously and saw Arthur dismounting his horse, hands raised, carrying a small bundle in one hand. Dutch whirled around to face Jenny, his expression dark and accusing.
   “What the hell is Arthur Morgan doing here?” he growled.
   “H-he was the leader of our convoy. He brought us to Purgatory,” Jenny stammered, her voice trembling.
   “Then why the hell is he showing up with ransom money instead of Degan?” Dutch snapped, his furious gaze swinging to Javier.
   “You said this was his wife!” Dutch roared, pointing an accusing finger at Jenny. Javier raised his hands defensively.
   “Boss, I swear! We grabbed her right outta Teddy Degan’s house!”
   “Imbeciles!” Dutch spat, cursing loudly. He and Javier turned their attention back to Jenny.
   “Now listen here,” Dutch said, his finger pointing directly at her. “Where is Teddy Degan, and are you his wife? Tell me the whole truth, and don’t you dare leave a single detail out.” Jenny took a deep breath, her mind racing. Lying wouldn’t do her any favors now. She noticed the women who had been lingering in the kitchen lean against the doorway, eager to eavesdrop.
   “Teddy Degan is my fiancé,” she said steadily. “But he’s in jail right now.” Her captors exchanged uneasy glances.
   “But I suggest you hear out Arth…—” She caught herself. “Hear out Mr. Morgan.” Please don’t hurt him, Jenny prayed silently. Dutch, picking up on every word without fail, narrowed his eyes and spoke in a dangerously soft voice.
   “Arthur, is it? You and Mr. Morgan seem closer than you’re lettin’ on, Miss…”
   “Jenny,” she interrupted, her voice firmer now. “My name is Jenny.” Dutch smirked.
   “Well, Miss Jenny, all the better for you. Maybe I can squeeze a higher ransom out of this.” He muttered the last part to himself before signaling the women in the doorway.
   “Karen, Mary-Beth, Tilly… keep an eye on her.” The women stepped forward to stand guard over Jenny. Dutch stood, adjusted his vest, and strode toward the door.
   “Now,” he said, his tone taking on a sinister edge, “it’s time for a little chat with my old friend Arthur.”
   With that, he disappeared through the doorway, leaving Jenny to sit in a swirl of dread and desperate hope.

Chapter Text

   As we mentioned, Arthur had ridden alone to the gang’s hideout. It hadn’t taken him long to track them down and find the cabin, following the directions given by the men of Purgatory. When he judged he was close enough to be spotted, Arthur dismounted, tied his horse to a tree, and continued on foot for the last stretch.
   He knew full well that behind every window of that cabin, a bandit with a rifle was likely aiming at him. To make his intentions clear, Arthur raised his hands high above his head, signaling he came in peace. He approached the entrance and stopped, waiting. Moments later, the door flew open with a crash, and a large figure stepped out, casting an imposing shadow in the late afternoon sun. Dutch van der Linde, the leader of the infamous gang that bore his name.
   This was the man who had taken Arthur in as a street orphan, fed him, taught him to read, and called him his “son.” Though Arthur had never cared for that particular title, as there was barely a decade’s difference between them. Following Dutch out of the cabin came others: Micah, Javier, Bill, Lenny, Charles—all familiar faces. Arthur gave them all a somber smirk, his hands still raised. His eyes met Dutch’s, and the two men sized each other up in silence for a few long moments. Finally, Dutch was the first to speak.
   “Well, I’ll be damned! Arthur Morgan, in the flesh.” Arthur said nothing, nor did he move a muscle.
   “Hosea? Sean? Miss Grimshaw? Annabelle?” Arthur asked at last, his voice steady.
   “Dead,” Dutch replied grimly. A dull ache stirred in Arthur’s chest. Hosea had been like a father to him. But any grief was quickly overshadowed by the immediate fear for Jenny.
   “The girls?” Arthur continued.
   “Inside,” Dutch said, jerking his head toward the cabin.
   “Uncle?”
   “Sleeping.” Arthur let out a laugh.
   “John and Abigail?” Arthur asked, his tone betraying deeper interest.
   “They left us… just like you. Heard they’ve got a son now.” Arthur allowed himself a broad grin at that, which made Dutch’s face darken.
   “Oh, you’re pleased about that, aren’t you? We were a family, Arthur. And family doesn’t abandon each other.” Arthur regarded him with dry indifference.
   “I’d love to sit and chat, Dutch, but,” Arthur gestured to the bundle in his hand, “I think we’ve got business.” The days when Dutch’s theatrical speeches could tug at his heartstrings were long gone. Dutch gave a sly smile.
   “So, you’ve brought the ransom money?” Arthur nodded.
   “It’s all there?”
   “Exactly as demanded,” Arthur confirmed. “But first, I want to see Jenny.” Dutch smirked.
   “Ah yes, Miss Jenny,” he said, as though he’d forgotten all about her. “Fiancée to Teddy Degan. Quite an interesting love triangle you’ve got there.” Arthur’s face darkened. If he’d hurt her… But Dutch tilted his head toward Bill, one of Jenny’s captors, whispering something in his ear. Bill disappeared inside the cabin, and after a moment of shuffling, Jenny’s pale, frightened face appeared in the window. Her eyes met Arthur’s with a mix of sorrow and fear. Then, she was pulled back out of view.
   “As I was saying,” Dutch continued as though nothing had happened, “this little love triangle…”
   “Is none of your damn business,” Arthur spat. “Bring her out. Now.”
   “Give me the money,” Dutch countered. Arthur sized him up, then tossed the bundle toward him. Dutch caught it midair.
   “Now give me Jenny,” Arthur growled. Dutch didn’t move. The other men exchanged uncertain glances.
   “He brought the money, Dutch,” said Charles quietly. “Why not let her go? What are you planning to do with the girl?”
   “Oh, but you see, Arthur,” Dutch said, ignoring Charles entirely, “it very much is my business. Because it makes me wonder just how much she means to you—and how much you’re really willing to pay to ensure she stays unharmed.” Arthur’s stomach dropped.
   “That wasn’t the deal, Dutch,” Arthur said slowly, carefully. “If there’s one thing I remember, it’s that you were always a man of your word.” Arthur’s mind raced as he spoke, buying time. He quickly assessed his odds—six men, not counting the women inside. All seasoned fighters. He could try… but his slightest move would be noticed by their sharp eyes. Dutch grinned as though reading his thoughts.
   “No need for flattery, son. I don’t doubt your skills have improved over the years,” Dutch said mockingly. Arthur flinched at the word “son.” “But you? Alone, against us?” Dutch spread his arms wide in feigned disbelief. Some of the gang members snickered mockingly, exchanging glances. Micah, in particular, smirked as he locked eyes with Arthur. Arthur returned the gaze with a look of utter disdain.
   Dutch wasn’t wrong, Arthur thought grimly. But one thing was certain: either he would rescue Jenny, or he’d die trying—and he’d take down every bastard in his path.
   “What makes you think I’m alone?” Arthur said, stalling further. Dutch burst into laughter, nearly choking. Micah, Bill and Javier followed suit, echoing his laughter.
   “You expect me to believe you convinced those cowards in Purgatory to come with you?” Dutch chuckled again, shaking his head. Arthur said nothing more, his hand inching toward his revolver. Suddenly, a loud commotion erupted from the trees. Men from Purgatory charged out, shouting, clumsy but determined. The chaos caught the gang off guard.
   Arthur dove to the ground, rolling behind a large rock for cover. Gunfire erupted, ricocheting off stones and sending sparks flying. Arthur peeked around his cover to see Franny behind a tree, winking at him, and Maggie Bell crouched behind another, both women dressed in men’s clothes. Arthur raised a finger to his lips, signaling them to stay quiet. There were about ten of them altogether, inexperienced but numerically superior, Arthur noted with a flicker of hope.
   Bullets whizzed through the air, shattering the tense silence of the forest. None had hit their marks yet, but the gang managed to disarm a few townsfolk, evening the odds. Arthur gritted his teeth. It was anyone’s fight now.

