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say-hwaet · 28 days ago

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If I Had to Do it All Again

Chapter Six: Eyes Like Mine Next Chapter: Seven Summary: Arthur makes a trip into town, hoping to help alleviate some of Eliza's burdens and we also get a taste of Eliza' and Arthur's shared past... Warnings: Mature themes, language, spice, MDNI Word Count: ~13,500 A/N: I want to preface this with the note that I am using parts from my headcanon fanfic "Red Dead Revelation: A Good Thing" for the flashbacks. Granted the POV is altered and it has more detail and moments that weren't in the story, but I just couldn't help myself. I just love the story and I can't bring myself to reimagine Eliza and Arthur's relationship and how it was formed, etc. There's also quite a bit of spice up in here. As for the scene where Arthur and Eliza are intimate for the first time, I thought about continuing it, but I think it's nice where it ended. Would you rather have had me keep going? Let me know your thoughts!

There she is, Arthur thinks to himself. Just as fresh and brown-eyed as he last saw you. You’re calmer, but still anxious as before, your eyes focused on the path in front of you, not even realizing he has been leaning against the hitching post by the sheriff’s office. You just stepped out from the mercantile empty-handed, coming out as quickly as you went in.

A gust of icy wind comes up, blowing your worn scarf right off your neck. “Not again…!” you groan and nearly bump into a man as you chase after it.

Arthur feels a warmth in his belly. He never thought he’d be this excited to see you. You were a sweet, young, curious creature. A beautiful girl who interested him. You made him feel like a hero after he rescued you and it felt good to feel important after the sick blow to his heart a couple of years ago. It was about time someone noticed him, saw something different in him.

But you didn’t know. You didn’t know that he is a wanted man. An outlaw. A vagabond.

And that was the reason he had to leave.

He wanted to give you a proper goodbye. He wasn’t sure he could promise to see you again, but if he could have left you with a kiss, more for his memory than for yours, maybe you’d come to forgive him and maybe forget him.

But even after a year, he couldn’t shake you out of his mind. He hasn’t stopped thinking about you.

So, after a series of robberies and plans, he found the time to sneak away and return to Utah territory.

He can’t stay too long, but he wants it to be long enough. Long enough to explain it all to you.

His smile broadens as he struts down the open street, walking up behind you. He can’t wait to surprise you, to see your reaction as he calls out to you.

“Hey, brown eyes.”

Just as you pick up your scarf, you shoot straight up and he hears you hold your breath. Turning slowly, your eyes meet.

You just stare at him, pale-faced and dumbfounded.

He chortles, resting his hands on his gun belt. "Ain’t you gonna say hello?" He can feel the tension building between you but he needs to keep his confidence. But what did he expect? Did he really expect you to come running to him? Maybe. Maybe deep down that’s what he really came here for. To see if you really missed him after all.

But you still stare at him, and slowly, your eyebrows furrow.

Oh, hell. She’s mad, he thinks to himself.

He loses his smile and hurriedly takes a step toward you. "Look, I'm sorry–"

"No," you interject with an open palm. "Don't. I should go." You turn to walk away.

No. No. No. He can’t let it go like this. Not like the last time. He messed up then, thinking he could kiss you. But it became clear that you didn’t feel that way. After all, a door slamming in his face would be enough to wake anyone up.

He quickly catches up to you and takes your hand. You whip around to look at him quickly, giving him a sharp glare.

He swallows and speaks quietly to you, not wanting to make a scene. The last thing he needs is attention and trouble. "Come with me. I need to talk to you," he whispers.

Your eyes meet and he can already feel the pull in your arm lessening. Your eyes soften, those beautiful doe-like eyes. He might be able to see stars in them if he stares long enough.

And if he wasn’t listening, he wouldn’t have heard the soft, “okay” parting from your lips.

He starts to lead you gently, back towards his horse, and you follow. His heart beats a little more steady now. He just needs to find someplace quiet so that there are no nosey ears.

Once you both reach the horse, and your eyes fall on her, your eyes brighten. "Boadicea...!" you greet quietly, but still unable to contain the excitement in your voice.

Arthur can’t help but smile. "You remembered."

Eager to get going, he puts his hands about your waist, and you gasp softly. "Oh!" But you don’t resist him, so he hoists you up onto Boadicea’s back with ease. Once he makes sure you’re sitting comfortably, he steps sideways and reaches up for the saddle horn. Gripping it tightly, he hoists himself up, careful not to kick you as he swings his leg over.

"Hold onto me," he says low and soft as he looks at you over his shoulder. He waits and feels your hands glide across his sides, followed by your arms as you wrap them about his torso. His heart flutters a bit, almost instinctively and he clears his throat to jostle his thoughts.

With a quick tap of his spurs, Boadicea gallops through the street, avoiding pedestrians with ease.

After what feels like a long ride, Arthur pulls the reins and Boadicea comes to a smooth stop. He checks your surroundings, seeing the expanse of the mountain landscape before him from the top of the hill where he stopped. There are a couple trees nearby and he figures he can either tie Boadicea off or let her wander around to graze.

He tries to dismount but finds you still holding onto him for dear life, your face buried in his back. He laughs and pats your hands. "You can let go now, Eliza."

He feels you untuck your head away from his wool coat and look around. You're quiet for a moment, no doubt looking around to see where he’s taken you. “I've never been here before."

"I figured you don't get out much."

"No..." you sigh, inspired by the view. "It's beautiful."

When he feels you let him go, he gets off with a smooth motion. Coming around to the side where your legs are hanging off, he extends his arms out to you. You scoot forward, leaning over and placing your hands on his shoulders.

You feel how muscular he is as he takes you by the waist and eases you down. You avoid eye contact, lest he see right through you, as you back away. Your eyes continue to avoid his gaze as you walk toward the couple of trees on the hill. Approaching a tall aspen, you wrap your arms around it and press your body into it as you cast your eyes upon the horizon.

Arthur feels the urge to go near you, envying that damned tree, but he waits a minute and looks at you. There is something different about you. That liveliness that he has grown fond of is now like a flame dying out. He thought he could still see a glimmer in your eyes, when you stared at him in that muddy, ice covered street, as though it was just waiting for something to help it break through.

But he knows he had something to do with it. You didn't part amicably, even though he tried. He wishes that he told you that he was leaving, but you would've asked why. And the why isn't something easy to swallow.

And you, through the silence, begin to wonder about why he brought you here.

He must be married...or have a family, you think. That's what he wants to tell me. Why else would he bring me out all this way?

He wants you to look at him, to say something. The tension building is unbelievable!

He can bear it no longer. He unclenches his fists and takes calm steps toward you. You keep your face towards the sun, your back to him as you still cling onto that tree.

"Eliza,” he speaks softly. He’s only ever used that voice with you. He can’t find it in him to be gruff or intimidating, something he has been trained to do. It’s what he’s done to get his way, just intensify his gaze and point a gun, and boom, he gets what he wants.

But he can’t do that with you, even if he wanted to. He has to wait, like a starving animal, hoping that he gets a crumb of your attention.

Answering his hopes, you finally let go of the tree and turn around. Those eyes, those beautiful, brown eyes can peer into his soul, he knows it.

So it is best to come clean. “I wanna tell you the truth. I haven't been fully honest wit’chu." You don’t say anything, your eyes simply blinking. He takes off his hat and plays with its rim nervously. "My name ain’t Tacitus Kilgore.” He looks down and licks his chapped lips, trying to will the words to come out. He’s already started so he knows that he can’t back out now. “It's Arthur. Arthur Morgan. I...lied to you because...because I'm a wanted man."

He sees your eyes widen for a second and you take a step back. Arthur feels his shoulders droop. Here it comes.

You lift your eyes as you lean back into the tree, your hands behind your back. He doesn’t feel like anything he can add will ease the news, so he just stands there, waiting expectantly.

“What did you do?" you ask quietly.

He’s had an answer prepared for such a question. It is the truth, but maybe not all of it. "Rob the rich. They don't need it and so we take it for the ones that do."

Your brow pinches. "Who's 'we?'"

