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say-hwaet · 11 days ago

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That's the Way it Is

Chapter Nine: Lovers of Fire and Moonshine, Part I Previous Chapters: VIII VII VI V IV III II I Summary: Without wasting much time, Dutch has already got another plan and, surprisingly, it involves you. Warnings: Mature Themes, Violence, Explosions, Angst, Language, Dead bodies Word Count: ~9,500

It has been about three days, and your dream plagues you from time to time. A piece of your past is more clear to you, you have found that your personality is revealing itself as well. You are more blunt, you are silent and observant, always watching the dynamics between gang members unfold before you.

You have been healing well, to the point where you can bend backward without feeling a twinge. No doubt there will be a scar there, but it doesn’t bother you, it isn’t like you expect anyone to see it, except for you.

And since you are feeling better, you have the desire to get back to work. With most of the members, you’ve proven yourself as a valuable outlaw, and most seem to think you are your old self again, even if you still struggle to remember everything.

But Arthur, you sense, knows differently. He watches you with those deep blue eyes that seem to carry entire oceans of secrets and sadness. At times, when the firelight flickers across his face, you catch him staring at you from across the camp, a thoughtful furrow knitting his brow. You wonder if he thinks about your identity, that maybe you aren’t your full self. You can’t help but think that he holds you at a certain standard, though he only restates over and over that you should take it easy, and stop asking questions. Let it all come to you, naturally.

But time isn’t on your side. Things are changing in the gang, and no amount of running is going to change that. The sooner you find out what happened in Blackwater, and the months leading up to it, the better.

You need to go back to work.

Arthur, Dutch, and Hosea have left to go fishing. You are passing the time, again, by doing chores and helping Abigail keep tabs on Jack. He is an energetic brouček, a little beetle, one that is constantly moving, buzzing around, asking questions, and trying to get his father to play swords with him.

You remember your brother, and the things you used to do with him when he grew to be underfoot. Even when your parents were alive, he was your responsibility.

Passing by Pearson’s wagon, you stop to grab three apples and hear Sadie grumbling to herself. She has a knife in her hand and is chopping vegetables.

Sadie has maintained a sour expression since you’ve known her, that isn’t new, but there is something about the way she handles the knife, how she keeps her head down and brow furrowed, that you know something is different. You have a feeling that it won’t be long before she kills something…or someone.

And you aren’t about to let it be you. You take your three apples and walk away calmly, looking for Jack.

Walking toward the water, you spot the boy, drawing shapes and lines in the sand.

You approach him carefully, not wanting to startle him in his intense focus. "What are you drawing, Jack?" you ask, kneeling beside him in the sand. Your voice is gentle, a soft murmur blending with the sound of the lapping waves.

Jack looks up at you, his face lighting up. "It’s a horse…!” he looks down at the drawing and frowns. “At least…I tried.”

You tilt your head and eye the drawing. It doesn’t look too bad. He is still only a boy and can only improve with time. “I can tell what it is, Jack! It reminds me of Odliv.”

Jack looks back up at you, his face beaming. “That is what I was thinking, too!”

You hold up the apples in your hands. “Can I teach you something?” And you motion to sit down on a nearby log. “Come sit by me.”

Jack sees the apples in your hands and compelled by curiosity, he sits next to you. You turn at the waist and you give him one. “Watch this,” you say and scooting back to give yourself some room, you toss one apple in your hand and then catch it. You repeat this action a couple of times before you take the second apple and juggle them together. You watch Jack’s eyes as they go round and round, following the apples as they leave your hands, go into the air, and come back again. “Okay, Jack, can you toss me the next apple?”

Jack eagerly holds up the remaining apple, his small hands gripping it tightly. He tosses it toward you with more force than necessary, but your quick reflexes save the moment. You catch it just as it seems destined to hit the ground, and deftly add it to the rotation of the two you’re already juggling. You manage to keep it going for a few more seconds, before you fumble it and the apples fall from your hands. “Oops,” you chuckle, and you bend over to pick them up. “Antek was always much better than I ever was…”

“Who’s that?” Jack asks.

You look back at him and smile softly. “He was my brother.”

Your voice fades as the memory of Antek tugs at your heart, a sharp reminder of the pain that still lingers. "He used to juggle," you continue, picking up an apple and feeling its weight in your hand, almost as if it holds a piece of your past. "And now I am going to teach it to you.”

Jack’s eyes light up and he takes one of the apples from your lap. “Can you really teach me to do that?”

You nod your head. “We can certainly try!” And so, you begin the lessons. “First thing is to practice your reflexes. You want to be able to catch objects really fast.” You set the other two apples on the ground and open your hands to him. “Toss me the apple.”

He looks down at it, his brows pinched in thought, and he tosses it to you. You catch it. “See? Now, I will pass it to you. You ready to catch it?”

Jack nods, his face a mixture of determination and delight. As he reaches out his small hands, you gently toss the apple back to him. He fumbles briefly but manages to secure it in his grasp, a triumphant grin spreading across his face.

"Good job," you encourage, your heartwarming at his enthusiasm. "You want to be able to catch it without hesitation before moving on to the next step.”

You see a small shift in his lips, turning downward. “How many steps are there?”

You chuckle. “What? Did you expect to juggle three apples today?”

He shrugs his shoulders. “Maybe.”

You don’t want to discourage him, but you also don’t want to give him false expectations. “It’s like your drawings, Jack,” you explain. “You don’t think Arthur got to be good at drawing without practicing, did you?”

He shrugs again. “I guess not.”

Your head begins to ache at the base of your skull, and you blink at that thought. How did you know that Arthur draws, anyway? You haven’t seen him do it. Or, maybe you have? The aching feeling in your head tells you that there is something to what you said. Maybe he draws in his journal…?

What if you’ve seen his journal before?

