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Chapter Text

Late-December 

1897

With fists balling into themselves, I glared at the blinding heaps of snow ahead of me. 

I shifted uncomfortably as rope dug into my skin, a noose coiled around my throat as a serpent would with some dishevelled scrap of animal. I laid limp in its gnashing fangs, not much of a snarl to choke into silence. 

Each face painted beside me expressed a different shade of emotion. Plenty held their heads down, sniffling their quiet prayers and confessions. Others beheld the sky in what they could through the thick winter’s mist, the sun growing tired and offering little warmth.

The feet below me barely met the wooden base of the gallow with my rumpled skirt ghosting just above my ankles. The small crowd spoke amongst each other like sparrows in a tree, chatting of the serpent just below with a matted fox in its jaws. Men leaned forward with pecking grins, hoping to catch a glimpse of the undergarments drafted in fabric. 

I stared ahead, unflinching, for I wouldn’t be there to care for their perverted leers.  

A man to the left of me shook, whether from fear or weather I’ll never know. Cold air that came with the retreating winter wrestled with the thinning fabric of my clothing, biting at the exposed skin of my neck and cheeks. The flesh covering me ached from sprinting through the snow and cowering by frozen meadows, my bones a complacent ally. My fingers and toes had long gone numb, soon the rest of me would surrender to it, in one way shape or form. 

I’d hang from the branches of this town, only to be found in the weary warnings delivered from the mouths of tight-collared mothers to their bright eyed daughters. I’d plague the muddied trails of Saint Almo until eager ears grew tired of the Old wives’ tale of a woman who once swung here . 

For now, the gentle drumming of my heart, fleeting nature of my eyes and the mist fanning from my breaths held me here, though growing heavy. The mispronunciation of my surname drew me to the sheriff, who held a coffee-stained paper in his gloved hands. I just barely noticed the swift shift of his eyes as I raised my head to him. May Hell be as welcoming as men’s filthy glares.

“I hereby sentence you, to be hung by the neck until dead,” he concluded, drawing a tide of murmurs from the gathering crowd, “are there any last words from you, Mrs?”

I stared at him, in a way meant to stain his soul. It was hollow in its bitterness, haunting in its ache, painted just under my filthy scowl. 

The muttering crowd curtly dispersed into a fit of disarray, rushing feet with reaching hands. For a moment, I thought the fire under my feet had slipped to wreak havoc among the townspeople. Something guarding my soul had lashed out with teeth, like a frightened mutt. 

Instead, the unmistakable bark of gunshots tore through the air, shedding smoke with each bullet. In vain, the sheriff reached for his pistol as he studied the crowd, his feet wandering to the edge of the gallow. Shifting through the chaos as if he were searching for a file, one sure bullet to solve the panic. His resolve never came as I watched tensely, a bullet tore through his temple, splattering blood on the blanks behind him as he fell forward into the dirt. 

With widening eyes, I began to yank on the noose I built peace with, reddening the curve of my neck. The men surrounding me began doing the same, eyes darting between the fallen sheriff and the dissipating round of gunsmoke. 

I stiffened and stilled as the white blur cleared, leaving me feeling almost naked and bare. With settling dust, a gang of rugged men stood in its wake. Their eyes were like ours peering between the dead sheriff, the town and the man marching through the scattering crowd. 

A man adorned in neat fabrics rounded the emptying town square atop a white stallion. Black hair slipped from his homburg hat, a moustache just above his lips. He held  smoking pistols in both gloved hands.

“Today is your lucky day gentlemen,” a sturdy voice began, “seems we’ve had a bit of a scheduling conflict!”

The stranger looked at me from under his hat before his brows quickly furrowed, eyes trailing down to my skirt in what I only can describe as a stroke of familiarity. Innocuous of a look as it could've been from a man like him, muddied in contradiction. 

With the twirl of his pistol, all the nooses hanging from the men around me gave way, leaving me wavering on the tips of my toes. The men darted into the fern and leaden trees surrounding the town, rushing down trails before their saviours had a sudden change of heart. 

“Javier, Bill, you two check on that stash them O'driscolls kept speakin’ of,” he nodded to his men before turning his attention back towards me, “and Arthur, you help this poor lady down, would you?”

Another man peered at me, the cold colouring his breaths fanning out from his nose. With gesturing hands towards the leader’s weapons, he said his piece, “Somethin the matter with her rope?”

The man gave him a stern-knowing look before riding off with the other departing pair, kicking snow beneath the hooves of his horse. 

‘Arthur’ shook his head as he approached me, letting a small grunt escape him as he stepped onto the gallow. His shifting blue eyes came into full view as he examined the knot that  nearly hung me. 

“I’d like your rabbit’s foot ma’am,” he joked dryly, cutting through the rope with a dull-bladed knife. 

I stumbled to my feet as they met the ground, instinctively running my fingers over my neck and sore wrists. Cautiously, I reeled away from the stranger, nearing stepping off the other ends of the wooden platform. I settled my hands within themselves, as if warmth would’ve sprouted between them. 

Arthur watched me as one would watch a spooked animal, in muted movements and slow breaths. Though, he didn't seem to carry the gentle apprehension of someone with particular concern. 

“What do you want with me?” I blurted, ignoring the cold wrestling with my skin. 

“That’s a question I’d spare for Dutch,” he shrugged earnestly, “but we’re men of good meanin’, we don't mean harm.”

As the words left him, howls of an elated pair of men shot their rifles for the skies hanging over them. They grinned for the wind, unrelenting as their horses stood on their hind legs with kicking front hooves. Lawmen fell in bloody mist from their balconies, tumbling to the dusted streets below them only to be met with trampling panicked animals.

Arthur cursed the chaos as he watched the streets erupt into trails of gunsmoke and shrieking women. A mutter left his lips, “damn it.”

With his shifted attention, I took the opportunity to flee for the pine and the bare branches of spruce trees. Disturbing the virgin snow under my feet, I paved my own path through the bleached soil. My skirt wisped behind me as the breeze tangled itself fabric, soon reaching for my ruffled hair. The friction of running under these temperatures caused a searing burning between my thighs, chafing skin to fabric.

I ignored the shouts coming from behind me, as with every painful drum of my worn feet their voices grew more and more distant. In all my scurrying feet and fleeting glances behind me, I failed to watch my step.

With a sharp yelp, I slid onto a thinly coated pond shrouded in frozen sweet grass and cattails. Nearly falling onto my ass as I attempted to find footing before a thunderous crack echoed under my feet. 

Like a rabbit listening to wind, I stilled. 

Then the sound came again. 

To the left of me, a pair of antlers peaked through the sheen of snow and ice. The large shovel-like horns must've been from a moose, though here the beast barely towered my ankles, shedding light on how deep the water below me was. Where its back had been exposed, the birds had taken to its flesh leaving only what they couldn’t reach. Bone, fur and peering antlers poking through the frozen lake. 

“Fuck!” I began to stomp my foot in a self destructive act of wrath, as if the ice weren't the only thing keeping me from drowning. It only continued to fracture beneath my feet, biding time until it caved to open a gaping hole. 

A bitter fury burned in my chest, in spite of the cold around me. I tossed my limbs around as if I could feel them, stomping and kicking at the ice, cursing everyone and anything who had any hand in placing me in this predicament. I wasn’t supposed to die like this . It was supposed to be an easy leap of the rope and I was gone, choosing my final thoughts with certainty with a chosen final meal in my gut. 

I crumbled to my knees as exhaustion and the beginning stages of frostbite began to settle in. The strained ice beneath me only seemed to wane with the added weight of everything I had to give, bones, flesh and flushed skin. 

I stared ahead at the blind white that seemed to coat everything, almost envying the trees in the manner with which they wore it like a quilt. The hares frolicked over frozen brambles with black tipped ears as the bluejays pecked at bark. And the whole damn world seemed to keep breathing, it almost settled me. 

“Ma’am,” a familiar voice began, gentle as it coasted the harsh wind, “come ‘ere please.”

I glanced up under low-hanging lashes, now collecting specks of white. I stubbornly remained still, huddled up in my slipping body heat, placing a terrible act of causality. 

“Leave me be.” I spoke, failing to sound firm in my disposition. 

“Can’t do that, not in good conscience.” He remained unyielding.

With every brief silence between the two of us, came the eerie creaking of ice, it came like a warning. All too aware, Arthur neared the edge of the lake, his gloved hand starkly within reach. His eyes carried the faint blue of a summer’s day dashing through golden fields of sun-bleached grass. I saw him laughing like a damn fool, chasing after the jays who'd filched berries from right under his nose. Though the tide of seasons, I knew how easily it could’ve shifted to the bitterness that came from the sea salty waters. I’d seen the curve of his nose in wanted posters, strung up across what small towns there were in the west. The robberies, fraudulence, murder and blood splatters streets. I could envision it all too easily. There was not a thing I knew of him anymore, but I knew  better . 

Arthur Morgan . 

The wind fought with his locks of dark blonde hair, shrouded under his hat as he attempted to maintain eye contact, hand still outstretched in spite of himself. 

An ever slight shift of my hip caused the ice to cave, tearing me down to the water with it. A shrill shriek left me before it too grew muffled. I thought I heard a searing curse from above me, the kind my mother would make after pricking her finger on a spinning wheel. 

Shedding rays of sunlight tore through the layer of ice over the surface, illuminating everything below. To the left of me, the perfectly preserved moose carcass stared right back at me as empty as its eyes might I’ve been. The anguish of its bared teeth and thrashing legs frozen until spring, where a hunter may pluck its great antlers and the vultures may know the taste of its stomach. 

I kicked my legs and writhed as it once did, the grand equaliser of all things. How cruel nature was to return ourselves to her in spite of our many accomplishments, dread it, run from it, long it, death treds along indifferently. Still, I hope my wives’ tale would live on, perhaps it would’ve shifted in accuracy somewhere along the way, somewhere between husband to wife, to daughter and husband again. Perhaps then I’d die in gunfire, or by rope in their mind's eye. 

———————————————————————————————————-

It’s been a long, strange, strange day here.

Dutch went through with what he overheard from them O'Driscoll Boys say about this town… Saint Almo. A vault stashed in a bank by one of the upcoming oil businessmen, at the courtesy of an investor-something or other. We got five gold bars from it, and won't have to rely solely on debt payments for a while yet. 

By pure chance, folks were about to be hung at the gallows when we got there. Dutch saved the men, let them run off, I aint really sure if it was right though. He let me cut down the lady, seemed too drunk on her own thoughts to pay me much mind. 

Damn Callanders made her run off, poor thing fell through a frozen lake. I aint entirely sure if she’s all there, with the way she was stomping on that ice. 

She’s resting as I write this, getting her someplace warm. Dutch has seemingly taken a liking to her, something about the weaving of her skirt and his mother. And I’ll admit, there is something familiar with her. It is beyond me. 

Chapter Text

When I woke, I shunned the sun and curled into myself. 

Stubbornly, golden light slipped in, spreading like a weed across my quilt. 

A muffled sound of speech began to reach my ears. I grumbled, my conscience still incholate as I dragged myself up in place. A chill hushed my skin, as if my body once again grew aware of the hissing cold suddenly. I loosely curled my fingers into a fist, groggily rubbing the sleep from my eyes before looking up at the tent hanging over me. A mismatched cloth wove into the otherwise white sheet, obvious under the wrath of the morning sun. Glancing at the ground, I noted the waning snow and sprouts of grass breaking through it. 

“Well, what do you say we do with her then,” a familiarly gruff voice stood out in a conversation I hadn’t bothered listening in to, “let her roll around in the snow some more, or drown?”

I turned my head to the front of the tent, stilling my breathing if only to hear. 

“All I’m sayin’ is I’d rather not get rations thinned out for another leper-and winter ain't over yet-“ A jagged voice persisted, strangely high pitched and gravelly. 

I heard the shuffling of feet, then a drag of silence. 

“You see everything here, everything we’ve built? It’s a process Bill,” Dutch said, a subtle crack in his voice, “ I have a plan , you got a better one?” 

There was a wavering pause before Bill spoke again, “Guess I don’t.”

I heard a light slap, imagining it was something like a pat on the shoulder. And with keen eyes, I watched as the shadowy suggestion of feet walked out of sight. Wasting little time I rolled off the cot, still huddled in the soft quilt. I cursed the snow as I stuck my head out of the tent, the sun overbearing in light yet offering little warmth. A flock of girls sat cross-legged to the far left, giggling with locks of hair in each other's hands. One sat across from the rest, a cup of hot coco between her palms. A young boy rolled what little snow he had into what appeared to be a makeshift snowman. My tense expression softened as I swiftly ambled away, dodging curious glances behind other tents and bare trees. I filched a spare piece of bread from what I assumed was the provisions wagon before making my way into the woods. 

The bread was stale and slightly unsweetened, not that it bothered me much as my first meal in days. The snow fissured as my boots paved their way through it. I pulled the fabric around me closer as a husky breeze flurried my skirt. Icicles dropped and tumbled to the ground in morning dew, heavy was the weight of winter’s sun. I heard the rush of water before I saw it. Under its surface, the salmon scurried through gentle waters as they curved around trees. They spoke no language of their own, just the drum of instinct that came with any other animal. To lay their young and die, feeding the stream of water they once hatched from.

I settled over the melting stream, my feet planted in the snow bank.

Just out of my initial sight, a pair of deer broke through the trees. The buck’s strides were long and muted from the cold as he approached a lean oak tree, rutting its antlers up and down. After a few long drags, the animal stepped away, allowing the doe to nip at the disturbed bark. It ran its snout under the other’s before contently eating away at the tree’s bark before the buck lowered its head for the stream. Under the rays of sunlight, their coats almost appeared golden. 

I watched the pair as if I were a child again, holding my breath like a sigh would scare them off.

The buck’s ears shot up as it noticed my presence, snout twitching under instinct. Large brown eyes of prey peered over at me in a tense stance, breathing as I did. Even from here, I could see the mist that fanned from it with the rise and fall of its chest. 

A sweet whistle from the left of me caught their attention, both heads rose this time. 

The roar of a bullet tore through the air, passing the buck before lodging into the doe’s temple. It stumbled against the tree before falling dead into the snow. The buck bleated, stomping its hooves before fleeing into the evergreen trees. I jumped from the commotion, glancing over at the cause of the shot before a stern frown came over me. 

“Shit,” Arthur said, peeling himself from behind a tree across from me. In honest silence, I sat and watched him move. The water rushed for him as he crossed it, swirling around his knees until he reached the bank. Remaining ice fractured under his feet, there was something peaceful with his movements, like he’d been here a thousand times. His hands cupped under the doe’s neck and stomach as he gently tossed it over his shoulder, leaving a dent of blood in the virgin snow. He eyed the shaven tree bark with something unreadably beyond my gaze. 

I lifted myself from the ground, pulling the quilt over closer to me. Arthur’s shoulders tensed with furrowed brows. He turned in my direction, quickly settling when he saw it was just the scruffy widow in her torn skirt. 

“Never figured you were one to shoot a doe.” I said, watching him keenly. 

His lips thinned as he treaded through the running stream, ignoring me with his next words, “Seems to me like your leavin’.”

“I am.” I replied. 

“Wouldn’t be wise.” he brushed past me.

My gaze stubbornly remained on the stream ahead of me, the sound of rushing water blurring off his steps. A stranger’s quilt still coiled around me, patchwork of pale browns. I counted my breaths under furrowed brows, almost waiting for a train to rush for me. I cursed gently, spinning for Arthur’s retreating form. 

“Morgan,” I called out to him, peering at the blood-spotted snow he’d left behind him, he turned, expression obscured by the distance between us, “Do you remember me?” I asked, foolish and childish, I wondered all the same. I found doubt in his hesitant pause, drawing a curt conclusion before words had left him. 

Of course he didn't. 

“You’re the rancher’s daughter,” his voice barely carried over the wind, still it settled a strange chill the cold couldn’t, “that fella-what’s his name…Dixon?”

“Yes,” I replied.

“How is he?” Arthur asked, his steps nearing me again, 

“He’s been dead for years, Scarlet Fever.” I said, perhaps too suddenly for Arthur as he reeled back in surprise. 

There was that hesitance again as he stilled, “Just awful, sorry.”

“It’s alright, been years now,” I smiled ruefully, a sense of nostalgia encouraging my words, “he liked you, and he didn’t like many folk.”

“Really?” a brief flurry of emotion flushed his face before it dissipated, “Jesus, it’s been a long time.”

I nod in agreement before I noticed Arthur’s lingering gaze on the quilt curled around me. I eyed the mist falling from his breaths and the way his nose had reddened from the weather.  In suspicion, I tilted my head, “Is this your quilt?”

He looked away from the blanket, acting as if he hardly noticed it before he shrugged nonchalantly. 

“Take it back then.” I said, swiftly unravelling myself from its warmth. 

“It aint mine.”

“You’re lying,” A strangely stunted smile returned to my face as I held the quilt out for him, “It’s yours and I’m leaving-so take it.”

“Not takin’ it.”

“Morgan.”

“ You don’ even have a coat.”

“Fine,” I grumbled, relenting as I threw the blanket of fabric over my shoulder, “but don’t come whining to me when you’re freezin’ your nuts off in a few hours.” 

There was an unrecognisable glint in his eye as I said that, something sharp with wit. I didn't bother staying longer for what it could’ve meant as I turned on my heels, beginning my journey downstream. After a few shuffling steps by the bank, I heard a kindling chuckle from above the hill behind me. A flame bearing into wood, a laugh cutting in a jagged string of vocal chords. I watched him through the trees, down by the sun born meadow where I’d crouch until the grass itched. Nimble in dodging the stones out by the creek and the cottonmouths that slithered past. We rose with the sun and stayed long after its departure. Ever ignorant to the rose tinted manner I’d see those summer days, stretched out where hours felt like weeks. 

I sighed in the cold, pulling away from the barren trees as I continued my way with the river. It ran through towns and under bridges, over frozen fish and between trees rusted with fungus. My steps stilled as I came across an apple orchard baring small fruit. Where the trees had shed them, rotting apples settled in the snowy ground. I stood on the tips of my toes, plucking a few from its weary branches and huddling them into my pocket. An old farmer emerged from a barn house I failed to notice, waving his cane in the air. With a curse and a smirk, I swiftly fled. 

Eventually, I stumbled on a quaint patch of land, just far enough from the trails while not yet touching the vast untamed woods. With hands on my hips and quilt around me, I turned to gather firewood. I watched my feet and studied the wind for wolves, foxes, snakes or anything else with teeth. 

It’s been years since I’ve set up camp.

After I’d collected them, I squatted over a pile of twigs and other tree debris as I insistently rubbed two twigs together. The cold had only gotten worse as evening rolled in, as if scolding me for taking the ever-golden sun for granted. She rolled down over the blue-edged mountains, setting in the west as she always had. No artist could capture the likeness of something so certain, no brush could blend the blues into burning red. 

A small gasp left me as sparks spat from the branches in my hands, fanning into a sturdy flame as it consumed the bramble benath it. 

Jesus, Mary and Joseph.

I smiled contently, plopping onto the break between snow and dirt. I cupped the air around the fire with steady hands, humming at the calming warmth radiating from it. A crackle tore through it as it continued to dance, fighting off the incoming blanket of night. 

The distant howl of a dog broke through the dark, causing me to turn my head curiously. As quickly as it came, it was gone, like the hiss of a scent or a momentary bat of nostalgia. 

Probably nothing.

Then it came again, closer .

My brows furrowed as I completely turned for the source of the sound. Now noticing the steady echo of hooves against the forest floor. I squinted through the night, as if it would give way to the trees and looming shadows. My legs readied themselves to flee, to kick, whichever I would’ve been given the grace to do. 

A dog lunged from the dark, all teeth as it growled and barked. 

The dirt beneath me gathered in my hands as they balled into fists, throwing whatever I could at the snarling mutts. My legs kicked me to my feet, wasting no time. Swiftly, I abandoned camp, rushing for the towering trees. The once sweet air of my sun-lit ridge darkened to a stinging moist, a smell of rot and wet soil. Yellow light strided behind me, fading off as it reached my heels. Men of the southern tongue commanded their dogs howling over the sound of cocking rifles. 

Any option of a peaceful settlement had been abandoned the moment their dogs bared their teeth. Shouts of surrender were nothing but lies from the lips of hunters, a trap hidden under the snow. But, I knew I couldn’t run forever. 

My gut fell as I slid down a muddied patch where the snow had waned. Dirt dug into my skirt as I tripped over myself, rushing from some form refuge under a fallen oak tree. The bark scratched my side as I slid into the den of fall leaves, left untouched since the first fall of snow. My chest rapidly rose and fell, both from the runs and adrenaline. The dogs fell in after me, whining as they hit a particularly bare path of ground. The larger one, a mutt of light brown and blonde immediately began to sniff at the ground trailing to me.

Shit, shit, shit. 

“If ya come out now, we’ll put in a word for the deputy,” a smoker’s cough interrupted his empty words, “maybe then he’ll keep his hands off you.” 

A cold sweat bloomed on the back of my neck as I teared my eyes away from the approaching dog. I stared up at the log of the tree, only a few inches from my face. 

I can't go back to that goddamn town. One day out here has made me realise it. All those fucking years locked up in that house with that man. I was so ready to give my life up in hopes it would lead to some foolish bit of folklore and here I am. The deer, the water, the wind and sunset. For the first time in a long time I’ve wanted to live.  

I gasped through my teeth as I squeezed through the opposite side of the trunk, the bark digging into my skin. A pale hand reached for me through the dark, it could’ve been the men I’d been running from, it could’ve been someone else. I took the chance like I took the hand, reaching-and clawing . They were warm and lethargic, pulling me from my cavern. My feet scampered into their arms, dogs barking after me.

“Little lady,” he said in greeting, a little dazed as he grabbed the reins, “I’m a friend of Arthur.”

I squinted at him, “Are you?”

He didn’t offer much of a response as the spitting bullets returned like overhanging-storm clouds. The moonlight etched details into the strangers features, it was a fella with long black hair and a stumbled chin. He stood with a slight slump in his stance as he helped me onto his horse, smiling strangely. 

His horse snorted anxiously, tramping over piles of snow as it fled. I gave the stranger a weird look as he hugged the beast’s neck rather than its reins. Taking the situation into my own hands, I glanced over my shoulder at the incoming band of bounty hunters and their hounds. Insistently, I patted the man’s shoulder. 

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Rip Van Winkle.” He grinned like a well-fed cat. 

I squinted my eyes in further concern, “Are you drunk, Mr. Winkle?” 

“Nope.” He replied. 

“Pass me the gun,” I said dryly, watching in near disbelief as he happily handed over a Carbine Repeater, “you ride, I shoot.”

“Yes ma’am.”

My father had been the first to teach me how to shoot, much to the dissatisfaction of my mother. ‘She’s grown now, she needs to know where her food comes from’ , he chided, his hand warm on my shoulder. His sun-burnt arms held me into position, listing the functions from the trigger to the barrel as I stood on the shores of a pond. The first soul I’d ever taken was a heifer who’d never bore a child. She kneeled in the grass like she knew what was coming, her head resting to watch the rolling clouds. I cocked my gun then, as I cocked it now, with shaky hands. The familiar weight of a rifle’s wood shifted pressed into my palms as I pulled the scopes up to my eye. I aimed the barrel for the nearest hound before pulling the trigger, it howled a bark before falling into a bloody patch for the snow. 

The haunting ringing that came with a gunshot hung in my ears. 

I changed my aim swiftly, shooting a bullet for one of the men’s chests. He fell forward, causing his horse to rise for its hind legs and bolt off. The other two men continued this relentless bullet charade, only cursing me in response. 

I yelped as the horse below me nearly tripped. I swatted John over the head, “control your goddamn horse!”

Curtly, I turned to shoot another man’s lantern, causing it to erupt in flames. He wailed as it spread for his skin, falling off his horse to roll in the snow. Now, only one stubborn hunter and a small mutt remained. Through the wavering light of a flame behind him, I could see the keen-look in his blue eyes. He tossed his rifle behind him, quickly unsheathing a glinting pistol from his belt. 

I heard my father’s voice then, after my mother had departed for a pie she’d left in the oven. When the world went quiet, and when blood seeped into the soil.  

“I killed her,” I sobbed in his arms, “I- I thought it was a toy, I killed Penny.”

He hushed me, gently rubbing my small back. I couldn’t have been over seven. 

My father pulled me from his chest, resting his hands on my shoulders. 

“There'll be times when you gotta eat or be eaten darlin’.” he said softly, the world didn’t offer such kindness when I fully understood that lesson. He held the blooded bullet in his hand, offering it to me. And in childish rebellion, I took the tick of silver to throw in the pond. 

Here I stood in matted fur and bared teeth, foolish to think I was above any order of nature. As if a fox could deny a rabbit frolicking over snowy dunes, as if it wouldn't limp back to its den with a meal in its jaws. As if it couldn't be hunted by a large beast of nets and machines. 

A single bullet pierced my shoulder before I fell for the snow. 

Chapter Text

“Marston, you goddamn fool,” Arthur cursed, taking me into his arms. 

A defensive sentiment left John as the tipsy man hitched his horse on the post. The drowsy camp crackled into awareness as a fed campfire would. Women in swaying skirts took me from Arthur’s arms, still he followed behind insistently. 

There was the strangest burning sensation coupled with pressure phased throughout my shoulder. Warm trails of blood spilled down my arm, painting my linen button-down scarlet. The certainty of my heart continued its stubborn row of drumming, unphased by the wound as adrenaline weighed down my veins. A freckle-faced brunette gently led me down to the cot, she was saying something …Speaking to me, though I didn’t bother to understand it. Another girl of brown skin and a thinning yellow dress tossed a sheet under me before laying me down. Her hands were soft, as if they hadn’t been bruised from kitchen knives or splitters before. 

My ears rang as I settled on the realisation, I couldn't move my arm. 

I glanced around the room under furrowed brows, trying to make sense of much of anything going on. Dazed, I attempted to pull myself up, only to softly be pushed back onto the sheeted-cot. Unintelligible words met me again, for the life of me-I couldn’t make them out.  It reminded me of when I had drifted too far from the meadows usually dwelled in, sprinting into a swamped marsh full of mushrooms. My father had to toss me over his shoulder, taking me home to give me water fetched from the well. But this was different, there was a danger here. If I closed my eyes, there was a chance I wouldn’t open them again. 

If I were to die like this, god would have one hell of a laugh. 

Through the thickened woods of my mind, in all its vast twists and turns, I saw Arthur at the end of my feet. A crease hung between his brows as he spoke with the flurrying girls. Ever the sturdy and certain man, Arthur kept himself planted on the ground and his eyes with mine. He carefully made his way to my side, gently grazing his knuckles against my cheek. I could see the specks of gold in his eyes and the soft tide of his breathing.

I stilled as something stirred. 

He was too close.

A sharp pain seared through my shoulder, as if my body was suddenly becoming aware of the fact that I was in fact shot . I rolled away from Arthur, burying my face in the cot below me as I muttered profanities. I curtly shrugged away any attempts to further clean my wound with alcohol before haul myself upwards. 

“Fuck it, give  me that,” I said, snatching a bottle of whiskey from the frazzled brunette as she looked down at me in honest pity. I downed it, no doubt faster than the bullet had caught me in the first place. Its familiar buzz settled my ruffled nerves as I slumped into the sheets below me. And like wandering grey partridges, the women funnelled out the entrance of the tent, whispering to each other. I watched them keenly in squinting eyes until the last heel left my wake of vision. My arm throbbed a rugged ache, the searing pain spreading off into a lolling hum. It felt heavy, like a weight that hadn’t belonged to me. The rough row of my breathing slowed as I shifted my attention to the ceiling of the small tent. My eyes hung lower with exhaustion. The eventful last two days finally caught up with me as I allowed myself to grow still, flowing into a light sleep-weightless enough to be classified as meditation.  

I inhaled sharply in surprise as the back of a warm hand felt my forehead. My movements were sleepy and slow, a slight pain branched out from my temple. I reeled away from it, sending a groggy glance to my left. 

A familiar blonde met my eyes as he lowered his hand.

“Morgan.” I greeted, distant. 

“Ma’am,” he returned my tone sarcastically, reaching off to a side table just above my line of vision. He pulls a streaming mug to himself, swirls of paint defining a pattern on the pottery. It looked so small in his hands as he held it, like it was some precious thing. And when he held it out for me, I took it like it was, “didn’t mean to wake ya, willow bark, it’s bitter but it’ll help.”

I cursed, shifting my weight to stop myself from spilling the drink onto myself. Arthur crouched near me, his palms facing outwards as if he could stop the tea from burning me. Eventually, I settled into a comfortable position, taking a measured sip from the cup. My lip curled in distaste causing Arthur’s expression to glint in amusement. 

A cheeky smile broke onto his face, like I’m sure he’d done to countless trains, “Her majesty has decided to grace us with her omnipotent presence once again?” 

I roll my eyes, smiling like a hymn, “you ain't got a clue what half of those words mean.”

“Sure,” he replied, brows lowering, “how are you feelin’?”

“I imagine it’s not as bad as it looks.” I shrug through playful gritted teeth before honestly cringing at the jutted pain coming from my wound. And with every fickle flicker of pain across my body, Arthur’s smile seemed to dip. There was something under those blonde lashes of his as he glanced away, pulling his coat closer to him. 

“Tilly said the bullet had long left ya when you got here, she said you’re lucky it barely skimmed you.” He spoke, though the way his words fell, it almost sounded like a gentle scolding. 

“Sure as hell doesn’t feel like it.” I grumble, attempting to move the muted limb only for a spike of pain to still me. Arthur again noticed the way my jaw clenched and my brows furrowed. The stool under him creaked as he pulled it closer to my bedside, his hands went weary as he unfolded my arm from its less than ideal position. He studied my bandaged wound and the blood that blossomed from white cloth. With a sigh he sat back with himself, pulling a small brown notebook from his satchel. His fingers flipped through pages as they must’ve done dozens of times before, the flurry of paper halted with the shift of his thumb. 

“You still keep that diary then.” I asked honestly, barely turning my neck to his hunched form. 

“It aint a diary,” he replied, “it’s a journal.”

I smile soundly. 

On those hot summer days, when the sun panned across yellowing hills of grass and when hung garlic kept the mayflies at bay, the two of us found refuge under willow trees by running streams. My father’s banjo tucked neatly under my arm as I strummed  a wandering tune. Arthur beside me, his pale skin vulnerable to the wrath of sunlight. His charcoal-stained fingers danced between the pages of a stitched diary. At times I’d catch his eye, studying me and drawing something beyond my wake of sight. In the evening I’d chase after him in giggles and outstretched hands, attempting to pry the book from his hands. Longing to see what little he kept from me. 

Even now in the cold, I wondered what I couldn't see as the paper crinkled beneath him. I wondered what he remembered, if he remembered anything more than my name. These years ran through my parted fingers as I reached for them, desperately trying to tame the wild weeds clinging to their folkloric nature.  Nostalgia crafted an image in my mind, filling in the gaps of my daydreams. And despite my grandest efforts, I didn’t know Arthur Morgan anymore. It made me uneasy, he made me uneasy . 

Two decades between now and then. Here he was, sitting like a laying  buck in sweetgrass. 

There was so much I wanted to tell him. The towering letters I’d written in my mind, the tulip garden I’d built with wood and all those wild-flower-kissed fields I’d visited on horseback. All those stories hung in my gut as I stared off at the ceiling, as if opening my mouth would’ve caused the words to tumble like bile. 

“How’ve you been?” He asked, and I almost grinned at the opening door. 

I crafted my words carefully under my tongue before hesitantly turning my head to the side, trying my best not to disturb my arm, “I’ve been okay.”

I wanted to say more, I didn’t know how. 

“How’d you end up in Virginia  anyhow?” He said the words with a hint of amusement, like he was trying to pry a story from me. 

“My husband,” the words waned as I spoke to them, “he was a coal business fella.”

Something in Arthur’s expression grew sober as his brows drew together, He closed the wandering pages of his diary, tucking it at his side, “you were married?”

“I was.”

“You said you weren’t gonna, ever, to anyone.” He sounded like he wanted to say more. 

I peered at him for a moment, trying to read his face through what-must’ve-been the early morning dark. He remembered. 

“I grew up.” My voice was sharp as a waving hand, “and you? Some lady must’ve swooped you off your boots.”

Arthur only shook his head, a lock of blonde tumbling over his eyes, “my boots are planted ma’am.”  

I didn’t believe him, something in the slump of his shoulders told me more than he would’ve on his own. 

The silence settled over us again, this time it sang with crickets and cicadas. The thin sheen of sunlight slipped under the tent’s entrance, indicating the early dawn that came with the western in its summer months. The nights were short and the days were laboured and long, dragging themselves over the horizon before only dipping into night. Where the rest of the world was waking, I felt my eyes begin to droop into themselves.  Arthur seemed to notice them before I did, the stool creaking as he lifted himself from it. From the way he stumbled to his feet and rubbed his eyes, I could tell he was tired, and I’d once again taken to his tent. Still, he shook himself awake with a yawn and a stretch of his long limbs. I watched as he drew open the tent entrance, his back to me. 

I wanted him to stay. I wanted to talk about when our bones sprang with vigour and those days under the sun. I wanted to remember.  

“Arthur,” I called for him, so he turned, “thank you for…Helping me.”

But I’ll let him go, like a dandelion seed to the wind. 

His lips curled into a smile before he slipped out the tent, leaving me with myself. 

—---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I don’t know how I could’ve forgotten. For my peace of mind, I’ll tell myself it was the mud covering her that stopped me from recognizing her as I should’ve. What I can’t excuse is leaving the missus out there in the cold with only a quilt to warm her. I’m such a fool. 

For once block-headed Marston put half his brain to work, stumbling out there after her, all drunk like. When he came back the poor woman had a bullet from some bounty hunters, lucky it shot through all the important bits and the pistol was well worn. Well, that’s what the girls said. She should be back to walking in a few weeks, her arm should get a bit better in a few months.

Lady’s changed so much, but she looks tired. She said she got married, I can't help but wonder if she was happy then. I can’t help but wonder about everything when it comes to her. It’s been so long.  

Dutch caught me out of the tent, barely made it a few steps before he opened his mouth. Says he sees something in her, like she’ll help us somehow. I don’t understand what he means. Though I’m glad she’s here , I hope I can talk to her when she’s feeling well.

Chapter Text

Mid-January 

1898

In the coming weeks, my shoulder had made considerable progress. Reaching became possible as I’d ignore the pinch of my muscles that came with the movement. It certainly wasn't my strong arm, and maybe it never would be. In sprite of their frail nature, my bones were antsy with restlessness, I needed to get out of this godforsaken tent and do something. 

The first woman I came to know from the camp was a freckle-faced girl by the name of Mary-Beth. Her hair was always done up in a Gibson tuck with stray curls hanging like curtains around her neck, her green eyes like the blooming leaves of willow trees. In the evenings she’d come to sit with me, when all her chores had been completed and the others had rounded off to bed. When she came, she often did with an apple tucked under her dress, handing them off to me with a cheery-pink-lipped smile. She’d sit on the stool next to my cot,  always holding some novel in her hands. And when she read something particularly exciting, she would kick her feet like a child on a swing. 

Other than Arthur, she must’ve been my most common visitor. I don’t know what she found so interesting about me, but I welcomed her company nonetheless. 

“So, you knew Arthur then?” Beth asked me one night, leaning forward in her seat with a hushed tone. 

I scrunch my nose in an odd smile, a bitten fruit in my hand, “Where did you hear about that?”

“Arthur mentioned it.” She said. 

“Yes Ms. Gaskill, I knew him.” I said, taking another bite of my apple. 

Her face seemed to brighten with a cheeky grin. Through the candlelight her eyes resembled rolling hills under the sun. She pulled the stool closer to my side, as if she’d been feening for everything I had to say for all those weeks, “What was he like?”

