audster

It was Dutch who came up with the job.

“Simple,” Dutch said, laying the map flat on the table. “Couple in town’s been hoarding a pile of bonds. We’re not breaking in—they’re having a little social gathering. We get invited, we walk in smiling, we walk out richer. Needs a man and a woman who look respectable enough to pass as married folk.”

The look he gave you made your stomach dip. Not you. You hated this sort of thing. Hosea had you acting like a damn foolish girl last month for the sake of a couple hundred from a wagon. It was embarrassing. You were up for robbing but the acting? Not so much.

It was the look he gave Arthur that made your pulse jump. Arthur would be your pretend husband? Your cheeks burned and you went to protest but Arthur got there first.

“Dutch, I don't know now-”

“You clean up well,” Dutch said with a grin. “And she’s already got the charm. Perfect match. Who you expectin' me to send her with, Arthur? Pearson?!” A bark of laughter escaped Dutch's mouth.

Arthur’s jaw ticked, but he didn’t argue.

Dutch gave a wide grin, "Well, it's sorted." He turned to you, "We'll get you a dress, get Mr. Morgan here a suit, come up with a backstory for you both and when the party rolls around, you're good to go." He clapped Arthur on the shoulder and gave you a nod before he left chuckling to himself.

Two days later, everything was sorted.

Dutch had found a dress for you. Cream and navy with lace and satin. It was beautiful. You'd never really worn anything so grand before.

Hosea had you both weaving the same fabricated story of yourselves and of your marriage.

Tilly helped you dress and Mary-Beth pinned your hair up, smirking as she made comments such as 'Arthur won't know what hits him when he sees you'.

When you finally stepped out towards the hitching post, Arthur was already there, adjusting his hat. He wore a dark suit, hair and beard both trimmed and styled. He looked incredibly charming. His gaze landed on you, flicked away, then came back for a second look.

"You look... different," was all he said.

"Different good or different bad?"

"Good." He coughed, tugging at the collar of his shirt. It was gruff and suspiciously like he wanted to change the subject, "Real good." As he climbed into the cart, you swore you saw the slightest shade of pink dance up his cheeks to his ears.

The ride into Rhodes started awkward. You sat beside him on the cart as he directed the horses where to go. Lenny had managed to steal the cart from a drunk farmer and the horses your camp had lots of. 'Looks more sophisticated then showin' up on a horse.' Dutch had said.

You watched the rolling hills pass before turning to look over to Arthur, "You know the plan?"

He gave a short, "Yep."

You rolled your eyes at him, "You don't have to sound so put out."

"I ain't put out," he said with a shake of his head, "Just don't see how this is the best way to do the job."

"Right... 'cause us showing up guns blazing looking like we're about to rob the place is much better."

That earned a faint huff of a laugh, and the tension eased. Slightly.

It didn't take too long before you were there. Arthur climbed out of the cart and just as you were about to, he appeared at your side, holding out his hand with a warm smile on his face, "Oh!" You said in surprise, "How gentlemanly."

"Now, what kind of husband would I be if I ain't makin' sure you get out alright?"

You smiled, gladly taking his hand and letting him help you down, "Why, thank you, Mr. Morgan."

"Always, Mrs. Morgan."

It was odd how easy the two of you seemed to slot into these roles. How normal it felt to be calling each other husband and wife. How comfortable it felt to be touching him and have him touch you.

His hand was on the small of your back as he led you forwards through the gates and onto the grounds of a luxurious home, "Dutch better not be wrong," you muttered under your breath, "let's hope it's as good as he says."

Arthur handed the invitation to a guard who checked it and let you in.

The house was bright with candles and music from a string quartet. Arthur guided you through the door, his palm at the small of your back. Proper. Steady. Warm.

You found yourselves in a knot of six or seven well-dressed strangers.

“Arthur Morgan,” he said, tipping his hat. “This is my wife.”

There were polite greetings and introductions, and then the questions began.

“How long have you been married?”

Arthur answered without missing a beat, “Three years.”

“Almost four now actually,” you added, smiling like you’d discussed it beforehand.

They asked about where you lived, and you told them you travelled often, "We've never really settled anywhere for very long," you said, "Arthur's job takes us here, there and everywhere."

"Is that so? What is it you do for work, Mr. Morgan?"

Arthur's mouth curved up faintly, "Horses," he said just as Hosea had told him, "Livestock. Bit o' huntin' now and then. Whatever keeps food on the table." That earned a ripple of small chuckles.

