#koralkoffee

You and Arthur remain still, searching each other’s faces until another knock breaks the moment. You’re the first to look away, drawing in a quiet breath as you step back, and he lets you go. As you reach for the handle, you glance over your shoulder, seeing Arthur chewing his bottom lip and looking out the window.

“Hello, Luca,” you mumble, opening the door to greet Bronte’s assistant.

“Telegram, Signora Hilling,” he says, handing you the small note.

You take it with a pause. For the first time since Lawrence left, you hadn’t made your daily trip to the post office. Honestly, you forgot—too excited to go out with Arthur again. A flutter of guilt turns in your stomach as you flip the card over, reading the message on the back:

Waters are safe.

Heading back to America today.

Big celebration on my return, the deal is signed.

Wish us safe travels.

Lawrence.

Luca peeks past you as you read, cocking an eyebrow at Arthur. Arthur catches his glance and shoots him an annoyed look. Luca quickly averts his eyes and steps back from the door, dipping his head politely. “Goodnight, Signora.” The short man scurries down the hall before you can respond, your thoughts racing, pulling you inward.

Arthur reads your expression, and a familiar irritation begins to burn in his chest. Jealousy resurfaces, just like it does every time you read a telegram from him. He’s been careful to remain indifferent while Lawrence is in England, keeping his mouth shut to appease you. But after the last couple of days, the unpleasant emotion is clawing its way to the surface, making his teeth grind in bitterness.

At first, the jealousy felt trivial—he couldn’t understand why you’d want to be with that self-absorbed, English bastard. Arthur told himself you’d turned him away that night just to spite him for never returning. The rejection tormented him, fueling the part of himself he hates most. Why didn’t you want to sleep with him again? Was he no good, lousy? Too far beneath you now, with your rich blood and your new life? Seeing you every day only deepened his self-hatred, convincing him he was undesirable, cursed, horrible—your presence only feeding those thoughts.

But, as you got to know one another, the jealousy twisted, taking a deeper route—one he dreaded even more than the self-hatred. He was jealous because he wanted you to love him instead, even though he’d tried so hard not to want that again. He became ashamed of himself for latching onto a woman he barely knew, for chasing the promise of touch and intimacy in hopes of finding himself again. Clinging to the idea that maybe this time, something might work.

Even in this short amount of time, he found more of himself in you, and it began to heal him. He craved more with every glance—your smile, your laugh, your life. In you, he found what he didn’t think he’d ever feel again, the very thing you were seeking from the start: love, intimacy, warmth. He held the newfound feelings back, but now his resolve crumbles in this moment as he watches your somber features. He can’t hold it back anymore.

“Why’re you marrying him?” he asks, stepping closer to you.

There is a gentle softness to the sun-kissed fog, stagnant yet whispering, as it slowly disperses across the wide plain. You feel as though you are living in a painting, like ones you've seen in Galerie Laurent, where the beautiful hues of an autumn afternoon stir the pleasures of your mind.

A gentle touch of a leaf against the back of your hand causes you to slowly lift your head toward the sky. The grand existence of the old oak dwarfs you as you lean your body against its weathered bark. A hum can be heard, though its source is unknown, only realizing after a moment or two that it is you who carries the tune. You do not know the song, nor do you know why you hum it, but its notes of sorrow create a new wave of apprehension, swelling within your chest.

The sun is setting as you rise from the soft grass below. Looking at the amber waves of the tall grass, you realize you do not know where you are or how you came here. A sudden shift in your solitude makes you turn, and you notice a large white-tailed buck standing no more than five feet away, watching you. You feel no emotion—neither happiness nor fear—as the two of you stare at one another. Then, with a swift bow of its head, the buck charges, goring you instantly.

You gasp and clutch at your chest, bracing your racing heart as the sudden jostle of the carriage rouses you from your slumber. Your fingers quickly swipe over your mouth, checking for blood, your mind still lingering in the haze of the dream. The last thing you remember is the strange sensation of feeling the soft, smooth velvet of the antlers as your body wracked itself with sharp, hot pain from where it pierced you. The body you leaned on stirs, reaching out to touch your arm with its warm, familiar tenderness.

You haven’t been in this town long, perhaps a year at most, having moved from place to place in search of a new home. You traveled, evaluating one town after the next, stopping only because you had run out of funds and food. As a nurse, the profession you chose, you faced an unexpected challenge: the U.S. was experiencing a large number of women entering medicine, making it nearly impossible for you to find a job.