“A stinky teenage boy.” I said bluntly, purposefully withholding the goods. 

Mary-Beth nearly pouted at my answer before a smile broke back onto her face, “That’s not how he described you.”

Now it was my turn to be eager as I studied the smug look on her face. I leaned up from the cot, meeting her eye, “What did he say ‘bout me then?”

“Oh I don’t know,” she shrugged with a smirk, looking around the tent, “what did you think ‘bout him?”

I rolled my eyes, flopping back onto the sheets like a fish on a shore. My mouth bunched into a playful scowl before I whipped my head back over to the chipper woman. There was an aura about her that made me feel youthful and petty. She had an endearing way with me, even if I wanted to give her what she wanted, words stuck under my tongue. 

In all honesty, they weren’t something I’ve bothered applying to someone like Arthur Morgan, nothing really ever seemed to fit. Even when I wrote to him, I did so as if he were in the room with me, a paper-filled one sided conversation. No, ‘ I miss yous’ or ‘ when are you gonna be back in towns’ . I simply gave the blunt summary of my day and the room to tell me his. I guess I never wanted to admit he was gone at all. Only when my mailbox went dry did it finally dawn on me. 

I locked myself in the barn, only allowing the weary sheep my company. 

And it angered me, in a venomous curl of my lip. 

I turned to Mary-Beth as she peered at me, wide eyed like a dove. So, thinking back to the novels she’s lended me, I tried finding something I could compare. 

“He was like a gentleman,” I squinted at the ground, searching for words, “compared to all the other boys I’d come to know at least, and his hands were always warm.”

I squeezed the sentence from my throat and it wasn’t exactly a lie. 

Beth gazed at me, grinning with all those pretty teeth of hers. When she spoke, it came wistful and thin, “Really?”

“Yes.” I nod, hoping it didn’t sound too sudden. 

“Well then,” her hands lowered to her dress, creasing the fabric as she fidgeted, “he said you used to sing all pretty like a sparrow.” 

There was a swoon at the end of her sentence, causing me to roll my eyes and fight a grin. “I doubt he said it like that.”

“Maybe not, but I saw it in his eyes .” The young lady huffed with conviction, this time drawing an honest chuckle from my throat. 

“His eyes?” I said, shaking my head, “oh god, you read too much.”

“Oh, I know!” She giggles, opening back her book as if the mention of it dragged her back in. So, I turn to the pages she lent me, thin on love and the pinch of fingertips. It was The Well-Beloved, some novel of a sculpture that had been published just last year. When Mary-Beth handed it off to me, she pressed it to her chest like a prayer before laying it down in my hands. As if something between the pages would change me, or maybe it had already changed her. 

The two of us sat for what felt like minutes, though it was more likely spilling over into an hour. Mary-Beth slowly pulled her hunched form from the novel, glancing at the exit of the tent then to me. She smiled, almost apologetically as she stood up from the stool, “I should go, it’s getting late.”

I sat up slowly, carefully leaning off of my ‘bad-arm’. My movements lazy and slow as a yawn opened my mouth, “Goodnight Ms. Gaskill.”

“Goodnight,” she said sweetly, pausing with furrowed brows as someone shuffled just outside the makeshift entrance. When Arthur hesitantly  made his way into the cramped space, she let out a quiet ‘oh’, sending me a knowing smirk before leaving. Even her words of greeting sounded smug and teasing, “Arthur.”

Morgan ambled inside, giving Mary-Beth an odd glance as she disappeared into the woodsy dark. When he turned to me, he offered a tired nod, pulling the stool closer to my bedside. His movements were like mine, all drawn out and muted. I couldn't tell if it was pain or drowsiness hanging from his bones. 

He unfurled my arm as he did almost everyday. Carefully undoing the bandage revealed a filthy slash of healing skin, darkening where the air had grown familiar to it. If I were a poet, I’d say it looked like some withered poppy.  

“Pretty nasty ain't it.” I said, with a smile that never pinched my cheeks. But Arthur didn’t return it, there was a crease between his brows. His hands worked meticulously, peeling off the old white cloth and reaching for a new one. I wondered if he was simply focused or if he genuinely found little refuge in my sarcastic humour. So, I quieted down, exiting the chipper mood that Mary-Beth had put me in. 

I wondered if Arthur drew out these moments he had with me, excuses to be around me and in the tent at all. He could’ve just as easily tasked one of the girls with tediously peeling off white fabric and replacing it. And what of those times he’d come to offer tea or soup I could’ve gotten myself?

When Arthur spoke, it came roughly from the day he’d had, “Hopefully this is the last round you’ll need,” he said, gently tapping the bandage. 

“Yeah,” I paused as his blue eyes flickered to me, darkened by the yellow lantern light, “thank you.”

There were times when Arthur would stay with me longer than fifteen minutes. Where he’d tell me about his day and how frostbitten his hands were. Times he’d say what he caught on a tangent of a hunt or the herbs he’d found smothered beneath the snow. I’d quip about how much easier it would be if we were deer, perfectly satisfied to pull bark from oak trees for dinner. 

But I never expected him to stay, especially when he already seemed to be worn out. And almost in spite of myself, I wished he would. Like I was nineteen again, waiting out on some tattered excuse of a front porch. 

But Arthur stayed longer that night, slouched in the stool as he drifted between the pages of his journal, lending slow replies to my comments. He pulled an open page, pointing to a rough sketch of a dark horse with a large white spot starting on its forehead and dragging down to the snout, “found this stallion just outside Luray, tied to a branch.”

“You let him go?” I asked, lazily leaning forward. 

“I brought him here,” he paused, fighting off a yawn, “poor thing looked half-starved, but he’s got potential with that gallop of his.”

“Well, that’s nice of you Morgan.” I said.

He seemed distracted for a moment before nodding at my complement. Flaxen locks of hair tumbled over his face with a slight shift in stance. Arthur Morgan was a difficult man to read, something I’m coming to terms with. I don’t remember him being like that, in fact he must’ve been the polar opposite. I remember a fire beneath his feet and a passion with his defiance that I’d never seen with anyone. He’d take my hand when he needed me, pulling my arm through every room I shied out of. Here the  outlaw shifted in his stool, “I’m riding out for the day tomorrow, I’ll be herding some sheep.”

I perked up at his words, squinting at him with a quiet smile, “You want me to accompany you?”

He looked me in the eye, with his own gaze opened wide enough for me to see brief specks of gold. Morgan didn’t answer me, as if he were shifting through files in his mind, searching for the right words and their paired tone. There was a whirlwind behind those eyes and deeper in his chest. When everything fell quiet, that’s when you could hear the wind howling. 

I spoke finally, relieving him of building an answer, “It’d be nice to get out of camp.”

“Sure.” He said,  nodding again. His hat fell over his face as he stretched his limbs, a yawn tore through him. The winds grew quiet as he settled and so did I. 

I slumped into my cot, resting my cheek onto my pillow as I watched his breathing slow, like the sea’s shore in the absence of rough currents. It seemed to near an end, only slightly before it still stubbornly continued the gentle rowing of a tide. I studied the bullet mark that had just grazed his hat, leaving a line of torn leather. I imagined how his breathing would’ve shifted, a flurry of rising and falling all over again. Would his hands shake like mine when he pulled a trigger? Perhaps Arthur  had found more comfort in gunsmoke than the warm sheets of a bed. It’s hardly something I could believe, the way his muscles grew loose as he hunched in his stool, for the brief moments he had fallen asleep on that seat, he looked at peace. Like he leaned against the stump of an old oak tree, under the light of the sunset he loved so much. 

I wished he'd stay like that, all content. 

I fell asleep within the hour with curled limbs pulling a pillow ever closer to me. Arthur’s gentle snoring caused my nose to crinkle, his  presence lulling me in a way beyond words. So, like a sea-smoothed stone, I was pulled under into a warm state of sleep.  

Then I was in a field, barren with naked trees and wilted crops. Where life had once sprouted from the earth and danced with the western wind, there was now a sheet of ice. The tree tops reached out to a dense fog covering the sky. Everything around me seemed to form itself as I looked around, stumbling through the snow with outstretched hands. The wind howled like a ravenous fox, a snout to the soil in search of some scrap of rabbit. And the ravens would’ve followed for night, encasing the sky with black feathers. 

There atop a hill, a house leaned against the restless winter. Light pooling from windows, and like a moth I chased after it. My feet rummaged through clouds of snow and ice, before I halted my steps in front of the towering building. It seemed to wane with gauche craftsmanship, stubbornly standing its ground against the frost. 

I stumbled back, befuddled as the light erupted into flames. It was greedy in the way it moved through the wood, as if hands hadn't carefully lined up each wall and hall. The fire roared for the sky, stark against the fog and virgin snow. 

Understanding settled over me, I knew exactly where I’d been. 

I woke with a hushed gasp as my fists dug into the sheets. My chest rose and fell as if I’d run for miles, finally finding refuge in a camp of thieves. I sat in the dark, pulling my quit closer to me as I waited for my heart to slow. I rubbed my eyes with shaky hands, as if skin against skin would ground me. Though it never felt like skin against me when it was my own, like night reaching for night. 

Through the gaps between my fingers, I looked for Arthur perched on that same stool, but he wasn’t there. A part of me was happy I could have woken him, the other longed for the certainty of his snoring. 

The truth was, that very same dream had been courting me since I first slept here. Like some ghost was haunting me with bitterness, snarling into my ear about how I had killed him. Perhaps he was looking for guilt that I would never give. I’d dance on the grave if I could find it.   

Defeated for the night-or the hour at least, I tossed my feet over my cot before searching for boots in the dark. I sunk my heels in when I found it, warming to it. I shrugged a coat on, burying my hands into the pockets. My book seemed to frown watching me leave before I  tucked it under my arm. 

A lantern light cut through the night on a table just outside my tent. Hosea sat with blank pages before him, surrounded by empty chairs. He glanced at me, squinting as he studied my form before a friendly smile of greeting spread across his face, “miss, ever the early bird.”

“Couldn't sleep.” I shrugged, returning a smile of my own. 

Hosea rarely slept himself and when he did, he did so humbly on the ground. Seeing him here with a notebook was far from out of the ordinary. Oftentimes when the dreams came for me, I’d read by his side or speak in hushed tones at night. He never asked for anything beyond what I’d tell him and I never asked more of him. He said he remembered me or the concept of me at least. With Arthur running off before the sun rose and coming back at noon with flushed cheeks. And when he did speak of those times, it almost felt as if he was speaking of someone else. Like some girl in a novel or in a folk song handed down by campfires. I’d give him a tight lipped smile about how I wished we’d spoken more then. 

If Hosea wasn't a man with plenty to say, I don’t know who would be. Grandiose stories of seven foot tall grizzlies and comanche moons. And everytime I listened in intrigue, wondering why I paid him no mind in my youth. Perhaps I never cared much for old stories when I was so convinced I’d make my own. 

“Arthur invited me to herd sheep when the sun comes up,” I said, sticking my fingers between the pages of my novel, “bout’ time I start pulling my weight around here, like susan said.”

“Oh,  Grimshaw,” He shook his head, turning back to his writings, “there'll be plenty of time for that when your shoulder’s right.”

“It’s getting right.” I said, insisting. 

The wise man nodded slowly, giving me a knowing look. 

Chapter Text

I envy the winter-stained rabbits as they rummage through the snow, black tipped ears flickering towards sound. They shrugged the snow from their fur like a toad would under spring rain, while I shivered. When they ran, they did so as if it were the only thing they knew how to do, hind legs digging up the ground beneath them. I watched keenly as they scurried off to some burrow, spooked by the sturdy drum of a horse’s trot.

I pulled my coat ever closer to me, attempting to bury my chin under my collar. A red coat that draped past my knees, held together with buttons. It almost felt too expensive to be worn, especially not for a shepard excursion. It had been lended from Ms. O’Shea’s steady collection of garments, much to her dismay. Dutch pried the wool from her hands as she frowned, muttering something about how I would ruin it. Ignoring her, Vanderlinde held it up for me as I shoved my arms in sleeves, buttoning the coat up to my chin. As if I couldn’t have done it myself. 

There was something imposing about his presence and the way he carried himself. The tent he slept in was grand in white fabric, the poor woman he kept on his arm, though unhappy, held striking irish beauty. He adorned himself in expensive fabric while little Jack wore rags. He held pride when he visited me, telling me of the code here and the freedom they fought for. I’d lend him a thin lipped smile until he’d left. I was almost certain I hadn’t met Dutch all those years ago, I would’ve remembered it. I would’ve flown from him like the songbird I was, finding refuge in the old oak trees. Truth be told, I had met plenty of men like him. Collecting gold while feigning empathy to the children who’d mined it. In a way I preferred the dogs who walked with their teeth bared rather than the cat with hidden claws. 

I glanced at Arthur as he rode next to me, who was so fond of Dutch. He mentioned how he’d raised him and taught him how to read. I tried to imagine it, a small Arthur sitting next to him at noon, drawing his fingers under sentences as the boy struggled to sound them out.

“Who taught you to draw then?” I asked soon after, holding the reins firmly. 

“Picked it up on my own,” He replied, squinting ahead at the bustling sheep, “my momma was a painter though, maybe it’s just in me.”

I smiled at the sentiment, I wish I could’ve met her. 

“I thought Bessie was your mother for the longest time.” I said.

Arthur seemed taken aback for a moment as he peered at me. The blue sea of his eyes rippled and shifted as he studied me. I could see how his pupils grew small from the sunlight and bright snow. Then, like he built a wall between us, the fleeting look in his eye was gone. Each stone and brick banded together and away from me. For a moment I thought I’d gotten too comfortable, my tongue had slipped like an excited child. So, I looked away from him and to the distant rows of trees. 

“You remember Bessie but not Hosea, hm?” He said, his tone farther than the evergreens. 

“She was the one who’d call you down from my window when it got dark,” I said fondly, fidgeting with the reins in my hands, “then she was gone one day.”

I pictured her then, the blonde woman in her humble dresses and even humbler tones. The ends of her hair curled into themselves, her hands were always gentle and warm. Despite how my memories may romanticize the facts in my life, I’m sure of Bessie’s beauty and genuine kindness. Back then, Arthur hadn’t told me what became of her when she stopped her occasional visits and motherly fretting. He wouldn’t speak of her at all, as if the feelings were too much for him to say anything about. So I’d let him sit next to me under the willow trees, watching as he ran his fingers through grass. 

Fog fell from Arthur’s lips as he looked away from me, surveying the sheep that didn’t need it. Anything but to meet my eyes and for a moment, I see that angry boy again. 

So, I keep talking as if I were talking to myself, because in a way I was. 

“I missed you for a long time,” I said, staring at the blinding heaps of snow, “thought you were gonna come back someday, eventually I quit checkin’ the mailbox.”

Arthur let out an odd sound that almost sounded like a rugged sigh, like he was gonna say something before it died deep in this throat. 

I was bitter back then, pacing the ranch with hay bales in my hands. The horses would watch me from their stalls, ears perked up as if they could feel my unease. The goats parted my path on days like this, no playful head butting. The chickens would stay in their coups, nestled together as if to give thanks. Everything watched me move and the way I cut through the air, muttering curses as if he could’ve heard me. 

The earth there seemed to grieve with me. The sky grew grey and the clouds thin and dissipating. The old willow tree wept, drawing circles in the pond as it hung there. The crops didn’t grow as well, like the soil needed to hold him too. The cattle were wary now, huddled together in the snow. I wandered like a ghost through everything, coddled in my bed from the cold. 

How could three years in the sun bring forth the cruellest seventeen-year winter?

Year by year I grew bitter like the climate around me and the golden band around my finger. Year by year I froze over to a chipping painting, carefully varnishing each memory. Everything around me came to spring as I sat in my filth and spite. 

“I guess I was a fool Arthur, nothing lasts forever,” I smiled ruefully, glancing at the sheep we tended to, “especially not something like us.”

In spite of all common sense, there are some things you just remember.

After all these years between us, the vast miles and all the things we've done. He still remembered me, sprinting through wild-flower meadows in a vibrant skirt. And I remembered him, blue-eyed, grinning and flushed beneath the sun. The deer ran from us as we disturbed the grass, kicking the rocks and baring teeth as if we were the only things in the world to be feared.

Arthur gazed at me, his eyes holding something unreadable as he finally spoke, “I’m sorry.”

I cocked my head to the side, still smiling softly through a lie, “Doesn’t bother me much anymore, it was so long ago.”

He looked like he didn’t believe me, still he relented. He had nothing else to say, simple as a one-way track. His eyes wandered over to the animals we were tending before his posture swiftly stiffened as he saw the wandering sheep on the other side of the herd. He yanked the reins, urging Boadicea over heaps of snow. I hummed dryly as he called after them, “Hey, hey now!”

The stallion below me perked his ears and stilled before I gave him a reassuring pet. The animal snorted, hesitantly moving toward the flock. Arthur was right to have kept him, though skittish and malnourished the horse was clearly well trained. He galloped through the snow and followed my commands, gently leading the wanderers back where they belonged. 

There was silence between the two of us for a few hours as we herded the sheep. When hunger began gnawing at my stomach, I retrieved canned peaches from my coat pocket, wasting no time shoving them into my mouth. As I chewed, I noticed two dark forms against the snow. I glanced at Arthur whistling for his attention, then back at the shadows. 

He cursed, they were wolves. 

Arthur hollered, waving his arms to scare the untamed hounds. The sheep seemed weary at the newfound noises from their leader, braying in response. The wolves wandered on their paws before trotting closer to the herd, their ears pulled back with their tails pointed. 

Arthur nodded over to me, urging me to take the lead in herding. I gave him a blank look, raising my hand at the large crowd of bustling lambs, as if to say ‘me?’

The canine's steps quickly grew into a trot the sheep would soon notice. With a curt sigh, I took the reins on the herd, leading them out of eye-shot from the wolves while Arthur dealt with them. Eventually, in the midst of thick woods and grass-peaked snow, I heard a bark, a gunshot, then a whine into silence. 

I came out the other end of the dense trees with frazzled sheep on my heels as I swatted my horse to keep up. My eyes were slow to adjust to the virgin snow and useless rays of sunlight on the other side where Arthur awaited me. He held his forearm in a strange way, causing me to crane my head to him as he came closer. Arthur shook it off, wiping his skin on cloth. 

“What happened?” I asked, my voice barely carrying over the resilient hum of hooves. 

“It’s nothin’,” the outlaw shrugged, his blue eyes darting away from me, “wolves got rowdy, my only hopes are that they aint rabid.”

When the concern crease between my brows hadn’t dissipated, Arthur continued sarcastically, “Guess time will tell.” 

I didn’t return his dry chuckle, my cheeks too worn from the cold to offer another smile. So, I nod, yanking on the restraints again before Arthur drifted away from me again and again. 

With the hour, mountains and white sky parted as we arrived at our destination, a rumbling small rancher’s town. Men ambled down the streets with logs in their hands, others lifted planks onto rooftops. A colourful array of horse breeds hitched out by saloons while their caretakers drank away. There was an odd sense of nostalgia as my boots met the ruffled mud banks, the air was clean here and the people were worn from work. 

We led the sheep to a mostly empty fenced area, only pasture plant-filled bins resided there. The flock happily trotted their tired little hooves into the pen, braying softly. A man with a gap-toothed smile met us at the front of the fence, closing the gate as the final animal wandered in. He handed Arthur a hefty money clip before turning his attention to me, straw between his teeth. 

“You’re his ‘lil helper then,” the man grinned in a tone that made my nose scrunch, “pretty lady such as yourself shouldn’t be up in the mountains like that.”

I offered him a smile I’d practiced from years of men and their wandering hands, “I enjoy the outdoors.”

“Do ya?” The man said, something filthy slithering under his tone. 

Arthur didn't say a word, he didn’t need to as he mustered his grandest stink eye. His rough hands felt gentle when he pulled me back to our horses  and away from the rancher. Through his movements, I could tell how he’d hummed me like a favourite song from long ago. Each lyric and rhythm ruffled from years, still the notes sang true. He royally held me up to the beast, only retreating for his own horse when I’d sat comfortably atop mine. 

“Don’t know why you entertained him.” Arthur said once we were back with the woods and untouched snow. 

“You never know which fellers like that have a bullet for you.” I replied, my arm beginning to ache from hours of strain. 

When the sun began to set, the cold grew reverent in its whipping winds. The weather bit through my coat and skin, as if they were only fiddling with it before. The sky bled into a  sunset, as if the warm colours against the snow mocked us. No wolf, coyote, moose or elk was foolish enough to rummage through snow in the dead of winter after night had fallen. Arthur was the first to call it quits on getting back to camp before dawn, perhaps he did it more for my sake than his own. 

We found an old cabin, hitched in the dense barren trees. With a pond by the porch and a swing on a branch, I imagined it was once a quaint place. Though it now laid in decay, falling in on itself. The ceilings bore holes from the elements while cabinets collected dust. Despite how Arthur attempted to suppress shivers and sneezes,  I could tell he was fairing no better than me. When he found a small collection of emergency candles hidden in a drawer, I swore his shoulders slumped. 

A match struck through the dark, his blue eyes searching for mine. Carefully, the man lit each wick he could, gently placing the candles onto a night stand. I tried to imagine how the same hands had picked flowers and kept his favorites in a satchel to dry, the same satchel that held gunpowder and stolen gold. Arthur was nothing if not a man of the warmest contradictions. 

I kicked off my boots out of habit, rather selfishly curling into the sheets of a stranger. I wasn’t surprised when I felt his larger body roll in after me, inadvertently pressing against me. I was too tired and drunk off comfort to care, pulling the matted quilt over the two of us before shutting my eyes. 

“You can see the stars from here,” Arthur said, pointing up at the missing parts of the ceiling, baring the night sky to our eyes. Sure enough, everhead the freckled sky stared back down at us. Each star burning and burning and burning so far away. 

I could feel Arthur’s breathing and perhaps if it was another man, another pair of hands lighting the candles, then I would’ve been on guard. Perhaps I would’ve sat outside in the snow like a dog chained to a fence, far too afraid of help after all I’d seen. Charging into self destruction with reckless abandon, like I had done that morning I stomped on the lake. So far away from myself, so far away from him. I refused to leave the gang, just like I refused to stay. 

Everything here made me feel young again, sneaking out at midnight, fooling around in the barn, riding the cattle. There was a sting to hunger for the world now, something I thought I’d lost on the aisle I walked down all those years ago. Something to be left with my maidenhood and under my bed at my father’s ranch. 

I jumped slightly as I felt a hand curl around mine, lifting it up at each dot in the sky. Arthur listed them off like he was happy to tell someone of their names, like an artist bursting to capture whatever hung in his mind onto paper. I thought back to the novel Mary-Beth had lent me, how The-Well Beloved slipped between the sculptor's tools.

I turned my head to Arthur, his skin flushed from the cold rather than the sun. His words fell silent as he peered back at me, those blue eyes that’d be the death of me. 

“I think I’ll stay.” I said, answering a question that had haunted me for weeks. 

—————————————————————————————————————

She’s a fickle thing who never seems to forget a damn thing and I’m sorry for it, not too sure why. She says she missed me, not too sure why. I am truly a fool, all she’s done is confuse me. 

Her smile reminds me of everything I hadn’t reminisced on for all those years. Time and time again I found myself looking for her in strangers, almost married one. I learned the song of every damn bird, trying to catch the echo of one of hers, or maybe the stars held those bright eyes she had.

 She don’t feel too real now, like a jackalope running with rabbits. So, I’ll sit with her in excuses, trying to catch the songbird in lines and useless drawings. I do not know how she tolerates me. However, I will not deny, I’m more than pleased she’s staying. Someone needs to look out for her, better the camp than any snake she’d find on the trails around here. 

Chapter Text

The whipping winds rolled into dawn, unrelenting and just as bitter. It had rattled the doors and worn wooden walls all through the night. If I were seven again, I would’ve growled back at the windy beast in the dark, before relentling with my tail between my legs. I would’ve bunched my nightgown in my fists. I would’ve lifted the swaying fabric to make way for a run down the hall and into my parents bedroom. On nights like this, I would’ve curled under the quilts, burying my face into my mother’s stomach and she would’ve let me, beyond drowsy mumbles of protest. 

The rumble of Arthur’s light snoring grounded me for a few hours. He politely kept his distance and back towards me. There was something slightly amusing about the way he curled away from me, offering more room in his own way. Sometime long before dawn, he grew restless, pulling himself out of bed in the dark. He patted my side, mentioning something about ‘keeping guard’ before slipping out the raggedy front door. The wood squealed after him, I cursed the gush of cold air following in after his departure.  

I pulled the remaining quilt closer to me, cocooning myself in the neatly knitted fabrics and wondered what possibly could have been out there in the snow to fear. Maybe it could’ve been curious wolves or hostile travelers. I studied the gaps of the ceiling above me and the stars that fell through them.

Eventually the sun lightened the sky, brushing them away like specks of dust on a satin gown and Arthur still hadn’t returned. 

Maybe I shouldn't have told him I’d stay, maybe I wasn’t as welcome as I thought. After all, all I had done for the last few weeks was sit in a tent and take handouts.

I tried to imagine him sitting out in the snow, trying to come up with ways to let me down easily. Maybe he’d drop me off in town and offer his condolences. 

I approached the door, bracing myself for winter’s wind. I squinted at the snow, as the sun’s light reflected off of its surface. I shrugged my borrowed coat over closer, attending to cover the peaks of skin under wool. Arthur sat crouching over a makeshift-dwindling campfire, his gloved hands rubbing against each other. I began to approach him, my feet light against the snow.I stood behind him for a moment, watching as the golden sparks caved into themselves. I thought about how the sky had done the same to the stars, snuffed out by ash.  

“Mornin’.” The outlaw greeted, sparing me a brief glance. 

“Arthur.” I replied, mirroring his position next to him. 

His blue eyes shifted ahead at the wandering herd of deer, dipping between and out of the trees. He contemplated something before gently shaking his head and rising to his feet. He shook stubborn specks of snow from him, leaning against a tree with crossed arms. “So, you’re stayin’?”

The words fell over me like a turn in the wind, cool air settling over skin. Arthur hadn’t said it with a defininate tone, he said it as if it were a fact…and I suppose it was.

“I’d do my share,” I paused, raising my gaze from the blinding snow, “If you’d have me.”

Something unreadable settled over his eyes before he looked down. A part of me wanted to ask him what he thought of my words, a part of me was just fine where he was, far away from me like he’d been for years. A part of me was still stuck with my knees deep in sweetgrass, a part of me knee deep in snow with a fire raging before me. I stood by myself in my contradictions as he stood on his own.  

Then I remembered how his hand took mine just a few hours ago and the way they pointed to the stars. He held it like he knew me, maybe he still did. Like a songbird, I hopped from branch to branch and after him, through the snow and flower fields. Chasing some far off memory and childish dreams I couldn't shake. 

Mary-Beth had something infectious about her. 

“Day won’t last long at this time of year,” Arthur said, calling after me in his own way, “we should get a move on.”

I unhitched the stallion from the post, tightly taking the reins into my hands. Arthur watched me from the ground stiffly, as if one wrong move would send me tumbling for the snowy banks. A small smile teases my lips, clearly he’d forgotten who my father was.  

He mounted his mare soon after me, before leading the way. With the horse’s gallop, the wind had begun to redden my cheeks once again, causing me to scrunch my nose in discomfort. Arthur buried what he could in his collar, furrowing his brows. 

We rode like that for what must’ve been a little over an hour before the outlaw broke the silence once again, with the curtest of questions. 

“What were they hangin’ you for anyway?” He asked, his tone light but laced with apprehension. 

My breath hitched in a manner I hoped he hadn’t noticed. The snow had become a painting I glued my attention to, Arthur’s question quickly became background chatter in an exhibit I had no business being in. And I could feel the way his eyes bore into the back of my head, only amounting in curiosity as the moments passed. 

A lie would only save me for a moment, a chip in paint only spreads. 

“I um,” I began, my voice came like the ice held me that morning, waning and falling into itself, “I killed a man.”

The silence hung between us, despite the fact that there was plenty more than nothing to say. My eyes closed in preparation for whatever could've come next, in spite of the rough tide of my breathing. I imagine him telling Dutch of my sins and leaving me out in the snow. How long until the hounds would've come for me? 

So, I attempted to reason. 

“He wasn’t a good one, Arthur,” I said, a pleading look in my eyes, “always drunk and trippin’ over himself-“

He held the back of his hand up to me, as if waving off a fly, “Don’t need to explain nothin’ to me.”

I hung onto his words, expecting more to come, but that was all. There was nothing in his face I could read, he lacked judgment or apprehension. Instead, he rode alongside me, eyes shifting over snowy banks for any sign of a threat, as if there wasn’t one beside him. He seemed more affected by the cold than the presence of a murderer who’d coiled up beside him the night before. I found myself squinting after him in disbelief when his eyes couldn’t catch me. And here, I decided confusing was the word I’d settled on, my mind couldn't have crafted a synonym. 

What a confusing man. 

The hammering of my heart slowed into a gentle drum, like a toad leaping from stone to stone. It spiked in my chest again as Arthur yanked on Bordacia’s restraints, his head turning with her ears. The outlaw held up a hand for me to do the same. Through the snow ahead of us, the silhouettes of a band of men on horseback rolled in. Even with their distance, they stood imposing and I wondered if they were bounty hunters. 

“Here.” Arthur nodded behind him, his voice stern and steady. I followed his lead, burrowing a path into a thicker neck of the woods. The wind continued to whip the two of us, flurrying snow obscured most of my vision. Arthur however seemed accustomed to it as he furrowed his brows. We stopped at a frozen pond, everything around us appeared white to me. The trees faded and frail in the storm, even the rabbits had welcomed themselves to dens. 

“Jesus,” I shivered, rubbing my hands together, “what was that about?”

”O’Driscolls.” Arthur said gruffly. 

“In this?” I replied, tossing a hand ahead at the storm.

He grunted in response, his eyes studying the horsemen as they faded off into the wind, “Exactly.”

We took the longer route around a lake frozen over to avoid the strangers. Arthur rode between me and the water, as if I were some mad woman to run for it again. Maybe I was, I would’ve considered myself one if I’d seen the look in my eye beyond feeling it. 

“We ain't far now,” Arthur spoke, mist fanning with his words, “you got any plans on namin’ that horse?”

I studied the way his shoulders slumped when I replied, “something Russian.”

“Russian?” He glanced at me, brows furrowed. 

“My dog’s name was Russian,” I shrug, “she was a good girl.”

Small talk like that continued until the hills, mountain ranges and frostbitten deer began to look familiar again. When we finally arrived at camp, the sun was weary in the sky, it would’ve begun to set within the next hour. Mary-Beth was the first to greet me, all bright eyed and bushy tailed. She took my hands into mine, rubbing them, “You’re so damn cold, here sit down.”

I studied her, all wrapped up in wool as she pulled me by the fire. It must’ve started early tonight. Javier across from us, his fingers all tangled in strings as he sung in words I didn’t understand. I hadn’t spoken to him nearly as much as I listened, on nights when the books weren't enough to keep me entertained- I found myself humming along to tunes I’d grown familiar with. Tilly settled next to me, a mug warming her hands. I watched with keen eyes as Arthur hitched the horses, slightly guilty I hadn’t offered him assistance. He was probably more exhausted than me, still he threaded on like a workhorse heading off to Dutch’s tent, apprehension in the way he moved. 

When he was out of sight and out of ear shot, Mary-Beth turned to me with a grin, “What happened out there?”

“Nothing but sheep and snow.” I said, fighting the way the corners of my lips turned up. Javier slyly stopped singing but continued gently strumming his guitar. 

“That ain’t it.” Tilly shook her head, sipping coffee, “I’ve never seen the fella so worried after you got hurt, he’s still sending glares after poor Marston.”

“Oh, and the way he pinched your cheek!” Mary-Beth swooned. 

I roll my eyes at their playful sentiments, thinking back to the days I used to shove my face into awful romance novels. Back before I really learned how men could be and what their hands had grown accustomed to. 

“You know, I was married,” I said as if my voice was on ice.

“Was.” Tilly replied before Beth elbowed her harshly, fighting a giggle. 

“Men they’re-they can be real unkind.” I continued, watching the way Javier’s fingers danced with his instrument. A hum of life breathing straight into open fire, surrounded by the cold. Mary-Beth’s eyes softened like a doe, the corners of her lips turned down. Tilly did the same, though her frown was more of a scowl. 

“I’m familiar,” Tilly said, taking my hand in hers, “but, Arthur ain't like that.”

“I know.” I nod to make up for the unsteadiness in my tone. 

The air went still for a moment, except for the murder of crows flying overhead and Javier’s hums. It was clear as day how much he’d been listening, those swift brown eyes glancing before looking away. 

“Let’s talk of better things,” Mary-Beth clasped her hands together, though his disappointment for a lack of details dampened her flare, “tomorrow, Hosea, me ‘n the other girls are headin’ into town lookin’ for work, you comin’?”

“You ain't lookin’ for work, Ms.Gaskill.”

“Robbin’ is plenty of work, pickpocketing is an art.”  

“If you say so,” my shoulders slump, letting her have this one, “I guess I’ll come, I ain't busy”

“Oh! It’ll be fun, we could get us some dresses-or oh! I’ve been needin’ a new notebook-” Beth began to ramble, speaking with her hands as she listed off the many ways we would gallivant through town. I wondered how young I must’ve looked to the camp, considering the fact I was hardly younger than Arthur. The way the girl’s gushed to me and kicked their feet, handing off romance novels to me for reading-They must’ve thought I was nowhere near that. For the sake of my entertainment, I stayed quiet. 

Javier stretched his hand with a yawn, placing the guitar at his side. The sun was going down and he must’ve been done with the lot of us. I only imagined the way his brow twitched with Tilly reached for him and shook his shoulder gently, “Javier, would you be a kind feller and let the Miss over here play? I’ve heard she’s quite the song bird.”

I looked at her with wide eyes, reeling away with a paling face, “No, no that’s okay.”

The girls pouted with their legs crossed. Mary-Beth piped up, “Why not?”

“I haven’t sung in years, dear. It’d be a blessing not to hear it.” I replied, through the years, this aspect may or may not have been a white lie. Still, they sniffed that out like hounds, seeming as unaffected by the term as a grown man to ghost stories. 

“C’mon darlin’, we’ll sing with ya-won’t we Javier?” Tilly beamed, eyeing the man as he nodded tiredly, “what songs do you know?” 

“Whiskey’s fool, I suppose.” I hardly finished my sentence before she placed the guitar in my lap, looking at me with bright eyes in the light of the sunset. I held the instrument in my hands for a moment, trying to remember the rhythm and curve of notes. I hummed the tune to myself in remembrance, the lyrics settling in my mind. 

I sang like a cattleman dusting off the saddle of an old retired mare. All worn and tuckered out, but differences matter less when you’re riding down trails and watching the sunrise. It wasn’t perfect, but my cracks and mumbling lyrics drowned out as the others round camp joined in. With it, my confidence straightened out my spine. 

“And I’ll end up stuttering like a fool with whiskey in hand,” I croaked, a wide grin sprouted on my face and Mary-Beth practically squawked the words, “‘cause I don’t know how to say ‘I love you’!”

When I turned, an anxious chill ran over me. I watched as Arthur leaned against a short stack of hay, a drink drafted in his hand. His eyes found mine first though, stark against the golden hour. The lyrics on my lips trailed off into something quieter as I studied him. Then he maneuvered closer, sitting on the far left of me. He earnestly smiled and my shoulders slumped, he smiled the way I remembered. All wide like he was about to bark a laugh or pull me to him. 

I wanted that way about him to stay forever, not fleeting moments of nostalgia. Not trying to catch a wren flying overhead, or a spooked buck through the trees, but forever. 

“Back at home,” I sang, while the others shouted.

