#Happy Birthday Isaac | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

yoursinisforgiven · 4 months ago

Text

LINGER ──

pairing: issac x reader (pickle)

cw: allergic reaction(?), rough translation of japanese words, or none at all.

next part !

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Who knew the manor could feel so ghostly with only you inside? You thought of Isaac—how truly isolating it must’ve been for him all those years alone. Your heart began to ache at the thought.

Isaac had left exactly two hours ago for business in Stockton—how ironic, considering it was there that he had first found you. He would be gone for a week, no more than two, he promised—his words sealed with a deep kiss, the kind that made your stomach flutter.

In the two hours since he’d left, you’d been surprisingly productive. You cleaned the kitchen after making Isaac a goodbye breakfast, though you hated calling it that. Goodbye always felt final.

You moved toward his study, the only room in the house you hadn’t had the chance to tidy up. The bookshelves behind his desk, in particular, had always been off-limits. Isaac always occupied his study—reading, writing, or working on some project—and you’d never feel comfortable disturbing him in this space, this private world of his. But now, with him gone, it felt strangely permissible.

You stepped closer to the bookshelf, bringing a cloth to cover your mouth and nose as you dusted. The air in the study was stale, the musty scent of old leather and paper filling your senses. Surely some of these books had belonged to Isaac’s grandfather, a man you’d always found fascinating.You wondered, as your fingers brushed across the spines, what kind of man his grandfather had been. Would the books he chose to read reflect his character? Were there any clues hidden in the choices of literature, like a map to the man himself?

As you continued to dust, your eyes caught the faintest glimmer of something odd on one of the leather-bound volumes. You squinted and stepped closer, trying to make out the title. The words were hard to decipher, but you could just about make out the first few letters: Crime and—or was it Grime and? The ‘C’ could just as easily have been a ‘G’. You tilted your head, stubborn curiosity igniting within you. You had never been one to shy away from mystery, and this book seemed to promise one.

You hesitated for a moment, then, with a brief glance toward the door, you decided to pull it from the shelf. What harm could there be? Isaac was away, after all. And it wasn’t as though you were reading it, merely inspecting the cover—right? Your fingers brushed the spine, feeling the smoothness of the worn leather beneath your touch, and you gently tugged it free from the row of books.

It was heavier than you expected, and the scent of aged paper seemed to leap out at you as you pulled it into the light. You turn the book cover up, though you have no time to inspect the title as swiftly another book had tumbled out of the bookshelf—causing you to jump letting out a small shriek.

The silence was loud as you took in the scene, almost immediately you put the book in your hand back on the self—it had fit perfectly, leaving no room for anything else. Shit! You had forgotten about the one that had fallen, you bent down to pick it up—when suddenly realization dawned on you.

There was no room for this book on the self, it had been purposely hidden.

You hesitate, of course. Should you leave it here for Isaac? Would Isaac be angry? He had always been so private about his study. Would he see this as an intrusion, or would he be indifferent? You weren’t doing anything wrong, not really… But you were stepping into a world of his that you’d never quite understood, and that, in itself, felt like a small betrayal.

Ultimately, you pick up the book. It was blank, no title, no other, nothing. Nothing except a string of words you couldn't understand—they weren't in english. You open the first page, thankfully it has been dated—no year though. You sat down at Issac’s desk as you began to read.

‘January 12th,

It is rare that I sit with my thoughts long enough to truly understand them. And yet tonight, they come unbidden, as if the fire itself has conjured them from the depths of my heart. Mitsu—the pull—insistent and quiet. It is as though I can hear the rhythm of time itself, as if each thought has been waiting to arrive at this very moment.

Isaac sleeps in his room, his breathing soft and steady. The house is still—yami—too still. The only sounds are the crackling of the fire and the whisper of the wind outside, pressing against the walls like a reminder of everything beyond. The world outside feels distant, unfathomable, and I am left here alone in this vast manor. I am surrounded by nothing but kage—shadows that twist and stretch in the dim light. There is a certain ki to the stillness, a force that hangs in the air, thick with secrets that have no intention of being spoken.

Doko e ikou? Where am I to go, now?

The silence often feels like a presence. Sometimes, I wonder if it watches me. Waits for me to face it. The longer I remain in this place, the more I am haunted by the sense that it holds me here, unwilling to let me leave.

The world outside is moving forward, and yet, inside these walls, I feel as though I am suspended in time. The house, the memories, the mono no aware—the delicate awareness of impermanence that clings to everything here—it all weighs on me.

I have often wondered if the path of business will eventually consume everything I hold dear. Will the endless pursuit of shigoto—work, duty—slowly grind away at the things I love most? There are days I feel as if all that I cherish will crumble like brittle leaves in the autumn wind, only to be carried away and forgotten.

My flowers are withering already, much sooner than I expected. The petals are wilting as though they sense my unease. Perhaps it is my neglect—perhaps I have not tended to them as I should. They are so fragile, so fleeting. It is as though they, too, understand the weight of time’s passing. Soon, even these bright bursts of color will fade, and all that will remain is the memory of what was. Sayonara.

Maybe tomorrow I will take Isaac to the flower shop, as I often do. The florist there, okaasan, adores him. He reminds her of her own children, though her hands are too frail now to chase after him. Isaac is always so full of life, so eager to learn. Perhaps it is time I teach him how to tie his shoes properly. Hissori—quietly, gently. One of these days, I will sit him down and guide his fingers to the knots.

It seems like such a small thing, such a simple task, but in moments like this, when the weight of the world feels so heavy, I find myself wondering if it is the little things that matter most. Chīsana koto, small things—perhaps they are what we hold onto when everything else slips away.

I find myself lost in the thought of Isaac, his small hands fumbling with the laces, his eyes so serious as he tries to master something so simple. He doesn’t know it yet, but he is learning something deeper with each knot. He is learning how to tie himself to this world, to the people who love him. One knot at a time.

But I wonder if it will be enough. Will the strings of his life remain tied, or will they fray as mine have? And in the end, what is it that we are really holding onto?

It is getting late now. The fire is dying, and soon, my thoughts will drift into sleep as well. But I cannot shake the feeling that something is waiting. Waiting for Isaac. Waiting for me.

Shinjiruyo—I believe it’s true, that we are all part of something larger than ourselves. But what if, in the end, it is the threads we cannot see that bind us most tightly? And what if those threads—kizuna—are the only thing that can save us?

I will teach him tomorrow. I will teach him to tie his shoes. But more than that, I will teach him how to hold onto the world when it feels like it is slipping away.

Ichizu ni. With a pure heart, with sincerity.

Perhaps that is enough.’

It was a journal. Not just anyone’s journal—His mothers. Your hands become sweaty and suddenly it feels as though the air around you thickens, as if the house itself is holding its breath. The words on the page blur in front of you, and you blink rapidly, trying to focus. You cannot—will not—tear your eyes away. This is not a coincidence.

You flip the page, trying not to hold your breath as you read.

‘January 15th,

I married a man of great resolve—stubborn, perhaps, to the point of mujo—impermanence. He never understood the quiet joys of the simple things in life. He saw them as meiwaku—a nuisance. The flutter of a butterfly’s wings, the fragrance of fresh rain on the earth, the feeling of sunlight on your face in the morning—it is all lost on him. He would never pause to look at a flower in bloom or hear the wind sing through the bamboo. And yet, he cannot see that it is kofu—true happiness—that he is missing.

I pray, Isaac, my precious son, that you may find meaning beyond your father’s world of work and duties. That you may find a way to balance the weight of purpose with the sweetness of living. You must learn to see what lies beyond the endless list of tasks your father is so consumed by.

Isaac asks me, often, why I seem so distant. Why I withdraw, why I am not as present as I once was. He cannot understand, wakarimasen. How could he? He is still so young, so full of wonder, so untouched by the complexities that I carry. He sees the world in ways I once did—everything is bright, everything is new, and every moment is a promise of something beautiful.

But still, I can feel the pull of it all. Every night, it calls to me, just beyond the edges of my sleep, like a whisper on the wind. It is not a dream. Kokoro��my heart, it knows this voice, this presence. The house itself seems to murmur in the quiet, as if waiting for me to listen, waiting for me to face what I have been avoiding. The creaking floorboards, the drafts that creep through the cracks—they are not just the sounds of an old house. They are a language, one that only the willing can hear. A language that I am afraid to understand.

