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say-hwaet · 2 months ago

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Fandom: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games) Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Arthur Morgan/Reader, Arthur Morgan/You, Eliza/Arthur Morgan Characters: Arthur Morgan, Eliza (Red Dead Redemption), Isaac Morgan, Hosea Matthews, Dutch van der Linde, John Marston, Bill Williamson, Susan Grimshaw, Annabelle (Red Dead Redemption), Reverend Swanson, Uncle Additional Tags: Pre-Blackwater Massacre (Red Dead Redemption), Video Game: Red Dead Redemption 2 (2018), you are Eliza in this story, Angst, arthur makes it in time to save Eliza and Isaac, headcanon character insert, you get to see how the gang gained new members, Background History, arthur is a good daddy, Slow Burn, Fluff and Angst, Parenthood, Not Canon Compliant, High Honor Arthur Morgan, Young Arthur Morgan, Annabelle takes you under her wing, you are Isaac’s mother, Mutual Pining, Flashbacks, Isaac is adorable, you and Arthur watch Isaac grow up, isaac and Eliza don't die, you help change the fate of the van der linde gang, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Protective Arthur Morgan Summary:

After four years of deliberating, struggling, and doubting, Arthur had finally made the decision. He was going to come back to you and Isaac. And stay. But instead of an emotional reunion and the reveal of his decision, you were both faced with a new reality and danger, when you were nearly killed by robbers. As if that wasn’t enough to jolt Arthur into reality, another shocking revelation presents itself, something that he wasn’t planning on. And now that it isn’t safe for you, he has to make a decision that he never expected to make. To return to the gang, and take you with him.

Preview the Prologue under the cut!! (word count: ~10,400 words)

“Where’s the money?!”

“What money?”

The man, whom the others call Dan, steps closer and slaps you. The left side of your face feels like it’s on fire and instantly swells. You try to touch it, but he quickly snatches your wrist with unreasonable force. “The money that you keep gettin’! I know he comes around and gives you money.”

You realize they’re talking about Arthur. How do they know? How long have they been watching? You remember seeing men, in the distance, on horseback a bit ago, just watching you. Could these be the same men? Could these be the bandits Arthur warned you about?

You try to make a threat. “He’ll be here soon…Y-you best go.” But you know better. He’s been gone for almost a year, the longest he has ever been gone. He’s most likely dead or decided to finally abandon you.

Dan grabs you and throws you to the floor, crashing into your left side. Your shoulder dislocates and you try desperately not to cry, as Isaac is still in your bedroom with your baby.

Your baby.

You think back on the last night he was with you. After years of keeping his distance, he took you in his arms and laid with you. But just as warm, and passionate as it was, it was also fleeting, for he left the next day without as much as a goodbye.

And to this day, he has no idea he has fathered another.

“Liar! He’s been gone a while.” Dan lifts his chin and looks down at you as though you were less than the dirt he walks on. “We made sure of that.”

“You…you seen him?” As stupid as it is to ask, you so badly want to hear news of him.

The man’s yellow-toothed grin instantly gives you a feeling of uneasiness. “Oh, we saw him, alright. He came by and gave you wads of cash! We had been watchin’ your place, and we almost thought that it weren’t worth it, especially when we saw him from a distance. But we saw that he weren’t around, and after seeing you up close, we know it’s worth it, now…”

You are surprised they’re telling you this, but you remember what Arthur had said about what they do, these Calico Bandits. You and your children won’t make it out of this alive.

He stands over you menacingly. “So, tell us where it is!”

“Mommy!”

Isaac comes from the bedroom, with your revolver in his hand. He looks into your eyes and panic fills your entire being. When the men came barging in, your first thought was for him to hide, to be safe, but he has more courage than you wish. You try to get up to protect him, but one of the men quickly grabs Isaac and he drops the gun. It hits the floor with a sharp thud.

“Look at this little guy! He thought he could rescue his ‘mommy.’” The man handling the boy cackles and the rest join in.

“Let me go!” Isaac shouts, trying to break free of the man’s grip.

Dan goes to you and grabs you by your right arm and lifts you to your feet. He jabs the barrel of his revolver into your cheek, pushing it up. “I’m not going to ask you again,” he snarls, his sour breath making you want to vomit. “Tell us where the money is, or we’ll shoot your little hero here.”

It’s no use. You know it’s better to make this easier, even though you know the outcome. You weakly lift a finger in the direction of the kitchen counter. “I–It’s over here.”

You feel him let your arm go and you slowly, while keeping your hands up, walk to the kitchen counter. Grabbing a small tin you walk back to Dan and, with your hands shaking, give it to him. He takes it from you hungrily and puts his gun on the table. You glance down and see your revolver by your feet. The one Arthur had taught you to use.

When Dan opens the tin he frowns and his face turns red with rage. “There’s only ten dollars in here!”

His compadre hisses in his direction. “I told you we’s waited too long, Dan! Of course, it would be gone by now!”

He flips around to the man who dared to challenge him, and she snaps like a viper. “Shut up, Lem!”

They start to argue. Now is the time. You try to seize the opportunity to take the gun he left on the table. You move quickly, your heart racing more than it ever could, and grab the gun. You only have but a split second to act, you cock the hammer back and fire. The bullet rips from the barrel, hitting Dan’s hand and he drops the tin. He clutches his hand as it bleeds profusely.

“AAAARRRGGG…!!! YOU WHORE…!!!!” He bellows, his voice sounding almost inhuman at the expense of his pain.

Taking another opportunity, you pick up the gun off the table and point both revolvers at the other two men.

“Let my son go…!” you order, hands shaking.

Behind you, Dan manages to ignore his bleeding hand for a moment, unholstering his second revolver quiet enough where you can’t hear. But even if you could, your attention is focused on the other two men, who still have their grimy fingers on your boy.

“Now!” you roar, with as much ferocity as you can muster.

Thankfully, the man holding Isaac lets him go and he runs to you. Once he reaches you he clutches your skirt tightly. “Mommy…!”

You look down at your son and see the fear and relief in his eyes. You want to stop everything to hold him, to shield him, but you have to keep your guns trained on the two men. They have their hands raised, and knowing you only have seconds, you try to think of a way to get out of this.

But, still, you have forgotten Dan, who has now risen to his feet and is aiming his gun.

At you.

When you hear a familiar click, your eyes widen at the realization.

And that’s when the door swings open again.