***

   Inside the cabin, Jenny sat bound, surrounded by the gang’s women. Ever since she had glimpsed Arthur through the window, a fragile hope had sparked to life in her chest. Uncle, the perpetually drunk, white-bearded old man, had woken up and was now crouched near the window, providing a running commentary on the events unfolding outside.
   Little by little, the women, driven by curiosity, coaxed Jenny into recounting nearly every detail of her journey with the convoy. She told them how Arthur had saved their lives countless times—about the killer Kelly, the Comanche, the tornado, her fall from a cliff, the treacherous mountain pass, and the vast desert. The women gasped, wide-eyed, clutching at their hearts. Jenny hesitated but eventually spoke of the events in Purgatory.
   These women were Jenny’s age, barely more than girls when Arthur had ridden with the gang. They remembered him as Dutch’s trusted right hand—fair, brave, and fiercely loyal. Those memories lingered warmly in their minds, and Jenny’s stories stirred something deep within them.
   But when Jenny overheard that Dutch had raised the ransom, her fragile hope crumbled. She glanced desperately at the women, silently pleading for help from the strange bond they had begun to share over the past hour. Mary-Beth, a striking redhead, was the first to falter.
   “What’s Dutch playing at?” she murmured to the others. “Arthur paid the ransom.”
   “It’s not our place to question,” Karen, the blonde, said sharply.
   “He’s toying with him,” Tilly, a sweet but fierce Black girl, explained grimly. She glanced at Jenny out of the corner of her eye. Jenny caught every word.
   “Why is he toying with him? Why won’t he let us go?” she asked in a voice trembling with desperation.
   “It’s revenge,” Karen said simply.
   “Revenge? For what?” Jenny pressed, her wide eyes darting between them. The women exchanged uneasy glances.
   “How much do you know about Arthur’s past?” Mary-Beth asked gently. Jenny opened her mouth to say she knew him well but faltered. Every time she’d asked Arthur about his youth, he had deflected or given vague answers. In the end, she realized, she knew very little. She shook her head.
   “Not much,” she had to admit softly. The women exchanged a somber look and began recounting Arthur’s past. Jenny listened with a strange calm, as if part of her had already known. In the end, it didn’t really matter—she realized. She loved him, outlaw or not. When they came to the reason Arthur had left the gang, they spoke of his first love, Mary, who had died of tuberculosis.
   “I know that part,” Jenny said, nodding.
   “Arthur was never the same after she died,” Mary-Beth explained.
   “The gap between him and Dutch just kept growing,” Karen added.
   “Arthur accused Dutch of leading the gang into cruelty and recklessness.”
   “Dutch just laughed and said, ‘Then go find something better!’ He never thought Arthur would actually leave.”
   “The next morning, Arthur was gone.”
   “Dutch was furious. He wouldn’t stop ranting about betrayal. A few times, he tracked Arthur down, but Arthur always slipped through his fingers.”
   “Then we heard he’d become a bounty hunter. They said he was a skilled gunslinger, but we didn’t know if it was true…”
   “It is!” Jenny interrupted in a firm voice. “I’ve seen him do things with a gun that would make your head spin!” Even she was surprised by the fierce conviction in her tone. A commotion outside drew their attention. Uncle peered out the window and announced that reinforcements from Purgatory had arrived. Hope flickered in Jenny’s chest once again. The women grew increasingly uneasy. Mary-Beth kept glancing at Jenny, worrying her lower lip.
   “We should free her!” she finally blurted. Karen shifted nervously on her feet.
   “Dutch will kill us if he finds out!”
   “Why? He’s got the money…” Mary-Beth looked at Jenny with a mix of sympathy and determination. “They love each other!” The three exchanged a weighted glance. Without another word, Tilly stood, pulled a dagger from her boot, and slashed through the ropes binding Jenny.
   “Go through the kitchen,” Mary-Beth whispered urgently. “Take the back way out through the pantry.”
   “Run deep into the woods,” Karen added, “and don’t look back!” Jenny stumbled to her feet and bolted for the door. At the threshold, she hesitated, turning to look back at the three women. Tears spilled down her cheeks.
   “Thank you,” she said in a cracking voice.
   “Go!” Tilly hissed, motioning frantically. Jenny flinched, nodded, and vanished into the night.