It was a dry summer day when you found a quaint small town in the middle of nowhere. It wasn’t ideal, but you didn’t have much of a choice. The general store shopkeeper was nice enough to give you a job, even though you were a woman; he was desperate and really didn’t care about your gender. You were looking for something else, but knew you had little to no choice—either a “working woman” or a wife. You didn’t like either of those choices.

Your boss gave you one of the rooms above the shop, if you could call it that. The space was tiny as well as dusty from lack of use, but at least it had a door and windows to open. You maneuvered through the tiny hallway, stepping over old boxes as you followed him around, making a mental note to do some serious cleaning. The other room on the second floor was also filled to the brim with random items, your boss telling you how he intended to rent the rooms out once, but never got around to doing it since the day he got his own home—he’s just been too busy.

Friends and acquaintances made it easier to manage your day-to-day, enjoying the company of some of the parlor women and frequent customers. You made deliveries to the girls in the saloon every week, where they would pull you aside to gossip about the men they would lay with, sharing things the customer had told them in secrecy, or how good or bad of a lover they were. You thank yourself again for not venturing down that path, too much drama for your liking.

Life was ok and that was enough, you felt yourself molding into this simple town in the American plains—maybe you would be ok here for a while. After all, you had a roof over your head, food to eat, and you had no issues with any of the town folk. Maybe this could work.

It was an especially hot day when the strangers came into town. You nearly jumped out of your skin when you heard the shop door slam open. The party was loud; booming voices overlapped one another and made you aware that you just got a lot of customers. You had put down what you were doing in the back of the first-floor storage room and came out to the counter, counting six people you had never seen before.

Strangers made you uneasy, especially when they all had copious amounts of firearms displayed on their person. You tried to relax and convince yourself that they’re just like everyone else around here, you see people in the shop every day proudly displaying their pistols or shotguns.

The group didn’t pay you any mind, talking and laughing amongst themselves. Quite a diverse group, you thought, a couple of women and a couple of colored gentlemen gathered items off the shelves—not something you see a lot of in these parts. You looked out the front window to see a few different men smoking and discussing something that looked important. However, your curiosity was cut short as a large-chested woman and Hispanic man stacked their items in front of you.

You are new to the Anderson Bank family, having just entered your second week, where you work the front desk as the newly appointed secretary. Business is thriving; the old town has evolved into a city, and the bank is seeking new talent. Many of the older men scoff, turning up their noses at the thought of a woman working beside them. To others, you are pleasant to look at, distracting, as if they have never seen a woman before. Still, you take it with a smile, refusing to let the stares—whether of disapproval or desire—sway you. The old secretary supposedly skipped town, and you happened to be in the right place at the right time.

“No one comes to the bank on rainy days,” Harry, one of the tellers, told you—just one of the many things he has shared since you first arrived. Harry, a greasy, wiry man, has been aggressively social from the start. You always answer with a polite smile and laugh, humoring him until the wrinkled Mr. Anderson appears and sends him back to his desk. Harry tends to exaggerate, boasting about how many acres he owns or how fine a gunslinger he is. Yet, of all the things he overshares, his remark about the weather proves true, as you sit with your chin resting in your palm, tapping your pencil against the wooden desk in boredom.

You watch droplets streak down the windowpanes, gathering together before running in thin streams. As closing time nears, you glance over your shoulder. Mr. Anderson and Harry are the only ones left, busy with paperwork they had fallen behind on—the others slipped out a little early. You’ll be leaving soon yourself, with the only highlight of this mundane day being the simple act of turning the shop sign to Closed.

Dry dust billows off the old wooden floors, catching your attention as the shop door opens. The fresh scent of rain follows, and you notice small clumps of plant debris scattering past the customer’s boots before you look up to see him. His soaked leather jacket clings to his broad shoulders, doing little to keep him dry; his button-up shirt is plastered to his chest, outlining his pectorals and stomach. Your study follows a droplet of water as it slides down his chin and disappears into the nest of hair peeking out from beneath the partially undone shirt.

Your expression remains neutral as you take in his features, while he briefly studies the room before settling on you. Heat rises to your cheeks, and you swallow when you catch the striking blue-green of his eyes. He tilts his hat back just enough to meet your gaze fully, and the faint smirk that follows sends a shiver through you as he slowly makes his way toward your desk. You lower your head, brushing a hand over your shirtwaist to smooth its wrinkles before sitting up straight, your lips curving into a genuine, gentle smile—not the overly sweet, false one you reserve for the rest of the clients who pass your way.

