Pairing: Low Honor Arthur Morgan x Female Reader
Tags: Angst, smut, established relationship, toxic
Summary: "What happened to us?" - You recall the last year of your broken marriage before the dissolution of your relationship.
Author's note: I definitely put this one down, and picked it back up a thousand times. After working on it for so long my brain was telling me it was just bad, but after taking a brief break, and coming back I just realized I needed to take a look at it with fresh eyes. This part definitely challenged me a lot, trying to make Arthur redeemable but also an asshole one would want to divorce. Either way, please enjoy the angst.
Tag list: @canofcannedsoup @liliesofth3valley @a-revolver-called-rachel @saturnknows @garbage-creature @photo1030
Photo Creds to cowpokingarthur on TikTok
Arthur’s words linger like cigarette smoke.
The warm firelight glistens against his nude body as he stares helplessly at you. A sad glint shining in his weary azure eyes, one that you couldn’t recall the last time he’d let down his walls enough to show.
His bottom lip quivers, as if he’s waiting for an answer. As if he didn’t know - couldn’t recall what led to the end of your marriage.
And suddenly, deep in your bones - you feel angry.
Four Years Ago (One Year Before The Separation)
"I think I'm pregnant," Abigail says casually, lifting up the bottoms of her skirt and wading ankle deep into the Montana River.
The balmy mid-summer air clings to your skin, just enough for a sheen of sweat to coat the back of your neck as you trail in after her. Eyes scanning the riverbed with each step, cautious of any algae slicked stones.
“Really?” you ask, letting the response land slow. Brows rising in her direction.
She pauses momentarily before turning around, water splashing halfway up her calves, gaze meeting yours.
You nearly snort as you cross your arms, letting the bottoms of your skirt plummet into the current. Chin pointing low in her direction.
A crimson blush creeps up her neck as she pulls a piece of hair behind her ear, a chagrin grin curling at the corners of her mouth, “That obvious huh?”
You snort, wadding toward her, letting the cold water creep further up your legs. “Let’s just say he ain’t exactly quiet when he’s sneaking into your tent each night.”
Her face burns red as she shakes her head slowly, letting the silence linger for a few moments but you ask the hard-hitting question next.
She pauses, grin dropping, swallowing the lump in her throat hard. The air thickens with each passing breath, silence clinging to the moment like stubborn grease on a cast iron pan.
“I was gonna tell him t’night.”
You don’t respond right away, lips tightening, letting her confession settle as you gently tip your head back and forth.
A few silent moments pass, only the rush of the rolling river and Waxwings chirping overhead filling the heavy space. But it’s not long before she lets out a hesitant exhale, looking at you like she wasn’t too sure what to say.
“You know,” she gulps. “I don’t think a child was…necessarily in his cards…certainly not mine.” Her gaze floats back down to the water, pointer finger playing in a gentle ripple. “Least’ not right now anyway.”
A soft sympathetic smile pulls at your outer corners as you reach for her shoulder, circling your thumb over the soft skin of her exposed collar bone.
“Well it ain’t like he don’t know how babies are made Abigail,” you make sure to remind her.
A gentle breeze pulls at her loose strands as she tightens her lips, letting the silence remain for a few moments. But just as she’s about to speak, a sharp screech erupts from shore.
“What do you two think you’re doing!”
Susan Grimshaw stands on a nearby bluff, sleeves pulled up to her elbows, hands stout on her hips, brows lowered in dismay.
“Coolin’ off,” Abigail shouts back.
Susan scowls. “You ain’t need to cool off,” she yells, voice condescending as hell but you’re used to it. “Still clothes to be mended, still dishes to be scrubbed.”
You glance back at Abigail and stick your tongue out at her. She answers with a dramatic eye roll as the two of you wade toward shore. With sand clinging to the bottoms of your feet like sugar, you both trudge up the grassy bluff where Grimshaw stands waiting, arms crossed, scowl firmly in place.
“The two of you god damn lazy,” she mumbles as she leads the both of you back into the heart of camp. “The men are out there risking their lives day in and day out to provide for us, and you two can’t keep on task for more than a god damn hour.”
Abigail mockingly rolls her eyes again, as Susan turns to face you directly. “And I shouldn’t have to remind you Mrs. Morgan, that just because your husband donates to the box..”
“..Doesn’t mean I get a free pass.” You cut in, a sentence you’ve well memorized after ten years of being with your outlaw. “I know.”
Grimshaw grimaces, her gaze dragging from your head to toe like she’s looking at something she’s never quite approved of, but she pulls the pair of you underneath a shaded canopy anyway. Throwing a torn blouse in Abigail’s direction, and a ripped sock in yours - like you hadn’t stitched up ten already that day.
With an annoyed huff and a roll of your eyes, you drop onto a stool, making no effort to hide your discontent. The small act proving to be the final drop in Grimshaw’s already brimming cup. And before you can even brace yourself, the palm of her right hand connects with your right cheek.
The initial sting catches you off guard, but the action itself pierces harder than the physical pain ever could
You had never exactly seen eye to eye with Susan.
But she had never hit you before.
Tears well in your eyes as Grimshaw points a finger accusingly in your face, “Don’t you dare test me girl,” she yells, grasping the attention of any wandering eyes.
“You’ve always been a disrespectful little whore and I ain’t ever seen what Arthur does in you. And if he ain’t gonna teach you lessons about respect, I will.”
Your lip quivers, tears spilling down your cheeks as she stands up straight, an evil smirk on her face like she’d just won a prize.
Her voice settles. Deeper, meaner, “And you best be given no more lip, cause nex’ time I hear any talk back I’m goin’ to Dutch with it and there’s nothing he hates more than a freeloader.”
Your jaw clenches tight, determined to not give her any satisfaction but your tears betray you anyway. She looks you once over, slow and mean, a wicked smirk curling at her mouth like she’s pleased with herself before tipping her chin upward and strutting away.
For several long moments you sit in silence with Abigail. Sleeves growing damp with tears every time you try to wipe away the humiliation falling down your cheeks. Your fingers linger on a metal needle, forcing yourself to mend the sock instead but your shaking hands betray you. Piercing your fingertips every pass through the cloth.
When Grimshaw is no longer in sight, Abigail finally opens her mouth. Leaning in your direction, whispering, “The devil is a woman, and that woman is Grimshaw.”
You nod your head, spitting your next words sharp.“That woman has never given me a god damn day of peace since I’ve met her, I swear she’s always had it out for me.”
In some ways you felt bad complaining to Abigail, as if the black haired beauty didn’t have more problems than you in her current condition but today had felt like the tip of the iceberg.
The past several months had been a trial for you.
Arthur had been away from camp more often than not these past few months, too caught up in Dutch’s web of debt collecting, train robberies, and guilt tripping to pay you much mind. And catching him in a good mood had started to become rarer and rarer these days. Claiming he was always too tired or too busy to give you any time of day. Too burnt out to take you out of camp for a few days, to give you your own much needed time of rest. Nothing more than a few kisses and cuddles behind tent flaps.
