#colm

It began when trouble found you first—a group of grimy thieves who mistook your isolation for weakness. Arthur and Hosea spotted the commotion from afar, billows of smoke rising where they shouldn’t in the heart of the dense forest, beckoning them in that direction. 

As they drew closer, Arthur caught sight of a shadow weaving beneath the thick shrubs with hurried movements.

Then shouts rang out, followed by gunfire. 

The figure returned fire without hesitation, each shot steady as if honed from experience. Only when their weapon went silent and was forced out from cover did he realize it was a young woman, but there was no time to process it.

The attackers pressed harder than you could handle alone, bullets tearing through the trees as they closed in. Just when it seemed you might be overrun, two men charged in, guns drawn.

The bigger one of them was off his horse in an instant, revolver cracking as he took down the attackers one by one. 

But the sight only deepened your confusion and panic, leaving you unsure whether to decide the sudden presence as friends or foes. Taking cover quickly behind a tree, you kept your eyes fixed on the commotion.

At the edge of your vision, one of them appeared. A slightly older man took careful steps toward you with his hands raised. His voice was calm and steady assuring you he meant no harm.

You brought your rifle up, even knowing it was empty, warning him to stay back as you followed his movements, refusing to let him come within arm’s reach. Still, the gentleness in his voice reached you just enough to ease some of your caution.

Soon the shooting finally stopped, dust beginning to settle as the silence fell over.

“What in the world happened here?”one of them called out.

You didn’t answer, didn’t care to. You ran past them towards your cabin, leaving them baffled and confused as you went.

“Stay back!” you yelled over your shoulder, heart hammering. 

You got there just in the knick of time, flames licking at the edges and the smoke curling thickly around the structure. 

Inside the floorboards groaned under your weight warning you that time was running out. You quickly dug through the debris, hands shaking until you found what you’d come for.

Gripping it tightly, you darted out just as the roof began to splinter, stumbling onto solid ground. Behind you, the cabin groaned one last time before collapsing in on itself and swallowing whatever life you had left inside.

Coughing and chest heaving, you glanced up and caught sight of movement just to your left followed by a low, steady drawl that cut through the smoke and careful enough not to startle you.

“Alright there, Miss?”

You turned and saw the gunman from earlier, the older one just behind him, standing a short distance away. 

You took him in—broad shouldered, wearing a gambler’s hat tipped low over his eyes, hair falling slightly beneath the brim. Even from a little ways off, he drew your attention, and for reasons you couldn’t name a flicker of curiosity stirred in your chest.

“I think so,” you answered, unsure if he could hear the tremor in your voice.

He gave an almost imperceptible nod, tipping his hat back just slightly, allowing you to see his face. 

“Alright then.” He paused for a moment, eyes lingering on the wreckage before flicking back to you. “Next time, try not to catch fire, yeah?”

You gave a shaky laugh, partly from relief and partly from the absurdity of the moment. 

“Anyplace we can get you to, keep you safe?”

You shook your head. You had nowhere. No one.

He gave a small understanding nod, silence hanging for a moment before the older man behind him stepped forward.

“Perhaps we can offer you a temporary place of refuge. We’ve got a camp not far from here. Could use a warm fire and a bit of shelter for the night. What do you say?” 

Arthur froze at the suggestion, his eyes narrowing on Hosea.

“Hosea… you can’t just—”

Hosea cut in, lifting a hand in reassurance. His gaze flicked briefly to Arthur, acknowledging the younger man’s caution.

“I know it’s sudden… but we can’t rightly leave her defenseless out here alone, not with no protection.”

Bringing an unknown into their camp meant risk. Loose talk and wrong intentions…trouble he couldn’t afford. And judging by what he’d seen earlier, you seemed skilled enough to make things even more complicated.

He didn’t like it one bit—bringing strangers into camp on a whim. Still, there was something about you looking slight and almost defeated that kept him from further objecting… for now.

Arthur let out a gruff exhale. He said nothing more, leaving the space open for you to make your choice. 

