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Lemoyne was a cesspit of unrelenting heat, crowded with rich, white whores playing that they knew the struggle of working a field.
Javier would have put up with all the slurs and downcast glances in the world for a hotel bed: a reprieve from the damn mosquitos. How was Shady Belle so cold at night? The humidity didn't give enough time for the sweat to dry before the blazing sun turned into a frigid night. A cheap hotel bed, a hot, fresh meal that actually tasted like food, and a stranger's skin cast by a red lamp. Even without cash, he'd consider it a happy end.
Instead of smiling at the daydream, his grip tightened on the repeater. He was on guard duty - east side of the dilapidated plantation house. For the most part it was a field of abandoned civil war battlement, a small barely worn road running towards the coast in the distance. At any other camp, Javier might have considered it an insult he was delegated to such a quiet area.
But night watch had become a privilege. The rotation of the guard had lost its meaning—the lucky few chosen simply stayed at the post until someone forced them to bed.
He scanned the surroundings, counted no more than six paces under his breath, and scanned again. The camp was so new to them, he wouldn't have noticed if the trees moved. With the exception of a patch of dense, new growth still climbing perfectly, desperately straight towards the sun, it was a forest of ugly, twisted trees caught somewhere between alive and rotting. And the fog, the constant, damned, wet fog, seemed to emanate from them. On a clear night, he'd only have to cast his eyes past the shadow of his tent to what had been an empty clearing-
There was a figure. There was someone there, the dark and fog obscuring their features but not the unmistakable stagger forward.
Javier's breath caught, instincts remembering to raise the gun faster than his mind could process the thought.
"Who goes there?" he shouted as if volume would hide the hoarse squeak. The man flinched, raising his hands defensively.
"D-don't shoot!" a trembling voice begged.
Javier's mouth went dry. A lifetime of caution abandoned him, the repeater falling slack against his shoulder strap. Kieran squinted as if the campfire burned brighter only to spite him, the hair on his arms too caked in muddy sweat to raise with goosebumps. "I-I'm sorry. I think I got lost."
"You must be freezing," Javier forced out the first thing on his mind. He started yanking off the poncho before his legs started moving, closing the distance twice as fast as Kieran would have. Dark eyebrows furrowed in confusion, a reflexive wince away as the fabric and hands flew over his head. Kieran stood still as a spooked deer, bewildered, watching Javier fluff and fix the poncho into place. There was no smart comment about horse stink, or O'Driscoll, or the fact he was covered, almost head to toe, in filth from the effort of dragging himself back to camp. Javier grabbed his arm, squeezing on the verge of uncomfortably tight and refusing to meet his eyes. "I went looking for you."
"Sorry," Kieran apologised again. Javier's chest swelled, forcing air to his brain like he'd forgotten how to breathe.
He smiled at him: a bright, warm genuine smile came across Javier Esuella's face, as the grip turned into an affectionate, casual pat.
"Don't worry about it. You should sit by the fire," he said, arm almost around Kieran's shoulder as he guided him forward.
"It's fine, Mr Escuella," Kieran choked out, looking over the path ahead for a trap. The cold turned his knees to slate, each step an effort to lift the weight of his own leg through Shady Belle's soft dirt.
"Javier," the latter said after a beat.
"E-excuse me?" Kieran asked.
"You can call me Javier," he clarified.
"Alright, Javier," Kieran agreed, testing how the word felt in his mouth. It wasn't - wrong, but strange, the sort of strange trying a new fruit felt. Javier gave a nod of approval, any comment about pronunciation buried under the bright smile that demanded to be on his face.
"Kieran's back!" he called ahead. The sleepy avenue of tents and wagons came alive so quickly, it looked like they were under attack. Silence became a choir of voices. Candles and lamps came on, chasing the shadows from every corner. People sat bolt upright from their bedrolls, others scrambling to their feet before ever giving themselves the chance to wake up.
Mary-Beth almost ran through the glass-pane door of Shady Belle before it was open, tears already drying on her cheeks. Her poor nose was bright red with abuse, the rough, wet, red handkerchief slipping out of her grip.
"Kieran!" she cried out with fragile joy, arms thrown up to warn him of the impending hug. It did nothing to stop the embrace from squeezing an audible squeak out of him, however momentary the discomfort was. Mary-Beth pressed her face into his shoulder, fitting there with quiet certainty of belonging despite Kieran's stiffness. She was warm, her arms around his waist like home, like it wasn't the first time she had held him when Kieran was absolutely certain it was. Something in his chest ached, wishing the moment didn't need to end.
