Arthur Morgan is not hard to find. It appears he didn’t even go very far. Barely ten minutes of picking your way through underbrush, you spy a strange structure whose frame breaks the lines of the pine trees surrounding it.

An inviting glow emanates from within.

“Mr. Morgan?” You approach the shack, the fireflies lighting each step. “Hello?”

No answer.

You get around to the entrance just in time to see him dip his canteen cup into a large vat of bubbling liquid. “Mr. Morgan?”

He raises the cup, drinks, and the air around him shimmers until your vision goes fuzzy. You blink once. Still blurry. Blink again. It looks like there are three of him, refracted underwater. You squeeze your eyes shut and rub at them. It’s been such a long day, and anyway, what is Mr. Morgan doing drinking stew from some mountain man’s hut?

“Mr. Morgan?” You open your eyes—

And behold three of him.

They give three simultaneous responses. “Yeah?” “Hmm?” “What is it, girl?”

Each looks around at his two clones, wearing similar expressions of bemusement, until they collectively shrug.

You gawp at him, dumbstruck, until you manage to reply. “Are you— uh… do you feel alright?” You don't quite know which one of them you’re asking, or which one to address.

Three of him. Three Arthurs Morgan (?). This should feel weirder. You should be amazed. At least, a little more than you are.

But it is a fact, a reality that is easier to accept than you might think. It is unnatural, and bizarre, but it is what’s before your eyes, and your first thought is rather practical: Maybe one of them won’t be so stoic. Maybe one of them will bear you down on the floor right here and take you.

Somehow it takes three versions of him standing before you for you to appreciate— really appreciate— how handsome he is. But for their grooming and clothes, they are identical, down to the scars. One on the chin, a couple lighter ones on the nose. You can identify the original Mr. Morgan, the one who’s aiming to collect the reward, by his scruffy beard and sandy blond hair. The other two are minutely different. One is clean shaven and has darker hair, which falls in his eyes rakishly, no matter how many times he runs his hand through it. He looks like he gets a kick out of antagonizing people. The other gives you a warm, kind smile. Right away you think of him as golden, for his hair, which is brighter in the candlelight than either Mr. Morgan’s or the roguish doppelgänger’s.

The middle one— the original— responds. “Ah, I guess. My head’s a little clearer. Felt like I had a hangover for days until now.”

“‘Cause you don’t got us rattlin’ around in there no more.” The rogue crosses his arms and leans against a post, and the smile he gives you is much less wholesome than Golden’s.

Golden peers over at him. “You look young. God, I forgot my hair used to be so dark.”

“And you look washed up, old man. Gone soft.”

“Shut up, pretty boy.”

“Shut the hell up, both of you.” Mr. Morgan barks, and they both go quiet for a little too long.

“...Did you catch anything to eat?” You ask, sounding more petulant than you mean to.

In unison, their attention snaps to you. Three pairs of cornflower blue eyes, three versions of an expression asking did you really just say that. They all stand a little straighter. Mr. Morgan adjusts his hat.

A nascent spark of desire pulses through you, brings you to life. You stare right back. Acting haughty is one thing, being bold is another. Mr. Morgan on his own had been plenty menacing when he wanted to be; the sight of three of him is something else.

Here is all of his gentility, all his wildness, and every impulse in between. They embody all of it. That’s what they can give you.

“You know what I want to understand,” Mr. Morgan starts, as casual as if you hadn’t said anything at all. “Why you ain’t tried to get away from me.”

You feel yourself flush. All of a sudden your corset feels too tight, even though you’d been lacing it as loose as possible these weeks out on the road. When you finally find your voice, it’s too breezy to be sincere. “What do you mean?”

Golden steps closer. Your eyes flick to his shoulders— oh, those shoulders. Broad enough to block out the sun. “You know what I mean.”

You lift your chin, meeting his eyes. “State it plainly, then.”