It’s all a blur. You have no time to react to what is happening when feet quickly shift where they stand and shots sing loud into the space. Your ears ring at the volume and your first instinct is to crouch down and shield your boy. You crash into the floor and hold Isaac tight to your breast as your back faces the gunshots and cries of pain.

But they aren’t your cries, or that of your son. You bury your face in your son’s hair, praying that if any bullets hit you, your body will be shield enough.

And soon, the cries die, until there is complete silence. The smell of gunpowder wafts in your nostrils, and you try to calm yourself as you continue to tremble. You hear Isaac breathe softly against your chest, his breath shaky as he whimpers.

You dare not move. Your heart threatens to burst out of its ribcage, and you want to hold onto your son and the illusion of safety just a little bit longer.

But when you hear heavy footfalls approach, you open your eyes. You don’t have time to react when a hand grabs you and pulls you up, causing you to lose your hold on your boy.

You scream loudly. “Please, no…!!!” And you flinch, your eyes closed shut.

The hands turn you around and you feel an exhaled breath on your face. It isn’t foul, like Dan’s.

And the voice that speaks, thunderous and low, nearly has you in disbelief. “Eliza…”

You open your eyes and your legs buckle from under you as you look into the marine, saccharine eyes of Arthur Morgan.

“Oh, God…!” you gasp and you instantly sob. “Arth—” Your voice is muffled once he pulls you into himself, your face pressed into his chest. He holds you close, tucking his face in your hair and you hear him inhale deeply.

You continue to sob heavily, the reality of your situation hitting you like a ton of bricks. You and your family almost died. You tried to protect them, but you failed.

“Daddy…!” Isaac’s cry echoes into the room and you feel him crash into you and a tiny arm slips around your leg. Arthur removes a hand to embrace his boy. Isaac’s happiness is sobered by relief, and he begins to cry into his father’s leg. “Oh, Daddy…!”

You feel Arthur’s chapped lips brush softly against your cheek, as though it could have been a kiss. Your breath hitches, the hint of his mouth next to yours triggering an innate response. But he doesn’t follow through, instead pulling away and gazing into your eyes. “What happened?”

You try to steady your breathing, your sobs morphing into hiccups. “They came out of nowhere. Saying that they saw you handin’ me money.”

He tucks his chin, cursing under his breath. “I shoulda killed ‘em when I came across them the first time.”

Your eyebrows lift, eyes reflecting worry. “When?”

Arthur nods. “Last year. They saw me on the road, guess I was too intimidatin’ to take on.” His eyes soften. “But not my…” his voice trails off. He lifts a hand to cup your chin, his thumb grazing your bottom lip. Looking into his eyes, you see the glossiness, the color resembling a raging sea. “Eliza…”

“Arthur…?”

“I was almost too late…” Then his eyes express a sobriety, a calm resolve as he speaks. “But never again.”

This sudden change in demeanor surprises you, and your brow pinches in confusion. “Arthur…?”

“Eliza, I—” In the midst of his sentence, a shrill cry erupts from your bedroom. Arthur lifts his head from your gaze, turning to look in the direction of the sound. “What is that?”

You know what it is, and truth be told, so does he, but what he doesn’t know is why he hears it. Isaac is four. Not a…

You didn’t want it to be like this. You didn’t want him to find out this way. You lift your hand and place your palm on his chest and he looks back down at you. There is an intimacy at your gesture and you soon feel his pounding heart beneath. You gently back away from him and wordlessly hurry into the room, hoping he will follow.

You enter your bedroom and direct your body toward the sound of the cry, and it leads you to your dresser. Regarding the bottom drawer, you see that there is a three-inch opening. Bending down and quickly pulling it open, you see your daughter, safely laid inside, her face red as she cries. She continues to wail and you waste no time in picking her up and bringing her close. As soon as she smells you, hears your soft whispers, and feels you bouncing her softly, she settles, her cries now soft coos. You kiss her soft, little head, her little wisps of hair tickling your lips.

You hear the heavy footfalls behind you and so you turn to face him.

The expression on his face says it all: pure shock and disbelief.

“Arthur…” you begin, your thoughts scrambled as you try to say the words. “This is your daughter Alice.”

He just stands there in the doorway, gobsmacked. Not that he was ever full of words, but he has always said something when times have been rough. He’s been your only source of comfort these last five years.

You don’t want to rush him, to push him, you imagine he has questions of his own, thoughts that he has to sort through. You continue to bounce the baby in your arms. “It’s a miracle she didn’t cry before this…” you say in an effort to ease the tension. “But she is a heavy sleeper.”

Like him. Maybe it’s good she’s a Morgan after all.

From behind Arthur comes Isaac, eyes filled with worry. “Is she okay?”

You nod, feeling the intensity of Arthur’s gaze as you look down at your son. “Yes, she’s fine.”

Isaac sighs, finally smiling. “Good. I put her there.” He points to the drawer. “I thought she’d be safe.”

You swallow hard, trying to suppress a sob. “You did good, darling.” You sniff. “Real good.”

“We can’t stay here,” Arthur finally says and when your eyes meet his, he looks away. “No doubt those shots were heard.”

You furrow your brow. “But it was in self-defense. Those men tried to kill us.”

But when he looks back at you, you realize that’s not what he’s concerned about.

Any bullet makes a trail, and eventually, it will lead back to him. Even though it may take years, that is a fear that he lives with. He means for you to flee again. To pack up and start over.

You shake your head, holding your baby close. “No, Arthur. I can’t.” You really can’t. Not when you’ve planted your roots, have finally gotten back into the swing of things since you gave birth to Alice a month ago.

“Eliza—”

“We have a good life here…! Everything was fine! If you leave, nobody will know it was you. I will tell ‘em I did it. I can shoot a gun now, they’ll have to believe me.”

Arthur’s nose flares, his gaze intensifying. “You think they’ll believe that a woman armed with one—”

“Two. I had two.”

“Fine. Two revolvers—do you think that a woman armed with two revolvers could shoot three armed men in a matter of five seconds without taking a bullet herself?”

You don’t hesitate to answer. “Yes.”

Arthur pauses, running a hand over his face as he exhales. “You’re a beginner, Eliza. They won’t believe you.”

This reunion has continued to take a turn for the worse. What should have been happy and joyous, possibly passionate, is now a canyon growing deeper and deeper between you. With him a mere five feet away from you, he feels more apart than he ever has been.