"I'm sorry for upsetting you, Miss Gaskill," he stammered out, hands stuck out awkwardly in mid-air. She shook her head without pulling away, taking in a breath so deep he felt it against his skin.
"No, no, it's alright. You got nothing to apologise for. Sorry, I'm being silly," she said in a frantic single breath, a precautionary wipe of her cheeks despite an unnaturally bright grin. "Come sit down!"
"I should be tending to the horses," Kieran said apologetically, searching for the small herd. They'd moved - from the entrance to the side of the property. Kieran frowned slightly - had he been gone that long? The horses spread unevenly over the sparse grazing, barely enough hay left to see where he'd split a bale that morning.
A hand clasped his shoulder. Kieran visibly flinched as he whirled around, only to find Hosea's old, worn face smiling gently.
"No, you sit down," Mr Matthews assured, his hand weathered soft as it patted his back. "It's good to see you, son."
"You... too, sir?" Kieran returned the greeting, albeit confused. Slowly, he processed how many faces were still crowded around the campfire. Tilly had assumed a position beside Mary-Beth, their hands overlapping but Tilly's grip white-knuckled. Javier already has his guitar in his lap, tuning carefully as he plucked off-note strings. Charles was actually sitting with them instead of the scout fire, taking a bottle from Karen's loose grasp only to take a swig of straight whiskey himself. He made a face at the burn, eyes flicking down to read the label. Arthur, awkwardly hunched on an overturned stump turned stool, watched the scene cautiously from the corner of his eye.
"Come, inside the tent. It's warmer," Javier said, shuffling aside to open up a space on his bedroll.
"I-I'm fine here," Kieran deflected, scanning to try and find an empty seat. Hosea almost looked proud as he took the last open space on the log bench.
"I insist." Javier's tone shifted on a razor's edge, familiarly venomous, an order presented as opportunity. Kieran sat like gravity had remembered him and increased tenfold, the cushion of blankets saving him from wincing. Thunderous footsteps echoed the nervous pounding of his heart, the camp cook moving so quick his lumbering walk nearly became a jog.
"I saved you a bowl!" Pearson called cheerfully, shoving the loaded, steaming stew onto his lap.
"T-thank you," Kieran replied with gratitude, eyes widening as he struggled the spoon free. With each stir another piece of meat or thick cut vegetable bobbed through the broth so thick it moved like gravy. Rabbit melted against his tongue at the first bite, not only cooked at the perfect temperature, but seasoned to compliment the sweetness.
"Hey there, Kieran!" Lenny greeted with his signature, unwavering grin. Rubbing his hands on a rag Kieran immediately recognized as his own, he predicted the next words. "I was just finishing up with the horses."
"They okay?" Kieran asked, choking down a barely chewed morsel to get the word out.
"Yeah, all brushed and fed. I didn't miss anyone," Lenny assured. His face twitched, like he was trying to remember how to make the expression he felt: how to look disheartened without looking in anguish. "Except... Branwen wandered off, sorry. I was- kinda hoping he was with you."
"Ah, don't worry. He's always been that way," Kieran dismissed, spoon scraping across the bottom of the bowl as he turned his attention back to the precious fatty meat and stew.
"Really?" Lenny asked loudly with genuine intrigue. Everyone was staring, sitting leaned forward as if waiting for him to continue an epic tale. Kieran held the bowl tighter, a tragically small shield.
"Y-yeah. He's pretty skittish, always coming and goin' as he pleases. He pro... probably just found some greener grass, and he'll wander back when he's full," he explained.
Lenny let out a shaky exhale of pure relief. "Oh, good."
"Another bowl?" Pearson offered, holding out a hand. Kieran faltered, staring too long before realising he was asking for the bowl.
"I couldn't, but thank you," he squeaked out, letting it be taken. Pearson held it ceremoniously, the sacred object steadied and dwarfed in his grip.
"How was the pot?" he asked.
"Delicious," Kieran praised. The looming figure swelled with praise, shoulders jostling with a chuckle.
"Delicious," he echoed, still cradling the bowl with one hand while another vanished into his impossibly deep pocket. "If you want delicious, you polish it down with this."
Kieran wisely grabbed the heavy green bottle with two hands, one supporting the base. Against the firelight, the liquid inside looked black. The smell of alcohol bled through the recycled cork before Kieran had even begun to twist, as acrid as varnish. Before he let himself question it, Kieran brought the bottle to his lips and took as much of a swig as he could.
