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If there was ever a place that could make Molly O’Shea pine for her native Ireland, it was Lemoyne. With its stifling humidity, ubiquitous mosquitos, deadly reptiles, and hostile locals, Molly could safely say that the southern province was the worst out of all the states and territories she had passed through since joining the Van der Linde Gang. As she milled about camp, swatting bothersome insects and trying to ignore the unwelcome sweat gathering on her brow and elsewhere, it was easy to yearn for the crisp breezes and rolling green hills of her homeland. Whatever Ireland’s flaws, her memories made it seem a paradise when compared to the ramshackle camp at Clemens Point.
America had once seemed like the ultimate adventure, the best opportunity to escape the narrow social circles her family frequented in Dublin. She had swapped champagne and feather beds for nothing but the vague notion that something far grander lay across the Atlantic, just waiting to be discovered by anyone brave enough to venture forth. From the bustling cities of the eastern seaboard, Molly had imagined that she would head west to see all the things that people back in Ireland spoke of when they were halfway through a whiskey bottle and dreaming of their own escapades in the American West. To hear them talk, one would think that the hills overflowed with gold, huge herds of bison filled the plains, Indians had villages everywhere, and proud gunslingers made their own laws day by day.
Oh, how naïve she had been.
It was only after she was in America and had come out West that Molly discovered she was too late for everything. The gold had long since been picked clean, the bison had essentially all been shot, the last free Indians had been driven onto reservations at gunpoint, and the rule the outlaws was steadily giving way to newer authorities more comfortable with fountain pens than six-shooters. She had been sitting in the restaurant of a hotel in Denver, a lukewarm cup of coffee before her as she pondered her dwindling funds and the equally scarce excitement she had encountered during her travels, when she had met Dutch. He had sauntered up to her like a peacock, flashing his fine clothes and gold rings, and asked to join her in that deep baritone that seemed to draw so many people in.
Dutch had brought her in slowly, only dispensing with the vague generalities about his occupation after he was sure that she had no interest in running to law. Molly recalled the intense thrill she had felt upon learning the truth, that she was seeing a famous and devilishly handsome outlaw, just like something out of a dime novel. She had thought that she had finally cornered the elusive adventure that she had come to America in search of. Not only that, as talks over brandy turned to kisses and eventually nights spent together, Molly had believed she had found the love that had always seemed so lacking back home.
That all seemed like a lifetime ago to Molly as she sat on the barrel beside the tent she shared with Dutch, mending a shirt that Charles had torn on a hunt a few days before. Quiet as he could be, Molly had some fondness for the man, mostly for how he was always respectful towards the ladies in camp and did not seem to regard them as his personal servants. At the very least, he never leered at her breasts like that repulsive creature Micah Bell. Merely the thought of the greasy, snickering hitman was enough to put a scowl on her face. The proud Irishwoman knew she would rather sing the praises of Queen Victoria than lift a finger to help Dutch’s newfound favorite associate with anything.
It was not long before Molly had the stitching finished and she had to admit it was one of her better pieces of work. As much as she had loathed her mother making her practice the skill for hours on end as a girl, there were certainly times when it came in handy. All that remained was to get the old cotton shirt to Tilly for a wash. Molly was halfway across the campsite with Charles’ newly mended shirt when she happened to glance over towards the hitching posts and was surprised by the sight of The Count.
She had not even realized that Dutch was back in camp, having expected he was still off scouting a new opportunity with Hosea. Still, there stood The Count in his resplendent white glory, and Molly knew that Dutch would sooner have tea with Leviticus Cornwall than let someone else ride his horse, even if only back to camp. She left Charles’ shirt in a pile of clothing in dire need of wash, immediately beginning to search the area for her wayward lover.
When she finally caught sight of Dutch, she wished she had never come looking for him. He was crouched down beneath one of the large trees that dotted the edge of the campsite, and he was not alone. Mary-Beth sat with her back against the trunk, looking up at the outlaw before her and talking animatedly, gesturing to the book in her hands. As for Dutch, he gazed at the young woman with a knowing sort of amusement, his lips pulled up into that same charming grin he had once sent Molly’s way back in Denver years before.
Something about the sight struck the Irishwoman silent. She supposed she could have flown into a rage, storming over and berating Dutch for not even bothering to acknowledge her existence before trying to charm another woman into his bed. Still, the knowledge that Dutch had come back, avoided her entirely, and instead gone to flirt with someone else sent a deep ache through Molly’s chest. Instead, she turned away and walked back through camp. Other members of the gang went about their business, chatting as they finished chores or took the chance to rest. Molly hardly saw or heard them, only dimly aware of their existences as she passed them by in silence. Pearson was preparing stew off to her right. Uncle was plucking at an old banjo by the campfire. Arthur was just dismounting his horse by the impromptu hitching posts Charles had built a few weeks prior. They all might as well have been nameless strangers she passed on the streets of a vast city.