Embittered, you deliver a poignant line. “I got the whole town to believe that I was a widow.” And it’s true, you did. You were able to explain away the reason why a pregnant girl at nineteen was alone in a town where no one knew you. And you managed just fine. You raised a garden by yourself, shot turkey for Thanksgiving by yourself, you hitch the wagon and do repairs by yourself. You’ve been alone for a while. “How can this be any different?”

Arthur speaks to you calmly now, his eyes soft. You aren’t thinking straight. He was a mere few seconds from coming across your dead body. He has to make it clear to you, to help you see it for what it is. “That ain’t gonna keep you safe no more…” He pauses again. “And there are more of ‘em. They’ll be back.”

“So stay.”

He shakes his head. “I can’t.”

And you can’t hide the venom on your tongue. “Yeah, I know. You’ve said that before.”

You expect him to react in kind, but he only looks sadly at you. “I really can’t this time. Maybe if they didn’t—I came here ‘cause—Hell, I was gonna—” He cuts himself off, shaking his head. “None of us can.”

Your mind is still running in circles. You’re trying to make sense of it all, but all you can focus on are all the hurts you’ve harbored the last ten months. “Why did you come back, Arthur?”

He blinks. “What?”

You hold Alice closer, as though you can protect her from the tension in the room. “Why did you come back? It’s been almost a year. Where have you been?”

Arthur looks down at his son, who has been silently watching this conversation unfold. “Isaac, can you leave me to talk to your mama for a minute?” Nodding softly, Isaac turns around and leaves. Once the sound of his bedroom door closing is heard, Arthur continues. “I was near South America. We got too close to Mexico and ran into some trouble. We had to lay low before coming back up this way.” Arthur scratches the back of his head. “I had to sneak out of camp to get here…” And his mind goes back to the reason why he did sneak away. And what he brought with him. It still burns in his pocket, a reminder of what he had set out to do.

But things aren’t at all how he pictured.

You scowl, still angry. “Mexico? Another one of Dutch’s ideas?”

“Eliza…”

“I thought you died, Arthur. Do you realize how painful it is to keep waiting for you? My heart breaks every time you’ve walked out that door.” You feel the heat in your chest, emotions you swore you wouldn’t let yourself feel. “And this last time, when we—” You can’t even bring yourself to say it. A lump forms in your throat and sensing your uneasiness, Alice grunts in your arms. You look down at her. She’s the physical representation of that night. A night, up until now, you thought of fondly. Daily. It haunted your dreams as though it would play for you like a moving picture. But now…you know that you can’t go back to the way things were. You can’t pretend anymore. “I can’t do it anymore, Arthur. I…love you too much.” You’ve said it again, the same words you tried using to get him to stay. “And to think I almost died without knowing if you were still alive…”

And there it is. The hard reality of the situation. Arthur is happy to hear that you still love him, but it’s different now. Even though he had made the decision to return to you, to stay, he knows that it isn’t possible. He can’t just get down on one knee and ask you to…

He can’t. He’s failed you. By seconds, he would have lived tormented for the rest of his life. He needs to keep you and the children safe.

But where are you going to go?

No. No, he can’t do that.

But there’d be more folks to protect you and Isaac…and Alice.

But then they’d know.

Wouldn’t that be better than having you all dead?

As you both stand there, he wrestles with his indecision and you can see the contortion in his face. You aren’t sure why, or what he is thinking, but his silence after you once again told him how you feel, makes you more nervous, and the dread in the pit of your stomach builds.

“We can’t stay, Eliza.” His eyes lift to meet yours. “I’m sorry.”

We. So at least he hasn’t fully decided to abandon you. Deep down, you know he’s right. They will be back, and there will be too much attention drawn to Aspen’s Way. “Where can we go?”

His eyes look down, gliding left to right. You know he’s thinking. Is it for the words to tell you or to come up with a place? You aren’t sure, and Alice begins to grow restless in your arms. You know she’s due for a feeding soon and as you wait for Arthur to speak, you begin to feel impatient. “Arthur, where?”

His eyes lift to meet yours. Seeing the deep was in his eyes, his lifted brow, you know he’s come to an answer. “With me.”

With me? But that would mean…

Your eyes widen at the realization: he means the gang. His camp.

Years ago, you would have jumped at the chance. Like Maid Marion sneaking into the woods to find Robin Hood and his Merry Men, your curiosity couldn’t be sated. You wanted to see that part of his world, to meet the people he so fondly talked about.

But most importantly, you wanted to be with him always. To see him ride off to hunt or do whatever he set out to do, and come right back.

And back.

You wanted to see that loyalty to the gang be pressed onto you.

But that night, when he made love to you, you told him you didn’t feel that way anymore. You wanted a home of your own, a place where you weren’t moving away from whenever there was trouble, like he always seemed to do.

And now he is offering it to you. This is your option?

You start to shake your head. “What about Dutch? He doesn’t know about us. He won’t accept us.”

Arthur looks like he’s grasping for straws. “I’ll make him. Hosea he—he’ll understand.” Or at least he hopes he will. Since losing Bessie, he drinks most nights. And he usually snaps in that fox-like way when he’s angry. He’s unpredictable right now, and that is an uncomfortable thing for Arthur to admit.

“I am not going to go robbin’ or anything,” you insist.

Arthur holds up his palms. “I wouldn’t ask you to.” He pauses. “Just…come with me. You’ll be safe.”

You stare at him, unsure.

Then he adds a promise, “I’ll find you a new place. Like this one, only better.”

You narrow your eyes. “When?”

“Soon. Once we get the money.” And you see a shift in his eyes, a deep softness he gives when he looks at you lovingly. It makes you melt almost nearly time. “Let me take care of you.”

Alice begins to grunt more pointedly, she is not going to wait forever. You try to console her while you think about it.

At least he made the point to mention that it is temporary. You will have a homestead again. A place again. Aside from being gone too long, has he ever failed you?

You sigh, resigned. “Okay.”

***

The night is cool once the sun goes down, which is a welcomed feeling after coming back from the border of Mexico. But it doesn’t cool the simmering rage within the notorious gang leader, Dutch Van Der Linde.

Dutch has been getting quite impatient, as he’s eager to utilize the newest member of the gang, a brutish, grizzly of an ex-soldier named Bill, and while he’s practically incoherent when he’s drunk, he speaks well with his fists.

He was hoping that Arthur would be just as excited, but as soon as they reached the Idaho territory, everyone woke up to find him gone. His horse, and guns had gone with him.