Even though constantly outside you felt confined. No privacy, always working, a woman that’s hated your guts since day one constantly over your shoulder berating you for every little thing. And your husband? The one that was supposed to make you feel better - absent in all the ways that mattered.
Abigail breaks you from your daze, responding quietly. “You know why she treats you like that, right?”
You look up from your needlework, shaking your head at her.
“Cause she likes to think she raised Arthur…John too.” Abigail says casually as she makes another pass through the blouse with her needle. “Thinks no woman is good enough for her boys,” she rolls her eyes. “Treats Molly the same way, and I’m sure when she catches on to me and John I’ll be getting that end of the stick too.”
You scoff, rolling your eyes. “Yeah well you think after ten years she’d at least try an’ warm up' to me.”
Hours pass by, and just as the stew finishes cooking Arthur trails back into camp.
You can tell by the way he slouches forward when he walks, slowly dragging himself back to camp from the hitching yard as if he hadn’t slept for days. Per usual he scans camp, expression lighting up just for a moment as his gaze meets yours, flashing you a tired, handsome grin.
He moves toward you beneath the canopy, but Grimshaw catches him halfway and pulls him aside at the edge of camp. You don’t need to hear the words, you already know they start and end with your behavior. And after a few long moments he lets out a long breath, eyes falling shut as his head dips, lips pressed tight.
He answers her, but you’re not too sure of what he responds. Only imagining it’s along the lines of I’ll talk to her. Because it’s not the first time she’s done this, not the second, or third time she’s tried to get you in trouble with your husband. Probably the millionth. And even though deep down you know he doesn’t care, won’t berate you, and would always take your side. It still doesn’t exactly feel good. Because you know he’d rather keep the peace with her than ever stick up for you.
He turns with a sigh, dragging himself in your direction as you sit under the canopy with your arms folded, lips formed into a pout. He stops right in front of you, looking down at you with a tired, kind smile. “Givin’ Grimshaw hell today huh?”
You spring up from your stool, brows pointed down, lips pursed into an angry pout. “She slapped me Arthur.”
Your husband just rolls his eyes as if you were overreacting, but he doesn’t yell, doesn’t push further. He just gently grabs at your hand, thumb caressing your dorsum as he guides you to your shared tent.
“Arthur, didn’t you hear me?!” you ask as he pulls back the canvas flaps without a word, guiding you inside.
Once you’re hidden from the rest of camp, he steps in close, wrapping his broad frame around you from behind. His chin settling against your shoulder, his warm breath tickling the skin of your nape. He presses small, unhurried kisses along your neck, working his way slowly to the lobe of your ear.
“Ain’t you tired?” he asks, pressing a kiss to the curve of your neck line, trying to change subject.
His lips linger just beneath your ear.
It was small moments like these that made you forget where you were and what had happened. Small cherished moments with your husband behind canvas flaps, just the two of you. And as much as he had made you smile, made you forget - even for just a moment.
That sting of Grimshaw’s slap was unforgettable no matter how many hours it had been since she had hit you.
“Come lay down with me,” Arthur asks tiredly, loosening his grip from your waist and backing himself towards the cot, where he sits down. Waiting for you to follow.
You cross your arms, turning on the tip of your foot.
“She slapped me Arthur,” you snap, not letting the conversation go,
His face drops, sighing loud and annoyed as he props his elbows onto his knees, dragging the palms of his calloused hands across his face before shaking his head. “We still talkin’ bout this?”
You snarl, the corner of your lip quivering upwards as your brows point down in dismay.
But after today you couldn’t stand one more moment of being dismissed. One more day of being stuck in this hell hole while he runs every which way in West Elizabeth.
“Arthur I know I have already asked you probably a million times these last few months but I need to get out of camp. Need t’ get away for a couple days. Jus’ you and me. Please. I’m going stir crazy here.”
Your husband sucks in another breath of air, a telling action he always did when he was about to disappoint.
You already knew his answer.
“I told you,” he says. “Ain’t exactly in the right financial situation to be going off for a few days. Gangs gettin’ bigger, ain’t a lot of good payin’ job right now. Dutch needs as much help as I can give him.”
You look down, biting your bottom lip, tears threatening to fall down your waterline. Nearly at your tipping point. “I ain’t askin’ for no fancy hotel room or anything, just maybe a few nights campin-”
He interrupts you. He’s tired. Exhausted. Wants to be done with the conversation you can tell.
“Why don’t you let me take a nap for a few hours hun?” he breathes. “When I wake up we go for a ride, jus’ the two of us? Does that sound good?” His voice is soft and comforting, searching for some kind of compromise.
One that you would accept, because you needed out of camp, needed away from Grimshaw. Even if just for a few hours.
You gulp, shaking your head.
“I promise I’ll take you away for a couple nights as soon as I got the time, got the money,” he says tiredly, falling back down on the cot. “I - I just need some rest right now.”
Hours pass as the sun sinks below the horizon, the crickets echoing their melody across the prairie as the sky turns a grapefruit pink. You sit under that same shaded canopy from earlier, still sewing socks, making casual talk with Abigail. Stomach twisting into impossible knots.
Arthur never found you like he had promised.
Never took you for that ride.
Instead he had found himself at the poker table. Laughing with John, throwing cards at Grimshaw, losing the money he claimed he didn’t have. Ignoring you for hours if he meant to or not.
But you couldn’t help but to feel like something had shifted that night, something in your heart, something deep down.
Several months pass, the warm summer’s air slowly turns crisp as the earth revolves further around the sun. It was now early November; the morning dew starting to frost over each dawn leaving everyone in a sour mood, wondering when Dutch would move the gang south for the rest of the winter.
But the men still had loose ends to tie up, and the morning frost was the least of most people’s worries.
Abigail’s stomach had started to swell, and John Marston was having trouble coming to terms with becoming a father. If he wasn’t avoiding camp like the plague, he was avoiding Abigail herself - unable to even look her in the eye. The last several days he’d gone missing completely.
He hadn’t kept his promises.
No trips outside of camp, no hotel room for a couple nights, no stepping in when Grimshaw got too mouthy with you either. Always too tired, or too busy to be the husband you had once fallen in love with.
Sure he would still greet you for a few minutes when he got back to camp, he’d still whisper loving words into your ear, still make promises he never intended to keep. He’d still sneak into camp late at night, pull you close behind canvas flaps and fuck you slow and quiet, making sure to wake no one.
But that’s all it was. Quick, lust filled moments.
All your marriage had become.
A circle of broken promises, a wife he only cared for when he felt like it. And more often than not; a burden.
It’s late by the time Arthur finally marches into camp, gone nearly a week. He hops off Heimdall as rage pours out of him like wine, not even bothering to pull the alligator saddle off his irritated gelding.
A job gone terribly wrong. A con he’d been working for two months, one that promised good money. And then Bill Williamson had to mess it up. Picked up by law, date for a hanging already scheduled - suddenly Arthur’s problem.
He only bothered to stop by camp to reload on ammunition, maybe convince Javier or Lenny to tag along - he could use the help. Or worse - when he’d finally break Bill out of jail, he’d need someone there to hold him back from killing the man right on the spot.
