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say-hwaet · 3 months ago

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That's The Way it Is

Chapter Two: In Retrospect Author's note: Here is the second chapter to my biggest fanfic! If you're keen on reading ahead, the entire story is posted on AO3! I am merely sharing it on here for funsies, as this blog is all about writing and Red Dead in general. :D

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod. “Please.”

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

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

“Still got your headache?” Jeremy asks.

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

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

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

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

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

He shakes his head. “No.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You see his. You see Arthur’s.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What is it?” you ask.

“Something just doesn’t feel right.”

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

BANG!!

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, Jeremy…!

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

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

Creativity…create…

Why does this excite you?

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

Did he have it with him now?

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

Oh, he’s breathing. “Jeremy…!”

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

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

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

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

You hear Jeremy groan. “Am I dead?”

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

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

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

“We can’t just keep shootin’!”

“Let’s just scorch ‘em out!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But it isn’t over.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You cock back the hammer and fire.

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

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

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

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

But your prayers would be in vain.

You know he’s dead.

He’s dead.

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

Explosions.

Those men.

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

How did you get here?

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

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

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

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

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

“You followed me?!”

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

“And Jeremy…?!”

“He was already gone. I…buried him.”

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

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

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

“When you’re a wanted man, it is.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, Jeremy…!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Would it be worth going back at all?

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

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

“You would know, wouldn’t you?”

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

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

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

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

“Are you makin’ fun of me?”

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

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

Where have you seen those?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do I have a last name?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dutch. Why does that name sound familiar…?

Suddenly, your head begins to pound.

Oh no, a new memory.

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

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

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

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

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

BLACKWATER MASSACRE

DUTCH VAN DER LINDE GANG RESPONSIBLE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I was hurt?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gypsie. Circus trash. Slavic scum.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Blackwater. Mr. Lewis.

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

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

You can’t go back now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You fold your arms. “No.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He nods, smiling. “That it can.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Shoah is.”

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

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

Your brow furrows. “Montana?”

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

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

Montana nickers excitedly, spotting the fruit in your hand.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“In California,” you deduce.

“Yes.”

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

He answers quickly. “16.”

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

“Yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

He laughs. “I’m 36.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

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

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

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

Thank you for reading!

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