"Our gang. There's...four of us.” Four men. Then there’s Susan, but she’s another story. “We had to leave on account of our trail bein’ picked up. That's why I was gone."

Your brow pinches even tighter, your freckled face wrinkled as your eyes cast downward and look from left to right. You’re thinking. Was it something he said? Of course, it was. You are recalling something, the evidence of deep thought in your expression. Then, suddenly, your eyes widen and your chin lifts to look at him again. "It was you, wasn't it?" you ask pointedly.

"Was what?"

"The Bank of Lee and Hoyt."

So you know. Word travels fast, so it would make sense that you would have heard by now. "...Yes."

"Why are you telling me this?" Your eyebrows furrow and you walk a few steps away from him, turning your back to look at the landscape. "It would have been easier for you to just never come back. Now that I know who you are..."

Now, he’s worried. Serves him right for thinking that things would be different. He should know better than to get his hopes up, especially when it comes to women. "You're not going to say anythin’, are you?" he dares to ask.

You look back at him over your shoulder. He studies your face, hoping to get some kind of hint as to what you’re thinking. What you’re feeling. The seconds feel like minutes as they pass between you. He has to wait for an answer. He needs to know how much time he has to pack up his things and leave.

But it is then that you shake your head slowly, a hint of a soft smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. "No."

He grins slightly, relieved of your answer. He ventures to walk closer to you and you don’t move.

Your eyes follow his movements carefully. "Did you kill anyone?" you ask.

"At the bank?"

"Yes."

He shakes his head, happy to tell you the answer. "No, I didn't. But that don't mean that I won't shoot those as need shootin’."

Your brow pinches in the most curious way again. "But why?"

Arthur sighs, empathetic to your innocent questions. You’re so innocent, so pure hearted, not altered by the world’s cruelty, at least to his knowledge. Even so, he’s confident you don’t hold a candle to his woes. Your life is too simple. "There's somethin’ you need to understand about the world we live in—and I've been in a large portion of it.” You both stand near toe to toe now, the smoke of your breath reaching his chest as he looks down at you. “This world is corrupt by greed and people starvin’ for power. Think about the war."

You nod. You weren’t born until after it ended, but that doesn’t mean you are ignorant of it. Bessie told you about the tragedy of her husband, how he was never the same when he came back and only found death as a cure to his agony, leaving a wife and son in its wake. War lasts long after it’s over. Arthur doesn’t doubt you’ve heard stories from your coworkers or even your folks when they were alive.

Arthur continues, "I don't have to tell you how unfair it is that many go hungry and without while a small few get to live it up in their fancy houses. So we got to do somethin’ about it."

It is then that your lips purse together, pouting, and your eyes flicker in anger, though your voice still calm. "And robbing banks is the way to do it? Poor people had their money stored in that bank.” You press a hand into your chest, right over your heart. “People I know."

But Arthur isn’t persuaded. He’s been raised to think the way he does. He lived with the short end of the stick for years, living hand to mouth when all he had were scraps from trash cans and a dead mother and father. What right does anyone have to take more than what’s due them? He steps toward you, sweeping his arm at the expanse of the landscape. "Do you really think it's theirs anymore once they give it to ‘em? Should the world fail, do you think they'd just give it back?"

You don’t answer. You don’t know how. He sees the puzzled look on your face and reaches for you. You don’t move away, and so he takes you by the arms and looks you in the eyes, those beautiful, earthen eyes. "You see, Eliza, I believe that there’s gonna be a day when we ain’t bound by man-made laws and greed. Where we can be free to explore and live in an untamed wilderness. We've become too civilized and with that comes more evils than ever was. We wasn't ever meant to live surrounded by stone and brick."

Your lip trembles and your eyes glisten as they look down again. You’re overwhelmed, ideas and thoughts running through your head at a hundred miles an hour. "Why are you telling me all this?"

"Just so you can understand my life and what it is."

You look back up at him and as you blink, little tears trickle down your ruddy cheeks. "But why does it matter whether I do or not? You could have carried on as though you were never here.” You look away and wipe the tears with the back of your hand. “Yet, you still came back."

You’re right. For whatever reason, and he isn’t sure he will ever truly know, he came back. "Yes, I did."

He still holds onto you but lessens his grip. You move your arms and grab both sides of his coat collar and tug on it for a moment. You stroke the wool of his coat as though it were dusty as you run through the thoughts in your head. He remains still, letting you have your thoughts and to keep them.

All he can think about is how deeply he’s entangled in this life, and how dragging you into it could very well be his greatest sin. Yet, here he is, unable to stay away, drawn back to you as if roped and tied by some unseen force. He knows he cares for you. You are different from most of the women that he has known in his life. More different than the one who broke his heart a couple of years ago, a woman who couldn't love him for who he was.

Perhaps a part of him had hoped that by sharing his worldview, you might see the appeal of it. Maybe take the chance that Mary was never willing to. He wants to prove to himself that it is possible. He can have both. Love and Liberty.

You flatten your lips as you try to suppress more tears. You don’t want to come across as immature and stupid. You haven’t cried in months, you wouldn't allow yourself to do it, and now you are trying all that you can and feel yourself weakening.

Arthur remains silent. The way you clutch at his coat and choke on tears shows him how this all affects you. He begins to wonder if he should leave you alone. He's putting you at risk for even telling you his name.

"I missed you," you sob as you lean into him and bury your face in his chest.

Arthur can feel something in his chest. Here is this young, beautiful woman who is opening her heart to him. He is scared, though he'd never admit it, but he is willing to try to let you in.

With a hesitant sigh, you slowly wrap your arms around him, your face still hidden in the crook of his neck. You feel his warmth seeping into your body as he leans into your embrace, his strong arms enveloping you in a gentle hold. It's like being cocooned in a safe haven, protected from the outside world.

In response to your touch, he tightens his grip and presses his lips against the top of your head, his resistance to touching you breaking down slowly. Time stands still as you both hold each other tightly, cherishing this quiet moment between the two of you. "I...I missed you, too," he admits.

"Really?" your muffled voice sounds.

He moves away, revealing your sweet face to him. He smiles and uses his right hand to lift your chin. And then he sees them: those brown, doe-like eyes of yours. You make a small, sweet smile and the feeling in his heart swells. "Really," he answers.

You place your hands behind his neck and pull him to you.

And you kiss.

The world seems to hold its breath as your lips meet. Time stands still, suspended in the air around you. He lifts you up with a gentle strength and pulls you closer, his kiss enveloping you in warmth. His senses heighten as he inhales the familiar scent of you, amplifying the intensity of the moment. Your arms instinctively wrap around his neck, drawing him even nearer to you. The outside world fades away as you melt into the embrace, each second feeling like an eternity of bliss. He can feel your heart pounding, even with all of the thickness of the layers you both wear. Can you feel his? Maybe it wouldn’t be too bad if you could.

After a moment of bliss, you part, gasping for air.

"You missed me that much?" Arthur exhales. You only giggle. "I'll take that as a yes."

You nod vehemently, completely at a loss for words.

***

Arthur pulls the reins gently and Boadicea comes to a halt. He pauses a moment to watch as the sun continues to rise and peek its way through the surrounding trees and in between the buildings of this small town. He left pretty early this morning, managing to slip out from under you as you had slept in his arms last night.

He didn’t mind it. It was a nice change compared to the hard ground he has been sleeping on. It was as though you had melted in his embrace, your expression soft and relaxed for once.

He wishes that it was just you and the children. No one else. Just you, Isaac, Alice, and the untamed sky. He needs to keep hoping he will get you there and not listen to the nagging feeling that keeps creeping up.

He’s afraid he can’t leave.

Or won’t.

How well does he know himself? Sure, he tried to leave, that ring in his pocket still burning a hole, but if it weren’t for the imminent danger you and the little ones were in, would he have really managed it? Would he have made it without Dutch or anyone else hunting him?