Hosea turned back to you and gave a patient nudge with his words. 

“Sometimes a safe place is worth takin’, even if it’s only for a little while.”

Arthur watched you ponder, the pause stretching thin. A small glint caught his eye where your fingers curled tight around something that he assumed what you’d risked yourself  to pull from the fire. 

As you lifted your gaze, it drifted between the two of them and the wreckage behind you as if you were trying to measure the danger in your surroundings, and for a moment he wondered if you’d decline. 

But then finally, after a breath you gave a small nod, signaling your choice. Hosea offered a soft smile, while Arthur stayed quiet, gaze lingering on you a moment longer than he intended.

The ride to their camp passed mostly in silence, broken only in the first few minutes by brief introductions that eased some of the wary tension hanging between you.

Partway through the journey, Hosea spoke up, voice measured like he was feeling out your reaction before committing to his words. They weren’t a typical traveling group, he explained. Life with them required flexibility. A willingness to keep your head down and an understanding that some things were better left unsaid.

It wasn’t a confession, not outright, but it didn’t need to be. You understood well enough.

These were people who lived outside the law, and staying with them meant you would too.

You let that sit with you for a moment, turning it over in your mind. Truthfully, it wasn’t so different from the life you’d already known. You’d learned early on that the world had little interest in fairness, and that survival often came with a cost.

There had been a time when you’d done what was necessary. When danger pressed too close and there were no better choices left, you’d defended yourself. You’d taken a life because there was no other way to keep your own.

It didn’t sit easy in your chest—never did—being the reason someone was robbed of their life, whether they deserved it or not. Years on the road had taught you that survival often demanded hard decisions.

Still, there was honesty in the way Hosea spoke. A quiet trust in how he shared just enough for you to understand that, however rough or dangerous their lives might be, they were decent people at their core.

Before long, the forest began to thin, pale light filtering through the trees. The rustle of leaves and distant birdcalls slowly gave way to the low hum of activity ahead. As you drew closer, you began to make out shapes of tents and wagons from a distance.

“Who’s there?” came a sudden raspy voice from the brush’s edge. 

A young man, lean and wiry with dark hair falling just past his ears stepped into the path, rifle clutched in his hands. He blinked past the brim of his hat, taking a quick look. 

“Arthur. Hosea. Mornin’.”

Then his gaze flicked toward your figure peeking over Hosea’s back where you sat, and he paused, brow furrowing in curiosity.

“Hell… what’s this? You men bringin’ in some scrappy little runt along now?” he smirked, eyes narrowing at what looked like a kid, a young boy too slight to be any kind of trouble.

You leaned slightly to the side, allowing him to get a clear look at you before meeting his gaze with a long, steady stare. His smirk faltered then he straightened awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck. 

“Oh… uh… sorry, miss,” he muttered, then glanced back toward the men, mumbling. “Didn’t know you two were ridin’ in with a… uh… pretty lady.”

You lifted a brow, letting the pause stretch just long enough to make the young man shift uncomfortably, cheeks flushing beneath the brim of his hat as he shuffled from one foot to the other under your stare.

Arthur caught it all, smirking before leaning back in his saddle as he spoke.

“Funny thing, John… most men with a woman an’ a kid don’t usually find the time to go courtin’ every other woman they meet.”

John scratched the back of his neck. “Well… reckon I’m just makin’ sure I ain’t forgotten how, can’t blame a man for bein’ polite, right?”

“Polite, huh? Sure you ain’t just practicin’ on the wrong lady?”

“Aw, hell… maybe a little,” John admitted, shrugging sheepishly.

Arthur rolled his eyes and shot him an exasperated look. “Now you best quit yer runnin’ off and do right by your family once in a while.”

Before John could argue, Hosea butted in. “Now, now… you boys be on your best behavior. Can’t be actin’ like damn fools in front of our guest… though, I reckon Arthur’s got a point, John.”

You couldn’t help the sliver of the amused smile tugging at your lips, finding the interaction between them very familial.