"But even though we do move frequently, as long as we're together then that's all that matters. He's my home, I guess." The women in the group loved this answer, all aweing and smiling warmly at you. You could feel Arthur's gaze on you and you felt something shift.

Arthur’s thumb brushed lazily against your spine while you talked - just once, but enough to make your pulse skip.

“What’s the secret to a happy marriage?”

Arthur glanced at you before saying, “Patience.”

You grinned, “Patience, and not letting him near the accounts ledger.”

Laughter followed, and he leaned down so only you could hear, “Ledger’s fine, darlin'. Your handwriting’s just too damn fancy to read.”

Darlin'.

Eventually, you drifted toward the refreshments. Arthur hung back, letting you pour a glass of punch on your own. That’s when a tall man in a navy coat sidled up.

“Don’t think I’ve had the pleasure,” he said, his stare and smile a little too intense for your liking. “You here alone?”

“No. My husband’s here.” You smiled politely and turned your head trying to find Arthur in the crowd but you couldn't see him.

He smirked, “Don’t look like he’s keeping a very close eye on you.”

"Oh, he'll be around here somewhere, don't worry."

The man extended his hand, "Jeffery Donaldson, pleasure to meet you." You took his hand, sharing your name, "Pretty name for a pretty woman."

Before you could reply, Arthur was suddenly at your side, close enough that his coat brushed your arm.

“There you are, darlin'.” Arthur's voice felt tense, annoyed. He pressed a quick kiss to the top of your head, "This man ain't botherin' you, I hope?"

The man, looking stunned, stuttered something about a misunderstanding and disappeared into the crowd.

Arthur’s jaw was still tight, “Friendly, wasn’t he?”

“He was just making conversation. Didn't like the way he stared but harmless.”

“Didn’t sound like conversation to me,” he muttered, before softening. “You alright?”

“I am now.” You smiled up at him, drinking in the way he looked standing in front of you. You never got to see him like this - soft - so you were soaking up every moment whilst it lasted. Even if it was play pretend.

The music shifted to a slower melody. Arthur glanced toward the dance floor, “We should probably… sell the part.”

“If you insist, Mr. Morgan.”

He wasn’t flashy, but when Arthur took your hand and led you into the gentle swirl of couples, he did it with a quiet steadiness that eased your nerves. His palm rested against your back again - warmer now, closer.

“You’re a good dancer,” you murmured.

“Just followin’ your lead,” he said, but the faint smile tugging at his mouth told a different story.

The room blurred into candlelight and the scrape of shoes. Every so often, his thumb brushed against your spine, subtle but unmistakable.

“You make this too easy,” you said softly.

“What’s that?”

“Pretending.”

His eyes met yours, “Ain’t felt much like pretendin’ tonight.”

When the song ended, Arthur’s hand tightened at your back - a signal. It was time. Somewhere between the drinks and the dancing, you'd forgotten you had a job to do.

You left the floor arm in arm, drifting down a quieter hallway. The study door opened with a quiet click, revealing a polished desk under lamplight.

Arthur stayed near the door, watching, while you rifled drawers. Letters, bills, a pistol - no bonds.

“Bottom left,” he murmured.

You tugged the stubborn drawer free and found a neat stack of paper-wrapped bonds.

“Got ‘em.”

He was suddenly beside you, sliding the bundle into the inner lining of his coat. Close - too close - and smelling of cedar and smoke.

“Nice work, Mrs. Morgan.”

“You too, Mr. Morgan.”

Footsteps sounded in the hall. Arthur caught your hand and pulled you in against his chest as he pressed into the wall. Footsteps stopped outside of the study. You held your breath. And then after an agonising few seconds, the footsteps retreated. Like someone thought twice about where they wanted to be in the house.

“You can let go now,” you whispered.

He didn’t - at least not right away. When he did, he didn't look at you but you swore you could see that shade of pink reaching up his cheeks again, “Best get back.”

You re-entered the ballroom smiling, talking easily, the stolen bonds hidden between you. It struck you how simple it had been - not the theft, but doing it with him. Like the dance. Like the way he’d stood at your side all night. It didn’t feel like pretending anymore.

When you left, you felt a slight sadness that the night was already over. That the play pretend was over. It felt nice. Normal. Comfortable. Had you been doing it with anyone else it would've felt strange, uncomfortable but Arthur... Oh, Arthur.