Thinking that he was just on a routine adventure, the charismatic leader wasn’t worried. It had been some time since he had run off to only God knows where, but he noticed something that made his blood boil.

Most, if not all of Arthur’s personal effects, were gone.

He done it. He left the gang.

“It’ll be fine, Dutch,” Hosea reassures his longtime friend, resting a hand on his shoulder. This is one of his rare good days, he hasn’t touched a bottle of whiskey yet, but the night is still young. “Arthur is too loyal for his own good. He will be back before we will ever have cause to worry.”

But Dutch isn’t convinced. “He didn’t say he’d be back.”

Hosea doesn’t offer a smile, but looks at the expanse of the valley before him. “This is around the area that he always likes to take off, you know that.” But Hosea can’t lie that he, too, is a little concerned; it has been four days since Arthur left them. He tucks his chin. “He always comes back. It isn’t like he has a reason not to.” He says this with a hidden meaning, a guilt that punctuates every word.

Dutch’s eyes narrow. “Don’t blame me for Bessie, Hosea.”

Hosea takes a soft step back. So much for trying to be helpful. After everything they’ve been through, this is how he treats a friend? It is an uncomfortable shift, and while Hosea doesn’t like it, he doesn’t have the motivation, nor the desire, to try to fix it. “Well, excuse me, friend,” he says flatly. “I guess I’ll pick up where I left off…” And he turns in the direction of his crate of whiskey.

Dutch ignores the subtlety of the con man’s words. He doesn’t care for the moment. He’s more focused on the implied abandonment from his most reliable gun. Now, that man has his priorities straight. He wouldn’t let a woman get in between him and the gang. Sure, there was that fling with that Mary girl, but once he saw through the bull and wiles, Arthur was back to his old self. And since Hosea has been mourning Bessie, Dutch feels that he’s one idea short of a strong movement, and he needs Arthur with him in this time of uncertainty right now.

Of course, in the beginning, Dutch was sympathetic to Hosea’s woe, but it’s been almost a year now. Bessie was a good soul, perhaps too good, and her death hit everyone. But because of her illness, they were stuck near South America longer than he wanted to, and since the trouble they started turned out to be more than just the typical con or robbery, tension was building.

Hosea insisted that they stay put, Bessie couldn’t travel, but Dutch knew better. They had to leave. They argued for a few days.

But they didn’t have to argue for long, for their decision was made for them when Bessie passed away. A day after burying her, they packed and headed north, and finally, after several months, they reached the Idaho territory.

And now, here they are.

Dutch has since resolved that he won’t let a woman get the better of him or any of his men. Even Annabelle, whom he adores and loves every morning, noon, and night, will have to work extremely hard to get the better of this gang leader.

As Dutch continues to pace outside his tent, he hears a sharp sound from the front of the camp.

“Dutch! We got a wagon comin’ in!”

It’s Bill, boarish as ever.

John, Dutch’s young protégé, rises from the scout’s fire, grabs his gun, and runs out of the camp to join the newest recruit. But upon reaching him, he quickly puts his gun away. “Lower your gun, you idiot,” John tells Bill. “It’s Arthur.”

It’s Arthur, alright. He’d easily recognize that black leather hat, the buckskin jacket, and the…sad little cart?

John pinches his brow and lifts the corner of his upper lip. Why the hell is he driving a cart with a Suffolk Punch at the reins?

Then, after squinting his eyes, he sees his potential answer.

He sees you, sitting beside the runaway outlaw, with a little baby in your arms.

Now, John knows for a fact that they’ve done the good deed once in a while, but bringing in a woman? Well, women, sure, but a woman who ain’t the come-and-go kind? A mother and baby? What kind of good deed is this?

Bill still hasn’t lowered his gun, and with a forceful arm, the twenty year old grips the barrel and pushes it down to point at the ground. “Didn’t ya hear a thing I said?”

“What the hell is a woman doin’ here?” Bill snarls.

John, while asking himself the same question, isn’t about to let Bill interrogate his brother-in-arms. “You have no right to be askin’ him them questions, Williamson! Now, go tell Dutch to stop diggin’ a canyon in the dirt!” Bill gives him a confused look and John has to roll his eyes. He never figured the ex-soldier is as dumb as he is big. “Tell Dutch Arthur’s back!”

Bill growls. “I ain’t stupid, Jimbo.” And he turns to head back into camp.

“It’s John…!” John roars through gritted teeth, and taking a moment to compose himself, he returns to the task at hand: seeing about Arthur’s new business of rescuing maternal women.

His footfalls make little to no sound as he crosses into the tall grasses as Arthur continues to drive up. The sun has nearly gone down now, and he can barely make out their figures until they reach the glow of the camp.

Arthur looks tired. It isn’t the typical travel-tired, or battle-worn expression he will wear when fleeing or moving to the next job. This is a different expression that John has never seen.

They lock eyes. It’s definitely not an expression he’s ever seen.

“John,” Arthur greets.

What? No quip? No jab? Just a solemn hello. John’s eyes migrate to the woman, you, sitting beside the fatigued outlaw. Your eyes are soft, brown, doe-like, but it hardly takes away the intensity of your gaze. A watchful look, and it is reflected in how you hold your baby. John can’t get a good look at the baby, it is bundled too tightly in what looks to be a shawl.

But he gets a good look at the gun on your hip.

Hell, this isn’t just some regular woman. Who are you?

“Morgan,” John finally says in reply to Arthur’s greeting a moment ago. He motions to lift a finger and point it in your direction, but decides against it.

But Arthur doesn’t miss it, and so he turns his body in your direction, nearly placing a hand on the small of your back, but rests it against the back of the seat instead. “This is Eliza.”

You swallow. He has yet to introduce your two little ones.

John, unacquainted with manners, fumbles with his hat as he takes it off his head. Normally, with woman-folk, aside from the ones who live at camp, they aren’t really too picky with the men they keep for company, and so they usually skip any and all formalities. Hell, they bear no introductions and jump right to the informal actions that are reserved for the most intimate of spaces. John swallows thickly. “Erm, ma’am.”

You don’t answer. You’re still numb. Your fingers press into the shawl covering Alice, and you feel her wriggle in your arms.

That’s when you feel Arthur’s palm against your back. You nearly gasp.

“Eliza, this is John.” He doesn’t bother with the last name, he doesn’t need to.

You force a soft smile. You don’t want to make a bad first impression, especially now that you’re here. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Marston.”