"Shi-et, Pearson. What is that?" he choked, Javier's hand patting his back the only thing keeping the liquid down.
"Navy rum! Nothing better in all my days," Pearson bragged.
"Tastes like lamp oil," Kieran muttered, careful to keep his tone playful. The cook let out a too-loud, full-belly laugh.
"Burns twice as hot," he said like a threat, grinning as he took the bottle away with him.
Mary-Beth grumbled an excuse about the log bench being damp as she got to her feet. Her eyes locked on a tiny corner of bedroll left exposed, Kieran shuffling over at the wordless command. She claimed the spot with an innocently delighted smile. No shadows were allowed to exist long. Abigail walked forward slowly as if in a queue behind Pearson. Her barefoot steps were near silent, a shawl out of place over her nightdress. There was something uncomfortably intimate about seeing the proud mother with her hair loose, falling in dark shadows around her face.
"Hey, Kieran," she greeted softly, her skirt still swaying as if it would consider taking a seat without her. Her hands tightened around the shawl, refusing to meet his eyes. "I just wanted to say thank you- for what you said when Jack was missing. It meant a lot to me."
"Of course," Kieran answered in his characteristically dismissive 'you're welcome'. His face fell, eyebrows furrowed as he tried to meet her gaze. "Is everything alright, Miss Roberts?"
She nodded quickly, a forced smile only lasting a second.
"Yes, yes, everything's fine. I should- I should go back to my boy," she excused, eyes already welling as she turned back towards the plantation house. Kieran glanced around, half expecting someone to chase her, only to find a choir of the same downcast expression. Arthur pursed his lips into such a thin line, they seemed to vanish entirely.
"Goodnight," Kieran called after her, a knot coming back to his stomach as he hoped the boy they'd only just got back was okay.
After a moment of silence, the gang resumed the strange, somber merriment of evening. Karen nearly fell into the firepit as she dragged herself to her feet, slurring something about another bottle. Javier's guitar picked up, his voice hushed singing sad, Spanish melodies. It was a love song, Kieran thought, a fleeting one, or something that hadn't blossomed yet. He recognised the words te quiero.
Javier cleared his throat as if the concept was strangling him.
"Do you, ah, still want to go fishing?" he said, voice too light for the weight of the song he was still playing. "Hosea mentioned a sturgeon 'round here that he heard was fifty pounds."
Kieran's face fell skeptically, immediately sending a look at the old man. "In these parts?"
"I met a man who swore on his mother's grave that the beast was so big, he could see it from the hotel balcony," Hosea insisted with a con-man's confidence and the flash of a toothy grin. Javier shrugged, staring at his hands as if they were possessed, trying to will them to move onto a different song.
"I thought, maybe tomorrow morning, we could try our luck," he said, fiddling with a tuning key. Kieran stared, mouth slightly open, trying to figure out what stars has aligned or prayers answered for the question to come across so casually.
"Yeah! Yeah, of course, I'd love to!” Kieran glowed, beaming ear-to-ear. Javier returned the smile, finally remembering the opening chords to Cielito Lindo. Mary-Beth laughed breathlessly to herself, her head lulling against Kieran's shoulder.
"Imagine the travesty of a meal Pearson could make with a fish like that," she mumbled, eyes closed a second too long between blinks. Despite a nudge, she stayed a deadweight against his side.
"You sound tired," Kieran noticed.
"I'm not, I swear," Mary-Beth insisted, the whine in Kieran's ear nearly childish.
"Get yourself to bed," he encouraged her gently, as nice as her warmth was against his side. She whined again, shaking her head into his shoulder.
"I'm fine."
"C'mon," Tilly said as she got to her feet, the softness of her hand on Mary-Beth's shoulder betrayed by an unmistakable tone of a command. Mary-Beth shot her a look through puffy eyes. She rose to her knees, very matter of fact, turning towards Kieran entirely. His breath caught in his throat.
The kiss was over before the moment could register in his mind, or be a moment at all. It was a feeling on his lips, a perfect blank in his memory from looking in her eyes to feeling her slowly pull away.
He couldn’t even remember if he’d kissed her back.
"Goodnight, Kieran," she said, voice so softly it became a whisper only for their ears.
"G-goodnight," he stammered out, the furious bright red in his cheeks spreading over his face and down his neck. Deaf to the snickers and chuckles of those around him, he stared after her. His face fell, placing a hand on his stomach to quell the sudden, grotesque churning. The thought was gone as quickly as it possessed him, only making sense of words after the fear had vanished. Come back. Take me with you.