Oh, this changes things. If you can get to those memories, maybe you can find more answers.

You shake your head, you will have to think about it later. Right now, you are spending time with Jack. “See my point? But if you practice, you will be able to juggle way better than me.”

This seems to encourage him, for his sweet, little smile returns. “Really, Aunt Kit?”

The warmth in your heart spreads to a gentle glow as you nod and reply, “Really.”

***

After a good while of teaching Jack to juggle, feeding the horses, and mending some pants, you decide to take a break. You haven’t put on a pair of shoes since you took them off near Moonstone Pond that day, and the lake’s glistening water is quite tempting. Swatting at some mosquitoes, you walk between Arthur and Dutch’s tents and reach the lakeside. The sun is dipping low, casting a sheen over the surface that dances with every gentle ripple. You walk along the dock and sit down at the edge, letting your feet dangle into the cool water. It’s refreshing, a stark contrast to the sticky heat of the day. As you watch tiny fish dart around your toes, you hear a faint sound in the distance.

You lift your head and look to your right, down the lake and in the distance, you see a boat. You discover that the sound is singing, and the singing is possessed by three men on that boat.

You tune into the sound of their voices, tempted to stand and rise to your feet, but the coolness is such a relief. You don’t sense a threat, as the voices do sound familiar.

Then you see the silhouettes. The hats and build of the three men.

It’s Arthur, Dutch, and Hosea, and they are singing like school boys being let out for the summer.

To them we dance this 'round, 'round, 'round To them we dancе this 'round, 'round, 'round And he that is a bully boy Come pledgе me on this ground, ground, ground Ground, ground, ground, ground…!!

Their laughter reaches you and it is quickly hushed as their boat nears the dock. They don’t seem to notice you yet, but you decide that you might as well get up. You lift your feet out of the water and carefully rise to your feet.

Arthur rows the boat up near the dock and lets out a sigh.

“Alright…!” Dutch exclaims, his voice sounding more relaxed than it has in the last few days. “I think…I…well, I mean we are gonna be okay…!”

Arthur first steps out of the boat, his back turned towards you as you remain on the dock. Hosea, draping a canvas bag over his shoulder, steps out of the boat and sees you, nodding in silent greeting. You wave at him.

Dutch continues as he gets out of the boat at last. “I always know…Whenever I got you two by my side, things are gonna be just fine.”

Hosea and Arthur share a glance with each other before Hosea turns to head into camp. Dutch walks off as Arthur takes hold of the boat and pulls it more onto the shore.

You find yourself watching him, his movements deliberate and strong, the muscles in his arms flexing under the strain. He hasn't noticed you yet, too caught up in securing the boat. The sun as it continues its descent casts a golden hue over the scene, touching Arthur's body with light, making it seem almost ethereal against his rugged features.

Your heart clenches and you decide to leave, lest you find yourself standing there all day. The sound of your wet feet padding on the old wooden boards of the dock finally alerts him of your presence.

He turns around to see you. “Hey, Kit.”

You wave at him as nonchalantly as you can. “Hello, Arthur.”

“How’re you feelin’?”

You shrug. “Aside from this humidity, I am doing fine.”

He kicks at a rock and watches it plunk into the lake. “Your…side doin’ alright?”

You find yourself looking down at it, as if that is the way to assess it. You look back up at him and nod your head. “It’s healed well. I can bend backward and twist without hurting.”

He manages a smile. “That’s good.”

You gesture toward the camp with your hand. “You’ve been busy with Dutch and Hosea.”

He nods, his eyes looking out over the lake. “Shoah. Got some fish to eat.”

“That will be good. People seem to be getting tired of rabbit stew.”

Arthur chuckles. “There is also Rhodes, so we can get some supplies. Maybe some canned strawberries and such.”

“You’ve been to see it?”

Arthur nods and then looks at you, his eyes carrying a shyness that you’ve only seen a handful of times. “If…you’re willin’ to sit with me for some stew, I can…tell you about it…?”

Your heart gives an odd, unexpected flutter at his invitation, and you find the corners of your lips curving into a gentle smile. "I'd like that," you say, your voice softer than you intended, carrying the faintest trace of vulnerability.

Arthur's smile broadens, almost a look of relief painting his features. He gestures towards the camp and you continue to walk off the dock. You hop down and he looks down at your feet. “Still not wearin’ any boots?”

You chuckle, tucking some of your long hair behind your ear. “Wish I had done it sooner, it didn’t occur to me that the bottoms of my feet were rough for a reason.”

He nods, biting his lower lip.

You both walk together over to the large stew pot. You notice Mary Beth and Karen looking at you funny and you tilt your head at them. They share a giggle and turn around with their stew plates to go eat at the round table.

Arthur lets you serve yourself first and you scoop up a large helping before stepping aside and letting Arthur have his turn. Waiting for him, you let him lead you over to a more private spot, the log that you and Jack had been sitting on earlier.

You glance back toward camp. “Don’t you want to sit with everyone else?”

“Nah,” he says bluntly. “They will hear about Rhodes from Dutch and Hosea, anyway.” He steps over the log and sits down. “C’mon.”

You mirror his action, stepping over the log and then smoothing your skirt, you sit down beside him. Your eyes are drawn to the lake water and you ready your fork to begin eating the stew.

Arthur takes a forkful of the stew, blowing on it gently before taking a bite. You do the same, savoring the warmth that spreads through you with each swallow. There's a comfortable silence between you two, punctuated only by the occasional call of a bird or the rustle of leaves in the breeze.

After a couple of bites, you decide to initiate the conversation. “So, Arthur, tell me about Rhodes.”