***

   Outside, chaos reigned. Darkness fell over the woods, making it difficult for everyone to spot the enemy. Some were already wounded… Arthur realized his reinforcements were too timid to advance from their cover. The gang would eventually surround them, he knew, unless he acted.
   Signaling Franny and Maggie to cover him, Arthur slipped to the far side of the cabin. His plan was to sneak up on Charles and Lenny, convince them to stand down. They had once been loyal to him… he didn’t want to hurt them unless he had no other choice.
   Thanks to Franny and Maggie’s cover fire, Arthur managed to crawl behind the cabin undetected. Just as he was about to circle toward Charles and Lenny’s position, the back door creaked open—and there stood Jenny. Shaking, scared, unhurt, beautiful, beloved Jenny! Without a second thought, they fell into each other’s arms, kissing fiercely, their hands cradling each other’s faces. Jenny sobbed in his arms.
   “Arthur…”
   “Jenny…” They whispered each other’s names as relief flooded them.
   ”How’d you…? Who got you out?” He suddenly realized. He glanced toward the cabin in shock.
   ”There were women there… they set me free!”
   For a moment, the thought flashed through his mind to leave it all behind, take Jenny, and disappear. But then he realized that Dutch wouldn’t let him go so easily. Now that he had gotten hold of him, he’d follow him relentlessly until he caught him. After all, Arthur had a weakness now—Jenny.
   Besides, Arthur thought, he couldn’t abandon the people of Purgatory—it would be a death sentence for them. With great reluctance, just as he had the night before, Arthur pulled Jenny away from him. But this time, it wasn’t honor keeping them apart—it was survival. He pointed out a safe route and ordered her to stay low.
   “Arthur…” She clung to his arms. Her gaze was full of sorrow, worry, and fear. That look said everything—I’m scared for you. Take care of yourself. I can’t lose you. I love you.
   He nodded, kissed her forehead, and told her to run. With renewed determination, Arthur pressed forward. As he expected, Charles and Lenny were crouched by the cabin wall, waiting in ambush. Charles was the first to hear him approach, but by the time he turned, Arthur already had both of them at his aim.
   “Boys,” Arthur said calmly, “you don’t have to do this.” Charles sighed, slowly lowering his revolver to the ground. Lenny hesitated, then followed suit. They turned to face Arthur, who nodded approvingly.
   “Good boys.” Arthur motioned toward the wounded Javier nearby, slumped against the wall. Blood from his shoulder wound spread rapidly through his shirt.
   “Get him inside through the back door,” Arthur instructed. “Have the women tend to him.” As Charles and Lenny carried Javier away, Arthur peered around the wall. There, with his back to him, was Dutch.
   Arthur thought of calling his name—shooting a man in the back wasn’t his way. But then he saw something that froze his blood. Bill and Micah were barreling toward the Purgatory men, driving them deeper into the woods—directly toward where he’d sent Jenny. Their gunshots sparked in the darkness.
   Arthur fired a precise shot, hitting Micah’s hand and knocking his gun away. Micah dove to the ground, frantically searching for the weapon but coming up empty. Bill turned, shooting wildly in Arthur’s direction. One of the Purgatory men hit Bill in the leg, sending him tumbling with a curse. The others rushed to restrain them. Dutch spun around, wild-eyed, searching for the source of the shots.
   “Hey, Dutch!” Arthur called, stepping into the light of the cabin’s lantern. Dutch’s eyes widened as he reached for his revolver. In an instant, which felt like an eternity, they fired. Both missed by a hair—Arthur’s bullet skimmed Dutch’s cheek, while Dutch’s passed so close to Arthur’s face it left his skin stinging.
   “WHACK!” A rolling pin flew from the woods and struck Dutch square in the face, knocking him out cold. He spun around and collapsed like a sack of flour. Arthur stared in disbelief as Franny emerged from the trees, waving triumphantly. The Purgatory men around her erupted into cheers, while Arthur rushed to tie Dutch up.