Dark speaks now. “How much plainer can I be? I know you ain’t stupid, girl. You made it all the way to Arizona territory on your own, and I weren’t the only one looking for you. You could have ridden off during the night, or given me the slip in any of the towns we came through. You could have turned yourself over to any of the other morons who would’ve traveled you back east like the princess you think you are. So.” He looms over you, expression suitably black, and sounding, despite his accusations, just a tiny bit admiring. “Tell me why you let me bring you this far.”

You swallow thickly, and make to look away but they won’t let you. They hem you in, Golden reaching out to take your jaw in his hand, gentle yet firm. “You? Or Mr. Morgan?” Their proximity is doing terrible and wonderful things to you, kindling that little spark brighter and hotter.

“Does it matter?”

“It seemed—“ you breath snags on the falsehood “—it seemed the prudent thing to do.”

He chuckles. “Don’t lie, now.”

“I…” you shut your eyes against the heat rising in your core, squeezing your thighs together in search of some relief—

One of them speaks, his voice rough with amusement. “I seen you lookin’. You ain’t so prim and proper… tell me you ain’t thought about it.”

— and open them in admission. He knows.

He knows your lustfulness and sinful inclinations and impropriety. All three of them know.

They regard you with piercing intensity. They want you, each in a different way, perhaps, but you recognize a man’s desire. “Mr. Morgan—“

“Arthur,” he corrects you gruffly before pressing his mouth to yours.

Arthur.

How will he sound when you moan that name aloud?

Suddenly there are three pairs of hands on you. Three mouths.

Arthur coaxes your lips to part, as gentle as he knows how, probably, but it’s still too passionate for a first kiss, too rough and too full of longing. As if you’re his lover already, and he’s kissing you goodbye.

One of the others is nuzzling your neck, one is pulling the clips from your hair to let it fall loose. They act in tandem like they share a mind, albeit one that doesn’t always agree with itself. Dark and Golden want to kiss you too, and they do, stealing in turns, drinking from you until you’re dizzy; after a time you have to hold them back for a moment, hand on Arthur’s chest, so you can look at him and catch your breath.

“Y’alright, girl?”

You nod.

Golden sneaks one more kiss, a little chaste. “Come on, take all this off.”

“W-why? Can’t you just… under the skirt?”

“I want you to be able to see yourself—“ Dark starts, his hand already drawing the fabric up to get under the hem.

“—see your figure when you got me between your legs,” Arthur adds.

“And— ah— what about you?” You grab at whatever clothing of theirs you can reach. They’d all started to lose pieces here and there: gunbelts, jackets, a hat. For some reason you hope at least one of them will leave his suspenders on.

“You wanna see me?” Golden sounds slightly surprised, but obliges quickly enough. “Well, alright.” He gives you a small, flattered smile and starts unbuttoning his shirt.

Dark, rough and impetuous, makes quick work of your dress. You have no doubt that, were it just him, he’d simply ruck the fabric up over your hips and bend you over like a whore. But it comes all the way off and ends up on the ground in a heap, followed by your corset. Arthur’s there right away, pulling at the neckline of your chemise, lower, lower…

Your skin prickles, not from the cold but from undeniable need. This is beyond inappropriate, and you could tell yourself all you want that it’s the witchcraft seducing you but it would still be a lie.

The sight of him lowering his mouth to your exposed breast is new and fascinating. He seems similarly entranced, murmuring between kissing and licking how soft your skin is. Across your collarbone, down the curved slope of your breasts, he’s almost delicate, though he is in no rush; none of them are, not even the rogue, who is now standing behind you, one hand flat on your stomach, pulling you closer to him. You can feel his manhood pressing against your—

No.

Not manhood. Cock. Use the vulgar terms. He (they) would, at least some of the time. So, try again.

You can feel his cock pressing against your ass, while his hand wanders downward.

Over the fabric, his fingers find your— oh— you squirm— your…

What would he call it?