John reacts surprised, his brow furrowing and his left foot moves backward. By the way you spoke, it sounds like you already know him, but he knows he’s never met or heard tale of you.

And without any further explanation, Arthur motions to get off the wagon cart. “Where’s Dutch?” he asks.

John turns around and looks into the camp. Dutch isn’t pacing by his tent anymore, he must have gone inside. The other members of the camp, Susan, Pearson, and Bill, are all standing nearby, watching.

John looks back at Arthur, who has just planted his feet on the ground. “In his tent.”

Arthur sighs. “Alright.” He looks up at you and places a hand on your arm. “Wait here, Eliza, can you do that?”

You nod softly. Isaac is still asleep in the back of the wagon, and you aren’t fixing to leave him.

And so, Arthur turns. “Let’s go, Marston.”

John, still somewhat impressionable by his superior, follows.

You regard the camp and the strangers who stare at you. You can only make assumptions based on the little things that Arthur has told you over the years, but you aren’t going to waltz over and address them by their names. Instead, you hold your baby close and turn your body to look down into the back of the wagon.

Isaac is laying down on some rolled-up blankets for comfort, his eyes closed shut and his mouth slightly agape as he sleeps. How he is still asleep after the last stretch of bumpy trails, you’ll never know, but you’re glad that he’s not in any distress. You and Arthur both have been trying to conceal the severity of your situation, he has heard too much already.

You hear voices and turn back around. It’s two distinct voices coming from the largest tent in the camp. The tent flap opens, and a woman, beautiful and in her mid-thirties, steps out. She has a shawl draped over her shoulders and by the way the others look at her, it is clear she holds some importance. You can’t seem to put a name to her round face. Who is she?

She tucks her long, dark brown hair away from her face and she looks at you.

Her gaze isn’t imposing, or judgmental. It is soft and observant. She says something to the onlookers and they seem to go about their business.

You suddenly hear a rise in voices behind the tent. And then a booming voice, not Arthur’s, roars from within. “You did WHAT…?!”

The tent opens in a frenzy, and out storms a tall man, with dark hair, and in imposing posture.

And Arthur, eyes aflame, follows after him. “Dutch, you leave her out of this!”

So, this is Dutch. Dutch Van Der Linde in the flesh. The man with the plans, schemes, and dreams.

He turns on his heels, facing Arthur. “Leave her out of it?” He points a bejeweled finger in your direction, and you feel the hairs on the back of your neck rise. It is then that you recognize him, those rings catching the firelight open up a series of memories, one being of the two men you served at the restaurant years ago. Two men, looking for information on the bank. Dutch was one of those men.

It all makes sense now.

Dutch continues, “You mean to tell me you’ve had this woman, bring her here, and expect me to keep her out of this?!”

Arthur, clearly flustered, snaps back. “She ain’t done nothin’ wrong! I had no choice but to bring ‘er here.”

“And why’s that, boy? By the looks of it, she ain’t the sort to be bringin’ around folk like us, especially how you come back with your tail between your legs.” Dutch studies Arthur, cocking his head to the left. “Go on, tell these hard-workin’ folks what you’ve brought to us.”

Arthur swallows. He had never intended for Dutch to know, or any of them to know, for that matter. He can tell by the sudden hush in camp that all work has stopped to ensure that what Arthur says will be heard loud and clear. He knows that they will know sooner or sooner.

But he wants to fight that reality. “Dutch…”

“Go on, Arthur.” There is a pregnant pause, which infuriates Dutch all the more. “SAY IT…!”

A vein bulges in Arthur’s neck, but he soon answers. “My children and their mama.”

There is a collective silence, and a soft gasp from the two women who were eyeing you earlier. They look at you and you clutch your baby tighter.

Dutch grins, but not the kind that gives off true joy, but of victory. “And after abandoning us, you just expect me to accept them with open arms?”

While that may be true, Arthur has too much pride to admit it. “Who says I left?”

“Don’t try to play ignorant, boy.” And he points a finger in Arthur’s chest. “You better figure out where your loyalties lie, or you will be playin’ a different sort of game.”

Arthur doesn’t flinch, showing no sigh of fear. “I’m here now, ain't I?”

Dutch scoffs, opening his arms. “Ah, see? There it is! Arthur Morgan, the one man I can really count on, had gone off and betrayed us! And now, he expects me to just let him have his way?” He may be shouting into the night for all to hear, but he has no intention of having his question answered. Then his face darkens as he looks Arthur dead in the eyes. “They cannot stay here.”

Arthur blinks, trading his cold resolve for a simple plea. “Dutch, they have nowhere else to go…! You can’t just—”

“They. Can. Not. Stay. Here….!!”

“They aren’t goin’ anywhere, Dutch.”

Arthur and Dutch turn and follow the line of everyone’s gaze as they look upon another unfamiliar but familiar face to you, a lean, older-looking man, as he carefully walks towards them. He holds a bottle of whiskey in his hand, and while his steps are sure-footed, you can tell that the man has had a couple of drinks. By the lean frame, and confidence in his speech, you can tell that this is none other than the Hosea Matthews...and the man who accompanied Dutch at the restaurant.

Dutch’s eyes narrow. “What did you say?”

Hosea stops and takes a big swig of the bottle before answering. “You are going to tell me you are above mercy? This is Arthur’s flesh and blood we are talkin’ about, here…! You’re going to turn them away?”

Dutch’s voice softens, if but only to show annoyance. “Go to bed, Hosea, you’re drunk.”

Hosea’s eyes flash a lightning-hot rage, and he throws his bottle into the ground, the ground soft enough to where it doesn’t shatter. “I’m not drunk enough! Arthur has come back seeking our aid and you’re too stuck on your own pride to grant him this one thing. He’s never asked for anything, but has always done as he was bid.” He points at Arthur. “Don’t you think he had reason to keep this part of his life a secret? Look at what you’re doin’ now!”

Dutch looks around him. These people, these carpetbaggers and dreamers, they all look up to him and suddenly, he fears that is being called into question. At first, he was sure they would side with him. After all, Arthur was fixing to abandon them. To leave them, all for a woman and two whelps. But now that Hosea has opened his mouth, and looking at their faces…

He can see it. Compassion. Sympathy. Mercy.

And suddenly, a soft hand enters his, causing his breath to hitch. Turning his neck, he looks into the green eyes that he knows all too well.