Arthur Morgan was something else entirely.

The ride back was quiet at first, the horses’ hooves steady under the stars.

“That fella at the drink table,” Arthur said finally.

“What about him?”

“Didn’t like the way he was lookin’ at you.”

“That’s the point of the job, isn’t it? Get noticed being pretty rather than getting noticed for being a thief.”

“Noticed you plenty without him hangin’ over your shoulder.”

Warmth bloomed in your chest. Was he jealous? Surely not. Arthur didn't care for you like that. He was your friend and was merely just looking out for you as a friend, right?

After a stretch of silence when you were almost back at camp, he said, “Surprised they believed it.”

“Believed what?”

“That we were… married.”

You blinked, “Why’s that surprising?”

He glanced at you, “Serious? Why would someone like you go for someone like me?” He let out a bitter laugh.

“That’s not that hard to believe, Arthur,” you said softly. Something flickered in his expression, like a door cracking open. "In fact, I don't think it's hard to believe at all."

He stopped the horses just before camp and helped you down, his hand lingering around yours. You didn't mind at all.

“Guess I’ll have to take your word for it,” he murmured.

“You should.”

His gaze dropped to your mouth, then back to your eyes. Like he was debating kissing you. But he let go, walking you toward camp with that same steady, protective presence.

You were left with a different kind of sadness in the pit of your stomach. A longing sadness that the man who wanted wouldn't let himself believe that you could ever want him.

The camp was quiet later, fire embers low. You were brushing the last pins from your hair when boots crunched softly outside your tent.

“Still awake?” Arthur’s voice, low and hesitant.

“Yeah. Come in.”

He stepped inside, looking almost uncertain, “Just wanted to make sure you were alright… after tonight.”

“Course I'm okay. I was with you. I had a lot of fun, actually.”

He couldn't quite look at you, “You did good. Better than good. Guess I was the one who almost messed it up.”

“How so?”

“Kept forgettin’ we were pretendin’.” It was an admission of sorts. In his own way.

You smiled slightly, “I forgot too if I'm bein' honest. With you... it was easy. Like it was... normal.”

He took a step closer, his shadow falling over you in the warm lamplight, “I meant what I said. About not understandin’ why someone like you would…” He shook his head. “Hell, I ain’t good at this.”

“You don’t have to be good at this,” you said, reaching for his hand. “You just have to mean it.”

His thumb brushed over your knuckles - tentative at first, then firmer, “I mean it,” he said quietly, “By God, do I mean it.”

You felt the air shift between you, the silence thick and warm. His gaze dropped to your mouth, lingered, then lifted back to your eyes like he was waiting for permission.

You gave it by leaning in just slightly. That was all it took.

Arthur cupped your jaw gently, his calloused palm warm against your skin, and kissed you - slow, deliberate, with the kind of care that made it feel like he’d been holding it back for a long time.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested lightly against yours. “Reckon we ain’t pretendin’ anymore, huh?” he murmured.

You smiled. “No, don't think we are.”

Outside, the camp slept on, but for the two of you, the night was just beginning.

The next morning when the two of you sat a little closer on a log drinking coffee, Dutch smiled, "Take it the heist went well then?" He asked innocently, "How'd it go last night?"

Arthur almost choked on his coffee. Dutch's grin was far too knowing. You couldn't look at him but you managed out a small, "All good."

Dutch's eyes flickered between you - your closeness, the way Arthur's hand was on your knee, your flushed cheeks.

"Mm," he hummed, smug, "Thought as much." Seeing Arthur's flushed cheeks, Dutch laughed loudly before clapping him on the shoulder, "Glad to see the two of you work well together. I'll go collect my winnings from Uncle and Javier."

You frowned, "Winnings?"

Arthur's head snapped up, "You bet on us?!"

Dutch's laugh only got louder, "Whole camp's been bettin' on whether you two would finally get together. Let's just say, I had money on 'yes'." With one last burst of laughter, he tipped his hat, sauntering off towards the other side of camp, whistling as he went.

Arthur shook his head, muttered something under his breath, but you caught the faintest curve of a smile at his mouth.

"You know they were betting?"

"Hell no," Arthur said, "but I do wonder how much he's going to win."

"Well," you said, leaning just a little closer, "guess it's a good thing we didn't let him down."

Arthur's hand found yours, his thumb brushing over your knuckles, "Guess so," he murmured, his eyes holding yours for a beat longer than necessary.