“You’re wet,” he observes, his voice low and hot against your neck. “You got a sweet little pussy, don’t you.” He says it in such a coarse way, amused yet delighted to find that this is your reaction to him. Not like you can help it. He starts rubbing, dexterous and searching, until he gets you to gasp. Your most sensitive spot, and he hones in on it, making tight little circles and you choke out their name: “A-Arthur…”

Arthur chooses his moment, flicking his tongue over the bud of your nipple.

You arch to his touch, catching Golden’s eye as you moan in pleasure, and read the bare, unselfish need in his expression. He’s rubbing himself over his trousers watching his two copies in the early stages of ravishing you. Arthur pauses long enough for the one behind you to pull the chemise over your head; his hands return immediately to your bare skin, tracing his finger along your slit, dipping into the wetness at the entrance.

Whatever doubts you still had left about them, you will have to relinquish.

“Which one of us do you want to lick your cunt?” It’s Arthur asking. He steps back to unbutton his shirt, as casually as if he’d inquired what you’d like for dinner.

You fight to control the blush that rises in your cheeks. Out of everything happening, his bluntness about the matter is what shocks you. “Any of you. All of you. You can take turns.” The offer tumbles out. You hardly know what you’re saying, only that the want they’ve lit in you is not a surprise. It has been a long time flickering, maybe even from the moment he’d first cornered you in the Ridge Runner Saloon and asked if you’d like to retain your dignity while he apprehended you.

You’d gone with him quietly then, though it had been a close thing, but now…

Now dignity is a low priority.

Dark kisses your neck, brings his fingers wet with your arousal up to his mouth, then yours. Makes you taste yourself. Draws your attention to how the other two are watching you with such hunger. See them there, girl. See, their cocks are hard for you, you want a taste too, ain’t that right?

It is, and you do.

You stare unabashed at Arthur and his golden-haired counterpart undoing their trousers, shoving the material down enough to free their erections.

Dignity and propriety are for girls who never ran away in the first place.

Arthur tilts his head at you as he takes himself in hand. You don’t look away. Dark moves you towards them, with more of the filthy encouragement that seems to be unique to him, sentiments that would make you sweat next time you went to church. Glancing at the heap of discarded clothes, Golden stops to ask, “you sure you ain’t too high and mighty for this? All we got is the ground.”

Dark snorts.

“I ain’t prude,” he responds haltingly. “Only… respectful. And she deserves more of a bed than—“

You drop to your knees in front of them, giving Golden a meaningful look before turning to Arthur. You know this much, at least; you’re not completely inexperienced.

And yet Arthur— all three versions of him— is intimidating. Big. His cock is large and thick and veined in a way that invites you to explore with your tongue. You wonder for a second how you’ll possibly get your mouth around it, let alone take him inside you. But he likes it when you shoo his hand away, wrapping your own around his shaft so you can imitate his strokes. The skin is hot and smooth, even more so when you lick at the swollen head. You lick again, to catch a little drop of his essence which has trickled out too soon, and a third time you lick a hot stripe up the underside of his shaft. The salt and musk of him are a heady combination. When you take him fully in your mouth his size flattens your tongue and he twists his fingers in your hair.

For some reason, despite your conflict with him, you want to please him. You’ve wanted to witness him as he is now: moaning and softly thrusting into your mouth as he strokes your hair. He’s gazing down at you, eyes hooded, his handsome brow knit. He’s struggling, maybe, holding himself back. Gentle or rough?

Golden and Dark are there to answer that question for him. You suck each of them in turn, savoring each of them in the manner they allow you. Dark makes you open wide for him, makes you take as much of his length as you can swallow so you nearly choke while saliva dribbles down your chin. He smiles at the mess he makes of you. Holds your head and moves you at the pace he wants, fucking your mouth deep and insistent. Strangely, you have no trouble believing that the Mr. Morgan you know now was once this uncautious, intense young man.