“It’s as you say,” Annabelle begins gently. “Save those as need savin’, shoot those as need shootin’, and feed those as need feedin’.”

But he can’t just cave in, not at the pleadings of Hosea nor from his lover.

He maintains his scowl. “They can stay. For now.” He looks intensely at Arthur. “They are out of my hands. You will take care of them.”

And Arthur challenges him right back with a look of his own. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

And with that, Dutch makes his way back into his tent, trying to pull Annabelle with him, but she gently wrings her hand free. He halts in his steps looking at her and she softly shakes her head. “In a minute, my dear.”

He doesn’t answer and instead goes into his tent without another word.

Annabelle, waiting a moment, turns and goes to Arthur. Looking into his eyes, she links an arm with his. “Let me meet this family of yours,” she says with a smile.

Arthur, still surprised by the streak of kindness after all that, wordlessly walks towards you as you remain in the wagon.

You’ve watched the entire exchange without as much as a peep from your lips. You’ve seen the dynamic of the gang in just twenty minutes, and you now see what it has done to Arthur. He was in the highest part of Dutch’s cast system, and now he has lowered himself to that of a new recruit.

And he had left them. All for you. Was he really leaving? Was he really intending to stay with you in Aspen’s Way?

You so desperately want to ask him, to have your deepest wishes confirmed, even though they are clearly out of your reach now. You want him to tell you that he loves you, all of these years he’s never said it, it would mean something now.

Annabelle and Arthur reach you and she slips her arm out from under Arthur’s. She gives you a smile and stands right next to you.

“Hello,” she says. “I’m Annabelle. Dutch’s woman.”

You blink. “I’m Eliza.”

“Eliza,” she repeats. “Lovely name for a lovely young mother.” She holds up her hands. “Do you need someone to hold your baby so you can get off the wagon?”

You look up to Arthur, seeking feedback. He notices, and nods his head. “It’s alright.”

And seeing that Annabelle is showing kindness, you’re tempted to accept. Carefully adjusting Alice in your hands, you hand over the baby and Annabelle takes her with a familiarity. You wonder if she’s had children of her own. You have yet to see any.

But if you’d think a little longer, you’d realize that there is a rule against babies and small children in camp.

Annabelle takes a step back with Alice in her arms and she begins to rock her. She looks down at your daughter fondly. “What is her name?”

Arthur answers, saying her name for the first time. “Alice Elizabeth.”

Annabelle clicks her tongue. “Ah, a beautiful name.” She looks up at Arthur. “Her initials will look a lot like yours, won’t they, Arthur?”

Huh, he hadn’t really thought of that. “I guess they do.” He steps around Annabelle to get to you, and offers his arms. “Let me help you down.”

You nod and bend over to support yourself by resting your hands on his arms. His large hands take you by the waist and with a quick motion, he helps you to your feet. Not letting the moment linger, he removes his hands and goes to the back of the wagon.

Arthur leans over it, and sees his sleeping boy. His eyes soften. Such an innocent life, so fragile, and he can’t help but feel that he’s failing him again by bringing him here.

Arthur reaches down into the wagon and gently jostles the boy. “Isaac…”

And just like that, Isaac begins to stir, arching his back to stretch and scrunching his face. When his little, brown eyes squint open to see his father, he whimpers. “Oh, Daddy…”

Arthur can feel his heart melting away. He so desperately wanted to keep the tough facade he’s maintained in the gang, but how can he keep being cold towards his son? He just can’t do it. He reaches and scoops his son under the arms and picks him up carefully. He brings Isaac close to him and supporting Isaac underneath his arm and bottom, Isaac rests his head in the crook of Arthur’s neck. Arthur, without giving it a second thought, cups the back of his son’s head and kisses the boy’s cheek. Arthur locks eyes with you and you feel your own heart melting.

You turn and face Annabelle, holding out your arms to take your baby back. She gives her up willingly and you look Alice over. She’s still peacefully asleep. Peacefully unaware that her life has changed forever.

Arthur comes up beside you. “Follow me.” And he walks into the camp. You remain close by his side, seeking comfort and protection in his presence as eyes continue to stare at you.

John, while being like a stray dog, isn’t a stranger to your cue and turns to the old man and Bill who stand nearby. “What’re you gawkin’ at?! Don’t you got some beer drink and a post to guard?” He begins pushing the old man off and Bill turns away, clutching his gun like a lost treasure.

Annabelle, who’s following close behind, looks over to another woman. “Susan, do we have any spare blankets? Or a tent?”

Mrs. Grimshaw. Arthur has only mentioned her to you a few times, but you see how she matches his characterization of her. You can tell beneath the age that threatens her skin, she was a beautiful woman in her time. She’s older than Annabelle, to be sure, and you wonder why she’s still around.

Susan nods. “I will check the wagon. Doubt we have a tent, but we sure got some blankets…” and she turns on her heels and walks between two tents and to the wagon, which is parked behind them.

Arthur leads you to a wagon that has a canvas covering set up as a tent on one of its sides. Arthur lifts the flap and backs up to let you in first. “This is…where you can sleep for now.”

It’s then you realize that this is his tent. His place. After leaving his gaze, you duck your head slightly and enter.

The space is small. There is a cot on the left and a set of crates that act like a makeshift wall. A small table stands beside the cot, and several small items rest on it. A lantern hangs on one of the posts and casts an orange glow about the space. You figure you and Issac can sleep together on the cot. You need to get Alice’s cradle from the back of the wagon.

But that leaves another person. You turn around to see Arthur enter the space, Isaac still sleeping on his chest. “Where will you sleep?” you ask, the first words you’ve said to him in hours.

He looks around, as though he can conjure up something by just looking at the floor. “I will sleep outside. I don’t mind.”

You aren’t sure how you feel about that answer. He’s the only person you know here, and after everything that has happened, even with the tension between you, you find that you still desire his company, his safety. “Can’t you…?” you begin, your voice fading into the night as you can’t decide whether to ask him or not. You watch him as he holds his son, your son, and the way his hand is gently rubbing the boy’s back as he sleeps. He’s been such a good father when he’s present and now that you’ll be seeing each other more often, you can’t help but find some sort of happiness for Isaac.

You haven’t finished your sentence in a minute, and Arthur begins to grow curious. He wants to please you, to make things less stressful than they already are. “Can’t I what?”