Chapter Text

The gust of warm wind came in the night, leaving the snow and ice weary to the sun. With melted water flooding the earth and grass peering through white, it looked warm enough to be spring. The weather twisted and turned as a fish would out of water, barely settling on one side as the seasons changed. So, I  refused to take the sun on its word, dressing myself up in wool and sturdy boots. 

With my hands shoved into mittens, I watched as the girls flocked together, chirping to one another. 

Mary-Beth waved me over with freckled hands and a wide smile, “Still bundled up?”

”Weather’s a fickle thing, I’d rather not freeze my knockers off if she turns.” I shrug as we approached a stolen horse wagon. The animal was weary of us, eyes shifting with ears as Hosea held the reins firmly. I climbed up beside him before Mary-Beth barely squished beside me, the rest of the girls hitched on behind us. 

When we settled, Hosea took off, urging the horses with light whips from the rein. And suddenly I felt out of place again with the mountains towering the way they did. I felt everything the wheels did as they rolled over rocks and brushed past scrambling rodents. The girls giggled and sang, I could’ve mistaken them for the sparrows bundled in evergreen trees. Except for the one Ms. Kirk, who sat quietly studying the bright foxes. 

“How was your excursion yesterday, not too tiring I hope?” Hosea asked, tossing a glance to me. 

I shrug, sifting through my mind for some interesting nugget of information, “Arthur said there were O'Driscolls near here?”

Hosea inhaled sharply through his teeth dramatically, raising his brows, “You don’t say.”

“The lot of you don’t seem too fond of them.”

“We ain't, bunch of bastards they are.” He replied, whipping the horses again.

“Aren’t we all?” I questioned dryly, my tongue loose with audacity. There was a part of me relieved when the older man threw his head back and barked a laugh. 

“I suppose so,” He nodded, amusement still lingering on his face. An odd time after my quip, there was a particularly loud laugh from Karen just behind us which caused me to turn my head curiously. I followed her eye and for a reason beyond me, one of Mary-Beth’s eyelids were coloured black with charcoal. She squinted, attempting to avoid black dust from falling into her eyes, though that wide grin on her face rang true. 

“What’s all this for?” I asked under furrowed brows. 

“You’ll see.” Tilly grinned all wide. 

The town rolled up on us as the hills parted, revealing a small ranching town out of season. It was just like what me and Arthur had visited, except more folks over here seemed to have more heads of red hair. Hardworking thoroughbreds rolled through the muddied roads as weary sheep circled in their pens. Hosea pulled the reins when we reached a part of land where grass peaked through the snow. He coughed, leaving the wagon and waving us off when either me or Mary-Beth readied ourselves to jump. He politely rounded to the left side, taking each hand and helping each of us off one by one. 

“Could you keep an eye on Ms. Kirk?” Hosea asked me, refitting his hat onto his head. He didn’t wait for an answer, turning to the rest of the girls and nodding them over, “The rest of you, come with me please.”

I watched as he led them into town like a shepherd or a father. 

I turned to Jenny, who stared down at the earth, kicking up mud under the snow. I could count on my hands the amount of time we’d exchanged words since my arrival. 

Jenny had a head of hair like a raven, black feathers flooding down her shoulders. Her eyes were a brighter shade of blue than Arthur’s, with bags often hanging under them. She was a quiet girl not boastful in her intelligence, smart as a whip though she was. And when I caught her smiling wide with Javier by the campfire, you could see her crooked bottom tooth and the Scottish accent that slipped with her words. 

“You lookin’ for a dress Jenny?” I asked, as if I had a dime in my pocket to spend. 

She looked up at me, her eyes wide like a disturbed owl, “No.”

”Alright then, you just-you just make sure you stay near me, alright?” I said, leaving my hand for her to take, which she opted not to. When I began to explore the muddy down and the ranchers that lived there Jenny followed after me as a shadow. She shuffled her feet through the earth as if she never wanted to come here in the first place. 

The air was damp with the warmth that had decided to settle over the east. For a moment, the earth buzzed awake with false hope, somewhere I’m sure the birds must’ve considered returning from their migration early, despite the fact that it was only mid-january. With the way the men marched through town with firewood and slain bucks over their shoulder, they had clearly taken advantage of the sun. Pianos sang from saloons as working women linked arms with workers on unsteady feet. As I wandered through the muddied road, I noticed how the world moved and how small it made me. 

Jenny didn’t bother lifting her skirt to rush after my quick feet, taking my arm into her hands, “You act as though you’ve never seen sheep shit before.”

“It’s been a while.” I said, something like a smile making its way to my lips.

My steps slowed as my eye caught a wanted poster pinned on a post. I leaned closer, examining the scowling man under stark letters. It read “Mart Gibson; Wanted Dead Or Alive For The Murder Of A Party Of Seven, Last Seen Near Memrich Creek.’

I hardly finished reading the final words before a gloved hand snatched the pinned poster. Instinctively I looked up at the feller, my shoulders slumped as Arthur met my eye looking all smug. He flipped the paper in his hands, placing it so that he could easily read it. When he acknowledged me, he did so without meeting my eye again, “What are ya doin’ over here?”

“The girls invited me to snoop through town, you?” I said, glancing over at Jenny who peered between the two of us suspiciously. 

“I’m workin’.” He replied.

“On bounties…You need company?”

“Absolutely not.”

”Well, why not?” I cock my head to the side. 

“Ain’t safe.”

”Nothing about this is safe Arthur, at least this would be slightly more entertaining than watching Hosea and Mary-Beth have their go at Macbeth to sell a few bottles of over priced bourbon.” I said, pointing at the gathering crowd a few blocks ahead. In spite of my best efforts, words didn’t really seem to sway the outlaw as he shoved the poster into his pocket. 

”You’ll find some excitement when you get into the act .” Arthur said, a grin parting his lips. His stupid face crinkled under the weight of his amusement and I glared at all of it. I took his arm into my hand, leading him down the road to the buzzing scene which Mr. Matthews had created. Jenny followed close behind, seemingly unamused by the banter. 

The crowd pressed against each other, trying to catch a glimpse of the elusive product Hosea held up. The sun passed through the glass in a way that made the alcohol glow. If I was a bystander, I could’ve seen myself waving a hand for a shot of the ‘magic bourbon’. Hosea had a way with words and tone, he probably could have sold a pile of manure to the right man. 

Arthur grumbled something that hadn’t reached my ear as he sagged next to me like a wet dog. 

Like a bolt of lighting, Mary-Beth shot out from the audience with Karen at her side. She held her eye in frained pain.  

“My sister’s husband has been unreasonably cruel to her,” Karen spoke up, holding the girl by the shoulders and spinning her for the crowd to see, “he’s gone so far as to give her a black eye! You say your bourbon heals all wounds, show it then.”

I saw the way Mary-Beth fought back a smile as Hosea waved the drink around obnoxiously, “I tell no lies woman, from snake bites to scarlet fever-this drink cures all!”

He poured a small amount of alcohol onto his palm before applying it onto the girl’s eye. She shivered away from what must’ve been the cool sensation as the bourbon effectively washed away the charcoal-or bruise. She wiped whatever remained with her  sleeve before turning to the audience, her skirt spinning with each movement, “Oh my, Is it gone?”

”Good god,” Karen gasped, taking Mary-Beth’s face into her hands, “Her bruise is gone!”

The crowd roared with further excitement, now waving fists filled with cash and scrambling over each other like a herd of spooked bison. I turned, pulling Jenny close to me in the wave of hands. The same stupidly smug look crawled back onto Arthur’s face as he watched mine scrunch back up in dismay. “Very festive.”

A ripple of memory reminded me how we’d even ended up over here in the first place, a sudden round of playfulness settled over me as the crowd went east. I buried my heels in the earth and pushed on his stomach with all my weight, like a boulder his boots barely moved, courtesy of the mud. Seeing as my efforts weren’t getting much of anywhere, my hands reached for the bounty poster he hung over my head. His grip was swift as he kept the paper from me. I cursed him, fighting the blooming grin on my face, “Damn you, Morgan.”

A chuckle tore through him at my tone, as if my annoyance was a bristle of wind to him, “I’ve been for a while, Darlin’.”

”You’re acting as if I haven’t already survived a bullet.” I said, my words betraying my tone. 

“Barely.”

“Arthur-“

”Wouldn't be wise to hang near the law here anyhow,” despite the amusement on his face, his words were curt, “need I remind you how we met?”

I give him the stink eye, my hands lowering to my sides, “Alright then.”

He squinted down at me suspiciously, because it’s never that easy with me. He knew.

Mary-Beth squealed in her youthful delight, wrapping her arms around me from behind. She was clammy with the passion that came with acting, though her smile beamed through the fatigue hanging from her bones. The girl spun me around, shaking my shoulders with a bounce in her heels, “we made so much! You won’t believe it, Hosea said I could pick up a few new books! I’ve had my eye on a few, maybe I could get a journal too, or-oh! Arthur, what are you doin’ here?”

It  took him a moment to respond, as if he were going over her buzzing statements in his mind. 

“Workin’.” He said. 

Mary-Beth’s eyes darted between the two of us, she looked struck with confusion under furrowed brows. Then, one by one, each tense aspect of her expression fell into something lax. I noticed a familiar grin begin to curl onto her face, big brown eyes waning under the weight. Her freckled face flushed with mischief as she crossed her arms. I didn’t let the girl get a word out before I took her by the arm, dragging her back over to the wagon. I glanced over my shoulder after a dozen steps, only to see Arthur standing there like a leashed dog left out for the sun to bite. I rolled my eyes at both of them, raising my voice loud enough for his ears, “See you back at camp.”

Beth lowered her voice to a whisper, like we were school children to dandelions, “What were y’all talkin’ about?”

“Skinning rabbits,” I  responded, stopping the steady beat of my footsteps, “now, where the hell is Jenny?”

Mary-Beth turned with me, her eyes searching on porches and the light side of alleys, “Weren't you supposed to  watch her?”

I grumbled a curse, kicking a rock before I began making my way down the mainstreet. I brushed past customers who held their bourbon up to the sun, trying to catch a glimpse of some fraudulent miracle. I heard Beth’s feet stutter before she ran after me, swiftly linking my arm with hers. Her head turned in every direction her neck would allow, like some frightened dove released at a eulogy. My steps were sharp in their certainty, at least one of us had to be. And thank whatever godless love above we found her in the forth alley to be stumbled across.  

Jenny held her skirt in her hands, swaying it above the mud in a way she hadn’t cared to do before. She looked bashful, a pleasant smile without teeth. The brown-skinned boy infront of her looked equally flattered, though he tried to play it off. He had a bruise on his cheek, dirt on his knees and a glint of chivouls pride. Though it faltered as he caught my eye glaring after him.  

“Jenny Kirk,” I said as a mother would, scolding a child with her hand in a cookie jar, “you can’t just run off, Hosea would’ve killed me.”

She pouted, attempting to plant her feet in the earth before I succeeded in our small tug-of-war. Her face softened when she looked back at the poor boy, who stood like a post. Jenny waved him goodbye and he returned it. She only spoke of him when she was certain he couldn't hear. 

“He helped me, you know,” Ms. Kirk said, a spark under her words, her moodiness seemed temporarily muted, “said his name was Lenny, got a bruise over a feller’ who wouldn't leave me be.”

“I’m sure Ms. Gaskill will love to hear all about it, come now,” I said with some semblance of a grin while Mary-Beth fought back her own.

Chapter Text

Early-February 

1898

The campfire whispered sweet nothings to the stars in smoke, as it did every night. Though tonight was still relatively quiet, except for the hum of crackling wood and the gentle strumming of Javier’s guitar. I wondered how muted the song had become under his gloves and how much clearer it would become in spring. 

Jenny lounged at his side, fighting the drowsiness that hung her eyelids down low. 

Over the next few weeks, I found my place in the gang’s innerworkings like a crow learning to pluck at carrion. I scavenged over hills in search of hay bales to drag to the horses, and herbs to sneak in Pearson’s meals. I traced my fingers over words little Jack sounded out, painting pictures of kings, and the dragons they slayed. At night, I’d gather around the campfire, nodding along to songs I couldn't remember the lyrics to, or burying my nose into a borrowed book. And at night, I watched as Arthur retreated into the thick winter woods, the earliest he’d return was at early dawn, appearing exhausted where the others looked sluggish. It hadn’t failed to catch my eye, the way he labored beneath the weight of everyone’s comfort and safety.  

Though on this particular venture, Arthur had been gone for a few days-and it worried me. 

Something inside me felt restless, and I knew better than to ignore it. 

I woke when the stars stretched themselves across the sky, when the world smelled of  night and cold. I buried myself in my burliest coat, swimming in wool and warmth. Animals scurried away from the sound of my steps. My boots were light against the snow as I snuck like a cat over the countertop. It was one of those rare nights where Hosea wasn’t found jotting notes onto maps with Dutch by his side, or Sean and Karen couldn't be heard fooling around. Everything was still, as if you were standing on top of a hill. 

I greeted my steed, now recently dubbed ‘Skipper’ for the strange way he rode when he was excited. The stallion lowered his head into my hands in greeting, eyes soft and round. He nipped at my sleeves, finding interest in the way the fabric moved. 

“You gonna keep an eye out for me, take care of everyone?” I said, my voice coming in hushed whispers. The horse nickered gently with the only eyes to watch me leave. 

I followed the moon in the dark and through the trees. Owls watched me from the trees, gossiping to the mice in their claws. The wind kissed my cheeks and clawed at my skin in ways men hadn’t bothered to do in years. It held me like it wanted me, I shook it off, breathing fog. Snow weighed my feet down with each dragging step, and though my boots tried their best to shield me from the cold-my toes were quickly falling numb. 

The sun rose after what felt like weeks, lazily dragging itself over the horizon. Coyotes trudged through the earth, tossing me a glance before picking up their pace. Deer fled for the trees, kicking up the ground.  For a moment, I wondered if I should’ve turned back to camp-If this was another fruitless venture toward self destruction, stomping on the cracking ice of a lake. 

When I grew tired of my bones begging me for rest, I settled under an old oak tree. With my back pressed against bark, my gloved hands worked open a can of peas. 

They were bitter, but they did their job. 

I walked for hours and miles to nowhere in particular, wandering through the snow in hopes that I’d read my footprints back. 

The trees parted for a hollow valley of snow. Blinding heaps of white stretched out until the barren woods on the other side interrupted them. Darkness erupted from the ground. In both contradictions, they held their own degree of unease, like the world had stopped moving the way it was supposed to. Charcoal left unblended in a journal. The earth didn’t sing the way it was meant to without the winter-tipped rabbits and the foxes at their heels. Howling winds fell silent, as if it were afraid to speak and everything seemed to hold its breath. 

The only sign of life were the crows gathered around something just out of my sight. My shuffling feet alerted them as they lifted their heads, rot hanging from their beaks. They didn’t hiss at each other as I knew them to. They didn’t fly in, out and around the resource pinned in the snow. They all sat and watched me with beady black eyes.

They almost looked painted on a white canvas, where the artist had forgotten to build their background. A mistake of a creating hand, some strange mishap. 

I neared the flock like a wounded dog, lifting each step as if it would fall in on itself. I was gentle with the cold, licking a hand I was afraid would hit. But birds don't often care how slow you move, you remain a threat no matter how you put it. In spite of all natural instinct, the crows stayed still, as if their wings had been clipped in on themselves. I imagined myself scooping one into my arms, how complacent would these dull birds become under a softer hand. Despite how they lingered, eventually the birds flew away when one of my feet fell too heavy. I watched them throw themselves into the air, remembering how the smoke reached for the sky. 

I reached the area of tampered snow with a presence that was not my own. There was a small yellow bird curled into itself like a dead bug. Its legs reached up for a sky its wings would never reach, tattered in ruffled feathers. Only when I took the bird into my hands, did I notice the shuddering breaths rumbling from its small chest. Its eyes were squeezed shut and its talons clenched into balls as if it were afraid. And maybe it was. 

I jumped when I heard my name, turning my head like the crows had.  

“Sad, isn't it?” An unfamiliar voice asked from beside me.

I nearly dropped the poor thing back for the scavengers. Ungracefully, I stumbled to my feet, softly rubbed my thumb against its stomach. 

The man was as stark as the crows were against blanketed hills of ice. He adorned himself in a well-off black suit and tie with a tall top hat. His skin was pale as if he’d been dead for an hour with a neatly-maintained moustache above his lip. There was no way to read his expression, no words to describe the corners of his lips. 

“Who are you?” I asked, shoulders stiffening. 

He studied me, his eyes shifting in a way that unnerved me, like a wolf examining a hound. Then he leaned back, a clear smile spreading onto his face. 

“I’m not too sure,” He shrugged, standing too still for the weather around us, “not too sure it matters.”

“But you know me,” I said, reaching for the pistol saddled to my hip. 

“She’s sick, but I’m sure you already knew that,” he said, ignoring me as he nodded down at the small bird in my hands, “however, there’s someone else who could use your help, there’s a few dogs north of here-rounding themselves in filth. You could clear them out or jump ship to somewhere with easier means.”

I reeled away from him, creating distance between us, “I don’t understand.”

”Me neither,” He said, mirroring my movements as he moved away, “It is beyond me how you’re so gentle with that goldfinch after what you did to your dear husband. Standing alone in your contradictions I suppose, I’ve met many women with such temperaments.”

”What do you know about that?” I asked, my voice rough enough to move the winds again after they’d fallen still. 

“Nothing more than what you’d know,” The man turned away, seemingly unimpressed by me, “see you around, Miss. Take care of yourself, the wolves bare their teeth at this time of year.” 

I glared at him with readied limbs, as if he were a snake near striking. Though he never offered me the same level of apprehension, tucking his hands behind his back before he wandered off. My eyes didn’t leave him until he was out of sight, slithering over banks of snow. He left like some strange unnameable scent, a vanishing shadow without footprints. In his absence, the world began to breathe again, as did I, with a renewed vigour. 

I placed the slow-breathing bird in my satchel, sheltering it from the cold. Wind wisped through bare branches and distant de-thawing streams hummed to themselves. I shook off the frigid weather as if it were the man’s presence, picking up my feet to march forward. 

Molly’s poor coat grew as torn as she said it would, offering little warmth from the fangs of a stubborn winter. It sunk its teeth into everything around, ripping cover off trees and stilling cardinals. It fought with wool and wood, only briefly deterred by fire-of which I had none. 

When I’d finally broken through the dense woods at late-noon, my shoulder slumped. 

A deteriorating town ran in between the rustling evergreen trees. Buildings all lined up one by one, side by side like graves, where feet once wandered, there was nothing but the scent of bitter decaying wood. All it would take was one harsh spout of wind for the foundations to splay out onto the snow. Hardwork lay forgotten in the middle of nowhere for the racoons and opossums to call home and burrow. The trees held more integrity than the swaying wooden doors, so it was them I clung to. I held each branch I could reach as I manoeuvred down the steep hill, like feeling my way through the dark. Only when my boots sunk into the solid hill-less snow below, did I let go of a bending spruce tree. 

“Arthur?” I said, my voice small against the towering old homes. 

Another damn crow was the only thing to answer me, squawking from above. I kicked snow to scare it off, though it only sat to watch me. My breaths were heavy, fog falling with each one. 

“Arthur? Goddamn it, this isn’t funny no more-” I said. 

My steps pulled themselves into town, though naken and barren as it was. I studied the curve of streets and the graveyard without a single flower placed on purpose. The land here had taken back what was once its own, with English ivy crawling up bricks where other plants had wilted off. Yellowing grass peaked through the foundations of buildings where the snow had died off. Rats scurried away from my steps when I neared any small crevice of shelter. I looked to the forgotten church, perched to the east, covering the sun whenever it rose. It sat there like some relic of civilization that the soil would mould like anything else, as if everything that lived and died here were nothing more than a speck of sand in a running river. 

I imagined God laughing at me for thinking that I’d be sound running with sin. Stained glass windows painting everything in its light, no matter which room I tried to hide in. I could graze with deer in wildflower-ridden fields or lounge with coyotes all I like, it wouldn’t hide the blood in my teeth. 

At least at night, a raven’s feathers are welcome. 

I began to approach the holy building with hesitant steps, turning all around for the blonde I’d come for-though all my eyes met were ice and the dull things that accompanied it. 

Something pulled me here.

I felt heavy standing at the front doors, lingering on swaying feet as if I was waiting for someone to open the door for me. Though I did jump when the wind offered the courtesy, shoving the slab of chipping paint open with a particularity firm breeze. 

Mother Mary stood at the far end of the church with graciously open arms in insincere stone. She was carved in a way to suggest robes pouring from her form, with a thin veil over cast her eyes. The paint had worn as dye often did from clothing, still she remained vibrant with worship. From where I stood, she looked near enough to be human-some kind woman offering me a quilt in the dead of winter. 

How ironic was it, that the hand to bring me blankets and an empty stomach, had been the same men to ruin the lives of so many. I was no fool to the Vanderlinde gang, and their reign of terror through the United States for decades, still I put up little fight to their charity. I put up no fight when Arthur yanked his limbs into my window in the dead of night, all those years ago. I wondered then, if I were any better than a sinner begging at the feet of another. Searching between naked oak trees and through the snow for some case of divine intervention. 

I stepped into the church like some starving dog returning home, and maybe that’s what these walls were for. 

Then the scent came, like something rounding itself in filth. I knew the smell of rotting meat all too well, from when my father hadn’t walked far enough with a sick lamb. The rot would grow like a weed in the summer heat, running from the meadows to the stables. It drove the hounds mad when the fences kept them from the trail and the sheep fell weary. It would stay like that until my mother nagged my father enough to dig the poor thing up and toss it in a faraway river. 

Something was dead here. 

In the far left, where the light from the windows barely bothered reaching, someone laid with their bare back turned. There was almost nothing I could make out from where I stood, just that it was human, white and most likely male. 

Bile rustled in my stomach, crawling its way to my throat. My face paled with a current of cold blood, I rushed over to the corpse on light feet and an even lighter head. The scent, the sight, an assault on my senses that only grew worse as I sat next to it, swallowing what little food I had eaten.

The skin sunk under the weight of my hands as I attempted to flip it over, like a chunk of clay. I scurried away when I pushed the corpse onto its back, like I was afraid it’d start breathing-or even more afraid it wouldn’t. 

In the dim-light, I made out a head of brown hair with stubble brushed on his face. The decay took away whatever features would’ve made him recognizable in a sea of men his age. There were nubs of meat where his legs were supposed to be, as if they’d been torn off by wolves. His skin yellowed, carved from wax and curling into itself. The statue behind me held more realism, if it weren't for the stench staining my nose and the bloody foam leaking from his mouth, I would’ve considered him some elaborate art project left to melt in what little sunlight he received. 

Not Arthur.  

I sighed in some selfish relief, pulling myself from the man and his wide-unblinking eyes. 

That peace swiftly vanished with the slamming of a door. 

I whipped my head around, standing on two unsteady feet. 

Me, the corpse and the dusk. 

And then there was light. 

I stood like a deer at the call of a whistle, still and caught in my own limbs of instinct. Leaning into the call of a hunter, a distorted voice that sounded close enough like home to glance twice. 

“You a bounty hunter?” A stranger asked, drowning in wool. He spoke under a heavy beard and a low tone for a yankee. 

I stepped away from him and the lantern he held in his hand, “No I’m-I’m just looking for a friend.”

”Weren’t him, were it?” He asked.

”No.” I said. 

There was silence again, and I wanted nothing more than to run straight out the door and back out into the plump hills of snow. In spite of myself, I stayed, studying him-wondering what happened to that poor man, so I asked, “What’s the matter with him-feller’s legs are missing.”

”He’s dead.” The man said a little too suddenly. 

“I know,” I said, allowing my hands to drift near my pistol, “where are his legs?”

He didn’t answer, and something about it made me sick. 

A sturdy pair of arms caught me from behind, latching onto my skin as if it were some scrap of bait. Hands dug into my sides, biting through my clothes and pressing marks into my skin. I attempted to squirm out of the stranger’s grip, planting my eyes on the light. Kicking, jolting and biting whatever flesh came close enough to my mouth. The stranger across from me just watched, a sick, sick pack of animals. 

Nails dug into my face as the hand covered my mouth. I yowled as a sharp blade dug into my side. I chomped down the fingers that silenced me and stomped on his toes. I couldn't let the seed sprout, cutting off the cancer before it spread. I swung a punch to the man’s face. His expression crumpled under the weight of my fist, eyes watering like a coward. 

I grabbed his knife by the blade, uncaring how it bit into my flesh. When I worked it out of his hand, I shoved him down. He glared up at me, his face in the soot of a rotting corpse. Rather than call out for help, he readied spit in his mouth for my face-though it never reached it. 

I sunk the blade into his chest  like it was a part of me. A dog baring teeth, a vulture burying its beak in flesh, a buck sawing away at a stubborn tree. I bore the knife into his gut until he fell limp. I must’ve been a sight when I turned to his comrade, painted in sickness. The other man in the room had lost his gruff confidence, falling from grizzly to black bear. A yellow bellied slab of shit, rotting away with corpses to feed on. He fumbled for a weapon sheathed beneath his huntsman’s belt, filth, filth, filth. 

Grit swirled in my chest, borrowing in my heart. Wasting no time, I buried the knife into the man’s eye. Yanking, stabbing, pulling, tearing until he too fell down. I carved down from bloody eyes into his cheeks, feeling the blade drag across bone, ruining anything and everything that had made him appear human. 

It made me sick, but they’d made me sicker. 

The church burned with copper, and blood-so much damn blood. And I sat in it. 

I bent over nothing like a willow tree, washing my branches in a river of wine. 

It was quiet again, I could hear the wind fighting with the wood and the singing crows that waited for me outside, as if to whisper ‘I told her so.’ Damn those birds and the man who’s sent them, whoever he might’ve been. God, the devil, something of both-damn it all. The only thing I understood now was the creaking of wood as I rocked, and the way the ground nipped at me with splitters of a fallen roof. The hum that came with being alive, a reminder to breathe. 

I don’t know how long I sat there, hardly moving enough to indicate I was alive. My back ached from the way I slouched over, my legs grew cramped from their positions. I could taste the metal in everything, it stuck to my nose, coat and mingled with the spit in my mouth. The sun had parted from the west, seeping under the church doors before vanishing, drenching everything in the dark. The lantern snuffed itself, though a part of me wanted it to burn and consume every rotten body and scrap of wood. I would watch it spread over anything, and I wouldn't have run this time. 

My shoulders seized when the door opened, reeling away from the cold gust of wind that came with it. Dark opening up into dark. Adrenaline died in my bones. I was back where I started, standing in my own filth-waiting for the noose that’d shut me up. But the universe, God-that man had a crooked sense of humour it seemed, or maybe just a crooked way with me. 

The steps were heavy, but I knew them, I knew them before I felt his hands. 

“Hey, hey now,” Arthur said, like he was approaching some unruly dog. 

He gathered me up in his arms, and I let him. He held me as if I weren’t covered in blood, like I was one of his sketches-cast to the wind and ruined by the elements. Drawing his hand to the back of my head, rummaging through my hair and curling his fingers into my patch of baby hairs. His chin pressed against my head as I leaned my face into his chest. The drum of his heart carried on like he’d run from the law, or like he was young again-bristling with unruly emotion. 

“We shouldn't be here,”  He was too gentle, “come ‘on.”

Chapter Text

Snow burned into my skin as I stood, watching as fire ravaged over wood. Through the cold, it ran through the night. The air was sweet with smoke as the light pushed the stars to flee. A crow pulling at something long dead, black feathers full of rot. Fog followed my breathing, laboring behind the unsteady rhythm of a heartbeat. I watched the flames dissipate into nothing, as if the rain had come for it and the sun had left it to dry. 

The fireplace echoed in my vision long after I’d pulled my eyes away, spots of black painted on the old floors. The bird weighed in my hand, its small chest still buzzing with life. It had rolled from its back, instead puffed up like a mother hen—wide eyes watching for any suggestion of movement. The tiny thing curled into itself as I pulled the heel of my palm into my eye and rubbed, fighting a yawn from tearing through my mouth. 

The wood creaked as Arthur entered the room, his feet heavy. Still, he tried to lighten them, measuring each step as if he were afraid I’d run off again. When he settled, he did so across from me—planted right on the ground. He stole glances at me, trying to read the brief sentences he managed to catch. Trying to avoid my daunting gaze. 

He must’ve thought I’d really lost my mind now. 

I placed the bird on the ground between us. The finch refused to move. A part of me wondered if the crows had knocked it to the snow too hard, if its wings had been pulled an inch too far. By the way it shook and watched us, it could’ve been both. 

Arthur studied it under a furrowed brow, glancing over at me. 

“Crows were getting at it.” I said, my voice rough from a long silence.  

His eyes glinted with some bristle of understanding as he offered the small creature the curve of his index finger. He held it there for a moment, waiting for something—anything to happen. 

The bird watched it, reeling its head away with a squawk. It attempted to stand, before falling over itself and tumbling. Arthur smiled, pulling his hand away as the bird ruffled its feathers. 

With the silence broken, some barrier fell with it. Those dim blue eyes met my own. 

“You probably color me a fool.” I said. 

 I could’ve been speaking about any array of things; checking mailboxes, stomping on ice to drown, running off, staying, running off again…

Though it didn’t seem like he remembered any of it, or perhaps he didn’t care for it. 

“You’re not a fool. You just,” he trailed off, “you feel a lot—I guess.”

A thin-lipped smile warmed onto my face, “What’s that mean?”

“I dunno.”

“Arthur Morgan, ever the man of words.” I said. 

The form of him watched me, I could see it blurred in the corner of my eyes. Dashes of the blue in his eyes, the bump and curve of his nose. His shoulders squared up to fight with words, as if I were going to strike him with my own.

“You gave those bastards hell.” He said, changing the course of the conversation like the reeling head of a horse. The tone sounded shaven down and gentle, palatable. 

A frown kissed my lips before I swallowed it, “They were horrible.”

“No doubt,” Arthur raised his hands in mocking surrender, “I’m hopin’ the sheriff will still be able to make ‘em out.”

I turned to him like a called doe, my nose scrunching up. I shoved him and he swayed, a stupid grin, a growing weed on his face. His arm unflinching as I drummed it with hitting. The poor bird under us squawked with my sudden movement, falling over itself as it tried to flee. 

“You stupid, stupid fool,” I cursed him, “would it have been so difficult to tell me why you ran off?”

He laughed from his stomach. “Hey now, maybe if I knew you’d run after me I would’ve!”

“Days, in this weather Morgan. Days! Had me thinkin’ you’d been mauled by wolves.” 

“Well,” he peeled my hand from his shoulder, “I’m alive aren’t I?”

“Unfortunately.” 

The fool laughed, again. 

I spoke with Arthur the way I spoke with myself. Predicting the curve of conversation and each snarky reply. Every wall he tried to build between us was taken by the sea in his eyes, clear and earnest. The sleep in them when he woke up before dawn, how we met like the sun meeting the stars. A workhorse driven through farmland, taking him to nicker in affection, the quiet things the bounty posters couldn't catch in all their jagged lines. 

Moths turned in my stomach, in the dark. They flocked up my lungs, trying to catch glimpses of the light that came so naturally to him. Flying for the sun—or fire, whichever would catch its foolish wings first. Maybe it would be the crows making their rounds in the trees. 

He washed my hands of blood, and held them in his own to dry. 

As if he hadn’t had his own sins. 

He offered his coat to sleep on in chivalry I couldn’t accept, a beautifully clumsy form of integrity. I slept on the cold ground, shivering half-through the night, stubbornly drowned in wool that did little to stop the chill of night. The wood below me was hard, it creaked as I tried to find position. Arthur slept like a bear in winter, leaning against the wall with a hat over his eyes. I wondered if it was a skill to rest like that, something to be learned through the months. 

I basked in the sun when it peered through the curtain, gold spilling from some urn in the sky. I watched it, yawning like a stretching cat. Blinking away sleep I never managed to catch. 

I didn’t hear Arthur wake, I felt him before words came. 

“Ain't that unfortunate.” He said, his voice muddied with sleep. 

He kneeled over the now dead finch, its eyes squeezed shut. His journal pressed into his lap, a pencil dancing where my fingers would never meet.  

I came to him as if he’d called my name, uncovering the sun from my form. It painted through the dark, causing Arthur to cringe away—pupils growing small. 

I hummed, the corners of my lips falling, “Poor thing, must’ve died of fright.”

“Must’ve.” Arthur echoed, stumbling to his feet like a new-born foal. 

The day peaked through the cracked foundation of this house. Empty of what would’ve made it a home, peeled wallpaper ghosted the walls, shattered glass and the lack of bedding. It felt stale, as air stuck inside for too long. The prowling morning ahead was plump with potential, and I had the teeth for it. The song birds calling and foxes retreating to their burrows, possums in their snouts. I could smell the earth though the walls and my feet ached for it. 

I swung the door open like a leg over another, listening as the robins flew from the rooftops to the trees. Mist came with my breathing as the cold bit my cheeks. Mountains arched in the distance my eyes could hardly catch, holding snow no matter the season. Moss hidden beneath the snow darted over wood where nature had begun to take back what was once its own. 

Arthur came out soon after me, he brought the warmth with him—chasing away the fog and nasty Jack Frost. 

“Quite the charmin’ town.” Arthur said, regarding the rot. 

I chuckled, a dry sound. Though, the amusement swiftly fell off my face, knocking dirt off boots as my eyes landed on the church. Lurking in the east, pointing to the sky in bitter irony. Shaded by the bare trees

Arthur read me like a flier, nodding over to his horse, “I’ll get ‘em.”

I watched him fade into the trees, before I hesitantly approached Boadicea. The steed regarded me with gentle intelligence, round brown eyes under a warm coat. I gave her a gentle scratch on the snout, to be rewarded with a whinny. I wasn’t the one she was looking for—but, my presence was enough to tolerate. 

When Arthur had finally rounded the corner with the pair of cannibals, one dragged by the foot and the other over his shoulder, she didn’t seem that impressed with him either. 

“Where’s yours?” He asked.

“What?”

“Your horse?”

“Oh, right,” I paused, looking for some honey to cover the words where there wasn’t sugar, “I left him?”

Arthur stared at me, those blue eyes of his weren’t charming when they looked so damn dead. When he spoke, it came unreadably, “You walked all ‘them miles…without a horse?”

“…Yes.”

“Well, shit.” He tossed his hands in the air, trying to hide the twitching in the corners of his lips. 

The conclusion quickly drawn was to attach a small withering wagon to the horse and hope a wheel wouldn't pop off. Broadicea looked less than pleased about the whole ordeal as she glared after me. Though she was a good one, not putting up much of a fight with the scrap of wood with wheels as we attached it to her. Still,  if her eyes would have spoken, I’m sure they would’ve been cursing up a storm. I truly  don’t think the oatcakes would’ve been enough to heal a wound like this. 

Arthur helped me up into the seat, where there only seemed to be room for one. That assumption quickly formed into fact as he sat next to me, leg to leg and shoulder to shoulder. 

“You ever driven a wagon before, missus?” He asked when we reached the road, where the snow had worn. 

“Not in a time worth remembering.” I said. 

“It ain’t hard.”

“I’m sure it’s not.”

The bodies behind us rolled over themselves as we hit a bump in the road. Arthur gritted his teeth, casting a glance to make sure no one had fallen out. He only relaxed back into his seat after none of the corpses could be seen laid out in the snow.

“Alright, open up the map for me, will you?” He asked, nodding down to his satchel. 

I worked my  way into his side, feeling around the bag. My brows drew together as I tried to locate the large scrap of paper, “Jesus, how much do you have in here—I mean, cigarette cards, canned beans, whatever this is -”

“Just get the map.” He grumbled. 

“I’m trying Morgan, God knows.” I said, quieting down as my hand curled around something that might be it. 

