Chapter Text
"Muddy as a hog pen," Arthur grumbled, pulling his hat lower as he ambled the wagon through the streets of Valentine. Mudtown, affectionately called by a few of the hard-boiled locals, hadn’t changed a lick. Sure, it boasted a few more false-front buildings, but it was still a godforsaken quagmire of filth and noise, with an unmistakable perfume of wet grass and livestock dung. "Remind me why we left a perfectly good, dry ranch, BB?"
"For a pony," she huffed, kicking her heels against the wood of the box. "But I don’t want a pony, Pa. I wanna ride Buell." If Arthur had heard this plea once since leaving home, he’d heard it a hundred times.
Buell was a magnificent animal, but he was also a mean-spirited, temperamental bastard who had thrown Arthur into a berry bush as recently as last Tuesday, just because a squirrel looked at him wrong. "BB, we’ve been over this," Arthur said, his voice straining for that firm father tone that rarely worked on her.
"Charity, then?" she countered, before Arthur could even begin his practiced lecture. "She’s nicer and momma’s too round to be ridin’ her."
The saintly Appaloosa would make a suitable mount, but Mary was a worrier, thinking the gentle mare still too big for the twins. Arthur hated to see Mary worry, especially in her current condition. "Charity got too much work to do back home, BB. Don’t ya want yer own pony, somethin’ that’s just yours?"
"And Matty’s," Beatrice corrected.
Arthur navigated the wagon through Valentine’s main thoroughfare, dodging a drunken brawler being tossed out of Smithfield’s, and stray cat which made Matthew’s eyes light up. He meandered towards the stables, the gentlest of tugs issued to the reins, bringing Charity to a stop.
Matthew clambered down and held out a hand for his sister. Arthur’s heart bloomed with the innocent mimic of courtesy, but the boy's arms were too short. With a smile on his face, Arthur hurried round the wagon, giving his son’s shoulder a pat of approval, before lifting his little princess from the buggy.
Brother and sister ran hand-in-hand into the stables, leaving a trail of muddy footprints in their wake. The horses would entertain them, for a time, so Arthur used the moment to roll himself a cigarette. He broke off about a nail’s length from the end and held it out for Charity.
"Yer a good girl," he cooed, rubbing the mare’s velvet nose as she chewed. Hosea had once told him tobacco was good for horses. ‘Kills the parasites’, the old man had said, though he weren’t so old at the time. Arthur never questioned the advice. He’d rarely questioned much of anything Hosea and Dutch taught him.
"Different times," he mumbled to himself.
Taking a final pull he turned his attention to the stables, then tossed the butt into the dirt, extinguishing it beneath his boot with a squelch. He found Matthew crouched, peering into one of the pens, quietly observing a compact, chestnut pony nibbling at a wisp of hay. Beatrice stood in the centre, her hair a tumbleweed of stubbornness, scrutinising blue eyes scanning the livery for something to conquer.
"These are… small," she declared, a deep crease appearing between her brows.
Arthur stifled a chuckle. "Ain’t gonna be small forever, Princess, but right now, they’re a good size for learnin’."
"Why can’t I just learn on Buell?" she murmured under her breath, kicking at a bruised apple core.
Matthew piped up, attempting to sooth his sister. "What about this one, BB. She seems nice."
"She does, partner," Arthur agreed, grateful for his son’s commitment to their task. He walked towards the pen to get a better look. "Got any idea what breed she is?"
Matthew considered the foal for a long moment, his little head cocked to the side as he strained to get a better view. The pony stayed close to her mother’s flank, observing the curious boy with an eager focus. She arched her elegant neck and took a few tentative steps towards Matthew’s outstretched hand. "Um, is she a Morgan?"
"The boy’s got a good eye." Amos, the stable owner, strode forward, tongue darting out to whet his lips with the taste of a sale. “You know, they say a Morgan chooses you."
"Who says?" Arthur queried with a disbelieving laugh.