But as soon as Arthur is three steps into camp he hears the slap of an old hand on a cheek, and suddenly he knows his visit wasn’t going to be as quick as he needed it to be.
Tears stream down your face as Grimshaw screams inches from your face, something about the stew carrots being cut too big. The third argument this week.
All names she had called you without hesitation, each one hitting just as hard as her palm does when it cracks across your cheek again.
“You goddamn old maid,” you spit back, snot mixing with tears. “You get pleasure outta torturing me?”
Her hand connects with your face again.
You brace for more. More sharp insults, more humiliation, but her unforgiving stare shifts past you instead.
“Do you see how your whore speaks to me?!”
Your stomach tightens, you turn.
Arthur stands looming behind you.
You don’t know how much he has seen, don’t know how much he’s heard. All you notice is the sharp scowl on his face. Eyebrows shifted down, jaw locked tight like he’s not happy with anything he’s just witnessed.
Maybe finally he’d stick up for you. Put this woman in her place.
But you’re not at all surprised when he doesn’t.
Instead Arthur grabs your forearm, tight and harsh. Dragging you across camp as if the steam coming off him was your doing.
Everyone watches, no one says a word. You notice Abigail’s lips part as she sits under a canopy with her hand propped on her swollen stomach, her eyes widening in sympathy. The only person in the past several months that has shown you any amount of empathy when it comes to Grimshaw, but you know she has worse to worry about.
Your gaze floats behind you as Arthur pulls harder at your arm. Grimshaw’s watching. A smug smile plastered on her face like she enjoys watching you cry, eyes rolling over you in loud judgement as she whispers something in Pearson’s direction.
You only see the back of his head as he drags you to your tent, his fingernails digging into your forearm like a dog bite. You can tell rage was flowing through his veins far before he even stepped into camp.
He carelessly flips open the tent’s canvas flaps, stepping inside and dragging you along after him. Red creeps up his neck as the crooked look on his face refuses to fade, jaw set hard like something was lingering far before he even stepped into camp.
“Did you hear her?!” you shout, stepping into his space. “Do you hear the way she talks to me?” A breathless, hysterical laugh breaks from you. “I need you to take me outta here Arthur. I’m serious.” Your voice cracks. “I’m gonna lose my damn mind if I’m not out of camp before the sun sets.”
Arthur huffs, rolling his eyes as a bitter laugh escapes his lips. Like he’s in utter disbelief.
“Jesus Christ,” he snaps, pacing once before turning back on you, pointer finger splayed accusatorily in your direction. “Can’t you just do what you’re fuckin told for once in your life?!”
You and Arthur had gotten into it before; too many times to count. You’ve fought, screamed, said things you both have regretted but not once had he sworn at you. Looked at you with disgust - like you were the problem. Like you were only a menace he was forced to clean up after. But he had never sworn at you.
You go silent, wide eyed, completely taken off guard.
“Oh don’t look at me like that,” he seethes, pushing further. “Bill’s in jail, Dutch made it my problem. John’s gone missin’ with a child on the way, and we haven’t gotten a good score in months.” Arthur pauses, rolling his eyes, voice raising a pitch, finger splayed in your direction. “And you think you’re my fuckin’ top priority, wantin’ me to take you on some fuckin’ vacation I can’t afford so you can get out of doin chores?” He shakes his head.
His words land like poisoned arrows, cutting deep and hitting hard. You can feel your fists tighten at your sides, nails digging into your palms as you swallow. All the feelings from the past several months wash over you in that moment: anger, sorrow, and desperation for something more.
You realize he’s never understood, never cared too. Never realized how you’d been dying inside for far too long, trapped inside this hell hole called camp. Desperate for him - your husband to stick up for you, take care of you in a way a wife should be taken care of.
You swallow hard once more, your eyes glazing over in realization.
“Chores?” you whisper, jaw clenching hard, your body shaking in frustration.
“You think this about chores?”
He huffs nearly laughing, one eye squinting as he shakes his head. “Well it ain’t exactly hard to believe you ain’t pullin’ your share.”
“What does that mean,” you snap back quick,
He laughs, taking a few moments to motion around the tent that looks like it hasn’t seen care for several days.
“Bed ain’t been made in forever,” he points out first. “Clothes hangin’ off everythin’, shoes tossed every which way like you ain’t got the sense to line em’ up straight,” he looks around. “And these damn paintings of yours,” he taps one with the tip of his boot, knocking it over. “Layin’ all over the place unfinished, cause’ you ain’t ever been the one to finish things through.”
He snorts, rolling his eyes like he doesn’t have time for this conversation. Time for you.
“So no,” he cocks his head. “It ain’t hard to believe you ain’t been pullin’ your weight, and maybe a good hard slap from Grimshaw is just what you need to put you in your damn place for once in your god damn life.”
Your face burns red, but that's the least of your worries. It’s rage. Boiling, incensed, rage that pools through your blood stream, all aimed at your husband.
“I bet you think that stew you eat every night just appears,” you snap. “That your clothes wash and mend themselves like magic.”
Your chest rises fast. He rolls his eyes.
“You think this is about chores?” you scoff. “I got a woman beatin’ me every god damn day jus’ cause she likes makin’ my life hell and I got an absent husband that won’t do shit about it.” You spit.
Arthur rolls his eyes, scoffing like every word coming out of your mouth was pure bullshit.
You huff, folding your arms over each other. “I never asked for no fancy vacation Arthur. Just some time to spend alone with you….as…as husband and wife.
He responds quick and cold, “I told you, I ain’t got the money or the time to take you away-”
“Shut your goddamn mouth, Arthur.”
The words come out low. Cold. Meaner than you expected, but with tears trailing down your red cheeks you don’t care.
“You got money to lose at poker near every night. Money to go drinkin’ with Lenny. God knows what else. Cigarettes,...whiskey… other women too for all I know too.” You step closer shaking your head, voice softening, almost if you were begging. “You got time for week long huntin’ trips with Hosea…fishin’ trips with Dutch....”
No longer in anger, but as if everything you had just said out loud was enough to convince you that your relationship wasn’t worth saving any longer. That maybe this relationship wasn’t worth the pain. That you were talking yourself out of him just by bringing up your problems.
“But you couldn’t find an hour?” you ask, quieter. Softer. “An hour to ride out with me. Just to get me outta this camp….Just to.” You swallow, shaking your head like you’re not even sure why you’re still talking. “Just to spend alone time with your wife.”
He drops his gaze to the dirt between his boots, jaw ticking like he knows he’s done wrong but doesn't want to admit it.
“You act like you’re the only one sufferin’,” he says, voice low and cold, like blaming it all on you instead would make him feel less like an asshole. “You act like the rest of us ain’t carryin’ our own damn burdens…. difference is, we learn to deal with it.”
You bite your bottom lip as you look down in defeat, tears rushing down your face like you’re not sure what to feel.
He rolls his eyes, grabbing ammunition off the bedside table and throwing it into his satchel like he’s got more important places to be. “God damn spoiled brat thinkin’ she needs a damn vacation,” he mumbles, making sure you hear.