With the same grace and brilliance of the moon, her absence called the end of the night. Javier finished out the song, reminding Kieran to be ready early for their trip. Too excited to think, Kieran didn't bother mentioning he was sitting in Javier's tent, and could've easily moved so the former could get to sleep. Hosea groaned with the effort of standing, ruffling Kieran's hair as he wished him goodnight. It was strange, innocent, entirely too long and affectionate. The old conman's voice crackled. He stood there a second longer than socially acceptable, the creak in his knees sounding ten years older when he finally pulled away.
Any other night, the idea of sitting around the dying, smouldering embers of a campfire with only Arthur Morgan left, sitting directly across from him, would have paralysed Kieran. With the invisible mark of Mary-Beth's kiss against his lips, Kieran felt like the luckiest man in the world.
Arthur watched him for a moment, clearing his throat.
"How's your evening been?" he asked, stoically awkward.
"Incredible," Kieran answered breathlessly, the wheeze of a laugh at the edge of his voice. He caught the smile on Arthur's face, a quiet thing, a simple upturn on at the corner of his mouth that a stranger would miss. Arthur Morgan was smiling. The night was clear, yet despite the promise of rain the stickiness in the air had relented with the promise of dawn. Whispers of rum still wrapped their way through his brain, trapping the sound of the guitar in his head on repeat. Kieran leaned back, making room for his full stomach. The spot where Mary-Beth had been sitting was still warm. Kieran's expression softened, letting his hand linger. The question came simple and earnestly. "I'm dead, aren't I?"
Arthur sucked in a breath.
"Yeah," he confirmed, slowly reaching up to remove his own hat and sit it beside him.”You are.”
Kieran immediately understood why it was Arthur: the enforcer, staying to finish a job no one had assigned. Arthur reached for his cigarettes, holding the pack towards Kieran. He accepted graciously, waiting for a light.
"Why'd you leave camp?" Arthur asked as he leaned forward, protecting the matchstick flame. Kieran took a breath of the smoothest cigarette he had ever known, letting the smoke consume every inch of his lungs before he exhaled. His eyes locked on the burning orange halo of tailored paper.
"I heard a horse. I was sitting over by the shed, trying to get through a coffee," Kieran said slowly, head turning to retrace his steps through the empty camp. Crooked teeth poked out with a creeping smile, snickering to himself. "We drank so much, my head was killing me."
"Yeah. That's right, we were celebrating getting Jack back," Arthur offered idly, forcing a smile and nod of affirmation. He remembered: it was one of the best nights of his life. Jack was back with them, safely returned to their arms. Arthur got to watch John try to navigate being a parent as he walked behind Abigail with his tail between his legs. They all drank, even Kieran, for the first time since they'd known him. There was music, food, liquor, and the tiniest flicker of hope they really would be okay again. Kieran even tried to strike up a conversation, Arthur too drunk to catch a word of it except laughter.
It was a month ago.
"In the morning - well, it was probably noon by the time I got up - I heard a horse squealing, real panicked. I thought maybe one of ours had gotten spooked by the storm and gotten its leg caught in that civil war field," Kieran explained, his face falling as he spoke. His eyebrows furrowed, confusion morphing into slow dawning terror.
His entire body paled so abruptly it seemed blue, shadow cast over his eyes. "And then..."
"Kieran," Arthur said sharply, moving a seat closer. His hand fell on Kieran's knee, squeezing. The latter flinched so violently it scared the specter of death away, pale blue eyes wide in terror before coming back into focus. Arthur swallowed, offering, "it's alright," as if things could ever be alright again. Kieran nodded, catching his breath.
"What happened after?" he asked nervously.
"O'Driscolls turned up here. No one was hurt," Arthur said, only to wince at his own choice of words. Kieran let out a shaky breath, slumping forward as he weakly grabbed the knees of his pants for support.
"That's good,” he answered with genuine relief.
Arthur loathed him for it: how effortless Kieran made being objectively good, how long it had taken anyone to recognise it. His arms crossed hard over his chest, his effort to look elsewhere leaving Arthur’s gaze on the ominous silhouette of a wooden headstone.
"I'll sit with you until morning,” he offered flatly.
"Is that how it works?" Kieran asked, leaning forward with idle curiosity.