Golden gives you a reprieve, rasping quiet praise while you lick him all over. He shudders when you suck his balls into your mouth, one by one— that garners his one and only “Ahh fuck.”

And then he goes to his knees, same as you, but breathing hard and almost undone.

Arthur takes the opportunity to bear you all the way to the floor, maneuvering you onto your back to rest upon a layer of the discarded clothing.

He nudges your knees apart in order to settle between your legs. Completely naked and exposed, you had crossed them, which seems very silly given the circumstances, but you are still a lady.

“You gettin’ shy on me now?” He asks wryly. “I meant to do this first.”

“She was so eager, though.” Dark chimes in, kneeling down as well and running a large, callused hand over your breast, catching a nipple and rolling it to a firm bud. “Never seen a girl open her mouth that fast unless she was paid to.”

“If I charged for my services you wouldn’t be able to afford me.”

He laughs like he’s going to get you back for that little comment— later. For now he leans over and kisses you at the same time Arthur presses a scruffy-bearded kiss to your inner thigh. It tickles, same as earlier. You know what you want him to do, yet not how to articulate it. Dark, at least, gives you space and lets you watch as his clone inches closer and closer to his goal; Golden on your other side appears equally captivated.

Athur’s not doing this to tease you, you think, though it is very frustrating. When at last he gets one first, soft lick at your pussy, his eyes drift closed, he gives a quiet, contented moan, like a man parched from the desert finding clear cool water.

You whimper when he does it again. And again twice over. He settles on his elbows, hitching your knees over his shoulders so he can begin lapping at your clit in earnest; Golden sits himself behind you, supporting you on his lap, carding his fingers through your hair and brushing it back from your forehead and temples. You can feel the ridge of his erection against your back, and knowing that his desire is not diminished, that if anything he likes watching this...

Likes that you start to lift your hips to Arthur’s mouth as you get closer and more desperate, and likes that you similarly arch to Dark’s touch when he plays with your nipples. Likes how your lips part in a nearly silent gasp when Arthur slides one finger into your wet cunt and curls it just so.

“She’s tight,” he announces. “Might take some patience.”

“Arthur, please…” you don’t have patience, and certainly don’t want it from them.

He doesn’t deprive you for long. With one arm wrapped under your thigh, hand flat on your belly, he steadies you; with the other he inserts a second finger.

It is tight. Tighter now. It’s a strange sensation, feeling overfilled and yet wanting more. You want him to move, damn it, or do something with his tongue, with which he’s very talented, so you tell him as much and they all laugh.

“You ain’t ready, darlin’.”

A delightful shiver runs through you. He’s never called you that before. ‘Girl’ plenty of times, and ‘princess’ when he really needs to be sarcastic. Darling, though. The word has never sounded so good. As if he’s the only one ever meant to say it.

“Why?” You demand. “I’m ready. I’m ready for… for—“ you slide your hand up Dark’s thigh. Arthur starts licking again. It’s very hard to concentrate.

“Ready for what?” He raises his eyebrows at you. “You can’t even get the words out.”

“I can.” Your voice hitches when he flicks his thumb over one sensitive nipple. “I can—“ Arthur places an open-mouthed kiss to that most sensitive spot. “—but ladies don’t use foul language.”

That’s bullshit, of course. Arthur decides that’s the best moment to curl the two fingers in you and then, when you glance down he locks eyes with you and sucks at that spot.

“Fuck.” Your hips buck, you can’t help it. Dark smirks at you, asks if you like what Arthur’s doing. He leans closer, his free hand lazily pumping his erection as he watches the spectacle. Asks if you like him sucking on your clit. You wonder, briefly, why he doesn’t ask whether he’s the first man you’ve been with, since men are all obsessed with that, but the thought is quickly swept aside.

Arthur is making a complete mess of you and himself. His face is shiny with your arousal and you’re trembling, grasping at his forearm with which he pins your hips down.