***

   Back at the cabin, Arthur gathered the gang, now subdued, wounded, or tending to their injured. While the girls tended to Javier and Bill, Charles and Lenny kept an eye on Micah. Arthur leveled a stern gaze at them.
   “You’ve got two days to clear out of here and leave this area. If I find you still around, next time I won’t be so merciful.” He motioned toward Dutch, tied and unconscious. “If he’s got a problem with that, he knows where to find me.”
   The gang stared at him, speechless. Without waiting for a reply, Arthur nodded to the women, Charles, and Lenny, then walked out without another word. He’d severed ties with this life long ago. His only concern now was Jenny. When he emerged, the Purgatory men were waiting, their silhouettes visible in the dark. Arthur scanned them for serious injuries and, seeing none, bellowed: “WHERE’S JENNY!?”
   The group parted, and there she was, stepping forward. Arthur pulled her into his arms, kissing her softly in front of everyone. Jenny made no effort to stop him. People whispered among themselves—not in shock or disapproval, but with smiles and interest.
   Arthur no longer cared. He’d held back too much, missed too many chances. All that mattered now was that Jenny was safe. There are moments in life so monumental that they break all rules, shatter every expectation, and leave nothing unchanged. This was one of those moments for Arthur and Jenny.
   Arthur lifted her onto the saddle in front of him, with his arms firmly holding the reins and her, as if daring the world to take her away again. Together, they began their ride back to Purgatory, leading the column. Whatever lay ahead, Arthur knew one thing for certain: he would never let Jenny go. And woe to the fool who tried. Even if that fool was Jenny’s fiancé.

Chapter Text

   Arthur, Jenny, and the whole group rode back to town, their spirits high and voices lively as they exchanged tales of the shootout they’d just survived. They were exhilarated, full of an almost boyish pride. The rescue mission had been the most thrilling thing they’d ever done.
   The men told Arthur how they’d confessed their cowardice to their wives, admitting they’d refused to help him organize the rescue. Their wives had been appalled—furious, even—and had immediately insisted they follow Arthur. And just months ago, Arthur had taught them how to shoot, he thought with a smile.
   The cheerful mood lasted until they reached the town. Arthur let the men swap their exaggerated “war stories,” but his focus never wavered from Jenny. It was as though every shadow, every creak of the saddle, threatened to steal her away again.
   Jenny sat curled against him, silent and distant. Arthur knew she must still be in shock from everything that had happened. For him, one gunfight was no more unusual than dessert after dinner. But for her… it was a different world. Then, with a sinking feeling, Arthur remembered Teddy Degan. He had planned to expose the man’s true nature to Jenny. But her kidnapping had consumed his every thought, leaving no room for anything else.

***

  It was late at night when they rode into Purgatory. Teddy Degan, overjoyed at his unexpected early release, wasted no time in heading straight to the saloon. After being thrown out by the only two men left in town, he stumbled drunkenly down Purgatory’s main street, yelling,
   “JENNYYY!!!”
   The street was dimly lit, but the windows of every house were aglow—wives anxiously awaited the return of their husbands. When the group rode into town, Arthur and Jenny leading the column on horseback, they came to a halt in the middle of the street, spotting Teddy. He stood there, swaying like a rabid dog ready to pounce. With a slur, he shouted crudely at Arthur:
   “So you’re the bastard—hic!—living in my house—hic!—with my wife!” Arthur tightened his hold on Jenny, pulling her closer, and glared at Teddy with deep disdain.
   “She ain’t your wife!” he growled.
   “She’s engaged to me!” Teddy shouted back, looking around for support, nearly tripping over his own feet. By now, the street was filled with folks—wives who had rushed out after hearing the sound of horses, eager to greet their husbands. Everyone stared at Teddy, their mouths agape.
   Jenny looked at Teddy with a mixture of fear and disgust. Arthur gave her hand a reassuring squeeze, letting her know she was safe.
   “The engagement’s off,” Arthur declared firmly. Teddy laughed in disbelief, then threw his arms wide in theatrical protest, glancing around once more. When no one backed him up, he exclaimed:
   “Is that how it is? Betrayed—hic!—humiliated!” He staggered, swaying backward before landing on his rear. The entire town stared, wondering if he could possibly be more humiliated than this. Teddy groaned, then angrily shouted at Arthur: “You… you…” But the words failed him.