Arthur explains how he, Dutch, and Hosea ended up there in the first place, spotting the sheriff and his deputy while transporting criminals. They came across a familiar face, Josiah Trelawny, and that name didn’t ring a bell. Arthur explains that you and Trelawny got along really well, and despite his proclivity to vanish, you always welcomed him when he would come waltzing back, and it wouldn’t be long before you and he would have a scheme lined up. You nod your head as you process this, as you’ve begun to understand what your role has been in the gang.

He also explains that the town Rhodes has two feuding families: the Braithewaites and the Grays, and according to Trelawny, it has been going on for decades. Dutch seems really interested in them, and wants to find out the reason for the feud, be it gold, or some other untold riches.

You feel somewhat excited by all of this, as it could mean more jobs for you and more potential to unlock key memories.

“Where is Trelawny now?” you ask, almost too excitedly.

Arthur studies you. “He’s with a caravan. Been stayin’ with them a while.”

A caravan. “You mean…nomadic people?”

Arthur nods. “Yeah, I guess so.”

This, too, excites you. While it may not be your people, to know there is a group that moves around like that...it’s strangely comforting. It reminds you of the circus, the thought of the open road and the familiar churn of travel stirs something deep within you.

Arthur watches you closely, no doubt seeing the distant look in your eyes, the way your gaze softens at thoughts of a life once roamed, a life enigmatic yet full and vibrant. "You always loved the road," he says softly, the corner of his mouth uplifting in a half-smile. "Said it were always like it were callin’ to you, whisperin' secrets only you could understand."

The notion tugs at your heart, a blend of nostalgia and connection. You look at him. “How did you know I needed to hear that?”

He leans away from you, and you can tell he is about to brush it off. He shrugs. “Just know, I guess.” His eyes tell a different story, one of profound connection and unspoken words hanging between you like the heavy Southern air.

“Maybe we should visit him,” you suggest, trying to anchor yourself to the present rather than drift into the past's inviting arms. “Trelawny, I mean. And maybe I can help Dutch find out more about these two families.”

You see him tense up as he uses his fork to stab some meat in the stew. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

You furrow your brow. “I said I’m feeling better, Arthur. And I’ve been learning more about myself. I can do things. I can help.”

He shakes his head. “You can’t just be throwin’ yourself at things like you did with John. He weren’t thinkin’ about you.”

“And you are? Arthur, at least we can go see him. What harm would that do?”

You watch him carefully for any sign that he may give in. Arthur looks down, the lines around his mouth deepening with worry. After a long moment, he sighs and meets your gaze again. “Alright, Kit," he says, his voice low and even. "If it’ll ease your mind, we’ll go. But we gotta be careful, there’s a lot more comin’ from different sides. It ain’t like Valentine.”

You nod, already excited for the prospect of doing something other than chores. “Thank you, Arthur.” And you face forward to continue eating your meal, your left hand holding onto your plate instead of having it sit in your lap.

You can see Arthur from the corner of your eye and his eyes suddenly fall to your left hand. “Why are you still wearin’ that?”

You turn to look at him and after swallowing your food you ask, “Wearing what?”

He points his forefinger at your hand. “That.”

Setting your plate down on your lap you lift your hand in front of you. Oh. He means the ring. Your mother’s ring.

“I don’t know,” you answer. “I can’t bring myself to take it off.”

“You know people will start talkin’,” he says solemnly. “Strangers will think you’re…” He blinks, his words coming out soft and slow. “You’re…”

You offer to fill in the blanks. “Married? Engaged?” You shrug. “So?”

Arthur's gaze hardens slightly, and he looks away, out towards the dimming horizon. "It ain't about what they think, Kitka. It's about keepin' you safe. If folks start askin' questions—"

"How does that put me in danger?" You interject, feeling a little frustrated with his questions. “If anything, this might protect me. Strangers who would dare yell slurs at me or hurt me might think twice if they suspect that I have a husband or fiancé.”

Arthur's eyes flick back to yours, the blue of them almost steely under the fading light. "Maybe," he concedes, his voice gruff with worry. He sets down his plate and takes off his hat, holding it in his hands. "Or maybe it gives 'em more reason to come lookin'. You know how these towns work, Kit. Secrets don't stay buried for long."

You narrow your eyes at him, feeling bold to speak freely. “Exactly, Arthur.” And as you look at him, you see something in his eyes. Guilt, or perhaps fear. “There are things that I am still trying to figure out, and I know that you have secrets just as much as everyone else.”

Your words hang between you like the humid air, suspended and poignant. Arthur shifts uncomfortably in his seat, his hands fiddling with the rim of his hat—a gesture you've come to recognize as his way of grappling with unease.

And after a pregnant pause, he looks away from you.

You’re done here.

Taking your now empty plate, you rise from the log and step away. “I’ll speak to Dutch in the morning, you’re more than welcome to come with me to see Trelawny.”

And with that, you leave him to his stew.

***

You’ve risen up quite early this morning, too excited to sleep. Taking some food and a canteen with you, you walk over to Odliv and cinch her saddle. You look out and see the sun beginning to rise and the soft rustling as others begin to wake.

You had hoped that Arthur would join you, and knowing that he’s an early riser, you now come to realize that he won’t accompany you to see Trelawny.

You let out a long exhale and Odliv reaches with her neck to nip at your shirt. You laugh and pat her neck. “I’m fine, Odliv, really.”

You decide to drag out your departure just a little longer, reaching into your saddlebag and pulling out a brush. You make generous sweeps down the mare’s coat, watching dust and short hair shed fly into the air.

You find peace in it, a soothing sensation that fills your mind, and as slow and gentle as the strokes of the brush, a melody is found deep in your throat, and you begin to hum it softly.

You’re swept away in the music, your hand still guiding the brush along Odliv’s dock, her coat nearly glistening in the morning light.

The tune, a fragment of a song your mother used to sing in the evenings under the canvas tent, rises and falls with each stroke, weaving old memories into the new light of the day. Just as you're about to loop the melody again, you hear footsteps approaching. Not wanting to appear startled, you continue your grooming, and don’t turn around.

