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It was a sunny day the first time you met. A gentle breeze, bright blue sky. And you walked by the side of the road, imitating a limp that had healed years ago, but were still familiar enough with in order to fake. Yes, you fake-limped in the hope that some stranger would take you to town.
It’s not that you didn’t feel guilty about snatching a few extra dollars – not at all, you felt guilty each time – especially since those who stopped to help you along were those of a kinder breed. But money was low these days, and for many unmarried, uneducated, orphaned young women, the only other option was selling yourself in the streets or at the salon. And you’d rather steal a dollar from good people than resort to selling your soul.
Well, it happened to be that on such a sunny day, an outlaw was running errands for the family he’d been adopted into. Of course, you didn’t know then that he was an outlaw – if you did, you probably would’ve stopped begging for help, or at least go without slipping your hand into his satchel while your arms were around his torso, cheek pressed into the heated leather of his jacket. It was only a day later you realized he was dangerous – when he rode into town again, looking more annoyed than anything, and his eyes landed on you right as you walked past the saloon. Not. Limping.
And that’s when he started stalking towards you, prompting a warning bell in your head that rang–
Ah, crap.
You’d darted into the saloon, wooden doors creaking on hinges behind you, only for them to burst open not a moment later while you attempted to shimmy your way through the crowd. Oh, but you were small compared to most people, and he was utterly huge – so while you were shoved here and there by the multitude of men, they parted like the Red Sea just to make way for him. But the back door, you could see, just a little ways away, and your hand was ready to reach the door knob, fingers curling around the lukewarm metal–
SLAM.
“Where the hell do you think you’re goin’?”
“I–”
He hunched forward just a little more, rough hands resting on wood at both sides of your face.
“And where the hell is my money?”
Your hands curled up against your chest, shuddering just like the rest of you, but it was impossible to look away. He was handsome, with blue cerulean eyes – blue as bright as the sky – yet now, cold as ice. And he had you pinned to a wall, legs shaking like a newborn lamb, looking as if you were ready to cry.
“ I asked you a damn question, woman! --”
“Arthur, you know I taught you better than that.”
Nobody had come to your aid – bar patrons were the worst at that – yet a silver-haired lithe stranger placed his hand on – Arthur? – Arthur’s shoulder and tugged him away.
“Hosea, she took–”
“Took what? A couple of measly dollars? Look at her, the poor girl’s shaking in her boots,” the older man replied, gesturing back at you. He was right, obviously, but in addition to the shaking, you were already sniffling with a faintly reddened nose.
And on impulse, you bowed your head.
“Look, mister. I’m so, so sorry. I just– I wanted– I needed some money, okay? I don’t have no one to look out for me, so please don’t turn me into the sheriff or anything. I promise I won’t do it again–”
“Liar,” Hosea interrupted, though his tone was more light and amused than angry. “Arthur, go get the girl a drink. If you, of all people, didn’t realize you were low on cash ‘til the next day, I think we might’ve found a new recruit for our traveling company.”
That was the first night you’d spent, curled up by a tent instead of an alleyway.
One thing led to another – learning how to sew and read and treat horses. Hosea, the man who possibly saved your life, brought you back to camp with promises of a welcoming family, so long as you, too, promised to pull your own weight. He spoke of you to Dutch, the dark-haired de facto leader, as if offering a sales pitch – and within minutes, you were quickly accepted in. There was Miss Grimshaw, who got on your nerves some days, then made you smile at the thought of having a mother on others, and there were your new “sisters” – Abigail, Tilly, Mary-Beth, and Karen. Molly, you could hardly call a sister, but her stuck-uppery-ness was more pitiful than annoying. Aside from them, Strauss was amiable enough, though his palpable cold greed was uncomfortable at times. Charles was quiet yet respectable, more of a hunter than a gun for hire. Then there was Sean, the annoying little brother; John, the grumpy brother; Javier, who had the voice of an angel; Bill, who drank too much. You’d think Bill was the most worrying addict, but Reverend Swanson existed, too. And with his drunk and drug problem, he could hardly be called a reverend.
… Then Uncle. Uncle – well – Uncle was something else. At least little Jack was cute, and constantly made flower necklaces for you and the other girls.
But back to Arthur. Yes – Arthur. He was, as you’d come to know, as kind as the day he pitied you on the side of the road, and as brutal as the day he looked downright ready to kill you. Luckily, most days, and at least now that the gang trusted you, he’d leaned towards the former. And sometimes, he’d go out of his way to not just be kind, but be kind specifically towards you.