John then muttered something under his breath, almost like a grumbled sarcastic string of words that you couldn’t quite make out. He gave Arthur a pointed look before slinging the rifle over his shoulder and without another word, stepped back toward the edge of the clearing to take his initial post.

The camp stirred in the soft morning light and for a moment you simply watched. Men, and a couple women, moved through familiar routines and somewhere nearby you hear the sound of a baby’s cry echoing across the camp. 

Every now and then you caught a few of them glancing your way before they returned to their conversations, the subtle shift in their attention told you enough that your sudden arrival definitely hadn’t gone unnoticed.

You and Arthur lingered near the horse hitches, as Hosea slipped away to speak with their supposed leader. From where you stood, you could hear the low hum of their voices carrying back to you.

“She’s alone, Dutch,” Hosea explained. “Been fending for herself out there. Skilled, careful… Arthur and I’ve seen it. She could be useful to the gang.”

Dutch’s gaze lingered on you from afar, letting Hosea’s words settle. Then slowly he turned to Hosea and nodded, the corners of his mouth lifting into a small grin before his hands swept toward the camp in a grand, commanding gesture.

“Hosea, my friend,” he said, voice warm and confident, “we’ve always been more than a gang. We’re a family—folks cast aside, left to rot by a world that don’t understand ’em. If that’s what she needs, then we’ll give it, because that’s what we do.”

You watched in amusement, surprise flickering as their leader accepted you without hesitation, brushing past the earlier protests of the man beside you.

Arthur stayed quiet, jaw set. He’d learned long ago not to question Dutch when that familiar gleam lit his eyes, the fire of a man utterly convinced of his own vision. Either way he respected him and trusted his judgment, even if he couldn’t help but think that Dutch’s convictions sometimes carried more show than sense.

Hosea returned a moment later, a small approving smile etched on his face. 

“Looks like you’re part of us… at least for the time being. Of course, that’s if you’re willin’ to stick around.”

Arthur shifted beside you, eyes narrowing slightly as they flicked your way.

“Don’t go gettin’ too comfortable yet,” he said, voice doubtful. “You do your part, and you’ll be alright. But don’t forget… we ain’t real quick to trust strangers. Step outta line, and you’ll see why.”

His gaze held yours as if weighing you up and testing you. You didn’t look away, matching the intensity of his stare. After a beat, he gave a small, almost reluctant nod before turning away.

You suppose that was as close to an invitation you were going to get.

Hosea stepped beside you as he clapped you gently on the shoulder, grinning as Arthur walked away. 

“Best not worry ‘bout him. He’s a grump, sure, but you’ll see. Good to have around once you get to know him.”

You could’ve called the situation convenient more than anything. Right place, right time—or misfortune, depending on how you looked at it. But at that moment it was all you had.

And even so… the choice wasn’t much of a choice at all. 

So the next morning, you stayed. And the days that followed. 

Before long, you had been in camp long enough to weave yourself quietly into their routines and gotten to know some of the members more. Some of the men offered polite nods. Others hung back, wary of the newcomer. A few were rowdy albeit friendly in their own rough way.

The women—the only other two aside from yourself—drew your attention differently. Abigail warmed to you after a while, and you found yourself helping her with Jack, John’s restless little boy. Watching her with him, you could see the care she carried, balancing tenderness with the harsh rhythm of gang life.

Grimshaw, on the other hand, barely hid her disapproval. She was always quick to point out mistakes or question your work. You met her scrutiny with patience, keeping your head down though a small spark of irritation flared each time she spoke.

By now, you had also formed impressions of the men who led the gang. 

Dutch was restless and commanding, always a step ahead in his own head, full of grand ideas and visions of freedom. Hosea, in contrast, was thoughtful and clever—a man who could read people and situations before they spoke. Steady and patient, he had a way of making you feel understood without ever forcing it.

And then there was Arthur.

He moved with quiet strength that drew your attention without effort, but he kept his distance and rarely spoke to you, letting the days pass without exchanging more than a few words. 