   Not wanting Jenny to endure any more of the spectacle, Arthur turned his horse away.
   Teddy fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a small, pathetic-looking revolver, aiming—or at least thinking he was aiming—at Arthur. The women gasped.
   “BANG!”
   The gun flew out of Teddy’s hand before he even had a chance to pull the trigger. Arthur hadn’t even fully turned in his saddle when he fired, hitting Teddy’s hand with lazy precision. Teddy clutched his bleeding hand and let out a comical “Ow.” He looked up at Arthur, wide-eyed, as if struggling to comprehend what had just happened.
   “Only grazed your finger, you coward,” Arthur said with contempt. At that moment, a carriage rolled into town, carrying Horace and his wife. Horace, dressed in a brand-new suit, gawked at the scene before him—the drunken, injured Teddy sprawled in the dirt, Arthur and Jenny astride a horse, and the townsfolk gathered around.
   He had just returned from selling Arthur’s gold nugget and treating himself to a little shopping spree. Horace’s jaw dropped as he surveyed the chaos. Arthur pointed to Teddy and said:
   “Horace, get this dog outta here.”
   Horace addressed Teddy with feigned politeness: “Teddy Degan, you are hereby under arrest for assault and attempted murder. Since it seems you’ve grown bored in your cell, we’ll be sending you off to break rocks for a while!”
   Teddy swore viciously as Horace signaled for the two men to restrain him and drag him away. Arthur turned to Jenny with a smile. Then, in a sudden burst of inspiration, he addressed the crowd:
   “Anyone else want to challenge my claim to this woman?” He tightened his grip on Jenny’s hand.
    “NO!!!” the crowd shouted in unison. Arthur looked directly into Jenny’s eyes.
   “Jenny May, will you marry me?”
   “Arthur Morgan, I will!” she answered, laughing. His heart nearly bursting with joy, Arthur gently cupped her chin and kissed her on the lips. A wave of indescribable happiness washed over him.
   The entire town—all twenty-eight of them, plus Hank—cheered and clapped enthusiastically. The women sobbed, dabbing their eyes with handkerchiefs. Hank bellowed:
   “I KNEW IT! I KNEW IT!” triumphantly pumping his fist in the air.
   Arthur gently set Jenny down and slid off his horse to join her. The crowd surged toward them, hands reaching to shake Arthur’s, arms stretching to embrace Jenny. The energy was electric, a shared joy radiating through the gathered townsfolk. Jenny sought Arthur’s eyes amidst the chaos.
   “But Arthur, where will we live? And how will we live?” she asked earnestly, raising her voice above the clamor. Before Arthur could respond, Horace came barreling through the throng, something shiny and bright clutched in his hand. Reaching Arthur, he slapped a gleaming gold star onto his chest—the badge of a sheriff.
   “Miss Jenny, you’ve nothing to worry about!” Horace bellowed grandly. “From this day forward, Purgatory boasts the finest sheriff in all the West!”
   Jenny clapped her hands together, beaming as she leapt up to kiss Arthur on the cheek. The crowd burst into cheers anew. Arthur stared down at the badge with a mix of surprise and mild disbelief.
   “You’ll be paid by the town, Arthur, and provided a house for you and your bride!” Horace continued with enthusiasm. “For now, you can start in Degan’s house—”
   Arthur stiffened at the mention of the name. The image of himself sleeping in Degan’s bed flashed through his mind. But just as quickly, he considered how Jenny would likely transform the house until it was unrecognizable. He glanced back at Horace and gave a curt nod of agreement. Then a thought struck him and he turned a steely gaze on Horace.
   “I’ll take the job, Horace—but on one condition.” the mayor’s face faltered slightly. The hint of a frown betrayed his unease.
   “What might that be, Arthur?” he asked cautiously.
   “I expect you to be a good deal more honest about your… dealings from now on.” Horace caught the sharp glint in Arthur’s eyes and nodded quickly, managing a weak smile.
   “Ah, of course, Arthur. No need to worry about that,” he replied, laughing nervously. He knew exactly what Arthur was referring to. Jenny watched the exchange with puzzled curiosity, as she tried to make sense of their cryptic words.
   “Well then, it’s all settled!” Horace exclaimed, clapping his hands together with forced cheer. “Let’s have the wedding ceremony right away!” He was eager to cement Arthur’s new position as sheriff, and since neither Arthur nor Jenny had any objections, the jubilant crowd began surging toward the Town Hall, ready to celebrate the union.