And the sounds. Lord, the sounds. Sloppy and obscene and wonderful. His low, muffled groans, and he only pauses once, to tell you how goddamn good you taste, how sweet and wet, and then he’s back, licking broad flat slow so you gasp and swear again.

You’re close, sweetly, maddeningly close. Arthur is in no hurry to get you there. He’s savoring you in a way you never would have expected from the brusque, coarse bounty hunter. He is gentle with the vulnerability you show him. He treats you as delicately as he is able, some blend of what you’d expect from his better and worse twins. You have no doubt they’ll want a turn, and no doubt they won’t mind exhausting you before the night is done, and probably long before. What the hell did he drink from that cauldron? Maybe it wasn’t the brew at all. Maybe it’s in the air of this strange little place because, after all, you’re the one on your back with your legs spread.

You think you’re about to break apart, and it’s going to happen in front of them. You don’t care. “Arthur…” you beg, trying to lift to his touch. You can’t. His arm is like an iron bar. “Arthur I’m...”

He hears you the second time. “Alright, darlin’.” He pulls back, kisses your thigh. You whine at the sudden and complete deprivation, but he only sits on his heels for a second before taking his erection in hand and positioning himself where he’d just been. “You tell me, now,” he says. His shirt hangs open, unbuttoned, letting you glimpse his broad chest rising and falling. The blunt head of his cock slips in the wetness of your folds. “Tell me, tell us if it’s too much. Now or any time after.”

At your silence, Dark prompts you by taking your jaw in his hand. “What do you say, girl?”

“Y-yes, sir.” Desire ripples through you.

Arthur folds you near in half, his large hand at the back of your thigh, pressing your knee to your shoulder. With anyone else, at any other time than this, it would be humiliating to be seen like this, used in such a manner. He pushes into you, barely an inch at a time, and it feels like he’s splitting you open. He’s huge, everywhere, and seems even more so up close.

You aren’t ashamed. Your body is still humming from a moment earlier, taut and ready to snap. You spread your legs wider and smile up at Arthur. He does not quite return it. Each roll of his hips goes a little deeper, and each time, he’s a little less careful, a little rougher stretching you to accommodate him, until at last he’s fully seated in you and you wonder how he’s possibly going to move.

“Goddamn tight,” he rasps, drawing out and thrusting back in. Sweat beads on his brow; it is a struggle restraining himself, fighting every instinct to rut with abandon, but he builds to it all the same.

Golden encourages you with soft praise, a counterpoint to Arthur’s uncouth way of saying the same things. That you’re beautiful— “fuckin gorgeous, look at her.”

They’re watching your tits bouncing, watching his cock as he plunges in and out of you, watching your flushed face. His control is slipping away. His breath is ragged. Dark reaches down between your bodies to rub tight little circles on your clit; somehow you hadn’t thought to do it yourself.

“Yes, please—“ you hear yourself keen. Arthur had wound you so tight earlier, and then left you tensed, and now he’s wound you again and it won’t hold for much longer.

“That’s it, darlin’,” one of them says. You can’t tell who. Doesn’t matter.

Arthur speeds up, changes his angle to hit a slightly different spot with every pounding stroke.

You break apart. Raw, searing pleasure courses through you, flooding your senses so you have to shut your eyes against it. You cry out his name, or something close to it. His hips snaps to yours and you rise to meet him and he doesn’t stop. Though he keeps his head bowed, you catch glimpses of his face. His restraint is gone, his eyes blown black with lust. His mask of civility has crumbled and you see him for who he truly is. Arthur Morgan does whatever the hell he wants. Sometimes it’s decent. Sometimes not.

He fucks you hard and fast, drawing out your shaking climax, pulling you along for his. When it overtakes him he gives a shuddering groan, his arms and chest and stomach all flexing and glistening under a sheen of perspiration. You hold on to any part of him you can reach— his forearm, his hand, his biceps, transfixed at this glorious display as he pumps his release into you.