He doesn’t have the time to sit around and think about it. He dismounts Boadicea with a swing of his leg and lands on his feet with a hard thud. He hitches the mare to the hitching post and gives her a gentle pat on the neck before heading toward the general store. As he walks up the wooden steps he sees two women sitting on a bench just beside the door. They eye him with soft smiles and he tips his hat. “Ladies,” he says softly.

Just as he passes them to reach the door, they look at each other and giggle softly. He’s surprised he has that effect on civilized women. He was just being polite and unassuming. If he’s going to do any robbing in this town, he’s going to need to put on a good impression.

But that’s not what’s on his mind.

He lets himself in the store, hearing the little bell jingle. At the front counter is an old man, with an apron and rolled-up sleeves. He’s either the store owner or employee. No matter, he is the one Arthur needs to speak to.

But what he has to ask, he isn’t ready to ask a stranger.

But here he is, anyway.

The old man lifts his head from whatever it is he’s doing and upon seeing the brutish-looking Arthur his eyes widen for a fraction of a second. “Oh! Well, h-hello. How can I help you?”

Arthur takes a look around to make sure no one else is in the store. It will be much easier this way.

He swallows and calmly walks over to the front counter. The old man watches him carefully, placing both hands on the counter’s surface.

“Yes, sir, erm…” He clears his throat and scratches the back of his neck. “Erm…do you…?”

The clerk raises a brow and almost leans forward. “Yes…?”

Just come out and ask, Morgan!

Arthur chuffs, letting a puff of air leave his lips. “Do you have bottles? For feedin’ babies?” He shifts on his feet and leans close toward the clerk. “I got a baby daughter and…”

The clerk stands upright, exhaling a breath of relief as he smiles broadly. “Say no more, sir. We have a little selection of glass bottles that you can choose from.” He moves from around the counter waving Arthur on. “Just follow me.”

Arthur follows the clerk down a narrow aisle lined with an assortment of goods ranging from sacks of flour to cans of beans. The scent of leather and tobacco pervades the air, mingling with the subtle aroma of medicinal herbs packed in small jars along the shelves.

At the end of the aisle, the clerk stops in front of a small display of baby supplies—a modest assortment of diaper cloths and cans labeled “infant formula”. Arthur pinches his brow, not having ever seen such a thing before.

The clerk gestures to a display of glass bottles. “This here what you’re lookin’ for?”

Arthur nods but points to the cans. “What’s that stuff there?”

There is a gleam in the clerk’s eye, eager to make his little sales pitch. “Only the most convenient product for mothers and their little ones…!” He reaches to take one of the cans and holds it for Arthur’s viewing. “Add a little bit of water to this, shake it real good, and you’ve got instant food for your baby daughter!”

Arthur isn’t convinced but out of curiosity, he takes the can and begins to read the ingredients. “cow's milk, wheat flour, malt flour, and potass—potass-I-um bicarb—”

The clerk pronounces it for him. “That’s potass-ee-um bicarbonate. Essential minerals for a healthy, growing baby!”

Arthur frowns. He’s known folk to use the milk from a goat or cow, something natural, but to have milk from a can? While he isn’t above chugging down a can of beans or peaches, feeding his baby girl something he can't even pronounce doesn't sit right with him.

He turns the can over in his hands, examining the label as if it might reveal some shady information. "It ain't... it ain't got nothin' bad for her, does it?" His voice is thick with concern; after all, the whole purpose of him coming into town was to get provisions that will help make your responsibilities easier. “I had fixed to go get a cow or a goat, but…” His voice trails off as he looks back at the display of bottles, still clutching the can of formula in his hand.

The clerk, sensing Arthur's hesitation, leans in closer, lowering his voice to a more reassuring tone. “No sir, nothing bad at all. It’s all tested and safe. See, it’s got the approval stamp right here.” He taps on the label where an embossed seal can be made out. "Many mothers out this way swear by it, saves 'em the trouble when times get tough or milkin' cows ain't possible."

Arthur gives a slow nod, his eyes lingering on the seal as though trying to will it to disclose more than it could. His gaze then shifts back to the clerk, a mix of suspicion and necessity clouding his rugged face. "Reckon it could save time," he mutters, more to himself than to anyone else. Still, he can’t shake off the unease coiling in his gut.

The clerk clicks his tongue, eager to make a sale, but still willing to give any customer a peace of mind. “I’ll tell you what, why don’t you just buy one can, try it out and see if it is something you want to stick with? Get your goat, if you want, but at least know you have an option.” He gives Arthur a good pat on the shoulder. “I’d like to help a father such as yourself.”

Arthur's hand tightens around the can, the metal cool under his grip. He nods stiffly, the lines of his face set hard like the clay soil that cracks under the relentless sun. "Alright," he grunts, "I'll take one." He turns to the clerk. “How much?”

“Fifty cents,” he answers. “The glass bottles are a dollar each.”

Arthur, looking back at the bottles, points to ones shaped like a bulb, with a wider base that curves into a narrow neck. He isn’t sure if it matters, but he reaches out and grabs two of them. “They come with the…the…”

“Nipples?” the clerk finishes. “Yes, they do. Easy to clean. Boil them in hot water to sterilize them.”

Arthur nods. That he can do.

The clerk then points behind him in the direction of the counter. “Let me wrap those up for you. Wouldn’t want the glass to break.”

Arthur follows the clerk to the counter, his steps heavy, his mind racing. The clerk slips around to the other side of the counter and grabs a fresh sheet of brown paper. “Alright, that is going to be two dollars and fifty cents.”

Arthur rummages through his satchel for the cash, nearly tossing it on the counter in front of the clerk. The man takes time to count it to make sure all of the money is there. Nodding, he puts the bills and coins in the nearby register.

Arthur watches as the clerk carefully wraps each bottle in a thick layer of brown paper, securing them with a string. The can of milk powder is placed beside them, its label still staring up at him, a quiet reminder of the things he still doesn’t know about child raising.

The clerk grabs a freshly unfolded paper bag, shaking it once to open it and after setting it down, he carefully puts the items inside. “That should be secure enough for your wagon.”

“Saddle bag,” Arthur corrects.

The old man looks up at Arthur. “What?”

“Shoah,” Arthur grins. “My mare is pretty fast. Had to make a quick trip into town before the baby wakes up. She gets pretty hungry when her eyes are open.”

The clerk's jaw drops and he sputters, "Y-you mean, you actually left your baby at home?"

Arthur nonchalantly shrugs his broad shoulders, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Yeah, where else would I leave her?" As the clerk continues to stammer in disbelief, Arthur casually reaches over the counter and grabs the brown paper bag containing his purchase. "Thanks, mister," he says with a charming grin and a tip of his hat, before sauntering out the door and leaving the flustered clerk behind. The sound of his boots echoing on the tiled floor accompanies him as he makes his way back to his waiting mount, eager to resume their adventures together.

“Hey girl,” he coos and walks over to the saddlebag. And just as he’s about to put his newly purchased goods away, he hears his name being called out.

“Arthur…!”

He freezes. What idiot is using his real name in public? He looks around, hoping to find the source of the voice.

Then he hears it again. “Arthur…!”

He recognizes it and finally following its direction, he sees the old fool that possesses it.

It’s Uncle.

Arthur lets out a groan and steps away from Boadicea. If that old man gets too close, she might just kick him. “What do you want?”

At least Uncle isn’t drunk, for his walk is more straight than sideways. His cheeks are red and his hat looks weathered, his boots sloshing in the mud. “I was wonderin’ if you’d like to join me!” He walks closer and reaches to pat Arthur on the shoulder. Not interested in comradery, Arthur motions to move away, but not in time. Uncle’s hand makes contact with Arthur’s arm with a firm pat. Uncle pauses, looking at Arthur’s muscular arm. “Woah, you sure pack punch beneath those worn-out clothes, don’t you?”

Arthur narrows his eyes. “I ain’t interested in whatever it is you’re doin’,” he growls, and his hand clutches the brown sack tightly. “I’ve got business of my own.”

