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moeitsu · 3 days ago

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The Tie Which Linked My Soul To Thee

Ch 21 - What We Might Have Been

Summary: As tensions within the camp simmer and new challenges surface, the gang finds themselves slipping further into uncertainty. Amid the chaos, Kate and Arthur navigate the weight of their individual struggles, leaning on their bond to weather the storm and hold onto what matters most.

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AN: Big chapter folks. Nearly 12k words. There's a lot of dialogue in this one, and I sorta got carried away. But there are some characters who needed to speak and who am I to stop them!

TW: Some angst. Brief mention of DV. Micah being a POS.

Tag List: @photo1030 @ariacherie @thatweirdcatlady @ultraporcelainpig @marygillisapologist @eternalsams @lunawolfclaw @yallgotkik

**please let me know if you would like to be tagged in future chapters!

Story Tags: Canon Divergence, Mutual Pining, Slow Build, Eventual Smut, Eventual Romance, Emotional Sex, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Touch-Starved, Sexual Tension, Friends to Lovers, Trauma, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Slow Burn, Blood and Violence, Survivor Guilt, Caretaking, Period-Typical Racism, Anxiety, Emotional Constipation, Self-Doubt, Men Crying, Bathing/Washing, Sweet/Hot, Romantic Angst, Romantic Fluff

The sharp cry of an egret pierced the humid morning air, reluctantly pulling Kate from the depths of her slumber. Her mind was still tangled in the remnants of a dream, the line between reality and memory blurred. For a moment, she believed she was back in that blissful night with Arthur, so vivid and warm it felt as though it had just happened. But it hadn’t—it had been a fortnight, though her heart refused to let it drift too far away.

The details of that evening swept over her like a soft breeze: the lush, downy quilt cradling her as she sank into feather-stuffed pillows; the steaming bath that easily fit two, its lavender-scented vapor curling like whispers into the room. She could still see the wallpaper, a delicate pattern of tiny pink roses, cocooning them in a world of their own, safe and unbothered. It had been a sanctuary, a rare moment of peace in a life otherwise fueled by chaos.

But that sanctuary was far away now, and as her eyes adjusted to the dim, decrepit room around her, the reality of Shady Belle settled in. The tattered walls, the scent of mildew, and the low hum of crickets reminded her where she truly was. She groaned and pulled the threadbare blanket over her face, wishing she could disappear back into the comfort of her dream.

Through the worn, holey fabric of the blanket, a flicker of movement caught her eye. Arthur’s shadow flitted across the room as he moved silently, stepping in from the balcony where the faint smell of cigarette smoke still lingered. His presence filled the space, grounding her in a way that made her heart ache and settle all at once.

“Mornin’, beautiful,” he murmured low and familiar, as rough as the calloused hands she knew so well. The cool press of his lips against her forehead was a contradiction to the sticky humidity in the air, and she found herself smiling despite everything.

Kate stretched and let out a long yawn. “Morning,” she mumbled, still thick with sleep. She blinked away the grogginess as she caught sight of Arthur fastening his gun belt, his movements slower than usual.

“Did you sleep alright?” she asked, noticing the weariness etched into his face.

Arthur glanced over at her, offering a tired but genuine smile. “Yeah, I guess. Just got a lot on my mind,” he admitted.

Kate swung her legs over the side of the bed and started pulling on her boots. “Dutch got you running more jobs already?” she asked as she tried to gauge his mood.

He nodded, reaching for her belt and handing it to her from where it hung on the chair. “Wants me to go talk to some fella named Rains Fall,” he explained. “Apparently, he showed up at the mayor’s party. Dutch heard Cornwall’s name tossed around and thinks it’s worth diggin’ into.”

Kate paused, the memory of Rains Fall flashing in her mind. She remembered his calm yet commanding presence, the quiet dignity in his voice, and the deep sorrow in his eyes. It had been hard to forget.

“Rains Fall,” she murmured, buckling her belt. “If he’s reaching out, it must be serious.”

Arthur shrugged, his expression guarded. “Serious enough for Dutch to get interested. But Cornwall’s in the mix, so you know how that goes.”

Kate’s stomach turned at the memory of Leviticus Cornwall. The man’s wealth and influence were dangerous, and whenever the gang crossed paths with him, it never ended well. She bit her lip, debating whether to bring up her other concern.

“That reminds me,” she ventured, “did Dutch mention anything to you about the Trolley Association?”

Arthur gave her a sideways glance as he adjusted his holster. “Yeah, somethin’ about it. Says there’s two big scores down in Saint Denis—the Trolley company and the bank. Not sure which one we’re hittin’ first.”

Kate’s heart sank. She understood the gang needed money, but Dutch’s plans always came with too high a cost. She tightened her jaw, forcing herself to tread carefully.

“Arthur, I don’t like this,” she said softly. Carrying a note of caution, as though testing his reaction. “Saint Denis ain't some little backwater town, we’re up against an empire here.”

Arthur sighed and rubbed a hand over his face, his exhaustion evident. “I know, darlin’. I don’t like it much either, but we’re in a tough spot. Just a little more money, and we’ll be outta here. You and me, wherever you wanna go.”

Kate frowned. She’d heard this promise too many times before, a line borrowed straight from Dutch’s playbook. “I need to speak with Dutch about the Trolley,” she said firmly. The memory of Angelo Bronte’s cryptic words at the garden party still gnawed at her. It felt important—urgent even—and Dutch needed to hear it, no matter how he took it.

Arthur’s brows furrowed. “You’re not gonna change his mind, sweetheart,” he said gently, tone laced with reluctant understanding. “Just tell me what you wanna say, and I’ll pass it along.”

Kate hesitated. She could trust Arthur to relay the message, but that wasn’t the point. She needed Dutch to hear it directly from her, to look her in the eye and acknowledge her words. They brought her along to gather intel, and that’s exactly what she had done.

“I’ll tell you,” she said after a beat, “but I’m still going to try. If there’s even a chance he’ll listen, it’s worth it.”

Arthur studied her for a moment, his expression a mix of admiration and concern. “You’ve got guts, I’ll give you that,” he said with a faint smile. “Just… be careful, Kate. Dutch doesn’t like bein’ challenged.”

Kate met his gaze, “I’m not challenging him, Arthur. I’m trying to save him from himself.”

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The air on the second-floor balcony was thick with cigar smoke, curling lazily in the humid morning breeze and trailing up into the sky like ghostly tendrils. Dutch and Micah leaned on the rickety railing, their postures casual but their expressions sharp. From their vantage point, they had a commanding view of the camp below, the makeshift village bustling with life as gang members went about their business. Dutch stood like a monarch surveying his kingdom—or a dragon perched atop its hoard.

Kate hesitated in the doorway as Arthur held it open for her, his hand lingering briefly at her back as though offering silent encouragement. Her eyes flicked to Dutch, whose gaze was already on her, a faint smile playing at his lips that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Micah, as usual, wore his smirk like armor, leaning slightly closer to Dutch as if staking his claim to the man’s favor.

“Arthur, Kate,” Dutch greeted smoothly, gesturing with the glowing end of his cigar. “What brings you two lovebirds up here so early? Come to enjoy the view?”

Kate stepped forward, resisting the urge to glance at Arthur. She could feel his silent presence behind her like a steady anchor. “I overheard something at the mayor’s party,” she began firmly. “Something I think you need to know.”

Dutch’s brows lifted, feigned curiosity masking the calculation in his eyes. “Oh? Do tell,” he drawled, taking another drag from his cigar.