“Hello, sir,” you say, craning your neck as he stops in front of you. Fuck, he’s tall and… big.

“Hello, miss,” he drawls, his eyes crinkling as he returns your smile, making yours widen in turn. You shift slightly in your chair, leaning forward and letting your forearms rest on the desk, pushing your bosom forward just enough, shamelessly taking in his features as he comes fully into view. “I’m hopin’ you can help me with somethin’.”

“Of course,” you say, sweetly, syrupy. You beam with just a hint of flirtation as you continue, “Here at Anderson’s, we like to make sure every customer leaves satisfied.” The man’s gaze drops from yours; he huffs in amusement and scratches his beard thoughtfully, then looks back up to look at you again. Oh, he likes that, huh?

“Is that so?” he asks, his eyes flicking briefly over your lips and chest before he looks away, scraping his bottom lip with his teeth as he tries to keep a steady head.

“Yes, sir,” you say, staying fixed on him, pushing boundaries as he humors you, showing him you know exactly what you’re doing.

“Arthur Callahan,” he introduces himself, clearing his throat. “I’d like to make a deposit.” The playful light in his eyes fades as he straightens, forcing himself to focus. He is here on business after all.

Damn, how disappointing—just when I thought I could have a little excitement in this boring, old town. “Of course, Mr. Callahan. Do you have an account with us?” You mirror his demeanor, your expression falling as his attitude shifts.

“No, ah, you see, I’m new in town and—” Arthur’s next words falter with a breathy laugh, grinning again when your gaze meets his from under your lashes, your lips curved in a subtle pout. Your obvious eagerness intrigues him, and your small display of displeasure when he shifts the conversation amuses him. You are quickly gaining his attention; he did not expect to meet someone like you today—brazen, attractive—a welcome distraction. It’s been a while since he’s had some fun.

“Aw, now, darlin’,” he smirks, unable to resist the temptation, resting a damp hand just inches from yours, leaning in closer. You feel the faint warmth of him, his scent—tobacco and the faint embers of a fire—wafting toward you, making your heart quicken. His smile widens when you look up at him with a knowing, inviting expression, holding your stare as his mouth opens to continue.

“Hello, sir. How may I be of assistance?” a familiar voice calls from behind you. Your mood sours instantly as a hand clamps onto your shoulder—Harry, always uninvitedly handsy, and always at the worst possible moment.

Arthur’s eyes narrow as he glances from you to the man now standing beside you, Harry’s heavy grasp on your shoulder practically screaming the baseless claim he believes he has—a bumbling, presumptuous notion that you belong to him, though nothing could be further from the truth. You turn your face to the side, biting your cheek to hide your disgust and embarrassment, directing your anger toward the far corner of the room; this isn’t the first time he’s made such a fool of himself.

“I was just asking your lovely secretary here if I might open an account today,” Arthur answers, his tone a little cold, eyes flicking to Mr. Anderson in the background as he walks toward the vault in the back corner of the room. Arthur straightens himself and regains composure in an instant.

“I am so sorry, sir,” Harry says, nearly cutting him off, not noticing Arthur’s brief, wandering gaze. “We are actually closing for the day, but I’d be happy to assist you with that tomorrow.” Arthur looks back, his tongue briefly poking against the inside of his cheek as he fixes Harry with a flat expression, and nods reluctantly.

You turn your head back after collecting yourself, noting the tightening of Arthur’s fist at his side in irritation. “Oh, come now, Harry,” you coo in a velvety soft tone, placing your hand over his for added effect, subtly using the attraction he feels for you to your advantage. “He came all the way out here in the rain, and he’s new in town...”

You’re completely unaware of what you’re helping Arthur do. You meet his eyes briefly before returning your attention to Harry, who now looks down at his hand, drawn back to you. Arthur shifts his attention over Harry’s shoulder again while he’s distracted, squinting slightly, and watches the dial on the safe as Mr. Anderson moves it. He is close enough to see, memorizing the directions the knob turns, and when the door opens, he takes a quick note of approximately how many compartments lie within the room.

“Now, now,” Harry begins with a crooked smile, satisfied with your affection, though false. “I know you’re still a little new, honey, but you know our policies. Surely Mr.—” He gestures to Arthur for his name.