He turns and throws a few tubes of gun oil into his bag, whispering low; “Should’ve known better than to stupidly marry a spoiled rancher's daughter who thinks the damn world revolves around her.”
You didn’t want to hear it.
Didn’t want to hear his words anymore. You had heard enough - and now you know that you’re not as important to him as you once thought you were.
Arthur doesn’t bother apologizing before ducking out of the tent flaps.
You don’t leave the tent for the rest of the night.
Your body doesn’t let you.
Hours pass, hunger pains claw at your stomach, but you don't care. Nothing could get you out of that damn cot. Heart break felt like paralyzation.
Your relationship with him was all but gone - if he knew it or not. You did. You knew the past several months had been a trial for everyone, but that didn’t give him the right to throw you away. Treat you like you were nothing but a warm body only when he wanted one, a burden when he didn’t.
But nothing mattered anymore.
That argument uncovered more truths than you’d wished to ever know. Maybe the problems in your relationship stemmed much further back than just the past year. That Arthur had always resented you, wished differently for himself.
For you were just the spoiled rancher's daughter he stupidly married.
It’s deep into that same night when Arthur finally pulls back the canvas flaps of the tent , surely in a better mood than he had been earlier. You lay on your side, facing away from the entrance, still awake, tears dry, lying still as he kicks off his boots.
You hear the sharp click of his gun belt as he settles it off his hips and onto the bedside table. You hear the soft shuffles of his clothes being removed, all but his red union suit he’s worn a day too long. And before you know it, he’s in the cot next to you, chest molded to your back like a puzzle piece.
As if the fight earlier this evening hadn’t happened.
You only pretend to sleep.
But it’s not long before he gives you no choice.
Arthur drags his left hand upward, reaching for your hair nestled on the curve of your neck, brushing it behind your head with his calloused fingertips. He runs his chapped lips up your nape, his week old mustache prickling against your sensitive skin. His mouth halts at your ear, breath warm and reeking of cigarette smoke.
“I’m so sorry for actin’ that way,” he admits, soft and gentle. A completely different man from just hours ago.
“You know I hate fightin’ with you.”
He rolls the knuckle of his left hand down your jawline, neck, then shoulder. Stopping only when he reaches the thin strap of your chemise, pulling it down your shoulder and placing gentle kisses there too.
“You know I didn’t mean what I said,” he mumbles between pecks.
It doesn’t take a scholar to know what he’s looking for, why all of a sudden he wants to act like everything is okay. Why he’s so quick to apologize.
The quiet, hushed fucking behind tent flaps, the only time he touches you.
It had been nothing more than that for the past year. No passion, no hour long love making sessions, nothing loud, wreckless, or spontaneous. Always deep into the night, when no one was up to hear.
You feel his erection bud beneath his union suit as he strains against your backside.
“I’m such an idiot,” he mumbles in your ear, left hand grabbing at your breast like all was okay.
But maybe this is what would make you feel better.
The boring, non spontaneous, love making that happened behind canvas flaps once every so often. Although not what it once used to be, sex had always brought you closer to him. Like no matter how far you could feel yourself drifting away, his body could still mold to yours like a piece of clay. Remind you how close you are. Remind you of a time when you were happy. Like a bottle you can’t quite quit.
So against better judgement, you push your backside into his groin, giving him the okay to touch you.
You remain on your side as he reaches for the bottom hem of your chemise, pulling it over your hips as he quickly releases himself from the confines of his union suit. He runs one of his fingers through your folds, finding you dry but that doesn’t stop him.
He crudely spits on his hand, slicking his cock down with his own saliva as a short grunt escapes the back of his throat. And before you know it, he’s thrusting inside you. Quick. Meaningless. Like a virgin man desperate for some relief. His forehead tilts against the back of your head as his left hand drags back up to your breast, grasping at it tight.
His thrusts are lazy and awkward. Maybe they’ve always been that way - maybe you never realized until now. Maybe they're just fine, just too in your head to let yourself enjoy it.
Maybe it’s because you’d made up your mind hours ago that you’d given up on him.
Still, you lay there. Not finding any pleasure, not finding discomfort either.
His hand trails down from your breast to the bud of nerves between your thighs, circling your clit like he knew you had once enjoyed. But this time - your mind was too far away to care, you felt nothing.
His pushes become deeper, exhales weaker with every quick thrust.
“I’m nothing without you,” he moans breathlessly in your ear. “I love you so damn much.”
Words that were endearing once upon a time now felt like air. Nothing more than an empty hymn, no actions to ever back them up.
“I can’t live without you,” he moans again. “You’re my everything.”
A few thrusts later and he pulls out, finishing recklessly on the backs of your thighs, moaning long and quiet as his climax falls.
He quickly removes himself from you, falling to his back as his jaw swings loose in pleasure. Drops of sweat cascade down his forehead, chest rising and falling with each ragged, hitched breath. He smiles ear to ear as he comes down from his high.
But he knows something's wrong.
You’re still laying on your side, away from him. Silent as can be.
His mood instantly drops, brow furrowing when he realized you hadn’t said a peep, moaned into him like you enjoyed yourself too.
“You…uhh” he clears his throat. “Finish?”
Arthur can hear the fib straight through your teeth. He’s made you finish enough times in your relationship that he knows that this time you didn’t. That he was too caught up in his own self pleasure to notice you weren’t enjoying yourself.
And he feels guilty - especially after the argument earlier.
He props himself up on his elbows, a bead of sweat still falling down his wrinkled forehead and turns toward you.
“You sure?” he asks again, higher pitched brows raised.
He clears his throat again, like he knows there's tension. “Cause if you haven’t, I can eat-”
You cut him off, firm and final. “Arthur, I want to go to bed.”
His brows furrow deep at your bluntness, at how cold you suddenly were when you were always such a breath of warm air.
But he was too tired to argue, too tired to ask what was wrong. So he rolls his eyes at your dramatics and drops down onto his back, not taking any longer to waste into the night.
The gentle morning rays light the canvas tent like an alarm. Arthur’s eyes blur as he wakes slowly, tongue clicking the top of his mouth. He slept well - always did when it was next to you. But this morning he finds himself waking up alone.
Arthur pulls his large frame upwards, eyes adjusting slowly to the morning glow as he notices his surroundings.
The tent had been tidied.
He grins as he swings his feet over the cot. Noticing the welcomed changes. A basket of his clothes neatly folded and placed atop his trunk to be put away. Shoes perfectly aligned at the exit; propped directly next to yours. Every spare coat, jacket, sock: either in a washbasket or trunk. And above all; none of those damn half-painted pictures crowding the tent like they paid rent. Everything was neat, held its own space. A welcomed change.
He couldn’t help but to think that yelling at you yesterday must have knocked something into your head; bothered you enough to knock some womanly sense into you. He hated that he had screamed at you like that, he had immediately felt guilty afterwards. But deep down he was glad he did, because maybe that's why you had woken up early, to set the tent straight. Maybe even get up earlier to finish your other chores, start the day off strong.
He grins as he grabs a clean union suit from the top of his trunk, discarding the one he had slept in and throws it in the corner. He dresses quickly, combing his fingers through his hair as he looks at himself in his mirror. Could use a shave but he’d save it for another day.