"Wiser men than me."
"Whaddya think, BB?" Arthur asked over his shoulder. "This little mare here, she seems…"
The space behind him was empty.
"BB?" he called again, stalking round the stables on trembling legs, his heart doing a slow roll in his chest. No answer. No sign of her. "Matty, with me," Arthur issued, quickening his pace as he headed out into the street. "Let's check the saloons."
It was a sentence no father would expect to utter concerning their four-year old daughter. But Beatrice wasn’t a daughter, she was a penance.
Father and son pushed through the swinging doors of Smithfield’s. The place was quiet, but it didn’t stop the retired outlaw from automatically assessing the smokey room for potential threats. No Beatrice. Keane’s Saloon next. Arthur half expected, half hoped, to find his wild child sitting at a table, knife in hand, trying to buy her way into a game of five-finger fillet with her peppermint candies. Still no sign.
"Damn that girl," he grumbled, running a hand through his beard that was a week too long.
Where else would she go? Not the general store, too mundane for Beatrice. The doctor? Maybe. The Gunsmith? Most probably. Then, he remembered the livestock pens at the southern end of town—the lowing of cattle and enthusiastic chatter from the ranchers had piqued the girl's interest upon entering Valentine.
Arthur turned on his heel, muscles tight and gaze alert as he stomped towards the auction mart. As he and Matthew approached, the noise shifted from human revelry to the deep, resonant sounds of cattle. A small crowd had gathered around a makeshift auction block, and there, amidst the rough-and-tumble locals, was a shock of light brown hair.
Beatrice.
She stood atop a barrel, nose-to-nose with a large man in a bloodied apron. Her voice, though small, carried an impressive authority. "You ain’t takin’ him!"
"Now, you listen here, little lady," the bewildered butcher began.
"Don’t li’l lady me!" Beatrice stomped a foot, causing the barrel to wobble dangerously. If she noticed how close she came to falling at the burly butcher's feet, she didn’t show it. "You can’t have him!"
Arthur groaned inwardly and pushed his way through the crowd, Matthew close at his heels. "Beatrice Elizabeth Morgan, what the hell you doin’?"
She turned to her father, and the transformation was instantaneous. Her lower lip began to tremble, her blue eyes filled with a shimmering layer of tears that threatened to spill, yet stayed perfectly poised for maximum effect. Exactly like her mother, Arthur thought.
Beatrice jumped from the barrel, running towards him. "Papa," she cried, arms open wide. "You gotta save him! He’s gonna kill him!" She grabbed Arthur’s hand, pulling him towards the calf. "He’s so sad. Look! They stole him from his momma! He needs us!"
The young Devon bull, no bigger than a dog, stood on trembling legs. His dark, liquid eyes, Arthur had to admit, were indeed a picture of innocent melancholy.
The butcher sighed, grateful for adult intervention. "That your girl? She needs to learn where food comes from, and her place."
Arthur’s nostrils flared and the knuckles on his free hand cracked. The rowdy background hum of Valentine stilled to an uncomfortable hush as he shot the butcher a withering glare. "My daughter’s place is wherever the hell she wants it."
"I got a business to run, mister," came the counter, an enthusiastic wave of the butcher’s arms accentuating his point.
"And I got an itchy trigger finger, but we ain’t always get what we want, do we?" Arthur inched closer to the local businessman, thinking to add some new speckles of blood to his apron.
"Tell her that! I already paid for the animal. Your daughter’s place don’t matter here."
"Papa," Matthew tugged at his father’s right sleeve. "Momma said no fightin’."
Arthur looked into his son’s eyes. Blue, just like his own, yet he could swear it was Mary staring back at him. He turned his head towards Beatrice at his left, her own lagoon pools pleading with him—to save the bull, start a fight, or both, he wasn’t sure. He raised his head towards the exasperated butcher, but refused to meet his eyes.