“Callahan,” Arthur replies dryly.

“Surely Mr. Callahan understands—”

“I’ll just come back tomorrow,” Arthur gruffs.

“Harry—” you start, pulling your hand away in disapproval.

“That sounds like a wonderful idea! We’ll see you tomorrow, then,” he chirps, cutting you off.

Arthur’s eyes catch yours one last time before he turns to leave, following his wet boot prints back out the door into the rain. Your face heats with anger as you watch the handsome stranger leave, while Harry still idly holds your shoulder. You shrug off his hand and stand, ready to leave yourself—it’s closing time, anyway.

You keep your attention on the door all day, hoping to see a familiar stranger pass through, only to be disappointed as another day comes to an end. Throwing an annoyed glance over your shoulder at the man responsible for shooing away the only attractive person in this godforsaken town, you stand to pack your things. A creeping thought slips into your mind: maybe this is God’s way of punishing you for the things you’ve done…

“Hey, darlin’,” Harry calls out as he makes his way over. You resist the urge to roll your eyes in front of him, glancing down at your bag instead and gritting your teeth—your patience with this man is wearing thin. It is another day with you, Harry, and Mr. Anderson staying late on a boring day; too bad you didn’t leave before Harry spotted you. “Looks like that cowpoke didn’t come back after all.”

Neither of you notices the low, shadowy figure that slips past the side window behind you as you respond, a little short, “You’ll have to be more specific. Plenty of those types ‘round here.”

“Aw, don’t be like that.” He touches your shoulder, and you brush him off again—frustration boiling over when his hand shoots to your forearm, gripping tight as he yanks you to face him. “Look at me, woman,” he bites out low, his playfulness hardening into something dangerous.

You place your other hand on the hidden holster strapped beneath your skirt, fingers flexing along the barrel of your gun and skittering down to the hammer—a reflex as natural as breathing. Ignore him. Don’t get hot-headed, you tell yourself. You’ll ruin everything. Your eyes meet his as he shoves closer, breath hot against your cheek, whispering through yellowed, crooked teeth, clenching tight. “I saw the way you were eyein’ that man yesterday. Did ya think I wouldn’t notice?”

“Let me go, Harry,” you pinch out, sneering at his ugly, jealousy-fueled aggression, your thumb grazing the hammer of the hidden gun. The taut rope of your patience frays—weeks of his hands brushing where they didn’t belong, his leer crawling over you, his crude whispers when no one else could hear. Every smirk, every corner he backed you into, all of it winds tight as your restraint threatens to snap. Don’t do it, you idiot. Focus. Stay calm.

“Don’t ya see, you stupid whore?” he seethes, his grip tightening on your forearm as you try to wrench free. “Ain’t nobody in this town gonna measure up to me. Don’t ya understand? I’m the best chance you’ll ever have, honey. You’re mine, far as I’m concerned, so best start actin’ like it.” He leans closer, his voice sinking lower, lips grazing the shell of your ear. “Or would ya rather the whole town find out what a shameless slut you are?”

Blackmail—one he must’ve been brewing for this moment, festering behind every rejection. You’d seen the heat building beneath his sleazy facade for some time now. Your eyes flick toward Mr. Anderson, who’s finally catching sight of the commotion, while your thumb bears harder on the hammer and your forefinger brushes the trigger beneath the fabric. Stay calm. Don’t blow this.

“Hey, what’s—”

A large masked man bursts from the doorway behind Mr. Anderson, swinging the butt of his rifle down hard over the old man’s head. Anderson crumples to the floor with a thud as Harry’s head snaps toward the commotion. He releases you at once, stepping forward and clawing for the pistol at his hip. He fires off a quick shot, forcing the intruder to duck back behind the doorway. A return blast whistles through the room, and Harry dives behind a nearby desk, cursing under his breath.

You conceal yourself behind another desk when two more masked figures charge through the back door, guns raised, cautious and quick. Snatching up your bag, you glance toward the exit behind you, calculating if you could slip out before they notice—but your chest tightens when another robber steps through the front. A watchman outside gives him a curt nod before the door shuts, sealing you in. Your gaze climbs the bulky, towering figure, and instinct drives you lower, slipping further into the space between the desk, wall, and the heavy cabinet next to it. Three barriers are better than one.