“Never heard that tune before.”

Your heart betrays your intended calm, and you look over your shoulder to see Arthur standing behind you. “No?”

He shakes his head. “No. You’ve never sung in camp.”

This surprises you. It seems that your life has always been surrounded by music, so why wouldn’t you express it with your voice? “Why?”

He comes up beside you, standing by Odliv’s head and stroking her muzzle. “You said that after your brother died, you wouldn’t ever sing again.”

Arthur's words weigh heavily on your spirit, dredging up grief that you've been trying to accept. You pause in your grooming, the brush momentarily frozen in mid-air, as if suspended by the poignant reminder of promises made in sorrow.

"You remember that?" Your voice is barely a whisper, tinged with a soft sadness. “My brother died a long time ago.”

He nods his head. “There’s a lot of things I can’t forget.”

You feel the song still in your throat. If you vowed to never sing again, you aren’t sure you feel that way anymore. But at the same time, you so desperately want to be the way you were. What are you going to do?

You resume your grooming, the brush now gliding slower as you ponder. The sun casts a soft glow around you, as if trying to ease the weight of your thoughts. "Maybe it's time I healed from the pain," you murmur, more to yourself than to Arthur.

Arthur doesn't reply right away, his eyes lingering on the horizon before they return to you, filled with a mix of understanding and something else—perhaps hope. "Maybe," he agrees quietly, his voice rich with the same warm tone that often carries stories around campfires.

"You think it's possible?" You ask, turning to face him fully now, searching his eyes. “Even if I can’t remember it all?”

He shrugs. “It ain’t for me to say, Kit,” he admits. “But I hope that it will be worth it.”

“It will,” you say confidently and finally let your arm fall to your side with the brush in hand. “Are you coming with me to see Trelawny?”

He pauses for a moment, as if weighing the question, then nods. "Yeah, I reckon I will," he replies, his voice rough like gravel yet soothing in a way that only familiarity can bring.

You smile. “Thank you.”

He nods and begins to walk toward Montana, when his name is called in the distance.

“Arthur…!” It’s Hosea and he comes over with quick steps.

Arthur, taking Montana’s reins, leads him as he walks a few paces toward the older outlaw. “What is it?”

“Dutch wants you and Kit to meet him in Rhodes. Bill is with him.”

Arthur blinks, surprised. “Kit, too?”

You are surprised that Dutch is already in town. You didn’t hear or see him leave this morning. When did they head out?

Hosea’s brow furrows, unamused by Arthur’s question. “Yes, Kit, too. Dutch said they could use her knowledge on dynamite.”

Dynamite. You are remembering your chosen weaponry, but you’ve only recently handled incendiary buckshot and handmade explosives. Not dynamite. That’s wires and switches and such. “Are you sure that’s what he said?” you ask.

Hosea lets out a chuckle. “Is everyone losing their faith in me?” He gestures to Odliv. “Just go on. Take your guns with you.” And before you can respond, Hosea turns to leave.

You feel a little miffed, you want to see Trelawny, not interact with Dutch and his plans. But, on the other hand, he is giving you a job. This could mean danger, and more chances to remember.

You meet Arthur’s gaze, he seems to be waiting for you to say something.

You raise a hand and place it on the saddle. “I guess we are going to see Dutch?”

He nods. “I guess we are.”

***

The first thing you’ve noticed about Rhodes is the red dirt. It coats everything, from the sides of wagons to the hem of women’s dresses. You imagine your feet will be caked in the red soil by the time the day is over.

You follow Arthur as he leads the way. Once you pass by the train station, you quickly spot the general store on your left and the bank on your right. You can already see opportunities here, even before speaking to anyone.

Arthur stops just outside of the sheriff’s office and dismounts Montana. “Wait here,” he tells you, and you don’t find it necessary to insist you go inside. Your eyes follow him as he goes up the old, white steps, and lets himself in. Just as the door opens, you catch Dutch’s voice, loud and boisterous as ever, before the door closes.

You feel Odliv shift the weight on her back hoof and toss her head. You don’t like to wait, either, but it gives you a moment to look at the town some more.

There is a strange air about the place, and it isn’t the humidity. It could be from the rooting tension between the two families, like the old Romeo and Juliet story. You just hope that the ending will be different.

Your thoughts are interrupted as a man in a dusty suit and a wide-brimmed hat approaches you. He tips his hat, revealing a thin smile. “Miss, you’re new here, ain’t you?” he asks, his voice laced with a curious tilt.

You nod, returning his greeting with a cautious smile.

He gestures down to your feet. “Ain’t seen a woman go around without any shoes.”

You arch a brow and decide to use your quit wit against him. “Never seen a man in a dusty suit approach a lady without introducing himself.”

The man chuckles, a deep, gravelly sound that makes you uneasy. “Fair point, miss.” He tips his hat. “Just call me one of the few remaining patriots of the South.” And just as you hear the door to the sheriff’s office open, his eyes flicker and he backs away. “You have a good day now, ma’am.”

You hear the footfalls go quickly down the steps and come right beside you. “Who the hell was that?”

You look down and see the scowl on Arthur’s face, his tone protective and alert. “No one that I couldn’t handle,” you answer confidently.

He looks away from you, his eyes scanning the horizon for any sign of the man in the dusty suit, but he's already disappeared into the throng of townsfolk. "You shoah?" Arthur's voice carries a hint of concern that belies his rugged exterior.

You nod, and confidently reassure him. "I can handle it, Arthur. Probably just some local trying to get into our business.”

Arthur grumbles under his breath and turns. You see Dutch, Bill, and two other men come out of the sheriff’s office, their movements purposeful and direct.

Dutch spots you and gestures in your direction. “Gentlemen, please allow me to introduce you to Katrina MacDonald.”