You could feel his gaze lingering on you sometimes but every time you met his stare, he was quick to look away. Of course, you couldn’t blame him for being cautious about a stranger but each time it made your stomach tighten and you find yourself shifting and straightening, making sure none of your movements could be taken the wrong way.

Yet you still couldn’t help but wonder more about the man.

Pieces of insights came slowly, mainly in scraps of conversation around the fire. Some mentioned that Arthur didn’t warm easily to new faces, that he carried a weight the gang didn’t pry into.

Abigail gave you a clearer picture one evening as you helped her with Jack. “He ain’t always like that,” she said softly. 

You tore your gaze from Arthur who sat off to the side sharpening a knife and looked to Abigail, only to find your eyes drifting back to where hers were fixed on him.

“Sure, he’s quiet,” she continued, “but it’s not just bein’ gruff. There’s… history there.” Her gaze softened for a moment. “Mary.”

You frowned. “Mary?”

“A woman he cared for. Thought it would last… but she left just a couple months before you came in and he… well, since then he don’t let folks in too easy these days.”

You nodded slowly, taking it in. It explained the distance, the short words, and the way he rarely lingered in conversation. It wasn’t coldness, it was caution—self-protection, built from heartbreak and the life he lives.

Abigail glanced at you again, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “You watch him a lot, don’t you?” she asked, teasing gently.

You froze, caught off guard and cheeks warming but you managed a small shrug. “Maybe a little.”

She chuckled softly, shaking her head. “Just… don’t let him see you starin’, or he’ll think you’re plannin’ trouble.”

As the months passed, trust slowly grew on both sides and eventually you were allowed to leave the camp. 

When the gang rode into town, you tagged along—“in need of a practiced hand,” Dutch had said. It was here in the bustling streets and shadowed alleys that you learned how to move without drawing attention, how to lift a coin purse or slip a pocket watch and be gone before anyone realized it was missing. 

Eyes quick, hands quicker. 

Then it was Hosea who reminded Dutch of the day they’d found you, rifle in hand. Your skill with a gun had been clear from the start, and Dutch of course wanted you sharper, faster, more precise. 

And who better to teach you, he thought, than Arthur Morgan himself. A man whose reputation alone kept most men in line.

One morning, Arthur met you at the edge of camp, holster riding low on his hip, his revolver catching the pale light. He studied you for a moment before speaking.

“Ever killed a man before?” he asked, then spoke again before you could even answer. 

“If you haven’t… I’ll say this once. Hesitation’ll get you killed. Ain’t room for it. You move, you shoot, you survive. Got it?”

You met his gaze, a spark of stubbornness flickering in your eyes as you wanted nothing more than to talk back at him, but kept your voice steady. 

“Got it.” Words said carefully to not sound too defiant but not soft either as to prove that you weren’t anything less than capable.

From that day, your lessons became almost like a ritual. Draw, aim, breathe, fire, reload. 

Over and over, until each motion felt like second nature—and much to your delight, you’d learned faster than he’d expected. 

Before long, Dutch began pairing the two of you on jobs. Arthur grumbled about it at first but you proved useful. And more than that the two of you worked surprisingly well together. 

There were a few occasions where you spotted trouble before he did, probably saving his ass more times than he’d ever admit.

“Hell,” he muttered once with that familiar drawl, “reckon you’re quicker than me.”

You smirked. “Don’t let it bruise your pride, Morgan.”

For the first time, a flicker of something softer crossed his face—a reluctant acknowledgment. It wasn’t praise, not yet, but it was a crack in the armor.

Gradually, the distance between you began to shrink.

It didn’t happen all at once. At first, it was in the ordinary moments: swapping stories by the fire, passing a flask of whiskey under the stars, the quiet ease of simply being near each other.

Then came the smaller, almost unnoticed gestures. The way he lingered just a little longer when tending your scrapes, the way he’d shrug off his coat and drape it over your shoulders at the faintest chill, and the way his usually gruff voice softened when he thought no one was listening.