“All right!” a raspy voice bellows. “I’m only sayin’ this once! There’s five of us, and every shotgun, pistol, and revolver is loaded! We’re takin’ everything you got, ya hear? If you don’t cooperate and do exactly as we say, you’re as good as dead! We know you’re closin’ up—nobody’ll notice three corpses till tomorrow afternoon, not till the stink gives you away! So drop your weapons, or we’ll see to it that that’s what happens!”

“You son of a bitch!” Harry shouts, and you roll your eyes. It’s not bravery he’s showing—just pure arrogance and stupidity. You press yourself lower behind the desk, heart hammering, listening intently as your instinct screams to stay down and not get caught.

The man barricading the front door strides forward, aiming his gun at the back of Harry’s head as he pulls back the hammer. Harry swings his revolver at the approaching figure, but the seasoned outlaw is faster, striking him back-handed with his shotgun. Harry’s gun clatters to the floor, his fingers splayed involuntarily from the impact, and the robber kicks it out of reach.

“Stand,” the gruff voice commands, aiming his gun at Harry’s head. The others fan out instantly, moving to the open desks and rifling through drawers. Harry hesitates, earning another sharp strike from an armed man passing by. He curses, then raises his hands in reluctant surrender.

Your breath hitches as a soft click at your ear shatters your sense of safety, and your hiding spot fails its purpose. Looking up, your eyes widen as you find yourself staring down the barrel of a pistol. Swallowing, you mirror Harry’s movements, standing and raising your arms as the woman signals you to join him. You exchange an uneasy glance with Harry while making your way over, noting the masked man who had held him now turning toward the vault at another’s call, replaced by the woman who found you.

Your eyes stay trained on the floor, flinching whenever a small drawer from a teller’s desk is yanked out and thrown to the ground, the thieves rifling through them but finding nothing. You glance up briefly to see the man who entered the front of the building opening the vault with ease, earning a clap on the shoulder from another as someone hauls a large burlap sack inside. As they move further into the vault, Harry nudges you, tilting his head toward the thief guarding you—her attention is fixated on the others, momentarily distracted. You shake your head, signaling disagreement, but Harry steps forward anyway, only to pull back as the apparent boss of the outfit storms out, fists clenched and eyebrows drawn together in anger.

“Where is it?” he spits, seething.

“Where’s what?” Harry sneers cockily. The man storms over, and you suck in a sharp breath, looking away just in time as he slaps Harry across the face with his pearl-handled revolver. Blood bursts from Harry’s nose on impact, and he yelps out in pain, bringing his hand up to cradle his wound.

“You know damn well, you smug bastard!” he growls, grabbing Harry by the collar and yanking him close, temper snapping. “Search ’em,” he orders the woman and the man behind him—the one who locked the door and opened the vault with practiced ease. “Search every goddamn inch of this place!”

The woman yanks the rope from her hip and spins Harry toward an upturned desk, binding his hands behind his back while the other keeps his gun trained on you. You watch her handle Harry roughly, spinning him back around and prying open his jacket. She’s thorough, emptying pockets, unfastening him as she works her way down to his boots, lightly patting him over in search of another weapon. Your heartbeat quickens, itching to snatch the gun from your waist, but you know better. You’re grossly outnumbered.

Your hands stay raised in surrender as you steal a glance at the intruder lazily tracking your movements. You drop your gaze to the floor, then furrow your brow in sudden realization and look back up. The same eyes you met yesterday stare back at you, a gleam dancing in shifting shades of blue and green as the truth settles over you. Confusion hardens into anger as you take in Arthur, looking him over, and something quick flickers through your chest as you do so—recognition, curiosity, and an unspoken tension.

Before you can dwell on it, the woman whirls you around, binding your wrists behind your back. You resist the urge to struggle, heartbeat hammering in your ears as the knot cinches tight, certain she’ll find your weapon and strip away your only defense. But then she sidesteps sharply, and you glance toward her, catching her eyes shift past you and toward the figure approaching fast, footsteps urgent—he knows time is running thin.

“Tell me where it is!” the man yells. You wince, turning your face—but not before the revolver cracks against the back of Harry’s head. He crumples to his knees, shaking his head to clear it as fresh blood trickles down, scattering droplets across the dusty floor.