I unfurled the map with both hands. It painted a wide portrait of the country, and whatever notes Arthur had decided to jot down. My eyes settled on a particularly interesting sketch of a beaver, a real big one, “Did you draw this?”

“Pass it over.”

“Why’s it so big?” 

“It aint big, it’s just a well-fed beaver.” He defended, gently taking the map from me and swatting my wrist with it. I rolled my eyes as he began to make sense of the drawn landmass, with all its notes and towns. 

“It ain’t too far, we’ll be there by evening.” Arthur said.

”Evening ?” I asked, leaning ever closer to him-attempting to catch a glimpse of the map in his hands. He tossed it onto my lap, taking the reins back. 

I buried myself into the collar of my coat, barely shielding myself from the relentless whipping of the wind. The sun had fallen away behind blended clouds leaving much to be desired. I watched the deer run across ice like their hooves were built to, even the fawns took to their feet a few minutes after birth. Looking at them-I couldn't help but feel that I was branded for a different climate. Somewhere with milder winters, like Oklahoma or Nevada. 

Arthur seemed indifferent to the twists and turns of the wind, the dim blue of his coat held a wool collar. Sparks settled from him like a campfire housed in the mountains, offering the same dwindling heat. Compared to me, the man was a damn furnace. My head found residence on his shoulder, leaned to his warmth, or at least what slipped through his coat. I must’ve been drunk off the weather, and I could hardly care. 

The sounds of everything around grew muted in my ear, muffled by fabric. The row of his breathing picked up slightly. His shoulders stiffened, careful not to shrug me off. 

“Maybe the pair of us could make some fine bounty hunters.” I said, my eyes lowering. 

His voice rumbled through wool, like something calling through a cave,“Absolutely not.”

“Just think about it.”

“I ain’t thinking about nothing.”

“That’s why you’re a fool Arthur,” I tease, allowing my eyes to fall shut, “you don’t think about nothin’.”

He chuckled softly next to my ear, a dry kind of sound, “You’re quick on your feet, aren’t you?”

”You know me." I said, hardly above a whisper. 

“I do.”

The moths made their way back up my spine, humming like a song spilling from a saloon and all sweet things. The strumming of a guitar, the bask of sunlight, meadowed grass licking at heels and the smell of warm bread. All these simple pleasant things, melting away the snow and bitter weather. It must’ve been so easy for him. Sitting there with reins coiled in his hands, oblivious to the sickness flocking around my chest. 

I was such a fool, no matter what I did. 

Swimming in the wine of nostalgia, it warmed me. He warmed me. 

When we arrived at the sheriff’s office, the day had rolled over into night. A new moon left the sky hollow, in spite of the muddied stars that tried to replace it. With the dark, came the cold—bold without the daunting light of the sun. It rubbed my skin raw as the wind howled down the mountainside like a wounded elk, dragging itself stubbornly through the snow. 

Boadicea's steps grew slow, shuffling through winter. She either knew exactly where they were, or she was growing weary under the increased symptoms of the season. Arthur finally tugged on the reins, gently instructing the steed to halt as we rolled on a familiar town. I watched him with keen eyes as he slid from the rider’s seat, planting his feet on the ground with a soft thud. 

“You need some help with ‘em?” I asked.

“I’m alright, you’ve done enough,” he paused, pulling the men from the wagon, “—thank you.”

I hummed a sarcastic nod, helping myself down from the wagon seat anyway. 

In the dead of night, drunks and working ladies were the only ones wandering the roads. Through the dark, they were unmoored by the blood staining the snow. Perhaps, in the morning, they’d gather in front of the office, gossiping about which hunter had caught an animal big enough for the evidence frozen in ice. 

“Mr. Morgan! You’re alive, wonderful, wonderful.” The sheriff said, standing up from his desk as if he were sleeping. “Place the boys down at the back, to the right—uh, different cells of course.”

Arthur grunted without a word, making his way down the cellblock. 

The sheriff shifted his attention to me, clicking a pen to keep his hands busy. He was an older man with a well-grown mustache hanging over his top lip, strands of silver peered through his hair. When he smiled, he did so with jagged teeth—though earnestly, “You the reason he’s late, ma’am?” 

“I’d hope not.” I said, smiling in turn.

Arthur watched him carefully as he approached his desk, old blood drying on his fingertips. He kept himself near me, or perhaps just near the doorway. His body weighed under his weariness in a place like this. I could see it in the way his shoulders stiffied and his eyes grew sharp in the way they moved—sharper than a buck running through sweetgrass.

“You got somethin’ for me?” Arthur asked, his tone bordering on bitter. 

“Of course, of course.” The sheriff said in clear oblivion, retrieving a clip with a fair pile of bills. The man turned to me, slipping a single five dollar bill over the desk. “For the lady.”

I graciously stepped forward, taking the bill after Arthur had taken the money clip. He continued to eye the sheriff, as if the man had kicked a mutt, “Thank you kindly sir.”

The officer tilted his hat before we left, a grin seemingly stained onto his face. I braced myself for the cold as Arthur reached for the door. He didn’t speak a word until he’d finished unclipping the wagon from Boadicea, the thing barely looked like it could manage another mile. He took my gloved hand in his, helping me onto the horse’s back. “Camp aint too far from here, we should get back before the sun comes up.” 

I nodded before he hopped on the front himself, shelving his boots in the stirrup. He ran his hands through her hair before taking the reins. Boadicea-seemingly much more satisfied with this particular format-shifted on to a gallop. It hardly took a half-hour for the sleepy town to fall away with dark hills of night. Drunken snouts muffled under the space between everything. Looking back, the lantern light almost appeared like specks of gold left out under starlight. With low hanging eyes, I tried to imagine birds of golden fire flying from the town and through the plains. Something too strong for the crows to pin down and pluck at, something burning through the night. 

___________________________________________

She has a way with me, a damn bad way. She had me thinking plenty of foolish things, silly things I shouldn’t be thinking about. Things I thought were dead and buried years ago. She is like she always has been, with a certain sting of bitterness. Finding pity on some scrap of a yellow bird, and stabbing holes in the pair of bounties I’d spent days tracking down…It bothers me to think where she learned it from. I wish she didn’t have to. 

That woman has always been better than me, though—now I fear she knows it.

Chapter Text

Early-March

1898

You could taste the shifting of seasons with the wet smell of soil, budding weeds and swelling wildflowers. The sun teased the earth, hanging in the sky over heaps of burdened snow. The weather was inviting enough to hunt in. It painted the bronze deer and silver rabbits clear against the white ground. With the way the cold ate at my heels, it reminded me we were still far from spring. 

I sat at a crooked wooden table left unlevelled by the ground, a rifle laid dormant between my legs. My hands meticulously polished the dusty crevices of its barrel. I could overhear the hum of Hosea and Dutch’s chatter a few paces away. 

“Arthur, come over here, will you?” Dutch’s voice rang through the camp. 

There was a gust of silence and I couldn’t hear his response, though I heard the shuffle of his feet and the warmth of him pass me. The snow crumpled under his feet, like walking on packed pillows. 

“Trelawney says there's work, up in New York .”

“New York?” Arthur repeated, stretching out the vowels, “I thought we was ‘headin west.”

Dutch spoke again after a gruff pause, “We was— We are. We just…Gotta get a little money and we’ll be scotch free, back in the arms of Washington or-or Idaho.”

“I don’t know Dutch,” Hosea chimed in through a rough throat, “New York’s dense, it ain't like anywhere else, can’t run far or hide for long.”

“We won’t have to hide for long, if we’re smart about this.” He replied, his voice chilling over. 

The conversation my ear could catch was swiftly overtaken by a certain blonde with a suspicious prep in her step. She settled on the seat across from me like a rabbit in shallow grass with a wide grin pinned up on her face. 

“Hello Karen,” I greeted her, tossing her a glance. 

“Weather’s getting better, ain’t it? Thought we’d all be cursed to freeze our tits off this winter.” She said, 

I look her in the eye, letting the barrel rest in my hand, “You didn’t come to me to talk about the weather, come on now.”

”Okay well,” she lowered her voice to a hushed whisper, “you can’t tell no one.”

”Your gossip isn’t leaving me, Ms. Jones,” I muttered, resuming the rifle’s maintenance. 

“I’ve been poking through the town we visited a few weeks ago, looking for work,” she began, excited to get each word out, “that fella that helped Jenny—Lenny, his name is…he’s a real sweet boy—says there’s a stagecoach carrying a few bars of gold coming through one of these trails tomorrow.”

I give her a skeptical look under furrowed brows. 

“Me, him and Sean are gonna rob it.” She said, barely letting the words leave her before she barked a laugh.   

“Have you lost your mind?” I asked dryly, “with Sean? You’ll all get yourselves killed, or hung.”

”If I spend one more damned day cooped up in this camp I’m gonna lose my mind, miss!” Karen pulled at her eyes dramatically, her mouth curling into a pout. 

“Better bored than dead.” I said sternly. 

“Easy for you to say,  you get to sneak off to bounty hunt and herd sheep. Doin’ God knows what else…” She argued, switching her tone as the boys passed our table, “have you ever had the chore of scrubbin’ horse shit off Bill’s pants?”

I scrunched up my face at the thought, “I don’t bounty hunt.”

”You did that two weeks ago.”

”I was defending myself.”

She rolled her eyes and crossed her arms, watching me like she’d won the conversation. I snorted to myself, standing up and slinging the rifle over my shoulder. 

“Where are you off to?” She asked, a glint running through her eyes. 

“Huntin’.”

Karen pressed her hands flat against the table, pushing herself up. “I’m comin’.”

”No, no you’re not.” I retorted, fighting the smile teasing my lips. 

“I’m comin’, I’ll grab onto your horse’s heels if I gotta.” She said, waving a hand at my efforts to slow her down. In some ways, Karen Jones was like a stubborn mule who’s only commands were learned in German. You could speak up a storm and whip her back, but the only thing you’ll accomplish is a kick in the gut. Grimshaw hardly had a way with her. 

We raced to the horses, fighting against the thick nature of our coats and trying our darndest not to get snow in our boots. It was clear we weren’t made to move through the environment this way, we would need the nimble hooves of a freighted flock of deer, or the sleek fur of a hare to get much of anywhere with speed. Still, against the laws of nature, I won our duel of speed, flopping myself over the back of Skipper, who rose his head from his hay like a disappointed mother from a lost round of bingo. 

“Ha!” I teased, pointing a finger as she slowed down. 

Karen crossed her arms as I properly took reins into my hands. 

“Scoot over.” She patted my back. She’d passed the stubbornness of a mule at this point. I rolled my eyes as a grin broke onto my face. I took her hand, and helped her on. 

I had hardly passed Javier-who’d been keeping lookout-before a shrill voice called my last name. I frowned and Karen cursed behind me.

“Where the hell do the two of you think you’re going?” Grimshaw asked, stomping at the snow. 

I cut Karen off before she said something that could ruin both our chances of leaving camp smoothly. I cleared my throat, feigning sweetness. “We’re going hunting, Miss Grimshaw.”

“Huntin’?” She hissed between her teeth, like a broody swan, “what in the Devil’s crisp hell are you talkin’ bout girl? You leave huntin’ to the fellers, we’ve got enough work on our hands right here .” 

“I figured-”

“You should figure out how to keep a pair of Long Johns clean! You ain't been nothin’ but a problem since you got here, sneakin’ out before dawn—lounging around on that arm of yours! Bullet wound my ass, I’ve seen you hold up a book just fine-”

“Shut up you miserable fuckin’ hag!” Karen spat, as if the words were for her. 

I saw the fire that flashed over Susan’s expression, and it was enough to make me nudge the horse forward and through rows of bare trees. The sound of angry darting words and Javier’s stifling laughter hung up in the branches. 

We rode through the snow until it fell shallow enough to see dead grass poking through. Mourning doves weeped as we passed them by, retreating to the grey skies above our heads. The wind blew bitter against my skin. Karen let out a self-satisfied snort when the only things to be seen were blind plains of white. 

“Next time, let me handle her.” I said. 

“You can’t let her talk to you like that, or she’ll just keep doin’ it.” She nipped. 

“I can handle myself.” I bit back, perhaps harsher than intended.

 She cast a strange look, “Well, okay.”

I sighed through my nose, “I don’t mean to be callous, it’s just—I’m tired of folks fawning over me all the time. Arthur does it enough to make up for a dozen mother hens.”

I could practically feel the smirk that crawled onto Karen’s face from her spot behind me, “ That's cause you make him real happy.

This woman had a way of making me wish I could shove words back down my throat. She and Tilly had grown to become clones of Mary-Beth and her novel’s fantasies. I can’t breathe anywhere near a campfire without someone asking me if I’ve kissed him… or worse. You’d think a flock of women running with outlaws would have more interesting things to be paying mind, but lending an ear to gossip seems as natural to them as a fish in water. 

“Yeah and you make Sean real happy , don’t you?” I respond, all cheeky like. 

“I can’t stand him, slimy-red-haired possum.”

“Oh, but you love him.” I teased. 

She grumbled something, beyond that, it seemed to shut her up for a while. 

I rode up on a distant herd of deer, pawing their hooves at the snow for something to eat. It looked like the winter hadn’t been kind to them, with ribs lined under tarnished pelts. The usually lean animals looked unsteady on their legs,  like a strong gust of wind would be enough to knock them down. If they could run, they wouldn't get far. They would’ve been the first to go if the black bears had woken up by now. 

I alerted Karen to them with a silent wave of my hand. I felt her warm breath coast against my cheek as she leaned on my shoulder to get a closer look. Though the weight of her chin vanished as quickly as it came, then came her soft snort. I turned my head inquisitively, before my eyes nearly rolled back into my skull. 

“Arthur, funny seein’ you out here.” Karen said, not bothering to hide the grin in her voice. 

He stared at the pair of us, then over at the deer, “Grimshaw ain’t too happy with you girls.”

“Is she ever happy?” I ask, dry as dirt.

“I guess not.” He replied, blander still, “what are you doin’?”

“We’re supposed to be huntin’.” 

“Where are the deer gonna go?” Arthur asked, amusement rounding in his tone.

“I don’t know,” I said sarcastically, looking over at Karen, “where are the deer gonna go if you’re pinned up on my horse?”

Karen sent me a playful glare before sliding off the rump and falling silently on the snow. She filched one of the rifles fastened to him, slinging it over her shoulder. I watched as she darted over to a small stump in the ground before settling behind it. She watched the animals like a fox who’d learned to pounce for the first time. 

With her departure a few feet in front of us, Arthur rode up next to me. 

I could feel his eyes on me, and the words he wouldn’t say. Oftentimes we’d sit next to each other, drenched in the silence that came with someone who really knew you. There was nothing to prove. Nothing to bicker about beyond the scrapes I’d get from saloons I had no business being in. Nothing but the fidgety way he came to me and took my hand for the first time. 

Arthur Morgan, brutal, violent outlaw. Arthur, the scrappy teenage boy pulling himself through my window in the middle of the night. Arthur, the only man I’d ever loved. 

I jumped as the curt bark of a bullet cut through the brisk winter air. The birds fled for higher branches, beating their wings like hearts. Karen audibly groaned as the deer ran between the trees without a single one of them falling. My horse tossed his head when she neared him, his eyes blown wide in alarm. I drew my fingers through his mane, trying to settle the trample of his hooves. 

“What happened, Ms. Jones?” I asked. 

She rolled her eyes, climbing back behind me. The busty woman wasted no time commanding me forward, like she was the one with the reins and I was the horse. And I was in no mood to contest her, leading Skipper forward through the snow.  When she found another herd of deer, she didn’t bother telling me to stop. Instead she hopped off the horse and right back into the snow, gripping the rifle with renewed passion. 

We watched her crouch down in the cold again like parents watching their child splash around in a pond. 

“Dutch says we’re headin’ to New York.” Arthur said, his eyes lingering on my neck. 

“I know, I heard the three of you plotting.” 

“What do you think of it?” He asked. 

I tilted my eyes, squinting from the wind, “None of you are uptown fellas. You wouldn't fare well, though if there’s money involved-I’m sure the lot of you will find a way.” 

“So, you’re an uptown lady then?” He quipped, and I laughed. 

“Arthur,” I paused, a smile in my tone, “I am as rags to riches as it gets.”

”Not much anymore.”

I chuckled, shaking my head softly with a quiet ‘no’.

The rifle went off again. Karen lifted her hands and cheered, whilst cursing of course. She rushed over to a fallen buck, hung over the peaking roots of an old oak tree. The poor thing kept kicking and flailing its legs on the ground, like a beetle trapped on its back. Muscle spasms, or the spirit running its last few laps through flesh. When it fully fell limp, Karen took the creature into her arms-grunting as she lifted it off the ground. She handled better than I would’ve, but it was clear her bones weren’t used to the weight. With pride, she draped the deer over the rump of Brodieca. 

I clapped and Arthur tried his best to praise her. 

Chapter Text

There was the hiss of smoke and the bite of fire burrowing through wood. The night painted a blue haze around the rioting flames. I could taste the stillness of an animal caught in the claws of something bigger than itself. The smell of fear under fur, the slick of sweat and whimpering of a heartbeat. 

Something ran over me in the dark, gripping my shoulders firmly. Then a voice came, hushed and hurried. I leaped forward in my cot, slapping skin with the back of my hand. The form cursed, its hand retreating as it reeled away from me. An Irish voice whispered in defence,“Easy, easy!”

Damn it all. 

“Sean-Wha-What time is it?” I slurred. 

“One of them early hours-Karen tol’ me she’s lettin’ you come with us, for the stagecoach.” He muttered. 

I groan, flopping back down onto the unsteady bedding under me. It whined under my weight like a horse led too many miles. The sheets lulled under my movements, waves pooling over my legs. I lifted the heel of my palm to my eyes, chasing the sleep away, “The pair of you couldn't deal this out at a later hour?”

“Me Da always used to say, the first fellas’ up scratch their lads free.” He piped, with a scrap of pride. 

“I’m not going to bother asking what that means.” 

Sean chuckled in a gravelly manner, mischief peeking out from the gap in his grin. It sounded a lot like a raccoon running off with something it shouldn’t have. 

I tossed my legs over the edge of my cot, burying my feet in a pair of boots, and slinging a coat over my shoulders. Sean spoke all the way to the horses. He did so mostly to himself, whispering about anything that passed through that slab of meat behind his eyes. As if the man couldn't have been more energetic, his expression buzzed up as we reached Karen. Words fell from him like he hadn’t had the rest of his days to get them out his face. 

“You look like you should’ve gone back to bed, honey.” She said, swiftly ignoring Sean’s insistent chatter. 

“I probably should've.” I said, shrugging and saddling up to Skipper, who slept on his hooves. I spurred him into a trot, waiting for the others at the entrance to camp. When we passed a sleeping Bill, we did so in near silence. Under other circumstances-someone most likely would’ve sounded a bullet to wake him. Perhaps Hosea would set him straight while we were gone. 

The morning swayed itself away from the sun, still its hesitance paled in comparison to the winter months. In the fall of each evening, the days stuttered into a later goodbye-appearing again at dawn with agency. The earth was easier to move in now, and the weeks were only going to get simpler as they dragged themselves through time.  

I stared into the suggestion of trees shrouded in the last minutes before sunrise. Sniffling on the cool air, I turned to Sean.

”We know who owns this stagecoach? How much money is running with them?” I asked. 

“Lenny’s got all that written in maps and notebooks, never seen a more prepared lad. Reminds me of this one feller I used to know with one eye, poor man had to turn his neck anytime he wanted to look left-” 

I tuned out the remainder of his tangent and overall rumble to words that the Irishman was known for. Karen made some snarky remark for him to quiet down as we approached the trails. That seemed to be the only thing to widen the spaces between his words and lower his tone. 

Through the dark, a silhouette sat atop a horse. Moonlight painted itself around the form, pulling it apart from the tree’s shadows and rich earth. The man turned his head like his name had been called, stiffening his shoulders and puffing up her chest. He gripped a rifle across his lap, reaching out a  hand to calm his horse. 

“There you are,” He said, almost a noticeable perk of youth in his voice, “The pair of you had me thinkin’ you bailed on me and—Who’s this?”

Karen cut Sean off before he could drag out my introduction, saying my name and the practical reason for my attendance. 

“We’ve met before..I believe.” I mentioned when she was done, reeling on my reins as Skipper neared Lenny’s steed, “I was with Jenny.” 

A glint of something ran through his eyes at the mention of her name. There was a brief pause of silence, as if he were trying to read the curve of my voice and any accent in it. Looking for familiarity in the way I carried myself without the sun to reveal my features. Though he soon nodded, slow and hesitant. Whether he could remember a one off meeting was relatively unimportant. I watched as he drew a map from her satchel, turning towards the moon and reading it in spite of the early morning. 

“We aint too far from it now, if we nudge the horses right, we’ll be able to block ‘em off on the road.” He said, keeping his eyes down while leading his horse forward. 

Sean inhaled deep through his nose, rocking in his saddle, “These are the kinds of night you read about in ‘them dime novels, not that I’ll get a lick of it. But, it’s what I imagine you’ll find ‘dere.”

“Stupid ventures of valour that end with a bullet between your ears? You ain’t missing much in those novels Sean.” Karen quipped, her voice raspy under a whispered tone. 

Lenny turned with a finger to his lips, dashing between the trees. We followed on the heels of his horse. And he was right when we said we weren’t far, the ride couldn’t have been longer than a few minutes before we heard the trot of hooves that didn’t belong to any of our steeds.We hid behind winter-worn brambles and a small heap of muddy snow. Lantern light touched the trees, turning the bark gold. Then came the hushed hum of words, the kind of conversation used to keep both parties from falling asleep.

“-I told Alma, if she didn’t want me touchin’ on whores, she should learn how to please a ‘feller properly. ‘Damn woman is too timid to do much of anything beyond puttin’ her face in the pillow—such a shame ‘cause she’s a looker too.” One of the men said. 

“Women, stupidly emotional things.” The other said through a yawn. 

“Exactly! Then she sent her father after me, fellow beat the tar outta me…And for what? Havin’ needs? Damn fools they are, all of ‘em.”

I watched from the bushes with raised brows, finding slight amusement in their terrible banter. Like two bugs buzzing in the ear of a bear. 

“Ever the moral pair.” Karen muttered sarcastically. 

Lenny didn’t offer a comment to their little conversation if he heard it, bringing our attention back to the robbery, “Are any of y’all bothering with masks?”

“Our faces are pinned up half-way through town, the bastards know us fine and well already.” Sean said, shifting the topic with a shuffle, “now, which one of you ladies is heading out there first?”

“Karen’s the looker , here.” I said through a grin, mocking.

“Oh please, I’m not the one to gawk at, ” She rolled her eyes, “Sean, tell her.”

“Ahhh, But I fear the wayward widow is right, Ms. Jones,” the irishman began, leaning into her sweetly, “for you, are fairer than spring’s morning-”

“Oh shut up.” She whispered, shoving him off her shoulder. She squirmed at his words like a cat under an unfamiliar hand, skittishly running off from affection. Sean’s words alone seemed to be enough to sway her off her feet and away from him. She shrugged the dirt off her knees and wandered through the thicket. Her legs wobbled and her feet met the ground like a newborn foal learning how to trot, drunk off its mother’s milk. When she called out for the stagecoaches, it was a shrill sound, an off key cry. 

The men yanked on their reins by instinct, fast enough to rub palms raw. They looked as if they’d seen a white doe wander across the trail, surprised and pleased. 

“Sirs, Sirs, m-my horse bucked me off and—and I don’t know where I am, I couldn’t be more lost!” She yelped, forcing the horses to stop with her presence. 

“Lost?” One of the men piped, the blonde. 

“I was on the way to see my mother you see,” Karen waved her hands in front of herself, “I’m too far to recognize the path.”

“Well, perhaps we could set up an agreement?” The one with a wife sneered, something sick in his tone. I felt Sean stir next to me. 

The red-head reached for the reins of his horse. The pair of us followed his lead, hopping atop our own horses. The woman dragged out her performance, brushing down unnecessary details until we were ready to meet her in front of the stagecoach. Something she learned from Hosea, no doubt. 

“And-And I know in my heart, that-that,” She stammered, holding her hands to her face, “that this is a robbery, gents, put your hands up!”

Karen pulled a pistol from her skirt, firing three warning shots into the air. The men jumped in their seats, their eyes darting to us as hooves dashed across gravel. Their horses pin their ears back, the rims of their eyes turned white as they kicked  up the muddied earth. The men put their hands up with stiff shoulders and wide eyes. The married one began to speak through a dry mouth, “Y-yall don’t wanna do this, wouldn't be wise.” 

“That’s what ‘ya folks always say-oh mi wife, oh mi kids!” Sean teased in the middle of the tail, leaning forward on his horse’s back, “don’t seem to me like you care much for either of ‘em.”

“It ain’t about me,” The man argued, “we’re carryin’ gold for Dale Barlowe.”

Another name tossed in an empty bucket, echoing on its way down. 

“Could care less who ‘yer boss is.” Sean quipped, pointing his rifle at the man’s stomach. Lenny nodded towards the hind of the wagon, hinting for me to pick up my feet. I did so, light on the tips of my toes. Karen followed close behind me, still keeping a fair eye on the operators. Sean’s insistent chatter became a thrum in the background, like the toads. 

I curved my fingers around the rear boot, like I was holding mud. A grunt left me when I lifted the ledge over my head. Karen twirled a knife between her fingers before jamming it into the lock of the biggest chest in the boot, peeling it open. 

Rows of gold shimmered under yellow light, its pounds engraved over each bar. Far more than any of us could hold in our hands, more than the horse’s satchels could carry. Pearls carried in nets, spilling out into the chest

A wide grin broke onto Karen’s face. She ran her fingers over the gold’s smooth surface. 

“What the hell does this Barlowe fella do?” I asked, gawking at the loot. 

“He’s a jeweller.”  Lenny said, glancing over.  

I waved Skipper over with a hand. The horse threw his head back and whinnied, stopping a few feet in front of me. I grabbed two fistfuls of bars, weighing them down into my satchel. Then a few more, and the pearls. Karen did the same, shoving as much as she could into her horse’s and her own satchel. Sean followed soon after, taking a bar between his teeth—something to shut him up.  

Then came the gunfire, howling through the dark. 

“Shit.” Karen muttered, shoving another gulp of pearls into her pocket. 

I tossed my leg over the saddle, gripping the reins, “Law’s here.”

Lenny gave me a firm nod, readying his horse to leave. I sat on my own, waiting for the others to gather on my heels. Sean’s horse swayed on its feet as a bullet hit the tailend of the wagon. The four of us shot down the path, running from the bullets chasing us. The stagecoaches seemed to get the last laugh, chuckling at our light feet.

The birds flocked from the trees like they had something to flee. The wind tasted like salt and earth. The dawn was on our backs, breathing over the horizon. And I, for one, had never felt so alive. 

“We can’t lead ‘em back to camp.” Karen said, her hair wrestling with the breeze. 

She took a sharp turn, downing into the woods. She dodged the trees like she’d read them before, running over familiar words. The rest of us tried to catch up, watching the hoofprints in the mud. The fool, Sean, still had a gold bar in his mouth— an irish terrier with a wren. 

A thud fell beside me. I nearly jumped out of my own skin, darting my eyes to the earth. Lenny’s horse had fallen over a root and had him caught. 

I yanked on Skipper’s reins, pulling his hooves to a halt. 

“We gotta get!” Karen called after me. 

“Lenny got caught!” I said back. 

The boy looked up at me with wide eyes, shaking his head. I ignored it, sliding off my horse. I took his hand, burying my heels in the ground-and pulled. 

“You should’ve left.” He said. 

“There’s plenty of things I should’ve done,” I said, chuckling dryly, “like gone back to bed.” 

My eyes shifted to the incoming trot of lawmen, tumbling in between the trees with their rifles raised. Lenny looked back soon after me, pawing at the ground with his other hand to get out of the mud.

The sun was coming up, and I could taste the sweat off my lips. 

Then came the rumble of hooves behind me and the bark of a different pair of guns. I dropped Lenny’s hand for a moment, turning my head in slight awe.   

The goddamn Callander brothers. 

Davey’s horse leaped over us as his rider spat bullets at the men crawling towards us. He wasn’t grinning like he usually did, there was a bitterness in his movements. He didn’t look drunk enough for any of this. 

Karen and Sean returned with worry pulling on their expressions. Mac slowed his horse before it could jump over us. He watched us curiously, fatigue written across his pale face. 

“Don’t just sit there watching me, you fool. Get down here!” I said, perhaps rougher than intended. 

He looked at me, then to Lenny, “The hell happened here?”

“Stagecoach.” I replied. 

He grumbled, slipping from the saddle, the ground squelched under his feet. Mac leaned over, grunting as he pushed up the fallen horse’s back. I pulled at Lenny’s arm all the while. Eventually the kid fell loose, muddy and tired into my arms. I helped him up to his feet, calling over Skipper-who’d wasted no time floundering off to a nearby melting river. 

“You saved my life.” Lenny said, thanking the pair of us. 

There wasn't room in the moment for another word before a bullet burrowed into his leg. The poor kid cursed, falling right back over. 

“Jesus,” Mac said, reaching for Lenny and shrugging him over his shoulder. 

A few remaining lawmen descended on us, with Davey on their heels. He shot who he could in the head, and missed what he couldn’t . 

I hopped onto Skipper’s back in a haste, ensuring a pained-Lenny made it onto the back of Davey’s horse.

“I thought you ran them off!” I yelped to Mac, who chased the law like sheep. 

“There’s only so many damn trails in these woods, woman!”  He cursed me back, louder and rougher. 

The group of us broke out of the trees and into wide open fields of mud and weeds. The sun spilled over onto the sky, red and yellow peppered over clouds. We parted the wild horses with our racket and worried the tamed ones. 

I turned in my saddle, gripping a cattleman’s revolver firmly in my hand. Lantern light shone in my vision, staining itself in my eyes. I pulled the trigger, sending a bullet spiralling into fire. The light broke in the final lawman's hand. He dropped the useless thing to the earth as flames began to crawl up his arm. The man screamed, raw to the wind—desperately patting myself to stop it from spreading. The horse bucked him off and ran for the dew-kissed valley. 

He soon slumped on the ground, still as a drowned buck. 

Davey caught up to the rest of us, keeping an eye on the kindling fire on dry grass. 

I blinked, trying to rub away the shadow of light from my gaze. 

“Well I’ll be,” Mac muttered, “the day Sean Maguire shuts up, and the Missus sets a man on fire.” 

“You worry about the bleeding boy on your rear.” I said, nudging my horse forward.

Chapter Text

A Few Weeks Later

I shrugged off the curtain of my tent, sinking my feet in the earth and breathing in the afternoon’s air. The camp was bustling with rolled up cots and folded clothes. Grimshaw tossed orders to the wind without anything in her own arms. The girls bent like trees whipped by a storm, slumped over and frustrated. So many things to be done and only so many hands to finish it off. 

I snuck past the woman and her pointed finger. My legs were swift as I passed between the tents left assembled. 

I peeked into a particularly dingy one, pinned up in off-white fabrics.

Lenny sat with his back against a propped up pillow. He dragged a finger across the pages of one of Mary-Beth’s novels, fighting an expression of distaste on his face. It drew a snort from my throat, alerting the young man to my presence. A dart of amusement for just the pair of us. 

“Not your genre?” I asked, leaning on a wooden beam. 

“Hardly,” He sat up without a wince, “But, it’s better than watching the crickets hop, that’s for sure.”

“I bet,” I glance at his sheets, “How’s that leg healing up?”

“Well enough, I should be back on my feet soon—and out of the hair of you good people.” There was a dry humour that flew with his words, settling somewhere that hardly tickled my throat. 

“With all the blessings you've given us with the stagecoach, I can’t see how Dutch would force you to leave. You’ve earned your keep if you wanna stay.” I said. 

A scrap of light ran through his eyes before he looked away, turning to the dirt as if it had something to say to him. He shifted slowly in the cot, almost rocking the words out of himself. For a moment I thought they didn’t make it, then he spoke again, “I’d hate to overstay my welcome.”

“No such thing,” I shook my head, “besides, I’m sure Jenny would be more than pleased to keep you around.”

I gave him the courtesy of turning to stare at the clouds, where my eyes wouldn’t catch the grin he was fighting on his face. I remember what It was like to be so bashful in my youth. And remembered the root rot from too much rain and the drought that’d be without it. 

“The hell are you doing, sleeping on your feet like a mare—get to work!” Susan said, yanking me away from the moment of peace I found myself swimming in. I cursed in my mind, pushing off the deck of my moment of solace and into the hive of buzzing folks-all too busy to flee the state. My steps slowed on the shores of the girls, who gossiped and giggled between open boxes. Mary-Beth grinned and leaned forward on the tips of her feet like a bird to air. 

“My hands are gettin’ all numb from all this cleanin’.” She complained, pressing another sun-beat shirt into a box of many others. Abigail sent her a sympathetic glance from the grass as Jack yanked at dandelions on her lap. 

“New york,” The mother grumbled, “what nonsense.”

“I don’t know, it might be fun,” Mary-beth gathered another shirt, “seein’ all them lights, and civilization .” 

“Don’t let Dutch hear you talkin’ like that.” Tilly piped in. 

“What? A girl can’t be curious?” She quipped.

Those stern buildings all hunched together, the smoke, the lamps, the cramped roads that scare horses. The streetcars trying to make room with the trample of hooves. The corruption, the poor, the wine and dine. Cities were something alright. Whether that be grand or foul was a person-to-person battle, though I could easily imagine the stance of half the gang.  

“I hear the city light scare the stars away.” Jenny said quietly. 

“Where do they go?” Little Jack asked.

The young woman shrugged, locks of black falling over her shoulders. 

I reached for a piece of garment before Abigail stopped me. Her blue eyes met mine with a grateful smile pinned up on her face, “We got it from here. The boys could use your help packing up their tents.” 

I held an open palm to her and hesitantly, it fell to my side. I glanced at Mary-Beth, who seemed disappointed at my departure. I nodded at her, then to Abigail. She nodded back, taking up an empty box before handing it over to me. The wood scratched at my hands, I’d pray away the splinters. 

My feet met the ground like a dandelion seed trying to find footing in the soil. I twirled myself around between the fingers of wind until I landed in front of Arthur’s tent. The same spot I found refuge in the first night I slept with wolves and shaved claws. 

Fabrics sewn together, close enough to call a home. Ironic how it echoed the people who wandered by it. Close enough to call a family. 

I ducked under the sheets and sat on the cot. It waned under my weight with a squeal. I studied the artifacts Arthur had collected like jewels under the wings of Jack’s many dragons. I reached to an idle wooden table, gathering a photo in my hand.

It depicted a woman I couldn’t recognize, dressed all nice for…something. Dark hair—light, bright eyes. They looked like Arthur’s eyes. 

My thumb traced over the dips and curves of the round photo frame before placing it down in the box. Moments in time passed between my hands. 

The next must’ve been Lyle, who he’d spoken so ill upon. I remember the storm that gathered under his brows whenever he brought his father up. A man quick to raise his hand in anger, a liar, a cheat, a fraud—every damn thing he tried to prove to me he wasn’t. And he hadn’t been, he never was. 

Though, whatever God above must’ve found it funny to marry me off to a ‘Lyle Morgan’.

I let the photo fall from me and into the box. 

I could make out the subject of the next photo. Three men—or two men and a boy. Dutch looked young enough on his own, without a scrap of silver caught by the camera’s light. Hosea seemed to go about his whole life with a head of grey, though wrinkles had yet to reach him. Arthur looked how I had remembered him, perfectly preserved in amber. That stupidly young glint in his eye, the gloom he wore like a badge. As if his frustration were something to be fond of, before it boiled over into indifference. 

I used to think I was the one who made him like that. All brash and prideful. But, he’d get quiet sometimes—now he’s nothing but quiet. 