Gradually his movements grow slicker and slower. His breathing steadies. “You alright?”

You nod. When he pulls out you feel his spend leaking from you. Golden, with a caring caress of your hair, helps you sit up. “You’re sure?” He asks. His eyes seem a little bluer than the others’. A bit more kind, and searching. You are reminded of the time Arthur returned from hunting and wordlessly handed you a small bouquet of wildflowers.

Not that Dark is thoughtless or mean, exactly. You look from Golden to him, inhaling to cover the thrill that shoots through you when you consider what is about to happen.

There is a glint in his eyes, an expression you’ve seen on Arthur but rarely. On his rogue twin it’s disconcerting. This one, you now realize, is all of Arthur’s worst impulses and none of his control. “Turn over,” he orders. You shift, then look over your shoulder at him coyly. Out of the three of them, he may be the most fun to tease.

And the most dangerous.

**

“How much farther, Mr. Morgan?”

Your captor responds with a forebearing sigh. 

It’s a question you ask every day as soon as he lets you down from the horse. He has told you before he’s damn tired of hearing it, yet he answers all the same. 

“Three hundred miles or so. Five days if we keep at this pace.”

Three hundred… by your counting, the total distance has been three times that. During this journey you’ve been able to observe Mr. Morgan at length— a pastime which has become your sole enjoyment. “You know this territory well, sir.”

He grunts, swinging his leg over and dismounting with a grace you wouldn’t expect for his size. Mr. Morgan is a hulking man, broad shouldered and tall, muscled like a work animal. He seems to relish stomping around in an intimidating manner, or at least was never taught any better. 

If you’re honest, simply observing him isn’t your only fun. Riding behind him with your arms wrapped around his barrel chest, smelling the distinctive wax he uses to weatherproof his coat, listening to his gravelly, off-pitch voice humming trail songs when he thinks you’re asleep. Sometimes while in the saddle you press your hands flat against his abdomen, or else grip handfuls of his shirt, just to see what he’ll do. Never anything more than grumble, or clear his throat and shift around. He’s stoic. Like a big old dog that doesn’t mind children pulling its tail. It’s the closest you get to him. Otherwise you both keep well away. Propriety and all that.

After a short break to relieve yourselves and rest the horse, you are traveling again. He guides Boadicea on a narrow, rocky path over a saddle in the mountains. From there the trail goes gradually down into a valley, the beautiful view from the mountainside eclipsed over the course of a few hours by dwindling sunlight; and soon the forest grows up thick and tangled around you. 

In the shade, at an easy pace, Mr. Morgan gets back on the topic of the reason your parents are offering a reward for your safe return. It’s his favorite thing to tease you about. His guesses are more outlandish than the newspaper stories about your disappearance, and they all elicit eye rolls from you—

“Joined a circus.” “Just got really, really lost.” “On your way to Tahiti.”

“Tahiti?”

“It’s a little island, way out—“

“I know what it is, my uncle was a maritime surveyor to the Challenger expedition.”

“I’m gonna find out from your family when I hand you over. Might as well tell me now, save yourself the embarrassment.”

“You presume too much, sir.” You sniff. It’s easiest to retreat to the haughty attitude your superior station affords you. “They would never confide such sensitive information to a common brigand.” The sway of the horse has your hips rocking against Mr. Morgan’s, making you that much more aware of the inappropriate effect his nearness usually has on you. That being: low, slow-burning arousal. The sort of experience not meant for a girl like you— you feel slightly guilty at even being able to identify it.

“You know, for a society girl your manners are awful rude,” Mr. Morgan remarks. He’s been making comments like that this whole way, finding spots to needle you, and damn him for getting so effective at it.

“As if you would know anything about civilized company.”

He shrugs, and speaks in that sly, drawling way of his— pretending to be a little dim though you’ve often been the target of his sharp wit. “I sure don’t. But I was never taught better. You were.”