Uncle looks almost disappointed, his shoulders slumped. “Well, how else am I gonna apologize for last night? Hell, if I had known she was your woman and them pups was yours, I—”

Arthur pushes Uncle aside, going back to the saddlebag. “Don’t start now, Uncle,” and he tucks the paper bag carefully inside. “I’ve been in a good mood and I don’t want it spoiled before I get back to camp.”

“Well, if you’re inchin’ towards a bad mood, where I’m goin’ would definitely flip that around!” Uncle cackles loudly, his thumb pointing towards the saloon. “I’m lookin’ for some good feminine company and the drinks are on me!” He winks, a crooked grin splitting his weathered face.

Arthur sighs. Even if you two aren’t, what folks would say, paired up, he isn’t interested in entertaining other women. “I ain’t that kind of feller.”

Uncle scoffs, as though he finds that hard to believe. “Well, I know a couple of fellers back at camp who are! Maybe I should have asked them instead of wastin’ my time with you!”

Arthur just stands there with his free hand on his gun belt, nonchalant as ever. He casually walks back over to Boadicea and mounts her without a second thought. “Maybe so, Uncle.” He pats Boadicea on the neck. “Meanwhile, I ain’t wastin’ any time gettin’ back to my family.”

With a sharp kick, Arthur sets the red mare in motion, leaving Uncle standing in the mud, his figure growing smaller as they gallop away. The sky above is a canvas of gray clouds, heavy with the promise of more rain, and the air is tinged with the chill of an early winter. He knows it. Even though it is barely October, he can sense it.

And a sudden dread fills him. He can’t have you and the babies in tents scattered about in the wilderness.

Time is running out.

Just as you feared.

***

"So what do you think?" he asks, lighting a match.

The hideout is small, as most bermed houses are. It has a dirt floor that is packed down, and two widows to let light in. The house has wooden beams to support the walls. There is a small kitchen, but no pump. There is a small cabinet with mixed dishware. A small wood stove separates the living space from where he sleeps: a simple-framed bed with a patchwork quilt with a folded blanket at the edge. He has had time to make this place a small home. If one can get past the initial look, it could be comfortable.

Still looking around, you nod your head softly. "It's...nice." After a moment, you spot a chair near the old, wooden table and sit down, continuously rubbing your shoulders to warm up.

You feel crazy, getting on the back of his horse, in the middle of a heavy rain, no questions asked. You’re soaked to the skin and unless you’re standing by a fire, you’re not going to get anywhere near close to dry.

You hear Arthur chortle and so you turn your head to look at his broad back as he remains crouched in front of the potbelly stove, gently blowing the flame caught on the kindling. "Just nice? This is a good place to be if you need a spot to rest after a long day of travelin’."

You shrug your shoulders, partly distracted. "Sure."

He turns to look at you over his shoulder. He watches you look around absentmindedly but knows enough to recognize when your mind is full of thoughts.

"What is it?" he asks.

You blink and pause rubbing your shoulders. "What do you mean?"

He ensures that the fire is going to continue to burn and then closes the door part of the way to let oxygen feed the fire for a little longer. He rises to his feet, grabs the small folded blanket, then approaches you. With a swift motion, he unfurls it and wraps it around you and you instantly begin to feel warmer. “There,” he says, his voice barely audible.

When you catch his eyes, you feel a strange sensation in your face, like you’re on fire but ice cold at the same time, a walking contradiction.

Satisfied that you won't be shivering anymore, he steps away from you, to the other side of the table, where his only remaining chair sits. Taking it, he drags it over to where you sit and lets it skirch to a stop. Going to sit across from you, he straddles the chair and rests his arms on the back of it, finally resting his head on his arms.

You find it almost endearing but the way he looks at you makes the strange feeling intensify. You’re both quiet for a moment, the sound of your swallowing almost too loud for your liking.

Then, after another minute, he speaks softly. "You know what I mean. I thought you'd be excited to be somewhere new for once. You'd been askin’ to see my hideout, but it is clear that your mind is somewhere else."

Your brow lifts. "How did you know?"

He gives you a knowing look and smiles. "I know you well enough."

You sigh. You aren’t keen on being read so easily. If you’re going to keep this relationship of yours more hidden, especially now that you know he’s an outlaw, you’re going to need to put on a better poker face.

Since you haven’t given him a reply, he speaks again. "You mind tellin’ me what's goin’ on?"

His voice, so warm and smooth, is like the best cup of tea or coffee, like a warm apple pie. You look at his lips and the memory of their touch against yours still occupies your thoughts. It’s nice to kiss him whenever the moment strikes you.

But lately, you’ve been thinking about what lies beyond such an intimate display of affection.

Then you remember Bethy’s words of advice.

Bethy. The look on her face as you rode off with Arthur. You hadn’t told her that he was back and as soon as you saw his figure through the rain-streaked window, you rushed out the door and ignored Bethy calling after you as you took Arthur’s hand. He swung you up onto Boadicea and galloped off.

Your eyes cast downward as the guilt floods your chest, the strange feeling ebbing away. "I don't like the way I left Bethy."

Arthur tilts his head as it still rests on his folded arms. "Bethy?"

"You know, the waitress I work with."

He nods slowly. "Oh, right."

You bend over into your lap, propping your head up as your elbows dig into your thighs. "I just took off and ignored her. She really wanted to talk to me. I've never treated her like that before, but she kept pressing me about my personal life."

Arthur’s eyes widen, his worry belying his nonchalance. "Have you told her about me?"

You shake your head in an effort to reassure him. "She knows that you're Tacitus Kilgore, nothing more."

"Well good,” he sighs, his body relaxing.

"I just wish that she wouldn't care so much about me, right now."

He chuffs. "You are nicer than me."

"What would you have done?"

"If someone wanted to get into my business I would have told ‘em off, or punched ‘em."

You look back up at him again. You sometimes forget what kind of a man he is, what kind of a life he lives. He’s told you some about the people he lives with, but not everything. "Is that what you do when Dutch asks you about me?"

He turns his head, avoiding your intense gaze. "Dutch don't know, and no, I wouldn't."

You aren’t sure how to feel about that. On one hand, you want the secrecy to remain on both sides, his and yours. On the other hand, you want him to be excited enough to tell at least one person about you. Wouldn’t Dutch be that person? "Why doesn't he?"

He shrugs. "He has his own thoughts about women, and we don't exactly agree." The way he says it, it sounds like there’s more to it than that, but he clearly doesn’t want to talk about it.

But your damned curiosity. It’s worse than your desire to be held in his arms or kissed longingly. "Such as...?"

Arthur looks up at you again, into those deep pools of amber. He doesn’t want to talk about his past relationship, and how Dutch, his mentor and gang leader, chastised him for loving someone who didn't accept their ways, who wouldn't join their cause.

Hosea, as close to a father as one could get, was more gracious about the matter, given his own personal relationship with his wife Bessie, but they both agreed that it wasn't a good idea. And it seems the only women brought to camp share the same profession as your neighbors, in which he has never taken a deep interest. There’s too much detachment. There’s more to sex than just a warm body. He’s always wanted more than what working women can offer.

He thought he had that with Mary, a connection that was beyond the superficial. She was a tempting beauty, with class and femininity that he found most desirable. As such, being raised on certain principles, she kept her standards selective, with the promise to only lie with the man she’d marry. And to honor her wishes, they never went beyond the passionate kiss and exploratory fondling, which took great willpower on his part to not explore her any further.

Even so, Arthur had loved Mary and had plans to marry her, but it didn't happen, and will never be. If he were to even mention now that he is seeing a young waitress in the town that they had once hoped to rob, if it weren't for the lack of a finished bank at the time, it would complicate things.

He offers a smile. "Let's just say he thinks I ought to be alone for a while."

His answer only confuses you, which rattles your curiosity even more, but despite the urge, you decide not to press it. "I guess I always thought I would be alone," you say instead, finding some common ground.

"I don't believe you," he snorts.

You reach up and slap his arm lightly, unable to conceal the cheeky grin on your face. "It's true! Ever since my folks died, I just merely existed. I cohabit with the world but hardly live. I had to put a lot of my own dreams away while survival took precedence."