I placed the photo with the others.

The next photo was most definefly Arthur, turned a bit rugged from the years we’d spent apart—but not yet to the point he’s found himself at now. He wasn’t the same fiery boy I’d known, but still familiar. Beside him stood a brunette of brown doe-eyes. Her smile felt sweet through the black, white and hills of the past. Blush dusted cheeks with birthmark kissing one right by her eye. 

She was beautiful.   

My shoulders slumped down like a swan’s wings taking to water. Dishevelled in some attempt to appear graceful. I craned my neck forward, squinting through lashes. The photo sat in my hands, looking back at me. 

I handed it off to the box as I had done with all of the others. 

I let my lungs fill themselves with air, sighing from my nose like a startled animal. And like a spooked critter, I began to move-running over the items in the tent. I spent little time tracing over the evidence of a life lived and places travelled. Herbs captured in Washington and the bones of mice from a mystic fell between my hands. 

My movements only stilled when I felt the familiar curve of metal pressing against my palm. The once smooth exterior had been tainted with years of use and dirt that hadn’t been scraped off. It looked worn and beat by the sun. Retired to a wooden table, watching the world move around it. I worked my nail under its cover, swiftly revealing the compass inside. The once brightly white interior had gone beige from the soil that’d made its way under glass. The writing had long faded, so the original words would’ve only been familiar to those who’d known it in youth. 

My mouth slacked open, as I studied the object with warm curiosity.

I’d hardly heard Arthur shuffle beside me. He leaned over me, a stern look covering his expression-not that I had the mind to care at the moment. “What’re you doin’ in here?”

“Y-you, you kept this?” I asked, peering up at him. 

He beheld me for a moment in silence. Those dark blue eyes of his studied me before relenting like a resting hound. He approached me slowly, as if I’d run away again. A gruff sigh left him as he sat next to me. The poor cot whined under the both of us.  I could smell the smoke embroidered in his clothing and feel the heat that radiated from his being. 

I stared at him with wide eyes, waiting for an answer like he owed me one. 

“Ain’t that what you wanted me to do?” He said, sounding softer than the sheets draped overhead. 

I watched him. Attempting to pull words out of him with my eyes. But he had nothing else to say. 

“I figured you’d thrown it away,” I muttered, afraid my voice would break if I’d spoken any louder, “like you’d done with my letters.”

Arthur yanked his gaze from mine, turning his attention to the ground. The mud seeped earth caved under his boots. His words were rough when he spoke, like they’d crawled their way through caverns, “I had to let you go.”

His words struck me for a moment. I placed the compass in my lap and rubbed my eyes. As if trying to pull myself from a cyclical dream. The same damn scenes running through my mind, for years upon years. The frustrating hum of a broken machine, desperately attempting to do what it was programmed for and failing over and over. I cursed and straightened my spine, turning to him with an eye pecking grin.

“You’re doing a terrible job, Arthur Morgan.” I said. 

He chuckled dryly, without the heart to look me in the eye. His attention swerved over to the box between my feet and the items I’d put away. 

“Abigail asked me to pack up the tents. I figure you’ve got it from here.” I said, lending him a smile that didn;t bother reaching my eyes. I leaned forward and placed the compass on his wooden table across from me. My retreat from his cot was quick, like a leaf darting from autumn’s trees. When I brushed past him, Arthur took my wrist into his hand. Effectively stopping me from leaving. He gently let go once I’d halted my movements. 

He didn’t say anything, he couldn’t. There was nothing to say.

“I don’t understand you.” I whispered.

I sat back down beside him. Perhaps more for myself than anyone else, a selfish act to coil myself around something long dead. A bullish sense held my heart as I moulded words under my tongue. Gazing at the box, I shifted through the photographs and stories captured in them. I spoke, remarking him with hawk-like eyes. “You were married?”

“Almost,” He replied gruffly, reaching over to shelve more items into the box.

“She seemed like a kind woman.” I smiled at the soil. 

The river of conversation ran through the hours until we’d finished our work there. The sun had dipped into a sea of darkness, where the stars had turned to fish. I tried to imagine the sky as the night knew them, man’s greed scaring nature off to somewhere behind the moon. The way we’d all soon come to know the evenings. 

Arthur thanked me as I stood at the edge of his sleeping quarters. And I wanted to kiss him before we rounded the tent’s sheets up. With that sweet spot under the cover of night without prying eyes. I knew I was a fool. The moths had long flown into oil lamps and drowned in heat. Still, they thrashed around in flames. In spite of all logic and reason. 

I bid him goodnight and yanked myself away from his stupid face. Through the shadows and melting snow, I found my way to my own place of rest. The sheets welcomed me with open arms as I tumbled into it. I rolled around, wrapping myself in the sweetness of fabric. My eyes only opened at the sound of shuffling feet and girlish giggles. 

I closed them again, furrowing my brows, “Ms. Gaskill, go to bed.”

“You know you spent the whole day in Arthur’s tent,” She whispered, kneeling, “Grimshaw ain’t happy you hadn’t gotten much else done.”

“Susan ain’t ever gonna be happy with any of the work I do.” I grumble, refusing to open my eyes. 

“Well, m’course, that goes for all of us—save the boys,” she said, sounding only a little bitter. 

I relented, opening my eyes to see Mary-beth’s round ones looking at me. She smiled all sweet and jittery like. She was like a mildly irritating little sister, or the hooting mourning doves lounging on barn doors on those foggy mornings. Figuring the only way she’d leave me alone to get a few hours of sleep would be if I shed a few words of conversations that had happened in that tent, I began to run through my memory for things to share.

“You never told me Arthur was engaged.” I glance at her, a grin pulling at my lips. 

Mary-Beth groaned, rolling her eyes. “He was , to one Mary Gillis.”   

I furrowed my brows, “You don’t sound too fond of her.”

“She figured herself better than the rest of us. Left poor Arthur all heartbroken.” She explained. 

I shook my head at her bias, smoothly shifting the subject. I thought back to her soft eyes and sweet smile. There wouldn't be a bridge to ride over with a few bricks missing. 

“When Arthur left, I gave him a compass,” I said, laying down on my back, “I told him he’d find me with it again someday.” 

Beth watched me somberly, resting her chin on the cot. Her pink lips curled into a frown that hardly suited her face. 

“It said, ‘Peace I leave with you, my peace I give to you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled…and do not be afraid.’” I read the words engraved in brass, washed away like messages written on a shore. But still bright as ever in my mind. 

“And he kept it…all those years?” She asked. 

“I suppose so.” I pulled my eyes from the stars. 

“So it worked?” She asked with a sly smirk. 

“Maybe if you believe in the luck of a rabbit's foot.” I replied, letting my eyes fall closed. 

________________________________________

This woman is far too keen on trying to pry me open. I intend to maintain self control with the grasp she has on me. Today she wandered into my tent under my nose and inspected my possessions. I couldn't find it in myself to be angry with her. I never really can. 

I believe she’s found out about Mary and as usual I cannot read her expression on the matter. I cannot see what she thinks of any of it really. The compass, the photos and everything else. She confuses me and I fear I’ve confused her. I am near turning to Mary-Beth for some kind of guidance, she seems to know her best. My pride is one of the few things keeping me from doing so. What a mess.

Chapter Text

Mid-April 

1898

The air was raw with spring. Fog tumbled down from what remained of the Appalachian mountains. The rocky terrain jolted the wagon’s wheels every dozen minutes. The bluebirds sang their same sweet song, little wings beat beside their reddened chests. Ice had turned to rushing rivers, blue as the robin’s eggs nesting overhead. Foxes darted over undergrowth with pollen dusted legs. I could taste the wildflowers tearing themselves from the earth. 

Most days I flit through the words of novel’s passed down to me. The rowing of the wagon movement lulled my mind enough to dream, not enough to close my eyes. Hosea was well enough company though, he never seemed to run out of stories to tell when my eyes had grown tired of trailing over sentences. The man had seen this whole damn country, from sea to rock. He was wise with it. He lacked the same brash charisma that Dutch held, but was still sly with reasoning. Not to be confused with cowardice, he’d still put a bullet in any man who was fool enough to cross him. I kept my tone polite and my eyes sharp. 

“I hadn’t gotten the time to tell you this.” Hosea said to me one evening as we roamed the mountain ridge for a campsite for the night. 

I turned to him curiously, squinting through the dark. 

“You’d done good with that robbery a few weeks back.”

“That was hardly me, it was Karen and Sean’s idea.” 

He laughed, “Sean? Ideas?”

I watched him, attempting to stifle the snort burrowed in my throat. I hoped we hadn’t woken a brown bear, “He can form a coherent thought once a while.”

“And you sell yourself too short my dear.” 

I looked away from him and into the vast dark between the trees. The land here had a way of messing with your mind. Deer who stood and stared for one too many seconds. The elk weeped to the sky in the dead of night. The cold wind settled over shoulders after a campfire had been blown out. The creaking of the soil, the night birds settling on branches. Once beautiful fields of a sprouting spring felt daunting without the sunlight. Melted snow making way for bones buried, where the crows had long filled their bellies. These mountains were old, and they’d seen more than  the rockies to the west.

I fail to properly explain the feeling of being watched by something beyond my understanding there. Something dressed in the dark, watching and listening. 

I welcomed the departure of the ridged cliffs and the introduction of round hills. The familiar sight of farmers tending to broad valleys of crops and mother’s caring for their calves. Weeds kissed pasture property, where the young workers hadn’t yet yanked them from the dirt. I could smell the bacon and eggs slipping from farm houses. Soon after, young children ran barefoot through their father’s gardens. Their feet were nimble to avoid trampling the swollen red tomatoes. But when they’d reached open meadows, God help their mothers scrubbing mud from their clothes. They took to the untilled soil like wild horses to wide open space.  The sun was gentle again, soft enough to never burn.

John scoffed over my shoulder, watching the pair of siblings. The reins coiled in his hands. 

I couldn't judge them, I must’ve been miles worse than them at their ages. Growing up wrangling bulls in summer skirts, mud couldn't have been the only thing my mother fawned over me for. A few years later, Arthur had made me much worse. 

The outline of civilization began to rise in the distance, like the mountains we’d left behind. The once empty trails grew populated with tourists and business men with places to see and be. The vibrant sky of songbirds grew quiet in the presence of crowing train horns. Clouds mingled with smoke, painting the horizon in dull blues. Light rain had begun to fall, as if nature was trying to be rid of us. 

“Well, I’ll be damned.” John muttered, squinting forward at the buildings. 

“Civilisation.” I said, crossing my arms smug-like. 

Marston scrunched up his miserable face like he’d smelt something rotten. It was nearly enough to make me laugh. 

New York was like no other city I’d visited. Progress burrowed itself through its once swampy landform like a wolf baring its teeth into a fresh hare. It yanked down towering trees and in its reincarnation, built cities. Where trails manoeuvred through wetlands, streetcars rode from building to building, The windows confuse sparrows and sent them tumbling for concrete. Rivers poisoned causing fish to raise their bellies. Men had moulded themselves subservient and docile, unable to fend for themselves, hand in hand with consumerism. I wasn’t one for the philosophies of Evelyn Miller, but I wasn’t blind. 

The city was rotten with smoke, unlike that of a campfire. The unnatural and constant kind that came from too much coal. 

John halted the wagon between two buildings where the others had been waiting, their lives packed in hand. 

I slid from the passenger seat, stretching my legs like a cat rolling from the sun. My muscles seized, and my shoulder hadn’t forgiven the bullet that burned it months ago. I wandered from behind wooden crates, glancing at the bustling streets. I craned my neck to see the towering buildings, only to become dizzy. 

“Ladies and Gentlemen,” Dutch began, hiding his true emotions under a thin layer of charisma, “Welcome, to New York City.”

Mary-Beth and the girls looked around in awe, except for Molly, who seemed far more at home here than the woods we’d fled from. Abigail lifted Jack up in her arms, showing him the lights that’d begun to shimmer on the wet concrete. Arthur looked up at the buildings like an armadillo dropped in the middle of the sea. He wandered over to me, all stiff and out of place. I wormed my hand into his, using the cool weather as a sly excuse. If he’d noticed he hadn’t acknowledged it, keeping his eyes on Dutch and Hosea. The two men spoke to each other in hushed tones that hadn’t carried over the wind. 

The evening was crawling over the tower-tops, I could smell the Cuban cigar smoke and whiskey that came with wealth. Almost all of us looked harsh against the slick buildings and gossiping socialites. Mourning doves amongst feral pigeons. 

“There you are!” A voice greeted, all chipper like. 

A brunet man stood there, grinning ear-to-ear from under an umbrella. He adorned himself in a neat suit without a speck of lint on black. A charming moustache curled itself onto his face and a top hat rested on the top of his head. 

“Trelawny.” Arthur said, his voice rumbling next to me. 

He regarded him, “Hello, dear boy!”

I pulled my hand away, burrowing them into my pockets. The stranger, ‘Trelawny’ caught my eye immediately, like a hawk with a rodent in its claws. He puffed up his chest and strolled over to me. The man bowed down to my gaze, his eyes were cyan like the south’s natural springs.

“My, my, who might you be?” Trelawny asked, silently asking for my palm as he reached out a gloved hand. 

I complied, uttering my name before he planted a gentle kiss onto my knuckle. 

He offered me a bow by means of his hat before waltzing over to Dutch, who welcomed him with a beaming grin. Trelawny took his hand, giving it a firm shake. 

I felt Arthur loom over my back like an owl in a tree. 

“You brought the rain with you Vanderlinde, I swear it. There was nothing but blue spring skies before your wagons reached Manhattan!” He teased, placing his hands behind his back. Dutch laughed up from his belly, a nearly contagious sound. 

“Blue skies, here?” Dutch laughed, “all I can see is smog for miles.”

“You’ll grow accustomed, my friend.” The man replied, swaying on his heels, “anyhow, we’ve got to move our feet! Mr. Dumont is pacing his home waiting to meet the few of you.”

“Really?” Hosea asked, sounding as pleased as his throat would allow. 

“I mentioned you’re oil salesmen.” Trelawny winked like a weasel. 

That made the pair crack mischievous grins. 

I felt like I’d been left in the dark, a prairie dog peeking up from the earth after the seasons had changed. I cast a look at Arthur, whose body warmth felt tempting under the spring rain. His gaze slid over to me before he looked away. 

The conversation ended like the dusting of hands. This strange man whisked me, Molly and Mary-Beth away to a shop with Arthur hot on our heels. 

The streets bustled with life despite the sun’s departure. Umbrellas bunched together to block out what little fell from the sky. 

A bell overhead jingled as Trelawny opened up the door for the rest of us. Smells of expensive perfumes and unworn fabric tumbled out the door and into the road. A chandelier dangled, glistening with glass light, like captured fireflies forced to perform. Women in feathered hats and colourful dresses linked arms with their husbands as they told them what to wear—and where to wear it. 

Mary-Beth swam into the room, diving as an otter would into a river of wealth. She slipped away from anyone’s line of vision and into waves of displayed clothing. By the time Arthur had turned to call for her, she was long gone. Molly on this other hand seemed more than content to stay by the boy’s side, sticking up her nose at the prospect of lifting a finger. 

I wandered into the boutique, curiously studying the rich men I’d once been so accustomed to being around. Lintless suits, cognac stained tongues and the bitter laughter that’d come when I told them of my origins. A simple farm girl, how sweet. 

I watched as Trelawny linked arms with Molly, running his mouth about god knows what. Arthur scoured the rows of clothing for Mary-Beth, who’d slipped between our fingers. I settled near a window, beaten by gentle rain. The streetlights had begun to break through the smoke and weather, spilling onto the varnished floors. My hands flipped between the dresses like pages of a story I’d been forced to read. Disinterest graced over fabrics only to be interrupted with a giggle behind me. 

“Gaskill.” I greet, nearly playfully rolling my eyes into the back of my head. 

“Isn’t this exciting? Everything here is so, so-“

“Civil?” I asked.

“I was gonna go with clean.” 

“The air isn’t.”

She put her hands onto her hips, fighting a smile and raising her brow. When she spoke it came in a lower tone as she peered over the rows of suits, “Arthur’s humour is rubbing off on you.”

“I’m the one he got it from.” I smirked, turning my attention to a mannequin to the left of us. Careful hands had sewn together silk, pooling from the inanimate object. Buttons pinned up to hold a furred shawl, made by the hinds of dozens of minks. I ran my hand over the fur as it kissed my palm. Memories of wealth in all its unsavoury nature fell back down on me. The smell of white wine in the hands of wives, shifting secrets I held in my chest with little gossip to tell. A gilded age of beauty and rot, gold and filth. I’d seen both sides, a man on his knees and a beggar.  

At least where I stood, you’d know who’d put a bullet in your side without a second thought. Men turned vile when Uncle Sam turned the tides, like a dog with meat yanked from under its paws. 

I heard Arthur’s steps approaching me, then felt his warmth  over my shoulder. Mary-Beth glanced over with a peaking grin. 

“I hate this goddamn place.” He complained, the mud of his boots tracks across the wooden floors. 

I pulled my hand away from the fur shawl, tossing him a glance. Of course he’d say that. 

The blonde turned his attention to the dress I’d been inspecting, his brows quickly furrowed. He leaned over me, reading the money tag and letting out a bitter hiss. 

Trelawny flew over to us with gowns draped over his arms. Words darted out of him, but in short—he’d instructed us to pluck dresses from the racks. Molly ambled after him with her head craned up like a swan above water. I mumbled a curse, and didn’t miss the glare Arthur had out for the gentlemen when I turned. 

Between the two of us Mary-Beth did most of the talking, about the dresses, the cakes and all those pretty rich boys who could sweep her off her feet in the city. As she spoke, I wondered if she had pictures of France painted in her mind. Through her flurry of chatter, I gathered up three gowns I could stomach wearing and wondered how and who’d pay for it. 

The changing rooms were spacious with dim yellow lighting, A wide silver brimmed mirror stared back at me as I slipped into a blue gown. I drowned myself in seas of silk on the way down. The sleeves were slightly puffed with a built-in white petticoat resting under the fabrics. 

Mary-Beth was my judge before the others, she squinted her eyes as if decoding something. She shifted behind me, dragging the zipper up. 

After taking another look, she shook her head, sending me off to try on another one. 

“It’s cute, just doesn’t suit you much.” 

The next gown was the kind of pink you’d filch from the cheeks of a blushing schoolgirl. I squeezed myself through a corset the gown had partnered with before attempting the dress itself. Floral patterns drenched the dress in spring, with a bow resting on the hip. 

I waddled out of the changing room and before Mary-Beth. It didn’t take her more than a few moments for her to shake her head, stifling a giggle. 

By the final dress, I was just about ready to toss in the towel. 

The day and long travels before it had begun to catch up with my cramped arms and sore feet. I wandered back into the changing room, taking the dress into my hands. I lazily pulled my sluggish limps into the last dress I’d picked out for myself. 

It was a shallow yellow colour, like the sun on a foggy day. By the waist, soft white silk tore through—falling down until the hem of the skirt. A gentle ruffle collar curled around my neck, a ribbon trailed down to my chest. Traces of gold patterns embroidered down my sides, drawing tame gardens and nonsense. 

I swung open the door and into the hall, where Mary-Beth awaited me. Her face lit up like she’d seen a Carolina parakeet dashing between the trees.

“You look—this is perfect!” She beamed, taking my hands into hers as she began leading me out the corridor, “come, come.”

Arthur swayed on his feet, either ignorant or ignoring the glare of the boutique’s keeper—who mopped after his steps. At the sound of my shuffling feet he looked up, eyes widening. His naturally dishevelled appearance was stark against the spotless nature of the shop. His once loose body language went stiff as his attention trailed over fabric. Slowly he melted into the regular pattern of breathing, not daring to move any closer to me. 

I took the dress by the waist, doing a playful courtesy. 

“She looks beautiful.” Mary-Beth swooned, elbowing my side. 

Arthur jerked his head back a bit, eyes darting between the pair of us, “She is beautiful.” 

He seemed spooked by his own words, straightening his back and wandering away between the rows of clothes, leaving me blushing and stranded. I made the mistake of peering at the young woman who smirked like she’d mapped out ways to win her little game of chess.  

_______________________________________

This woman is driving me insane. 

Many years ago I told Dutch to put a bullet through my skull if I ever started acting like this again. Here I am making a fool out of myself yet again.

Slimy Trelawny is somehow making matters worse, dragging us out into the city-as if we weren't already stuck in the damned east. Slippery bastard.    

Chapter Text

Grimshaw ran her hands through my hair, working out kinks and knots until they unraveled into a steady stream. The scowl on her face and the utterances of my untidiness were blanketed under a thin layer of affection. A kind that I could track down better than any hound. I’d grown too accustomed to reading between the lines for symptoms of love. I wondered how much of it I’d made up to warm my chest on nights when no one shared the bed with me—or even the times when a man had. Though hers was clear as a raven against wide open snow, Bland to even the untrained eye. 

The lot of us had set up camp outside the city's walls. Where grass and weeds still claimed the earth for themselves, carving a home in the marsh. Tents pinned up faster than I’d thought possible for human hands. The boys had lended their time to catching rabbits and ducks too slow to take to the air. Pearson had combined the meat into some strangely plain stew, somehow absolving all greenery and flesh of its flavors. 

I sat with Lenny and ate, my hair all done up in a fancy gown. I expected light jabs and teases from him, though they mostly ended up coming from Sean. I hadn’t seen Mary-Beth this excited since I’d known her, rosy-cheeked like she’d just read the best page of her novel. She hardly had the stomach to eat as she fidgeted with the skirt of her dress. The girls didn't seem to envy her much, apart from Karen, who longed for the thrill of it all. More guns blazing and less buzz of a racing heartbeat. 

Dutch didn’t look much different than he always did, decked in suits and expensive fabrics. The only notable difference I could pluck out was the curve in the corners of his moustache and the pomade in his hair. Hosea looked much too old to care anymore as he lounged near the wagon. I watched as Arthur itched his sleeve, scrunching up his nose in disapproval. The mud had offered him miles more comfort than the tie he wore. 

Trelawny was like a solar storm, speaking at a hundred miles an hour. No matter where you stood in camp, you could hear the bark of his laughter. The men had hatched some genius plan of attending this reception, posing as businessmen. Slick Trelawny had wormed his way into the upper class’ affection, offering us a pathway of theft. 

So, there I stood, in the midst of dancing bodies—appearing more like a phantom than a widow. I’d forgotten how bright the lights are and the volume of chatter beyond hushed whispers. 

Molly looked more suitable here than anywhere I’d ever seen her. She lounged at my side, her bright green eyes peered over a fan covering her red lips. She watched Dutch sweet-talk the rich men with that winning grin of his. Hosea fastened to his side like a pistol. 

When he made his way over to her, Molly’s expression unfurled like the wings of a monarch. Her cheeks grew rosy beyond blush as Dutch offered her his hand, pressing a kiss to her knuckle. Displays of affection loney poets write about.

I was alone again, watching the world move. 

My eyes ran through the many men and women flocking the room. Their lavish dresses and suits colored the bronze-toned mansion. The bright colors faded into a blur of feathers, like a parakeet departing from the trees. 

All except for a looming form at the very edge of the flurry. A man draped in attire meant for a funeral, a curled moustache, and a top hat. He watched me like I’d watched the others, stern and unmoving to the force of music around us. I blinked and squinted. The mass departed into a shadow, cast out by a gown. A trick of the eye, I reasoned. 

I felt Arthur’s presence over my shoulder before he said a word. 

He wandered next to me, looking over the crowd, trying to catch a glimpse of what it was I was looking for. It didn’t take long for him to throw in the towel, turning his attention to the glimmering chandeliers overhead. 

“I can’t stand this damned place.” I said. 

Arthur regarded me with dry sarcasm. “I can tell from that big ass smile on your face.”

I gave him an impassive glance, crossing my arms. 

The song began to shift to something slow, dragging the notes out. Chittering fiddles settled into calm violins, mingling with the keys of a piano. It wasn’t too unlike the singing cicadas and the drumming hoofbeats of wild horses. The crowd of socialites responded by pulling each other closer, their heels lingering on the shining floors. They gazed into each other's eyes, only separated by the occasional flare. 

Arthur’s brows furrowed, like he’d been watching the whole thing through a window. The warmth, the fabricated lights, and wine. Like a skeptical fawn, staring off and running water, he snaked his arm around mine. I looked up at him, attempting to catch his gaze as he pulled me forward through the haze of song. 

He kept his eyes on me, drowning out the hum of everything around us. I could feel the long, soft grass brushing against my skin—from when they’d long turned yellow. I could taste the pollen of spring in spite of the concrete walls surrounding us. Memories of the sparrows overhead and the many promises dashed to the wind. 

“You’ve got no idea what you’ve done to me.” He uttered. A tremor ran through his hand as he reached for my ruffled collar, gently pulling me in.

I regarded him; seventeen years between us, and he still got nervous. A smile broadened itself across my features. 

“If I’ve damaged you, like you say,” I took a breath, staring into him, “you’ve ruined me.” 

I rested my chin on the curve of his neck and breathed in. He was a wildfire in my quiet meadows, enveloping everything I was in smoke. Still, I found myself content in the ash. The warmth of his presence was enough. The thrum of blood running through him breathed life into perennials. He was gentle with my hands, as if they’d crumble into dust, back into a ghost of what was. His thumb lightly circled my knuckle.

We swayed with the music bellowing from a gramophone across the room. Bodies perfectly orchestrated themselves in dips and bows beside us. Women flared like sparrows falling through clouds, their beautiful brown feathers outstretched. The wooden floors danced with the chandelier light, like the sun swimming in rivers. The manicured beauty of nature surrounded us in the hands of civilization. 

I pulled my head from Arthur’s shoulder and stubble raced across my cheek. I hadn’t been this close to him in well over a decade. Chests were pressed close enough to feel the rumble of heartbeats and the quickening of breaths. Crow's feet crinkled in the corners of his eyes as he smiled down at me. The only kind he’d bother with was the smile he couldn’t stomach keeping down. Damn those pretty eyes of his, the gold and blue. The stars hung over the sea. 

Again, like a fool, I thought maybe he’d press his lips against mine like he used to. The warmth, the whiskey. Something to kill the childish things making rounds in my stomach before they got to my head. 

Like the severing of a thread, the song came to a close, and we all had work to do. 

I slipped from his arms, taking the hips of my dress as a courtesy. In response, Arthur nodded to me hesitantly. A teasing grin pressed up my cheeks. I wandered off into the crowd. Leaving him stranded, flushed, and reeling in a sea of moving bodies. Chasing after my skin against his. 

My heels clicked against the glossy floors, picked clean of dust. Chandeliers dangled from the tall, arching ceilings overhead. I plucked a stem of grapes from a nearby waiter as I passed him by. I took a glass of white wine as I passed another. The wine was bitter against my tongue, holding onto the strangest aftertaste. I placed the glass back onto the platter as a jolt of pain ran up my spine. 

Mary-Beth snuck up beside me like a dove settling on cherry trees. Her pink dress dragged across wooden floors, patterns of blossoms embroidered into her waist. A feathered hat fitted onto her head over brown curls. She was glowing with youth and blushing cheeks. 

“These folks are decked in gold.” She whispered, grinning. 

“As they tend to be,” I chuckle. “Good work, sweetheart.”

Her smile grew slightly as she turned her attention to the staircase. “You check upstairs; I’ll cover for you.”

And so I did, lifting my dress above my ankles—I made my way up the long staircase of marble. Fractales of gray branched out into patterns beneath my feet. Baroque paintings accompanied me on the walls as they curled into themselves. Pillars shot up into the roof in the middle. Scandalous whispers I hadn’t cared to pay attention to passed me beside me. They quieted down when we reached the top, like a blown-out candle. The vast halls echoed with my footsteps, and the light was naturally dimmer on the upper level. There were enough corners for things to go unnoticed. Candles lingered in their holders, melting wax pooling at the sides. They created a haze of light under the warm-toned chandeliers, which were humbler than the ones hanging downstairs. 

I steered away from closed doors with creaking beds. Through the halls, I wandered onto a balcony overlooking the city. 

Specks of gold and silver covered the sky in a haze, making the clouds dull. A bland shade of dark blue smothered in grey. The stars had been taken from us, lost in yellow lights. If meteorites had shot through above, none of us would’ve seen. There was a warmth up here too, and a thick smell of oil. You couldn't escape the aura of people, their heat, and their running blood. It stretched out far, to places none of us could’ve seen. Scaring away the untamed night. 

It was beautiful too, in its own way. Just not enough. 

The gentle sound of heels against the floor alerted me to another’s presence. My shoulders went stiff as I turned. 

A feminine form draped herself in the dark, hitched in the corner where light couldn’t touch her. I continued to squint, attempting to read her posture. When she spoke, her voice came like a riverbend: “Sorry, I’m not meaning to be a bother.”

She stepped out into the line of light running off from the city. The woman wore a dark green dress where the sleeves puffed up at the end. Her hair was done up in a knotted bun with a floral pin stuck in front of it. 

“Thought I’d get away from all of it.” She said, 

Her doe-eyes peered over at me, and as she fiddled with her ring, a stroke of recognition settled in my bones. This was the same woman from the photograph, Mary. 

She must have noticed the shift on my face because she gave me a strange look back. She smiled sweetly, wandering over to the balcony’s bannister and laying her elbows down on it. The wind frazzled her once neatly placed hairs. There, I could’ve slipped right back into the lengthy halls I’d come from, but something held me down where I was. My legs carried me over to her side, scoping out the towering buildings. 

“You don’t seem the talkin’ type,” she chuckled. No amount of pretty clothes would have hidden that soft southern drawl. “What do people call you?” 

I said a lie, something plain. 

Though she didn’t seem to catch the hesitance in my tone, introducing herself with a name I already knew. 

“I’m startin’ to forget their names,” she pointed up at the blank sky, “the constellations; spend enough time in this hell hole and you’ll forget the names of the birds too.”

I nod. “I know what that’s like.”

“You do?” She asked, a glint running through her eyes.

I studied her features under the moonlight; her wide brown gaze stared into mine. My hands refused to slither up behind her or unclip the dazzling necklace fastened around her neck. There was money in these halls beyond what she held. My heart ran miles in my chest; it roared in my ears—louder than it should’ve been. I searched for some nonsense to say to her upon my departure. 

“I’ve spent my whole life chasing after an idea,” I waved my hand around at the manion and lights, “you just gotta go after whatever makes you feel okay. I couldn't spend the rest of my life clinging to the arm of someone else.”

She looked at me as if I’d grown antlers. A woman, sinking her talons into her own life and taking it off into the air. I glanced at the night sky, bland as it was, before leaving the balcony. I felt her eyes on my back. 

I plunged into the dark, abandoning the spectacle of artificial light for tamed candles littering shelves. The halls felt longer on the way out, making my way through the dimness. They pulled themselves through wood, candlelight, and darkness—almost dizzying. I cast a look at the paintings, watching the subjects in them begin to move and sway. Portraits of sun-dipped meadows rustled in a non-existent wind. The bees buzzed from wildflower to weed, and they were so loud. 

My limbs grew heavy, weighing me down on the wooden floors. It seeped into my heels, grabbing onto me like mud. Something rotten churned in my stomach. It branched out into vessels of discomfort. I doubled over, holding onto my abdomen. Bile crawled up my throat, held down only by sheer will. 

I heard the clicking of heels before I saw her, rushing over to my side like she owed it to me. Mary pressed her palm to my back, drawing circles up my spine. I could see why Arthur fell for her. 

“Are you alright?” She asked.

“I’m fine,” I rasp out, trying to hold down vomit, “just too much to drink, I think.”

Couldn't have been that. 

Heavy steps came from my left; they seemed to shift the ground each time they hit the floor. The thick smell of a distinct cologne swept over me. I felt Mary’s hand fall from my back as she stood up. 

“She isn’t feeling well.” The stranger stated, an English accent peaked from his tone. 

No shit. 

The stranger was strong still, wrapping an unwelcome arm under my ribs. He held me up like a ragdoll, my limbs draped over his. Any protests that could’ve left me died in my throat as I tried my damnest not to throw up all over the ground. The overwhelming scent of everything around me wasn’t helping.

Mary studied me with concerned brown eyes, peering up suspiciously at the stranger. 

“Do you know this man?” Mary asked. 

My response came out as a gurgle. 

“I’ll be taking her back to her husband,” he muttered, sounding more like a bitter threat. “No need to worry.”

My heels dragged across the wooden floors as the stranger led me off, feigning concern. His hold on me was strong; even if my body wasn’t stuck in a sleep of pins and needles, I doubt I could’ve writhed my way out of his grasp. I leaned limp, and didn’t look away from Mary. My eyes seemed to have been the only thing working in my favor.

Until they didn’t. 

Chapter Text

Fire latched on wood, yanking every scrap of wood to the earth. It greedily bared its teeth into a home, reckless and warm. Blistering and wrathful against the snow-kissed earth. Ash cast into the air resembled dandelion seeds coasting on the air, planting themselves in the gaping lungs of deer. Smoke bellowed from the carnage, sending birds flocking from the trees. It was all I could smell, burrowing itself into my tongue.

I stood knee-deep in a disaster, struck with the lightning of my own grief. 

The grief of everything around me. Everything I watched drift away from me, and all that tarried. 

Ice branched up my spine as I woke with a gasp. 

Bars. The iron-cast bars of a police wagon stretched out before me, mimicking the trees cowering behind them. Gravel trails rumbled the wheels. 

The air here was clean, untarnished by fire or the greed of man’s cities. I could taste the sweetgrass tangling in the wind. The sun scorched everything, staining the wood under me. Warmth enveloped me. A wagon rumbled under me, skipping stones like a child across a pond. I reached up to rub my eyes with my tied palms. The rope dug into my wrists, running them red with blood and irritation. 

Through squinted eyes, I inspected the world around me in blinding white. 

A spike of fear and surprise ran across my chest as my attention settled on a stranger across from me. 

The man watched me silently from under brunched brows. He was well built, with wide shoulders and a tall height hidden by his slumped posture. His skin was dark, but his hair was darker, bordering on black. Long, straight strands dipped over his shoulders and down his chest. Those locks resembled those of the tribes I’d seen wandering the plains, radiant as their skin held the sun. 

My back pressed against the wooden wall of the wagon as I squinted at the stranger suspiciously. “Who are you?” 

“I could ask you the same,” he said vaguely, lifting up his tied hands as some symbol of solidarity. 

Whatever bubbling response was in my throat was swiftly swathed over as a curt strike of pain rammed behind my eyes. I hissed through my teeth, drawing bound hands to my temple. It branched through the nerves in my neck, growing like a weed on the side of my face. The flurrying dresses and white wine, waltzing into a viper’s nest—I should’ve known better. 

The man studied me, still as if spooking me mattered now. 

“Goddamn it,” I spat, “new bullshit every damn day.” I cursed the world around me, lazily kicking the wall.

The stranger made an odd noise, something between a laugh and a snort. It was a dry sound. 

When the pain had subsided to a dull ache, I introduced myself. In turn, he offered me his name—Charles Smith. Easy enough to remember. 

Charles had dubbed himself a wanderer of the western plains, speaking in short sentences like darting cards out during poker. It was beyond me why he was cooped up in here with me, taken by god knows who to god knows where. So, I let him keep his secrets as I kept mine. Besides, my father taught me many years ago not to pry my hands into business not delivered to me. 

A raw hunger clawed in my stomach without a meal from the night before. I found myself watching the dark clouds roll in, missing the feeling of a warm bowl of mediocre soup pressing against my palms. I could taste the rain yet to come and the hum of an incoming storm. The wagon's unsteady nature shook on its wheels, and I prayed it would finally hit the right rock at the proper angle for the walls to cave into themselves. Perhaps a wheel would come loose, or a horse would spook. But they never did. 