Kate swallowed, steadying herself. “Angelo Bronte mentioned the Trolley Association,” she said, measuring her words. “He said it was a trap. He wasn’t speaking to me—he didn’t think I’d understand. But he said it in Italian, and I caught enough of it to know it’s bad news.”

Micah let out a low chuckle, his grin widening. “A trap, huh? And you just happened to understand the lingo, did you? Convenient.”

Kate shot him a sharp look. “My mother was Italian, Micah. I know enough to get by. Bronte wasn’t trying to hide it—he didn’t think anyone would care. He was talking to one of his men, warning him to stay clear of the deal.”

Dutch’s expression remained inscrutable as he took another puff of his cigar, exhaling slowly. “And what exactly did you hear, Kate? Let’s not be vague.”

Kate’s jaw tightened, but she pressed on. “He said the association was a setup, that there is no money. Anyone trying to hit it would be walking into an ambush. He mentioned the Pinkertons by name—said the whole thing was bait to draw out rodents like us.”

“Rodents,” Micah scoffed, leaning back against the railing. “Sounds like a scare tactic to me. Bronte’s just tryin’ to keep us from touchin’ his city’s treasures.”

Arthur, who had been silent until now, finally spoke, calm yet unyielding. “Micah, if it’s true, we’re walkin’ straight into a noose. Bronte’s got no reason to warn his own men unless there’s somethin’ to it.”

Dutch tapped the ash from his cigar, his gaze fixed on Kate. “You’re sure about this?”

Kate nodded, holding his gaze. “I’m sure. Bronte’s exact words were ‘They‘ll owe me a bounty.’ I don’t like the man, but who else could he be talking about? And I doubt he’s lying to his own people.”

Dutch was quiet for a long moment, the usual gleam in his eyes dimming just slightly as he weighed her words. “Well,” he said finally, “if it is a trap, that’s good to know. But sometimes, Kate, traps are where the most treasure lies.” He added with a wink.

Arthur sighed and Kate felt her heart sink. “Dutch, please. If we don’t take this seriously, we could lose everything.”

His smile returned, though it felt colder now. “You let me worry about the big picture, darlin’. That’s why I’m here.” He turned to Arthur, his voice shifting to the commanding tone Kate knew too well. “Arthur, you take care of Rains Fall. John and I’ll look into Bronte and the Trolly. Make sure we’re not missin’ an opportunity.”

Kate noted the way Micah shifted uncomfortably at the lack of mention of his involvement. His unease brought her a moment of vindication. Arthur gave a stiff nod, but Kate could see the tension in his jaw. He didn’t agree, not fully, but he wouldn’t challenge Dutch here.

Micah’s grin returned as he looked between them. “Looks like the boss has it handled. Ain’t that right?”

Kate clenched her fists, frustration bubbling beneath her calm exterior. “I’ve told you what I know. Do what you want with it, but if this goes south, don’t say you weren’t warned.”

Dutch turned his attention back to the bustling camp below, his voice cutting through the morning air with sharp finality. “You’re dismissed,” he barked, waving them off with a casual flick of his hand. The tone carried his usual arrogant authority, though Kate and Arthur were already making their way down the creaking stairs, the conversation clearly over in their eyes.

Dutch’s posture stiffened as he turned to Micah, his demeanor shifting from the polished charisma of a leader to the prickly defensiveness of a cornered alley cat. “That includes you,” he snapped, his voice low and edged with warning.

Micah scowled, his mouth twitching as if biting back a retort. With a huff, he pushed himself off the railing, muttering under his breath as he stormed toward the door. “I’ll be havin’ a word with Kate soon enough,” he grumbled, the words dripping with irritation and something more sinister.

Dutch didn’t respond, his gaze fixed on the horizon, but his jaw tightened. The tension in the air lingered long after Micah’s footsteps faded, leaving the balcony eerily quiet except for the distant hum of the camp below.

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Kate settled in with the girls near the edge of the property, the late morning sun casting long, golden beams over their little corner of the camp. Mary-Beth and Tilly were huddled over a shared wash bin, their hands working diligently through the soapy water as they chatted. Karen, standing nearby, wrung out damp shirts before draping them over the sagging clothesline.

Abigail perched on an overturned milk crate, her needle flashing in the sunlight as she sewed a hole in John’s shirt. A few feet away, Jack was skipping rocks across a shallow muddy stream, his gray mutt Cain loyally trotting beside him.

Sadie had left only moments before, tipping her hat in farewell as she and Pearson headed to the market. The small circle of women now felt more intimate, their chatter uninterrupted by the rest of the camp. Kate took her seat beside Abigail, leaning her head playfully against her shoulder.

“Why do men always have to be so difficult?” Kate sighed dramatically, though her tone held a teasing edge.

Abigail barked a laugh, not missing a beat. “They’re born that way, sweetie. Only know how to think with that ugly thing danglin’ between their legs.”

Kate snorted, shaking her head. “Ain’t that the truth,” she muttered under her breath, drawing more giggles from the group.

Abigail’s sharp eyes caught movement through the trees, and she nudged Kate with her elbow. “Speaking of the devil,” she teased, nodding toward the treeline. Arthur was saddling Belle, his familiar figure framed by dappled sunlight as he prepared to ride out for the day. “We haven’t had a chance to talk since you got back. We’re dying to hear the details!” Abigail’s voice held a mischievous lilt, her grin barely restrained.

The mere mention of Kate’s night with Arthur sent a ripple of excitement through the group. Mary-Beth and Tilly immediately turned their wide, eager eyes on Kate, while Karen, who had been pretending to ignore the chatter, stepped closer, her interest betrayed by the sly smirk on her face.

Kate groaned, hiding her face in her hands. “You’re not gonna let this go, are you?” she asked, already knowing the answer.

“Absolutely not,” Mary-Beth said, practically bouncing with anticipation. “We need every detail. Was it romantic? Did he make you feel like a princess? Oh! Was he yearning for you, like Romeo yearning for his Jul–”

“Let her speak!” Tilly cut in, her voice brimming with laughter as she waved Mary-Beth into silence. “You’re scaring the poor girl.”

Kate peeked through her fingers, already blushing at their enthusiasm. These women were more than friends—they were her family, and she couldn’t deny how much they genuinely cared about Arthur, too. Their curiosity wasn’t just nosy; it was fueled by a shared hope to see Arthur happy again, and by extension, to see their family hold on to some measure of joy amid their chaotic lives.

“Alright, alright,” Kate relented with a small smile, sitting up straighter. “What do you want to know?”

“How was it?” Mary-Beth asked in a rushed whisper, as though trying to keep the moment sacred. “Did he sweep you off your feet? Was there candlelight? Poetry?”

Karen snorted. “Arthur Morgan? Poetry? Now I’ve gotta hear this.”

Kate laughed, her cheeks warming. “It was... perfect, in its own way. We stayed at this little inn outside of town. We shared a fancy wine—Italian red fit for royalty, no less.”

“Italian red?” Tilly repeated, grinning. “That man knows how to impress.”

Kate nodded. “He even drew us a bath after we—” she looked down bashfully remembering the moment, “it was so relaxing, he really put so much thought into it. It was like, for one night, the world didn’t exist. Just us.”

Mary-Beth clasped her hands to her chest, her eyes shining. “Oh, that’s so romantic. I knew Arthur had it in him!”

Karen chuckled, shaking her head. “Never thought I’d hear Arthur Morgan and romantic in the same sentence. I’ll give him credit, though—he’s full of surprises.”