"Sun comes up, you go back to whatever comes after," Arthur explained, flicking the butt of his cigarette towards the fire. He didn't know how Kieran would react, or how he expected Kieran to react, but it wasn't... calm. Kieran finished his cigarette, smiling to himself as a tiny, half-burnt filter into the dirt. With a sigh, he reached into his pocket, and started rolling another. Arthur watched his fingers cradle the paper effortlessly, packing it tight like an artform. Arthur grabbed out another match, wishing his mind could shut up long enough to enjoy a cigarette instead of the lone, nagging thought wouldn't let go. "How'd you figure it out?"
Kieran's eyes flicked to the spent match like it was an answer.
"That's the nicest folk have been to me... ever," he admitted sheepishly, as though it was something for him to be embarrassed about. Arthur sighed in defeat and shame.
"I'm sorry, kid."
"It ain't your fault," Kieran said plainly, confusion plain on his face. "I should be thanking you."
"Don't," Arthur warned, shoulders creeping up to his ears as he braced.
"Riding with you lot was the best decision I ever made. Past few months were probably the best in my life," Kieran insisted, like gratitude was a fire in the pit of his chest that could only be extinguished by being spoken.
Arthur remembered a tree at Horseshoe Overlook, echoes of ignored cries crashing in his skull. He had to go back, one day, and burn that damned thing down.
"I'm sorry," he repeated, desperate and honest. Kieran looked at him like it was an insult, harshness of the glare softened by the peace on his face.
"I ain't," Kieran refuted. He adjusted, relaxing as he inched the slightest closer to the opening of the stoop. The sky had begun to change to lilac, low, dense clouds hidden by the dark reclaiming their shape, promising to dissipate with the sun. "I'm happy we got to be friends."
"Me too," Arthur said hoarsely, praying he never had the misfortune of making a friend as much of a bastard as he was. Despite an ache in his chest advising against it, he lit another cigarette as an excuse to fall quiet. Another followed in a desperate buy for time before he had to trust his voice not to betray him.
Kieran fell into routine without meaning to, eyes tracing over the herd. He mouthed their names to himself, like a headmaster taking the role. The Count and Baylock grazed in stride, their own world apart from the rest. Silver Dollar's ears were back, head low, but had come to accept Old Boy as his companion, alongside Wolfsbane in their own bachelor herd.
Old Belle stood alone by the hitching post, ears forward and eyes locked on the distance. Whisps of hay carefully situated under her belly were ignored, her bottom lip trembling. Her belly swelled with breath, whinny carrying like a siren's call.
Arthur watched him bring his hands balled together to his mouth, eyebrows furrowed before the unmistakable hoot of an owl came from his hands. Kieran turned his ear towards the dark, straining to hear. He brought his hands to his lips again, the owl call travelling further than any whistle could.
There was no sound more horrifying than that horse's scream. Hooves struck the ground as heavy as drums. An unyielding haze of deep red and fleabitten cream galloping through trees and shrubbery that refused to get out of its way. Arthur cussed under his breath, jumping to his feet to step back as the stud's legs dug in too late, dust and stone flying like sparks in his wake. Kieran became an immovable wall in the wake of an unstoppable force. The whites of Branwen's eyes gleamed wildly, foamed sweat over his shoulder as his forelegs came out post-legged, scrambling for traction as he slid straight into camp, stopping mere feet away from crushing his precious boy.
Old Belle squealed a hello that fell on deaf ears. Nostrils flared, blowing mist over Kieran, Branwen catching his breath as much as he breathed Kieran in. His muzzle whacked Kieran's arms impatiently to laughter.
"Hello, old friend. Yeah, I missed you too," Kieran cooed gently, brushing matted forelock out of the way to scratch the stud's face. Despite the heave of his chest in time with a heavy, pounding heart, Branwen closed his eyes like drinking in the touch.
"How'd you do that?" Arthur asked, hand on his chest as he regathered himself onto a seat. Kieran tried to take his eyes off Branwen, only to be whacked by a nervous muzzle again. Kieran rolled his eyes, letting the horse bite at his ratty sleeves.
"You just overlap your hands, like this," he demonstrated slowly, letting Arthur copy the motion, "and then you blow."
Bringing his hands to his face with the dread of looking dumber than usual, Arthur visibly jumped as the sound came true, the unmistakable sound of a horned owl call deafening close to his ears. Branwen's head shot up, only making it a step away from Kieran before realising his boy hadn't moved. The stud snorted, nudging Kieran like a sulking Labrador betrayed by a feigned ball throw. Arthur studied the position of his hands a second longer, chuckling.
"Smart horse," he praised.