The woman yanks you down by your restraints, relief washing over you as she forgets to search you, forcing you to kneel beside Harry. A click draws your attention—your vision locks on the barrel aimed at your head. Beyond it, the man wielding the gun glares at you, eyes blazing, yet unfocused—as though he’s looking straight through you, seeing nothing, regarding you no more than the bug crushed beneath a careless step. You pale from his demeanor just as a sharp inhale reaches your ear as Harry lifts his head, finally grasping the full weight of his actions.

“Tell me…” the intruder grits, his eyes sliding toward Harry in challenge. Another robber hauls Mr. Anderson over, throwing his unconscious body at your knees and pressing a gun to Harry’s head for emphasis. From the corner of your eye, you watch Harry shift his attention—from the gunslinger, to you, and then to Mr. Anderson—his lips twitching nervously as he weighs his options. The man holding the gun to Mr. Anderson cocks the hammer.

“A-alright, alright!” Harry stammers. “It’s at the old man’s house!” The gun shifts from your head to his as the man crouches to meet Harry’s level, squinting to focus. 

You exhale a shallow, shaky breath, your watery eyes flicking to Mr. Callahan’s in hatred. His gaze locks with yours, icy and piercing—but you think you see it: a flicker of remorse, or maybe it’s just wishful thinking, a desperate hope for a hint of sympathy buried beneath the hardness. Wishing for clear skies while lightning flashes and thunder rolls in the distance. Your head drops again, not wanting to draw more attention or become any more involved than you already are.

“Where?” the man snarls, leaning closer to Harry. Harry glares in defiance, but the man is one step ahead, pivoting his gun toward your face again without breaking eye contact with him.

“Goddamn it! You—!” Harry sputters as the cold tip presses against his chin, forcing him to look the other in the face. “Don’t! Don’t—t-the chimney! T-the old man’s fuckin’ chimney! He had a-a safe built in it! You’ll find it there!”

Not ten minutes have passed, and already your bottom aches from sitting on the worn, hard wooden floor, your gaze fixed on Mr. Anderson’s slumped body, your mind reeling. Harry glances at you now and again with one eye swollen shut—a parting gift from the gang before they left. All of them, save for one. Your eyes shift to the man who called himself Arthur Callahan; he was left behind to keep watch, to make sure you stayed quiet and out of sight until the gang had what they needed, and to hold you as insurance should Harry’s words prove false—or should anything else go sour.

Your eyes glance to the clock on the wall, mentally counting down the minutes until they’d reach Mr. Anderson’s home—five more until the gang arrived on the west side of town. You startle when Arthur knocks over a stack of papers, still rummaging, unwilling to trust that Harry told the truth about its hiding place. Which he wasn’t… though what he didn’t know was that he was wrong, and the documents were no longer there.

Your thoughts are cut short by a sharp nudge from Harry. You glance over, meeting his eye as he gestures slyly behind his back. Your brow furrows until you see it—the letter opener clutched in his fists, likely fallen from the upturned desk beside you. When you snap back to him, his swollen face twists into a smug smirk, nodding for you to take it. You have to hand it to Harry—he may be a greasy, repulsive fool, but in moments of crisis, he’s nothing if not stubborn and determined. Your eyes flick quickly toward Arthur, finding him in the vault room with his back turned to you.

With your attention fixed on the outlaw, you hastily maneuver your bound arms from behind your back, slipping them under your legs until they rest in your lap. Harry’s eyebrows jump in mild surprise—whether at your speed, your nerve, or the fact you even knew how to manage it, you can’t tell. You quickly look to the letter opener before darting back to Arthur, still sifting through documents on the other side of the room. You seize the opener and press it to the rope at Harry’s wrists, sawing carefully through the fibers.

You cut through it in no time, your eyes locked on the back of Arthur’s head. Perhaps he felt the heat of your stare, because he suddenly turned. His gaze sharpens the moment he notices your hands are no longer behind your back. Squinting, he starts toward you with a slow, deliberate swagger laced with suspicion. Behind you, Harry lets out an audible gulp and slips his arms back, feigning helplessness, as though still bound and beaten down.

Arthur stops a foot away before crouching to meet your eyes. His gaze drops to your empty hands, then drags back up to lock on yours. “I don’t believe you were properly searched, were you?” You glare back, satisfaction flickering in your chest at having stashed the opener before he noticed, though anger simmers at being caught with your hands misplaced. Arthur nods slowly, as if remembering, and clamps a firm grip around your bicep. “Stand up, miss.”