Kate hesitated, a soft smile tugging at her lips. “He was... vulnerable, too. I think it scared him a little, being that open. It had been so long for the both of us, we were frightened by the intimacy of it in our own ways. But I could tell he wanted me to know how much it meant to him.”

Abigail gave Kate a warm, approving look. “Good for you, Kate. It’s about time Arthur had someone to knock some sense into that thick head of his.”

Mary-Beth leaned closer, her grin downright mischievous now. “So when are we gonna see some little Morgans running around, huh? Oh, I bet they would be so cute!”

The laughter around the circle faltered as Tilly, with a quick flick of her wrist, gently swatted the back of Mary-Beth’s head. “Quit getting ahead of yourself. This ain’t no place to raise a child right now,” she chided. Her words hung in the air, drawing a fleeting glance toward Abigail. Tilly quickly softened, not meaning to offend, but Abigail only nodded solemnly, her needle pausing mid-stitch.

Kate felt her chest tighten. There was that word again—children.

Her fingers fidgeted, wringing the fabric of her shirt as if trying to ground herself. Arthur’s words from the night before echoed in her mind. He’d been so understanding, so patient. But a stubborn ache still nestled deep within her, whispering that she wasn’t enough. That she could never give him the family he might yearn for, the one he deserved.

Her thoughts drifted to another time, another life. She could still see Lorena’s tiny face, pink and wrinkled, the way her cries had filled the cold night air the moment she was born. The overwhelming joy of holding her for the first time, her fragile body fitting perfectly in Kate’s arms. She could remember the fear when Lorena wouldn’t latch to her breast, followed by the sheer relief when she finally began to suckle. And her husband—his face softened with awe as he cradled their daughter, his hand so large against her tiny frame. It had been a fleeting dream, one snatched away far too soon.

Kate swallowed hard, the memories burning her throat. These women had become her sisters, her confidants in a world where trust was rare. She owed them the truth—not just for their sake, but for her own. Speaking the words aloud felt like carving them into stone, grounding herself in a reality she couldn’t afford to dream away.

“Girls,” Kate said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. But it was enough to draw their attention, their chatter silencing as they turned to her. Abigail tilted her head curiously, Mary-Beth’s eager grin fading into something more thoughtful. Even Karen looked up from the clothesline, sensing the shift in the air.

Kate took a deep breath, gathering her courage. “When this is all said and done—if Arthur and I make it out of this mess alive—you know in my heart, I would love his child more fiercely than anything I’ve ever known.”

The rings Hosea had given her at the garden party suddenly felt like molten iron resting against her chest. She had worn them ever since that night, strung on a simple chain and tucked safely beneath her shirt. They were a constant reminder of his faith in her and Arthur—a faith that now felt like a bittersweet burden. Hosea had never spoken of building a family with Arthur, only of survival. His words echoed in her mind, urging them to keep moving, to never look back, and to carve out a life beyond this.

To live out her days with Arthur—that was the dream. The only dream that mattered. And yet, as much as she clung to it, the weight of those rings made her question if it was a promise she could truly keep

Her voice wavered, but she pushed on, her gaze fixed on her trembling hands. “But I can’t have a baby. My scars run so deep, and I haven’t bled in years. The doctor said it’s just not possible.” She added with an air of defeat.

The confession hung in the air, heavy and unyielding. Mary-Beth’s mouth opened slightly, her usual stream of romantic notions and optimistic chatter nowhere to be found. Tilly’s dark eyes softened with understanding, while Karen’s jaw tightened. Abigail placed her mending aside, leaning closer to rest a hand on Kate’s knee.

“Oh, honey,” Abigail murmured, voice low and warm. “I am so sorry.”

Kate managed a tight smile, though her eyes shimmered with unshed tears. “It’s alright. It’s just… something I’ve had to come to terms with lately. The thought of having children again never even crossed my mind until I met Arthur.”

“Does he know?” Tilly asked quietly, like it was a secret they were trying to keep amongst themselves.

“Arthur knows,” Kate confirmed, “and he’s been… well, he’s been strong about it. But I guess it still stings, y’know? I just don’t want him to think less of me be–”

“He would never think that Kate,” Karen interrupted, intense and almost angry. “Don’t you ever sell yourself short because of what you went through. You are a survivor, Arthur knows it too.”

“You didn’t deserve that pain,” Tilly said firmly, her voice resolute. “None of it.”

“No, you didn’t,” Mary-Beth agreed, her hands fidgeting with the edge of her apron. “But you’ve got us now, and Arthur too. We’ll always be your family. And if anyone deserves happiness, it’s you.”

Kate nodded, “seems it’s all a girl can really ask for these days. Happiness.” Her throat was too tight to speak further.

Abigail gave her knee a reassuring squeeze before sitting back, resuming her sewing. But the energy in the circle had shifted—less playful, perhaps, but more intimate. These women, her sisters in arms, had embraced her truth without judgment, offering her the quiet strength and support she hadn’t realized she needed.

Jack’s cheerful laughter broke the moment as he chased Cain along the water’s edge. The sight brought a small, genuine smile to Kate’s lips. Children weren’t in her future—but she wasn’t without family. And for now, in this fleeting moment of peace, that was enough.

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The afternoon sun blazed down on the camp, its relentless heat turning the air thick and sticky. Cicadas shrieked from the swampland, their hum almost deafening as it blended with the soft rustle of the bayou breeze. Kate wiped the sweat from her brow and cupped her hands around her mouth, calling out again, her voice tinged with worry.

“Lorena!” she shouted, cutting through the oppressive haze. Her mare was nowhere in sight. Kate’s stomach twisted with unease—Lorena always came when called. Even from a distance, she had an uncanny knack for recognizing Kate’s voice. But now? Silence.

Miss Grimshaw had sent Kate out to gather firewood, complaining that the damp logs wouldn’t burn worth a damn. Kate had been happy to oblige, eager for an excuse to stretch her legs and ride out of camp for a bit. But now her mind buzzed with worst-case scenarios. Did she wander too far? Or… did something happen to her? Images of lurking gators and toothy predators crept into her thoughts, making her heart pound faster.

She jogged back into camp, weaving between wagons and tents, her boots kicking up dry dust. “Kieran!” she called, sharp with urgency. She spotted him near the edge of camp, hunched over a rotting fence as he worked on a battered leather saddle. The young man flinched at her shout, straightening so abruptly that his hat nearly tumbled off his head.

Kate quickened her pace, closing the distance. “Kieran,” she repeated, softer this time, though her nerves still frayed her tone. “Have you seen Lorena?”

Kieran turned to face her fully, and Kate’s breath hitched. Beneath the brim of his straw hat, his right eye was swollen and discolored, a deep purple bruise spreading across his cheekbone. She winced, anger bubbling at the sight. The others were too harsh on him, always using him as their punching bag.

Kieran stepped back instinctively, holding up his hands in defense, his good eye darting nervously. “I—I swear, Kate, I was meanin’ to tell ya,” he stammered, words spilling out in a panicked rush. “But you were with Miss Mary-Beth, and I didn’t wanna interrupt—”

“Easy, Kieran,” Kate said, lifting her hands to calm him. “Just tell me what’s going on. Where’s Lorena?”

Kieran hesitated, glancing down at his boots like a guilty child caught in a lie. “Micah took her,” he mumbled, the words almost too quiet to hear. He flinched at the cold look that flashed across Kate’s face and quickly added, “B-but I tried to stop him! I swear I did! Told him, ‘You’ll have to get through me if you want her!’ And, well… he did.” He gestured to his bruised face, grimacing.