The sun rolled around in the sky, hesitating into the beginning of a new and bitter evening. The usual sunsets had an overcast of roaring rain. The animals knew it better than any of us, with the way they bolted from the trees and into burrows buried beneath the earth. The horses leading us had begun to stammer, releasing small snorts of discomfort—only spurred on by the gentle whip of whoever held the reins. 

The thinning silk of my gown was a mockery of the brewing winds as they coasted over my exposed shoulders. Water blew through the bars in front of us, not fully reaching Charles but dampening my skin. A shiver slithered up my spine. 

He watched me all the same, silently. 

It was strange. He was strange. 

The wagon carrying us passed through some sort of gate. Lawmen looked us up and down before waving their hands dismissively. Raggedy wooden wheels rolled over themselves as we finally halted in what felt like the middle of the thicket. A strike of light flashed through the sky before thunder drummed overhead. It nearly shook the ground below us. There was a mummer of conversation from the front, too quiet to hear over the weather, and a heartbeat rumbling through my chest. The stranger slid from the driver’s spot. The soil squelched from the heel of his boots as he approached us. The tail end of his conversation caught up with the pair of us. 

“Alright, alright! I’m gettin' em’.” The stranger said, sending a curt glare to a face we couldn't see. 

The stranger was a man of auburn hair, not too unlike Sean. He took the wagon’s lock into his hands, fiddling with it before the door came swinging open. 

“Well, let’s get goin’ then—you pair of goddamn degenerates.” He said. 

I scrunched up my nose as he took my arm, curling it around my own like he’d taken a bride. He let me go, standing in the rain, only to reach for Charles. His scrawny, pale arms almost looked amusing beside Charles’ strong form. The stranger smaller into himself like a coward, wasting no time getting away from the other man and back into my hip. Another stranger walked out of the woodland, a large rifle saddled onto his shoulder. His finger drew crosses inches away from the trigger. 

He pressed the barrel against the small of my back, urging me forward. I was a doe on unsteady legs, whipped by hunger and the weather. But fear was the wrong word for it. 

The ground lit up with the echo of lightning, and the booming thunder rolled after it. The sky weeped into my neck as the muted scents of the woods opened up to the air. My hair was ruffled by the wind as wet strands clung to my face. The once-firm earth turned to slop beneath my feet, soiling my heels. A sense of unease held onto my every step.

The weight of the stranger's hand left me. I squinted, watching him through the dark as he yanked at a door nestled between bricks. It stuttered open, whining like a wounded animal through the cold. The red-headed stranger lifted his hand, referring us inside. In some small act of defiance. Charles ambled over to my side, his imposing figure threatening even the rain to keep away. 

That courage was swiftly squashed as the other man pressed the tip of his rifle against his back. A curt reminder of where we were and who we were with. 

Charles glared at him, though that was it.

The wood creaked under our feet as we dragged mud through the dark. I could smell the cologne and rotting wood leaching off the building's foundations. Gas lighting pooled from down the halls, but not enough to offer vision to wherever this place was. 

A scrap of light came from the crinkle of a match. The form lit a cigar, then offered the flame to an oil lamp, residing across from him. 

A man glanced at the pair of us from under a bowler hat, a tie coiled around his neck like a noose. He grinned in a sardonic manner and waved the lit match into smoke. I watched as the stranger with the rifle pressed his weapon against Charles again, urging him down a long candlelit hall. My feet moved to follow him, but the redhead clicked his tongue, herding me off his trail. I would’ve spat in his eye. 

A voice rang out, craning my neck in his direction. “You’re a slippery one, aren’t you, sweetheart?”

My stomach churned beyond hunger as the oil lamp fully illustrated the man’s features. My breathing grew to match the wind thrashing around outside. The room soon felt cramped, as if there was no amount of square footage that could contain the rush running through my veins. My bones seized as if I’d been dead for hours, calling in the mutts from the slums. 

“Ross.” I said in a voice that wasn’t my own. 

“It’s been a long while, hasn’t it?” The agent chuckled dryly. “How’s that husband of yours?”

He laughed again at his own joke, a hoarse sound through Smoker's lungs. His hand motioned for me to come over, though my feet might as well have been buried under concrete. Ross gave me a half-hearted glare, knocking his knuckles on the wooden table. “You wanna keep those ropes on?”

I eyed him, thinning my lips as I slowly walked towards him. I lifted my wrists, watching as he pulled the cigar from his lips, burning through the thin cotton. The burnt fibres fell to the ground as I rubbed my reddened skin gently. 

“You’d do well to listen while you’re here, dear girl.” He confided, a low threat. 

I ignored him, mustering the rawest look in my eye. As if it could call the rain outside to drown him out. 

“Where are we?” I asked. 

“Vermont.” He replied, Dry as dirt. 

I scoffed, turning my back to him, causing my dress to sprawl out in fury. 

“So, that’s what this is? Get me drunk off my heels and haul me off through Massachusetts—all the way to Vermont.” I said, my tone heightening, “You gonna hang me now?” 

He stood up brisky, holding his hands down on the table. “I am here to work with you.”

Now, that was amusing. 

“You think I’m gonna be your mule, Edgar? Your bootlicking partner?” I chuckled dryly, harsh enough to feel an itch gathering in my throat. “You don’t know me then.”

Ross studied me with intelligent brown eyes, the oil lamp’s light reflected in them. The strangest smile grew from under his moustache. He sat back down, removing his hat and allowing it to fall silently against the wooden table. He clasped his hands, resting them. 

“Forgive me; you used to hold your tongue so well,” Ross said. 

“That was when I had reason to.”

“Is your life not reason enough?” He replied with a sly warning. 

“Not anymore,” I snorted, tossing a glance at the looming gunmen behind me. 

Ross let a moment pass between his next words. The wind filled in the silence, thrashing branches against the black windows. “No, but there is something you’re afraid of.”

He would snake his way into any shred of doubt I showed. I crawl into any stammer in my voice or stance. The sick bite of a thread passing through skin, sewing a case together. He would rob graves and tamper with wine if it meant a seat at the master’s table. He was a hound running off leash, bearing his teeth into pheasants, only to drag them to the feet of his owner. 

I’d learned all too well the reactions of pampered men. Those born with a golden spoon on their lips and those who turned their lead bullets to silver. The foulest of alchemy comes from selfish hands. 

I liked Ross enough when I knew him a few years ago. I recalled him standing aimlessly on the hips of my husband like a handmaiden, lost and confused by the sea of wealth around him. He was honest in his indifference; I preferred it to the men who lied and feigned heroism. But here he was, sitting in a lint-free Pinkerton suit—turning a blind eye to blood money and scorning the beggar. He had become a paradox.

“We could have you tossed in the asylum, or maybe have a lobotomy done.” He traced his hands across the table’s surface as if he were speaking of the weather: “Have the doc drill holes in the sides of your head; have your brain scooped out your ears. See, maybe that’d make you remember what situation we’re dealing with, dear.” 

My gut sank onto itself, clinging to nothing. I curled my lip and stepped away, allowing my eyes to fall to the ground. 

“A woman such as yourself must have an imbalance in need of honest correction,” Ross continued, tapping his temple. “It’s incredible what the mind is capable of.” 

My eyes went cold against the dark wooden floors, tracing the shimmers of candlelight as thunder roared outside. Whatever hunger was clawing in my stomach had been subdued with adrenaline, leaving me lightheaded. My palms grew clammy, as if I’d held them to the rain. 

“How about you sleep on it, sweetheart?” He said, waving his hand. 

I felt a calloused hand curl around my arm. I attempted to break free from his grasp, reeling away like a hooked fish. The red-head matched my rebelliousness as his pressure against me increased. I planted my feet on the ground, squirming with the intention of breaking free, though all I felt was the bastard’s nails digging into my skin—deep enough to draw blood. With a curse, my force slumped as he began to lead me down the dimly lit halls. Quicksand, the more I fought, the swifter I’d drown. It was a steady balance, keeping my head above the surface and maintaining a spine. 

________________________________________________________________________________________________



One minute she’s here and the next, gone with the damn wind. And I could tell something wasn’t right about it this time, something in my gut told me so. Mary-Beth looked just as damn lost as I did, as was Hosea. Dutch told folk not to worry, like he always does. And I tried not to. 

Then Gillis found it fine to wander over to me when everyone was leaving. She broke out in a damn cold sweat, telling me she’d seen me with a stranger. She couldn't keep it in her spirit to stay quiet. Turns out, the woman has gone and gotten herself taken. She couldn't speak to answer Gillis, when another man had her. She said her head went funny all of a sudden (Funny was not the drunken kind). Gillis said it felt strange. She didn’t forget to chastise me about the stolen gold in my suit pocket. 

I feel like a hen wandering around camp now, I had to sit on the ground and open this damn book. My hands needed something to do, something to pull my mind off her for a moment. Yet here I am scratching words down about nothing but her. 

Dutch says we gotta leave the city before we move to look for her. But, I am damn near ready to pack my saddle and lead Boadicea down a trail to look for her. Following that man to the end of the earth is the only thing keeping me from doing so, but by the way that woman has me—It’s a thin line tying me to this camp. 

The girls aren’t taking it well either, I haven’t seen Tilly and Mary-Beth so restless. Javier isn’t singing and Sean isn't talking everyone’s ear off. 

Everything feels so quiet.

Chapter Text

Two Days Later

The cold floors echoed across my skin, leaving a stain on the temperature. The once-clawning hunger in my gut had turned into a dull ache of fatigue. The sun had risen, flitted through glass, and cascaded through the dark. Candles had been snuffed, causing its smoke to cling to the aged walls. I scratched the soreness on my wrists, watching the clock tick away across the room. 

The guard lingering outside of my cell had been sleeping on his feet like a horse the whole night. Crossed arms, with a lulling head every five minutes. I had tried to time his movements and the rhythm of his breathing, searching for any shred of weakness in his stance. Charles had long slumped in the bars across from me, watching as I turned my fingers sore, reaching through the bars with spaces no broader than my thumb.

I curse, leaning back against the rugged brick wall behind me. 

I glanced over at Charles as he stared into the wide, open space. 

“You got someone lookin’ for you?” I asked. 

Charles’ eyes shifted to mine, shaking his head and then looking ahead. He echoed my question after a few paces of silence, his voice low and rich as the earth: “Do you?”

I could picture the breeze running through my cot and flipping through the pages of a book I might never read again. I tried to imagine the others pacing through camp, drawing up plans, and planting promises for my escape. I could’ve seen them indifferent to it as well, unmoored in the absence of a woman they’d only known for a few months. Would someone sleep in my sheets after they’d shed my smell? And Arthur, would he move on as he did so seamlessly years ago?

“I don’t know,” I shrugged, “maybe.”

He regarded me, then looked away, clearing his throat. 

With my neck craned in his direction, I failed to notice the approaching form until a curt rattling came from the bars in front of me. Draped in the dim lighting of the morning, the guard rang the iron. He fiddled with the lock before swinging the door open. 

He tossed a small loaf of stale bread into my lap. Swiftly, he fumbled away from me, slamming the door closed again. “Ross wants to speak with you; eat up.”

Then he was gone.

I looked down at the gold-dusted shell of the loaf, with speckles of charred crust. It must’ve come from the morning before—a scrap left behind that they couldn't feed the dogs—unless they wanted their stomachs to swell with gluten. I broke off a piece of the meal, raising it to my lips and biting down. It crumbled like dirt into my mouth, resistant to the grinding of my molars. I never thought I’d miss Pearson’s stew or Uncle's half-assed whisky this badly. 

As I struggled through the texture, my eyes wandered back over to Charles. Stoic as ever, he kept his attention away from me. 

“You want some?” I asked, already moving to break a piece off. 

“It must not be good if you’re offering,” he said. 

I chuckled, shaking my head. “You’re right, but it’s better than starving, that’s for sure.”

My hand struggled through the bunched bars of the cell, barely reaching far enough to drop the bread into the palm of his hand. He took it gratefully, as if he wasn’t used to the humility. An amused grin broke out on my expression as he bit down into it, scrunching up his face. Charles moved the dry bread around in his mouth before swallowing it like sand. He gave me an even dryer look, as if I’d poisoned him, and I laughed. 

“Thank you.” He said, opening and closing his mouth to be rid of the taste. 

“You’re very welcome.”

Eating the bread felt like it took forever, slowly chewing the slop until your stomach had accepted it. I wasn’t too sure if it was better to have eaten it or starved. 

In the corner of my eye, the red-headed guard ambled up to my cage again. Seeing I’d finished my 'meal’, he unlocked it and swung the door open again. Charles’ posture seemed to stiffen as he watched, unmoving. His youthful hands were unsteady as they curled around my forearm. I allowed the guard to pull me up to my feet and out of the cell, sweeping the halls for a route of escape. 

He took a curt turn down a hall I’d never seen before. The once blankly uninspired brown walls transitioned into a pale green striped wallpaper with portraits of settlers pinned up. The floors carried my feet well, not squealing or creaking under my weight. The windows were clear of cobwebs, and the waking sun was only hindered by freckles of morning dew. 

The guard let go of me, curling his hand around a door before budging it open. 

He urged me inside, following closely on my heels. 

In stark contrast to the halls, blinds covered the windows, hindering the light. The small gasps of light that made its way through shun on a towering bookcase stood in the corner of the room, casting a shadow over the desk beside it. The wooden surface of the desk carried a small basket of quill pens and a typewriter without a word written on the page. Agent Ross sat down across from a smaller informal chair, the kind a man would hang themselves kicking. He pulled it from his lips, allowing smoke to slip through his teeth. It was one of the expensive ones from Cuba, dressed in spices and pieceless pleasure. 

The agent looked up at me, something unreadable running through his expression. He waved his hand, dismissing the guard. The red-head wasted no time slithering back out the door. 

“Come, please take a seat.” Ross said, drumming his fingers on the desk. 

I glared at him, dragging the chair against the floor before taking a seat. 

He appeared amused by my compliance as he rose from his own seat. His hand yanked at the blinds, opening the sun up to the room. I cringed away from its light as it burned. 

I blinked away its wrath, rubbing my eyes and squinting out at the rows of tamed roses and tulips. The gardens are perfectly ornate and firm, with fences, rules, and hand-picked seedlings. A blonde woman wandered between the garden beds. She held shears, snipping away at the dandelions desperately trying to take root. Almost in spite of her, a strung gust of wind sprayed seeds in between the leaves of pansies. 

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Ross asked, taking another puff of his cigar, “I remember you keeping something like this. You were fond of daffodils.” 

“They’re alright.” I grumbled. 

“They’re neat, cultivated like this land,” he paused, “no thistle or crabgrass.”

“What do you want, Ross?” I asked.

He turned, ash falling between his fingers. There was enough silence then to write a dozen words. 

“I want Dutch.” He said, plain as the overhanging blue sky. He outed the cigar in the corner of his desk, the wood too dark to notice. Though if you ran your hands over it, you would feel it dip. 

He still loomed over me, looking down. “I’m of the impression you know where he is.” 

“I don’t.”

Ross’ expression turned like a current in the sea, cold and harsh: “Don’t lie to me, dear girl. It doesn’t suit you.” 

“Being a coward doesn’t suit you either, but here we are.”

“He’s gotten to your head, hasn’t he? Filled your mind with ideals of a pure world, a free world—ha! A free world full of men acting like mongrels. You’re brighter than lying in filth to be put down like the rest of them.” Ross retorted, slamming his hand down onto the table. 

“You’re a mighty fine lap dog,” I spat. “Maybe my husband should’ve taken you for a wife.” 

“Your husband?” His tone lowered, tittering on dangerous: “Perhaps we should discuss your husband and the predicament you’re in. Wanted for murder, wandering across the east, killing god knows how many people-”

“My husband was the farthest damn thing from ‘good’ you never saw him at the end of a bottle.”

“He was good for society,” Ross said. 

“He was good for business, the government’s business, he was a dog just like you and the cowards you work for. And I shot him like one.” I bit back, rising from my seat. “I watched him bleed, tossed him in the yard, and didn’t bother fighting the crows that found him. I burned that house to the ground when I was sick of it.”

Ross’ brown eyes burrowed into mine, like a mutt clawing down the earth. His breaths came in short bursts of air from his nose, and his lips curled in a frown. 

“God knows the only good thing he offered this country was something for its maggots to eat.” I said through gritted teeth, burying my heels into an open wound. 

“So, you have lost your mind.” He said, slick and cool like the drops of dew hitched on the cobwebs. 

“I am not going to give you what you want,” I argued. “If that makes me a madwoman, toss me into whatever asylum you have picked out in New Jersey.”

Ross snorted, and I could smell the tobacco still clinging to his tongue. He turned his back to me, taking strides across his office. The beat of his clicking heels was the only thing I could hear, drowning out the wind pressing through the thin building’s walls. His steps led him in a small circle as he made his rounds in front of me again. 

He struck me across the face with the back of his hand. 

Abruptly, I was back in my house gown, wandering those long, empty halls. The bellowing voice of a man who felt nothing but bitter contempt for me after a few sips of fine whisky echoed across its walls. I could feel the bristling pain sizzling across my cheek. The fear runs like cowering songbirds, squawking away from the roar of a hunter’s rifle. 

“You’ve forgotten yourself.” Ross yelled, spit flying with his words. 

I stood still, ice branching out in my veins, holding me down in place. I wanted to curse him back, send a bullet through his head, as I’d done so nonchalantly with dozens of others. I wanted to watch him bleed, wail, writhe, and cower. 

But I stood there, unmoving, with a red cheek. 

Ross moved, though, settling right back into the chair I met him in. He glared at me, his pale skin flushed and his nostrils flaring. It didn’t take long for a gentle knock to clammer against his door. One of the guards peered through a crack in the entry before peeling it open curiously. He looked to Ross for direction, and the agent shook his head and waved his hand. The guard took my arm, pulling me out and back through the long halls. 

His hand felt stunningly warm against my arm as he guided me. Each step I took felt light and unsteady. Something in my stomach twisted, like a knife had been placed there and tampered with. It stretched and cramped into itself, attempting to make its way up my throat. My mouth began to water like a rabid dog as my shoulder went stiff. 

I yanked myself away from the guard, emptying my stomach on the floor. I choked on bile when it had left me, wiping the corner of my lips with my sleeve. 

The guard cursed something my mind didn’t bother registering in the haze of my lightheadedness. He grabbed my arm again firmly, continuing to push me until we reached my cell block. He opened the lock on my place of residence, tossing me inside of it. I stumbled inside, hitting my head on the wall before I sat down. I groaned, crumpling into myself. 

The floor was hard, cold, and unforgiving against my body as my back pressed down on it. 

I heard Charles shuffle closer to me, as close as he possibly could've been with the bars separating the two of us. His gaze swept over me in confusion, taking his sweet time before saying a word. 

“Are you okay?” He asked, brunching his brows together. 

I scoffed, manoeuvring myself to place my back against the wall. My breathing finally settled into something mimicking a normal rhythm. 

"No, Charles, I haven’t been that way in a long time.” I replied. 

“I see,” he said. 

There was more I wanted to say, and there was always more.

Instead, I turned, fiddling with the dirt under my nails. 

___________________________________________

Hosea says she’s up somewhere past Massachusetts. It is beyond me how he managed to find out, but there's no relief in knowing it. 

I walked past her cot today, somehow the wind and our travels hadn’t washed away her smell. Against my better judgement I may have walked in and sat like I used to. Some things were just like she’d left them. Grimshaw had left a pile of her books on her quilt, with the bookmarks hanging out. There was a stain on her pillow from where she’d spilled Pearson’s stew. 

When I left, I hardly slept in my own tent. Felt like sleeping on a pile of rocks, or like most nights since I left her. It’s all the damn same. I waited too long being a fool, and I’ve gone and done it again. My chest feels heavy, it’s worse than a cold. It’s like the ache coming from muscles worn down. It doesn’t leave when I smoke, and the whisky only makes it worse, spreads it all over. I want her home. 

Chapter Text

Early-May 

1898

I remember the thick smell of iron. The mess of brain matter and blood painted across the baby blue wallpaper. His skull shattered, thin and fragile as a vase. The way his head hit the ground was like a pebble skidding across water and lulling on a riverbed. His eyes were still wet, holding echoes of a life shelved. The mouth of my husband was left slightly agape, drooling through a loose jaw. The smell of rot crept up on his body like a shifting wind, covering him in filth. I had dragged his body across carpets and down the steps of a porch without a neighbour to catch his dead gaze. I watched the crows settle on his abdomen, yanking at his flesh. 

I stood in the snow and watched that house burn. 

I remember everything. 

There was blood on my hands that wouldn't wash away. It stained under my nails, reminding me where I’d gutted a lamb. It had trembled in my hands as it went. Gentle hooves pressed onto my chest, begging at the altar for some shred of mercy it had stolen from me years ago. That poor soft thing, dressed in a white coat, parted in red. 

A good cause I couldn't describe. Because the truth was much simpler—I was a mutt who’d taken one too many lashes, baring her teeth into something much bigger than herself. I’d run free a couple of miles before they found me, tossing my weary body into a kennel. I paced behind the iron bars that mocked me, daring to burn them again. 

The guard shuffled on his feet before me, casting an unreadable look. “If I were you, I would’ve told him exactly what he wanted to hear.”

I chuckle, a lying sound. “And if I had, do you think Van der Linde would’ve been kinder to me?”

“You could’ve gone on to live a decent life outside of that.” The redhead grumbled. 

“I’ve tried that already,” I said. “It’s a lie.”

“And you believe in his promises of a better world, walking through the woods barefoot?”

“No, I prefer it.” I said. 

Charles watched the pair of us; the dip in the corners of his lips spoke pages. He was like a hedge, unmoving from the currents of wind rushing past him. He’d told me about his crime a week ago. It came as a quiet whisper in the middle of the night when I was on the verge of falling asleep. He said he’d crossed the wrong group of bison hunters and sent a bullet through their heads. The way he described it, the piles of bones were wasted for nothing. They had been chasing the animal to near-extinction, wise enough to know who relied on them the most. 

I told him my sins, and he shrugged them off like rain on his shoulders. 

There was hardly a gasp of silence between my thoughts and the bump in the night. 

A gunshot ran through the dark, muffled by the walls and wind. 

The red-headed guard nearly leaped out of his own skin. He stepped forward, craning his head to peer down the halls in both directions. I squinted through the pitch-black windows from under furrowed brows. Charles looked at me when I met his gaze; his posture stiffened like that of a dead animal. 

The guard shuffled back into place, reaching for the rifle saddled over his shoulder. He weighed the weapon in his hand as quick breaths rattled his form. 

A door slammed open somewhere, causing its hatches to groan. 

The next hiss of bullets came louder and closer. 

I moved in near silence, pressing my back flat against the brick wall behind me. The drum of my heartbeat sounded off in my ears, churning my hands cold. Charles shuffled over soon after, never pulling his eyes from the bars in front of the both of us. Like a mountain lion, his limbs patted against the ground as if they were built from the shells of eggs. 

“What the hell was that?” I asked, hushed and low. 

Charles lifted his finger to his lips. 

I heard the distant rumble of voices too vague to read through the walls. Their tone sounded as harsh as the sea against rocks. There are a few rounds of bullets ramming through the air now. Yowls of pain were swiftly cut off by lead. A rough thud hit a door, cranking it open. With each sound burrowing through the concrete, the group drew closer to us. 

A spike of surprise threaded through my veins as a familiar voice crawled under doors and right back to me. A raspy voice bellowing from the lungs of a smoker, low and rough as gravel. A puff of air left me as an open-mouthed smile blossomed on my face. The anxious waiting shed from my bones. 

Charles noticed it, looking at me as if I’d finally lost what was left of my mind. 

“I know these men.” I whispered quietly enough to evade the ears of the shaky-handed guard. 

Charles’ small eyes widened a little as he glanced between me and the corridor. Something in his demeanour curved, like metal under the tool of a blacksmith. 

The guard looked to the left, shifting his stance to only pay mind to that entrance. The door to our hall slammed open with the force of a bull, slamming against the wall. Heavy footsteps followed after it, causing the ground to whine beneath it. The man who'd once been so proud and rough with us cowered like a hit child from something we couldn't see. He dropped his rifle, raising his hands in trembling defeat. 

Arthur came into our line of vision; the lines on his face bolded into an expression I’d never seen before. His steps were drawn out and slow. When he came close enough, Arthur rounded a punch across the guard’s face, powerful enough to yank him right off his feet. The guard scrambled on the floor, wide-eyed. I wouldn't have been surprised if he’d pissed himself. His shaking limbs barely held him up. Arthur grabbed his collar, pulling him right back to his feet. He slammed the man against the concrete wall. The guard struggled under his grip, his face flushing like he’d spent too long in the sun. 

“Arthur!” I said, springing from my feet. 

He turned like a buck whistled for, appearing just as wide-eyed and stunned. I watched the rhythm of his breathing kick up—a rising tide. He rushed over to me. The guard fell from his hands. He took a handful of the iron bars, regarding me before relenting. He motioned for me to step back, retrieving a pistol from his hip. The lock on my cell swiftly came undone under the force of lead. 

The gate barely had a chance to swing open before he pulled me into his arms. 

Warmth and the tangy scent of whisky enveloped me. His hold was firm, holding me in place like an anchor. The stubble on his face drew circles against my skin. His face rested in the crook of my neck, and I could feel his breath against my skin. I could hear the pattern of his heartbeat sounding over and over again. 

When he pulled away, it felt like a quilt being yanked away from me in the dead of winter, slow and drawn out. He pressed a hand at the base of my neck, above my collar bone. The hum of my heartbeat danced under his fingertips. He looked tired. 

“Come on,” he said, words sounding more like air than anything else. 

He gently helped me up, cradling my arm with his battered and bloody knuckles. I only drew away from him as the guard caught his eye again. A distinct venom travelled through his gaze as his lips curled into themselves. He retrieved the fallen revolver. The weapon sounded, sending a scrap of lead through the redhead’s skull. A bloody mist splattered against the walls, floor, and Arthur’s cheek. 

He glanced at me and nodded towards the exit. 

My steps began to follow him before they stalled. I looked over my shoulder at Charles, who sat at the cell’s gate. 

“Wait,” I said. 

Arthur spun on his heels. 

“Could you shoot the lock? Charles has been good to me.” I said, referring my hand to the cell. 

The men made eye contact, and something unreadable ran through both of their eyes. 

A huff of air left Arthur’s nose as he lifted the revolver, shooting the lock. The only sound between the three of us was metal hitting the ground. 

Charles pushed the swaying door open, unfolding to his full height. He stretched his limbs, causing his bones to crack under him. 

“Thank you.” He said, and I wasn’t sure if it was for me or him. He picked up the fallen rifle from the guard hesitantly, allowing his finger to run over the trigger. 

The thunder of ricocheting bullets reminded us exactly where we were. The dreadful sound echoed across the walls, blended seamlessly with shouts and bloodied groans. Arthur cursed bitterly, taking my hand into his as we pressed on down the halls with Charles on our heels. 

I smelled the raw scent of smoke, and it struck me. Adrenaline slithered up my spine, making rounds in my gut. Arthur seemed just as uneasy as me, changing course in the opposite direction. 

“Fire.” I said, looking behind us as a thin veil of white smoke sprawled itself into the air. It rammed itself down my throat and irritated my lungs. Our feet darted against the ground like the hooves of a wild herd of horses spooked by gunfire. We took off down canyons and over riverbanks in drought. 

Dutch called Arthur’s name from nearby, so we changed course again. 

We’d only made it a few steps before light branched out onto the ceiling. It bellowed pitch-black smoke from its tendrils, breaking down the foundations. Wood fell into itself, crumbling and sending splitters spiralling into the air. The flames consumed everything it got its claws on. Its cruel light turned the walls red and yellow. I felt the lungs in my chest flare like the feathers of a sick bird. My feet could only move so fast. So, yet again, we spun on our heels. 

“We can’t meet them here.” I said, fighting the ash in my chest. 

Charles made an agreeable noise. 

A howling cough rattled me. I lifted my sleeve in a fragile attempt to clean the air. Arthur looked down at me, pulling me closer as if the smoke would yank me away. The jailhouse was a damn maze. The halls twisted and curled as patterns of themselves. Each room we ran through looked the same as the others. Empty cells were cloned pillars of iron. Shattered glass yelped from windows we didn’t have the eyes to see. The guards, who hadn’t had their skulls caved in with a bullet, screamed. They attempted to claw their way up the walls like animals. They must’ve known approaching us would’ve been as futile as standing where they were. 

When we’d run far enough to miss the light of untamed fire, Arthur’s hands left me. He patted the walls for windows blinded by black smoke. Charles stood by my side, muffling his coughing with a sleeve.

The haze of light spanned across the wall and down the hall. A brief warning of flames before it reached out, slumping against the untouched walls. It consumed the paintings and pulled the striped wallpaper from the walls. It curled into the heat, pooling onto the carpet. A vein of smoke only grew thicker on the ceiling, building onto itself with nowhere else to go. 

My throat burned in mockery. It drew an itch to the places I couldn't reach. 

The glass of a window shattered a few feet away. It thundered into silence as quickly as it came, slumping onto the floor. 

Arthur reached behind my legs and plucked me from the ground. He held me to his chest as he crawled up onto the ledge. A guttural sound left him as his hands dug into the remaining shards of glass. He pushed himself off quickly. He fell into the well-maintained garden bed on his back, with me pressed against his stomach. Arthur held onto me as we rolled out of Charles’ way, who was much less fortunate to land in the roses. 

I was the first to get back on my feet. I took Arthur’s hand into mine and pulled him from the parted daffodils. The outlaw winced as spikes of glass worked their way into his palms. 

Charles stumbled onto his feet and hacked, like the smoke was something he could be rid of. 

The three of us dashed away from the burning building, now fully engulfed. The wooden walls groaned and creaked, still trying its hardest to keep together. The black smoke made amends with the night sky, but not nearly enough to scare the lingering stars overhead. 

Long streams of grass brushed against my legs as Arthur pulled us to search the wide property for his companions. 

It didn’t take long for their silhouettes to be made out near the back. The men stood there with their horse’s reins in hand, watching the large bonfire. They turned at the sound of rustling in the earth, reaching for their pistols before relenting. Something like relief settled the hitch in my shoulders. We ran down the shallow hill, our feet light enough not to spook the horses. 

“There you are.” Dutch said, taking my shoulder into his hand. 

Hosea came from behind him, an earnest smile making its way to his face. “Tough lady.”

The Callander brothers looked me over, and Mac slapped my shoulder roughly. As if I’d earned some badge of honour in his eyes, amusing man children.  

“Which one of you idiots started that damn fire?” I asked, keeping my eyes between Mac and Davey. 

“Idiot Marston.” Davey teased through a grin. 

I swore I could feel the shift in Arthur’s attention behind my back and redirect irritation. His blue eyes cut through the dark like a blade. 

“What? How the hell was I supposed to know it would do that?” John grumbled like a sulking teen. 

“There’s only so many things that could happen when you shoot an oil lamp, fool.” Mac retorted. 

I rolled my eyes and took Brodicea’s reins between my fingers. My attention shifted over to Charles, who stood like a salmon flushed out the water and into snow. He peered up at me as the wind tussled with his long black locks of hair. 

“You’ve been a good friend to me.” I said, low enough so they others couldn't hear above their childish bickering. 

"I could say the same to you.” He replied. 

I looked over at Dutch, then back to him. “I’m sure the others wouldn't mind you staying with us, at least for a little while.”

He shook his head, taking a step away, “I’ll be alright.” 

I nodded slowly, sticking a hand out for him to shake. He smiled for the first time since I’d known him, wrapping his callous hand around my own firmly. The warmth of it left as soon as it came and so did he. Past the smoke and into the burly, raw woods.

Chapter Text

Mid-May 

1898

We rode far enough for the horses to tire, rested, and tossed our heels over the saddle come dawn. The vast expanse of the American east painted itself in fields of long bladed grass. Dandelions illuminated them, flowering between violets in competition for the sunlight. The rivers ran miles through the woods. Green-winged teals dipped their sage-specked faces beneath the water’s surface. The heat of everything around, the fog, the damned mosquitoes—summer was rolling over the hills. 

Mist came in tandem with my breathing. I rested my cheek on Arthur’s back. My fingers trailed over the curve of his spine. I could hear his heartbeat and breaths rattling through his ribs. 

After a week, we’d arrived on the shores of camp. 

Mary- Beth was the first to notice me and the first to wrap her thin arms around me. Her brown hair covered my face, and the floral scent of her dress enveloped me. She gripped me by the shoulders, pulling me away just to catch my gaze. The cusp of her eyes held tears, and her lips quivered. “You’re okay.”

I didn’t have the opportunity to get my own response out. 

Karen nearly knocked me off my feet. She clamped down on my abdomen, and an involuntary whine slipped from my lips. I peered down at Tilly, pleading with my eyes alone.

She loosened her grip on me eventually and slapped a hand on my shoulder. “See? What’d I tell you, she’s as fine as one of them prairie bison?”

Tilly beamed up at me with her sweet features and doe-eyes. “We were worried sick.”

The three girls stuck to my hips like burrs. They linked with my arms, walking me through the camp as if my legs needed their direction. My heels dug into the earth when we’d passed Lenny’s designated tent. 

The boy perked up at our arrival. He sat on the cot with his back straight. Sean slumped in a wooden chair across from him with a book in his hands. They both grinned up at us, perhaps as an excuse to lose his page and toss it onto the sheets. 

“She lives!” Sean barked, throwing up his hands. 

Lenny shot him a half-hearted glare, then turned his eyes to me and said, “Great to see you.”

“How’s that leg of yours?” I asked. 

The kid scoffed and waved his hand. “Forget my leg! You’ve been off to god knows where for weeks; I want to hear all about it.” 

It seemed he speak for more than just himself as the other four hung onto my words. 

“Well, they really wanted to know all about you folks,” I paused, a smile slithering onto my face, “and they thought it’d be best to ship me off to an asylum and chop off bits of my brain.”

Sean howled into a valley of snarky laughter. Karen snorted, placing a finger on her chin. Lenny tried his best not to let the other’s get to him, but in the way the corners of his lips twitched, it was a withering battle. 

“I was readin’ about those projects with the mind and all. It’s the age of innovation, but I think some things should be left on their own. The mind is something too hard to get.” 

I shrugged. “You’re the smart one.”

We bounced off each other's words until my tongue ached. I bid them farewell and wandered into the settled grass of the camp. Beginning embers of fire crackled against dry wood. It bristled on a patch of earth, where the greenery had been balded by foot steps. Javier settled against a stump of wood. His fingers tangled in the threads of his guitar, humming out a song no one knew the words to. Reverend stumbled down next to him, clinging onto whisky as if he’d birthed it. The sun had begun its daily departure down the sky’s rim. It shimmered through the trees, painting everything around it in gold. 

Trelawny caught the line of my gaze. He quickly walked over to me like a chicken. He was waddling and bobbing his head in a tapered black suit. 

“Josiah.” I greeted. 

“Ms., I am truly sorry for what transpired in New York. Absolute animalism in the highest degree—if I had been there, I wouldn't have it. Bastards and sons of whores they are.”

I held up a hand, a small smile blooming onto my face. “It’s just fine; I’m not dead.”

“No.” He paused, stopping in front of me. “I suppose you’re not.” 

“Yet.” I muttered quietly. 

That was that. 

I ambled over and rested on the ground with a straight spine. Arthur joined me soon after and passed me a spare meal. I thanked him, halfway expecting his departure, but he tarried at my side. The heat of a bowl warmed my palm. I stuck a spoon into the mess of potatoes and kidney beans, lifting it to my lips. Pearson’s god-awful strew slid down my throat and soothed the aching walls of my stomach. For the first time, I refused to complain. I didn’t have the right to. 

My nose scrunched. Arthur caught the shift in my expression and chuckled, “The Pinkertons spoiled you.”