He exits the tent slowly, the November sky as blue as a Hydrangea in spring. The air is crisp; cold enough for his breath to visibly curl in front of him. But the sun was out. And that was more than he could ask for on a late autumn’s day.
His vision scans camp. Grimshaw pours a cup of black coffee, Pearson’s already chopping mystery meat, and Hosea crushes herbs in mortar and pestle. But then Arthur’s eyes land on you.
Hair braided neatly down your back, coat wrapped tightly around your shoulders, throwing something large and flat into the fire.
Throwing one of your paintings into the fire.
Guilt surges through his gut as he marches across camp.
Sure - your paintings forever lingering in the tent unfinished and collecting dust annoyed him. But that didn’t mean he wanted you to throw them away - burn them.
He watches as you grab another painting, cracking it over your knee and tossing it into the blistering fire as he hears you yell at Pearson. “You need any fire starter, feel free to use these.”
Guilt twists sharp in his stomach as he cuts across camp, just as you reach for another one.
He gets there in time, hand closing around your wrist, stopping you before you can ruin another of those little creations you love too much.
“What’r you doin’?” he asks, his voice raising a pitch, completely appalled as you look up at him. His brows pinch downward, deeply stressed and unsettled.
But as you stare back at him, there's something behind your eyes he can’t quite recognize. Like there was something missing.They felt emptier, lost.
He doesn’t like it, guilt pools low in his gut as he notices that something had changed.
“It’s fine,” you responded coldly, as if your life’s work wasn’t burning to ash in front of you.
He looks down at the already half burnt paintings tossed carelessly into the fire, the orange hues curling around the canvases like a hug. His eyes move down to the stack next to the fire, lingering like trash waiting to be burned. Worry pulls at his features, as his gaze drifts to the one in your hand, then to your face.
This is not what he meant by tidying up - not by a mile.
“Why you doin’ this?” he asks sharply.
He cuts you off, “I didn’t mean for you to throw them away. Could’ve finished them, sold them at a market. You know you have real talent darlin.”
“I’m out of paint,” you respond curtly.
His brows furrow again, lip curling. “Then why ain’t you buy some more.”
“Don’t got the money,” you remind him.
He shakes his head, completely dumbfounded. “Why ain’t you ask me then?”
Your voice is soft, but it still stings like venom at your next words .
“Didn’t want to trouble you.”
His face molds into bewilderment even further.
When have you ever cared about troubling him? You were his wife - you were meant to trouble him. He liked when you troubled him, it gave his purpose as a husband.
“Don’t matter anymore,” you say softly, lips pulling into a sad melancholic smile as you pull your wrist free from his grasp, throwing the painting in your hand into the flames. Walking away without another word.
Arthur stands there frozen, like stone. Shame resting heavy on his chest. Hazy memories of yesterday's argument still lingering. He hadn’t exactly remembered what he said in the heat of the moment, but whatever it was he surely regretted.
He turns to face the fire, eyes gazing down at the flames eating at the canvas painting.
His heart sinks when he stares at it - half painted, but completely recognizable. A scene from several years ago, he remembers, didn’t know you had tried painting. You’re in his arms, in a field of Lavendar, Buttercups, and Yarrow. His nose nestles against yours, your right hand molded to his cheek. Details are missing, and the background hadn’t been quite finished but he knows what it is - what the painting was. The memory that it held.
His eyes glaze over as he watches it turn to ash.
You don’t come to bed that night.
On the third morning of your absence from his cot, Arthur finally seeks you out. Asks you where you have been.
You apologize and tell him you’ve been falling asleep in the women’s tent, staying up late chatting with Karen, Tilly, and Mary-Beth.
He tells you he misses you.
Three long days pass without you in his bed, each night worse than the last.
By the fifth night of your absence, Arthur’s finally had enough. You're his wife, there's no reason you shouldn’t be sleeping with him.
It’s far into the night when Arthur pulls back his tent flaps, the late November air prickling at his skin. He doesn’t bother with a lantern, the moon shines bright enough to light his way.
From the outside, the women’s tent glows dim - lit only by the weak flicker of a half-burnt candle resting on an old produce box. But for all the women that slept inside, there isn’t a single peep.
Arthur quietly eases the flap open, just enough to see inside.
The young, sweet Mary-Beth is dead asleep, a half-read book splayed across her chest like it put her under mid-sentence. Karen’s curled tight in her blankets, Tilly sharing a pillow beside her. A mess of limbs and long hair.
And right there, tucked in the middle of all of it.
Propped up, halfway buried in some romance novel, completely oblivious to the man watching you through the narrow slit of the tent flap.
Arthur watches silently just for a moment. The way your eyes drift from line to line like a canoe with no captain. He realizes that he doesn’t remember you ever taking up reading, but he also can’t recall the last time he cared enough to ask.
And that disappoints him.
Your finger slicks over the next page, turning slowly, eyes following the sentence like a hound dog on a scent. Arthur lets out a low, gentle cough - just loud enough to grasp your attention.
Your eyes poke out from behind the book as you catch your husband peaking through the tent flap, his face is blank, but he tips his head, motioning you to follow him.
You don’t bother making a fuss, you stand up making sure not to trip on any extra limbs as you blow out the candle. Following Arthur outside the tent.
He’s silent for several moments, but it doesn’t take him any time to wrap his large hand around yours like if he drops it you’ll disappear.
“You know,” he says, walking you towards the tent. “You don’t gotta stay in there if you wanna stay up late readin’.” He pauses, turning to you right before his own tent and glides the back of his hand gently down your cheek. “The light…it don’t bother me none.”
His words are soft and reassuring; but that’s what they had always been.
You tip your head down, pulling away from his hand as you duck under the tent flaps.
Arthur’s frozen for a moment, his jaw clenched tight as he exhales and shakes his head. Knowing deep down that something was very wrong, something he didn’t know how to fix.
He watches you settle in the cot, turning on your side. It doesn’t take long for him to follow suit, burying himself under several blankets, molding himself around your body like if he let go, he might die.
To be back in bed with his wife, to hold you in his arms like he hadn’t in days. To smell your scent, to feel your hair draped in his face, the fabric of your thin chemise against his fingertips.
He’d always taken moments like this for granted.
These subtle moments with you.
Arthur settles gentle kisses on your shoulder, not because he wanted sex - but just because he wanted to be close, because he missed you.
“I’m not in the mood,” you say bluntly, nudging your shoulder out of his grasp.
Arthur takes this by surprise, his stomach aching in discontent. But he doesn’t push.
He gives you space, settling on his back instead.
A week passes, and Dutch finally gains enough sense to move the gang somewhere warmer for the rest of the winter. A few days' journey south, where the deep forests merge into grassy plains and the lower Montana wraps around the land like a snake. With Hosea’s guidance, Dutch settles the gang on a quiet bank overlooking the river, hidden in plain sight behind a grassy hill. Just a handful of miles to the nearest town, far from any main roads, houses, or trails.
During this time your relationship with Arthur doesn’t mend.