By the time she reached the shores of the lake, away from the eyes and ears of the others, Molly felt tears pricking her eyes. She blinked furiously, clutching at her anger like a lifeline, and just managed to keep the bulk of them at bay. Still, a solitary tear escaped her grasp and slid down her pale cheek before dropping silently onto the red clay soil, noticed by none but her. The sun was dipping down towards the horizon on the other side of the lake, casting a shimmering orange glow across the surface of the water. Once again, Molly thought of home and the way that the sun had always set to the west her father’s estate, slipping behind the hills at the end of a long day.
Why did she stay? Once, the answer had been Dutch, but it seemed that time had passed. Their romance had been dying slowly over the course of many months like a once blooming flower withered by drought until nothing remained. The memory of Dutch grinning at Mary-Beth was enough to have Molly gritting her teeth. She felt like a fool for giving her heart to a man who could evidently toss her aside as easily as a pair of old shoes once something new was dangled in front of him.
But what else was there? It was certainly a dour thought. As much as the weather may have been better back in Ireland, Molly could not say that she had many remaining ties to her homeland. The gang at least afforded some measure of security. If she left it, left Dutch, then where would she go? She would be back where she started when she first arrived in America, just a solitary woman drifting around the country. If she dropped dead while wandering around on her own, would anyone care or even notice?
The thought that she could drop dead there in camp and few would care, least of all Dutch, was enough to have Molly fighting back a fresh wave of tears. She wrapped her arms around herself, as if that could somehow steady her. It seemed that all her golden dreams of adventure in America had not amounted to much, just a whole lot of drifting and getting cast aside by a man who evidently had about as much regard for her as he did the dust on his boots.
“Miss O’Shea?”
The gruff murmur was enough to make Molly jump. She turned to see Arthur Morgan standing before her, a book in his hands and his eyebrows raised in surprise. She had not even heard the big cowboy approach. “Mister Morgan,” she replied, managing to muster a greeting.
Arthur peered closer. “You alright?”
Molly stiffened. “I’m fine,” she said quickly, hoping any traces of her tears had faded. “Do you need something?”
“Oh, uh…” Arthur looked down at the book in his hands and chuckled, looking almost bashful. “Well, maybe it’s silly, but whenever I see something while I’m traveling that I think someone around here might enjoy, I tend to grab it. I brought Lenny back a pocket watch.”
Good for Lenny, Molly thought, deciding to keep her sarcasm to herself. Still, she wished the cowboy would get to the point or leave her be.
“Here, this is for you.” Arthur held the book out to her.
“What?”
“I saw this in a cabin I was clearing out a couple days back, owners seemed to have abandoned it,” he explained, gesturing to the book still in his rough hands. “I seen you reading other poetry, so I thought it might be something you’d enjoy.”
Molly blinked at him, completely silent. Without thinking, she reached out and took the book from Arthur, hoping he did not notice her hands shaking. It was a lovely book, with brown leather binding that had evidently seen its fair share of readers. On the cover, the title was embossed in gold lettering: The Poems of Emily Dickinson.
It did not matter that Molly had never heard of the poet. The idea that Arthur had seen the book, thought of her, and brought it back to camp in the hope that she might enjoy it was enough to have a lump form in her throat. She doubted Dutch could name anything she enjoyed reading, and yet somehow Arthur had known. She looked up at him. He had always been big and strong, the perfect sort of man to serve as an intimidating source of muscle for the gang. Still, as she looked closer, she noticed for the first time the undeniable kindness in his gaze. The gentle expression in his sea green eyes was enough to have Molly feeling the beginnings of a blush creeping into her cheeks.
“I hope it’s alright,” Arthur said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m afraid I don’t know enough about poetry to say whether that’s a good one.”
This time, it was Molly who surprised Arthur, stepping forward and wrapping him in a hug. “It’s wonderful,” she murmured, her cheek pressed against his chest. “Thank you.” Arthur hesitated only a moment before returning the hug, his arms settling gently over Molly’s shoulders and patting her on the back. Her eyes began to sting again, and she shut them tight, committing the moment to her memory.
When they separated, Molly could have sworn she saw a hint of a blush on Arthur’s cheeks. He cleared his throat. “Well, I better be getting back to it,” he said, tipping his hat to her. “I hope you enjoy the book, Miss O’Shea.”
Molly felt a genuine smile form for the first time in days as she held the book to her chest, pressed tight against her heart. “I’m sure I will…and please call me Molly,” she said gently.
"As you wish, Molly." Arthur smiled back at her for a moment, nodding before turning and heading back towards the center of camp. Molly remained by the lakeshore, running her fingers over the leather cover of her book again and again. She had not forgotten her frustrations with Dutch, but they somehow seemed less important. As she looked out over the water of Flat Iron Lake, Molly found herself wishing she could bundle up every memory she had of Dutch Van der Linde, weigh them down with enough stones to build a castle, and then sink them into the deepest section of the lake forever. No more honeyed words and smoldering cigars and flashing black eyes to drag her spirits down.
Molly smiled to herself. Gentle, sea-green eyes were far prettier, she decided.