At first, the gestures were only out of guilt. Handing you coffee early in the morning. Saving you a bowl of stew before it overcooked and got mushy. Taking you to town to buy supplies – AKA escaping Miss Grimshaw’s chores. Or even, now and then, leaving some strange flower he’d plucked from a far off place, carefully handled so as not to be crumpled, and placed right by your bedroll.
“I– well, I– I guess I was a bit brash that day,” he eventually admitted, wringing his leather hat in his hands, fingers gripped tight to the point where you were unsure if the material would downright fold like paper. He’d asked you for a brief word in the woods just outside camp, sweating like it was New Austin and not the cool valleys of New Hanover. “Was only a couple bills. An’-- an’ I guess I just don’ like being’ fooled. Not to mention that I’d been pissed as hell ‘cause of several things, like Sean bein’ a lazy ass, an’ Dutch jumping into another plan, an’–”
“Oh, Arthur. You might’ve scared me half to death that one time, but you don’t need to keep making up for it more than you already have.”
As his rant was stopped short, he couldn't help but think– Damn that ‘Oh, Arthur,’ and it sounding so nice on your lips.
“I… I just wanted to say I’m sorry.”
You spare him a smile.
“I know, and you have, with almost everything you do. But don’t be so harsh on yourself. I know you try to be a good man. If you’re gonna be kind, be kind to yourself, too.”
You placed a single hand on his chest, pressed a kiss to his cheek in passing, and left to return to Miss Grimshaw who’d been shouting at you from a distance. Not even on the lips, that kiss was how he realized he’d gone from being apologetically sweet to you, to being sweet on you.
To be honest, it was pretty damn obvious, but you were pretty damn oblivious.
It had already been a couple years since the “incident” with Mary – something almost everyone in camp whispered about once in a while – so they were familiar with what it was like when Arthur fell in love. In other words, they knew that he fell hard.
Even with your comfort, after that, he only stuttered more, and if he didn’t stutter, it was because he was at an utter loss for words. Or that one time Javier was singing, and the whole camp was partying, when you offered to dance with him, he nearly tripped over himself just getting to his feet. For a man so good with a gun, so steady with his shots, he was clumsier than a blind drunken bear around you. And you had no idea what a blind drunken bear was like, but from his stature, you could imagine it with ease.
“You’re getting better,” you teased him once. “Only stumbled twice tonight.”
“On the contrary. Think I’m gettin’ worse each time I dance with you.”
“Are you blaming me, Arthur Morgan?”
He chuckled quietly. “Somethin’ like that.”
You saw it only then – the way his blue eyes steadied on you. The way your steps slowed, caught up in the moment.
… And the way Mary-Beth and Tilly whispered to each other, faces alight with gossiping grins.
You felt your face heat up, just barely hidden by the orange hues of the fire, and you stepped back, letting go of his hand.
“I, uh– it’s getting late. I should get to bed. Miss Grimshaw needs me– uh– bright and ear– no– get up– no– to get up bright and early tomorrow morning for– ah– things? Things. Things! Yeah!”
And with that, you were shuffling off, slapping your heated cheeks with both hands and cursing out loud to yourself as you walked away.
Arthur stared, dumbfounded, then turned to the other girls. “Did I do somethin’ wrong?”
Karen chuckled, halfway through a bottle of whiskey, yet chugged the rest before answering. Not that it took her long to do so. “Well, let’s just say – you two sure are… ‘somethin.’”
Her comment made Mary-Beth and Tilly giggle harder, while Abigail rolled her eyes from her seat across the fire. Jack was fast asleep, head in her lap, as she combed her fingers through his hair gently, not even shifting as she spoke up.
“We all know you’re sweet on her, Arthur. You ain’t done nothing wrong. I think she just got smacked in the face with realizing she’s sweet on you, too.”
Arthur opened his mouth to say something. Closed it. Opened it again.
“Her, sweet on me? Naw – I’m a menace.”
Karen snorted. “Yeah, John’s a menace, too. Lookit where that got Abigail!”
“And Sean, for you, Karen,” Mary-Beth added, a humored smile gracing her soft features. “You hate him, you love him–”
“Oh, shut it. At least he’s a real menace – not one in a book!”