I hear it every night. The house is speaking to me, calling me to mi no naka—to look within. And yet, I run. I turn away, but I cannot escape it. The silence is too deep, too heavy with meaning.

Today, I made Isaac a pie. It was a small thing, a simple thing. I had meant to make him smile. We were out of apples, so I decided to use blueberries instead. Ame ni mo—it’s good to try new things, to experiment. Life is fleeting, like a cherry blossom in the wind. It is good to savor what is before you, even if it is not exactly what you had planned.

But little did I know, Isaac is allergic to blueberries.

When he took a bite, I saw it immediately. His face flushed a bright red, his cheeks puffing up like a fugu—a pufferfish. I couldn’t help but laugh, despite the worry I felt tightening in my chest. His skin stretched, itchy and swollen, and for a moment, he looked so ridiculous, so helpless. He reminded me of the delicate beauty of nature—how even the smallest change, the smallest thing, can alter everything.

And yet, his innocence—his vulnerability—was still beautiful. There was a strange kind of poetry in it. To see his face stretch with discomfort was to witness the fragility of life. I wanted to shield him from this, to protect him from anything that could harm him, even something as small as a blueberry. And yet, it was nothing. This little moment, this small misstep—it was nothing in the grand scheme of things. Shinjirarenai—and yet, it was everything.

He looked at me with those wide eyes, confused, uncomfortable. I rushed to him, of course, comforting him the best I could. He will never understand why I am always so cautious, so quick to protect him. He will never understand why I am fuan—uneasy—about the small, simple things that make life what it is.

I wonder if one day he will. If one day, he will face what I have faced. Will he understand then? Will he too hear the whispers of the house, the pull of things he cannot see?

But for now, I will teach him. I will teach him to tie his shoes, to hold the world gently in his hands. I will teach him the quiet wisdom of the simple things. Because ichizu ni—with sincerity—perhaps that is enough. It must be enough, for now.

For one day, the shadows will come. The house will speak again. And I can only hope that Isaac will be ready.

I must be ready.’

You sit in Isaac’s chair, the journal still open in your hands, You stare as the recipe she had written. the words blurred by the sudden flood of emotions overwhelming you. Your fingers tremble as you turn the page back to the last entry, your eyes scanning the delicate prose, trying to absorb each word, each phrase, as though doing so could somehow unlock a deeper understanding of Isaac’s mother, of the woman who once stood where you now stand.

The air feels heavier, as though the house itself has shifted in the wake of her presence—her words—still echoing in the corners of your mind. The silence around you is suffocating, and yet, at the same time, it feels almost comforting, as if you’ve crossed some invisible threshold, stepping into a world that was never truly meant for you.

You picture Isaac as she must have, those wide, innocent eyes, his hands fumbling as he tried to tie his shoes, his small laugh ringing in the air. The image of him, so pure and untainted, makes your heart ache even more.

It’s then that you realize just how much you’ve come to care for him. How much you’ve seen of his mother in him, even though you never knew her face. The way his laughter fills the manor, brightening the silence, making the walls feel less oppressive. The way he seeks you out, his unspoken need for your presence, your comfort, in the same way she must have sought comfort in this very house. You wonder, for the first time, what it would’ve been like to have known her—to have been able to share this strange, unspoken bond with her.

—-

As the days passed, it felt as though you were falling in love with someone else entirely—someone who existed only in the pages of a journal. Through her words, you had laughed, cried, even felt anger—all emotions born from a life you had never lived, yet somehow felt intimately connected to. It was as though she were here with you, speaking to you across time, through the ink of her memories.

You can’t help but feel the weight of it all—the shared burden, the deep longing, the silent conversations between the lines of the journal. It’s as if you’ve been chosen to carry this weight, to understand the world she left behind. But now, in this quiet moment, it doesn’t feel like something heavy. Instead, it feels like a connection. Like you are linked to her in a way you cannot fully explain.

And then the realization hits you: You are a reflection of her.

All these years, Isaac has been a mirror of his father, a reflection of his quiet strength, his determination, his focus on duty. But you? You see now how much of Isaac’s mother is in you. Her gentleness, her quiet contemplation, the way she seemed to live in the moments between moments—this is the life you’ve carved out for yourself here. You didn’t realize it, not until now, but you’ve become a part of her, woven into the very fabric of this house, just as she once was.

A wave of guilt washes over you. How had you not seen it before? How had you never understood the depth of the woman you had only ever heard of in passing? You’ve stood in her shoes, taken her place in this manor, and perhaps, in some ways, even become her. Her longing for a connection with Isaac, her hope that he might live a life beyond the demands of work—these are your own longings now. These are your own hopes for him. For a fleeting moment, you wonder if she might have felt the same about you, if she could have seen you as more than just Isaac’s partner, but as a person who, like her, carried the weight of unspoken burdens, of quiet love.

—-

Isaac returned home exactly on the seventh day, just as promised. You smiled the moment you saw him, standing there in the doorway, a familiar silhouette after a week of absence. Dusting the flour from your hands, you placed the fork you had been using to cut the pie down onto the counter. You had baked a feast—of sweets, of course, an offering of warmth and comfort for his return. The house had been too quiet without him, and now it was alive again with his presence.

Isaac returned your smile, his eyes lighting up as he set his briefcase on the small entry table and hung his coat. The brief, casual movements of his return, the small sounds of him settling into the home—it was a symphony you had missed.

He stepped toward you, and without a word, wrapped you in his embrace. The familiar weight of his arms around you made you feel both safe and cherished. You melted against him, feeling the warmth of his body sink into yours.

"I missed you," you whispered, the words soft and almost hesitant, as if you didn’t want even the gods to overhear. In that moment, you wanted everything between you two to feel sacred, a world all your own, untouched by anything outside these walls.

Isaac’s arms tightened slightly around you, and you felt his breath stir against the back of your neck as he placed a gentle kiss there. "I missed you more," he murmured, his voice rich with affection. His breath was warm against your skin, a comforting presence you had craved all week.

You felt his hand slip from your waist to the counter, reaching for the fork you had left beside the pie. His fingers brushed the handle, and just as he was about to lift the fork to his lips, you reached out and grabbed his wrist.

He paused, looking at you, surprised. "What is it?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

"It’s blueberry," you said quickly, a tinge of concern in your voice. "You’re allergic."

Everything went still in that moment. The kitchen, the house, even time itself seemed to hold its breath. Isaac’s gaze flickered from the fork in his hand to your face, his expression unreadable.

"How do you know that?" His voice was softer now, laced with a note of curiosity and maybe a slither of suspicion.

You hesitated for a moment, then simply said, "Your mother told me."

—

author’s note: the original book reader had found was ‘Crime and Punishment’ by Fyodor Dostoevsky.

#sakuverse #zsakuva #isaac rhoades #zsakuva isaac #happy birthday isaac

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say-hwaet · 2 months ago

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If I Had to Do it All Again

Chapter 8: He's Just a Boy, Part II Next Chapter: Nine Summary: In an effort to make Isaac feel special, you and members of the gang put on an impromptu party. Warnings: Language, Mature themes Word Count: ~10,400

The farm, that you’ve unofficially named Icicle Creek, is doable. You, the children, Susan, and Hosea have taken the cabin, as it is too small to host anyone else. Dutch insisted on taking the upstairs, but Annabelle wouldn’t have it, insisting that the elders and the children come first. When he argued that Susan wasn't that old, Annabelle retorted that she could be of help to you when it came to the children. This infuriated him, and so he has taken off again. You’re unsure as to when he will be back and while Annabelle doesn’t ask, you know that she still worries for him.

Nobody says anything, but you all know that things are shifting at camp. Tensions weave through the cold air like frost, and you feel them prickling at the back of your neck as you go about your daily tasks. The silent shifting allegiances and whispered opinions hang heavy around the fire at night. You keep close to Hosea; his steady presence is a calming force in the unpredictable whirlwind that is your life now. Occasionally, you catch Hosea glancing at you, his eyes full of an old wisdom that seems to weigh heavily on him these past few days. You wonder if he senses the storm brewing just beyond the horizon, not of snow, but of steel and gunpowder.