You and your words. He’s picked up on vocabulary through books and Dutch’s monologues, but never has he used them in frequency. But the way you seem to put it all in sentences, it’s more poetry than any he was ever forced to read.

But it’s the meaning of your words that really sinks in. Dreams. He’s had them. He still has them. They’ve just changed over the years. "I kinda know what you mean."

"What dreams do you have, Arthur?"

He rolls his shoulders and readjusts himself in his chair. "You already know. To be free."

"And right now you're just surviving?"

"Sometimes.” His eyes fall to your lips, soft and red like a pair of cherries. He’s had a pomegranate once, a forbidden fruit, it was called. But it seems that that name was misplaced, it belongs somewhere else. “Sometimes I can get a taste of what freedom looks like."

He looks at you, really looks at you this time, and realizes how beautiful you are. You aren’t decked out in jewelry, powders, rouge, or drenched in perfume. Just a simple, but now soaked, cotton shirt and wool skirt, with your hair in a simple braid.

Simple. Plain.

And somehow, you are more beautiful now than you’ve ever been, and he wants you. He wants to be with you, but he knows there is great risk involved, and not just because he is an outlaw.

He begins to feel the heat rising in his belly, the increasing rhythm of his heartbeat. He recognizes it almost immediately and knows that he’s treading dangerous ground. He quickly rises from the chair, lifts his leg over it, and moves toward the little kitchen. "You hungry?" he coughs, looking through the cupboard. "I've got beans, beans, and more beans."

You giggle, helping to put Arthur at ease. "I am alright, thanks."

He needs to change the subject, get his mind off of the road it’s traveling. "Are you shoah? I ain't much of a cook, but I think I might have some herbs in here somewhere and we can fix up somethin’ real nice."

The quick clanking of cans and rattling bags of dried beans gets your attention and you begin to study him with a raised brow. "Arthur?"

"I might even have some jerky if I can just find it." He squats down and buries his head into a lower cupboard and begins to rummage through his stores, in a desperate attempt to distract himself.

You raise your voice suddenly, hoping he’ll stop and look at you this time. "Arthur!"

It catches him off guard, and in a quick effort to back away from the cupboard, he hits the back of his head. "Ah!"

He gets out and rises to a standing position, rubbing his head. He turns to see you now standing, setting the blanket on the chair, and coming to him. He backs away. "I am fine," he assures you with a grumble, palm still rubbing the base of his skull.

You only smile softly and walk closer to him. He doesn’t move, eyes watching you carefully. You stand in front of him, shoe to shoe, and getting up on your toes, you kiss his cheek softly. You feel the prickle of his stubble, but you don’t mind. He seems to be going with that less-clean shaven look. Less baby-faced and more rugged. You go back onto your flat feet, and that’s when you notice how wet his coat is.

“Oh!” you gasp. "You are soaked! You should take your coat off."

He swallows thickly and grumbles as he makes an attempt to turn away, his ears burning pink. "No, I am fine."

But you grab his arm, pulling at it gently. "Arthur, take off your coat."

He says nothing but eyes your serious expression and you try desperately not to smile.

After a few seconds, he relents, letting out an exaggerated sigh, and begins to take off his coat. You don’t realize how you watch him, your eyes following his candid movements to remove his heavy coat. He grumbles something under his breath and once he’s free of it, you take it from him and turn around to go hang it up. Spotting where your coat was hung, you calmly walk to it and try to hang his coat up on the nail beside it.

But, of course, being too short, your attempt looks rather ridiculous. After letting you try a few times, he walks over and takes the coat from you, hanging it easily by the stove to let it dry.

"Show off," you mumble playfully.

And he scoffs, keeping his chin up but still looks down at you with a smug grin. "Can't help it that you're so short."

Despite your scowl, you aren’t able to hide your laugh, nor your smirk. You swat him again. "Hey, that wasn't funny."

"I thought it kinda was."

"Arthur Morgan!" you chide.

He turns away from you, stepping back towards the cupboards and shrugging his shoulders. "What?” he asks with a lilt, bordering a whine. “Can't I laugh a little?"

You eye his body language. It’s not the confident, bold persona he usually carries. Even when you’ve been out walking together, he always has his head held high, eyes looking around. Now he can’t even look at you. "Oh, I get it."

You can hear the nervousness in his voice, despite his efforts to speak calmly and slowly. "What?"

You rest a hand on your hip, your skirt still dripping on the floor. "Now it is you who is acting strange."

He chortles dismissively, throwing his hands up flippantly. "It's strange to joke around, now?"

"I mean before that."

He turns back around and crosses his arms like a child. You try not to laugh. "I was not."

You move closer to Arthur and try to put on a front, lifting your chin defiantly. "Yes, you were."

"You're really tryin’ to intimidate me?" Arthur’s words intend to be a challenge but come out as more of a question, for he steps back and tugs at his collar.

You step closer to him and you have to look straight up at him to meet his eyes. You speak low and soft, feigning innocence. "I don't know what you're talking about."

He looks down at you and after he swallows, you see a change in his eyes. Something darker, warmer, the ocean blue heating like a tropical sea. "You know that is what I do for a livin’, right?" he purrs.

"Sure, but I think I am making you nervous." You poke a forefinger in his chest.

Arthur scoffs, rolling his eyes. "I ain't nervous."

"Yes, you are."

"No, I ain't."

"Yes, you are,” you push.

"No."

You step closer to him, your chest pushing into his torso. "Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah!" he shouts back.

But you keep calm, your grin far from removed. "Prove it."

He hesitates for a moment. Then in a rush of spontaneity, he takes your head in his hands and kisses you firmly on the lips. They taste of hunger, his breath shaky as your lips part just enough to feel the desperate edge of his need. His fingers, rough and calloused, brush against your cheek, sending a shudder down your spine. The world seems to fall away; it's just you and Arthur, tangled in this raw moment that feels both stolen and inevitable.

Arthur pulls away first, breathing heavily. His eyes search yours, unsure of what to say.

"Well, that was not what I meant, but that proves something," you sigh with a smile.

He looks you over, brushing some loose hair from your face. "I had to do that, I am sorry."

"Why are you sorry? You can kiss me anytime you want."

He feels himself stirring, his heart aching as he knows where these feelings are coming from. He’s drawing too close to the flames, but at this point, he doesn’t care if he gets burned.

“But what if I wanna kiss you all the time?" he confesses.

Your hands tremble as they reach out to meet his, still cupping your face gently. The warmth of his skin against yours sends a strange electric current coursing through your body. "How do you think I feel when you are away?" Your voice has changed, no longer filled with the usual playfulness and shyness, but instead tinged with sadness and a sense of longing. It is softer, almost like a caress. You can see the pain in his eyes mirrored back at you, and you only hope that he feels just as lost without you by his side.

Arthur quickly answers, "I can't live here. I've got to go back and help my gang. Loyalty matters to them. It matters to me."

You nod, your heart sinking. "I know. I just wish..."

"What?"

"Nothing."

Your mind starts to reel. You want him to stay. You love him and want him to stay and love you back. Even if it is just to live in this little hideout, you would be happy. You have been happier with much less.

With gentle yet sure movements, Arthur's hands find your small waist and draw you closer to his muscular body. The heat of his embrace envelopes you, radiating through your entire being. Your fingers instinctively find their way to the back of his neck, pulling him in for a hug. As he lifts you up, his breath tickles your neck and sends shivers down your spine. In that moment, all you can think about is how much he means to you and how badly you want him. Every nerve in your body yearns for more contact, more closeness with this man who holds your heart. You long for something more than just a kiss or an embrace. You want to give a reason to come back to you.

You lean back and Arthur loosens his arms. You look him up and down, regarding his broad shoulders and strong physique. He is a very attractive man, though somehow you feel that he wouldn't believe you if you told him.

You let your arms come down to his chest and you grab at his collar. You start to feel strange. Different. Something that words couldn't ever describe. A heavy feeling in your head, but a lightness in your heart as it begins to beat faster and faster.

You focus on one of the buttons on his shirt, hesitating, before undoing it.