Kate’s fists clenched at her sides, her nails digging into her palms. “He said he was takin’ her to exercise by the lake, just past the manor,” Kieran continued in a rush, voice trembling. “I didn’t wanna bother you or the girls. They, uh… they don’t really like me much. But I should’ve told ya sooner, I know I should’ve. I’m sorry.”

Kate exhaled slowly, trying to tamp down the storm of anger brewing inside her. Micah. Of course, it was him. This wasn’t about exercising Lorena—it was a ploy, a pathetic attempt to get under her skin. She’d seen him pull stunts like this before, but involving her horse? That was a step too far.

Still, she couldn’t bring herself to snap at Kieran. The poor man had already taken a beating for trying to protect her mare. “You did what you could,” Kate said, her voice steady, though her jaw remained tight. “Thanks for telling me.”

Kieran’s shoulders sagged with relief, but guilt still clouded his expression. “Take Branwen with ya,” he offered, nodding toward his gelding tied nearby. “He’s fast and steady. He’ll get you there safe.”

“Thank you,” Kate placed a hand on his shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “I’ll handle this, Kieran. And don’t let these idiots make you feel like you’re less than you are. You’re better than all of ‘em. Remember that.”

Kieran’s face flushed, and he gave a shy nod. “Be careful, Kate.”

“I will.” She turned on her heel, her boots crunching against the dirt as she strode toward Branwen. Her mind was already racing with how she’d confront Micah—and what it would take to bring Lorena back safe and sound. Whatever game he was playing, it ended here.

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The sun was dipping low, casting jagged shadows across the bayou as Kate rode Branwen toward the lake Micah had mentioned. Her heart hammered in her chest, but her resolve was steely. The thought of Lorena—her steadfast, loyal mare—being used as a pawn in one of Micah’s twisted games only fueled her determination.

She thought of the last time he had decided to cross her, the cool press of her jawbone knife against his throat as she led him away from the others for private conversation. Clearly her threat didn’t do much good, or perhaps Micah was more stupid than he looked. Maybe this time I’ll take a pound of his flesh as penance, Kate thought with a vengeful sneer.

As she approached the clearing by the water, she spotted them. Lorena stood grazing peacefully near the water’s edge, her glossy midnight coat shimmering in the golden light. Upon her arrival the young mare looked up and tossed her head, expressing her unease at the situation.

Relief washed over Kate for a brief moment—at least her mare was unharmed. But then her eyes found Micah. He was perched lazily on a fallen log, his hat tilted back and a smug grin plastered across his face, as if he’d been waiting for her.

Kate dismounted Branwen swiftly, her boots crunching against the damp ground as she approached. Micah’s grin widened, his sharp eyes tracking her every move. She fought down the urge to wipe his smile off with her fist.

“Ah, look who finally came runnin’,” he drawled, his voice thick with mockery. “I was wonderin’ how long it’d take you to miss your precious pony.” He sat up on the log to face her fully.

Kate stopped a few feet away, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. “Cut the shit, Micah. What the hell are you playing at? You’ve got my attention so get on with it before I shoot you for stealin’ my horse.” Lorena came closer and nuzzled her snout against Kate’s back, standing protectively behind her.

Micah chuckled lowly, shaking his head as he stood. “Steal? Oh, come on now, darlin’. I was just takin’ her out for some air, stretchin’ her legs. You really oughta be thankin’ me for my kindness.”

Kate’s jaw tightened, and her simmering anger finally reached its boiling point. She slapped him hard across the mouth. Lorena’s ears flattened as the sound echoed over the lake.

“Don’t insult me! I know damn well you didn’t do this out of the kindness of your heart. If you went through all this trouble to get my attention then you’re wasting your time.” She turned to her mare, prepared to jump in the saddle and take off without a moment's hesitation.

Micah only chuckled and rubbed at the pink mark across his cheek. He stepped closer, his grin fading slightly, replaced by something more calculating. “Fine. You wanna get straight to it then? Here it is—I’m happy for you and Arthur.” The words dripped with insincerity, his smirk returning as he added, “Real happy. Warms my heart seein’ the two of you lovebirds all cozy.” He wrapped his arms around his body and shimmied, mocking her affections.

Kate rolled her eyes in annoyance, her voice icy. “Fuck.You.” She spat. “You don’t give a rat's ass about my life, or Arthur’s.”

“How perceptive,” his laugh was sharp and bitter. “You’re right. I don’t give a shit. But you two are livin’ in a damn dream world, and dreams don’t last long out here sweetheart.”

Kate’s heart pounded harder, though she kept her expression steady. “What are you gettin’ at, Micah?” Pulling a brush from her saddle bag she idly cleaned Lorena’s coat to maintain an air of indifference. There was an undeniable threat hidden behind his words that put her on edge.

Micah leaned in slightly, his voice lowering as if sharing a secret. “I’m sayin’ you and your cowboy should saddle up and ride out while you still can. Things are shiftin’, Kate. Dutch is losing sense, and this little family of his? It’s startin’ to crack. You stick around, you ought to get caught in the crossfire.”

It was clear as day—Dutch was leading them into darkness. Kate could see it, and so could Arthur, but his loyalty bound him like chains. That unwavering faith, instilled in him since he was just a boy, refused to break. Arthur still clung to the hope that Dutch, his fearless leader, would guide them through every trial, that he’d brave the fires of hell itself for their sake. But Kate knew better, and the others were beginning to catch on. If it were up to her, she would have taken Arthur and the Marstons and left the moment the raid was done. The image of Jack’s terrified face and Abigail’s heart-wrenching sobs would haunt her forever. No family should have to endure such horror—especially not their child.

After Sean’s death and Jack’s kidnapping, it felt like the next tragedy was just a card flip away. And Kate had no faith in the hand Micah was dealing—he knew something the rest of them didn’t, and she was certain he was betting it all on a game rigged in his favor.

Unflinching, Kate squared her shoulders. “Funny how you care so much all of a sudden. You’ve been gunnin’ to get rid of Arthur since the day you joined. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

Micah’s grin faltered, his eyes darkening. “Arthur thinks he’s untouchable, thinks Dutch will always have his back. But you’ve seen it, haven’t you? The favoritism shiftin’. Arthur ain’t who he used to be, maybe it’s time a good fellow like me takes the reins.”

Kate took a step closer, her voice dropping to a dangerous calm. “You’re right, I have seen it. But you? You’ll always be on the bottom of the totem pole, no matter how hard you try to claw your way to the top. Arthur doesn’t trust you, and neither does anyone else.” She wanted to believe that was true, but she couldn’t deny that nearly every trap they’ve fallen into, Micah and Dutch had some part in it.

Micah’s jaw clenched, the easy arrogance slipping for just a moment. Then he laughed again, though it was hollow. “Maybe. But at least I know how to adapt, Kate. Can you say the same for Arthur? For you? We’ve all seen the way he looks at ya, like he’s caught between love and loyalty. Maybe all he really needs is a little push.”

Kate felt a pang of unease at his words, but she refused to let him see it. “We’re stronger than you think. And if you’re trying to scare me, it’s not working.”

Micah tilted his head, his expression unreadable. “Suit yourself. Y’know, Kate, you and I woulda made a hell of a team. It’s a damn shame you gave up on all that Red River nonsense.”