You’ve been keeping Alice in her wrap lately as you help Pearson cook and keep the cabin clean. You like to have your hands free and can rest easy knowing that she’s still warm when she’s bound close to you.

You wish that you could make a cake. Or a pie. Or something for your son. Today is his birthday and you have nothing to give.

Isaac has grown so fast, sprouting up like the wildflowers you used to pick back when the land around was more forgiving and less fraught with danger. Five years old today, and his eyes sparkle with the same mischievous light as Arthur's, yet there's a gentleness in him, perhaps from you, that softens his features in a way that makes your heart ache with love and fear. You want to keep him safe, shield him from the harsh realities of the world you all now inhabit, but you know it's a wishful thought. Life out here doesn’t allow for innocence to remain untouched for long.

“Girl,” Susan’s voice interrupts your thoughts. From the table, as you’ve been cutting some deer meat, you look up to see Susan enter the cabin with a basket. “Turns out there’s a root cellar just below the barn. Found some root vegetables and jars of peaches.”

Your heart lifts a little at the sight of the provisions. "Thank you, Susan," you say, genuine relief coloring your voice. Peaches are Isaac's favorite, and though they might be preserved, they will still make his day special.

Susan nods and sets the basket on the table, her face stern but her eyes soft. “How’re you doin’?”

You sigh, feeling yourself let out more than you usually do. “I’m just glad for four walls and a roof.” Then you lift your eyes to meet hers. “I’m sorry you’re in the loft with Hosea.”

She shakes her head. “Don’t trouble yourself, girl. It ain’t the first time and it won’t be the last. I'm used to snoring and any loud noise.”

“Don’t you get tired of it?” you find yourself asking. “I’ve only been in this for a few months, and I ache and pray for a life different than this.”

Susan gives a rueful smile and leans against the wooden table, the lines on her face telling stories of her own long journey. “Every day,” she admits, her voice dropping to a near whisper. “But then I remember the alternative is far worse out there for folks like us. We’ve got to stick together, find freedom, that’s livin’ to me.”

Freedom. There it is again. Dutch and his fancy words and promises. You grip the handle of your knife tightly, trying to take deep breaths. “I just want something better for my children.”

Susan clicks her tongue. “Well, this is the lot you got. Best to make the most of it.” She readjusts the scarf around her head and turns to walk back out of the cabin. “Holler when the food’s ready.”

On her way out, the door swings open, and Arthur nearly slams into her. “Hell, sorry, Ms. Grimshaw!”

Susan lets out a sharp huff. “Ain’t you gonna watch where you’re goin’? Good grief, Arthur, you’re like a bull in a china shop.” With that, she storms off, leaving Arthur standing in the doorway, a sheepish look on his face.

Arthur steps inside, closing the door behind him. His eyes scan the small cabin before landing on you and the nearly prepared meal. “Smells good in here,” he comments, trying to remain casual, but you can see the sparkle in his eyes. He clearly had something to tell you when he came bolting in here, and now he hesitates, as if weighing how much to share. "How’re you doin’?" he finally asks, his voice higher than usual.

You shrug, setting the knife down and wiping your hands on your apron. "Fine.” You begin to pick up the cutting board and go to the stew pot.

He begins to look around and his brow pinches. “Where’re the children?”

“With Annabelle. She’s giving Alice some social interaction while I cook dinner. She can’t be attached to me all the time.”

Arthur takes a deep breath, leaning against the nearest wall. “Right.” A silence falls between you and he watches as you turn your back and scrape the scraps of meat into the pot, hearing the soft sizzle as they fall in with the already sautéed vegetables.

The glow of the fire casts a warm light against your skin, and as you bend down to hang the pot back above the fire, Arthur can’t help but admire the scene. It's a little piece of domesticity, something that he’s always wanted deep down.

How did you manage it? He hopes to God that you have people to be there for you. How did you manage to explain how a widow got pregnant a second time? He wishes that he could have seen you pregnant with Alice, all round and soft and ruddy-cheeked. He remembers how you were when you carried Isaac, and he always worried for you when he was gone. You were so pathetic and sweet, your eyes sparkling as you took his hand to place it on your belly.

There was something about you, carrying his child, that frustrated him. It was an odd feeling, and he had to keep himself at arm’s length, lest he say or do something he’d regret. You were beautiful to him, desirable, and he was afraid of it. He was afraid of the heat in his abdomen, the cotton in his throat. How his heart would not stop pounding…

On second thought, maybe it is best he didn’t see you pregnant again.

Realizing that he’s letting himself get distracted, he remembers why he came in here and he clears his throat. “I figured out a present for Isaac.”

You rise to a standing position and stare at him with inquisitiveness. “Oh?”

He smiles, allowing himself the excitement, and he comes near you, reaching into his satchel. “I got him this.” And out of his satchel comes a small journal. “I know he can’t write much right now, but I don’t always use my journal for writin’ anyways.”

You feel your shoulders slump. You’ve been slacking on your lessons with Isaac. When living in Aspen’s Way, it was a regular routine to sit at the table and have him read or write phrases for you. You’ve even kept some of his writings in your own journal, but you haven’t opened it in months. Maybe when things have calmed down, and you aren’t too busy, you can pick up where you left off.

You look down at the small, fabric-covered journal. All blue and hard-backed. It is very pretty, not something cheaply made.

But you know Arthur’s broke. And so are you.

You pause after washing your hands in a nearby basin to look up at him. “Where did you get it?”

He blinks. “At the store. In the nearest town.”

“But you don’t have any money.”

Arthur’s brow pinches and he tucks the journal back in his satchel. “I didn’t steal it, if that’s what you mean. I know you’d lose your mind if I stole it.”

You weren’t about to accuse him of theft, but his defensive tone makes you pause. You take a step closer, lowering your voice to a whisper. "Then how, Arthur? How did you manage it?" The warmth from the hearth flickers across your face, reflecting the nervous flicker in your eyes.

Arthur runs a hand through his hair, looking uncomfortable under your gaze. He’s afraid to tell you about the money that he found under the very floorboards you’re standing on, lest someone hear and repeat it back to Dutch. Things are changing, and anyone desperate to remain on Dutch’s good side would be quick to reveal such information. Arthur just needs more money. Just a little more, and he can get you and the children out. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Arthur—”

“Look, it ain’t for you to worry about. I didn’t steal or nothin’. I came by the journal good and honest. Okay?”

You study him for a moment, the soft expression in his eyes, the pinched brow. You decide to trust him. “Okay.”

He nods, then goes back into his satchel. “And…I got this for you.” He grabs your hand and places a small paper bag in your palm. Curious, you open it and find small, peppermint candies. “They didn’t have jellybeans. You like jellybeans, right?”

Your breath catches slightly at the sight of them. They’re not much, but in these lean times, even a small peppermint candy feels like a luxury. You look up at Arthur with a mix of gratitude and bewilderment.

“Why did you get these, Arthur?” you ask softly, your voice barely above the crackling of the fire. “You didn’t have to…”

He shrugs. “I wanted to. I know you hardly think to treat yourself and you was always cravin’ sweets when you was…” His voice trails off and he takes a step back. “Anyway.”

You’re grateful for the gesture and indulge yourself by taking one out of the bag and plopping it in your mouth.

The cooling mint spreads through your mouth, a sharp contrast to the warm, dry air of the cabin. For a moment, your troubles seem to melt away just as the candy dissolves. You let out a small sigh and close your eyes, savoring the sweetness. When you open them again, Arthur is watching you with a softness in his gaze that you seldom see.

“It's good to see you smile, Eliza," he says softly.

You chew on the inside of your cheek, touched by his concern. "Thank you, Arthur," you murmur, stepping closer to him. "For these…for caring."

He looks away, uncomfortable with the emotion, but he nods silently, acknowledging your words. The air between you feels charged with an unspoken understanding. You watch as he busies himself with the satchel again, perhaps to hide his discomfort, or maybe to find something else to distract the both of you from the intensity of the moment.

Suddenly, the door swings open, again, and Hosea steps inside. He’s covered in a light dusting of snow and before he can speak, he coughs harshly into his gloved hands. “That stew done, my dear?” When he lifts his head, he sees you and Arthur standing awkwardly apart and he tries to hide his grin. “I guess I should have asked at a different time?”