He swallowed, then asked between clenched teeth, "How much?"
***
The ride home was long and, frankly, ridiculous. Arthur sat in the buggy, guiding Charity up through the winding trails of the Grizzlies, the calf trailing behind the wagon on a rope. Matthew sat next to his father offering a running commentary of the calf’s soft moos, explaining what the animal was likely thinking. Beatrice marched on foot for the first few miles, refusing to leave the animal’s side until her young legs began to tire. Arthur had lost count of the number of times he had to pull the wagon to halt to lift her on, then lift her off, then lift her back on again.
If Mary didn’t kill him for his purchase, she would certainly have some words for his tardiness.
As they climbed, the air turned crisp and thin, smelling of snow-melt and old stone. Their ranch sat in a high clearing—the old Porter house now fixed up with new glass, a solid roof, and a porch that saw more use than any bar Arthur had ever frequented. Mary sat on said porch, wearing one of Arthur’s old workshirts over her maternity dress.
Despite her welcome smile, she looked tired. The mountain spring had not brought her the relief they’d hoped for. This pregnancy was denying her sleep and food, her whole body ached and throbbed from tired bones and swollen limbs. Every day for the past two months, Arthur had found her lost in the memory of her own mother—the frail woman had struggled carrying Jamie, getting weaker as the weeks painfully rolled on. Mary was sure she would meet her mother’s fate. Arthur feared she would manifest it herself.
Mary carefully rose from her chair, one hand supporting her back, the other shielding her eyes from the sun’s glare. Arthur dismounted, feeling the weight of his years in his knees. He couldn’t bring himself to look at her.
"Arthur Morgan," she said, voice like a velvet whip. "What have you done?"
"This is Peppino, Momma!" Beatrice cheered, jumping into her father’s outstretched arms and rushing to the calf. "Papa saved him!"
Mary's eyes blinked rapidly between the calf and her husband, who had found an interesting shape among the clouds to stare at. "A bull! Arthur! Look at me! Where’s the pony?"
Arthur’s hands itched, he couldn’t keep them still, couldn’t think of a suitable excuse that would placate his rightly exasperated wife. He removed his hat, worrying at the worn rim between his fingers. "He’s a Devon, Mary. Good stock. And, well… you know how she gets."
Mary looked at Beatrice and Matthew, too preoccupied with the latest addition to notice the growing tension between their parents. Her expression softened, just a fraction, but she kept her gaze stern when she looked at Arthur. "You’re creating a monster," she bit out. "The girl needs boundaries, not a livestock collection. You can’t keep giving in to her every whim and fancy!"
Arthur felt a familiar, ugly heat rise in his chest. It was the old instinct; one that had served him for twenty years as Dutch’s strongman. When he felt cornered, when the truth of his failures were laid bare, he lashed out. "Well, she’s your daughter, ain’t she! Got a lot o’ practice all them years I was meetin’ your entitled demands!" Arthur retorted, the words laced with an edge of cruelty he immediately regretted, but it was easier to be angry than to feel useless.
Mary flinched, a subtle tightening around her dark eyes, a flicker of pain crossing her exhausted face with the bitter history Arthur’s words evoked. She turned abruptly, the force making her wince before disappearing into the house, slamming the door behind her.
"Shit," Arthur exhaled into the dirt, dragging a hand down his face. "You’re an ass, Morgan."
"Is Momma mad at us?" Matthew asked, his voice small. Arthur could see the wheels in his son’s head turning. He would do anything for his mother, anything to make her happy, make her proud. And he wouldn’t throw it back in her face like some debt she owed him.
"Momma’s just tired, son. Why don’t you and BB get Peppino some water. I’m sure he could use a drink." I could use a drink.
Matthew led Peppino by the rope, Beatrice, oblivious, scratched behind the animal’s ear introducing him to the goats and the hens as they walked to the trough. Arthur stood by the wagon for a long moment, staring at the closed door. He was a father, a husband, a man who had been given a second chance at a life he didn't deserve, and yet he was still needling the woman he loved most in the whole world.