The name hit her like a gunshot, her breath hitching as her body stiffened. Red River. It wasn’t just a place or a memory; it was a wound she had worked tirelessly to sew shut, only to feel it tearing open again. How did Micah know? His words coiled around her like a noose, tightening with every second of silence. Her mind was scrambling for answers, for any clue as to how he could have dredged up a chapter of her life she had buried so deep it felt like another lifetime.

Red River had been a crucible, a place where violence wasn’t merely a means to survive but the only currency that mattered. It was a legacy. River, her old mentor, confidant, and the closest thing to an ally she’d ever known in those days, had worn the title like a crown. To him, it was a badge of honor that commanded respect and dread in equal measure.

The name wasn’t just earned; it was carved into the memory of every place they left behind. Kate could still see the black ink of the newspapers they passed on those rare occasions they ventured through town after another excruciating bloodbath. The headlines always whispered the same chilling phrase: Beware—The Red River Flows.

She could never forget the weight of that notoriety, the way strangers’ faces twisted in fear at the mere mention of them. It was intoxicating at the time, but the high never lasted. It was always followed by the sickening crash, the realization of just how deep they had sunk into the abyss. The rivers they left behind weren’t just crimson; they were poisoned with regret, a tide she had fought desperately to escape.

Kate had left it all behind, swearing never to look back. Yet here it was, rising from the depths like a vengeful spirit. Her secrets had been flooding back to her lately—first her barren womb, now the dark and brutal truths she had fought so hard to escape. It was as if the world itself was conspiring to remind her of what she’d been, of what she was still capable of becoming.

Micah’s voice cut through her spiraling thoughts, a mocking lilt dripping with arrogance. “Don’t say I didn’t warn ya when this all comes crashin’ down.”

Kate turned her back on him, running a hand down Lorena’s neck, grateful to feel the warmth of her trusted companion grounding her to the present. “Stay out of my way, Micah,” she said without looking at him. “And stay the hell away from my horse.”

As Kate swung into Lorena’s saddle, her gaze flicked back to Micah. He stood there, smirking, but beneath the amusement lurked something colder, more calculating. She didn’t trust him—she never had—but his words clung to her like a spur, prickling and persistent.

As she rode toward camp, the wind tugging at her hair, her mind churned with unanswered questions. Whatever Micah was scheming, whatever cards he held close to his chest, one thing was certain: she’d do whatever it took to protect her family. They wouldn’t be the ones to pay the price.

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

The storm rolled in with a vengeance, its low growl reverberating through the bayou as clouds smothered the fading light. Rain fell in relentless sheets, drenching everything in its path. Arthur Morgan squinted through the downpour as he guided Belle up the muddy path toward the crumbling manor they’d been calling home. Water sluiced off the brim of his hat and soaked through his coat, but he didn’t care much. He’d been through worse storms, though something about tonight gnawed at him—a nagging burden he couldn’t shake.

Belle snorted as Arthur dismounted, shaking her wet mane before trotting off to find her companion. The young cowboy turned toward the manor, ready to do the same. His boots sinking slightly into the mud with each step, his mind already ahead of him. The glow of candlelight flickered weakly in the upstairs window of their shared room, and he found his thoughts drifting to Kate. A pang of guilt struck him; their night in Saint Denis already felt so far away.

Since returning to their lives he’d barely had time to hold her, let alone talk like they used to. She deserved better than a man whose hands were stained and pockets full of excuses. His body was aching to be wrapped around his woman and let the world melt away. Wanting to throw caution to the wind and make love to her on their shared cot without a care who would hear.

A sudden streak of color in the storm’s gloom caught his eye. Bright red, a startling splash against the gray monotony of rain and mud. He stopped, narrowing his eyes. It was Molly O’Shea, standing alone at the end of the dock, her dress clinging to her in the rain, her fiery red hair whipping about. Like a burning ember taking off in the wind.

Arthur frowned. It wasn’t just odd to see her out here—it was unsettling. Molly rarely ventured far from Dutch’s shadow, and her fragile mood had been fracturing more and more with each passing day. The echoes of laughter and conversation drifted faintly from the manor, but Molly had chosen the isolation of the storm.

With a sigh of resignation, Arthur tugged his coat tighter and shouldered the burden of responsibility. Headed for the dock, his boots splashing through puddles as the rain needled his face. "Miss. O’Shea!" his voice was nearly swallowed by a crash of thunder. "What in hell’re you doin’ out here? Get inside before you catch your death!"

“Miss. O’Shea!” He shouted again after she didn’t move. Her shoulders were rigid, her arms folded tight across her chest. It wasn’t until Arthur reached her and grabbed her wrist that she reacted, jerking back like a startled animal.

"Let me go!" she cried, voice raw and trembling. "Leave me be, Arthur!"

Arthur tightened his grip, his patience thinning with the storm battering at his resolve. "For God’s sake, woman, what are you tryin’ to prove? You think standin’ out here in the rain is gonna fix anything?"

Her face turned up to his, and he saw it—anger and heartbreak etched in equal measure, tears mixing with the rain on her flushed cheeks. "You don’t understand!" she yelled, her voice cracking. "None of you do!”

“I’m just a goddamn shadow in this place. And now I’ve been tossed aside, burned to ash like his used cigar." She explained in a rush.

Arthur’s jaw tightened, frustration bubbling beneath his weariness. He knew exactly where this was headed— she and Dutch had another fight, only adding more turmoil to their situation. “That ain’t true, and you know it,” he said, rough with exhaustion. “Dutch is just under a lot of pressure. Now quit actin’ foolish and—”

“I am no idiot, Arthur Morgan!” Molly’s fists struck his chest, weak but relentless, her anger spilling over like a dam that had finally burst. “I know I deserve better than this!”

Arthur flinched at her words, not from the force of her blows but from the rawness of her pain. He raised his hands, palms up in a gesture of peace. “C’mon, Molly. You know what I meant,” he said softly, already regretting the edge in his earlier tone.

Molly’s eyes blazed as her fists continued to strike, her voice rising over the pounding rain. “He only cares about his plans and himself, and I’m tired of it! I’m done!” Her knuckles whitened as she clenched her hands, her words cracking under the weight of her sobs. “I gave him everything!”

Arthur stood firm, letting her vent her fury. He had seen this kind of desperation before, a fire that burned brightest right before it consumed everything. Deep down, he had hoped Kate’s idea to invite Molly to the garden party would give her a reprieve, a chance to bond with the others. But Molly had stayed on the fringes, choosing isolation. Now, Arthur was beginning to see why. She wasn’t just lonely—she was cast adrift in a sea of her own pain.

“You don’t understand,” Molly whispered, her voice breaking as her fists fell limply against his soaked coat. Her strength was spent, and her grief clung to her like the rain. “You don’t understand what it’s like to love someone who promised you everything, only to turn around and look at you like you’re nothing.”

Arthur exhaled slowly, his frustration melting into something softer. He reached out, pulling her trembling form against his chest, her forehead resting on his collarbone. “Look,” he began, his voice low and careful, “I know things ain’t exactly been easy lately but—”

“I see things clearly now,” she cut him off, her voice steadier but colder.

Arthur froze as her next words fell like a thunderclap. “And I will not let him cage me or my child.”

His breath caught, his chest tightening as if he’d taken a bullet. “What?” The single word slipped out, stunned and disbelieving.

Molly’s trembling hand wiped at her wet face, her defiance now tempered by visible fear. Arthur’s hands rested lightly on her shoulders, steady but not confining. “Does he know this?” he asked, his voice hushed but firm.

Her eyes darted away, her teeth clenching as she hissed, “He can never know.”