Arthur shakes his head, already making his way to the door. “No, it’s perfect timin’,” he says. “I need to get Boadicea in the barn.” And just like that, he slips out of the cabin, leaving you with Hosea and the stew pot.

Hosea closes the door behind him, shedding his coat and gloves, hanging them up with a meticulous care that's second nature after years on the road. "Well then," he begins, clearing his throat, "I reckon that I ought to warm my bones while that stew's cooking." He offers you a warm smile as he moves to the table, pulling out a chair and easing into it with a sigh. “It’s good to have warm shelter like this.”

You nod slowly as you grab a pail of water, your mind still on Arthur and your conversation. He immediately notices that your mind is elsewhere, for he smiles at you knowingly and leans back into his chair. “Penny for your thoughts?”

You chuckle and you go to pour the water into the pot, now that the meat has cooked long enough. “Do you even have that?” you chuckle as you take the wooden spoon and stir the stew a couple of times.

“Only figuratively, my dear,” Hosea chuckles, his eyes twinkling with mirth. He watches you stir the stew, his gaze thoughtful and kind. “You and Arthur get into a fight?”

You look up at him and give him a glare, your smile belying your slight agitation. “No, is that all you think we do?”

Hosea raises his hands in a gesture of surrender, his chuckle softening into a more serious tone. "Now, now, I didn't mean no harm by it. It's just that the both of you have a way of... how do I put it? Sparking off one another."

You sigh, resting a hand on your hip. “We’ve always made it a point to never argue in front of the children.” You look down. “But I guess we’ve forgotten everyone else.” You pause a moment, thinking about the times when you both had talked with raised voices, who all could have heard you. “But this was different. We weren’t arguing, we…we’re just trying to do something special for Isaac. It’s his fifth birthday.”

Hosea’s expression turns from jest to sober, his eyes widening and his lips parting. “You’re kidding.”

You shake your head. “No.”

Hosea raises his hands in a celebratory gesture. “Well, we oughta do something about that! We can get everyone together and—”

You shake your head again, firmer this time. You were hoping for something more intimate, just your family, where it wouldn’t inconvenience anyone. “No, Hosea, don’t trouble yourself with—”

But he isn’t listening, for he rises from his chair quickly and reaches for his coat. “Let me go talk to the others, you keep working in that stew.”

“Hosea—!”

“Stew smells great!” he calls just as he closes the door behind him.

You let out a sharp huff as you stare down the door. You know you won’t be able to stop him, though you can’t change the pit in your stomach. You don’t want to be a burden, and you fear how Dutch will react should he come back to camp to find everyone celebrating one of the very people he finds annoying. Dutch has rarely interacted with Isaac, and while you’re thankful, it bothers you that the poor boy isn’t acknowledged. You just want Isaac to never feel neglect or rejection, not as long as you’re alive.

You return to the stew pot and stir it a few times. If anything, you won’t let the gang go hungry.

***

“Go on,” Arthur coaxes. “Try it on.”

Annabelle slips her arms in the sleeves and after situating it across her shoulders, she begins to button up her new coat. Isaac watches on with interest as he holds baby Alice in his lap, his hands firmly holding her against his chest so she doesn’t fall.

The coat fits Annabelle perfectly, warming her slender form and setting off her green eyes with its deep navy hue. She turns up the collar, letting it rest against her cheeks, and her face breaks into a broad smile. "Oh Arthur, it's perfect. Thank you!"

Arthur's eyes crinkle at the corners as he watches her, a sense of satisfaction filling his chest. It’s always meant something to be able to provide for his family, and the gang has been in great need for the past month or two. Now that he has some money in his pocket, he’s been making the effort to get at least one thing for every member. For Annabelle, it was to replace her old, worn-out coat.

“I’m glad you like it. This one seemed to be the warmest.”

“Anything without holes is the warmest, Arthur,” she answers, and Isaac lets out a chuckle. Though slightly humorous, the little boy doesn’t sense the sobriety in her jest.

Arthur can only nod his head. “I suppose you’re right.”

She eyes the wool and the breasted buttons, rubbing her fingers over them. “My husband got me a coat like this once,” she says reflectively, and a soft smile appears on her face. “I wore that thing until there was nothing but threads left.”

Annabelle rarely speaks of her late husband, and knowing of the tension between her and Dutch, Arthur begins to understand why her memories are more pleasant than the present. “Oh?”

She lifts her head to meet Arthur’s eyes and nods. “Yeah. Dutch has only ever gotten me jewelry or ivory combs.” Her smile falls. “While beautiful, it’s not very practical, is it?” Her hand goes to the top button of her coat, and she undoes it. Pulling her collar apart, her hand goes to the back of her neck and she takes off her necklace. Arthur watches as she holds out the golden chain with the jade stone pendant on its end, its shine catching the light of the fire. “Here. Give this to Eliza or sell it. Either way, it will do you more good than it does on my neck.”

Arthur swallows thickly. He remembers when Dutch gave it to her, after they robbed a train once near Mexico. A wealthy oil magnate’s wife wore it like a beacon, begging for it to be snatched. Dutch ripped it off of that woman’s neck like it was a piece of cheap twine, and strutted like a peacock when he gave it to his lover. Annabelle’s eyes sparkled, not having anything of such high value in all of her life. She’s worn it proudly for years since.

“What’ll Dutch say?” he asks quietly.

She pauses for a moment, eyeing the dangling, green teardrop as it sways in the air. “I love Dutch more than his anger for me.” And she pushes it towards Arthur, with a hidden sadness in her eyes. “Please. Take it.”

His eyes fall on the necklace and in his peripheral he sees his son looking up at him, expectantly. He isn’t sure what is the right answer in this situation. Does he accept the necklace? Sell it? He knows that if you ever learn where it came from, you’d refuse to wear it.

The necklace is worth a lot of money. That much closer to liberation.

Letting a few more seconds pass, Arthur finally takes the offered necklace. “Okay, Annabelle.”

She sighs, letting her shoulders relax. “Thank you.”

He lets the pendant rest in his palm for a moment before tucking it away in his satchel, his fingers grazing the cover of the blue journal. His eyes fall on his son and daughter, who have been so quiet and patient. He smiles at his boy reassuringly. “You’re doin’ good holdin’ her, son.”

Isaac’s lips then pull back into a smile and he looks down to kiss the top of his sister’s head. “Mommy says I’m her protector, Daddy.”

Arthur's chest tightens at the mention of you, a mixture of pride and sorrow swirling within him. He squats down beside Isaac, resting his hand on his son's shoulder, looking into those eyes so much like your own. "And she's right," he says softly. "You're doin' mighty fine at that, son." Arthur's gaze shifts to the bright-eyed infant in Isaac's arms, her tiny fist in her mouth as she gnaws on it contentedly. "You and Alice need each other, just as much as your mama needs both of you."

“Arthur!” the sudden call behind him causes him to stand straight up, turning around. It is Hosea, and he looks rather serious. “Send the boy to his mother.”

Arthur’s brow pinches in confusion, but trusting Hosea, he turns to his son and offers to take Alice from him. “Go on to Mama, son.”

Isaac hesitates for a brief moment, his young face etched with reluctance to leave his sister, but ultimately nods and lets Arthur take her. Once his lap is free, he slides off of Annabelle’s cot and walks to the barn doors, making his way toward the small cabin where you wait. His steps are slow, each one heavy with the weight of responsibility he feels even at such a young age.

Arthur watches him go, then turns back to Hosea. “What’s wrong?”

Hosea eyes the other members of the barn, his brow arching in his clever way. There is a tension in the air that is almost palpable, and Arthur can almost hear Annabelle’s heartbeat as she stands nearby.

Then, suddenly, a smile appears on Hosea’s face. “We got a party to plan.”

Arthur blinks, taken aback. “What?”

Hosea places a hand on his son’s shoulder. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten your own son’s birthday?”

“Of course not.”

“Then, what are you doing standing here? Haven’t you ever had a party?”

This is quite the trick question. Hosea has known Arthur since he was about sixteen years old. Anytime before that he rarely had a birthday. The last one he remembers was when he was six years old, the same year his mother died. “No, not really,” he answers.