“Yeah, with stale bread,” I replied, rolling my eyes. 

An odd sound left him—something between a grunt and a grumble. If there were words intended to leave, I was blind to them. 

Arthur looked down at me, the shades of blue reflecting yellow in his eyes. The golden sun dancing over water, the stars in navy skies. I could feel the warmth radiating from his being, like a thousand wildfires burning through green. He gently cleared his throat and rested his hand against the grass. Attempting to manoeuvre words through the thicket of his voice. 

Whatever he was about to say was said swiftly. The ridged thunder of Grimshaw’s footsteps damn near shook the ground. She approached us in long strides. A thin sheet draped over her arm. I waned under her pecking gaze, expecting her to find something to start squawking about. 

Grimshaw placed her hands on her hips. She glanced between the pair of us. A soft sigh left her as she shook her head. She wafted the wide fabric in the wind and leaned down, wrapping it around my shoulders. 

“Those damn bastards, I hope the burnin’ they got from that fire prepares them for hell.” She hissed, squeezing my sides, “But you’re home now.” 

The older woman rubbed my shoulder. She unfurled her legs to her full height. She peered down at Arthur and raised her brows plainly as the dirt whisked away to some other task, leaving me in the ripple of her gown. My brows bunched together while I watched her leave. 

I held the sheet closer, in spite of the weather being kind to us. I looked over at Arthur and spoke in a low whisper, “That woman confuses me.” 

Arthur chucked in the dry way he did, sounding more like wind blowing through a hollow tree. When his amusement had settled into a hum in clearing his throat, he spoke again, “Ain’t nothing confusing. She’s a bird, flappin’ her wings to make her seem bigger and scarier than she actually is. All bark, no bite.”

“So, like you?” I asked. 

The man scoffed at that. "No, sweetheart, I’m not good enough for all that—too much blood on my hands.”

My smile stammered as I gazed up at him. I trailed over each wrinkle carved into his face. Each scar sewn onto his skin. The many years and memories stashed between the two of us. The skeletons barred in our closets, spilling out onto rugs. Through it all, this moment felt plucked from the past. A scene my mind had run over dozens of times, ironing out the details and colours. It felt like breathing in fog, knee-deep in morning dew. The golden sun ignited everything. 

My eyes lowered to his hand, fiddling with blades of grass stuck between his fingers. Slickly, I threaded my fingers in between his. He stilled against me for a moment, eventually softening. His palms ran rough from years on the run and felt gentle against the thin barriers of my skin. The warmth from the two of us cascaded through it. 

I rested my head against the edge of his shoulder. I could smell the husk of earth and whisky gripping onto his clothing. His heart trembled against my weight. 

“This place missed you.” He said, and for a moment I didn’t know if he meant the last few weeks—or the last two decades. I didn’t know if he meant the camp or himself. 

“I missed it too.” I pulled away and smiled. “Did you miss me?” 

“Uncle Arthur?” Jack asked, walking his short, stubby legs between us. He appeared out of goddamn nowhere. 

Arthur looked just as caught off guard, reeling away from my face. “Hey kid,”

Little Jackie peered over at me. He placed the book he held on the ground. Reaching out his arms in my direction, he opened and closed his palms. I chuckled softly, taking his small body into a firm hug. He spoke my name ecstatically, placing a subtle ‘aunt’ before it. 

When he pulled away, he wasted little time nestling between the two of us. He retrieved his abandoned storybook and placed it in his lap. The large pages looked obnoxiously large in his small hands. He flipped through them with little intention to leave anytime soon. 

“Uncle Hosea bought me a new book while you were away.” The boy grinned, searching the illustrations. “Look at this!”

Jack displayed a realistic rendering of dung in its many variants. Wolf poop, cattle poop, rabbit poop, deer poop—frankly, I didn’t realize there were so many different kinds of shit. 

“Eww,” I said, waving a hand in front of my face for dramatic effect. 

Hosea slinked from behind us, lifting Jack up by the underside of his arms. The boy squealed in surprise. He kicked his feet into the old man’s grasp. His sharp movements only fell still when he’d been placed on Hosea’s shoulders. Legs dangling against his chest. 

“Are you over here haunting these poor folks with pictures of horse dung?” Hosea asked through grinning teeth.

“No!” Jack said, unable to subdue the smile on his little face. 

Hosea snatched the abandoned book from the grass and tucked it under his arm. “Those storybooks you read tell better lies.”

The boy huffed, resting his chin on white hair. 

“We’re headin’ fishing tomorrow, if you’re up for it.” Hosea said to me, whispering as if Jack wasn’t resting on his shoulders. 

“I want to come,” Jack said. “Can I come?”

“No, grown ups only,” Hosea teased, “besides, it’s bedtime for you kid.”

The boy pouted over his head, and he sent us a small wave. The two of them walked off into the bustle of camp. 

Karen danced with Sean, playing a scowl on her features. She feigned the furrow in her brows and the narrowness of her eyes. In contrast, Sean looked like he’d won a racing bet. Waving his ticket in the air, he watched as his prized horse crossed the thundering tracks. 

Javier had allowed his throat to halt its songs. Jenny sat by his side, speaking of things far out of my ear’s reach. When Lenny passed them by, she waved him over and patted the spot next to her. Mary-Beth and Tilly watched them. Their hands loosely built knots, crocheting granny squares. Behind them, Bill drank with the Callander’s. They slammed their hands onto the poker table with boyish glee. Dutch and Molly preened on each other's hair and clothes like lovesick doves. The whole camp thrummed in the rhythm of the evening. 

Then there were the two of us, sitting and studying the world go ‘round. 

“I did miss you.” Arthur said, like it was something he’d been keeping choked down. With the way he said it, I wondered if he had meant the last week or the last two decades. 

I studied the way his brow twitched, the way his eyes avoided me, and the slight stutter in his breathing. I must’ve made him nervous. Arthur remained buried in all his contradictions. Gentle and lethal. 

Looking down, I thought of the long halls of the jail house. The transitioned walls between cold concrete and warm wallpapers pinned up in offices. The iron bars and stems of daffodils are all levelled into ash. The bitterness that had taken hold over my bones for years and the childish moths flying circles in my gut. The crows and gold finches, all songbirds, are just the same.

My mind wandered over to that strange man I’d seen, stark against any background he lined himself with. The bleached winter slow, the shimmering gold of a mansion. He came to me all the same. The thought of whatever he was unnerved me—something unnatural lurking under the skin of a lamb. 

Had he had his hand dealt with in any of this? I couldn't help but think, The perfect orastra of everything that had come and gone—was it beyond coincidence? Was he the one to slip poison in my wine? Had he whispered my location to higher-ups? Had the Pinkertons predicted my escape the same way they’d planned to string me along? Was leaving me alone their own flavour of torture? I could’ve drowned in these thoughts if I tried hard enough. 

There was an ache in my chest to stay and an ache in my legs to flee. I scattered thoughts behind my eyes that kept me awake. I just wanted to be sure of something beyond the one thing I couldn't have. 

I leaned into him, and the earth sang. 

Chapter Text

June

1898

I hadn’t been sleeping.

At least not well enough to wipe the bags from under my eyes. 

I couldn’t help but feel like I’d eaten something rotten, and this was my body’s desperate attempt to rid me of it. The aches of my muscles, the anxious rumble of my chest. There was this daunting feeling I’d get. A force pushing me to glance over my shoulder or shy away from the dark. A force pushing me to study strangers with a new level of vigilance. A force dragging my days into spurts of awareness in an otherwise sea of fatigue and naps. None of it made a lick of sense.

I’d come to the conclusion that if the Pinkertons were to catch me, it wouldn’t be pretty. But, I suppose they’d have to catch me first. 

Grimshaw didn’t have the mind for it. She’s slapped the back of my head in an attempt to rile me up like a gelding, though I’d become more like a mule. Though she was pleased enough, I’d stopped running off into the woods and searching for a noose to wear. 

I looked up from my cot, studying the retreating stars. The sun had hardly cracked through the rose-tinted clouds. Dew collected on the petals of weeds, and the robins had begun to chirp from overhead. Pollen twined in the air; the camp was still humming with sleeping bodies. 

I could hear Dutch and Hosea speaking to each other in hushed tones. Their words darted while Arthur watched. He rolled the cigarette between his teeth, striking a match. 

“I don’t know Dutch,” Hosea shook his head.

“One more score, then we’re gone. Decamped.”

“So, what? You figure we stay here in Massachusetts with a big ‘hang us!’ sign painted on our backs?” Hosea said. 

“No, all I’m sayin’ is—”

“We got all the money we could possibly get from the East, Dutch. We were lucky with the stagecoach, lucky with the oilmen, lucky we found that poor woman and brought her home. We ain’t gotta push it, not now. We’ve gotta head west.”

Dutch cocked his head, “Arthur, what are you thinkin’?”

“I’m thinkin’ Hosea’s right. We got what we needed; it's not the time to get bullish. Summer ain’t gonna last forever; packing in winter is fresh hell. If we wanna move, now’s the time.” 

Hosea roughly ruffled his blonde hair. “Look at that, fool’s finally using that head God gave him.”

“Fool’s got a woman to think about now, that’s all.” Dutch snickered.

“Well, we ain’t-”

“Sure you ain’t,” Dutch rose his brows, unconvinced. “I’m just pleased you’ve quit your mopin’ over Ms. Gillis.”

Arthur snorted out a dry gust of smoke in the opposite direction. 

“Look at him, all bashful like.”

“This ain’t about me.” He muttered. 

Smiling, I tossed my feet over the edge of my cot. My bare feet caught onto the grass before retreating. I lazily waved my hands near the ground, searching for my boots. When I stood, my sleeping gown fell over my knees. I pushed the shawl of my tent away, the sound drawing the attention of the three men. 

“Good morning,” I said. 

They whispered their greetings, and I settled on an empty space next to Hosea. 

“Dutch was just suggesting the wise idea of robbin’ a train before we make our getaway through the plains.” Hosea said, a sly grin slithering onto his face. 

“God forbid a man has ideas.”

“Ideas above his station. We didn’t get this far by shooting down and blind.”

Most of everyone else woke up under the hour with sunlight peeling open their eyes. The smell of brewing coffee left me lingering near the pot. Little Jack was quick to take to the earth, chasing after rabbits and whatnot. His little cheeks were pink and dipped with dimples. A wide smile coiled tightly on his face. Today was the day he’d catch those bass he’d seen slithering through the currents. He grabbed at his mother’s skirt, asking her every few moments when they’d leave for the lakes. Eventually, she’d had enough and practically pushed the three of us on the backs of our horses. 

I felt the shake of the animal under me; the wind traced over my features, the gnats skittering across my skin. I missed it. Perhaps more than I wanted to believe. 

It wasn’t that I’d been afraid to leave camp; I just lacked the drive to pull myself from the tents and chores. 

It made Arthur uneasy; I could see it on his face. He muttered curses to the Pinkertons practically every hour and glared at my bruises. He’d been the only one to notice my unsavoury sleeping patterns. At nightfall, he lounged at my side under candlelight while I read. Lazily listing off the nightbirds screeching in the dark. If I was lucky enough, he’d fall asleep, and I could tangle my fingers in his blonde locs. It was like I’d been shot all over again. 

God, I hated him. 

I knew better than to bring it up, let alone mention it to the girls. So, I sat with those quiet moments and held them the way I always did. 

I could hear the crashing of water before I saw the lake. A shallow tide crashed against the shore of soil and rock. 

The horses were left hitched to an old fence, crooked enough for the horses to mow down if they really wanted. Instead, they craned their long necks down to the lush patches of green grass. A canoe was abandoned between the black rocks on the lakeshore. It was meticulously crafted. Its sides were lined with the age of trees. When pushed across the surface, it glided. Under the boat’s belly, the water shook in rings of movement. 

Hosea drummed his fingers against it, “This is some good wood.”

“I figured wood was just wood.”

“No, I've seen those real old trees in California.” He paused to cough. “This is some damn good wood.”

The rod weighed down in my hand. I attached a scrap of bread to the hook and tossed the line into the water. I watched the fish dart around it under the blueish depths. 

“I can’t remember the last time I’ve been fishing.” I said more to myself than anyone else. 

“Good,” Arthur smiled, tossing his line in with a piece of cheese. “You and Jack’ll be on the same page.”

"Oh, please, Arthur, you can’t fish to save your life. One damn time we thought you’d caught one; it was something picked up from the market.” Hosea teased. 

He gave the old man a half-assed glare. 

It couldn’t have been longer than ten minutes before I felt the rod tremble. A sharp tug nearly yanked it out of my hands. A shiver of adrenaline ran through me as something in the water thrashed around. The fish retreated like wine in an empty stomach, scattering to the bottom of the lake somewhere. A smile curled onto my face as I fought with the thing just out of sight.

Planting my feet in the cradle of the canoe, waving the fishing line back and forth. Reeling, yanking, and pulling. When it reached the surface, the water was thin enough to make out the fish’s form, a well-off bass. It was tattered with olive scales, especially bold ones running through the middle of its body, save for the beast’s white belly. Bright black eyes looked up at me in a way that almost made me feel bad.

Almost. 

The bass broke the surface, thrashing with a hook through its face. Its gills flared like the wings of a bird, desperately trying to take flight away from it all. Vibrant scales basked in sunlight, shining and burning. Water spat everywhere around, causing the group to squint in preparation for it to reach their eyes. 

I bit my nails into the thing’s mouth, yanking it from the hook. It writhed in my hand. I tossed the fish onto the unused seats behind us, figuring Pearson would be able to make something of it. 

I smirked, and Arthur nearly rolled his eyes out of his head. 

A silhouette sketched out against the white sky stood and watched. A top hat sprouted from his head; the suit remained still despite the wind working its way around him. The smell of wet paint coasted over my senses. 

The boat swayed under me. The hum of conversation had started to sound much more like the sea kissing stone. I must’ve looked out of my mind. Staring off at the sun. 

The man remained unmoving. 

“Arthur,” I said, “Do you see that man over there?”

He lifted his chin, casting a look over the horizon. 

Then there was nothing. 

The bridge of Arthur’s nose twitched, “Not really.”

Jack tugged at his shirt and pulled his attention back to the thrashing waters. 

With narrowed eyes, I peered back over to the rocks. Again, it had been enveloped by the stark image of a man—watching. 

I rested my fishing rod against the canoe’s ridge and grabbed two fistfuls of my dress. Its cloth danced under the surface, scaring the carp. The cool water flushed against my legs as I sunk my feet to the sand. They fought against the current and dragged me to the shore.

“Where are you goin?” Arthur asked, seeming damn near ready to abandon the boat at my behest. 

“I need to see somethin’ I’ll be back.” 

I felt his eyes linger on my form as water skittered from my thighs. 

I sprinted through the trees. They were thick enough to starve off a vision of the otherside. Twigs broke their spines under my heels; the squirrels skittered to the branches. The air smelt like the true north, rich soil and old bark. The shade chilled over my wet lower half. 

The sun split through the thicket, with it the sound of the river and a man’s back. 

My steps slowed when I saw him. Short shuffling turned to long strides, into nothing. 

“You.” I said, unsure if it was a question. 

The man turned, “Me.”

It was the same man from the woods, the same one from the mansion. 

“You’ve been following me, haven’t you?” I asked. 

He smiled, straightening his shoulders. “Have I?”

“Virginia… New York, do you take me for a daft fool?” 

“Certainly not.” 

“You’re with the Pinkertons, aren’t you? Damn snake.”

“I think there are animals you should be worried about, dear girl. Cottonmouths have a hell of a bite, and rats are filthy.”

“Is that a threat?” 

“Not to me, my dear. Not to me.”

I look into his eyes, darker than the gut of a cricket. I couldn’t spot a pupil or a glint of anything. 

“Who are you?”

“A student.”

“An accounting student?” I said, 

My hand slipped down my dress and curled around a pistol. I yanked it from its holster, pointing the barrel at the man’s chest. 

That made him grin and shake his head. 

“You’re a funny one,” he replied, pressing his chest against the pistol. “I like that; it's admirable.” 

“Ain’t nothing gonna be funny when I blow a hole in your heart and spew off bits of your lung for the fish to eat.” I spat, cocking the weapon.

The strange man chuckled and leaned away. “I’m afraid you don’t have much of a heart to wound.”

He walked towards the woods without leaving prints of his dress shoes in the ground. 

“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” I rushed after him. 

“One more thing,” his steps slowed, and he lifted a finger. “I find that Flat Iron Lake east of Blackwater has wonderful bass. A simple suggestion from a friend.”

“Friend? You aren’t—”

The rebuttal died in my throat when the man disappeared in the blink of my eye. My feet stuttered to a stop as I looked around and squinted at trees in some attempt to pull him back into my line of sight. I lifted the heels of my palms to my eyes and rubbed them. 

The path back down south through the woods felt longer. I was unable to shake the sick feeling of something lingering over my shoulders. The once calming shade had begun painting pictures of myths at the foot of oak trees. The sound of fauna dashing across moss had muffled into an uncanny nothingness. 

When I’d made it out, it was like the earth had learned how to breathe again. Streaks of warm gold strung across my cheeks; I could hear the water and the bluebirds. The ground under me had gone soft again. I searched for Arthur’s eyes only to find they were already on me. 

I slid the pistol back up my dress and rushed over to the canoe tarrying near the shore. Taking the curb of it into my hand, I tossed my leg over and into the bed of the boat. The other three made way for me, though not without a fair share of odd looks. 

“You find what you were lookin’ for?” Hosea asked, tossing back a juvenile pike. 

“I never really do.” I replied and took my fishing rod back into my hands. 

He furrowed his brows. 

The hours swirled into each other, enough so that I’d nearly forgotten the man in the top hat.

Jack had caught a trout that much more resembled a tadpole. Hosea and I had caught enough to feed everyone back home. Though, when the wind regained the same chill and when the sun had begun to dip behind the clouds—I was reminded chiefly of that churn in my gut. 

We left the canoe where we found it, nestled between the large rocks. Arthur raced little Jack as we made our way back over to the horses, leaving me with Hosea. 

He lifted his arm and coughed into it. 

“I haven’t seen that man so damn happy in years.” Hosea said.

I glanced over at Arthur as he lifted Jack onto his shoulders. A smile curled onto my face. 

He turned to me and said, “It was you who did it.”

I gave him a doubtful look. 

Chapter Text

Early July 

1898

I wouldn’t consider myself a woman of well-mind. 

Over the incoming weeks, that sense of dread burrowed into every fabric of my days. I attempted to shrug them off, bury them under my cot, and squeeze my eyes till sleep came. Still, my head ran ahead of me to the Pinkertons, that strange man. Everything that could possibly go wrong, everything that I could ruin. 

I was unsure if I’d ever come back. Unsure of everything that wasn’t the ground beneath my feet. 

I scribbled out a letter, an explanation. 

To whom it may concern, 

I have left for Nova scotia. I have gone on my own volition; do not worry or look for me. I do not know when or if I will return. 

Yours,

I folded every article of clothing I owned into a duffle bag no longer than my arm. They bunched together like birds in a tree, squawking decrepit tunes. I threw in rolled-up maps and what little money I had kept for myself and some fruits. The zipper struggled to swallow it all. 

I had left at sundown, when I was sure enough everyone had fallen asleep. No drawn-out good-byes, no wiggle room for my convictions to shift. This was something I had to do. 

I slung it over my shoulder and moved out of my cot. The night was still, unusually so. I heard the leaves rustling and raccoons scurry between old oak trees. Stars strung up across the black sky, dissipating behind invisible clouds. The sweet scent of night flowers anchored me down, begging me to stay. For a moment, I almost caved. 

Passing by Skipper, I scratched the horse under his long jaw. The horse nickered gently and checked my palms for treats. Having discovered none, he snorted and stepped back. I regarded the camp in all its gauche glory. The drawn-up tents, the campfire I was fleeing, and the sound of drunken music and laughter. I sighed, short from my nose, and walked towards the exit. I’d miss it. 

Sean slept against a tree stump where he’d been placed to keep watch. His ginger head bobbed in his rest. If it were any other night, I would've seized him and shook him by the shoulder. But this wasn’t any other night. 

I worked my way through the dark, walking down the trails I’d become so familiar with during daylight. My steps sank into the occasional pitfall of a muddied puddle. The golden light of the nearest town cut through the black trees as a beacon. It was at peace, save the drunks wandering into the sides of saloons and spilling their guts on the curb. The roads smelt of booze and cheap Cuban cigars. 

The stagecoach was sleeping on his feet like a horse when I’d come up to him. He narrowed his eyes and unfolded his crossed arms, helping me up into the vehicle. 

“Where to, ma’am?” He asked. 

“Eflon Harbour,” I said, handing him off a few bills. 

“Where’s your husband?” He asked, flashing a grin. 

I waved my hand and rolled my eyes. 

He flipped them between his gloved fingers and nodded. An amicable smile sprouted under his moustache. 

I leaned up against the red passenger seats, ruffled velvet under my thighs. Pressing my cheek flat against the window, I watched the sunrise. Its broad streaks of autumn-toned clouds funnelled in the horizon. Red-winged blackbirds rattled their song and flashed their wings. Though mostly, it was dull. Orchards filled with rotting apples when the trees couldn't carry them anymore. Begging union veterans wandering the trails with open hands. 

I tried to imagine Mary-Beth or Tilly approaching my cot to shake me awake. I tried to see their once sleepily drowsy expressions churn in worry. I tried to imagine Dutch, Hosea, and Arthur. In the blur of it all, the trip barely lasted three hours. 

I rubbed my cool cheek and thanked the stagecoach. My feet hit the gravel softly. 

My heels clicked against the cobblestone streets of a quaint fishing town. Boats gathered on the shore, tied to wooden docks. Men watched the clouds gathering overhead. They hauled the day’s catch in wide hemp nets, filled with twitching trout. The town packed up, returning to the gentle arms of their homes. I walked forward. 

I stumbled upon a quiet inn overlooking the rowing sea. It was coloured in paint, peeling from the sun. Yellow light fell on tables and warm wooden floors. A sweet older fella sat at the front desk with a pair of glasses dangling from his nose. 

When I reached my room, I shrugged my bag carelessly onto the floor and flopped into the bed. I couldn't tell you how long I stared off at the ceiling.

It was a week until Arthur found me—damn that stubborn man. 

The sky was dark and clapping thunder. Though from where I stood, the world was still. 

The soles of my feet collected golden sand. I ambled over sharp stones sprouting from the damp shore. In a misstep, a sharpened edge of a rock slit my foot. It bloomed red, and the pain was light. I dipped it into the sea, feeling the way it burned. A thin sheet of blood fanned out below the surface. I fidgeted with the train ticket in my hand. 

The cool water caressed my ankles, reeling back and living kisses of the sea. Foam-capped waves lulled over my skin, over and over and over again. The silk of seaweed traced me. I could taste the salt in the air. I could feel the wind run through my hair, wrestling loose tendrils. There wasn’t a sound my ears could catch, beyond the restless current, soft wind, and the keen sky. 

The rain was shy at first, slowly gaining ambition with each breath I took. Water trailed down my face, running races down my neck. It spat across my body, turning my dress into a sopping mess. It clung to my form like some touch-starved man. 

I hadn’t heard Arthur approach; I didn’t even feel him. 

I could paint the way he looked then, a thousand times over—on a canvas or the sand. The rain pressed his blonde hair into wet curls against his face. It turned the fabrics of his clothing clear as it hung from him. His face was flushed like it used to be, rubbed red from the cold. The way his blue eyes darkened, it was enough to appear brown. 

I peered at Arthur’s chest, studying the way it fell and rose with the storm that raged inside of him. In spite of himself, he was messy and filled to the brim with feeling no longer beyond my realm of interpretation. Something in me settled when he looked like this, all sweet and gentle and so frustrated. 

“Where are you going?" He asked. 

I dug my toes into the sand. “You know where I’m going.”

He was silent. 

“It’s for the best, you know that.” I continued. 

“This ain’t wise.”

“And staying would be? The Pinkertons are on my damn tail; it’ll get a lot of you killed.”

“Pinkertons were already breathin’ down our necks; you being there won’t change anything." Arthur argued, attempting to catch my gaze with his eyes. 

“It’ll make it worse.” I said, shoving my shoes back on. 

I stomped down on the sand, ignoring the way it clamped down on me. The wound was buried under thin pebbles of glass. A blistering, dull ache from saltwater. Arthur chased after me; every step he took was muted against the ground. 

“Wait.” He called out. 

I spun around, a frown hanging my expression down low. My words came rough, the sea against the rocks, “Wait? I’ve been waiting for you. I’ve waited for you for my whole damn life; all my youth was spent crying over you.”

He stilled, straightening the curve of his spine. He looked like the wind had been the one to push him upright.

“I wasted everything, all my time on you,” I jabbed a finger at him, “and you come here with the nerve to ask me for more?”

There was more I wanted to say; there always was. Miles of printed letters in my affections, in my anger, in my grief. What was it worth to him now? When he’d given himself to others, he was more worthy, more simple to make sense of. 

“You ain’t bein’ fair with me.”

“I have been nothing but fair.” I said.

His lip trembled, not from fear but from words that would not leave him. I wouldn't let them. 

I ran; my feet struck the earth with the thunderous weight of a thousand sparrows set free. I left him stranded, as he had me. Though he chased me still, tripping over the slick sand. His calls for me drowned out in the rain and thunder. 

The train blared its horn, billowing smoke from its chimney. It spoke to the clouds in its own language of dark clouds. Its wheels came to a shrill halt, illuminating yellow sparks that would never become a flame. A sting of friction between two hands. 

I practically threw my ticket at the doorkeeper. He struggled to catch it when the wind took it from him. 

I sat down on a smooth black seat like a wet sack of flour tossed into a homestead. My eyes trailed over to the water-kissed window, so blurry it was futile to look out of—still I did anyway. My chest rose and fell with strength that would rival the tides curling in the sea. Shrugging off my duffle bag, it landed silently against me. 

Arthur was standing out on deck as if I’d kicked him. Sopping, wet, confused, and waiting. 

I pulled myself away from him, looked down, and cleaned the dirt under my nail with the other. It was for the best. 

The train began to rumble under my feet, like an ancient beast from one of Jack’s storybooks. The engine growled, and the scent of burning coal filled the compartment coach. Men and women in lavish clothes spoke through white grins, cooling themselves with hand fans. I could smell the cuisine being prepared to roll between the seats. I couldn’t care less for any of it. 

My heart felt as though it was beating from my gut. My mind replayed the same lines over and over again. It’s for the better. 

The window furthered into more of a blur. The train was moving, and the world was leaving me. I forced myself to watch it. Arthur attempted to follow me through it all but was lost to the searing wheels of metal. 

The glass felt cold, rivalling the chill gripping my hands. I tasted the sweat between my lips. My heart bled. 

When I thought I’d lost him, moulting feathers of him onto the train’s floors. I saw him roll in with the tide. He sat on Boadicea, spurring the mare into an impossibly fast trot. Her long neck craned back and forth, and her legs beat the earth. I could see the curved white of her eyes. Arthur’s mouth was moving; the fool assumed I could hear him over the engine and through the glass. 

I shot up to my feet, swaying at the force of the vehicle. I narrowed my eyes at the window lock and fiddled with it. The passengers watched my back, hungry for some form of entertainment. It was just that they’d get. The clasp caved to my demands. I hauled the barrier open; the wind whipped my face. 

Arthur had the audacity to smile. A drunken one, high off my glare. 

“What the hell are you doing?” I yelled, gripping onto the ledge. 

“I’m following you, to uh, Nova Scotia!" He replied. 

“You fool!” I said, and he laughed. 

The sun had come out, turning the rain golden. I could smell it in the ground, and the sea stuck in my hair. A stench of something so long gone still clings to me, driving me mad with what I could never have. Through at all, after all these years, it had the grace to look me in the face and laugh. 

I should yell again, curse at him, and leave him stranded in wet sand. I should leave him waiting. He should pace around a hollow home with a wedding band tied to a destiny he never wanted. I should ignore his letters, his affections, and that rueful look in his beautiful, dazzling, stupid blue eyes. I should run; I had earned it after all these years and after all these months of mangled signals. 

Though I wanted hot coffee with the morning dew. I wanted to wake up next to a soft, warm resting body. I wanted to stay. 

“Oh, sweetheart,” he said, and the world went still. “Have you just realized?”

I wasn’t sure if he spoke to my insult or somehow wormed into my mind. Perhaps that’s how he had such a way with me. He knew my mind and how unchanged it had been since we were both doused in pollen from my mother’s garden. 

I squinted and thought still.

I blamed him for pushing me out the train’s window. I blamed him for the way I struck out like a viper rearing her head. I didn’t count on him catching me, but he did. His strong arms wrapped around me as the sea had. I could smell the salt clinging to his clothes. I felt his heart quicken under my palm. 

His mare slowed down to a trot, heaving and shaking from exertion. 

The train ran away from us through a tunnel. Its horn blared and shook the walls. 

Arthur’s grip on me softened. He pulled my face from the crook of his neck. The warmth of his hands carried my cheek. His breaths fanned across my face and mine. 

“Did you think I wasn’t worried sick when they had you coupled up in God knows where?” He whispered. 

He’d never looked so honest, swaying with the cold storm. 

“Did you think I didn’t write you letters I never sent? Did you think I forgot everything?”

“Letters?” I said. 

Arthur drew away from me, his hands falling from my face down to my shoulders. 

How many notes had he shoved under his cot or tossed to the riverbed? How long did it take for the nip of my absence to become a myth? Has it ever?

By the way he looked at me at that moment, I had my assumptions. 

I leaned forward, rearing my neck forward until my lips pressed against his. He was timid, like it had been his first time touching me. His hands rested on the back of my neck, curling around the soft hairs there. It was sickly sweet and innocent in ways we shouldn't have been capable of. 

Chapter Text

The door of the inn clattered behind me. It was just the two of us and the howling rainstorm outside now. 

“There, are you happy?”

“Yup.”

“You found what you were looking for, the mess of a woman you left.”

I scoffed, brushing past him to drag the rustling curtains closed. 

“I can’t believe you,” I said, tossing my hands in the air. 

Arthur sent me a sly look; the fool hadn’t stopped smiling like that since we’d walked back from the sea. He took a seat on the bed, appearing starkly different from the luxurious sheets. It was almost funny. Almost.

“You kissed me,” I pointed an accusatory finger at him, “you—!”

“That isn't quite how I remember it.” He replied. 

“You might as well have.”

“Nah, you know no one can tell you what to do.”

My feigned rebellion slowed as I wandered over to the edge of the bed. I glared down at him and slowly sat down. He welcomed my presence rather clumsily, shuffling a little away to give me space. His hands darted across the sheets. Perhaps, in his own way, he was attempting to reel me in. 

A stroke of embarrassment ran through me, and I planted my face into my hands. “God, I’m sorry.”

“Hey, hey,” He whispered, reaching for my wrists and pulling them down. In his tone, I could hardly hear the gentle tide of his words. Upon seeing my face flushed, he snorted a small chuckle, “You ain’t got nothin’ to apologize for.” 

The back of his hand brushed away the wet strands of hair stuck to my forehead. Soon, they both fell to my cheeks and cradled them. His blue eyes swept over every feature on my face. “You’re really pretty.”

“You too.”

He frowned and grumbled, "I'm not pretty.”

I threaded my hands into his hair and pulled him back to me. Smiling, I pressed my lips against his. He practically melted against me and rested his torso between my legs. 

I felt his hands skate across my skin, drawing vines down my thighs. It always stunned me how capable he was of such soft things, in spite of the lives he’d taken with them. When he was with me like this, I could never imagine he was an outlaw—or anything other than mine. 

He rested his face in the crook of my neck; I felt the quickening ricochet of his breathing. His heart strummed against me. He peeled the clothing from my back and discarded it on the floor. Delightful shivers branched through my system. Any sound that slithered through his throat was muffled against my skin. There was a fever running its course through the pair of us. 

When he opened me up to him, he peppered kisses against my jaw. He remained unflinching to the way I dragged my nails across his back. The world thrummed in tune; I swore the sun broke through the curtains, and everything fell into a rhythm. 

I had laid with men before. They had their tendencies of rough hands, greedily ripping everything apart for themselves. Arthur paid me more mind than anyone ever has. The absentminded touches everywhere he could reach, the kisses, and that look of adoration flitted in his eyes. 

Though, I’m sure God has damned me by now—I’d like to think he blessed me with him as a parting gift. 

I awoke draped in sunlight. A golden stream pooled across my bare shoulders and the sleeping form next to me. His arms curled tightly around my stomach as if he was afraid I’d slip away from him. Every wrinkle and fine line loosened from his face as he slept. 

I peeked over the edge of the bed, narrowing my eyes at the mess of clothing scattered about. Among them, a single satchel peeked from beneath a pair of pants. Golden light-painted strides across it. 

I carefully reached for it, keeping an eye on Arthur’s sleeping form. 

I freed the journal from its enclosed walls and felt the leather weigh in my hands. The spine felt slightly flimsy from the many months of traveling, sun, and snow it had seen. A thread of guilt strummed inside my chest as I cracked it open. 

The pages were yellow and littered with coffee stains and the butts of tobacco. The charcoal of Arthur’s writings and drawings smudged from one page to another. I read a scattered assortment of things, without bothering to go in any given order. I skimmed over stories of the Callender brothers, Reverend’s many drunk shenanigans, and all the things I’d missed from all that time long ago. 

My flippant flipping of pages stilled when I caught a glimpse of my own name. I tore into the short notes he wrote in regards to me. He wrote about the small habits I had and the books I’d read. I dragged my finger over the many things he never had the heart to tell me. With each sentence, my heart spilled down my chest. glance over at Arthur before reading. 

I nearly jumped out of my skin when I felt an arm coil around my leg and tug me. My shoulders fell when I saw Arthur’s face still slack with sleep. He had pulled my calf against his chest, and whatever whirring awakening was shot down from the sky. 

I fought the urge to chuckle as I shelved the journal back into his satchel. Gently, I allowed it to fall back onto the floor. 

By the time Arthur woke up fully, it was a ways past noon. The skies had shed their past gloomy weather and shimmered in light blue with ruffled clouds. At first he groggily patted the empty space next to him; from there it didn’t take long for him to shoot up from his pillow to look for me. 

I sent him a lazy wave from my spot near the window. With it, I watched every ridged muscle in his body loosen. 

It took three days for us to leave the inn—three delightfully bland days of nothing. 

It took two weeks to return to camp, ample time to watch sunsets and watch the deer scatter on our approach. I noticed Arthur took his time taking us back down south. And if you asked the fella, I doubt he’d ever admit it to anyone other than that journal of his. 

I recall a particular night in the latter half of our journey. 

The moonlight shimmered hazy lines across the lake. They resembled everchanging silver serpents, always restless, always shedding. The stars freckled the water’s surface, confusing the fireflies. I could taste the night-blooming flowers and the salt of an incoming dawn. 

Arthur lay across from me with his back flat against the grass. A blade of barley stuck out between his teeth. I’d never seen him so still beyond the realm of sleep. The only tension in his body was his jaw, shifting the plant in his mouth. 

“I know what you think of me.” I confessed, “I read that diary of yours.”

I felt his eyes on me, silently watching. 

“Did you now?” He said. 

“You’ve gotten better at drawing hands.” I jested. 

“You’ve somehow broken your records of perfection.” 

Despite everything, a quiet tendril of unease remained coiled around my spine. I thought running would send it away, though I’d come to realize it had only made matters worse. There was nothing I could say to make anyone understand it, not even Arthur. 

The scolding I got from the girls on my return rivaled anything my mother had ever told me. Karen grabbed me by the ear and didn’t let it go until I promised never to run off like that again. Susan just smacked me in the back of the head with a dirty pair of pants and told me to get back to it. 

When night fell, and there was nothing else to do, I sat and stared up at the fabric ceiling of my cot. Though, it didn’t take long for something to go bump in the night. 