You move your legs accordingly, stealing a glance at Harry before rising with Arthur’s pull. Don’t you dare do anything yet, you think, praying he can read the quick flash in your eyes. “Got nothin’ to hide,” you lie, pressing your arms close to your sides, palms hovering near your holster, trying to mask it as best you can.

Arthur pulls you slightly closer, and your breath hitches as he closes in, his black-clothed nose nearly brushing yours. His familiar scent washes over you as you look up through your lashes, meeting his gaze head-on—the colors of his irises striking and impossible to forget. You grit your teeth, forcing yourself not to be swayed by mere looks; you won’t be played so easily, not by a handsome man alone.

His large, gloved hands rest easily on your hips, sliding up your sides with light pressure as he searches up and down your sides. Harry’s scoff snaps you back to focus, and you look away, face carefully neutral, refusing to give Arthur the satisfaction of your reaction to his suggestive touch. Arthur smirks at your stubbornness, and when his hands return to your hips, he digs his thumbs into the fabric of your skirt, lazily tracing circles along your hipbones.

You shiver—not just from the intimate touch, but from the danger of being caught. Arthur’s brows draw together as he glances down, then quickly back up, his fingers brushing the top strap of your belt holster. Your jaw tightens under his scrutinizing gaze as he drops to one knee in front of you. You fight the urge to recoil when his fingers slip into your boots. He looks up at you with a hint of amusement as he grazes your switchblade, which he lifts and sets on the floor.

“Hey!” Harry barks, face reddening, jaw dropping as he watches the other man deliberately run his hands up your leg. Your skirt bunches higher, but you hold your composure, not giving in as he reaches for your holster. Your heartbeat drums and nostrils flare with adrenaline, yet you keep your face averted from both men, holding yourself steady.

“What the hell are you—?” Harry stops short, eyes widening as they land on the gun at your hip. Shock and confusion ripple across his face as he glances up at you.

“Well, look at this,” Arthur murmurs, rising to stand as he works the belt loose. “Nothin’ to hide, huh? Didn’t think I’d notice it, did ya’?” he rasps in your ear, sending a shiver racing up your spine.

“What the hell?” Harry sputters, dumbfounded. “Why do you have—why the fuck did you—?” Arthur, nonchalant, levels your now unholstered gun at Harry as he moves, trying to get his feet under him to stand, but freezes instantly under the threat.

“What else ‘chu hidin’, girl?” he chuckles, letting your skirt fall after a brief gawk at your undershorts. You stare straight ahead, sending him a sharp, threatening glare as his weathered hands meet your jacket-bodice.

“Nothin’, you pig,” you hiss, recoiling from his grasp.

"Oh," Arthur nods. "But ya know… you’ve said that before, an’..." He pulls you closer by the forearm, sliding a hand between you and promptly popping open the first button. Your heartbeat flutters in your chest, and you’re certain he can see the vein pulsing along your neck.

"Fucker," Harry seethes from below, drawing a sharp glance from Arthur, who straightens your gun toward him again.

Arthur shifts his attention back to you, undoing the second and final button on your jacket before peeling it open to reveal the shirtwaist beneath. You swallow hard, eyes darting to your weapon, quickly reaching for it—but he catches your movement and moves it out of your reach, smirking beneath his black bandana.

"Sure looks like you’re hidin’ somethin’ to me," he says, gripping your arm tighter to hold you in place while leveling the gun back at Harry without missing a beat. "It’ll all be over soon… just stay still, woman."

He slowly flips the front of your jacket inside out, revealing two small inner pockets. Both are tiny, barely usable—just enough for him to fish around with a finger. Arthur finds a bit of coin in one, mere spare change from your last shopping trip. As his hand moves to the next pocket, he deliberately grazes close to your chest, testing your self-assurance as you try to wriggle free from his grip.

Arthur holds you close, fingers tracing the thin fabric of the pocket. He slides his hand inside and extracts a small, folded envelope, leaning back as he unfolds it and flips it open to read. You watch his expression shift—playfulness gone, replaced by sudden urgency and realization. As he scans the contents, a quiet, almost inaudible sigh escapes you—you’ve been caught, but not without a trace of self-satisfaction. Arthur releases his hold on you and takes a couple of cautious steps back, slowly redirecting the gun toward you.

“Where are the documents?” he demands harshly, eyes lifting from the letter to fix on you. No more fluff, no more flirtation—just wariness of your character.

