#vaquerospurswrites

Margaret Abbott stormed out of her husband’s lavish home; their home, that felt so unlike her and so like him. Awful man he was. Drunk, and loud, and a braggart. She couldn’t think, alcohol swirling in her system, making her see triple. Tears streamed down her face, her mind unable to keep up with how fast her feet bolted across Saint Denis’s dirty, bustling streets. Her heels made her feet ache, but she couldn’t stop. Not until she got away from that house, away from what she’d just done.

God, she couldn’t even say it aloud. And the moment she looked back, the earth shifted under her, and her body slammed against something. She fell on the ground, skinning her knees and groaning. Was that a wall? She thought, her heart racing. That was, until the presumed wall spoke. “Look out.” A deep, southern voice warned, until he noticed who this was. A weeping woman. His gaze softened, but his brows remained furrowed.

At least, that’s what it looked like under the brim of his hat. “Are you… alright, ma’am?” Was his first question, holding a gloved hand out to her. She graciously took it, wiping her tears and flattening her skirt. “Just fine. Thank you.” All the shaky tone in her voice told him everything he needed to know.

He snorted. The woman looked anything but fine, and she knew it too. Her eyes puffy, dark hair disheveled, skirts rumpled. From looking over her once; twice, now, he deducted two things. One, this one was unusually beautiful, and two, she came from wealth. Or, at least, was well taken care of. Her attire, as wrinkled as it was, exuded expensive and unnecessary gaudy, a navy blue gown that fit her like a glove.

“Are you sure, miss? You don’t look just fine.” He finally said, watching the way she averted his gaze and shook. She looked anxious, guilty, even. But it wasn’t like he could ask this strange, rich woman what was wrong. “I said I’m fine, mister. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must get going.” And as soon as she stepped away, he grabbed onto her arm, the leather cool against her arm. She met his gaze, her brown eyes full of fear.

And then, for reasons unbeknownst to Arthur, he says, “Would you like somethin’ to eat?” Margaret wants to say no. To say, she doesn’t deserve a meal after what she’d done. But…. her stomach grumbled loudly before she could detest, and Arthur drags her towards a restaurant south of them.

Upon arrival, it’s awkward. Silent, almost uncomfortably so. The crowd was dwindling down, the drunkards leaving and women of dubious professions leading men to a bedroom for the evening. Arthur was beginning to regret the one time he decided to be kind to a stranger. “So, you got a name?” He finally asks, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest. “… Margaret.” She replies, looking down at her reflection in the shiny plate.

Did she look the same? Did she look as if— no. If she didn’t say it, then it couldn’t possibly be real. This was simply a nightmare, and she’d wake up in her silk sheets as soon as it was over. “Well, Margaret, it’s nice to meet you. Are you… feeling any better?” Was his next ask, his mannerisms screaming that he didn’t really want to ask her all these questions, but he felt as though he had to. However, Margaret hated pity. She had no room for it in her daily life.

“I guess so.” Which was a lie. How could she feel any better knowing what awaited her at home, if she could even call it that anymore. The waiter comes to the table before Arthur can interrogate her again. “What can I get you two to drink?” His posh voice asks, as polite and as fake as Saint Denis was.

Arthur looks up a the man, a hint of amusement in his eyes. This place was weird. “I’ll get a whiskey, neat.” And his eyes meet Margaret. “Oh, uh, I’ll get a water, please.” And the man is off, leaving the two of them alone. Which, was the *last* thing she wanted. Arthur decided to lay off of her, let her come to her senses alone. But… he was curious.

By analyzing Margaret for the few minutes he’d known her, Arthur was perplexed as to what a woman like her could be so worked up about. Her dark hair was up in an intricate bun, several baby hairs poking out in the front. She had fair skin, freckles dusting the bridge of her nose and cheekbones. Her eyes were the prettiest shade of brown he’d ever seen, although they appeared sad. Almost lifeless as she stared off into the distance.

Arthur sighed, sitting up, and the remainder of dinner was spent in silence with the occasion look towards one another.