Then one evening after a run in on the outskirts of a town, dirt caked on your face and exhaustion settling into your bones, he looked at you—and for the first time you saw something soft, unguarded. 

Almost without warning, the line between acquaintance and something deeper began to blur. A touch lingered too long, a look held too meaningfully, drawing you to him with a force that was magnetic and urgent—pulling you closer before either of you even realized it.

And when you both finally gave in, it was electric. 

Fire and heat surged through every glance, every brush of skin. Your hands gripped his, lips met, and in that instant, everything else fell away. There was no hesitation, no doubt. Only the raw, consuming intensity of being together.

From then on you were inseparable. The love you shared was fierce and unrelenting, unlike anything you had known before. 

Alive. 

It burned into you intensely, and you welcomed the fire.

While Mary had been his first love, a dream of something softer and cleaner than the life he led—loving her had meant wanting out.

With you, there were no half measures or hesitations. 

You laughed with him when it seemed impossible to laugh, stood firm when the world threatened to break him, and never wavered when he needed you most. You fought by his side, breathed alongside him and shared the rawness of survival.

You didn’t ask him to be better, you stood beside him in the dirt and smoke. Understood the cost of it all. You were the one he trusted and made him feel fully seen.

Where Mary represented escape, you represented endurance. 

Where she belonged to a gentler world, you survived in his.

And Arthur loved you fiercely for it.

And yet, for all the strength of your bond, the world outside waited for no one. 

O’Driscoll Hideout, 1898

The job was supposed to be simple. 

Some O’Driscoll men had been spotted holed up in a small cabin, tucked deep in the forest. Arthur stayed with you as Bill and Javier scouted it out, while John and Charles—a steady and capable newer addition to the gang—went to cover the other side of the clearing.

You slipped into position, silent and eyes sharp. From across, Arthur’s gaze met yours for a steady moment, gaze heavy with unspoken care. 

“Clean and quick,” he murmured,” then we’re gone.”

You nodded once, tight-lipped. “No mistakes.” 

You let your fingers brush the small locket at your neck, the one thing you’d saved from that very fire that brought down the place you once called home. 

The familiar weight steadied you as you traced it lightly. But this time, the locket held more than the picture of your parents. The once-empty space was filled with a photograph of the man before you—someone who now mattered just as much as those you had lost.

The thought of the image held inside brought your mind briefly back to the day it was taken. You’d gone into a small town once with Arthur and found a photographer’s studio tucked down a quiet street. He didn’t want to go at first, grumbling the whole way, but you’d persuaded him. 

The photograph had been taken in an honest, unguarded moment, showing him exactly as he was. You treasured it because it captured the side of Arthur that had become yours.

Refocusing on the task at hand, you let your gaze flick toward the others moving into position. 

Bill slipped behind the wall of the cabin, using it for cover, then leaned out just enough to raise his shotgun and with one pull of the trigger, it sent an O’Driscoll sprawling. 

Javier’s rifle followed quickly, taking down two more who had been standing nearby.

On the opposite side, Charles moved through the trees cutting down men attempting to flank the cabin, each shot clean and precise. While nearby, John fired his pistol, keeping the attackers at bay.

With the flanks covered, you and Arthur pushed forward as one. 

Another O’Driscoll rounded the corner and barely had time to register you before Arthur’s shot dropped him, already in motion beside you as he cut down another with the same ruthless timing.

Everyone’s movement was quick and deliberate, moving in a deadly rhythm, each shot tearing through flesh and splintered wood. For a moment, the upper hand was yours entirely, almost feeling like you were close to victory.

Almost.

In the span of a heartbeat, everything unraveled. 

Reinforcements poured in from the treelines, shouts rising over the gunfire.

There wasn’t any time to react or regroup before the rhythm you’d found shattered and chaos erupted as O’Driscolls surged forward from every side. 

Somewhere in the middle of it all, Arthur heard your voice cut through the noise calling his name.

Sharp. Frantic. Unforgettable.

Then came the explosion.

A blinding flash of fire and deafening roar that tore through the air. 