As you go to the next one, Arthur, suddenly, holds down your hands onto his chest quickly, stopping you. You lift your eyes to look up at him, your face turning red.

The expression in his eyes is difficult to read. But you can feel his heart pounding. You then begin to understand. With his eyes he is asking, are you sure?

You don’t doubt his experience. He’s older and while it is a mystery, you somehow know that his knowledge of the world surpasses anything you’ve ever been taught. But even if you did know, it doesn’t deter you.

But you remain still, frozen in the moment, causing him to slowly lower his hands, thinking it is over. However, your hands suddenly rise and gently caress his face, pulling him close. The warmth of your touch ignites a fire within him, as you press your body against his in a slow, passionate embrace. This kiss is unlike any other he has received from you before—it is filled with intense emotion and a burning desire that leaves him breathless. At this moment, time seems to stand still as your lips meet and your bodies merge together in an electric dance of love and longing.

He then begins to understand. It is your answer.

And he cannot help but respond in kind.

“Eliza,” he sighs softly once your lips part again and he brings his lips to the softness of your neck. You gasp softly, for he’s never done this before, never has taken it this far.

“I don’t know what to do…” you confess.

And you feel his breath as he laughs into your skin. “Neither do I.”

You feel the heat in your cheeks. You don’t know if he is winding you up, or being honest. But his strong hands gently frame your face, his thumbs brushing against your cheeks as he looks into your eyes. "But none of that matters ‘cause I’m here," he murmurs, his voice low and comforting. “Wit’chu.”

You nod slowly and he leans in to kiss you again. Your senses are all alight all at once. The feel of his lips, the sounds of his breathing, the taste of passion and hunger, and then you feel his fingers deftly go to work on the buttons of your shirt.

His movements are careful, almost reverent, as if each button he undoes unveils a secret he’s been longing to discover. The air between you crackles with tension, each breath you take mingling with his. As your shirt and chemise fall away, leaving your skin bare to the cool night air, you shiver—not from cold, but from the sheer intensity of the moment. The gray light filters through the window, the lantern on the table casting shadows that dance across your skin, accentuating every curve and edge with a haunting glow.

Arthur’s hands pause momentarily as he takes in the sight, his eyes burning with a mix of awe and desire. It’s as if he is seeing a marvelous work, every freckle and line a revelation that stirs something deep within him. His fingertips trace the contours of your shoulder, down the gentle slope of your arm, eliciting a tremble from your lips as you watch him drink in the sight of you.

“Beautiful,” he whispers, almost to himself as his fingers linger on the curve of your waist. The intensity in his gaze is palpable, and it sends a shiver of anticipation through your spine. You reach out, hands gliding over the rough fabric of his shirt, feeling the solid strength of his shoulders underneath. "God, you're so beautiful..."

Arthur's breath hitches slightly as you pull him close, your fingernails scratching at his exposed skin. The adrenaline coursing through you wants you to work faster, but you want to take the same amount of care he is taking with you. Slowly, deliberately, your fingers work the remaining buttons of his shirt, each one released with a soft pop that seems to echo in the quiet room. Your heart pounds fiercely in your chest as fabric parts, revealing the taut muscles beneath. His skin is warm under your touch, and letting your hand glide over his pectoral muscles and chest hair, you can feel his heart pounding beneath.

You giggle. “Like a rabbit.”

Arthur chuckles low in his throat, a sound that rumbles warmly against your ear. "A rabbit, huh?" he teases, his voice laced with amusement and something deeper, something that makes your insides flutter.

His hands are now on your hips, gripping them gently but firmly, pulling you closer until there's no space left between you. His presence is overwhelming, enveloping you in a way that words could never capture. The rough texture of his hands contrasts with the softness of your skin, creating a sensation so intense it borders on pain, yet it’s the kind of pain you never want to end.

That’s when his hands move lower, gripping your wool skirt and hiking it upwards. You figure that the moment is right, sweeping away any lingering doubt with the heat of his touch. The cool air brushes against your legs, raising goosebumps in its wake as Arthur's hands explore new territories. His movements are deliberate, hands trembling, yet there's a gentleness that belies the fierce desire in his eyes.

You reach behind you to unhook the fixture in your skirt and contrasting his efforts, it falls back down and to the floor. You take a step back and gripping the waistband of your bloomers, you push them down, bending over and stepping out of them.

It is now hitting you like a crashing wave.

You are naked.

In front of a half-dressed man.

Arthur's gaze upon you is intense, a storm of emotions swirling within those deep-set eyes. The room seems to hold its breath, the only sounds are the crackling of the wood in the stove, the rain outside, and your synchronized heartbeats. He's trying to keep his cool, to not get tunnel vision, but to remain present, as the blood rushes through his head, his heart pounding in his chest.

You want to cover yourself with your hands, the way he looks at you. But at the same time, you can’t bring yourself to do it. You stand there, vulnerable yet empowered, under his unwavering stare.

For a moment, he simply stares, his expression unreadable, the tension between you palpable like the charged air before a storm. Then, with a deliberate slowness, he steps forward. The gap that had separated you closes as if it were never there. His large hands gently cup your face, thumbs stroking your cheeks softly, soothing your nerves, if but for a second.

“You wanna…?” he starts, but his voice drops as he swallows. “Go to the bed?”

How is he so calm? Your heart could run out of your chest if it wasn’t contained in breath and bone.

You nod, unable to speak.

And he nods. “Okay…” And in a gentle motion, he sweeps his strong arm underneath you and picks you up, cradling you in his arms as though you were a fragile, little thing.

The room blurs slightly as Arthur carries you towards the bed, each step he takes pulsing through your body with a rhythmic thud. The earth sod floor is soft under his weight, adding a soothing soundtrack to the swirling emotions enveloping the space. You can feel his heart beating against your side, strong and steady, a reassurance in the storm of your own rapid breaths. You're laid upon the bed, his hands never leaving your body, tracing lines across your skin as if to memorize your form. The bed creaks under the shift of weight, and for a moment, there's a settling silence that drapes over both of you.

He rises to stand erect, and you watch his hands go to his gun belt and he slowly begins to remove it.

You feel the blood flush from your face. You know what it is coming next.

You’ve never seen a fully naked man, not even in pictures. You’ve heard tell of sculptures of nude people in art exhibits, but you weren’t ever sure how to picture them. You’ve seen male babies, when you helped babysit the Thurmon twins, but that is far from what this reality is becoming.

You quickly turn away, gasping.

Bethy’s voice echoes in your head.

You aren’t ready.

Was she right? Are you?

Cutting into your thoughts, you hear his voice call out to you. “Eliza…” His tone is soft, laced with a concern that makes you turn back to face him. He’s standing still, gun belt in one hand, the end of it hanging loose by his side. The lamp light casts shadows across his face, deepening the lines of worry that crease his brow. “You don’t have to do anythin’ you don’t wanna do.”

His words drift through the dimly lit room, muffled slightly by the pounding in your ears. You look into his eyes, finding an earnestness that steadies your fluttering heart. "I want to…I just…" you whisper, your own voice sounding foreign amidst the creaking silence of the old room. Your eyes go to his waistline. “I’m…scared, Arthur.” Your voice is barely above a whisper, tremulous and uncertain. The admission feels like a release of some pent-up storm within you, its winds now sighing across the room where only the two of you breathe.

Arthur steps closer, his eyes never leaving yours. He carefully places the gun belt on the trunk at the foot of his bed.

He approaches the bed slowly, his movements deliberate, as if he’s trying to give you the time to change your mind. “It’s all right, Eliza,” Arthur soothes, his voice a soft rumble in the quiet room. “Ain’t no hurry. We can just talk, or…” He feels a sinking feeling in his chest, a contrast to the tightness he feels in his pants. He tries his best to conceal it, and thankfully, you aren’t looking in his direction. “…or just be together like this. Ain’t nothing needs to be rushed.” He hesitates before his hand reaches out towards you, an invitation hanging silently between you both.

No. That isn’t what you want. You don’t want the moment to be over. You feel stupid. Stupid for being a coward, for not keeping your mouth shut and just let him take the lead.