Your eyes look down, the light catching your eyelashes. You’re a beautiful picture there, like old paintings Arthur has seen in wealthy houses he’s robbed. The way the shadows are cast in the folds of your blouse and the ruffles of your skirt. The glow of the light on your skin and the forehead of your baby. If he were a painter, but he’s only a mere man with a pencil, he’d set up an easel and begin the first paint stroke on the canvas right here.

“Can you…” you begin again. “…stay here? With us?”

His heart beats a little faster at that question. But surely, you don’t mean exactly that. “You mean…in here?”

You shrug, and your baby stirs. Her face scrunches and she begins to whimper. You wish you knew what time it was, but it has been hours since she was last fed.

Arthur knows that cry and he begins to go to the cot and lower Isaac down. “I’ll bring your things in here.” And he turns around to leave, closing the flap behind him.

You look down at the sleeping form of your son, blissfully unaware he’s no longer in his father’s embrace. Carefully positioning yourself, you sit down beside him and hurry to unbutton your blouse while Alice continues to get fussy. After hearing Dutch’s outburst, the last thing you want is to give him something to complain about, regardless of who may be on your side.

You manage to unbutton your blouse with one hand and once your chest is bare, you are able to nurse your daughter. Her cries are muffled and soon she makes contented feeding sounds. You gently rock her, humming the lullaby you’ve always hummed to soothe her. There is ample privacy from the confines of Arthur’s tent, but it isn’t soundproof. You begin to worry. This isn’t going to be just one night. This is going to be multiple days and multiple nights, however many it will be before you either find a new place, or Dutch kicks you out.

But if you have learned anything from the last five years, it is that you are capable of making something out of nothing. You will make it through this.

But what about Arthur? What does this mean for him?

Your thoughts have you drowning so deep that you don’t notice the flap pulling back again. Arthur steps inside, carrying the baby cradle with some blankets inside. He sees you, eyes cast downward to your daughter, his daughter, as she feeds. Her eyelids are growing heavy, and her chubby little fingers are wrapped around your sole forefinger. He steps inside and lets the flap fall behind him, enshrouding you both in privacy once again.

It has been a while since he’s seen you like this. When Isaac was just a baby. He remembers drawing you in a familiar position, and it felt more sacredly intimate than any other time he had drawn you before. It was the first drawing he had shown you, and feeling shy for asking, his face was nearly pink when he asked if you were okay with being drawn like that. But you smiled, and said you didn’t mind.

You finally notice him at the corner of your eye, and you lift your head to look at him. You don’t rush to find something to cover you. You just sit there, doing the most natural thing you can do as a mother.

He clears his throat and motions to set the cradle down just in front of the table. “Do you want this here?”

You nod softly, your voice low and gentle. “That’s fine, thank you.”

He rises and pulls down on his jacket. “Well…erm…you hungry or somethin’?”

You shake your head. “Not really.”

He looks at Isaac. He’s surprised the boy is still out cold. “It’s been a long day for him,” he says out loud without realizing it.

“Yes, it has.”

His eyes return to you and your bare shoulder, the loose strands of your hair, your calloused hands though gentle they seem as they cradle the nursing babe. You’ve worked too hard and too long, and yet you’re working still.

“Is there anythin’ else I can do for you?” he asks quietly. He, too, is aware of the level of privacy behind his tent. That’s why he takes to traveling out on his own, and keeping thoughts to his journal. Otherwise, everything is out in the open. But now, everyone knows his greatest weakness. It’s only a matter of time before it is used against him.

You shake your head. “Just get yourself some rest, Arthur. You look tired.”

He nods. He probably looks horrible. He looks down at his blue shirt, the one you made for him. You had put a lot of effort into making it, a lot of love into every stitch.

And now there are specks of blood on it. He didn’t even notice until now. And neither did you.

A soft “oh” escapes your lips as you cast your eyes on the red that is scattered over the light blue.

“I’m—I’m sorry,” he manages to say.

You look away to Alice, who has fed from all that she can and before she can get too fussy, you switch sides and continue feeding her. “I can wash it,” you sigh. “Get some rest, Arthur. I’ll be up a while longer.”

He wants to ask you if you still want him to…no, he can’t possibly ask you again. After all, you just said to get some rest. There isn’t any place for him to sleep.

He sighs, feeling the weight of the day on his shoulders. “Okay.” And he turns around to leave.

“Oh, you are comin’ back, aren’t you?”

He stops and looks over his shoulder. “Come back?”

You swallow thickly, the uneasiness of your heart betraying your desire to remain closed-hearted. “I can’t…I can’t bear to take your tent and not have you use it.”

He turns his full body back around. “It ain’t right to leave you with nothin’, Eliza.” He looks at the cot. “There ain’t room for me in here.”

You blush, he means to sleep with you on the cot? If you got real close you could manage it, but what would that mean? What does all of this mean?

You heard what Dutch said. Arthur had meant to leave and not come back. He admitted to the very deed.

He was running back to you. To do what?

You swallow. “Maybe if we…” you look over to the cot. “But Isaac…” and then you look back up at him. He sees those pools of brown. Those mud-stained amber stones that warm his soul. He sees those pleading eyes. He knows you don’t want him to leave.

And neither does he, but what does this mean for the two of you? Can you both move past this and leave things as they are?

He reaches behind his neck and scratches his scalp. “I guess I can sleep here on the ground. Lay my sleepin’ roll down and keep my head up by the cradle.”

“You’re too long, Arthur.”

He waves off the notion. “I don’t always sleep sprawled out. It’ll be fine.”

He sees you relax, a smile barely forming on your lips. “I guess you’re right.” You remember the colder nights where he’d be balled up, and you’d sneak another blanket on top of him. You wish for those nights again.

He turns back around. “Gotta get my sleepin’ roll off Boadicea.”

“Okay,” you quietly say, and watch him go.

***

Arthur makes it a few feet away from his tent when he hears a low cackle. Looking over towards the fire, he sees Bill, sitting on the log next to the fire. Everyone else has clearly gone to bed, so Arthur gets the impression that the boar was waiting for him.

“You wanna tell me what’s so damned funny?” Arthur asks with a growl.

Bill reaches his hands toward the fire to warm them. As his face nears the glow, the smirk is clearly planted in his expression. “Just never thought Dutch’s boys were a bunch of sissies.”

Arthur feels his hackles rise. “Never took you for a thinker, Williamson.”

This is enough to catch Bill off guard and enough to grow angry. He quickly rises to his feet, revealing a more agile nature that is quite the antonym for his size. “What did you just say to me?”