You blink, but figure they are all using aliases in this town. And just like instinct, you smile and nod your head in greeting.

The older of the two, with a strawberry-blond mustache, looks clearly inebriated as he stumbles. “A Scottish maid, if I ever did see one…” he drawls. “Sheriff Gray at your service…”

“Pleasure,” you state.

The younger, practically flashes his badge in your direction, tipping his hat. “Deputy Archibald MacGregor, ma’am.”

You smile, at least he isn’t drunk.

Dutch goes to mount The Count with a grunt and gestures to a nearby wagon that is parked. “We are going to ride along with the deputy! Got some shine to dispose of.”

Shine? He means moonshine.

Your heart flutters for a moment, one of your treasured ingredients for incendiary buckshot. The feeling it gives you when it bursts out of the barrel of a shotgun is an adrenaline rush like no other. That was clearly awakened when you raided the O’Driscoll hideout almost a month ago.

And Dutch tells Arthur to ride with the deputy, the rest will follow. Readying yourself on Odliv, you steer her around as Archibald drives the wagon on. As you regard the men that you ride beside, you notice something peculiar. All of them are wearing badges. Since when did Dutch, Bill, and Arthur become deputized?

You want to ask, but hate to interrupt Archibald’s yakking on, as it catches your attention. “…And your friend is behaving himself?”

Trelawny. He’s talking about Trelawny.

Arthur nods as he sits beside his fellow deputy, oblivious that you are listening in. “Oh…yes, I-I think he’s learned his lesson.”

“Congratulations on becoming a temporarily deputized citizen of Scarlett Meadows County…” He begins to talk about hierarchy, reminding you all that he’s in charge here, and that is when you start to lose interest.

You look around as you pass through town and take a road that leads through humidity and tall trees that have witch’s hair dangling from the branches.

“…I did tell you about the Braithewaites?”

Sacra! You should be paying attention. You steer Odliv closer, approaching Archibald's side as he continues to drive.

“Old cotton family who had a fortune at one point, now they are dealin’ in moonshine. As soon as we destroy one, another pops up. Not to mention that Catherine Braithewaite has an expensive horse breeding operation that she needs to maintain…”

Arthur asks a question you are about to ask, “I thought there was gold that these families were fightin’ over?” You would have had a little more tact, but it gets the point across.

“That’s the rumor, but it happened so long ago, I don’t know for sure if it’s true.”

Arthur chuckles. “Must be tough bein’ rich, huh?” You can hear the edge in his voice, and you can’t help but feel the same.

Then suddenly, Archibald’s voice rises, and he pulls back on the reins. “Woah…! Do you see that?”

You look up ahead, and just off the road is a fallen wagon and debris scattered.

“Let’s have a look,” Archibald says as he begins to descend from the wagon. “Keep your eyes open.”

Arthur, too, gets down, and your own curiosity causes you to swing your leg over and dismount.

You feel the soil beneath your feet, somewhat clay-like and damp, and you stroll over to the wagon while Arthur and Archibald take a look around the wreckage.

You see a suitcase and a trunk, already opened and pilfered through. This could be an accident, or intended. Your heart sinks a little as you see that the straps that would hitch the horses have been cut away.

“This was a robbery,” you say softly.

Arthur caught part of what you said and he turns to look at you. “What?”

“Hey!” Archibald calls to you both. “Come look at this.”

You and Arthur walk over to Archibald, who has a card in his hand as he’s crouched over a dead body.

Your breath hitches and Archibald looks at you. “You probably should have stayed on your horse, ma’am.”

You shake your head. “I’m fine.”

He looks at you nervously, as though he’s unsure how to respond. But Arthur nods at him. “Who is it?”

“Looks to be important. Suit and tie…and a clean bullet to the forehead. Looks like the work of the Lemoyne Raiders.”

You blink. “Who?”

“They’re what’s left of the war. Men who still think we are still fighting the north. They hate the government, or anyone in authority. They call themselves patriots.”

Patriots. You think back on that odd man who came to greet you.

“I think…” you begin to say, but keep your mouth shut.

Archibald tucks the card in his vest pocket. “We should carry on, I will send someone out here to clean this up.”

Without a proper burial? You bristle at this. Cleaning up isn’t properly putting someone to rest.

But you see everyone, including Arthur, get ready to leave.

Looking at the face of the dead man one more time, you return to Odliv, mount up, and continue on your way.

***

“How’re we gonna handle this…?” Dutch asks with a low rumble. Archibald started rambling again and as you all are crouched in between two trees that stand as pillars, you can tell Dutch’s patience is wearing thin.

You have your shotgun, rifle, and sawed-off, and you’ve never felt so heavy before. You caught the deputy by surprise, carrying all that ammunition and still walking barefoot, and you’re surprised he hasn’t said anything.

Archibald changes the course of his sentence, replying to Dutch’s question. “Well, the way I see it—”

“Actually, let the lady here decide. She’s familiar with stills and has a knack for finesse when silence is preferred…” Dutch turns to look at you and you feel those dark eyes of his burn into you with an intensity that almost makes you falter. But you hold his gaze, your own expression unreadable. “Katrina, see if you can interrupt their operation before we get our hands dirty.”

“Her?” Arthur asks, and you can tell where he is going with this.

Dutch pushes, his eyes narrowing. “Yes, her.” He readjusts his crouching position to shift the weight to his other leg. “I was going to have you go with her, but since you have doubts, maybe Bill can join her?”

Bill seems excited at that. “Oh yeah…” And he reveals sticks of dynamite, pulling them out of his coat pocket. “I’ve been lookin’ forward to this.”

“Just like with that train back near Colter?” Arthur asks with a smirk.

Bill’s eyes narrow at Arthur. “Can’t you just let it go?!”