“I already told you,” Harry starts, “They’re at the old man’s house! Why are you—” 

“I wasn’t askin’ you, you goddamn idiot,” Arthur snaps, voice sharp and cutting. “I’m talkin’ to her!”

“Why the hell would she know?” Harry shoots back, incredulous.

Your eyes narrow slightly, hooded with feigned innocence, as you lift your bound arms in mock innocence, a sly smirk playing at your lips. Arthur strides toward you, letting the letter drop to the floor. “Where is it?” he demands again, gripping your collar. You meet his gaze lazily, every inch smug and confident.

Harry picks up the discarded letter and reads it over as Arthur searches you hastily, giving none of the delicate treatment he had earlier. “What the hell is this?” Harry asks, struggling to stand as his eyes scan the wording again.

Harry’s expression shifts from shock to bewilderment, finally settling into anger—mirroring Arthur’s. You can’t help but laugh as he glares up at you from the paper, face reddening. “You fucking bitch!” he spits. “What is this? Huh?! What the fuck are you doing here?”

“Get back,” Arthur snaps to the other, flipping you around in tandem. You catch the edge of an upturned table as he pats you down from behind, glancing back at Harry with a sharp warning—the man no longer his primary concern.

“You whore! You played us all from the start, didn’t you?! Cozy and sweet, letting us trust you—letting me trust you—and this is how you repay it?! To rob us blind, ruin our lives, and run this town dry?! I gave you a chance at a life with me, and this is what I get?!” Harry screams as he takes a step closer.

“I said, get back!”

“You scheming little cunt! You’ve been workin’ with these outlaws the whole damn time, haven’t ya’? All those smiles, all that fake sweetness—it was just a lie to get us good and trustin’ you! I can’t believe I ever thought you were decent! You’re a no-good, filthy, heartless bitch, and I swear, when they hang you, it’ll still not be good enough! Better yet—I’d be honored to rid this town of you myself!”

Harry shoves the gun in Arthur’s hand upward, forcing the barrel toward the ceiling, then lunges to grab Arthur’s wrist with his other hand, straining for control. You twist, eyes glued to the struggle, as the two men wrestle over the weapon. Arthur easily overpowers Harry, his grip locking down on Harry’s wrist with crushing strength. Harry yelps, recoiling from the pain, and in a desperate move, lets his free hand swing, landing a solid punch square on Arthur’s eye.

Arthur reels back, clutching his bruised eye with a grunt, giving Harry the split second he needs to lunge again. The sharp crack of a gunshot makes you jump, watching as you see Harry’s body collapse against the revolver pressed into the softness of his belly. His hands clutch the weapon in a futile grasp, struggling for control as his knees buckle, slowly toppling to his side, and his body surrendering to the fall.

“Shit,” Arthur huffs, frustration etched into his features—he’d been trying to avoid this exact outcome. His gaze flicks to the bank windows, catching a couple of onlookers gawking from across the street, and he mutters a curse under his breath. Striding toward you, he snatches the letter from the floor and shoves it roughly into his pants pocket. His grip on your arm is sharp, almost painful, as he drags you to his side and double-checks the knots on your wrists, ensuring they’re still secure.

“Guess you’re comin’ with me—”

“You bastard…” You interrupt as he starts to pull you past Harry’s lifeless body. Arthur cocks his brow and throws you a sardonic expression. You twist in protest, stopping to stand over his body before Arthur can pull you again. Anger exudes as you speak, piercing Arthur with your daggered stare. “I’ve been waiting to do that.”

Arthur blows a chuckle through his nose and grips your arm tight again, giving you a push forward as you make your way out the back door and past the now useless Mr. Anderson. A smile spreads across your face as he quickly drags you toward his waiting horse, tied a few yards away. Noticing your cocky demeanor, he yanks you forward for good measure, clearly annoyed.

“‘Yer gonna tell us where those documents are, we’ll make sure of that,” Arthur grumbles as you reach his horse, hastily stowing his rifle and your revolver.

“Come on now,” you chide. “You don’t expect me to squeal so easily, Mr. Callahan-ah!” you taunt, cut off as he hoists you up, settling you on the horse’s croup.

“I wouldn’t expect anything else,” Arthur shakes his head, a small, sideways smile tugging at his lips—half entertained by your confidence, half exasperated that you can keep your composure even knowing the dark path that likely lies ahead. “‘Specially from an O’Driscoll.”

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