You shake your head and begin to curl up in a ball, feeling more exposed and foolish than ever. “I’m so stupid.”

“No…!” Arthur goes to the bed and sits down. You feel his warm hand on your arm and he gives it a gentle squeeze. “I was tryin’ to be shoah that you was…” He sighs. “It’s my fault.”

“I ache,” you confess, your hand and arm instinctively going between your thighs. “I feel things that I…” You turn and hide your face in his pillow. “I want you to touch me. To do things. My head feels hot and cold and I…” You feel tears sting your eyes. “I ruined it. You don’t want me now.” It is then you hear him chuckle, making you feel confused. You look up at him to see him smiling at you, shaking his head. “What?”

“Darlin’,” he purrs. “You have no idea how hard it is to keep from wantin’ you.” He runs a hand over his face and you see the tips of his ears turn hot pink. “I’ve touched myself imaginin’ it’s you…”

His brazenness shocks you and you hide your face again.

Arthur laughs at his own embarrassment but it softens into a tender, deep chuckle that fills the small space between you. "Eliza," he murmurs, and the way he says your name stirs something fierce and longing within you. His hand moves from your arm to gently cup your cheek, coaxing you to look at him. His face is tender, the roughness of his life on the frontier softened in this moment of intimacy. "You ain't ruined nothin'," he assures you, his thumb caressing your cheek. "If anythin’, you bein' honest only makes me want’chu more."

You dare to meet his gaze, finding earnestness in those stunning eyes of his.

The vulnerability in his expression gives you a courage you didn't know you had. By some instinct, you rise to sit up and your hand reaches up to touch his face, tracing the line of his jaw with a trembling finger. His skin is rough from the wind and sun, yet his eyes hold a gentle warmth that makes your heart beat faster.

"You mean it?” you ask.

He nods. “Can’t lie to you.”

Your heart still beats steadily, but the heat slowly returns once again. Do you feel safe with him? You’re as bare as you can get and still, he hasn’t tried to take advantage of you. He isn’t Willy, or any of the men who have given you odd looks. For someone who is deemed a criminal, he has treated you with more tenderness and human kindness than most folks who claim to be law-abiding. It's a strange dichotomy that keeps your mind spinning as much as your heart.

As you sit there, his presence enveloping you like a warm blanket, he shifts slightly, closing the small gap between you even more. "Eliza," Arthur whispers, his voice low and warm. Your eyes remain locked with his pools of marine as you remain still, letting him draw nearer to you. Your breath hitches when his arms graze your skin as he supports himself to come even closer. He leans in and, sensing no resistance, he kisses you tenderly. He exhales slowly, and you feel yourself relaxing, as though put under a spell.

Parting, his lips follow your jawline to your neck. “Tell me you want me as much as I want you…” he whispers, and you feel his hand go to your thigh, letting his instincts take over, gently caressing your skin upwards. “Or I will stop.” Though he prays that you won't.

His breath against your skin and his hands on your thigh sends shivers down your spine, and you tremble under his touch. Your body is already giving its answer before you can respond.

But you manage the words. “I do…”

And that is enough.

***

A sudden chill stirs you to awaken and your instincts kick in fully. You rise, pulling the wool blanket off of you. Your son isn’t here with you.

As your eyes adjust, you focus on the crib on the ground. And your heart sinks in your stomach.

Alice is gone. Panic surges through you like wildfire. Your breath comes in shallow gasps as you spring to your feet, the cold wooden floorboards creaking under your weight. "Alice!" Your voice is a desperate whisper, afraid to shatter the oppressive silence that has enveloped your small shelter.

You hurry to the canvas flap, ripping it open, and frantically scan over the camp. Your hair is unkempt, your feet bare, but you could care less.

Everything looks so calm. Why isn’t anyone frantically looking for your children? You haven’t expected anyone to share the load in looking after them, but you had hoped they had more common decency than to ignore a child’s absence. You stumble forward, each step sharp against the cold earth, your eyes darting from tent to tent.

"Isaac? Alice?" Your voice cracks as it rides the wind, finding no answer but the echo of your own fear. Your heart hammers in your chest, each beat growing louder and louder.

Then you hear laughter.

Child’s laughter.

You follow the sound eagerly, passing by Pearson as he chops up some rabbit meat. You walk around another tent and there, sitting on a log, is Arthur, hunched over, with Alice in his arms as Isaac leans into him and watches his little sister.

And Arthur’s feeding her.

You don’t recall ever purchasing a bottle. You never thought to. You have always been there to take care of your little ones. You’re confused, and it's a confusion that twists into a knot in your stomach. How did he get a bottle? The thought is quickly pushed aside as relief floods through you, seeing both of your children safe and sound.

Arthur looks up, catching your eye. His expression is unreadable for a moment before a slight smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. “She’s eatin’ pretty good. Stopped by a dairy farm on my way back…”

You just stand there, trying to catch your breath and blink away the tears before he can tell how worried you’ve been. He gestures for you to come closer with a tilt of his head, and you do, your feet moving on their own accord. The tension in your body eases as you approach them, the sight of their innocent faces erasing the terror that had gripped your heart moments ago.

“Oh?” Your voice is soft, almost inaudible, words hardly coming easily to you.

He nods. “Yeah. Just thought…” His voice trails off as he looks at his daughter. “Just thought I’d help out a little. Your hands are full all the time…”

Isaac looks up at you, beaming brightly like the morning sun. “And I can feed her now, Mommy!”

Your heart swells with a mix of emotions. Pride in Isaac's newfound responsibility, relief at the sight of your children safe and smiling, and an underlying current of frustration that Arthur had taken such liberties without consulting you first. But the comfort of seeing them all together, a semblance of a family, dulls its sharper edges. “I guess you can now.”

Arthur looks up at you again, his eyes softening. “I hope you don’t mind. I didn’t wanna overstep, but—”

You cut him off simultaneously along with your own thoughts. “No, Arthur. You’re her father. If you want to be a part of her life and help, why should I be the one to stop you?” His gaze lingers on you, searching for any trace of insincerity. Perhaps he finds none, for he nods slowly, a shadow of relief passing over his features. Then his attention shifts back to Alice, who is now peacefully relaxed in his arms, her suckling now to a halt.

You watch him as he takes the bottle away and sets it down between his feet.

And just as you’re about to open your mouth and tell him to burp the baby, Arthur begins to carefully lift Alice, still cradling her head in his large hand. He lays her against his chest, with her little head peeking over his shoulder. She begins to grunt and wriggle but his hold remains firm, but gentle. After getting himself comfortable, he begins to pat her back in a steady pattern. You watch as he listens to her, waiting for her to burp.

After a few seconds, he looks up at you, his brows raised. “Ain’t you gonna tell me if I’m doin’ it right?” He chuckles. “Or wrong? I ain’t the expert in this.”

“Neither am I…” You swallow, then clear your throat. “You’re doing fine.”

He relaxes at your words and his smile broadens. “That’s a relief.”

And to validate his statement, Alice lets out a deep burp. Arthur is caught by surprise, his eyes widening. “Well, I’ll be damned…”

Alice scrunches her little legs as she lets out another burp. Isaac giggles, covering his mouth. “She burped again…!”

Arthur supports Alice as he brings her away from his shoulder and sets her in a sitting position on his lap. He looks at her eagerly and Alice tries to look up at him and when their eyes meet, she smiles.

“Hey, there…!” Arthur coos. “You done stuffin’ your face?”

Alice breathes excitedly, hungry for engagement.

Arthur nods. “I thought so.” He turns to see Isaac trying to get a better look and he leans on his side towards his son, bringing Alice closer. “You wanna say hi to your brother?”

Isaac reaches up to take Alice’s hand, her fingers readily grabbing onto his forefinger. “Hi, Alice!”

Alice smiles again and coos, wriggling in Arthur’s hands.

You feel another chill and are suddenly reminded of your bare feet and cold hands. You shiver and hug yourself tightly. You could leave to grab a coat and put on your boots, but you can’t bring yourself to leave.