The world tilted violently as Arthur was thrown backward, the force of it slamming into him so hard it had knocked the wind out of him. Pain shot through his body as wood and debris rained around him. Ears ringing, the heat scorching his skin, smoke stinging his eyes and lungs.

Strong hands grabbed him out of nowhere, gripping him with bone-deep force as they pulled him upright, offering just enough support to get him back on his feet. He barely had time to catch his footing before he was hauled up onto a horse, the animal rearing beneath the sudden weight. 

Through the ringing in his ears a low, muffled voice reached him, the words blurring as his vision dimmed.

The last thing he registered was the sound of your voice, distant but unmistakable, echoing faintly in his mind as consciousness finally slipped away.

When Arthur woke, there was no shouting or gunfire—just an eerie stillness. 

His awareness came back slowly, feeling his head throbbing and it took a moment before he could bring himself to open his eyes and focus on his surroundings. 

When he finally did, the first thing he saw was the canvas roof of his tent. He was back in camp, the site quiet, a lamp beside his cot illuminating the area.

Then he saw Hosea, sat near the end where his feet rested, his expression grave, every line etched with sorrow and unspoken warning. 

Arthur’s gaze shifted past him, searching without thinking when he realized that you weren’t there.

He looked to Hosea, throat dry as he forced out the only sound he could manage. 

Your name—broken and barely more than a breath.

Hosea rushed to his side, face tightened and eyes heavy with sorrow before he spoke and the words that followed struck Arthur like a second, cruel blow, sharper than any bullet.

You hadn’t made it out.

Arthur bolted upright, every muscle screaming in protest. Pain tore through his ribs and arms, each breath sharp and unforgiving but he barely noticed. 

Hosea’s hand shot out, gripping his shoulder firmly to steady him. 

“Easy, Arthur. That blast did a number on ya. You need to rest.”

Arthur’s throat burned, frustration and helplessness coiling in his chest. 

“Where is she? I…I gotta find her,” he rasped, voice rough and urgent. 

He had to find you. Had to know you were still alive.

Hosea’s grip didn’t loosen, his eyes locking on Arthur’s. 

“Son… I know how you feel, but listen to me. You won’t do her no good if you ride yourself into the ground. Hell, you can barely stand, let alone ride. I’ve sent John and Javier to look. You need to stay here, rest, and get your strength back.”

Arthur’s eyes stayed on Hosea, desperate, his heart pounding as his mind replayed the moments before everything went wrong. Every second you were out there, possibly hurt and alone, felt like a knife twisting deeper in his chest. All he could do was sit, trapped in helplessness, the heavy silence of the camp pressing in around him.

Finally, after much convincing from Hosea, Arthur had no choice but to back down. Even if he couldn’t go himself, he knew at least that no time was being wasted with John and Javier already out there, searching for you.

But Arthur couldn’t stay still for long. 

Days later once he felt strong enough to stand, he immediately set off towards his horse, ready to ride out in search of you.

Much to Hosea’s protest, the older man couldn’t convince Arthur to stay behind so he finally agreed and offered to accompany him, returning to the site and checking every trail, creek, and hollow. 

Later, Charles joined Arthur, using his keen eye for tracking to help scour the countryside for any sign of you.

Eventually more days passed, and the search turned up with nothing. Each trail offered no clue.

Until finally came a grim discovery. 

Charles returned one morning, carrying something with him as he strode to Arthur’s tent before Charles held it out to him, expression heavy with the weight of what it meant.

The moment Arthur saw the faint glimmer, his stomach dropped—throat going dry, and for a moment he couldn’t breathe properly.

A locket. 

Not just any locket that they would’ve usually sold to a fence for a quick fortune—this was the one you always wore around your neck, so rarely removed that even Arthur hardly ever saw you without it.

He reached for it, hands trembling as he studied it carefully, treating it like it might break at any moment. The metal was slightly scuffed, as if it had been hastily discarded with careless hands, but it still held the photographs inside. 