Arthur’s mind raced, struggling to piece together what this meant. He wanted to reassure her, to say it would all be fine, but he couldn��t lie—not about this. “Molly... Dutch needs to know,” he said slowly, forcing the words out. “You can’t keep somethin’ like this from him.”

“No!” Molly’s fingers grabbed fistfuls of his coat, her wide eyes brimming with panic. “Arthur, you have no idea what he’ll do! You don’t know!”

Arthur shook his head, the disbelief plain on his face. “You really think he’d hurt you?” he asked, though deep down, the fear in her eyes unsettled him more than he cared to admit. Molly looked away, her silence answering louder than words. The realization hit him like a gut punch, anger, guilt and betrayal swirling together in his chest.

“Shit,” he muttered, unable to muster anything more profound.

He dragged a hand down his face, the weight of the situation settling heavily on his shoulders. Glancing briefly at the flickering light spilling from the manor, he wished Kate were there. She’d know what to say, how to make this mess feel less impossible. “I-I’ll talk some sense into Dutch,” he stammered. “We’ll figure somethin’ out.”

“Please, you cannot tell him!” Molly’s voice rose, the wind carrying her desperation.

Arthur hesitated, his mind like a spinning weathervane. Torn between loyalty, duty, and the undeniable fear in her eyes. “This ain’t right, Molly. You’re askin’ me to—”

“No one can know about this, Arthur,” she interrupted, her voice cracking as the storm rolled closer, the thunder growling like a warning. “Not yet.”

The silence stretched between them, the rain hammering down as Arthur wrestled with his decision. Finally, he gave her a small, reluctant nod. “Alright. I won’t say nothin’.”

Relief flickered briefly in her expression, but it was quickly overshadowed by the lingering dread. She turned, her shoulders hunched as she trudged toward the house, the storm raging around her.

Arthur stayed behind, letting the rain soak him as he stared into the night. He could feel the storm brewing—not just in the skies above, but in the fractures threatening to shatter the fragile foundation of their gang. Whatever was coming, he knew he’d be standing in the middle of it, trying to hold the pieces together.

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

The storm outside howled, rattling the windows of the old manor and sending tendrils of wind slipping through the cracks. The flickering orange glow of the candles cast shadows that danced across the room's peeling wallpaper, painting the space in warmth and decay. Kate sat on the edge of their creaky cot, a book resting in her hands, though her eyes weren’t on the pages. She’d been listening for the familiar sound of Arthur’s heavy boots on the stairs, waiting for him to come back from another long day.

When he finally appeared in the doorway, she set the book aside, her lips curving into a soft smile. "You look like hell," she mused, taking in the sight of him. His broad figure was soaked to the bone, the rain glistening on his jacket as he moved into the room, shoulders slumped and eyes shadowed with exhaustion.

Arthur didn’t respond. He let his sodden hat drop to the floor with a wet plop, followed by the heavy thud of his soaked jacket and the clinking weight of his gun belt. His boots were kicked off haphazardly, landing somewhere near the door, forgotten as he trudged toward her like a man finally succumbing to the unbearable weight of the world.

Without a word, Arthur sank to his knees before her, as if he was praying at the altar. Bowing his head into her lap like a man at confession. His large hands wrapped around her waist, seeking her solace.

Kate’s breath hitched, her heart softening at the sight. “Oh, honey,” she murmured, her voice laced with quiet concern. She leaned over him, her hair cascading around them like a curtain, sheltering him from everything beyond. “What happened?”

His wet hair and scruffy face pressed into the fabric of her skirt, damp and chilled, but she didn’t flinch. Instead, her hands moved instinctively, threading through his hair, her fingers trailing gentle strokes over his scalp. Each touch seemed to carry a quiet promise of comfort, warmth, and love. She could feel the tension coiled within him, the weight of it pressing down on his broad shoulders.

Arthur wanted to say everything and nothing all at once. The words clawed at his throat, desperate for release. He wanted to take the burdens off his chest and hang them out to dry in her sunlight. To lay in this moment with her forever, in this perfect silence. All else was futile, he couldn’t find the words to express that he felt like he was the only one taking the defense against a rain of arrows.

He didn’t answer right away. His arms tightened around her, pulling her closer as he pressed his face into the curve of her thighs, breathing deeply. Her scent—clean and warm, with a faint trace of the earth—steadied him, grounding him in a way nothing else could.

The confession lingered on the edge of his tongue, a restless weight he longed to release. He ached to tell her what he knew, if only to shoulder it with someone else. Arthur resolved to let Molly reveal the truth in her own time; it was the only kindness he could offer.

Kate already carried so much, and he couldn’t bear the thought of adding more to her troubles. More often than not, he was the heaviest of them. So Arthur swallowed the hollow ache in his chest, forcing it down into the depths where it couldn’t touch her.

Her fingers continued their gentle work, combing through his hair and massaging the tense muscles at the base of his neck. "You okay, my love?" she asked quietly, her voice a tender balm to his frayed nerves.

A deep, weary sigh rumbled from his chest as he turned his head, resting his cheek against her like she was the only pillow he’d ever need. "Please tell me you had a better day than I did," he muttered, his voice muffled and low.

Kate smiled faintly, though her heart ached for him. She shifted slightly, her free hand coming to rest on his broad shoulder, her thumb tracing slow, comforting circles. "That bad, huh?"

Arthur let out a small, weary laugh, though it carried no real humor. “You could say that,” he mumbled, avoiding her concerned gaze. Eager to steer the conversation anywhere but the storm raging in his mind, he added, “How was your day?”

Kate raised an eyebrow, tilting her head. She knew that deflection when she saw it but decided to play along for now. “Well,” she started with a wry smile, “can’t say it was all sunshine and roses. Had a little run-in with Micah earlier.”

The mention of Micah’s name wiped the softness from Arthur’s face. His body stiffened, his shoulders squaring as tension rippled through him. That bastard had been giving Kate and the other women a hard time since the day he showed up, and it grated on him that Dutch wouldn’t let him put an end to it the way he wanted to—with a bullet.

He leaned forward slightly, voice low and rough. “Shit, I’m sorry, darlin’. What’d he do this time?”

Kate waved a hand dismissively, though her jaw tightened at the memory. “Micah was just being Micah. Took Lorena to get under my skin.” Her tone was calm, but the spark of annoyance in her eyes was unmistakable. “I don’t want to get into it, though. Not right now.” She paused, her voice softening. “Tell me about Rains Fall.”

Arthur pulled back slightly, his brows knitting. She had a way of redirecting him, turning his focus away from her troubles without making him feel dismissed. He could sense a hint of something beneath her words—an eagerness she was trying to mask—but he didn’t press. Instead, he stood and began peeling off his damp clothes, speaking as he moved.

“I didn’t see any broken bones or missin’ fingers, so I take it your girl’s okay?” The corner of his mouth tugged up slightly, his tone teasing.

Kate laughed, a genuine, soft sound that filled the small room and eased the weight pressing on his chest. Her laughter was answer enough. Arthur always admired her strength—not just the physical kind, though she could hold her own—but the mental and emotional resilience she carried. She didn’t back down, not even against someone like Micah, and though he admired it, it worried him too.

As he tugged a dry shirt over his head, Arthur grabbed a cigarette from the table and nodded toward the porch door, signaling his intention without a word. Kate’s eyes flicked to the cigarette, her lips tightening ever so slightly. She wasn’t a fan of his smoking, but she understood it. He only reached for them when his nerves were frayed, and she could tell that today had been one of those days.