You still sleep in his cot, but you don’t let him touch you; he doesn’t bother trying anyway. You wake up early, always before the crack of dawn to get started on chores. So Grimshaw couldn’t find a reason to berate you. Your days are filled with scrubbing old dishes, chopping vegetables, and sewing every torn sock one could find. And when you can’t find a single chore left to do, and the evening starts to settle, you find yourself at Abigail’s side.
She’s heavily pregnant now, with a plump stomach, swollen ankles. She groans with every movement, prefers canned strawberries over fresh, and doesn’t do more than an hour's worth of chores a day.
No one nags her - not even Grimshaw, everyone knows she’s going through enough already. But you wouldn’t let her go through it alone.
There’s angry drunks, sad drunks, stupid drunks.
Drunks that function just fine, drunks that gamble away their days’ earnings, drunks that can stumble a mile in the pouring rain.
But god watch over the horny drunk.
A handful of days after settling on the riverbank, Dutch called everyone to the center of camp and made one of his grand speeches. He spoke of a new beginning; one filled with family, trust, and sacrifice.
Nothing he hadn’t promised before.
But then he called for a celebration, a night off for everyone. The end of a bad run, the birth of a brighter future. Two whole cases of whiskey waiting to be drunk, and three boxes of beer stolen off some poor pig farmer’s porch.
And that’s how you ended up where you were.
Near the provisions wagon, three drinks deep, fingers sifting through the beer crate trying to figure out which one was the coldest when in reality they were all the same temperature.
You were never a drinker, only ever participated when you had something to celebrate or a day called for it. But Karen Jones had shoved three down your throat before the sun had even set that evening.
And before you knew it, you were back at the provisions wagon - grabbing another. Dazed, eyes glassed over, cherry stain blushing the apples of your cheeks. Horny as one could be. Your body forever betraying you, veins carrying the alcohol from your stomach straight to your cunt. And before you could even ask yourself why, you feel yourself pulsating beneath your skirts, like a god damn bitch in heat.
Perhaps your hormones sensed him before your eyes could. The staunch body that had joined you at the provisions cart while you fiddled with the cap of your new beer.
He doesn’t say a word, just reaches for a beer in the crate before turning to you, lips pressed awkwardly into a tight grin. Like he’s smiling at a stranger rather than the woman he lays next to every night.
But that’s how it had been the last few weeks. Awkward, strange - like a wedge had built itself between the two of you.
But his coldness - it still angered you.
Everything about him did.
The way he had stopped trying, the way he didn’t bother trying to fix it either - the way he acted like everything was fine even though you hadn’t touched him in nearly a month and a half.
“You uhh….havin’ a good time?” he breaks the silence, his question laughable, beyond surface level. A question you would ask an acquaintance, not a spouse - certainly not one you’d been married to for ten years.
But you’re not sure what angered you more. His surface level small talk, or the way your cunt pulsed beneath your skirt when you looked back at him. Those damn azure eyes of his making you feel ways you hadn’t since that wedge had been built.
You knew it was the alcohol, you’d always been like this when you were drinking. Your mind and heart begging you to walk away, but your damn body betraying every word.
Before your brain could even catch up, you were pushing him up against the provisions cart, pulling him down towards you from the collar of his shirt, shoving your tongue down his throat.
He tastes like whiskey, and cigarettes - but he also smells inherently like himself. Pine, dirt, and faint traces of the lavender soap you know he uses when he cares enough to bathe. His fingers are worn and calloused, and the only facial hair he bore was a few days old mustache that prickled your top lip.
But the moment doesn’t last long. A handful of seconds later he reaches for your hips, and shifts you off him.
Broad like a boy that just caught a glimpse of his first pair of breasts, laughing with wide eyes as he asks, “What are you doin’ girl?” He doesn’t say it condescendingly, more like he’s just caught off guard, like he’s excited.
Surprised and wanting more.
Your jaw tightens as he looks back at you, your lips forming a heavy pout.
God you were angry at him.
Parts of you regretted ever marrying him. Parts of you wished he’d just disappear. But mostly, you just wished you could leave him - never see him again. Curse the man who broke your heart and won’t bother fixing it.
But right now, all you wanted was him.
You wanted him to fuck you. Really fuck you. Hard, messy, wild - like he once had. Not this quiet, hushed bullshit that you were so accustomed to now. You wanted to feel him all the way to your core, you wanted it to hurt, to sting. To make you feel something - convince you that things would get better if he’d just fuck the living shit out of you for once.
Sure you’d rather it be in some hotel somewhere, where he could pin you to the mattress and lift your legs above his shoulders. But you spent the better half of this year already begging him for just that.
So you’d just do it here.
Tears of frustrations prickle in your eyes as you push him behind the provisions wagon, instantly falling to your knees.
Your hands work his belt, jaw swinging loose as Arthur turns over his shoulder. Checking if anyone had stumbled over for another beer. The old wooden cart the only thing separating the two of you from a whole fire full of people catching him with his pants down.
He swallows hard as he looks down at you, the tips of your fingers brushing against his pubic hair as you untie his pants.
Arthur’s nearly speechless.
You’re the most confusing woman he knows.
You’d been avoiding him for weeks, pushing him away, wouldn’t let him touch you the way he wanted.
You’d stop talking to him, stop listening. You wouldn’t smile, laugh, even look in his direction most days. He’d miss the way you’d greet him when he came back into camp, miss the way you’d throw knowing looks his way when someone said something stupid. Miss the way you’d berate him when he was gone too long on the trail.
You’d stopped all of it, like your marriage had just dissolved right through his fingers and he didn’t know how to stop it.
But he didn’t want to push. If you wanted space, he’d give it to you.
So maybe that’s why he was so damn gleeful when you pushed him against that cart, pulled down his pants, and took him into your mouth. All without warning, right there, right out in the open for anyone that wandered a little too far past the provisions wagon to see.
The tip of his cock hits the back of your throat, rough and deep. You gag, pulling away for a moment as Arthur grips at the wagon's wheel, letting out a muffled moan.
“Darlin’,” he gulps hesitantly.
“What - what’r doin?” he stutters as you suck harder, his head tilted back against the wagon. Not wanting you to stop, but at the same time, not wanting anyone to catch him with his pants down, or you with his dick in your mouth.
You don’t respond, you only take him farther down your throat. Until tears well in your eyes from the discomfort in the back of your throat that you move to his balls, sucking them into your mouth one by one.
He wants this - wants this bad. More than he’s wanted anything in his life. Your attention, your love, your mouth on him like you needed him to breathe.
But he wanted to finish this in the tent - not, right here.
“Darlin’,” he breathes hard, cupping your chin into his hand, gently removing your mouth from his ball sack as he wipes away a dribble of saliva falling down your chin. “Why don’t we go finish this somewhere more private?”
You bite your lip, staring up at him. Standing up.
His shit grin doesn’t leave his face as he pulls up his pants, not even bothering tying the strings as he picks you up excitedly, throwing you over his shoulder, and returning quickly to the tent.
He drops you down, tying the flaps shut without a moment wasted, and before a minute is even spared; he’s undressed.
You drunkenly drink him in. Sure you were still angry with him, but damn was he good looking.