Arthur’s eyes meet yours again and his smile falls. “You’re shiverin’,” he speaks, his voice softer than the breeze that chills you. “You can borrow my coat, if you want.”

You shake your head. “No, that’s okay, Arthur.”

“Do you need me to buy you one?”

You shake your head again, your stubbornness coming out. “No, I don’t.”

Isaac stands straight up, his eyes bright. “I’ll go get it, Mommy!!”

Before you can protest, Isaac dashes off toward the direction of your wagon, his small boots kicking up dead grass as he runs. Arthur watches him go with a fond expression, then turns back to you, his face etched with concern.

"C'mon, Eliza," he urges gently, shifting Alice to one arm so he can extend the other towards you. "Don't be stubborn now. It's cold out here and it ain't good for you."

You relent, moving closer to accept Arthur’s outstretched arm. You feel his gentle pull and go to sit down beside him. As he drapes his arm around your shoulders, warmth seeps into your skin from his body, comforting yet reminding you of the many nights spent alone, questioning where he was, if he was safe. The weight of his presence is both a relief and a stark reminder of the precariousness of your lives intertwined with his outlaw ways.

Arthur's hand rubs your arm, trying to generate warmth, his fingers brushing past the fabric of your dress. "Better?" he asks you and as you turn to look at him, you find that your mouth is very close to his.

You can see the smoke of his breath, the color of his eyes. You’re so close, yet so far away.

You quickly look away, reaching over to your daughter to adjust the blanket that he has wrapped around her. “Yeah,” you exhale. “Better.”

The silence that follows is thick, laden with unspoken words and tension that you could almost reach out and touch. As the quiet stretches, Arthur's gaze lingers on you, searching your face for something —perhaps forgiveness, or understanding, maybe even reassurance that despite everything, you still want him here.

Suddenly, Isaac returns, dragging your coat but not for lack of effort to carry it in his arms. “Here, Mommy!”

You put on a smile and quickly rise to your feet. Isaac holds up the coat for you, and you gladly lift it to slip your arms through the sleeves. You feel warmer now, but your feet are still neglected.

You turn to look back at Arthur. Whatever moment was blossoming, it is gone now. “I’m going to go put on my shoes,” you say. “I can take Alice…”

Arthur doesn’t move. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to keep her a little longer.”

You nod, understanding the unsaid words between you; he needs this time as much as she does. Without saying anything, you leave Alice with Arthur and walk back towards your wagon. Isaac, sensing the shift in mood, falls into step beside you, his small hand finding yours.

***

“What you got there?” Hosea’s familiar inquisitiveness gets Arthur’s attention and he turns to look over his shoulder.

“Just a baby,” Arthur answers casually.

Hosea clicks his tongue. “I don’t think that’s just any baby, is it? Didn’t take you for a kidnapper, Arthur.”

Arthur chuckles at his father’s joke and looks back around to the baby in question. “No. I ain’t that.”

Hosea sits down beside him with a soft groan and pats his leg. “Can I see her?”

Arthur nods, his eyes softening as he gently shifts Alice in his arms to give Hosea a better look. The old man's face wrinkles into a smile as he peers down at the sleeping child.

"She's got your eyes,” Hosea remarks, his voice a whisper as if afraid to startle her. “Thank God she’s blessed with her mother’s looks otherwise.”

Arthur studies his daughter. It’s true she has her mother’s hair and chin, but he can’t help but feel like he sees himself in her. Isaac takes mostly after you, aside from his hair and desire to grow up too fast. Maybe that’s a good thing. The more he sees of himself in his offspring, the more anxious he feels. “Yeah, good thing.”

Hosea senses the shift between them and places a hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “I was only kidding, son.”

“I was hopin’ you wasn’t.”

Hosea leans back, studying Arthur. “You mean to say you don’t want her to be yours?”

Arthur quickly turns his head, eyes wide and brows furrowed. “Hell, no! That ain’t what I’m sayin’!”

Hosea holds up his palms. “Alright, alright, Arthur. I believe you. Just figured any good father would be proud to see himself in his little ones.”

Arthur looks down at his daughter, who is still looking up at him, her eyes still that dusky baby blue. He knows enough to understand that they change, like Isaac’s did, from the grayish blue into the amber brown that match yours. Maybe Alice won’t have her father’s eyes after all.

“I ain’t like most fathers,” he says soberly.

Hosea clicks his tongue. “No, I suppose you ain’t. But not many fathers are making the effort like you are.”

“I should be doin’ more,” Arthur confesses, the words heavy as they leave his lips. “Eliza, she…” He swallows thickly as he looks at the chubby-cheeked face of his daughter. “She needs more than what I can give her.”

Hosea gives Arthur a pat on the back, the gesture firm yet comforting. "She needs you, that's the most important thing. And you're here now, ain't that worth something?"

Arthur shrugs slowly, his gaze lingering on Alice's calm face. "I just don't want ‘em to live the life I was thrown into. They got a choice and I want them to have somethin’ different.”

“What about you?”

That question has many meanings and Arthur is afraid of all of them. He swallows. “What you mean?”

Hosea’s eyes are gentle but piercing, like he's digging for something deeper within Arthur. “What life do you want for yourself, Arthur? You think that you can’t choose something different?”

Arthur shifts uncomfortably, the weight of his father’s question stirring an uneasiness within him. “It ain’t that simple.”

“Sure it is.”

Arthur feels his hackles rise and tries to keep his voice calm for the sake of his daughter. “You tried to leave, and look how that turned out…! You’re still here, and Bessie’s dead!”

The words cut through the air sharper than any bullet could, and for a moment, everything seems to stand still. Hosea’s expression hardens, his eyes losing their gentle probing and settling into a deep sorrow. There's a painful history there, one that wraps itself like a noose around their interactions, tense and suffocating. Hosea hasn’t touched a bottle in a few weeks, but now, with Arthur’s harsh words, the temptation might tug stronger than before. Hosea’s hand, trembling slightly, lowers to his side as he takes a deep breath to steady himself.

“You think I don’t know that?” Hosea’s voice is low, almost a whisper. “You think I don’t feel that every single day?” He pauses, collecting himself before continuing, his voice steadier now. "But Arthur, living with regret ain't the same as making a change. We've both seen enough of this life to know it's no future for the little ones." He nods toward Alice, who remains blissfully unaware of the gravity surrounding her. “Why would it be that way for their father?”

Arthur looks down at his daughter, blinking away at the guilt that threatens to leave his eyes. “They ain’t the only ones who need me.” His voice is barely audible above the soft wind. The words hang there, heavy with unspoken truths.

Hosea nods slowly, understanding more than Arthur might wish he did. "That's right, son. Everyone seems to depend on you. But so does Eliza."

The mention of your name stirs something deep inside him. The memories of moments that you both shared before any of this ever happened. Oh, how he wishes he could go back, maybe find an easier way to disappear.

But he can’t.

Arthur struggles to find the words. “I just…I can’t…”

Hosea places a hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “When it comes down to it, who would you choose? The gang, or your flesh and blood?”

Is blood thicker than water? What does he mean when it comes down to it? Does he see something that Arthur doesn’t? Sure, things aren’t ideal, but they aren’t in any immediate danger. They left California before any law got their scent. You are safe. Your children are safe.

The only enemy right now is the weather and the ever-present desire to be free. Hosea leans close, lowering his voice. “If Eliza and the children had died, would you have regretted your choice?”

Arthur doesn’t have an answer. “I…just can’t be two people at once.”

Hosea's eyes narrow, his face creasing with years of wisdom and untold stories. "No one is asking you to be two people, Arthur. Just the right one." His words cut through the cool air like a blade, precise and with intention.

The right one. “And which one is that?”

“I think you already know the answer to that.” Hosea rises to his feet. “You may have others fooled, but you’re smarter than you like to let on.” He looks down at the bright-eyed baby and smiles softly. “She’s truly something, that one.”

And with nothing further to say, he walks away.

Thank you for reading! I look forward to hearing what you think!

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