I leaned up and narrowed my eyes at the stars. Assuming it was another symptom of my insanity, I flopped back down. 

Only to jump up again at a crashing sound. 

I snatched my pistol hidden between my cot and the makeshift nightstand. My feet silently slid into my shoes. Peering through the curtains of my tent, I clutched my weapon in my hands. Upon making out the form in the dark, my apprehension shifted to mild annoyance.

“Swanson?” I said, walking out in the open. 

Reverend Swanson writhed on the floor before stumbling to his feet. He waddled like a duck on the way up. When he spoke, it came out as a drunken sound, “Mrs. Morgan?”

I furrowed my brows and reeled away from him. Through the haze of whatever substances he’d shoved into himself, he seemed to notice the court change in my demeanor. He slurred out an apology. 

“What the hell are you doing?” I asked. 

He spun around and away from me as if questioning what exactly it was that he was doing. When he looked back at me, he seemed lost—his eyes aimlessly wandering over the dirt, “I don’t think I know.”

I softened, my rough disposition shifting to something else entirely. 

“Try to get some sleep, okay?” I said. 

I slid back into my cot and kicked off my boots. I hardly had the chance to close my eyes before I heard shuffling by my feet. A soft groan left me, imagining the sound of some rabid raccoon stumbling in the dark. Though, when my attention met the origin of the sound, my eyes nearly tumbled out of my skull. 

“Reverend,” I said. 

He blinked owlishly at me. 

“We just spoke,” I grumbled.

“We did?” He asked cluelessly. 

I watched as he drifted over to the side of my cot and settled like a dandelion seed on the sheets. He tangled his fingers together, clasping them until they turned white. I reached up, placing a hand against his cool, clammy temple. He flinched away, drawing a skip in his breath. 

“You see him too.” He muttered. 

“What—who?”

“The man in the top hat—riding a flamingo.”

“...Flamingo?” I replied before burying my face in my hands, “This is hopeless.” 

“Nothing is—”

“You are.”

Swanson’s expression went slack; even through the dark, I could see his shift in demeanor. An apology was quick on my lips, though he shed it off. 

“Am I being foolish again?”

I sighed, “We’re both being foolish.”

“We are?” 

“I’ve been seeing things. I keep having the same dreams over and over. Sometimes I’ll see a strange man watching me from across the room.” I said, studying the moonlight, “All of it makes me feel crazy, and there isn't a soul I can talk to about it.”

“That sounds like quite the bind.” He said. 

“What do you say I do,” I smirk, “turn to the lord, repenting and pleading for him to tear this demonic spirit from me?”

Swanson reached under his coat and pulled out a bottle of whiskey. “Drink.”

I unscrewed its cork and took a swig. The harsh, bitter flavor coated my tongue and warmed my throat. I scrunched up my nose, swallowing what I could only assume to be alcohol. 

“God, what is this?” I said, a smile curling on my face. 

Swanson took a long look at the flask and chuckled, “I’ve forgotten.” 

We shared a scuffed silence before laughter captured our stomachs. The two of us carried on like that for hours, passing on memories and jokes until the sun rolled up from the horizon. Reverend slinked out of my cot, none the wiser than when he’d entered. Through my eyes, a weight had fallen from my shoulders. 

____________________

I’ve never been a religious man—though something tells me she’s a gift. I’m a fool for it, because there isn't an act I’ve taken to be worth her. Still, I’m selfish enough to believe it. 

Chapter Text

Mid-August

1898

Dutch does what he wants. 

Despite Arthur and Hosea’s hesitance, he attempted to swindle a few fellas with a chunk of fool’s gold. To no one’s shock, the deal turned sour, and he almost got his head blown clean off. Some stranger by the name of Micah Bell saved his ass and shot up half the bar. 

He lingered and has been for weeks. We moved, and he moved. Still, by then I had somehow avoided meeting him officially.

I remember it like the bitter aftertaste of a meal. It was mid-day, and I was busy being put to work. 

“Ain’t you a desert flower?”

Micah leaned against the unsteady post carrying the clothesline. His hands shoved in his pockets, he leered down at me. The grin twisted under his mustache and turned to words, “Don’t think we’ve formally had the chance to meet.”

I smiled politely and told him my name, hanging the next garment onto the line, “Don’t think you’ll be mindin’ me, though; Grimshaw doesn’t let me do much but shovel horse shit and chop carrots. Well, at least not after—anyway.”

He didn’t seem to care about my severed sentence. Moving to the vacant barrel next to me, he took a seat. “That’s all you do here, hm?”

“Uh, well,” I began, slightly shifting away from him, “I enjoy a good book too.”

“Ain't that so?” He leaned near me. 

Something in my gut churned in a strange way; still, my amicable smile stained my lips, “Indeed.”

“Wonderful dress you’ve got there,” he muttered, pulling at the hem of my hip, “Leavin’ much to be imagined.”

I recoiled from his touch, attempting to ready some string of words to respond with. My nose scrunched up, and the pattern of my chore stilled. Stubbornly, my throat remained dry without sound as I looked at him blankly. 

I barely caught a glimpse of Arthur before he gripped Micah’s collar, yanking him away from me. 

“Don’t you got some other soul to drill misery into?” Arthur grumbled from behind me. His steps were heavy against the ground, eventually landed beside me. 

“Morgan,” Micah said, ceremoniously standing up from the barrel with wide open arms. “A brother’s tryin’ to get some beaver in this damned place. These women and their particulars—

“Don’t you have shame? You damn dog, leave her be.”

“Why you fuckin’ her?”

I rammed my fist into his cheek, quick and strong enough to send him into a pathetic stumble. He grabbed his face. Turning on his feet, he glared and spat out blood from his wounded tongue. It would’ve landed on my forehead if I hadn't been sly enough to step back—allowing it to fall miserably onto the grass. 

Arthur acted as if it had been though, grabbing the back of Micah’s collar and throwing him down. He narrowed his eyes, staring down at him with a certain ire I hadn’t seen before. The kind I’m sure many men had seen before a bullet shattered their skull. 

“If I ever find you botherin’ her again, I won’t hesitate to wring your neck—Fuck what Dutch might think of you.” He spat, a fury rattling his chest. 

Micah raised his hands in mocking surrender. “All clear, cowpoke.”

“Damn straight.”

He stood back up, shooting me another half-assed look, “Didn’t figure you were sweet on the whoring widow.”

I lifted a hand when he attempted to chase after him again, rolling my eyes, “He ain't worth it.” 

He grumbled something under his breath that missed my ears and sat down on the barrel next to me. His cheeks were slightly flushed; I couldn't tell if it was from anger, embarrassment, or something else entirely. His hands fidgeted with each other until he reached over to the bucket of wet clothing waiting to be hung. He squeezed the river’s water with his hands and pinned a pair of pants up on the line. 

“The fellas ain’t never help with chores,” I said, reaching for another shirt. 

“Ain’t too surprising.” 

“The only time I asked Bill to help me pack up the tents, he started complaining about a ‘woman’s place.’ You know how Bill is.”

“He’s a fool; that’s how he is.”

“Definitely,” I answered, watching as the man in question drunkenly wandered through camp. The sun had barely touched the sea, and here he was drinking off his ass. 

Arthur’s frown remained on his face as he wrung out a sock past its prime. “I don’t understand it.”

“Me neither; he must’ve hit his head too hard on a rock during the war.” I teased. 

“No,” He shook his head, glaring at nothing. “Micah, what the hell does Dutch see in that bastard?”

“He saved his life.” I shrugged. 

“I saved a lawman, lost in the woods—years ago, bitten by a snake,” he said. “Didn’t stop him from shooting me in the leg two weeks later.”

My eyes softened as I watched his shoulders tense. 

“Taught me a damn good lesson, though.”

“Well, Dutch saved my life,” I shrugged, peering off at the bustling fire brewing, “and you did too, in a way.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, though I too want to shoot you sometimes.”

That earned an honest laugh from his gut, the kind that made him sound like a crow, “Well, you ain’t a lawman, or Micah Bell for that matter.”

“Thank God.” 

That night held a searing heat, one hot enough to shed my quilt. I shifted uncomfortably in my cot. Twirling, tossing, turning with flushed skin. If it weren’t for the mumbled humming throughout the camp, I would’ve thought I’d caught something. 

I couldn’t have told you how many hours it had been when I leaned up from my pillow to stare ahead at nothing. My hands fumbled through the dark until they closed around a matchbox in the pocket of my pants. I drew the match across its box, striking light into the dark. It hissed and burned towards my fingertips. Swiftly, I grabbed the half-finished pillar candle from my nightstand and lit it, waving the match away into smoke. 

I squinted under its radiance. Streaks of yellow painted off into the dark. It wouldn’t be long before the moths would come and burn up their wings. Reaching over, I grabbed a novel from my side. My fingers intertwined with the pages as I worked it open. The sweet smell of paper wafted over me. It didn’t take long for me to coil my mind around the story, gnawing on its words as if I hadn’t read it before. 

I hardly heard Arthur making his way into my tent all quiet-like. When my eye had caught his form standing at the foot of my cot, a smile tugged at the corners of my lips. I let go of my novel, allowing it to fall back on my lap. 

“What are you doin’?” He asked. 

“Reading.” 

Arthur drew his stool up towards the top of my bed. He gave me a long, knowing look, the left side of his face colored in yellow, “You should be sleeping’.”

“So should you,” I said. 

He made an odd noise and turned his attention to the book in my lap. 

“Anna Karenina,” I said. 

“You’ve read it before,” Arthur narrowed his eyes. “I’ve seen you with it.”

“There’s only so many books in camp.” 

“I could get you some; all you gotta do is ask.”

“I don’t like asking for things,” I muttered. 

Slyly, Arthur stood up from his stool. He leaned into my pillows, barely skimming across the line of my silhouette. I could smell the forest clinging to his hair and the tobacco gathered on his collar. He lay down on his back. His expression held a certain bliss to it, a hum of calm. I could’ve convinced myself that I was a cool breeze pressing up against him. That I’d been the tide to soften his shore. 

He smiled dopey up at me. 

“What?” I snicker. 

“Nothin’.”

“It's somethin’; you're making that strange face.”

“What face, sweetheart?”

I lightly smacked him on the cheek and lay down in the spot he left for me. I could feel the heat of his skin flush against mine, the rumble of his heart, the rowing of his breaths. Turning, I attempted to catch his eye, but he kept it stubbornly on the tent above us. 

“You look miles away.” I whispered.

“I am.” 

“Where are you then?” I asked. 

He rested his gaze on me. A hand rose to push a stubborn strand of hair out of my face. So gentle, the kind of pressure one would put in plucking a flower. 

“Do you wanna get out of here?”

He could’ve meant a dozen different things, and I would’ve said yes to all of them. 

The pair of us snuck out of camp, between the whining trees and howling coyotes. We were kids again for that half a mile. Laughter pulled from me without the aid of whiskey. 

The boat thrust into the current, causing the water to bungle against the wood. Arthur stood with wet ankles, looking up at me as if he’d caught something. My hand fell into his, and he pulled me to him. If it weren't for the warm blood thrumming through my limbs, I’m sure I would’ve shivered.

His lantern cast golden light on the water. It spilled like an urn, joining the strands of silver. I studied the way it moved against the surface. A sight I’d seen a dozen times by now, a few shared with him. The boat shook with our weight and sent small tremors through the water. The herons raised their fish-filled beaks and ruffled their feathers. 

There were low fogs branching out from the trees and hovering over the lake. The kind that would’ve been banished with the radiance of the sun come dawn. I perched myself on the raggedy wooden seat. In the corner of my eye, I caught Arthur unfurling his journal from his satchel. I studied the stars as he attempted to capture me in long strokes of charcoal. 

“What’cha doin’?” I asked, knowing damn well what he was up to. 

Through the dark, I could see his cheeks dusted in pink. 

“Huh?”

“What are you drawing there, Mr. Morgan?” I repeated, slithering over to his end of the boat. 

“Writing.”

“‘Bout what?”

“It’s a list.”

“Hm, sure.”

I leaped forward, tugging the journal from his grip like a leopard. His quick curses only made me chuckle, “Damn it, haven’t you seen enough?”

“No.” I quipped. 

I tripped on myself and landed flat on my back. Arthur stammered in his movements as I brought my legs up to my chest. His brows furrowed the way they always did when he was worried. Gently, his hand rested on my knee. 

I smirked, peeling open the journal. 

The small flicker of concern dashed away to be replaced with a bashful frown. 

“Oh, you made me pretty,” I said. “Wait, what does this say—”

Arthur snatched the journal back and shelved it under his arm. 

“Hey, give that.” I chuckled.

“It ain’t yours.”

He was quick to dodge every reach I made for his journal. Ducking it when I grabbed high and rising it when I shot low. All those damn reflexes he had stored were being used for the most foolish of things. 

I grumbled and grabbed his face. 

The heat of his cheeks soothed a cool ache in my palms I hadn’t noticed had been there. His short-spouted breathing fanned the back of my hand. There wasn’t a hint of friction when I pulled him in closer. His expression went slack in my hands. It was a short kiss, something sweet to send him reeling, and boy did it work out. 

I yanked away and plucked the journal back. I greedily read what I had missed. Arthur seemed too winded to notice for a few seconds. 

“Damn you.” He said.

“Hush!” I rolled my eyes. “Your words are real sweet, by the way. I’d kick my feet if I wasn’t standing.” 

The sun had only just begun to rise, casting its rays of yellow through the trees. It brightened the night clouds and blurred the stars away. The fog had settled into dew, and all the songbirds had begun their morning chirping from their nests. In spite of its dazzling display, it was still the coldest morning I’d seen in months. The era of gold-stained grass was flipping into snow-drenched hills. 

I felt Arthur’s curled finger lift my chin. The light struck his eyes in a way that highlighted flakes of green. It was his turn to catch me off guard. He kissed me softly, almost timid in the way he moved his lips against mine. His hands trailed over the back of my neck, slowly tracing the start of my spine with his thumb. 

A shrill yelp rang from across the water. 

I jumped away from Arthur’s hold. My leg got caught on the rim of the canoe and sent me directly to the lake. In differing circumstances, I would’ve chuckled at his fumbling attempts to catch me. My limbs worked to keep my head up while I looked over at the source of the sound. With it, my expression found a way to fall further slack. 

Mary-Beth stared at the pair of us, looking as if she’d seen a ghost swim by. An empty pail was left abandoned at her side. 

A sharp squeal ran through her before she raised her hands to her mouth, “Sorry!”

Arthur seemed much more preoccupied with pulling me back up. His strong grip closed around my wrists. 

I’m sure if it had been John or Bill who’d stumbled upon us, there would’ve been a rainbow of colorful dialogue filling the dawn. 

“How—when—I knew it!” Beth said, attempting to wring her thoughts out, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

I grumbled and squeezed the excess water from my clothing. “Tell you what?”

“Tell me about,” she paused, making gestures with her hands, “this!”

“Why? You gonna write about it?” I asked, fighting off a smile. 

Even at a distance, I could see her roll her eyes, “Arthur’s red.”

I glanced at the man in question, who seemed more interested in staring at the sun. 

“God, wait till Tilly hears about this.”

Damn it. 

Chapter Text

Late-September

1898

The wagon under us rumbled, itself shivering from the cold. The horses pushed through stubbornly. I rested my head against Arthur’s shoulder as he wrestled with the reins. His quiet curses fanned across my cheek whenever a wheel stumbled over a root. 

Mary-Beth sat in the compartment behind our heads. She read a novel out loud, her tone shifting into the voices of knights and kings. Hosea sat across from her with a gentle smile wrinkling his features. Uncle grumbled from his own stoop, drunkenly interrupting from time to time—going on about some time he’d stolen a Duke’s prize stallion. 

We’d been going on like this for a week, darting from town to town and attempting to plant ourselves somewhere. Hosea had been right about the shifting seasons. The cold clutched onto every movement we made, we fled slower in seasons like this. If we’d left the east sooner, we would’ve been halfway through Ambarino by now. 

I buried my hands into my coat sleeves and crossed them. 

In the fog of snow, two slivers of grey peaked out from the shadowy thicket of the woods. They dashed down the hills clumsily. 

I leaned away from Arthur’s shoulder and reached for the long-range rifle sitting against my thigh. In note of my absence, he glanced at me and followed my gaze. I knew he’d seen it by the way his shoulders tensed further. 

“Wolves goddamn it,” Hosea murmured. 

The mountain’s edge was steep, narrow enough to send us tumbling if the horses were spooked. It was a grand fall too, far enough that I failed to see the bottom. We could only afford a stammer in their trot, if they chose to buck—they would’ve gotten their way.

I raised the muzzle and squinted an eye. The wagon jittered, my arms swayed and the wolves ran. 

The rifle fired in my hand, the sheer force pressed my back flat against the seat. The bullet never struck them but was enough to send them reeling and retreating back to the trees. The horses carried on their trot, albeit with hesitance. They’d seen enough gunfire to numb their senses. 

 “Real sharp shot.” A voice teased from the wagon ahead. 

“Shut up, Mac—you somehow manage to sever toes when you play five-finger-fillet.” I quipped. 

“That was one time!”

“That happened? I thought Lenny was fibbin’.” Tilly said. 

“Every word was the truth,” Lenny replied.

“Hey, now is the time we keep those warm breaths in our lungs and quit with the bickering,” Dutch ordered, “Hosea, how far out are we?”

“Couldn’t be more than forty minutes,” A hacking cough interrupted him, “that is if we avoid any other visitors.”

“That we will my friend, that we will.” 

Dutch seemed to call upon an unknown force with that statement. It was enough to ward off any other predators or disoriented moose from our path. We arrived in a desolate town where the only inhabitant seemed to be an incessant croaking crow. The cabins were still mildly held together by well-handed craftsmanship and prime wood. Still, the elements hadn’t been kind to it. 

Arthur mumbled something about taking a nap, he waved his hand and stumbled into one of the homes. 

“He can do that? We take naps?” Lenny asked, and I simply shrugged. 

Mary-Beth wandered over to us. She held a folded cot in her hands and a concerned look on her face, “Have yall seen Jenny? I don’t think I’ve seen her since we got here.” 

I peered at Lenny, who seemed just as puzzled as we did. 

“Well, Damn it,” I groaned, “saddle up Summers.” 

The two of us wandered back into the harsh, unrelenting weather—not without a mouthful from Grimshaw. Rather than her usual ramble about my womanly duties, she went on a tangent about how she’d turn into a huntress if the wolves harmed a single hair on my head. A woman of duality. 

It was supposed to be a simple trip, scan the trail until you find a head of black hair. 

Predictably, nothing ever goes to plan. Not with me at least. 

A blizzard had struck the mountaintops, somehow worsening the conditions of our path. There was nothing to be seen ahead, except for blinding heaps of white. The current of snow was so powerful, I struggled to swallow breaths and push them out again. 

The ground I once considered solid under me, gave way. I don’t remember much, just Lenny’s desperate attempts to reach me—and Skipper’s shrill cries of panic.  The world encroached on us, burrowing the teeth of mother nature into our fragile bones. 

I awoke like a bug, digging myself out of the darkness that only pooled into the further night. The only symptom of my escape was the cool air filling my lungs, and the stars prickling the sky. The flesh hugging my body felt weightless and numb, as if I was wandering on drugged clouds. I hugged myself, attempting to catch some warmth from my ribs. The fingers in my mittens had long gone stiff, operating more like small trowels.   

“Lenny?” I said. 

The wind answered me, pressing against my side. 

I squinted at the sight of what looked to be a log peeking up from the snow bank. I stumbled forward. The object slowly unravelled in my vision, becoming a leg and a hoof. The remainder of his slender black body remained buried under a blanket of white. There was a thin-freezing puddle of dark red collecting under the crane of his neck. His belly was still and stiff.

I fell to my knees and reached out. Gently, I stroked his snout and dusted the snow away. I rested his head on my lap. Wide, dead, unblinking eyes stared back at me. 

My lip trembled.

Then I heard it, the wolves pooling their cries out into the night. I could only make out the reflection of four yellow eyes looking out at me. They took long, slow strides down the hills. Mummering small cries to each other, speaking in a language I’d never understand. 

I glanced down at my horse’s face, slack against my lap. A part of me clung onto him further, glaring at the predators and daring them to take away something long dead. The other knew better, this is how things should be. They were hungry and only a few feet away from me now, snarling and flashing their teeth.

I sniffled and allowed the corpse to fall from me, shedding it to the ground. Blood still stained my coat, lingering. The wolves growled and didn’t stop until I’d walked far enough away to deafen from it. 

I couldn’t have wandered around for less than two hours after that. 

The wind rammed itself into my side, so rough and ruthless I struggled to swallow my breath. I couldn’t hear much else other than its howl, and the elk crying between the shaking trees. Specks of snow whipped my cheeks pink. The tunnel of my pockets did little to warm my hands. Yards ahead, and around, everything was bleached in stunning white. 

By the time my legs crumbled under me, I couldn’t feel them. They fell dead against the ice. I buried my face into my knees and huffed weak breaths against my hands. In the nook of my elbow, I peered out into the storm. 

There, I saw him again. The man decked in a black suit, watching—always watching. 

I allowed the storm to wash over me. 

I awoke cocooned in something warm and soft. A fireplace hummed and my eyes stammered, flinching away from its light at first. I rested my neck into the soft fabric of a firm cushion. A yawn tore through me. My body pressed against a bed, half hanging off. It ached, raw from the cold—yet thawing. 

It took a minute for my mind to gain enough of itself back to wonder where I was. I shot up from my position, jerking my head around the room I found myself in. 

A furnished cabin built with spruce wood curved around me. One wall was decorated with humble hunting trophies and retired rifles. A tamed fire danced to the chimney, built into the wall of brick. Next to me, there was a small collection of empty whiskey bottles. They rattled when I rested my feet against the ground. 

The soft sound of incoming footsteps quickened the beat of my heart. I stared at the dark corner, waiting and watching. 

Charles peaked around the corner, only stepping near me when he’d caught my gaze. He approached me slowly, like he was afraid he’d spook me. 

“Charles?” I said, a smile growing on my face, “I don’t believe it.”

He returned my warmth in his own way, taking a seat next to me. “How are you feeling?”

“Could be better, but I also could be dead,” I joked, elbowing him gently, “How the hell—What are you doing here?”

“I was passing through the north but the weather got too damn bad. I had to come down through Annesburg, then I found you. I thought you were dead until I checked.” He said. 

“I thought I was dead too.” 

He hums, handing me off a can of assorted offal, “You ran with a gang, didn’t you?”

“There was an avalanche, it separated us,” My eyes trailed down to my hands, “We were looking for someone.”

"Oh,” He muttered. 

I swallowed the offal bitterly. The unseasoned meat settled awkwardly in my gut. 

It wasn’t until I placed the empty can next to the whiskey bottles, that Charles spoke again. 

“When the storm settles, I will help you look for them,” Charles said, “It’s the least I can do. One of them saved my life.”

“Charles you don’t have to—”

“I want to.” He said sternly, softening upon my expression, “It would only be right.”

There wasn’t much arguing with that. 

Another shuffling sound shuttered from the doorway. It was loud enough for Charles to take note. Jenny’s flushed face peered at me, her hair a tangled mess on her head. Her eyes widened upon meeting my eyes. 

“Jenny? Jesus, where the hell did you run off?” I stood up, still clinging onto my blanket. 

“You know each other?”

“Damn right, we do.”

“I saw a rabbit, and went off to catch it,” she said, “I was just tryin’ to help.”

I felt the tension in my shoulders lessen,  a sigh left me.

“Come over here,” I beckoned her into a hug. 

In our time in the cabin, me, Jenny and Charles shared stories of the last few months and all the things we’d missed. I told him of Maine, and Arthur in a way that left much in a grey area. Though, with the way he furrowed his brows, I’m sure he’d read between the lines. 

It took three days for the dire weather to calm and the temperature to rise. The snow had settled and O'creagh run had completely frozen over. Charles’ horse was unflinching when it trotted over its surface. It couldn’t have been less than seven inches thick. 

White rabbits peeked from their burrows and deer grazed under the deep blankets of snow. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky that day. In spite of the sunshine, each breath I took emitted short gusts of fog. By all observations, winter was early that year. 

It didn’t take long for Charles to stumble on our original camp. Two days to be exact. 

We rode in from the eastern end of the town. The sun only shunned its hide now, offering its final flickers of light before disappearing over the mountains. 

Charles’ expression straightened out. Gripping the reins with his hands, he called out a greeting. His voice echoed off the stony ridges around us. It fell flat on the snow without another voice to counter it. He let out a gruff noise and sent me a glance. 

“Arthur? Dutch?” I asked the air.

I dismounted from the horse and narrowed my eyes at the shaded areas of the town. The restless wind rang out a thin whistle, the trees chittered, there wasn’t a voice to catch here. The buildings clambered together in a commune, hardly enough room to breathe. I held the hollow lantern in my hands. The wick clattered around inside.  

“Maybe they ran off,” Jenny said. 

“No,”  I responded, fishing around in my pocket for a match, “That doesn’t make sense, they wouldn’t leave without us —Not like this.”

“Something chased them out then,” Charles said. 

“Exactly.”

The lantern bloomed with yellow light, pooling out onto the snow and coloring the barren homes. With it, some stray squirrels yelped and scurried for the willow. I trudged through the ‘street’. 

I checked the cabin first. The roof whined above my head, the walls nearly caved with my steps. In spite of its condition, there were symptoms of life scattered all around. There were empty cans of food, and tousled sheets. I wandered to a raggedy desk and noticed a map held flat by a half-hollow bottle of whiskey. Hosea’s map.

I rolled the paper up and stashed it in my satchel. 

I heard my name called out by another cabin. The pair of them stared worryingly at the snow.

I crouched down beside them. 

A patch of browning blood was frozen on the ground. There was a clear illustration of a struggle, some thrashing and writhing left imprinted on the snow. Whoever it was had been dragged for a few feet before somehow fending off the attacker and running for the barn. 

Jenny gasped and Charles whispered my name. In the corner of my eye, I watched them take small staggering steps away. 

The sound of heavy breaths grumbled from my side. 

It was a bear, snarling and drooling from its snout—the scent of deep, musty earth clung to its fur. 

I flopped onto the earth as if I’d been shot. My hands were filled with fistfuls of snow in an attempt to find consolation. I was achingly aware of the blood running through me, the chattering teeth in my mouth and the ribs poking my gut. I clenched my jaw and forced myself to keep my breaths even. My mind shifted to stone, unsure if I should play dead or flap my arms like a mad woman. 

The bear was sniffing my skin now and I could feel its breaths prickling my ears. It's cold nose drew circles on my cheeks. Slobber slipped into my hair. Its heat cradled above me, emitting like a batch of coal shoved in a chimney. I could smell the whole forest on it, the lakes, the mud, and all the rot that came with it.  

The growl was unlike anything I’d ever heard, deep and thunderous as the earth’s shifting plates. It curled its lips and bore its sharp teeth into my shoulder.  It sunk into the cotton of my clothes and didn’t relent until it met my bone. Blood burst through my skin, I could feel the warmth leaving me. A searing pain branched out throughout my back, each vein seethed. 

Charles returned on his lonesome. He fired two bullets at the bear’s face and shouted at me to get my ass off the ground. I scurried to my feet, gripping onto my shoulder  like a vice. I could feel the cold filling my lungs and numbing my veins. 

The bear roared in dismay and stomped at the ground. It charged ahead at Charles. 

I grabbed the lantern and threw it at its hide. It burned through the fur, blistering the skin. The animal rose on its hind legs and wailed. It had knocked the fire off onto the barn. A spark quickly rose into a fury. 

The bear ran just past Charles to touch the trees. It turned again and snarled, baring bloodied teeth. 

“Jenny is waiting out on the trail,” Charles said. 

"Are you insane? I’m not leaving you here!” I shouted. 

“There is no time for this.”

“Exactly, so shut up and shoot,” I said, lifting the barrel of my shotgun. 

He cursed, cocking his weapon.

The pair of us only got in a few rounds of bullets before the beast pinned Charles down with one mighty paw. It lifted its claws and planted them in his stomach. He grit down a shout, holding the animal up while it snapped its jaw at him. I wasted no time firing as many lead scraps at it as possible. I only relented once it bellowed and got off him. 

It swiftly kicked Charles away, turning its beady eyes on me. It dashed, lifting a claw and dragging it down my face. It blistered, I couldn’t see. 

I held my rifle as some primal scrap of wood, used only to hold the beast off. It bit down onto the gun. I landed on my back, hardly keeping my hands up. 

In the winding fire, the bear’s eyes looked red. Its yellow teeth circled around the barrel and rib. I could hear the wood cracking under the weight, bending and falling in on itself. Droplets of drool splattered against my face. I could feel my arm waning and giving way just as the rifle was. The pain in my shoulder trailed into my demise, as the bloody footprints of a prey would. 

My left eye painted the whole world charred. Everything was burning. 

I could smell the pine, the wood, the smoke, and the ice. The owls cried from their branches and the snow lulled me. Though my body was crippled with aches, I’d never been more alive.

I closed my eyes and imagined sun-kissed valleys, thin rivers,  the hands of my mother, and all the things I’d miss. 

The images warped, tossing and turning into that lithe man in the top hat. His eyes bore into mine, sharper than the bullet—sharper than the bear’s teeth. 

“Get up.” He said. 

A strangled sound left me, “I’m tired.”

“You’ve been exhausted and pranced on ashen ground,” He said, “Get up.”

Whirling like a thousand tendrils of light behind my eyes, memories swelled in my mind. I could taste the beauty of everything, the sand between my toes, the songs coiled around a campfire, locks of gold twirling between my fingers. 

You will not die here.

I grit my teeth and pulled back on the rifle. 

The beast let out a gruff growl of surprise. I twisted the muzzle into its wide mouth and pulled the trigger. 

It fell and slammed onto the snow next to my head. A series of twitches ran through its body—then it turned limp. The fire crackled beside me, the night howled between the trees and quietly settled on the snow. 

I groaned and attempted to push the corpse off of me. Blood had begun gushing from its tongue and uncomfortably close to my face. It was too heavy. 

“Charles—Jenny!” I shouted. 

It didn’t take long for Jenny to come trotting from the trail. In what little light the fire offered, I could see the fear-stricken across her expression. She hitched the horse to a  post and ran over to me. The two of us drove the carcass off of us. It landed flat on its furry back. 

“Oh god.” She muttered, “Your eye!”

“Charles is in worse shape.”

“Is he dead?” 

I cupped a hand over my wound and narrowed my eyes ahead. I bit my lip and pressed forward. 

Charles laid against one of the decrepit cabins shelved near our entrance at the town. He had managed to wrap his wound in some old cloth stashed in his pocket. Upon our entrance, his shoulders and head snapped up to look at us. I could hardly make out his form in the dark. 

“You’re alright.” He said. 

“The bear is dead,” I said. 

He sighed a long drawn-out noise. 

Jenny was antsy the entire night, pacing and glancing out the window at every sound departing from the trees. I hardly gathered rest myself, instead staring up at the rotting roof. The fire died in the middle of the next day. The once mighty flames trickled off into scattered sparks each nearing their own deaths. 

I kneeled over the bear,  unsheathed my knife, and took its paw. 

We stayed in that town for two days. It was Charles who remained persistent, insisting I had to get better care for my wound—treatment he couldn’t offer me. I nearly snorted at his reason, considering the gash by his ribs. Though I held my tongue trying to convince him to stay, the blood stains in the barn made me ill. 

The trails were long and steady. It carried us down the mountain, to an environment of kinder atmosphere. I could smell the musk of wet soil, the trees were vibrant shades of red instead of barren. Autumn soothed my frostbitten skin, and I began to understand what the doctors had meant when they told my father to seek fairer weather. Wounds or scarlet fever, nature knew ways to soothe her infections. 

Charles read each mark in the mud seamlessly. He might as well have been a hound dragging his snout across the hills. He pointed out each detail I failed to catch, each hiccup in the rhythm of the woods. At night, it was me and Jenny who filled the silence with our stories and songs. 

It took a week before we stumbled on their campsite. It was nestled between the stumps of the mountains and dusted in wildflowers still clinging onto the sunlight. A small patch of land left unscathed by winter’s incoming threats. 

I glanced at the trees canopying them. Among the branches, a goldfinch hopped from branch to branch. It chittered and fled for the plains. 

Javier was guarding the front of the camp. He looked worn, his rifle dangling from his grip. Though once his eyes settled on Charles, his spine straightened. 

“Who are you?” He said, lifting the muzzle.

“Javier, he’s with us,” I said, waving a hand over Charles’ head.  

The ridges in his demeanor softened, and his mouth went from gaping to a wide smile. 

“Dios mío, you’re alive!”

“Don’t shit yourself Escuella.” Jenny chirped. 

The two of us slid off the horse’s back, who snorted out a relieved whinny. Jenny ran into Javier’s arms and gave him a firm squeeze. 

The camp was just beginning the day by the looks of it, the girls were nowhere to be seen. The only semblance of life was Pearson’s coffee, Dutch with Hosea, and— 

“She lives,”  Micah drawled out sarcastically, “finally got a pretty mark to match that darlin’ personality of yours.”

“Fuck off Micah,” I grumbled, tossing the severed bear paw onto the ground. 

For a brief moment, he was startled. That sweet, sweet, smirk ran off his face. In a smooth transition, he lifted his hands and sneered a chuckle. 

Dutch and Hosea perked their heads and brushed past him. Both of their faces were painted in honest shock. 

“My god, It's a miracle.” Dutch grinned. 

Hosea gave me a brisk pat on the head, shimmering with a similar amount of pride. He left out a strangled noise when Jenny dashed to hug him. In the corner of my eye, I saw Charles shifting on his feet awkwardly. 

“This is Charles,” I wrapped my good arm around him, “He’s saved my ass more times than I can count now, we wouldn’t have been able to find you without him.” 

Dutch gave him his award-winning grin, taking his hand into a firm shake, “Thank you, son.”

Charles restricted himself to nods and grunts of agreement. Jenny filled in the chucks of silence for him, explaining our long journey and the wounds across his gut. I was so caught in the way she spoke, I jumped when I heard a voice beside my ear. 

“Arthur’s in that shed over there,” Hosea muttered, slinking over to me, “I think he’d like to see you.”

He gave me a knowing look as I nodded. I didn’t deny my quickened pace and the small smile that sprouted on my lips. 

I gently pushed the door of the shed open, the door stammering wide. It whined into silence, leaving the winter wind to rush in.

Arthur sat on a bench, with his back turned to me. He remained still in spite of my intrusion. I closed the door behind me. 

The howl lowered to a whistle, fliting itself through the dilapidated hollows of the shed. 

“Arthur?” I said. 

He turned to look at me, every tense bone in his body fell limp. Swiftly, he stood up on his feet and nearly stumbled onto his ass. The way he approached me reminded me of that  morning on the gallows. My neck was stifled with a thread of rope. His eyes were soft, warm, and afraid. Terrified of scaring me, of sending me running. 

Arthur stopped right before me and hesitantly lowered his face into my neck. His arms came around me, enveloping me in his body. I could smell the whiskey in his hair and the salt on his skin. 

“Arthur,” I repeated, my voice softer. 

“You were gone for two weeks.”

“I’m sorry.”

“For seventeen years, I looked for you in everything,” he muttered against my skin, “the sun was only half of what you were.” 

The cords in my chest wound up. 

“I don’t wanna ask you for nothin’, but please stay. I can’t bury you again—”

I pulled his face from the crook of my neck. My gloved thumbs gently circled on his cheeks, “I’m not planning on dying.”

“Who does?”

“I did.”

He sighed, a low sound rumbling in his throat. His lips found my temple and peppered kisses there, “I need you here.”

I knew what that meant. Written in the thick, hand-sewn language of vulnerability—He loved me, and I was sorry for it.