***

   Arthur and Jenny stood in the Town Hall foyer, holding hands. Horace presided before them with an air of importance.
   “Do you, Jenny, take Arthur to be your lawful wedded husband, in sickness and in health, till death do you part?”
   “I do!” Jenny said in a bright, clear voice. Arthur gave her hand a gentle squeeze, glancing at her with a soft smile. She shot him a sharp look, silently commanding him to face forward.
   “And do you, Arthur, take Jenny to be your lawful wedded wife, in sickness and in health, till death do you part?”
   “I do!” Arthur thundered, his voice booming, as the room erupted into thunderous applause.
   “Sold!” Horace declared, slamming a wooden gavel onto the table.
   “You did it again, Horace!” someone shouted, and the room broke into laughter.

Chapter Text

   After the ceremony, the celebration began—a festivity that would be talked about for years to come. There was dancing, singing, music, feasting, and revelry that carried on well into the night.
   Everyone wanted to speak with everyone else, with their voices rising over each other in a joyous cacophony. Arthur found himself constantly pulled into the whirlwind—either being dragged onto the dance floor or enduring long, rambling anecdotes about how he and Jenny had left their mark on the town.
   The women he had traveled with for four months hugged him tightly and showered him with congratulations at every turn. The men slapped him heartily on the back. Though he hadn’t touched a drop of alcohol, Arthur felt intoxicated by the sheer exuberance of the night. Yet, amid the whirlwind of emotions and celebration, Arthur’s gaze never strayed far from Jenny.
   She was a vision—dancing, singing, and laughing with abandon. Her joy was as radiant as the morning sun. She glanced at Arthur often and her eyes sparkled with happiness. Arthur couldn’t recall ever seeing her—or himself—so utterly content. In truth, he realized with ease, he never had been.
   By the time dawn broke, the newlyweds were escorted to their new home, but the crowd wasn’t ready to part ways. Instead, they piled into the house, determined to stretch the fevered merriment just a bit longer. Arthur looked at Jenny desperately. He was hoping for a quiet moment with his wife. His wife—how odd that sounded. And yet, how satisfying. His thoughts began to wander to the places where the thoughts of all newlyweds tend to drift.
   For a fleeting moment, Arthur considered shoving everyone out the door. Sensing his impatience, Jenny deftly guided the guests toward the exit, subtly yet effectively ensuring that, one by one, they left the couple to the sanctuary of their new home. At last, Arthur and Jenny found themselves alone in the house, standing across from each other in the quiet of the sitting room. They stepped closer, meeting in a gentle kiss that quickly turned to laughter.
   Jenny reached to button up a loose button on Arthur’s shirt, a simple gesture that sent a surprising rush through him. He caught her hand, halting her motion, and pulled her into a deep, fervent kiss. She responded with equal passion. As their lips parted, he gave her a knowing look, and she seemed to understand its meaning. She took his hand and led him toward the bedroom door. He let her take him, as if bewitched.
   Inside, she guided him to the large bed, and lay upon it, offering herself to him. As she lay there, her golden hair fanned out across the pillow, she looked like a vision from a myth—a nymph sprung to life. He paused to take the sight of her. Her hazel eyes pulled him in like a magnet. She gazed up at him inquiringly with uncertainty in her eyes. She still clung to his hand. He realized in a flash she truly didn’t know what to do next. It was up to him to guide her.
   He freed himself of his clothes promptly, standing bare at the edge of the bed. He followed her eyes trace the lines of his chest, the flat of his stomach, until they set to the undeniable evidence of his arousal. She gasped softly, parting her lips, which made him even harder.
   He climbed onto the bed, straddling her gently, careful not to make his movements intimidating. He parted her legs with a nudge of his knee and eased himself in between. He lifted her skirt only slightly—he wasn’t going to go there just yet. Instead he hovered over her, bracing himself on his elbows with her face nestled between his arms.
   He brushed his hands through her hair. His fingers grazed her chin as his breath mingled with hers.
   “Jenny…” he murmured in a hoarse voice, unable to form anything coherent. Sensing his hesitation, she leaned closer, and her lips brushed his ear. Her warm breath sent shivers down his spine.
   “Put yourself inside me, Arthur.” she whispered. He groaned low in his throat, as the ache in his body was teetering on unbearable. But he wouldn’t rush this. She was too precious. He let his hand glide to the button of her dress, just below her collarbone. He unbuttoned it carefully, exposing the soft curve of her breasts. She gasped as his hands roamed, kneading gently, his thumbs brushing over the sensitive tips. Her gasps and moans were almost enough for him to finish.
   He decided it was time to inspect what he’d been neglecting so far. His hand ventured lower, tracing her inner thigh. When he reached her center, he found what he was looking for—silky wetness. He circled the sensitive spot with his finger and enjoyed seeing her writhe beneath him. Her breath became fluttery. He thought it was time for a bolder move—he slid one and then another finger inside her, causing her to gasp in pleasure. Her hips started arching toward him—a silent invitation.
   Her eyes locked onto his, giving away fear, but her body was yearning for collision, he knew. She was ready for him.
   “Jenny”, he murmured softly somewhere between her ear and her neck. “This is gonna hurt, just a little.” Her gaze held his as she nodded, giving a silent assent. Ever-so-slowly, his tip slid inside, letting her adjust to the unfamiliar sensation. Inch by inch, he entered her, until he was fully sheathed. The sensation of her warmth surrounding him was… otherworldly.
   She gasped sharply, her eyes open wide. Gently, he started thrusting into her, giving her space to recover, until he felt her tension ease and his thrusts became more steady and forceful. If she was in pain, it didn’t show, apart from a tiny wrinkle at the bridge of her nose. Her gasps softened into moans, and he couldn’t go slow any more. He gave a final deep thrust, burying his face in her shoulder, his body trembling with the force of the moment, and the world melted away.
   They lay still, panting, the room filled with the sound of their mingled breaths. Her face was flushed, her cheeks a rosy pink. She smiled at him shyly, and he lowered his lips to her, kissing her tenderly before collapsing on the bed beside her. He cradled her face in his hand, brushing his palm along her cheek.
   “How’re you feelin’? He asked in a gentle, low voice. Her smile widened.
   “Well, they don’t describe it like that in the books!” He laughed out loud, throwing his head back.
   “I mean…”, he hesitated, his cheeks pink, searching for words.
   “Are you… y’know… pleased?” She blinked at him, guileless. “I am”, she said simply, though he realized she didn’t quite grasp the meaning. He chuckled and kissed her forehead.
   “Don’t matter. We’ll practice.” We’ve got time, he thought. A lifetime. The thought was far from daunting—quite the opposite. It filled him with quiet excitement for the days ahead. Reaching for his trousers, he retrieved a cigarette, lighting it as he leaned back against the headboard. He then checked for her expression.
   “Yeah, yeah, I know. Tobacco awakens beastly urges.” he sighed. She laughed out loud. Clearly this wasn’t a concern of hers at the moment.
   He smoked in contented silence, savoring the moment, her closeness, this intimacy that he’d never experienced with anyone in his life. He was half-afraid he’d been asleep and any time Hank’s snoring would wake him up from this heavenly dream.
   He needed to memorize this moment. So he devoured her with his gaze shamelessly, tracing his eyes from her sweet lips, down to her bare breasts and all the way down to her little feet that curled playfully. It was enough to arouse him all over again.
   When the cigarette was done, he pulled her into his arms. She fit perfectly into the nook of his arm as if she’d belonged there all of her life. She snuggled against him and the feeling of her soft creamy skin under his fingers sent waves of pleasure throughout his body. Not only to his groin, but to his heart. They lay like that in silence, broken only by their steadied breathing.
   As they lay there, with her head resting on his chest, he couldn’t help but get philosophical. Marriage, he thought. He truly did find an extraordinary woman. And who’d thought it turns out it was an ordinary feller like him she’s been looking for all of her life.
   They fell asleep—sweet sleep Arthur hadn’t had for years. At some point, he drifted into a vague dream—a warm light, a simple house, the sound of dog’s paws padding on a wooden floor. There was a woman—Jenny—her back to him, her hair catching the afternoon light as she moved about the kitchen. When she turned, a welcoming smile was visible as she motioned him inside. The dream was soft and blurry, a faint warmth he’d never let himself long for.
   Only, it wasn’t a dream. It was a dream come true.