Hosea’s smile falters for just a moment, his eyes filled with a hidden sympathy as he realizes the ridiculousness of his question. “Well, then it’s high time you started. Life is worth celebrating, Arthur. Especially the legacy of a son.”

A legacy. What legacy? Of deadbeats? Of abusers? That’s the lot he had been given and he doesn’t want to leave that for his son. Arthur feels a weight heavier than the snow that falls outside at Hosea’s words, the need for escape that much greater.

He feels a hand squeeze his arm. “Let us help you make the day special,” Annabelle says softly. “We don’t have much, but at least the poor boy can feel loved on his birthday.”

There’s no use in arguing. Letting out a sigh, Arthur nods. “Alright.” Then he meets Hosea’s eyes. “I don’t suppose you already have some ideas?”

Hosea grins from ear to ear. “Son, you know me too well.”

***

You bring the wooden spoon to your mouth and get a quick taste of the stew. Could use some herbs, but you don’t really have that as an option. Otherwise, it’s palatable and if you get any complaints, you are more confident to throw hands, if needed.

This life has started to change you, roughen you, and while sometimes it can be a blessing, you are more afraid of losing yourself. While once appearing weak and helpless, there was something that you liked about it. You were invisible, unassuming, like a spotted deer hiding in the underbrush.

But that became an insult after that night when Willy called you a doe, so perhaps you ought not to be a prey animal anymore.

But what will it make you now?

You dip the spoon back in the pot and scooping up some more, you cup your hand underneath it as you bring it out and carry it over to your son. “Here, darling. Try this and let me know what you think.”

Leaning forward in his chair, Isaac takes the bite of stew that is offered him and he smacks his lips for a second or two. “It ain’t your dumplings, Mommy.”

You know. Chicken dumplings are his favorite. But you don’t have chicken and you don’t have flour. Just deer, carrots, and potatoes. Oh, and a couple of cans of peaches.

You manage a small smile, brushing a stray lock of chestnut hair from your forehead as you watch Isaac's honest reaction. "Well, we make do with what we got, sweetheart," you tell him, the maternal instinct to protect and provide for your children overriding the disappointment in your voice. You return to the stew pot and stir it absentmindedly a few times. “Why don’t you go ring the dinner bell?”

The dinner bell, being an old cowbell that Reverend Swanson found, is a crude but essential part of camp life now. Isaac nods obediently, his small frame disappearing out the door with the cowbell in hand. The clangs soon echo through the area, a signal that gathers everyone together like a family, however mismatched it might be.

But instead of the sound of many footfalls, there is a dead silence. You lift your head and look to the door just as Isaac steps back inside.

“Nobody’s coming,” he whines, his lips pulled into a frown.

You chortle. “They didn’t just disappear. Why don’t you ring the cowbell again?”

But Isaac insists that it will fall on deaf ears. “They won’t come, Mommy.”

Won’t come to dinner? You’re more inclined to think they’re just in the barn and can’t hear, but he did ring that bell pretty loud.

In a hasty motion, you hurriedly remove your apron, throw it on the table, and reach for your coat. “I say we figure out why the sudden hearing loss around here!” You take your shawl and wrap it around your head, tying a knot just under your chin. Smiling at your son, you look him over to make sure his coat is good and buttoned before taking his hand. “Let’s go, darling.”

And with that, you and Isaac step outside.

The first thing to greet you is the biting cold, the snowfall picking up. You don’t want to be searching around the farm forever, but you are determined to silence your son’s disappointment just as much as your curiosity.

The snow is deeper than it was a couple of hours ago and you glance down at your son’s boots. He will be growing out of them soon, and this thought nudges at your heart — another reminder of the relentless march of time and all that you need to provide.

You trudge together towards the barn, Isaac's small hand clasped tightly in yours. The snow crunches beneath your boots, and the wind howls around the wooden structures, making them creak ominously.

As you look around through squinted eyes, you see how barren everything is outside. You’d normally expect to see John guarding or Susan dragging someone to clear a better path to the cabin, but there isn’t even a sign of life.

Where is everyone?

You can’t let yourself panic, at least not yet. You need to check every place that at least one of them can be found. The barn, being the largest, is the obvious choice to start. You grip your son’s hand tighter as you trudge through the snow and he tries his best to keep up with you.

The two of you reach the barn, its large doors looming ominously in the dim light. You push against one, the old wood groaning under your effort as it swings open. The inside is dark and still, smelling of hay and horse. You hesitate at the threshold, peering into the shadows.

"Hello?" your voice echoes, and your eyes try to adjust to the darkness. Why is it dark? Usually, the lanterns are lit and the barn is full of noise and conversation.

That’s when you hear a whisper. “Now…!”

The space immediately becomes lit as the lanterns are uncovered and hung. Looking at the missing gang members, your mouth is agape as you back up toward the doors, holding your boy close.

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY, ISAAC…!!” most shout in unison.

John elbows Bill firmly in the arm and he grunts. “Uh, yeah, happy birthday, kid.” And then he grumbles something as he turns to leave the other end of the barn.

The sudden cheerfulness slices through the tense air, and your heart, which had been clenched tight with worry, begins to relax. Isaac’s face lights up with a pure, unguarded joy as he takes in the scene before him—straw bales arranged into makeshift seats, a small table laden with modest treats, and everyone, sans Dutch and Bill, gathered around to celebrate.

Your attention falls on Hosea as he approaches you with a cheeky grin. “All we are missing now is that stew!”

You grin and shake your head. “You scheming fox.”

He cackles loudly. “You didn’t think that we'd let today pass without a celebration, did you? Isaac deserves a bit of happiness, especially today.”

Isaac, still clutched in your arms, wriggles free and dashes towards the table, his laughter mingling with the sounds of the gang's playful banter. You watch him, your heart swelling with love and relief, the tension draining from your shoulders as you realize the danger was imagined, a fabrication of your own fears. Arthur catches your eye from across the barn, his smile reserved yet genuine, a silent acknowledgment of the day's importance not just to Isaac but to you as well.

“I’ll get that stew.” You say as you begin to back away.”

“By yourself?” Hosea asks and he shakes his head. “Nonsense. Have Arthur go with you.”

And hearing his name, he walks over and coughs into a closed fist. “Shoah.”

Hosea grins, happy with the assignment. “Good. We will keep the boy entertained until you return.”

Arthur nods, his expression hardening slightly as he readies himself to accompany you. The warmth of the barn, filled with laughter and flickering lantern lights, feels like a sanctuary compared to the cold uncertainty outside. But you aren’t one to quit so easily. Many times you’ve had to trudge through deep snow to milk the cow or collect eggs. It was your way of life.

You meet Arthur’s eyes, feeling slightly awkward, as he reaches an arm over you to push the barn door open. You step out first and are greeted by the setting sun, it’s red orb peeking through the tall trees. There may not be as much snow as in Idaho, but it certainly is cold. You pull up your coat collar and step forward, hearing Arthur’s heavy footfalls behind you.

He coughs again and clears his throat.

“You alright?” you ask without looking back.

“Ahem. Yeah. Just…got this frog in my throat or somethin’.”

“Drinking warm water should help with that,” you answer.

Arthur chuckles, a low rumbling sound that seems to stir the chilled air between you. "I had a feelin’ you would have a suggestion. Always findin’ answers before there’s ever a problem," he says, his voice carrying a hint of jest and a trace of something warmer, something left unsaid.

You glance over your shoulder at him and catch a twinkling gleam in his eyes that makes you feel inexplicably comforted despite the cold. "Well, someone has to," you reply, managing a slight smile. The silence that follows isn't awkward but filled with a shared understanding, a connection forged over years and trials.

The path to the Cabin is short but it feels longer somehow, just like when you and Isaac were heading to the barn. Is it the biting cold? Or something within your own perception? You don’t know, but when you finally reach the cabin you exhale a puff of air you didn’t realize you were holding.

Arthur quickens his steps to reach the door before you and opens it.

“Thank you,” you murmur and you quickly get inside so he can close it quickly to keep the warmth in.

As your eyes adjust to the space, your eyes fall on the pot still hanging above the fire. You begin to walk over and grab the metal hook that allows you to lift it.

“What’re you doin’?” Arthur asks behind you.