He’s just so big. In every single way. His chest is broad, covered in scars and hair that trails down to his swollen cock. His arms are large and muscular, delicately crafted from years of labored work. His sandy brown hair sits an inch longer than it usually does, but you don’t mind it one bit. And his mustache - big and burley, just like his erection.
You can’t help but to think he’s just like whiskey, burns on the way down but damn will it feel good. Always regretting it in the morning.
It doesn’t take you more than two more seconds to push him violently onto the old cot. Realistically you didn’t have the muscle to push a man of his size over, but he’s quick to let you. Eyes glued to your body as you shimmy out of your dress, letting it fall onto the dusty ground. Your nipples perching immediately at the crisp air, pulling your bloomers down your legs.
You don’t waste any time getting on top of him.
Sinking down on his erected cock, not bothering to ease him into you slowly. No - you wanted it quick, wanted it painful.
Arthur moans as you roll your hips once, then twice. And before you know it you’re riding him hard, half for pleasure the other for punishment. You wanted him to fuck the feeling back into you.
You couldn’t remember the last time you’d had him like this. Wild, and untamed. It was always slow and quiet in this tent, always begging for something more. Faking your orgasms just to make him feel good about himself, when secretly you had been begging for something like this.
He sheaths into you as you fall back down onto his cock, his hands gripping at your hips almost painfully hard, nails sinking into your skin with every movement. Jaw clenched shut, his nose flaring out in concentration, like one wrong move and he’ll finish inside you far sooner than he’d prefer.
You push yourself forward, resting your hands on his chest. Tears pooling in your eyes at how good it felt every time he thrusted deep into you from below, but also from every emotion drifting through your veins. You were angry at him - done with him. You hated how it felt like he had abandoned you, stopped caring, a fucking waste of ten years.
So as pleasure wrings tight in your stomach, anger also floods your mind and before you could stop yourself you slap him across his face, hard.
He’s taken by surprise but it doesn’t stop him from thrusting up into you. You slap him again. You beat at his face, on his chest, pounding your fists into his broad rib cage. Still riding him, still letting him fuck you like some common whore.
But by the sixth time you slam your fists into his chest he catches your hands, raising a brow at you while still sheathed into you deep. You only flare your nose, gulping at each pleasurable, drunken sensation as tears rush down your cheeks.
Still inside you, he sits up - you continue to move your hips.
He brushes the hair off your shoulder and places kisses down your neck - now slow. Every movement of his is meaningful like he’s trying to make up for everything he’s done, everything he hadn’t.
Arthur had never been good at apologies, never good at talking about feelings either but he knew something was wrong. But right now; he had at least wanted to make you feel cared for. Even if it was just sex.
His mustache scrapes at the sensitive skin of your neck as he wraps his arms around you, lowering you to your back. So the top of your head aligns with the foot of the cot.
He places your legs over his shoulders, intertwining his hands with yours and thrusts into your cunt again. His eyes flash from your cherry stained face, to your heavy chest, to the patch of hair between your legs he’s been fucking mercinglessly.
“I love you,” he says, thrusting slowly and deep, looking into your wet eyes. “My life has been meaningless without you.”
You stay silent, even though you knew he was trying to apologize.
But his words mean nothing when you’ve been fed empty promises for months. You couldn’t trust him any longer, and to be honest all you wanted was a good fuck.
You didn’t want any of this mushy bull shit - all lies he’d spew to just to keep you happy.
You wanted his dick - that was all. And to be honest, with how angry you were at him it didn’t even have to be his dick. You were just drunk, and you were a horny drunk. And that was all. So you push your hips up into him, ignoring everything else besides the pressure between your thighs.
He runs the fingers of his right hand through your hair, thrusting again. His thumb somehow ending up in your mouth, pulling it open from the side.
He stretches your cunt deep, all the way to your core.
It hurts so good, the way he refuses to be gentle, to be quiet. How he doesn’t care if anyone hears for the first time in forever. How he hits deep, every single time, like he’s trying to fuck the emotion back into you.
“Let me,” he moans loud, thumb in your mouth, other hand digging into your arm as he pins you down. “Let me put a fuckin’ baby n’ you.”
You don’t know what it is.
Maybe it was the way he’s fucking you like he used to, maybe the way he’s so blunt, kind of raunchy. But you finish right then and there, moaning loud and reckless right on his cock like you hadn’t in forever. Your eyes rolling deep into your forehead like a wave of pleasure had possessed your limbs.
And in that drunken, orgasmic moment you forget - just for a moment. Why you’re mad at him, why everything had been weighing so heavy, why you’d been so distant.
But you instantly come to your senses when you feel him finishing inside you, his body shaking between your thighs. His moans thunderous, certainly loud enough for anyone to hear. You feel his sweat slicked body glide against yours, his chest hair wet and sticky as he whines needingly into your ear with his last few thrusts.
And suddenly there you are again, out of your body, not wanting this any longer. Not when it had first started - when the alcohol in your body told you it needed him.
Now it only reminded you of everything he had said to you, everything you had lost.
That he regretted marrying you, that you were a mistake. That all you had ever done was annoy him.
Nothing but a vessel for his physical pleasure.
Had that been what you always were to him?
He pulls out, falling onto his back next to you. The foot of the cot now acts like the head. He wraps his biceps around you, kissing down your neck like he didn’t want this moment to end.
“I love you,” he says into your ear.
Arthur couldn’t recall the last time he’d woken up in this good of a mood.
It’d been nearly two months since you let him have you, even longer since he’s had you like that - and he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t been dying inside because of it. His right hand no match for your body, the way your tight cunt fit him like a damn puzzle piece.
He knew he should have been more worried with your silence instead of the absence of sex, but god he missed being with you physically. The way you had pulled him behind the provisions wagon just to get on your knees reignited something in him.
To be alone with you. Really alone. For days. Just you and him.
A hotel, an abandoned house, a tent in the middle of nowhere. He just wanted to be alone with you. To talk finally. To take you away just like you had wanted these past several months. He had been stupid for telling you no time and time again, he regrets it.
But something felt different now, he didn’t know what.
It didn’t seem like you were as upset as you once were with him, and now he just wants to get you out of camp, spend some quality time with the woman he loved.
He jumps out of the cot, his half-hard cock swinging around like he’s certainly ready for round two - the memories of last night arousing him.
He can’t help but to laugh - maybe Dutch was right, maybe things were looking up for once.
He dresses quickly, just a pair of jeans and a black button up. A gambler’s hat to hide his long hair that’s an inch too long for his liking.
He steps outside quick, immediately searching for your presence. Scanning camp like he’s hunting for prey, finding you by the river, a washboard in your hands, halfway through a basket of dirtyclothes.
Busy like the good girl you had always been.
But just as he’s about to walk over, ask you if you’d like to get away for the night, Dutch calls him over.
The men are going into town, and he wants Arthur with them. To sniff out any potential leads. And even though Arthur wants to say no, that he’s got other things he needs to take care of, he doesn’t.
He follows Dutch to the hitching yard instead.