Tilly laughed. “Menaces make good outlaw and book material, but I’m findin’ myself a lawyer!”
“The point is –” Mary-Beth continued, looking back to Arthur– “so what if you’re a menace? You like her, she likes you, so go on – get her! She’ll be good for you!”
“Good for me?” Arthur sighed, shaking his head. “That’s what I thought Mary was to me, too.”
“Oh, hush about Mary. Mary can kiss my ass,” Karen muttered under her breath, starting on her second bottle.
“Karen!” Tilly scolded lightly, smacking the blonde woman on the shoulder.
“What?! I ain’t kiddin’. Girl’s got her nose so far up her own ass, she’s just like Molly! Only she likes to act all nice and prim and proper and hide it. Makes her even worse .”
Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose, the overlapping voices getting to him. Thank God that Molly was probably too busy with Dutch, dancing just far away enough not to hear. While the girls bickered, he took a few seconds, gathering up the courage to go and talk to you, knowing you’d probably still be awake, if not desperately trying to sleep while thinking about him.
God– he hoped it was the latter.
By the time he’d walked over, you were sitting upright in your cot, busying yourself with the journal Hosea had gifted you once you’d started to write. Your letters were practical chicken scratch – Jack probably wrote better – but at least they were legible. And legible, meaning legible to you . Maybe that was a good thing, considering you were so lost in thought, so lost in jotting them down, that when Arthur said hello, you jumped right out of your seat.
“Dangit, Arthur, don’t scare me like that! You nearly gave me a heart attack!”
“Hell, you sound like Hosea when John an’ I would try to pull pranks on him.”
“No wonder Jack’s got a mischievous side, too. Torturing Uncle, the way he does.”
Arthur spared you a crooked grin and sat beside you on the ground, his closeness making your eyes dart down this time, instead of stare back like he was a mountain lion about to pounce.
“So, whatchu writin’?”
You hesitate, shutting the leather book tight.
“Nothing. Just some silly letter practice. Don’t know what else to write yet.”
He nodded, and let silence fill the air, neither of you knowing what to say for the longest time. Before he’d arrived, you could just barely make out talk of Mary in the distance – a topic that had always made your heart ache, and now only knew why. That’s why you hid your journal from him, having written–
I wonder how many times he gave Mary flowers, too?
“I overheard,” you finally said, fiddling with your own fingers, “what you and the girls were talking about. A little bit, I mean. Like how they said I’m sweet on you, then went on to talk about Mary–”
“It’s nothin’ like that. Promise. The Mary part, I mean. I dunno if the whole thing ‘bout you likin’ me is true–”
“It is true. I’ve liked you since that time you got all jittery saying sorry. I just didn’t know if I’d describe it as ‘liking’ until now. I thought it would go away soon, that it was temporary.”
“Is it?”
“Temporary? No, I don’t think so.”
You laughed a little, twisting a lock of your hair, and his heart swelled at the sound. Your next words might have wounded him before, but now–
“But Mary–” you started–
– “Haven’t thought ‘bout her like that in a while.”
The following sigh surprised you.
“I mean, shoar, I’d think ‘bout her now and then, but it don’t hurt the same as before. Think I’m gettin’ better at handlin’ things. Ain’t so angry or sad anymore.”
He scratched the back of his ear with a finger, then stopped when you scooched closer, leaning forward.
“Why? What else were you sad about?”
Arthur struggled to speak at first, like he had so many times with you, but not because he didn’t want to say anything. It was more like he wasn’t used to expressing his thoughts to someone other than Hosea – someone he still saw as family, but not someone he feared losing. Because for such a strong man who could take down a town, rob a bank, shoot lawmen from a moving train or steed, it was those he cared for most that made him feel the most small.
“Well–” he began– “once upon a time, I had a son.”
The rest of the evening was spent that way – you with your knees curled up to your chest, and Arthur sitting, hunched over on a crate. He paused now and then to find his words, sometimes struggling to breathe over the threat of his voice breaking, but each time, he forced the cry down, scared a little crack could make the rest of him fall apart. But once he finished, you held him, and he held up his arms awkwardly – but it’s your patience in even physical touch that eventually pulls him to wrap his arms around you in return. And you tell him that though you can’t cure his pains, you’ll always be there to listen.
That night, he told you he wants to listen to you, too.
And though he hadn’t said that he liked you, it was no surprise when months later, he instead said–
“
I love you
.”