“What does it look like?” you chortle.

“That fire is still burnin’ hot. Let me get it so you don’t burn yourself.”

You look over your shoulder and look at him unamused. “Arthur. I’ve been doing this for the past five years. If I let the fear of being burned stop me, we’d all be starving.”

Arthur raises his eyebrows and chuffs a soft laugh, stepping back with his hands raised in mock surrender. "Alright, alright," he says, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards. "You win, Eliza. Just tryin' to look out for you is all."

You nod and smile, grasping the hook, and returning to your task, you work it under the metal handle of the pot. You begin to lift it and soon realize that the full stew pot is much heavier than you anticipated. But not willing to let your pride be damaged, you keep trying to lift it with the awkward leverage you have.

As you concentrate on the task at hand, your fingers deftly maneuver the pot's handle onto the hook. But suddenly, just when you think you've got it secure, it starts to slip off. Panic rises in your chest and your heart races as you struggle to regain control. “Oh…!”

Just before disaster strikes, you feel a warm body press against your back and strong arms wrap around your own. Arthur’s grip on the metal hook is firm and steadying, and together you manage to save the pot from crashing to the floor. A few drops of broth escape, but it is a small price to pay for avoiding a disaster. Relief floods through you as you turn to thank your savior with a grateful smile and nod of appreciation.

“See? Havin’ some help ain’t so bad,” Arthur says humorously.

You roll your eyes, but let a smile appear on your lips. “Oh, be quiet.”

Arthur’s chuckle fills the small cabin as he steps back, giving you space once more. The fire crackles and pops, sending sparks dancing up the chimney, their brief lives casting flickering shadows across his face. He watches you with those eyes full of unspoken words, a half-smirk lingering on his lips. “You want some help carryin’ it over?”

You feel the weight of the pot in your hands, the handle digging into your curled fingers. “Well…” you sigh. “Maybe I could use just a little help.”

Arthur’s smile broadens and stepping closer to you, his left hand grips the handle, his hand touching yours.

Together, you lift the heavy pot and carefully carry it across the room towards the front door. The muscles in Arthur's arms flex under the strain, a reminder of the many hardships he has endured and survived. His presence, so strong and reassuring, fills the small space with a sense of awkwardness, the same that you felt when you first met, when he rescued you and walked you home.

You feel that way now. Simple, delicate, a damsel in distress.

It was how you once were. You don’t look back at your past self with regret, or even empathy, but reflection. Oh, how you’ve changed.

And Arthur knows it. He can’t help but think back on those days, when you were so shy and quiet. You’re more outspoken now, the way you handled Uncle and his teasing. You were handling it on your own, and lately, Arthur has begun to wonder if you really need him. The children do, sure, but do you?

Stepping out of the cabin, you both face the cold air again. You take a deep breath, as a breeze flushes through your nostrils and you tuck your head down to hide your nose and mouth in the collar of your coat.

“Doin’ okay?” Arthur asks before he starts to cough again.

“I should be asking you that,” you answer back. “You need to get out of the cold.”

“Don’t worry about me, darlin’.” He looks ahead, not meeting your eyes. “I’m fine.”

Arthur is rarely ever sick, at least when he’s been around you. Even so, you had always made sure he was comfortable and fed when he came to Aspen’s Way and now, since being in the gang, you’ve hardly ever put a thought into his well-being.

You feel guilty. Absolutely horrible. Just because circumstances have changed, that shouldn’t mean that you change your method of care.

You keep looking at him, hoping that he’ll look your way. He doesn’t, stubborn as ever. You know he’s avoiding your gaze.

“Arthur…”

“I’m alright. Let’s just…get this stew in the barn. Everyone is waitin’.”

You continue toward the barn, the journey weighted down by a heavy silence that stretches between you like a taut rope. The crips night air bites into your skin, but it’s the weight of unspoken worries that really chills you to the bone. Arthur’s persistent cough and the slight hunch of his shoulders tell you more than he wants to let on. Once you get this stew on the table, you’re going to see if you can do something about his cough.

Arthur extends his arm to pull back the barn door and you both maneuver the pot as you step inside. The warmth greets you and you feel your skin tingle. There is also the sound of a banjo playing, and you spot Uncle sitting on a barrel, playing a jovial tune. Reverend Swanson is nowhere to be seen.

Just beyond the table, Hosea, Pearson, Susan, and Isaac are dancing in a circle, hand in hand, and laughter swirling between them. John watches from the table, his hand reluctantly tapping along to the beat of Uncle’s song. Reverend Swanson and Strauss are nowhere to be seen.

You haven’t realized that Arthur has taken the pot from you and has made his way over to the table. Your attention is solely focused on your son. The look on his face, his eyes squinting too hard on account of his joy bursting at the seams.

Annabelle, with Alice in her arms, strides on over to you, a soft expression on her face. “It’s good to hear the boy laugh.” You turn to look at her and see your smiling babe. She knows who her mother is and wiggles her body as she attempts to flap her arms. You grin and gasp playfully, offering to take her. Annabelle obliges and bringing Alice close, you plant multiple kisses on her cheeks. “And it’s good to see you smile.”

You meet Annabelle’s eyes as you rest your baby against your torso, supporting her back as she sits against your folded arm. “Have I been that bad?”

Annabelle smiles empathetically, tilting her head just a bit. “It’s understandable, the way things have been…what you’ve been through.”

She only means recently, but little does she know. You look away back to your son and see his shining face. “What matters is that he’s happy.”

“Ain’t that tiring?”

You look back at her again, pulling your hair out of Alice’s mouth. She’ll grab anything near her to explore with her senses, one of them being your hair. “Excuse me?”

“Don’t get me wrong, it’s honorable to think of others, but when you have nothing left, then you have nothing to give at all.”

You look back at the table and see Arthur’s now sitting there, with his elbows propped on the surface and his head supported in his hands. The longer you look at him, the more exhausted he is.

You have the children. He has everyone relying on him. How blind have you been to his cause? Badgering him about leaving, always wondering when your break will be. You are beginning to understand that it isn’t a decision made easily, especially when more people seem to be joining you. Two more mouths, albeit with little skills to offer, have hardly contributed anything but amusement and conversation.

You see John saying something to him, to which the fatigued outlaw nods his head. You aren’t sure what they’re discussing, and while curious, your main thought is to get these people fed.

Glancing at Alice, you adjust the bonnet on her head. “Help me serve these party guests?”

Annabelle sighs. She’ll continue to try and convince you to slow down, but it looks like it will be another day. “Of course, Eliza.”

With a baby in your arms, you and Annabelle command the space, serving bowls of fresh, hot venison stew. It is but mere seconds when the bowls are in their hands that they begin to chow down, ravenous and aching for warmth in their bellies.

You finally serve yourself and still keeping Alice in your arms, you set her down in your lap as you sit at one of the corners of the table and begin to eat the stew. You have mostly broth and vegetables, as you got the bottom of the pot, but it is still warm as it settles in your stomach. Alice watches you curiously, her dusky blue eyes moving as you bring the spoon to your mouth. You haven’t quite started her on solids, yet. Almost nervous that there won’t be enough food to go around once she starts eating something other than the milk you provide for her. Perhaps, now that her teeth are starting to come in, you can acquire some cheesecloth and introduce foods slowly, as you did with Isaac.

The room is filled with the sound of spoons scraping against bowls and the low murmur of voices, a symphony of survival that you’ve come to know well. You watch Arthur from across the table, his eyes occasionally lifting to meet yours before they flicker away, clouded with worries you can only guess at. Your son sits between Hosea and John, and he calmly observes the two as they converse, or don’t, with the others. Some hard tack is passed around to dip in their bowls to soften the hard biscuits, and the conversations simmer down as they gnaw on them.

And after a few more minutes, Hosea breaks the silence. “Alright! It’s time for the birthday boy to open his presents!”

Isaac’s eyes brighten, full of surprise and wonder. “Presents?”

Hosea shrugs. “Well…they aren’t exactly wrapped.” In a quick motion, he bends down and picks Isaac up playfully, letting out a soft grunt. “What say we have a look?”

Isaac doesn’t hesitate to nod his head. “Okay…!”

Hosea grins and walks to the barrel that Uncle had been sitting on and sets him down. “Now, you sit here, and we’ll bring the presents to you!”