"When he wants to be. He’s a lot easier to find in a gunfight than a horse that only knows a whistle," Kieran said in adoration. His hand stroked Branwen's cheek slower, eyes softening as he took in each whorl and stray white hair. Branwen nickered softer, like a dam trying to comfort its colt, as he pressed closer to the touch. Kieran swallowed a lump in his throat. "D-Do you... do you think you could ask Miss Gaskill to look after him? He's a good horse, he'll do well by her, a-and he does fine being stabled-"
"I'll ask her. I'm sure she'll be happy to take care of him," Arthur assured. His hand came up to rub his chin, trying to think through every and any scenario where what he said next mattered. "She's sweet on you, you know."
Kieran froze, letting the words fall over him before he began to nod slowly. He knew. Of course, he knew.
"I'm sweet on her, too," he admitted through a trembling smile. "You can tell her I said that, if you think it'll help her... move on, I s'pose.”
Dawn came as yellow and grey haze over a pale sky, slipping through trees to find Kieran’s arm. Arthur felt his stomach turn. Bruises surfaced slowly beneath the skin of Kieran’s arms, dark fingerprints blooming like rot through the suddenly ratty, loose shirt. Rope burns appeared around his wrists and knuckles, the skin raw and split, dirt ground deep into cuts that looked days old.
Dried blood gathered black at the corner of his mouth. Arthur couldn’t speak, witness as the jagged cut dragged itself across Kieran’s throat, opening as dark blood began to run down into his neckerchief.
Kieran felt the stare on him, looking up slightly to offer that same shy smile, unaware as his blue eyes dulled, glazing over until life drained out of them entirely. Without reprise, the left distorted with pressure, iris splitting black to let murky, dark fluid run down his cheek, and then the right– two, bloody, empty sockets trying to meet Arthur’s gaze.
"It made... everything worth it, getting to meet her."
"I wish you had more time," Arthur confessed, face downcast as watched his own shadow grow sharper as day broke. "Together."
"Yeah, me too," Kieran admitted softly, as if he would be judged for his selfishness. "Thanks for sitting with me, Arthur."
"You're welcome.” The platitude came gravel, and grave.
Branwen let out a high-pitched squeal, an ear flicking back as he stepped closer to the tent. He buried his nose in the bedroll, throwing the blanket aside and snorting.
“Bran-” Arthur stopped himself, sighing as the horse’s eyes gleamed with focused confusion. He brought his hands to his lips, the sharp, loud owl call carrying further than he meant. Immediately, Branwen raised his head, trotting a stride as he approached.
Arthur snorted despite himself, slipping the lasso over Branwen’s offered head. He let the rough hand rub his cheek, ears flicking back as he realised the trick. Arthur whispered an apology meant tenfold as he stood, leading the poor stud back to the hitching post. Old Belle fell into place beside her companion immediately, her usual spark muted with sympathy. Arthur’s thoughts wandered to dogs laying on their master’s graves, wondering if it was starvation or heartbreak that claimed them first.
Footsteps forced him from his thoughts, any attempt to be quiet undermined by the unnatural silence of the morning. Arthur turned fast, the immediate tension in his shoulders dropping the second he saw the grey paint horse’s signature saddle appear over its back.
"What're you doing awake?" he asked as he approached, rounding the horse’s front. Javier kept his stare on the saddle, as if he could find answers in the broken stitches that hadn’t been mended, or stubborn dirt still caked into its grooves.
"I'm going fishing," he said, short, biting through every word.
"Mind if I join you?" Arthur asked.
"Yes." Javier hesitated, not willing to risk a misunderstanding. "I want to be alone."
"Fair enough," Arthur assured, hands sliding into his pockets in an effort to look casual, unoffended. "You went looking for him."
"I know." Javier strangled the answer through gritted teeth. Arthur, despite his frame, and reputation, tried to soften himself.
"I think you were the first person to ever go looking for Kieran Duffy without ill-intent," Arthur drawled on, eyes wandering to Branwen as the stud finally dropped his head and let himself graze. "That would've meant a lot to him."
"Sure," Javier acknowledged with light, dismissive nonchalance. He checked the cinch one last time, running his hands along the dull leather of the saddle. With one hand braced on the saddle horn, his head suddenly dropped, like his grip was the only thing keeping him upright. "If you'd gone looking, you’d have found him."
Arthur’s face fell.
"You can't blame yourself, Javier," he insisted, stepping forward. Javier huffed a breath and lunged into the saddle before Arthur’s hand could reach him. He gathered the reins without giving Boaz time to adjust, the paint horse turning as sharply as the pull demanded.
Javier’s jaw tightened, his stare fixed on the drive ahead.
"I don't.”