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”Who was she?”
Arthur turns his head, a lazy movement, brows furrowed and eyes squinting, the warm flames of the fire dancing in the reflection of his blown-out pupils.
Abigail knows she shouldn’t ask – one of those unspoken rules in camp; don’t ask about the past unless prompted. She’s never had trouble with it before, but Arthur has this– this gloom about him.
Most of the men have propositioned her at least once, Bill being the most insistent, as if he has something to prove, but not Arthur.
No, Arthur watches her from time to time. She feels a gaze in the back of her head only to turn and find him staring like he’s seen a ghost. And, well, maybe he has.
There’s a photograph of a woman in a wooden frame on the barrel beside his cot. Sometimes, when she can get away with it, Abigail sneaks over and takes a closer look. She’s real pretty, whoever she is, dark hair framing her face, dress betraying the wealth she must come from. And her eyes look… well, they look kind. And patient.
“Who was who?” Arthur asks, a low grumble, though a questioning lilt to his voice.
“The girl,” Abigail says, and, when Arthur tilts his head in mild confusion, clarifies, “The girl who broke your heart.”
Arthur huffs, shakes his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
And that’s the end of that.
Abigail excuses herself, the dismissal in Arthur’s voice clear as day, and leaves. She’s not stupid, knows when not to prod and pry, but curiosity still prickles at the back of her mind
Tilly is sweet – a kind girl around her age. They talk well, even if Abigail had been hesitant at first. Tilly’s been with them longer than even Uncle, and well, to be honest, Abigail only truly felt slightly safe when she first reassured her that the men in camp are kind.
‘Stupid at times, and childish too, but they mean well. They care.’
Abigail didn’t believe her. Until she did.
Hosea’s just about the nicest man she’s ever met. He offers to help her learn how to read, and even though she declines, her heart clenches at the kindness he offers her otherwise, seemingly with no ulterior motive. All he asks for is that she listens to miss Grimshaw, and she does just that.
Except, sometimes Grimshaw crosses a line Abigail’s set for herself. She ain’t doing that kinda work no more. Refuses, whenever Grimshaw brings it up, crossing her arms and glaring daggers, defends herself by explaining that she’s of much more use staying in camp and mending shirts than on her back in some sleazy hotel.
Besides, she only sleeps with one person now.
John is… weird, to say the least. It’s like he’s two different people in one and he can’t decide which one he wants to be. He’d been aloof, slightly cold, when they’d first been introduced, but it hadn’t taken long before she moved into his tent. Because John can be sweet when he wants to. Kind too; he brings her flowers from his frequent trips and jobs with Arthur, who teases him mercilessly, which makes John blush a pretty pink.
Sometimes, he holds her in their afterglow, face pressed to her throat, chest glued to her back, and they just lay there; forget about the world outside their tent. Forget about the world in which they live in, and Abigail’s eyes drift shut, and she allows herself a pipe dream in the confines of her mind – imagines a neat little house, a kid or two prattling around outside, a gentle peace in the middle of nowhere, no law, no bounty hunters, no nothing.
Just the two of them enjoying each other.
“Her name was Mary.”
Abigail startles.
She’s been sitting alone at the outskirts of camp, done with the loud chatter and laughter of the drunken men around the campfire.
It’s late at night, the sun long gone, leaving the moon to hang high in the sky – distant, yet tantalizingly close, surrounded by a myriad of stars all shining bright as though trying to compete. A little girl, no more than seven at the time, had once whispered to Abigail, confided in her almost, that the moon was a girl – ‘Just like me.’
Arthur sits himself down beside her. He smells of alcohol, but his eyes are alarmingly clear when they catch each other’s gaze. He turns his head in an instant, eyes lowered, and scratches his chin. He chuckles. “Or is Mary, I guess.”
Abigail breathes a sigh of relief.
Too many stories of women dying terrible deaths have circulated within the camp; whether it’s Tilly divulging secrets or Hosea opening his heart during a game of dominoes, she listens, something heavy in her stomach when the untimely death of a lover – a woman – is pulled forth from behind tightly drawn lips.
“It wasn’t one-sided neither. I broke her heart too. Wasn’t good enough for her family, even if she wanted me to. And I couldn’t change. Or wouldn’t.”
The last part is said through clenched teeth, but it doesn’t hide how tired he sounds.
“She waited for me. For a long time. Wanted to marry me, said yes to my proposal and everything. Even wore the ring I gave her on proud display. But we had different visions of the future. She wanted me to leave my life behind.” Arthur runs a hand over his face. “And I wanted her to leave hers.”
For the first time, Abigail feels as though she’s watching Arthur proper; like she actually sees what’s beneath all the gruff, rough exterior. There are cracks in his visage, invisible scars in his skin, rotten flowers oozing from within – lilies.
Arthur clears his throat, coughs into his hand before smiling, all quiet and sly. “Now, if you don’t mind me asking: Who was he?”
Abigail laughs, plays along, as if he hasn’t just bared his soul to her. “Mr. Morgan, there is no he. I ain’t ever had my heart broken, and if I did, you wouldn’t be able to see it.”
Arthur shrugs, taking a drag from his cigarette before offering it to Abigail, and she accepts, slotting it between her fingers.
“Worth a try.”
“Away with you, you silly man,” Abigail laughs, pushing at his shoulder.
Arthur chuckles and shakes his head, only for his expression to twist into something far too serious for the turn their conversation has taken.
“If anyone ever does – break your heart that is – you send ‘em my way.” Arthur’s gaze is sincere, and Abigail feels something constrict in her chest, right behind her ribcage. “I’ll make sure to break something of theirs.”
Three years later, John walks past her, cold eyes averted, cradling his broken nose.