***The End***

Chapter Text

   “Well, isn’t he handsome!” exclaimed one of the ladies. Jenny had to agree. Mr. Morgan was tall, striking, with piercing green eyes, a three-day stubble, and a scar on his chin—a memento from some thrilling skirmish, she imagined. The only thing she didn’t care for was his demeanor—he looked furious when he spotted them. Surely the mayor had informed him ahead of time that he’d be escorting a caravan of women? Then, without a word, he spun on his heel and stormed out of the hall!
   When he later returned with the mayor, Jenny had already lost any initial fondness she might have had for him. He struck her as unbearably arrogant, as though all these poor women were nothing but a heavy burden to him.
   She found his tone particularly grating when he warned them about the dangers of the road. “If you have an ounce of sense…” Had he just called them fools? Her instinct took over, and she raised her voice without thinking. The moment she saw his startled expression, the corners of her mouth twitched with satisfaction. I’ve won, she thought. I’ve left him speechless.

***

   Maybe Arthur Morgan wasn’t so bad after all. That cleverness of his, turning his own belt into a makeshift strap for her wagon harness, was genuinely impressive. And when she thanked him, his gaze softened—almost gentle, an expression she wouldn’t have expected from such a man.
   “You can call me Arthur, Miss,” he said, and her cheeks flushed as red as a poppy at his words, though she couldn’t quite figure out why.

***

   This man was the most arrogant, condescending brute she’d ever met! “If you’ve nothing nice to say, don’t say anything at all!” her mother used to teach her. She had tried so hard to make that stew—a cherished recipe from her grandmother. She’d never made it herself before, but she often watched her grandmother standing by the stove, stirring the large pot with a wooden spoon.
   “Grandma, what are you adding to the stew?”—her grandmother called it gumbo. Jenny would ask, watching as her grandmother sprinkled a pinch of some dried herb into the bubbling pot.
   “I’m adding a spice, dear. Mint—a lot of mint. That’s the secret!” her grandmother would reply, raising her index finger meaningfully and casting Jenny a knowing look.
   The scent of mint always reminded Jenny of her grandmother. Yet, curiously enough, only her grandmother and she liked gumbo. Jenny’s parents always found excuses to avoid it whenever it was served.
   Jenny felt hot tears sting her cheeks. Crying over that brute Morgan? Absolutely not. She refused to allow herself such weakness. She turned over stubbornly, falling asleep out of sheer defiance.

***

   During dinner, Jenny had deliberately avoided meeting Arthur’s gaze. He wants to apologize, no doubt, she thought. Well, I won’t give him the chance.   
   Later that night, once the camp had fallen completely silent, she slipped away on light feet, making no sound as she darted into the forest in search of herbs. I’ll show him, she thought, her expression set with determination.
   When she suddenly heard a rough, cold voice behind her and the unmistakable click of a cocked pistol, she turned slowly, her heart pounding. Standing there in the darkness was… Arthur Morgan. For a moment, fear gripped her, but it passed quickly. Couldn’t this man just leave her be? Since when was it forbidden to take a walk at night? His earlier insult about the stew still stung.
   But when he earnestly explained the threat of a killer hiding among the caravan, she realized how foolish it had been to venture into the forest alone under the cover of night.
   She told herself it was fear of the killer she was feeling—but that wasn’t the whole truth. His presence, his closeness, seemed to cast a spell over her, sending heat rushing to her cheeks. She found herself wondering what it might feel like to be enveloped in his strong arms…
   Then he took a step back, breaking the moment, and turned to escort her safely back to camp. At the edge of the campfire’s glow, he stopped and coolly bid her goodnight before disappearing into the shadows.
   Serves me right, Jenny thought to herself as she stood there, flustered. The man just told me there’s a killer in the caravan, and here I am daydreaming about his muscles. No wonder he looks at me like I’m completely unhinged.

***

   Jenny stood, open-mouthed, watching as the tin can spun through the air, flipping end over end. When Arthur turned and casually holstered his revolver, as if he’d expended no effort at all, she felt an unmistakable sensation deep in her belly—a flutter she hadn’t felt in years.
   The only other time she’d felt anything like it was when she was sixteen, harboring a hopeless crush on the stable boy, a few years her senior. He’d never spoken to her, but he always gave her a polite smile. And, for reasons unknown, he always managed to take off his shirt and start pitching hay whenever she came near, giving her an unobstructed view of his sweat-slicked abs.
   Her father had run him off one day—she never found out why, but she had a sneaking suspicion it had something to do with her.
   Since then, no man had ignited that fire in her stomach. Not until now, as she watched Arthur Morgan stride back toward the wooden crate.
   “Well, I reckon it isn’t quite as impossible as some folks said,” he remarked, his eyes flashing toward her. The hairs on her neck stood on end. She quickly crossed her arms, trying to mask her excitement.
   “Well, I s’pose even a broken clock shows the right time twice a day,” she quipped, her voice steady but her insides quaking. Arthur’s expression hardened, and he turned away without replying. I’ve offended him, she realized with a pang of guilt. I really must learn to hold my tongue.

***

   It was Jenny’s turn. She froze when Arthur’s hands covered hers, her breath catching as he adjusted her posture for aiming. He whispered instructions into her ear, but she barely registered the words—she was far too focused on the nearness of his body, the warmth of his breath grazing her neck. That fluttery sensation she’d felt earlier in her stomach intensified tenfold.
   They fired together, and she exhaled in relief—at least she’d hit the crate. She turned to him, attempting to put on her sweetest expression, but his face remained stern and distant. Of course—he was still offended by her earlier remark about his shooting.