Arthur is not in the mood for a fight, not when he’s tired and in enough hot water already. “If you didn’t hear the first time, ain’t gonna bother to repeat it. Go back on guard duty like you were supposed to.”

He doesn’t bother to wait for a response and continues walking.

But he hears a growl behind him. “I don’t take orders from you, deserter! You’ll get what’s yours when Dutch comes to his senses…!”

Arthur clenches his jaw and his fists. Normally, if any man so as much as spat in his direction, he would take it as an invitation for a fight. In his younger days, it was a fine way to show off, to impress any new members, or to prove his status in the gang. But now, as he’s gotten older, he’s learned to be more patient, and to keep his strength in check. Let it be the one thing that his opponent underestimates. That’s the best course of action, especially now, when only but a few feet away his children and you are hidden away in his tent.

They don’t need another act of violence tonight.

He reaches Boadicea, who is still tied to the end of the wagon. He reaches her head and strokes her forelock slowly. “I’m sorry, girl,” he says quietly. “Didn’t think all that would take so long.” He goes to work at removing the reins from its knot and begins to lead her toward the other horses that are loose together and grazing. He doesn’t remove her bridle, but decides to take off her saddle. The leather creaks in a comforting way, and he watches Boadicea’s ears as they pivot and move in the direction of its sound. She snorts happily, freedom and rest only a few moments away.

“Almost done there, girl,” he chuckles. “You was never patient.” And after another moment or two, the saddle is off of her back. Resting it down in a convenient place, Boadicea lumbers over to the other horses. Arthur goes to work at removing his sleeping roll and tucks it under his arm.

“You ready to retire for the night?”

The voice nearly spooks him and he turns around quickly. “Hosea?” he asks.

“It’s me, Arthur.”

He sighs. “You shoah scared me.” Hosea steps into the light, revealing dark circles under his bloodshot eyes. “Hell, Hosea…”

“I’m fine, Arthur.”

“It‘ll take more than that to convince me.”

Hosea smiles, and a sense of calm comes over Arthur. He’s always loved Dutch like a father, but he can’t help but love Hosea a little more. He seems more human, more about people just as much as he is about staying alive. Hosea treats him like a son, he and Bessie both did.

Oh, Bessie, if only she hadn’t left them all. Hosea is clearly lost without her, even though he came through for Arthur tonight.

“Worry about yourself, you look like a deer carcass.”

Arthur tucks his chin. “I ruined Eliza’s shirt.”

Hosea points a finger at it. “I was wondering where you got it. You came back to camp all saddened, like you just came back from a funeral.”

“It was the last day I saw her,” Arthur explains. “She gave it to me the night before…” He looks up at Hosea. “I had to go, Hosea. Dutch kept sayin’ we was all leavin’ and Eliza weren’t gonna go with me. I wanted…I wanted…” he lets his voice fall. “It don’t matter.”

“Why did you bring her here, son?”

“Robbers. Call themselves the Calico Bandits. Nearly shot Eliza and our little ones, if I were only a second late...”

“My god.”

“I couldn’t leave them there. I killed those men, and it would’ve all been—”

“I understand, son. You did what you thought was right.”

But Arthur feels uncertain. When he usually makes a decision, it’s usually with great confidence. In a fight or stressful situation, he can think of a way out on a dime, it’s how he’s been raised. Not this time. His brow furrows and he feels a tightness in his chest. “But is it best? To have brought ‘em here with Dutch bein’ so angry?”

But Hosea doesn’t immediately reply. It could be because half of the whiskey bottle is still settling in his stomach or that he doesn’t have an answer. And either option is still left in the dark when he speaks again. “Were you really going to leave us?”

And Arthur, too, goes quiet for a few seconds, before he answers calmly. “What would you say if I was?”

There is something in Hosea’s eyes, in the dimmed light. A convicted softness, as his eyes lift and look into the darkness before them. “I’d say you’ve learned much at a better bargain than the rest of us.” And before he will give himself the chance to offer an explanation, he rests a hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “Goodnight, son,” and he turns to head in the direction of his tent.

Arthur thinks he knows what he means, but he doesn’t want to believe it. Would Hosea really have left the gang for Bessie? Sure, he did leave years ago, but was only gone for a year before they both came back.

He remembers how Bessie was, even though she smiled, there was a sadness in her eyes. Hosea lit up her world as though he were the sun itself, but when he left her presence, the moon in her eyes grew dim.

Now, Arthur isn’t an astronomer or anything, but he figures if one were without the other, everything would just fall apart. He has enough evidence from the last ten months to come to that conclusion.

After unhitching your Suffolk Punch, named Farm Boy, and letting him graze with the others, he lumbers his way back to his tent. Lifting away the flap, his eyes immediately gravitate to where he left you. You’re laying down on your side, Issac pulled towards you, and a single blanket covers the both of you. He looks over to the crib, and still in your shawl and a knitted blanket, lays Alice.

He exhales slowly. Alice, his daughter. He knows how she came to be here. Does he feel regret? Guilt? Perhaps. Only for the fact that he would have been too late.

Too late.

He gets to work at unwraveling his bed roll, the opening at the foot of Alice’s cradle. Knowing its a cooler night, as they usually are in this part of the country, he takes another blanket and lays it over you and your son. He pauses a moment and after hesitating, he bends down and kisses Isaac atop his head. “I love you, son.”

Backing away carefully, he goes to the ground on his knees, looking over the cradle. He sees her still form, her little breaths in the rise and fall of her chest, and how her arms are up close by her face. Such a little thing.

“Alice…” he whispers so quiet, that he can hardly hear it. He reaches a tentative hand into the cradle and carefully adjusts her blanket. Her hand suddenly falls and her fingers take his pinky. He feels the tightness of her grip and also the chokehold on his heart.

He feels a lump in his throat, a choking feeling as the tightness in his chest makes his body go rigid. His eyes begin to sting, and he hates himself for it.

Get ahold of yourself, Morgan! he chastises himself.

But he finds himself going weaker and weaker, and seeing the soft smile on his daughter’s face, he gives into the swell, sobbing into his hand as he covers his eyes.

“I’m so sorry…” he cries, trembling. “So sorry.”

And while struggling to speak, he makes the promise to do right by her and that she and Isaac will never have to wonder who or where their father is, ever again.

Thank you for reading!

Would you like me to post the next chapter? Leave a comment if you’d like the next one! :D

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