“Gentlemen…!” Dutch chides, his voice sounding more frustrated by the second. “Miss MacDonald, go by yourself. Think you can handle that?”

Not wanting to come off as inadequate, you move over to Bill and quickly take the dynamite from his hand. "In moments like these, Bill, cunning is required," you start, your voice steady despite the thundering of your heart. You glance back towards Arthur for just a fraction of a second, seeking a sliver of reassurance or perhaps affirmation. But instead, you get an emotionless glance. “Just the stills, right?” you ask, clarifying your objective.

“I guess. You let us handle the men. Let’s remember to leave them alive,” Archibald says quietly.

Turning around, you continue on your way.

The goal is simple, destroy their stills. You aren’t sure why Dutch said you have expertise with these sorts of things, the still you used for your tinctures was small, not something used for moonshine. But he’s giving you a chance, and you’re going to take it.

You see a man, his back turned, as he is getting something out of a wagon. To get past him without being spotted, you get into the murky bog. Your skirt grows heavy as it absorbs water, but you remain crouched and move slowly.

Once you're close enough, you steady your breath and reach for the smallest stone at your side. With a practiced flick, you send it skittering across the mud, drawing the man’s attention from his task. As he turns his head, you seize the opportunity to slip past him and make your way towards the still, if he needs to be knocked out and tied, you will leave that to the men.

And just as you’re about to cross the water onto land again, you hear a thud behind you. Turning quickly, you see Arthur and he has just taken care of that moonshiner and is hogtieing him.

One down.

You continue on your way, your feet barely making any sound, rendering you undetectable. You hear a small hissing sound, and you recognize it immediately. Following the sound, you peek around a moss-covered tree and see another man as he looks over a large still.

It is a big one. No doubt, it produces a lot of moonshine. Explosive moonshine.

You remember the dynamite you snatched from Bill and your heart races with the thrill of seeing flames and sparks fly. But first, you need to be rid of this man. Seeing a barrel, you spot an empty beer bottle. Perfect.

You carefully make your way up to the man, and he still hasn’t noticed you. Once the bottle is in range, you pick it up, stand, and swing down onto the man’s head.

He crumples to the ground, unconscious, without a sound aside from the soft thud of his body meeting the earth. You quickly check his pulse, ensuring he's still alive; Archibald’s orders were clear, no unnecessary deaths. Satisfied, you move towards the still.

The large copper contraption emits a sour stench that makes you scrunch your nose. If this is moonshine, they may as well be using the bog water and rotted lemons as their base. No matter, you have a job to do.

You take the man by the shoulders, and drag him until there is a good distance between him and the still. This is about to get loud and ugly. You walk back to the still, readying the dynamite and you place it in the crook of the still where the pipe meets the barrel. A strategic position, ensuring maximum damage. You light the fuse, its spit sizzling softly, then you retreat back to the safety of the trees.

Your heart thumps in your chest—heavier than when you danced atop tightropes with the circus or when you swung high above audiences, who never knew the weight of your performances. Memories flash through your mind, quick and sharp as the dynamite’s fuse.

The explosion isn’t just sound and fury; it's catharsis. The boom rolls over the landscape like thunder across the open plains, and the once sturdy still erupts into a concoction of metal, fire, and smoke.

Any normal person would high tail it and run, but you stop to turn around and see it, your eyes scanning over the entire scene.

That’s when you hear gunshots.

“Hey! That belongs to the Lemoyne Raiders…!”

Oh no. If you were wondering if you had already met them, you don’t doubt that anymore.

You need to help take them out, especially considering bullets are flying. You see a large crate and running to it, you slide behind it just as bullets fly after you. You remove your rifle, and ready yourself for the fight.

You hear quick footfalls behind you and the sound of their body making contact with a wall. “You alright, Kit?”

It’s Arthur. You peek from over the crate and seeing a raider blow his cover, you aim and fire. The bullet rips from the barrel and makes its mark, and the man falls to the ground.

“Just fine!” you reply. You see a crate of dynamite near a group of them and switching to your shotgun, you check that it is loaded with your favorite bullets. Aiming carefully, you pull the trigger, and a burst of flames erupts from the barrel. Once it reaches the dynamite it explodes, just in time for more raiders to ride in on a wagon. But, of course, their little plan to increase their forces is quickly diminished.

“Think I still need protecting?” you ask, your words with a little edge to them.

Arthur advances and takes out two more raiders. “I didn’t say all that to make you feel weak, Kit!” he says, his voice carrying out amongst the gunshots and battle cries from the raiders.

“Then what was it?!” You aren’t sure why you’re bringing this up now, but with the intensity of the moment, you might as well. It seems this is the only way you two can ever have the chance to talk.

Arthur reloads his rifle, glancing over the top of the knocked-over wagon with sharp eyes as he covers another angle. “It was because I care, Kitka,” he shouts back, ducking as a bullet whips past his head. “And part of that means I don’t want to see you get hurt!”

You grit your teeth as you use the last of your incendiary buckshot. You switch back to your rifle and advance forward. You reach some old shanties and you see the debris of dead bodies. You take cover, just as another raider bursts out a door and takes a shot at your head. The bullet whizzes right past you, and suddenly, there is another pain in your temple.

A memory.

But you remember the last time this happened, if John hadn’t been there, you’d be killed.

You grit your teeth and try to fight the memory that wants to force its way in. “No! Not now!”

Your heart races in your chest, making you want to give into it, to seize it. It could be important, but you just can’t let it happen.

And as you try to fight it, the headache gets stronger.

It’s one of the worst you have felt in a good while.

You try to aim at a raider as he makes his way to Arthur but the weight of your sawed-off feels like a ton of bricks. Your hand falls and you try to call out to him, but no words come.

And just as you see him spot the raider and shoot him, the world around you fades to black.