***

   When Hank brought the news that evening about how Arthur had heroically captured Killer Kelly, Jenny, like everyone else, was thrilled.
   But then, a strange sensation tightened in her stomach. How odd, she thought. She tried to decode the feeling, and to her surprise, she realized it was… concern. Nonsense—why should she be worried? The killer was caught, and Arthur was likely delivering him to the sheriff at that very moment. Yes, but what if the killer had escaped, overpowered Arthur, and left him lying dead somewhere in the dark, between Rabbit’s Creek and their camp? Jenny’s gut twisted at the thought. Still, being of a cheerful nature, she quickly shoved the grim notion aside.
   The camp’s jubilant mood soon swept her up, and she even began crafting a witty remark to tease Arthur about his bravery when he returned. But when he did finally ride back into camp, Jenny, seated by the fire and laughing with the others, felt her heart drop.
   Because he wasn’t alone. Riding beside him was a tall, slender woman with long black hair that glistened in the firelight. Against her will, Jenny’s cheerful expression dimmed, and her chest tightened.
   Sometimes, we encounter people who, for no real reason, we decide not to like. They don’t need to say a word; something about them just rubs us the wrong way. That was exactly how Jenny felt about Miss Maggie Bell.
   While the other women swarmed around Maggie, fawning over her with admiration and curiosity, Jenny kept her distance. And when she caught the way Arthur looked at Miss Maggie—captivated, his expression soft in a way she’d never seen before—her chest squeezed painfully. Then came the news that he had handed over his hard-earned bounty money to Maggie, and Jenny suddenly felt like the biggest fool in the world.
   You silly, silly girl, she scolded herself. Why had she allowed herself to harbor feelings she knew were wrong, ridiculous, and utterly one-sided? She resolved then and there to crush whatever it was she felt for Arthur Morgan. And, of course, she vowed never again to stare at him—unless he spoke to her first.
   Jenny set about implementing her plan immediately. But that night, Arthur’s staring was so obvious, so relentless, it made her resolve waver almost at once. At one point, as Miss Maggie approached the fire, Jenny allowed herself a quick, furtive glance in his direction. Their eyes locked, and her stomach flipped, the same way it had during the shooting lesson. She yanked her gaze away, her cheeks hot, and plastered a bright, artificial smile on her face as she turned to Miss Maggie.
   “Welcome to the convoy,” she said sweetly in a steady voice, despite the churning in her gut.
   Arthur stood abruptly and strode into the shadows, leaving Jenny to wonder if she’d just imagined the whole thing. She didn’t see him again that night.

***

   One morning, while the camp still slumbered, Jenny spotted Arthur at a nearby stream, washing himself. He was shirtless, splashing water over his broad shoulders and under his arms with cupped hands. Then he stood, glancing around the clearing. Jenny quickly ducked behind one of the wagons, her breath shallow and quick. A thrill coursed through her, like the giddy excitement of childhood mischief.
   She peeked again, just in time to see him shuck off his trousers, leaving him completely bare. Her heart nearly stopped—she could see his backside, plain as day! He stepped into the water and submerged himself, swimming with practiced, powerful strokes.
   Jenny spun around, clutching her chest. She had never seen a man’s backside before—except for that one time, years ago, when some cruel boys had forced poor Edgar Wallace, the simpleton of their town, to strip naked and chased him through the streets with willow switches. The whole town had laughed. Jenny hadn’t, though the memory of that day remained vivid.
   Arthur’s backside, however, was nothing like Edgar’s. It was firm, muscular, and every bit as scandalous as it was mesmerizing. It sent her mind racing with thoughts she dared not entertain. Jenny Mae, she scolded herself, your Mama did not raise you to have such thoughts. And yet, she couldn’t keep the smile off her face for the rest of the day.

***

   Jenny was profoundly grateful to Mr. Hank for granting her a wagon all to herself. Grateful, because on those lonely nights, lying in her makeshift bed, her thoughts often wandered to Arthur Morgan.
   She’d imagine him lying atop her, his strong body pressing her into the mattress as his lips left soft, lingering kisses across hers. She imagined the rough scratch of his beard against her skin—it wouldn’t bother her, she decided. She envisioned those kisses trailing lower, around the curves of her breasts. Her fingers would glide over her own skin as she imagined his warm tongue brushing her most sensitive spots.
   Her fantasies grew bolder, picturing his lips moving even lower, toward the heat and tension that pulsed between her thighs. Would a man really kiss a woman there? The books her Aunt Ada had slipped her years ago, with a sly wink, never mentioned such details. Most of them stopped at passionate embraces and chaste kisses. Jenny didn’t know for sure if men did such things, but she decided it didn’t matter. The image pleased her, and she allowed herself to indulge.
   Her hands moved instinctively, exploring her own body. When her fingers found their mark, the sensation was electric, sending waves of pleasure coursing through her. A soft moan escaped her lips as her body trembled, her heart pounding in her chest.
   Jenny’s practical nature shielded her from guilt. No one knows what’s in my head, and I’m harming no one, she reasoned. And so, she embraced her fantasies freely, finding solace in them during those quiet, solitary nights.
   It was a good thing she had this outlet, for without it, her mounting tension might have driven her to do silly things. Like the time she’d asked Arthur to untie the knot on her apron, just so she could feel his touch. Or to tease him a little—why not? She’d scolded herself afterward for her reckless behavior, but the memory lingered, warming her on the coldest nights.