Arthur and the other men don’t return until the scent of Pearson’s venison stew lingers across camp with every light breeze. It smells good, he’s starving. But Arthur’s mind had been on only one thing all day; getting back to you.
The nearby town wasn’t anything special. One road, just an old saloon, a whorehouse, and a couple of shops - but it did have a hotel. And since his eyes had laid on it this morning - he knew that’s where he had to be with you tonight.
His eyes finally catch you at the clothes line, propped between two trees. You’re on your tippy toes, pulling union suits and socks off the line as you hold a clothes pin between your teeth in concentration.
He doesn’t waste time, his legs are already on the move.
He doesn’t bother announcing himself, he just wraps his arms around your waist from behind and nestles his chin into your shoulder, placing a gentle kiss on your neck.
You pull away from him in shock. Turning around and placing your right hand over your heart.
“Jesus Arthur,” you startle. “You scared me.”
He just laughs, raising a flirtatious brow.
“I been thinkin’,” he says, rather cocky. “How bout’ we go into town t’night, get a room at the hotel. Just you n’ me..”
You’re taken by surprise, your face blank. But then your eyes move to your clothes basket. “I really ain’t got time for none that, Arthur.”
His cocky smile folds into a scowl, utterly confused at why you’re denying him when he knows you’d been asking for him to take you away for a year now.
You gulp, turning around awkwardly and pulling down another union suit from the line. “Gotta finish these chores or else Grimshaw gonna be on my ass.”
His lip curls, that’s not good enough of an excuse for him. “Well we ain’t gotta go this second.”
You brush your hands on your skirt, sighing, rolling your eyes and taking a step back rather annoyed. “Got plans with the other women t’night,” you say. “Karen heard there’s a couple hot springs a few miles down, we thought we ought go bathe in them after dinner.”
Arthur takes a step closer, resting his arm around your waist, pulling your close. Whispering flirtatiously into your ear. “Well why don’t you just let me tag along?”
You wiggle out of his grasp again.
“Cause It’s just gonna be us girls.” You say it like it’s final, like there's no bother in pushing.
And suddenly he recognizes that coldness again, all that heat from last night out the window like it hadn’t happened and his stomach pools with unease once again.
Maybe things hadn’t changed.
But he still doesn’t give up.
“Well,” he says, taking a moment for thought, dragging the tip of his boot in the dirt. “Maybe you and I can take a trip there one of these days, just us.” He says it like a plea rather than a question, but you can tell he’s desperate for some alone time with you.
Gulping, your lips move, “Maybe.”
Arthur exhales at your cold, vague response. Not bothering to hide his disappointment as he tilts his head away from you, his mouth forming into a small, shaky frown, nose flaring as he swallows again. Not in anger - but in sorrow. He settles his thumbs into the front pockets of his jeans as he shakes his head, turning around on his heels without another word.
That same night you sit in the corner of the tent on a small stool, mending a worn pair of mittens for yourself. A single candle burns low, its light steady, while the voices outside the flaps wade with each passing hour into the night.
It had to have been ten, maybe eleven when Arthur comes stumbling in.
The smell of whiskey and cigarettes waft off him, like he’s spent the whole damn night drinking himself stupid.
One eye squints shut as he stumbles, boots dragging across the ground before he slams into the bedside table, rattling it hard. He lingers there a few long moments, trying to steady himself, his breath rough and uneven.
His steadiness doesn’t last.
He sways almost immediately again, balance gone, dropping onto his knees right in front of you. His face lands right where your thighs meet, like he meant to do it.
You’re taken by surprise as you lift your needle and thread, setting them down next to you, letting his face roll in your thighs like he’s trying to cover himself in your phermones. Seconds pass, and he finally tilts his head upward, his chin still resting on the caps of your knees.
He’s got that dazed look in his eye, blood shot and blurry. One is nearly squinted shut as his bottom lip quivers. Almost pathetically.
“Why won’t you-” He hiccups. “- Let me love you?” His voice is almost winey. Like he’s yearning for an answer you didn’t know how to give him. You only stare back.
Knowing this wasn’t the right time or place for this conversation.
“Let’s get you to bed Arthur,” you try to change the subject as you attempt to stand up. But even piss drunk, your husband’s strength is enough to push you back into your seat.
He hiccups again, the bob in his throat tickling your knee caps. “I know you’re mad at me,” he hiccups again. “I” hiccup “Jus’ don’t know what to do bout’ it.” Hiccup. “Life ain’t worth livin’ when you’re mad at me like this.” Hiccup.
You sigh, his words mean nothing to you.
Pushing upwards, you let him slip off your lap and onto the ground. “Let’s get you to bed Arthur,” you say again, as you reach for his arms to drag him back to his feet.
He only hiccups again, as he allows you to guide him back to the cot, stumbling over a basket full of dirty clothes but eventually he falls onto the cot. Hiccuping still.
He’s quiet as you unbutton his shirt, pull his boots off his stinky feet, and yank his jeans down his legs until he only wears his union suit. You were expecting some type of innuendo, but maybe even drunk him knows this isn’t the time for that.
You pull a blanket over him before turning to blow out the candle, but he reaches for your wrist instead. Pulling you close to him.
It’s not a question, nor a statement. He says it like a plea. His nails dig into your wrist as his eyes look at you like he’s searching for something deep. Something that wasn’t there - something now lost.
Of course you’d always feel for him, the kind of love that no matter what happens always lingers no matter how far you drift. But now? It didn’t feel like marital love, it didn't feel right to say it.
You only smile sad down at him, thumb caressing his jaw as you watch tears pool in his eyes.
The next morning Arthur leaves, and doesn’t bother coming home for a month.
Present Day (Four years later)
His words linger, but so do all the memories. Ones that you couldn’t forget no matter how hard you tried, the good, the bad, the all. But the poor memories burned fresher, outweighing the good ones by a long shot.
Had he blocked out those memories just how he had blocked out you?
Up until last night, he hadn’t even dared meet your eyes - not once in four years. What could possibly make you believe he’d remember anything about your marriage? You gave him ten years, and it felt like he’d let every last good one slip clean through his fingers.
But now, as the wind howls beyond the walls of that weather-worn cabin and the fire snaps and burns in the hearth, his mouth opens again.
“Was there someone else?”
You swallow angrily at the accusation, the dam breaking, tears falling loose down your cheeks. Completely in disbelief he’d even ask such a question.
You fire back without thinking, voice sharp enough to cut, “You’d rather believe I was unfaithful than admit you were an absent husband?”
His lips press into a thin line, nostrils flaring, but he says nothing. And you know, if you sit out here on that couch a second longer, you’ll only drag the two of you into another fight.
So you scoff in disbelief, yanking the blanket tighter around your bare skin as you push yourself to your feet, intent on crossing the cabin and disappearing back into the bedroom.
But he doesn’t let you make it far.
His hand catches your wrist firm, unyielding, pulling you back before you can take another step. You stumble, breath hitching, and then you’re right back where you started, except this time it’s worse.
He has you pulled tight onto his lap.
“No.” His voice is low, final. His grip doesn’t loosen. “You and me we’re gonna sit right here and we're gonna finally talk like normal people for once in our goddamn lives.”
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