Rage, fear, and grief twisted together in his chest but he refused to let that be the end of it. Shoving the weight of his despair aside, it only fuelled him to search harder. 

He went to Dutch that same day, insisting they track every O’Driscoll hideout they could find, searching for any sign that you might’ve been taken. 

Dutch studied him thoughtfully, weighing the determination in Arthur’s eyes. He could see the raw need driving him, and though he knew the search might lead nowhere, he agreed—driven not only by the chance to follow Arthur’s lead but also to hunt down Colm O’Driscoll and strike at the gang while they could.

And for a time, that was exactly what they did. 

They followed rumors, scouted campsites, and rode hard through hostile territory as Arthur still clung to the thin hope that you were still out there somewhere.

But then things changed. Micah joined the gang, and Dutch’s focus shifted. 

Jobs became more frequent and raids, schemes, and the relentless pace left little time for Arthur—and the search for you fell by the wayside. 

With each sunrise that passed without looking for you, Arthur’s hope that you were still alive began to fade. All he could do was hope Dutch got what he wanted, so he could return to what mattered most.

Then Blackwater happened. 

Hunted and on the run with the law closing in, the gang was forced out of New Austin, leaving everything they had built in ruins. 

Colter, 1899

The fire crackled in the small cabin, the only warmth against the biting cold that seeped through the walls. 

Outside, snow drifted silently against the mountains of Colter, where the gang had temporarily taken refuge. 

Arthur sat on a rough wooden chair, staring at the locket in his hands, the weight of hopelessness pressing on his shoulders. 

He knew there was no going back, not when stepping onto New Austin soil meant risking being shot dead on sight. The hope he’d held onto for so long was slipping away, leaving a hollow ache that nothing could touch.

Hosea noticed the solemn weight in Arthur’s posture and stepped closer, resting a steady hand on his shoulder, offering what comfort he could give.

“Arthur… I know what you’re holdin’ onto, but you can’t keep riding yourself into the ground for somethin’ that’s gone. Not like this.”

Arthur’s jaw tightened, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. He wanted to argue, to refuse, but the firelight reflected in his eyes showed the doubt he couldn’t shake.

Hosea’s voice softened, careful but firm. “If she were still out there, she’d have found her way back to us by now. And if she hasn’t…I’m sorry, Arthur, but I reckon she’s likely gone.”

His chest tightened at the words, and he looked up at Hosea, eyes burning with unshed grief. “I… I can’t just forget her.” 

“You ain’t forgettin’ her,” Hosea said, shaking his head slightly. “But you gotta live, Arthur. The gang needs you. You need you. Holdin’ on like this… it’s killin’ you more than it’s helpin.”

Arthur swallowed hard, the firelight catching the unspoken grief in his eyes. For a long moment, the only sound was the crackle of the flames as Hosea’s words sank into the hollow spaces of his heart.

He stared into the fire in thought as he said nothing, but the weight of Hosea’s words settled in him.

For the first time in a long while, he felt a small shift. A quiet possibility that maybe it was time for him to let go.

And for the sake of the gang, Arthur did.

Far from the mountains just somewhere near the small town of Valentine, Colm O’Driscoll sat at a scarred wooden table in a half forgotten building, rolling cigars and counting the remnants of yesterday’s take. 

Firelight crawled along the walls, stretching shadows that shifted with every small movement of his hands. The door creaked open, followed by the dull thud of something soft and heavy hitting the table.

He paused, slowly looking up at the stack of cash in front of him, one brow lifting as his gaze settled on the money before a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Well now,” he drawled, voice low, almost impressed. “Someone’s been busy.”

He thumbed through the bills as he continued, “I’ll admit… didn’t think anyone could pull it off.”

Only then did he lift his eyes.

You stood in front of him, a faint smirk on your lips as you met his gaze. 

“Don’t get used to it.”

Colm’s smile widened, slow and pleased, as the fire’s warm glow danced between the two of you.

A/N: Hey friends! I’m back to writing after way too long (more than a year oof). Anyways...I’m so excited to write this series and I hope you’ll stick around!