She followed him outside, the porch roof offering them a small shelter from the rain. The storm still swirling around them but bringing with it a strange kind of peace in its chaos. Arthur lit the cigarette with ease, taking a slow drag as he leaned against the railing. Kate stood beside him, her arms wrapped around his for warmth, though she didn’t seem to mind the rain-slicked air when it blew against them.

Closing her eyes for a moment as a few drops peppered her face in wet kisses. Kate breathed in the smell of the storm mingled with the scent of Arthur. It was electric and powerful, yet comforting.

“So,” she pressed gently, “how did it go? With Rains Fall?”

Arthur exhaled a long stream of smoke, his eyes fixed on the horizon. For a moment, he didn’t answer, the words catching in his throat. But then he glanced at her, the warmth in her gaze enough to coax him into opening up about his day.

“It went about as well as it could, I guess,” he said finally. “He’s... wise. Gentle. But he’s carryin’ a lot on his plate. His people are bein’ crushed, and chased from their own land. He’s really struggling trying to hold ’em together. And running out of options.” He shook his head slightly.

Kate hummed softly in acknowledgment, her gaze distant as she stared out at the rain. “I’m afraid it’s been that way for a long time, Arthur. They’re a dying herd, with nowhere left to go.” Her voice was tinged with sadness, her thoughts drifting to her own experiences with the Native tribes. Despite the immense losses they had suffered, she remembered their warmth, their resilience. They had welcomed her once, even when the world had turned its back on them.

Arthur leaned against the porch railing, silent for a moment, lost in thought. The cigarette burned slowly between his fingers, a faint orange glow against the stormy gray. “Kinda reminded me of...” His voice trailed off, the words sticking in his throat as his mind shifted to the gang. To Dutch. To the fragile threads holding them all together, fraying more with each passing day.

Kate turned to him, her hand finding his. She squeezed gently, her touch bringing him back. “Remind you of what?” she asked, her voice soft, coaxing.

Arthur shook his head and gave her a small, tired smile. “Sorry. S’not important,” he murmured, taking another slow drag of his cigarette before exhaling the smoke into the rain-laden air. He hesitated, then continued. “Anyway, Cornwall’s behind it all. And he’s got his claws in deep. He’s after their land—wants to start another oil rig on their reservation but they’re refusin’ to leave.”

Kate’s brow furrowed, her fingers still resting on his arm. “What does that mean for them?” She inquired, fearing she already knew the answer.

Arthur’s expression darkened. “Cornwall’s got the U.S military involved and he denied a peace treaty. His people have nowhere else to go. They can hardly leave the reservation without gettin’ killed.”

“Jesus,” Kate murmured as thunder cracked across the night sky.

“He wants me to talk sense into his boy, Eagle Flies. The kid’s stirrin’ up talk of a war. He’s ready to fight, Kate” He paused, running a hand over his face. “Rains Fall, though... he doesn't want all this bloodshed. And I don’t see what Dutch has to gain from gettin’ involved in this.”

Kate’s lips pressed into a thin line, concern flickering in her eyes as she studied Arthur’s troubled face. “What do you make of it?” she asked softly, her voice barely rising above the sound of the storm.

Arthur sighed deeply, the weight of the question pressing heavily on his chest. “I think Dutch wants to use Rains Fall and his son to take the heat off us,” he admitted, his voice rough with frustration. “But he can’t let Cornwall go. He’s convinced there’s money in this—some backdoor plan to get us out by stirrin’ up even more trouble.”

Kate reached up, her fingers brushing away a damp strand of hair clinging to his forehead. Her touch was gentle yet grounding, as though tethering him to the here and now. “You’re in a tough spot,” she said quietly, sympathy threading her words.

Arthur huffed a bitter laugh, devoid of humor. “I don’t like it, Kate. There ain’t nothin’ I can do to really help those people, and I don’t want to be the one to make things worse.” His gaze drifted away, out into the storm, the rolling thunder echoing the unrest roiling within him.

Kate placed a steady hand over his heart, her palm cool against his rain-damp shirt. Arthur’s fingers instinctively wrapped around hers, anchoring him. “And you don’t have to be,” she said firmly, her tone carrying a quiet conviction. “You’re not all bad, Arthur. I see the good in you every day.” Her hand slid upward to cup his cheek, her thumb brushing lightly over his scruffy skin. “Maybe it’s time to start choosing it.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, leaning into her touch before pressing a tender kiss to her palm. “You’re too sweet for me, darlin’,” he murmured, his voice thick with gratitude and weariness.

Flicking the glowing ember of his cigarette off the porch, Arthur turned to face the manor. He pulled Kate flush against him, her back resting against his broad chest as he wrapped his arms around her waist. Together, they swayed gently to the rhythm of the storm, the low rumble of thunder a steady backdrop. Arthur leaned down, brushing soft, lingering kisses against her temple, his lips speaking volumes where words could not. “Your turn,” he whispered, his breath warm against her skin. “Tell me about your day.”

Kate sighed, leaning into his embrace as her thoughts churned. She could feel the weight of his exhaustion in the way he held her, in the subtle tremble of his voice. There was more he wasn’t saying—an invisible burden he was shouldering alone. She debated whether to share her own troubles, but her instincts told her he needed something else. Something deeper.

Turning in his arms, she looked up into his stormy blue eyes, searching their depths. “Are you sure words are what you need right now?” she asked softly, dipping into something more intimate.

Without waiting for a response, she snaked her arms around his neck and kissed him, her lips capturing his with a hunger that had been building in her chest. Arthur responded with a low moan, pulling her closer as he deepened the kiss, his tongue sweeping past her lips in a fervent, wordless exchange.

The storm outside seemed to mirror their passion, the wind howling through the open porch door as a few of the candles flickered out. Their breaths mingled in the dark each touch and gasp speaking the truths neither of them could say aloud.

A faint creak cut through the noise of the storm, the unmistakable groan of wood shifting under a hesitant step. Arthur and Kate both froze, their heads snapping toward the sound. There, at the edge of the dimly lit porch, stood Jack, his small frame draped in a worn blanket. His wide eyes darted between them, curiosity and confusion painted across his young face.

Arthur cleared his throat, instinctively stepping in front of Kate as if shielding her from the boy’s innocent gaze. “Jack?” he asked gently, softening his tone. “What’re you doin’ out here? You should be sleepin’.”

Jack shifted nervously, clutching the blanket tighter around his shoulders. “The storm’s too loud,” he mumbled, glancing back at the open window of his room. “And Mama won’t let Cain sleep with me.”

Kate stepped forward, brushing her fingers lightly over Arthur’s arm before kneeling in front of Jack. Her warm smile cut through the tension like sunlight through clouds. “Well, you’re in luck,” she said softly. “We’ve got the perfect spot to wait out the storm. Want to hang with us for a bit?”

Jack hesitated, then nodded. Kate scooped him into her embrace, and Arthur noticed how much bigger the boy looked in her arms from the last time she held him. He was growing fast, and the thought tugged at something deep inside Arthur.

“Does Cain help you sleep through the storm?” Kate asked as she cradled Jack close, her voice gentle.

Jack nodded again, his small head resting heavily against her shoulder. “But Mama says he has fleas,” he added, his tone tinged with disappointment.

Arthur chuckled, the sound low and warm. “Well, maybe your mama’s got a point. Those fleas might eat you alive in your sleep.”

Jack’s head shot up, his tiredness momentarily forgotten. “Cain does not have fleas!” he exclaimed, indignation lighting his face.