Isaac isn’t in the mood to argue, his brown eyes gleaming with excitement. “Okay…!”

Hosea turns to the gathering. “Well, everyone? Let’s present our gifts to the young prince, shall we?”

You watch as the gang reaches into their pockets, bags, and under the caps of their hats for hidden gifts. You feel somewhat awkward, considering that all you were able to whip up was some canned peaches that Susan found. Had you been less forgetful, you would have had time to get him a pair of drawing pencils or something.

“I think the queen should stand next to her son, to help him out, yes?” Hosea chuckles, holding out a hand towards you.

You shift on your feet awkwardly. “Oh.” After readjusting Alice in your arms you weave between Pearson and Susan to reach your son, who kicks out his legs alternately as he remains seated on the barrel.

“Come stand by me, Mommy!”

As you turn around and stand by your son, you see the line forming, all eager to give the boy their gift.

Hosea is the first in line, holding his gift behind him, and he steps forward. “So, I hear you like reading?”

Isaac shrugs bashfully. “Not right now.”

Hosea chuckles. “I know you’ve been very busy, but I think a good story can help with that.” Bringing his gift forward, you see that it is a book. It is slightly worn, the hard cover’s fabric fraying on the corners. “It’s Black Beauty . Have you heard of it?”

Isaac thinks about it for a moment before shaking his head. “No.”

Hosea looks down at the book in his hands, and he runs his hand over the cover. “This book belonged to someone most precious to me. She loved this story. It’s about a horse. Some parts are sad, but beautiful…” He looks up to meet Isaac’s eyes and you see how they glisten in the lantern light. “Very beautiful.” He holds out the book to your son, who gratefully takes it. “Have your mother read it to you,” he says softly after clearing his throat.

Isaac clutches the book to his chest, a small smile breaking through his initial shyness. "Thank you, Mr. Hosea," he murmurs, eyes wide with the promise of a new story to explore. Next in line is Annabelle, who approaches with a bashful step and clasped hands. “Aunt Annie!”

She smiles and as the book remains in his lap, she sets her gift on top of it. It is a small figurine, a bronze horse, that stands on two legs and has tiny gemstones for the eyes. “To go with your book.”

Not a practical gift, but Isaac has never received anything like this before. It is beautiful, clearly a treasure. You look at Annabelle as she smiles at your son. Surely, this gift meant something to her. It’s too valuable of a gift to give to a five-year-old boy.

Isaac's eyes light up in wonder as he picks for the figurine, turning it over in his small hands, marveling at the way the lantern light catches on the gemstones, making them sparkle like tiny stars. "It's pretty, Aunt Annie," he whispers, his voice filled with awe.

Annabelle takes a gentle step back, her eyes on the copper horse. “Happy birthday, Isaac.”

“What do you say, Isaac?” you prompt. You haven’t raised your boy to not have manners.

Isaac looks up from the shimmering horse and directly at Annabelle, his small face serious with the gravity of receiving such a gift. "Thank you, Aunt Annie," he says, his voice firm and clear in the cozy warmth of the cabin. "I love you."

Annabelle's smile widens, her eyes soft and nearly glistening. Without missing a beat, she goes in for a hug, wrapping the small boy in her arms, and kissing his face with soft pecks. “I love you too, you sweet boy.”

As the warm moment unfolds, you catch Arthur's gaze from across the room. He's leaning against a wooden beam, arms crossed, his eyes a mixture of pride and something more solemn, unreadable. His presence has grown so constant now, yet you still feel a shiver whenever your eyes meet.

Annabelle finally steps away and lets the next person step forward.

Pearson gives the boy a bar of dark chocolate, claiming that it was made from chocolate from an island he had been to once. You aren’t sure if you believe it or not, but you let it slide. Let Isaac believe in far-off places. Hopefully, he can see it all one day.

Susan gives him her dominoes game set. While the whole gang has used it for times of fun and play, she designates him as the new owner of the set and the new rule that if he ever wants to play, she will play with him, no questions asked. Now, for Susan to even grant such an honor, is the true gift.

Now, finally, it is John’s turn. You’re surprised he has a gift. Not that you would ever expect anyone to procure anything, given the circumstances, but the fact that he stands before the boy, with a wrapped bundle in his hands, still leaves you speechless.

John stands uneasy, this being the closest he’s ever been to the boy, and he clears his throat. “Hey, kid, erm…” He looks down at the bundle in his hands, trying to find the words to say. He seems to weigh the object, as though assessing whether or not his gift idea was even a good one. He clears his throat again. “I figured you could grow into these…” He begins to unwrap the cloth and Isaac leans forward to get a better look. When the cloth is pulled away, you nearly gasp at the sight of a pair of spurs.

They aren’t new, by any means, but they’ve been taken care of. The metal gleams under the low light of the lanterns, and even in their used condition, they hold a certain charm. Isaac’s eyes grow wide with wonder and excitement; clearly, he understands the implication of such a gift—these are tools of a cowboy, symbols of a life riding horses and taming the wild.

“Oooo…!” Isaac oggles, his hands still holding onto his other gifts, but visibly itching to reach out and touch the shiny spurs.

Arthur steps forward, his face breaking into a rare smile as he watches his son's delight. “Looks like you’re ready to ride with the big boahs now, son,” he says, his voice thick with pride.

Isaac nods vigorously, his excitement barely containable. “Let me put ‘em on…!” he giggles and he tries to hold out the gifts towards you. “Mommy? Help?”

You move to readjust Alice in your arms but Arthur steps forward, taking the gifts from the boy. “Here, partner. But I think they’re too big for you yet, son.”

Isaac frowns as he eyes the spurs still in John’s hands. “Not too big, huh?”

John actually cracks a smile. “You will need to grow into ‘em, kid.”

Isaac's face brightens once more, accepting the challenge as if it were a promise of adventures to come. He takes the spurs from John and holds them up against his tiny boots, his imagination clearly picturing himself riding alongside the men he admires. “I will! I’ll grow so tall and strong like Daddy!”

The room fills with a soft, warm laughter at Isaac’s joy and Arthur feels grateful that he can see his son so happy. Times have been hard, and it is easy to ignore the opportunity to allow certain joys to occupy his life. He’s glad that Hosea had this idea and encouraged him to do this, though spur of the moment, it was.

He has his gift to give now. Though it may not compete with the shiny spurs, it still may put a smile on Isaac’s face. He turns to set the gifts on the table and reaches into his satchel. He reinserts himself into the gathering and Uncle notices him and quickly backs away. The laughter and conversation die down and all eyes fall on the rugged outlaw.

Hosea grins. “Ah! Saved the best for last!”

Arthur chuckles. “I ain’t shoah about that…” He goes to his son, and holds out the journal. “It’s about time you started puttin’ all that learnin’ to practice, partner.”

Isaac’s eyes widen with a mixture of surprise and curiosity as he takes the journal, his fingers brushing against the fabric cover. He flips it open, his small face scrunched in concentration, then looks up at Arthur with a questioning gaze. "What do I write, Daddy?"

Arthur picks him up, holding him close, and points to his son’s chest. “Everythin’ that comes from here, son. Thoughts, dreams, what you did that day. Anythin’ you want.” He watches the interest in his son’s eyes and can’t help but smile. “You can draw too, if you want.”

Isaac gasps. “Like you, Daddy?”

“Why, shoah!” Arthur nods.

“And draw Mommy like you do?”

Arthur swallows and hears John chuckle behind him. He doesn’t want everyone to know what he does. Drawing you and his children is of a personal nature and he tries to play it off with a chuckle of his own. "Yes, boah. You can draw your mama, your sister, anythin’ that catches your eye." Arthur places Isaac down and ruffles his hair, his heart swelling with pride at the spark of creativity he sees lighting up his son's eyes. “I’ll give you one of my pencils, so you can have somethin’ to use for now.”

Isaac giggles happily. “Thank you, Daddy.”

Uncle picks up his banjo again. “Well, let’s warm up our bones with good dancin’!”

The air fills with the twang of Uncle's banjo, the rhythmic clap of hands, and the soft shuffle of boots on the dirt floor. You watch as you stand to the side, your daughter Alice nestled against your hip, her small hand gripping yours tightly. The lanterns swing gently overhead, casting moving shadows that dance just like the group before you.