For all you try to keep from Mr. Morgan, he knows a lot more about you than you do about him, despite your most charming efforts to pry. You know his Christian name is Arthur. You know he treats his horse well. He’s far and away the best shot you’ve ever seen, and though he had scoffed at your suggestion that he star in a shooting exhibition— what am I, some old relic on display for a nickel? — you can’t quite erase the idea of him as one of those infamous gunslingers from the dime westerns. 

Oh, and he’s just the slightest bit infuriating, even putting aside the whole business of returning you to your family for a reward. Kiss him and slap him are both daily considerations. Today you’re leaning towards throttle. Put your hands to his throat while you’re astride him, perhaps, and suddenly the image is fixed in your mind, as vivid as a printed illustration. Except your hands would be on his chest. His bare chest, bracing yourself and moving with the roll of his hips. 

Mr. Morgan coughs, jolting you out of your reverie, and asks you to pass him the bourbon out of the saddle bag. You do, and take a nip yourself, settling in for another long day of riding.

It is a blessing to be under the canopy of these trees, cool in the shade after so many hours in the sun. Leaves rustle with every breeze. They sound like a tide to you, that whispering rush with the cadence of Boadicea’s gait. You lay your cheek against Mr. Morgan’s back, feeling drowsy; at this he gives a rumbling ‘hmm’ that sends your mind spinning off in prurient fantasy. What would he look like beneath you? How would he feel? As large as he looks? Would he like to be called Arthur, or would he be stern and dominating, flip you over to mount and rut like a beast… maybe both… maybe he would be gentle... 

The peaceful ride lulls you to sleep right there in the saddle. When you wake up, bleary and disoriented, he is lifting you down from the horse.

“Where are we?” You ask, muzzy-headed from sleep. Such lurid dreams you’d had, completely unbecoming of a lady. More secrets to keep.

“Camp for the night.” He carries you in his arms like a princess, one arm under your back, the other under your legs, and sets you on a patch of grass.

Sometimes he helps you set up your bed roll. Sometimes not. As if he can’t decide whether to be a gentleman or a brute. He has been respectful in the ways that matter, though. No leering or stalking in the bushes while you bathe or relieve yourself. His hands don’t wander, not even when assisting you on or off Boadicea. Not that you haven’t caught him looking.

He’s staring down at you now, his gaze sharp. He’s much more perceptive than he’ll ever admit. You wonder for a moment if he can read your thoughts— he’s not being coy about drinking his fill, looking you up and down, assessing you so brazenly that you blush— but then he turns away. He announces, same as every night, that he has to set up the camp and hunt for something to eat. 

“You hungry?” He asks, slinging a lightweight varmint rifle over his shoulder.

You nod. 

“Good. Gather kindling and some smaller branches for a fire. If I come back and see you still sittin’ there, you get to watch me eat a whole rabbit.” When you don’t move right away, his expression darkens and he barks, “well, go on, girl!” before heading into the woods.

Midsummer grants a long twilight. It’ll be light out for several more hours this close to the solstice. You do what he instructed, gathering dry wood and brush, though such a menial task is beneath you. Really, who did he think he was, ordering you around? He could be so agreeable one moment, and unrepentantly thuggish the next. And still, he’s been a decent traveling companion. Certainly more interesting than riding in a coach.

You stay at the campsite for a long time. Almost an hour. Boadicea is grazing and pays you no mind. Mr. Morgan had unburdened her of all the supplies and hitched her to a tree and brushed her, murmuring loving things. That is hard to reconcile with the same man who you witnessed shoot another man in the head for annoying him. And he’d robbed the poor fellow too, robbed him twice, once at gunpoint and once dead. They always try to hold something back, he had growled, as if warning you not to do the same.

Mr. Morgan is usually back by now. It doesn’t take him an hour to hunt a rabbit, and he’s always clear if he goes off to bathe and wants privacy.