***

The world feels dizzy as you complete a fourth backflip. Your eyes are painted, your lips red like a pomegranate, Your body is dressed in red, gold, and black.

Men gasp in awe as you spin in a circle, your dress billowing out in waves.

Another distraction, another ruse, you’ve done this hundreds of thousands of times, and after a few more twirls, flips, and leaps, you know that the job is over.

With one simple dip in the shadows, you disappear.

You walk out of the saloon, laughing to yourself. And navigating your way to your horse, you mount and ride off.

The darkness is only in the shadows, but for the light of the moon, you can see everything. You are on your way to the rendezvous point, where Arthur and John will meet you with the money they had taken.

But as you continue to ride, you feel something is off. It is too quiet, as though it were a silence before the storm. Your horse senses it too, his ears twitching nervously, nostrils flaring as if he could smell the danger lurking in the serene night.

You urge your mount to quicken, the rhythmic gallop syncing with your heightened pulse. The moon casts long shadows that dance ominously about you and you look back.

Just as a bullet flies past you.

“Come back here, Romani!” a grim voice calls after you. “Your bounty is mine…!”

Had you thought to look and see the bulletin near the saloon, you would have seen your wanted poster. Though the amount is only fifty dollars, it is enough for ambitious bounty hunters to get their feet wet.

“I’m more valuable alive!” you call back, still hoping to outride the hunter.

Another shot is heard, and you realize that he doesn’t care how he brings back your body.

And in your realization, you near the meeting place, but also, the edge of the cliff.

Your horse slides on his hooves, neighing loudly, but the rock is too slick after the rain, and he rolls on his side, you falling off and rolling over the edge.

Your hand instantly reaches for a young tree that is growing in a large crack, and if you weighed more than you do, it would surely break.

“Ah…!” you cry, and you hold onto the tree for dear life. You try to pull yourself up, but as you do, the tree shifts in the crack and you know now that the best thing to do is to remain still.

You hear the boots of the bounty hunter as he slowly walks over to the edge. He looks down at you, and the glow of a cigar is the only way you can see the conceited grin on his face.

“Well, well, well…” he chuckles. “Looks like you are at my mercy.”

You still feel a bite on your tongue and decide not to give him the satisfaction. “I’d rather let go and let you be short fifty dollars.”

But this doesn’t seem to change his mind, as he crouches down and points his gun at your head. “No difference to me, sweetheart.” Then you hear the sharp click. “A dead Romani is a good Romani.”

You feel your heart drop. This is the first time you have ever stared into the barrel of a gun. You cling to the tree and try to come to terms with your impending death.

Then a shot rings out.

You stare into the eyes of the bounty hunter, as he falls forward and over, passing you and falling to the ground below the cliff.

Your breath is choppy, your arms feeling weaker and weaker. You don’t know who just killed that bounty hunter, it could be another one for all you know.

You hear spurs jingle and the footfalls of boots on the rock, an almost satisfying click-clack.

The figure leans over and after a pause, they speak. “Since when did the Kitka Petrova fall from great heights?”

The low timbre and little joke amongst the threat of peril reveal all that you need to know.

“Just help me up, Arthur…”

Arthur’s hand reaches down, strong and steady, grappling yours with a firmness that belies his gruff exterior. With a heave that speaks of his unyielding strength, he pulls you up and over the edge, back onto the rocky ground. Your legs wobble slightly as you regain your footing, but he doesn’t let you go.

You look up into his eyes, and a sense of gratitude overwhelms you. Without even thinking, you reach behind his neck and pull him into a kiss. You feel a hint of resistance, perhaps by surprise, until you feel the press of his lips melt softly into yours.

The world around you fades into a blur, the crisp air and the stark rock face all but disappearing as Arthur's arms wrap around you, pulling you closer. His kiss deepens, and for a moment, you forget the dangers that led you here, the cascading troubles of a life on the run.

You’re twenty years old, and your first kiss is with Arthur Morgan.

The moment is fleeting, as you feel him pull away gently and you open your eyes to see a look of discomfort crossing his face. You are taken aback, feeling confused and embarrassed as he looks away and clears his throat.

“Erm…” His voice is hoarse and uncertain. “Sorry,” he mumbles, avoiding your gaze. What was a moment of whimsy and romance, now feels awkward and fleeting, leaving you wondering what had just happened.

“Arthur…?”

He scratches the back of his head. “There’s…there’s somethin’ you should know…”

“What, Arthur?”

“Well, I’ve got—”

“Morgan!”

You and Arthur turn around and see John riding up to you both. “Why didn’t you wait for me, huh? I could’ve gotten shot at or somethin’!”

Acting as though nothing has happened, Arthur waves John off. “Quit your whinin’, Marston!” Then he turns to look at you and smirks. “This is why we shouldn’t take him on jobs.”

“I can hear you, you know!” John barks.

Arthur tucks his chin, clearing his throat again. “We should get back to camp. Bessie will start worryin’.”

You decide that it is best to let it go. If he isn’t going to encourage it, or talk about it, you may as well account your kiss to moon sickness. “When does she ever not worry?”

Arthur chuckles. “You’re right about that.”

***

You feel a gentle pat on your cheek, sounds around you becoming more clear.

“Kit…!” Arthur calls out to you. “Kit…?”

You open your eyes and your head throbs heavily. You smell smoke and feel the heat of fire.

“C’mon, sit up.”

With a hand supporting you, he helps you to a sitting position. You bring a hand to your head and apply pressure to massage the ache.

Arthur’s hand doesn’t leave you as he searches your eyes. “What happened?”

And you counter with a question of your own. “How long was I out?”

“A couple minutes. I took care of the rest of the raiders.”

You nod, taking a deep breath. “I’m sorry.”

“What happened?” he asks again.