Arthur comes to stand beside you, grinning at his daughter. “You like the music, little lady?”

She squeals happily, reaching out to him. As natural as it can be, you hand Alice over to him and he holds her against his chest. She instantly goes for his scruff, letting her little fingers dig into his whiskers, exploring his face with her sense of touch.

“You ever dance, Arthur?” you ask him.

He snorts a laugh and shakes his head. “Nah, I ain’t much of a dancer.”

“We’ve never really danced together, have we?”

He turns to meet your eyes. “No, I don’t think we ever have.”

You look towards the group as they dance with your son, letting him be included and loved. You’re warmed by the scene, relieved that your son is having a good birthday. If anything good can come out of being in a gang, it is being surrounded by people who care about your children. “I guess not.”

Whoosh…!

The barn door swings open, letting in a gust of wind. The lanterns swing on their hooks, the flames dancing as they’re threatened to be squelched. The music instantly stops and those dancing quickly halt and turn to face the visitor.

The figure at the entrance steps in, closing the barn door firmly behind them.

Then, a familiar voice speaks into the barn. “Well…! Was wonderin’ where everyone had gone. Didn’t know we were havin’ a party.”

It is Dutch. And you know his inquisitiveness isn’t just out of curiosity. It is like a lion finding its prey and cornering it in a trap.

You instantly feel your body grow tense and you reach out towards Isaac. “Darling, come here.”

Isaac, sensing the sudden shift in the atmosphere, scurries over to you. His eyes are wide, a mirror of your own apprehension. As he reaches you, you pull him close, feeling his small body firm against yours.

Arthur tightens his hold on Alice, who seems oblivious to the tension, still entertained by her father’s beard. “Buh-buh…” she babbles.

Hosea, eager to ease the tension, steps toward his longtime friend. “Dutch! We would have told you, but you had already gone.” He looks back at Isaac and smiles at him. “The young prince is turning five today.”

Dutch steps into the light. His cheeks are red from the cold, but there is a fire behind his eyes. He juts his chin upward, eyeing the gathering who has been partying without him. “Is he now?” And then his eyes fall on the gifts resting on the table. The food is already eaten, the few treats begging to be devoured. “It’s a king’s feast, alright.”

Hosea can sense where this is going and he takes another step forward. “We merely scrounged up what we could for the boy—”

Dutch already going to the table, he picks up the only item of any value—the bronze horse. “Seems you were all doin’ more than scrounging.” His eyes lift to Annabelle, who remains where she stands. “For a gang that is scraping the bottom of the barrel, I can’t help but feel like I’ve been left out of the windfall here.”

The accusation hangs heavy in the air, like the storm clouds that threaten on the horizon. You feel Isaac lean back into you, the intimidation clearly working. Arthur turns to you, offering back your daughter and you take her into your arms. After patting your back once, he steps forward, his footfalls the only sound heard in the barn against the howling winds outside.

“We ain’t holdin’ out on you, Dutch. Or anyone. These things ain’t nothin’ but simple gifts—”

“That new coat.” Dutch says suddenly, pointing a finger at Annabelle. “How did she come by that then, hm?”

Arthur isn’t about to be told that he can’t help people. Can’t help his gang. Can’t help the people that need food and clothes. “She came by it the way she should have gotten it months ago.” His gaze is steady, unwavering as he stands in defense of not just Annabelle, but his values.

Dutch’s eyes narrow, his gaze piercing. “You sayin’ that the money came out of thin air? That you spoke that coat into existence, like God?!”

You don’t want your children to see this. You reach to take Isaac’s hand. “Get your coat on, darling. We’re heading back to the cabin.”

Arthur doesn’t flinch at Dutch’s words. “At least God seems to care more in them stories the reverend reads than how you’re supposed to care about us! Quit choosin’ my son’s happiness for your excuses, Dutch! He’s just a boah!”

Arthur's voice cracks the solemn air, high and hard, like a whip snap against Dutch's accusations. You feel your heart thunder in your chest, every beat echoing Arthur's protective stance. Isaac tugs on your dress, his little face upturned to you, confusion written all over it. "Mommy, we going now?”

You look down at him and quickly nod. “Yes, put on your coat.”

Just as you look back, Dutch points a firm finger at Arthur’s chest, his voice a low growl. “You ain’t gonna get special treatment in this gang, Arthur. You ain’t gonna be pullin’ stunts like this thinkin’ this redeems you…”

Dutch's words hang heavy in the dusty air of the barn, each syllable laden with a threat. Arthur stands his ground, his jaw set firm, eyes blazing with a fire that could melt steel. He steps closer to Dutch, reducing the space between them, his voice low but fierce. "There ain't no redemption I'm seekin'. I'm simply tryin' to do right by those who can’t do for themselves. If that's a crime, then I reckon you might as well hang me now."

Your breath catches in your throat as the tension twists tighter, like a rope about to snap. Dutch's face darkens. “You think that low of me, son? I ain’t the people we’re runnin’ from.”

“Runnin’? I thought we was standin' for something more than just dodgin' the law!” Arthur's retort slices through the silence that had momentarily settled over the group, and the men around shift uncomfortably on their feet. You feel Alice’s small fingers tug your hair, almost trying to get your attention.

Susan sees your struggle and comes close to help escort you out. “I think it’s gettin’ late. Your little ones must be exhausted.”

You nod and following her prompting, you let her lead you towards the barn door. Your eyes don’t leave Arthur as the tense argument ensues.

“Don’t you talk to Dutch like that!” Bill barks. “He raised you!”

“I ain’t talkin’ to you, you sack of—” And suddenly, Arthur begins to cough. Hard.

The cough racks his body so severely that he has to clutch at a nearby post for support. His face turns a frightening shade of red, and you feel a pang of fear strike your heart. The argument, the tension, all fade into background noise as your focus narrows down to Arthur, struggling for breath.

You stop in your tracks, fighting against Susan’s grip. “Arthur—?”

“Susan—” he coughs as he swings his arm in front of himself, waving you off. “Get ‘em outta here…”

And just as you want to protest, Susan pushes you toward the door. “Let’s go, girl.”

Outside, the cold wind hits your face, a sharp contrast to the stifling tension inside the barn. You clutch Alice tighter to your side, her small body trembling either from cold or fear, perhaps both. Isaac tugs at your other hand, his young eyes wide and scared. "Mommy, is Daddy gonna be okay?”

You don’t know how to answer, all you can do is try to conceal the worry on your face. “Let’s get you in bed and I will check on him, alright?”

He doesn’t look satisfied but doesn’t protest. “Okay, Mommy.”

Once you reach the cabin, Susan makes sure that you reach the steps. You all get inside and she closes the door firmly behind you. “You get your babies in bed,” Susan sighs. “I’ll get the fire goin’. Should have known it would die out.”

But you are feeling agitated by the nonchalance of her actions. Is she really going to act like this? After leaving in the middle of that? Arthur isn’t well. He’s being interrogated by Dutch. And here you are, helpless.

“Susan—”

“Go on…!” she orders and gets on her knees in front of the hearth.

You bite your lip and rush the children to bed in the other room. Isaac sleeps with you, and Alice in her crib. Isaac clings to the wool blankets, his eyes still wide with questions and fear. Alice is quieter, her small fingers tangled in your hair as you try to lay her down gently.

After ensuring they are settled, you turn back to the main room of the cabin, to find Susan preparing to leave.

“Susan…!”

She whips around quickly. “Arthur can handle himself. He’d be more upset if you were still in there.”

“But I can’t just—”

“You can. And you will.” After a second, her eyes soften. “Please, hon. Get some rest. This ain’t the first time they’ve fought, and it won’t be the last. I’ll have Arthur come see you in the morning.”

You nod, hesitant, the fear gnawing at your insides like a hungry dog. Watching Susan disappear into the darkness outside, your heart pounds against your rib cage, each beat echoing Arthur’s name. You close the door behind her and lean against it, closing your eyes for just a moment, soaking in the silence of your questions and your anxieties.

What has become of you?

And why do you suddenly feel the weakest you’ve ever been?

Thank you for reading! Your feedback is greatly appreciated. <3

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