With a heavy heart, he walked towards the house, his long strides carrying him after Mary. He found her in their bedroom perched on the edge of the bed, slumped; her shoulders rounded and fingers pressed against her temples. "Mary..." he started, stepping into the room. "I-I’m sorry. I’m just... I knew I'd done wrong ‘fore I even left Valentine."
"He’ll grow to 2000 pounds!" Mary mumbled, not looking at him, the words spoken only to herself. "Where are we gonna keep him?"
"I'll build him a pen," Arthur offered, inching closer. "A strong one."
"Which he’ll break, repeatedly," Mary retorted, her red rimmed eyes boring into him. "You’ll have to blunt the goats’ horns. They won’t care how big and mean he gets, they’ll take him on regardless. He’ll need different grain, which we can barely afford, and we got no clue as to his temperament. He’s a bull, Arthur. Not a pet."
Mary’s words, so practical and informed, only served to make Arthur feel all the more useless, a greenhorn despite his years. "He seems docile enough," he offered weakly.
"For now!" she shot back, a sting of irritation in her voice. "An uncastrated bull can be dangerous! What if he turns on the children or gets the scent of a cow three miles away..." She trailed off, her hand moving instinctively to her stomach.
Arthur knelt down on the floor in front of her, his large, scarred hands gently taking her swollen ones. "I'm sorry, Mary," he whispered. "I'm a weak man, and a cruel one when ashamed. I’ll take the bull back to Valentine in the morning."
Mary looked at him then, eyes dull, almost vacant. "Sure. Make me the villain."
"No, you wouldn’t be…"
"The children won't see it that way. They’ll see me as the one who sent Peppino back to his death," she sighed, pulling her hands away. "I'm too tired for this, Arthur. I’m too tired to be the adult of this family today. Just let me be."
She lay down, the bed creaking under her weight, and turned her back to him.
Arthur stayed on his knees for a minute, the full weight of his impulsive decision crashing down. The danger, the expense, the sheer impracticality of keeping a bull calf at their small homestead, especially with Mary’s condition and their already stretched resources. He had been so blind, so caught up in Beatrice’s plea, in his determination to be a good father, that he hadn't thought beyond the moment.
With a heavy sigh, he pushed himself up, his bones creaking in protest. He cast one last glance at Mary’s still, silent form, then quietly left the room.
***
The kitchen table, scarred by years of use and more recently by enthusiastic four-year-old hands, was set for supper. A flickering oil lamp cast a warm, shifting glow over Arthur, Beatrice, and Matthew, each of them aware—and yet unresponsive—to the other’s presence.
Beatrice, heedless to the quiet tension in the air, chirped on-and-on about Peppino, how happy he looked in his new home, and how she was going to learn to ride him. Matthew, usually lost in his own world of silent observation, was a little more astute than his twin. He picked at a loose thread on his trousers, his gaze darting between his father’s distant stare and the bedroom door.
Arthur replayed the argument he'd had with Mary earlier. While she slept, he’d busied himself; tending to Charity, mucking out the goats, and finishing the stew Mary had begun in their absence. His children’s joyful cries as they played with the calf had sliced through him. Those cries would become tears before the sun dipped his head.
The bull would be gone by morning.
A soft creak from the bedroom announced Mary's arrival. She emerged, looking a little more rested than she had earlier. Her hair was neatly brushed, but the faint shadows beneath her dark eyes and the slight puffiness of her face betrayed the gentle smile on her lips .
"Apologies, my loves," she said, her voice a little husky. "Didn't mean to keep you waiting."
"You don't apologize for resting, Mary," Arthur assured, standing to help her into her chair.
Matthew looked up at his mother, tilting his head. "Are you okay, Momma?"
"I'm fine, sweet boy," Mary replied, her smile widening. Arthur saw right through it. "Would you say grace?"