Margaret steps out of the door, into the humid evening, dust rising from the ground. “Thank you for dinner, sir.” Her gaze averts his, just like it had all evening. “Don’t mention it, Miss Margaret. Do you… have somewhere to stay for the evening?” Why was he being nice to this woman? It was obvious she wasn’t looking for charity or even remotely thankful for his help, so why?

Was it the way from this angle, she looked like a doe, being circled by its prey? And that, maybe, just maybe, there was more to this woman than she let on. Margaret’s teeth sink into her bottom lip, and she mulls over his offer for a few short seconds. But, let’s be honest— what are her other options? Go home, face the music? Risk her entire life collapsing as she knew it.

So, out of hope and luck, she sighs, and reluctantly takes his offer. “No, I don’t, sir. Is it.. alright if I stay with you?”

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The ride to Arthur’s camp is slow, and silent. Margaret’s hands rest comfortably on his waist, the wind blowing her hair out of her face. She wasn’t used to being out this late. Lemoyne was quite beautiful in the evenings, if you didn’t account for the Raiders and hungry alligators. She took it in, and while she wished it were under better circumstances, what could she do now?

“What’s your name, sir?” Margaret inquired, tilting her head to get a better look at his face. The man looked at her for a moment, a thoughtful look in his eyes. “Arthur. Arthur Morgan.” “Well, Mister Morgan, thank you. For…. all of this. I’m sure it’s rather unusual for someone like me to turn up.” She says softly, and Arthur shakes his head.

“It’s nothing, ma’am. I’m just glad you’re alright now.” And how could she have the heart to say she wasn’t? Margaret’s lips straighten, and she nods. His black Arabian comes to a halt in a field, and she realizes the grass has gotten brighter, the trees fuller and the fields more.. beautiful.

They must’ve been in New Hanover. Arthur steps off of his horse, holding his hands out to her. Margaret places her hands on his shoulders, grounding herself. His hands are warm to the touch, and it sends a bolt of electricity to her already frazzled nerves. She brushes it off, brushing him off and quickly clearing her throat. “Thank you.”

She takes his camp in. It’s a modest spot, a dying fire and a tent, certainly not large enough for the two of them. “You can take the tent, Miss Margaret. I’ll just sleep on the floor.” And as much as she’d love to seem polite and argue that he, the host, should take it, with the day she’d had, she needed this. “Okay. Thank you, Mister Morgan—“ “Just Arthur, miss.” And she nods, stepping into the tent and situating her things.

Silence befalls the two, the constant shuffling of the sleeping bag on Margaret’s part the only sound. She finally relents in her efforts, sitting up and looking towards him. “Why did you help me?” She demanded, a slight downturn on her lips. Arthur sighed, looking her up and down. “I couldn’t just leave you there, ma’am. It’s the least I could’ve done.” And her breath hitched. It dawned on her that this was the nicest thing a man had done for her.

Not even Henry could even pretend to care what she had to say. It took her back, to the hour before it happened. The two were at a party at the Mayor’s house, her on his arm, pretending that she understood whatever it was the men were talking about. Henry’s blue eyes met hers, and they looked so.. hollow. As if there wasn’t any love. As if he hadn’t gotten on one knee two years ago. It made her heart shatter.

She was quickly brought back to earth by the sound of Arthur’s voice. “Why.. exactly were you crying, ma’am?” Margaret visibly tensed, her eyes falling to the floor. She had always been a terrible liar, but no reply would only raise more questions. Questions she didn’t want. “I.. I had just found out my father passed.” Of course, George Orville passed years ago now, but it was the best she could do.

Which, wasn’t good at all, based on Arthur’s state of skepticism. He sighed, poking the fire with a stick. “Well, I’m sorry, ma’am. You should get some rest.” He says dismissively. She obeys his orders, closing her eyes and trying to push Henry out of her mind. All the looks of disapproval when she snapped at the party, his eyes, so full of disdain for the woman he claimed to love.

Margaret blinks away the tears, and falls asleep with stained cheeks.