You open your eyes again and look at him, your gaze falling to his lips. You feel your heart pounding in your chest, your mind and body craving the feeling you felt when your memory flooded through you.

It was like a chain reaction. An explosion, and that reverie has ignited a spark.

And you are still delirious, coming out of a high.

You reach for him, take him by the collar, and pull him to you.

“Kit—?” His question is instantly silenced, as your lips collide together.

You expect him to resist, to gently push you away like the time before, only you are prepared for it, you expect it.

But instead, his hands support your head, his body presses into you as your back is against the wood siding of the shanty. You hear his deep inhale, exhaling a guttural moan that would send shivers down the spine of any less emboldened soul. A passion reborn, stoked by the fires of near-death and raw survival. His fingers weave through your dark locks, a contrast to the dusty grime on his hands. He pulls back just enough to see your face, eyes searching for something, his marine irises cascading hope.

He parts his lips to speak, but you don’t want to talk, your hands taking his face and pulling him back, feeling no resistance from him at all as his lips surrender to your insistent mouth.

“Morgan…!”

He pulls away from you quickly, and you instantly feel that familiar confusion and dread as he rises to his feet and walks around the shanty. He spots someone and calls back to them. “Here, Bill!”

“Well, hell! I thought you was dead! Is Kit alive?”

Arthur continues to catch his breath. “Yeah! She’s…she’s alive.”

“Good! Bring that moonshiner back to the wagon. Dutch is havin’ me take the shine back to camp!”

“Where’s Archibald?”

“He’s takin’ the moonshiners to jail!”

You still sit up against the siding and watch Arthur pause before turning to look back at you. You see something in his eyes, perhaps a desire to continue, or maybe something else.

He walks back to you and offers his hand. “Let me help you up.”

You don’t hesitate to take it, and when he motions to let you go once you are on your feet, you hold it tightly as he starts to walk away.

He looks at you, down at your hand, then back to you.

“I was twenty,” you start. “On that ledge, remember?”

You can swear you see the light in his eyes go dim. “Yeah, I remember.”

You swallow and continue to look deep into his eyes, your grip not loosening. “You were going to say something to me, do you remember what it was?”

His eyes shift as he searches your face. You feel the suspense in the air acting like the locomotion of a train to your heart, pumping faster and faster, soon to run out of track.

He speaks softly. “No, I don’t.” He then licks his lips. “Is that why you kissed me?”

You admit, you are feeling something else for the rugged outlaw, but there is so much distance between you, secrets and lost memories, you don’t feel it is right to jump into something while he hasn’t told you it all.

You swallow thickly. “I kissed you because…I remembered, and I…” You feel your face grow hot and you blink softly. “I wanted to feel it again, the way it felt back then.”

He takes a deep breath, the tips of his ears turning pink. “You…feelin’ alright now?”

You nod. “Yes.”

After another moment, he pulls his hand gently out of yours. “That’s good. We should meet up with Dutch.”

And this, like your memory, feels the same. “Right.”

You pick up your sawed off from the ground and follow behind Arthur as he walks back to the tied-up moonshiner that you had knocked out. He picks him up with ease and has him draped over his shoulder and you both continue to walk until you cross the boards used as a bridge and join Bill, Archibald, and Dutch.

Dutch sees you both and grins. “There you are! Good work, you two.” And he turns to the deputy. “And that is how it is done.”

Archibald nods his thanks, his face misted with sweat though he hardly lifted a finger. “Thank you, gentlemen…” And he looks at you. “And ma’am. It won’t be long before we are rid of all moonshiners and their ilk!”

Dutch opens his arms and claps Archibald on the shoulder. “Indeed, we will, sir! Indeed we will!” And in a majestic way, he sweeps his arms over to the wagon as Bill sits at the reins. “We will take care of this refuse for you and we will see you back in town real soon.”

Archibald nods, and after cutting the ropes on their feet, and with his gun firmly in hand, he begins to escort the moonshiners back to the paddy wagon. “Get goin’, you no-good-piece-of-white-trash…!”

And once the naive deputy is out of earshot, Dutch turns to you. “I had my doubts, Kit, but you really do seem to be like your old self. You handled yourself well out there.”

You nod your thanks, the headache slowly ebbing away. “Thank you, Dutch.”

He gestures to Odliv, a content expression still etched on his face. “Why don’t you go back to camp and tell Hosea the good news? I’m sure he will think of something we can do with that shine, and no doubt he will want to include you in it.”

Your eyes fall on Arthur, who hasn’t looked at you since carrying that moonshiner over.

Not getting a response from you, Dutch speaks again, his voice more pushy. “Well, go on, then! Bill ain’t gonna tell it like you will!”

You decide to go, your bare feet making small swishing sounds as you walk through the mud and grass.

You hear Dutch say something to Arthur, but you’re too far now. You hope he isn’t talking about you, telling Arthur that you are nothing but a big distraction, but you will never know.

You reach Odliv, who has been waiting patiently for you.

Climbing onto Odliv's back, you feel the steady rhythm of her hooves against the earth as if they might pound the confusion from your mind. The ride back to camp is quiet, save for the rustle of leaves and the occasional call of a distant bird. You find comfort in the monotony, feeling it as more of a need than a pleasure. There needs to be silence in between the chaos and the volume of explosions.

There needs to be a balance.

There needs to be a truth and a lie.

There needs to be forgetting and remembering.

You just wish you knew what to do with this feeling in your heart.

Thank you so much for reading!

Tag Requests:

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#red dead redemption 2 #red dead fandom #arthur morgan #fanfiction #ao3 writer #rdr2 #arthur morgan x female reader #arthur morgan x you #kaboom #flashbacks again #dutch van der linde is sus as usual #bill williamson #moonshine #oh the angst #oh the tension #poor arthur #i can't help it im sorry #it will get better i promise #sweet boah arthur

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