Matthew nodded, clasped his hands together and bowed his head. His small voice recited the familiar words, a quiet blessing over their simple meal, with an additional thank you for the ‘new friend in the barn’, which made Arthur’s jaw tighten. Once the Amen was whispered, Mary began serving the stew, ladling generous portions into their bowls.
"Arthur, would you mind slicing the bread?" she politely asked.
Arthur reached for the loaf, his mind rehearsing the words to tell her, to tell the children, he would be taking the calf back. He opened his mouth, but Mary beat him to it.
"That bull was foolish," she said, terrifyingly matter-of-fact.
Beatrice immediately puffed out her chest. "But Momma, Peppino is…"
Mary fixed Beatrice with a look that silenced the girl mid-sentence. "I want to tell you both a story," Mary began, her eyes sweeping over her children, holding their attention. "As you know, I grew up on a ranch. One spring, a calf was born, his coat the color of a rising sun. I named him Apollo."
The children sat attentive and enthralled—their mother rarely spoke of her youth.
"I bottle-fed him," she continued, maneuvering a delicate mound of peas, carrots and venison onto her spoon. "I brushed him until he shone. My father warned me every day, ‘a bull is not a dog’. He told me they were the most dangerous creatures on God’s green earth. More dangerous than a bear or a wolf. I didn’t listen." She took a slow breath. "One afternoon, when Apollo was three years old, I thought to take him for a walk, as I sometimes did. Something snapped. Without warning, he charged. He tore through three fences like they were made of dried grass and nearly killed one of our ranch hands."
An anticipating hush fell over their humble table. The children continued to stare at their mother through her well-timed pause; Mary using the moment to bring her spoon to her lips.
"Did you stop him, Momma?" Matthew asked in a small, tentative voice.
Mary politely finished chewing her mouthful before replying, "No. Not me. My daddy shot him.”
Beatrice gasped in horror, her fierce bravado dampened by the image of the golden bull brought so low.
Arthur felt a chill that had nothing to do with the mountain air. He stared at his wife—the woman who had seen him at his worst, who knew all about the blood on his hands, his frightening ability to snap, even when unprovoked. Mr Gillis would have loved nothing more than to put him down as he had that bull.
Mary cleared her throat, gilding Arthur back to the present. She looked at the children, her expression softening but remaining firm. "Peppino is not a pet. He will grow to be stronger and meaner than Buell. You are never to be alone with him. If I or your father tell you to stay away, you stay away. If he breaks a fence, you will spend your play-time helping to fix it. If he ruins my garden, you will replant every seed. And if he ever, ever hurts a soul on this land... your father will do what has to be done. Do you understand?"
More silence, this one longer and more considered as Beatrice and Matthew stared at each other, their mother’s tale replaying in their tiny minds. Arthur wondered if they understood the lesson, if they understood their actions, their wants, however well-meaning, had consequences.
Matthew was the first to break the stillness, a solemn nod issued to his sister as he said, "I’d be sad… if pa shot Peppino. But I want us to be safe."
Beatrice looked at Arthur, then back to Mary. The defiance was gone, replaced by a budding sense of responsibility. "I’ll be careful, Momma. I promise. I’ll do as I’m told."
"Then we’re agreed," Mary said. "First thing tomorrow, you two will be up with your father to begin building a proper pen and I will teach you the right way to feed him. Then, when he's old enough, we’ll find another ranch looking for a sire. Peppino will earn his keep. Yes?"
"Yes, Momma," the children chimed in unison.
Arthur gave her an apologetic, weary smile—a silent thank you for the compromise she had no business making. The truth was, much like Matthew, he would do anything for Mary, and perhaps, for the first time in his life, he didn’t consider it a weakness, but an honour.
"Eat your stew, Arthur," she teased gently, catching his stare. "You’ve got a pen to build in the morning."
"Yes, ma'am."