Kate bit back a laugh, shaking her head as she stroked his back. This storm had everyone on edge tonight. “Alright, alright,” she said soothingly. “Cain’s the cleanest dog in camp, I’m certain of it.” She winked playfully at Arthur.

Arthur smirked, but his tone turned more serious. “C’mon, Jack. What’s this really about? I know you ain’t just upset over the puppy. You really shouldn’t be up this late.”

Jack hesitated, shifting uncomfortably in Kate’s arms before finally blurting out, “Nobody plays with me anymore.” His voice was small, as though he feared he’d be scolded. “I just want a friend.”

Arthur sighed, his heart twisting at the boy’s honesty. He placed a hand on Jack’s messy hair, ruffling it lightly. “You got friends, Jack. You got Hosea, Lenny, and even the girls. Hell, I’m your friend too.”

Jack scrunched his nose, unimpressed. “You’re too old, Uncle Arthur. I want to play with other kids.”

Arthur chuckled softly, shaking his head. “Ouch. Guess I’m past my prime, huh?” He ruffled Jack’s hair gently, trying to lighten the mood despite the heaviness settling in his chest. “Alright, listen. I can’t promise anything, but I’ll talk to your mama. Maybe see about putting you in a school. How’s that sound?”

Jack’s eyes lit up with a flicker of hope, and he nodded eagerly. “You think she’ll say yes?”

Arthur forced a small smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “We’ll see, kid. No harm in tryin’.”

As Jack leaned into Kate’s arms, already lulled by her presence, Arthur felt his heart lurch. He knew those words were hollow, a fragile attempt to bring the boy comfort. School wasn’t in the cards, not for someone living this life. Jack’s classroom was these four walls, his teachers were the outlaws who kept the camp afloat. Arthur knew it wasn’t fair—knew it because it was exactly how he’d been raised.

He swallowed hard, guilt gnawing at him. Jack deserved better than this, deserved a chance to run with other kids, to laugh without the weight of an uncertain future hanging over him. But the life they’d chosen, the life Dutch swore would set them free, was a cage in its own way. Molly’s words suddenly came back to him like a flood.

I will not let him cage me or my child.

Jack gave a sleepy nod, his earlier frustration fading as exhaustion took hold again. Kate pressed a gentle kiss to his temple. “Let’s get you back to bed, little one,” she said, turning towards the door with him still in her arms.

Arthur followed Kate and Jack inside, the storm outside muffling into a distant rumble. The flickering lanterns cast warm, restless shadows on the walls as Kate carried the drowsy boy down the hall. By the time they reached his room, Jack’s head was already heavy on her shoulder.

Arthur leaned against the doorway, watching as she settled the boy into bed with a mother’s touch. His voice was soft, almost reverent, as he said, “You’re good with him.”

Kate glanced back at him, her smile warm but faint. “He just needs someone to listen,” she whispered, brushing Jack’s hair back before pulling the blanket snugly around him.

As Kate began singing a lullaby, Arthur waited outside, his arms crossed, gaze dropping to the floor. Her voice rose gently, weaving through the gaps in the old wooden walls:

"Darlin', I'd wait for you,Even if you didn't ask me to.Tie a lasso around the moon,And bring it on down to you."

The soft melody wrapped around Arthur like a memory he hadn’t known he missed. It held a kind of peace he wasn’t sure he deserved, yet couldn’t help but crave.

The creak of boots on the stairs broke the moment. Arthur straightened, his eyes meeting John’s as the younger man stepped into the lamplight. John’s gaze flickered briefly to the bedroom door before landing on Arthur.

“Storm keeping you up?” John asked, keeping his voice low.

Arthur shrugged, his jaw tightening. “Somethin’ like that.”

Kate’s voice drifted through the cracks again, the soft rise and fall of her melody filling the quiet tension between them:

"I'd bottle the feelin' you give me,And shelve that stuff for years to come.'Cause, baby, when your arms are around me,I'd swear that I'm holding the sun."

John adjusted his hat, stepping closer. “You look like you could use a drink.”

Arthur huffed a tired laugh. “You’re not wrong.”

But John wasn’t here to make small talk. “You find anything worthwhile from Rains Fall today?” he asked, his tone sharpening.

Arthur sighed, glancing at the warped floorboards. “Cornwall’s got it all locked down. We shouldn’t be meddlin’ in this, John. I don’t know what Dutch is thinkin’ anymore.”

John scoffed, his expression hardened. “He’s thinkin’ about his own damn survival, as always. If it’s any consolation, Kate’s intel on the trolley company checked out—there’s no money there. Absolutely nothing. Dutch is fumin’.”

“Good,” Arthur muttered. “One less suicide mission.” He straightened, his voice gaining an edge. “Maybe now Dutch’ll take her more seriously.”

John’s brow arched, his tone suddenly more pointed. “That really what you want, Arthur?”

Arthur frowned, his confusion evident. “What’re you gettin’ at?”

Pushing off the wall, John stepped closer, “it’s all a game to him.” Lowering his voice to a near whisper. “Dutch uses people like pawns. You were once his prized pony, and now you’re the retired work horse. He’s gonna use her, same as the rest of us. Her skills, her intel—he’ll put her on the front lines. And she won’t back down, not if she thinks it’ll help get us out of this mess.”

Arthur’s mouth tightened, a wave of unease crashing over him. Before he could respond, Kate’s lullaby came to an end:

"When dividin' up the universe,You could have mine."

The door creaked softly as Kate stepped out, her eyes warm but tired. She smiled at the two men, sensing the tension but choosing not to pry. “G’night,” she murmured, disappearing into the room she shared with Arthur.

John tipped his hat, his gaze heavy with meaning. “You sure you want her out there?”

The question lingered like smoke in the dim hallway. Arthur didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. The thought of Kate in harm’s way made his stomach twist, a visceral fear that would tear him apart at the seams.

With a final nod, John headed to his own room, leaving Arthur alone with his thoughts. For a long moment, Arthur stood in the silence, the weight of his brother’s words pressing down on him. Finally, he turned and slipped into his room.

In the darkness, Kate’s soft presence called to him like a lifeline. She was already lying down, her head resting on the pillow, but she shifted as he climbed in beside her. Without a word, Arthur wrapped his arms tightly around her, pulling her close. His face buried in her neck, and he exhaled deeply, the storm outside no match for the one inside him.

“Will ya sing that lullaby for me?” His voice was so quiet, she almost didn’t catch it over the wind.

Kate smiled softly, her hands roaming his back in slow, soothing circles. “Of course, my sweetness.”

Her voice rose again, carrying him into a moment of peace he didn’t deserve, but one he’d hold onto for as long as she’d let him.

AN: Alright, I know this chapter was a lot to take in—definitely dropped a few big reveals! I hope it wasn’t too overwhelming or gave anyone whiplash. I'm starting to transition the story into "phase 2," so things will be picking up pace from here. That means we’ll be skipping over some of the game missions to keep things moving and eventually work toward wrapping up the fic. The scope of this game is massive, and I’ve been going back and forth on which details and missions to include, all while trying to put my own spin on the story. That said, I hope this chapter has set the stage for some exciting new plot developments that you’ll enjoy!

I made a playlist too if anyone is interested! Spotify Playlist

As always, thank ya kindly for reading :)

#arthur morgan #rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #ao3 fanfic #rdr2 fanfic #arthur morgan x original female character #arthur morgan x reader #red dead fandom #arthur morgan x oc #rdr2 community #rdr2 arthur #red dead redemption

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