where stolen roses grow

The morning light comes in slats through the shutters of Leviticus Cornwall’s office, thin and pale, cut into stripes by the blinds. It does nothing to soften the dark room above the humming freight yard. The mahogany desk shines dark, the gilded clock on the mantel ticks. Outside, the city coughs and clatters itself awake: carriage wheels over stone, the groan of the riverboats' steam horns, the distant bark of men loading freight in the damp heat off the Lannahechee.

Cameron Spence stands before Cornwall’s desk with a folder tucked beneath his arm and the expression of a man carrying fresh meat into a lion’s den.

Cornwall does not sit at his desk. He stands at the window with his back to the room, his broad shoulders casting further shadow. His cigar burns between two fingers, but he has not bothered to smoke it. Ash clings to the end, glowing faintly.

“Well?” Cornwall spits, not turning around.

Spence clears his throat. “The attorneys have reviewed the matter again, sir.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“No, sir.” Spence adjusts his spectacles with a damp hand. “The issue remains the same. Frederick Shaw is confirmed deceased. We have that much established through witness testimony and the reports from Blackwater. However…” He hesitates.

Cornwall finally turns. The look alone is enough to make Spence wish the floor would open and swallow him neatly, paperwork and all.

“However?” Cornwall asks.

“His widow is not proven dead.”

For one small second, the office becomes terribly still.

Then Cornwall’s cigar snaps between his fingers. A scattering of ash drops onto the polished floorboards. Spence continues quickly. “Without some kind of proof of the widow Shaw’s death, or her legal consent, the deed and surrounding land interests remain tied up. The charter filings around Limpany were thorough. Shaw arranged the deed so that upon his death, his interest would pass directly to his wife. Without her signature, the land remains beyond our reach.”

Cornwall’s eyes narrow. “Do not compliment him in front of me.”

“I did not mean to, sir.”

“You said he anticipated pressure.”

“He did.”

Cornwall steps away from the window. “He was a provincial upstart playing mayor in a burned-out bend of river.”

“Legally, he was rather careful. Our research on him was that he was previously a lawyer here in Saint Denis.”

Cornwall slams his hand onto the desk. The sound cracks through the room like a gunshot. Spence stops speaking at once.

“I do not pay men like you to tell me what I can and cannot do,” Cornwall says, voice low now, worse than shouting. “I pay men like you to remove impediments.”

Spence swallows. “Yes, Mister Cornwall.”

“Leland Development is breathing down my neck. I have surveyors waiting, capital waiting, oil contracts waiting, and every week that damned land at Limpany sits idle is another week that lesser men believe they can laugh at me.”

“No one is laughing, sir.”

Cornwall’s mouth curls. “You are either lying, Spence, or you are more foolish than I thought.”

Spence lowers his gaze. He has learned, over many years, that there are moments when agreement is the safest form of survival. Especially when dealing with Leviticus Cornwall.

Cornwall moves around the desk and picks up the folder Spence had brought. He opens it, scans the first page, then tosses it back down.

“So find her.”

“We are trying.”

“Try harder.” Cornwall sneers.

“That’s why Agent Milton is here.” 

At the mention of his name, the door opens. Andrew Milton enters without apology. He removes his bowler hat and tucks it beneath one arm, his pockmarked face composed into a professional calm that Cornwall finds both useful and infuriating. Milton is a tall, sharp man, built less like a soldier and more like a blade. He gives Cornwall a reserved nod, then Spence, as he stands at attention. “Mister Cornwall.”

Cornwall points at the papers on his desk. “My vice president informs me that a dead man continues to inconvenience me through his very much missing wife.”

Milton’s expression does not shift. “That seems to be the long and short of it.”

“I assume you have something more useful to offer.”

“We have widened the search.”

“Where?” Cornwall demands.

“Blackwater first. Then Strawberry, Wallace Station, Valentine. We have men posted near stage routes, depots, post offices, and hotels. If she is traveling under her own name, we will find her.”

The magnate lets out a humorless laugh. “If she is traveling under her own name. My God, Milton, do you think she's stupid?”

“No,” Milton says. “Frightened, perhaps. Desperate. But not stupid.”

Spence glances between them. “If she has fled east, she may seek Saint Denis. She lived here before, according to records.”

Milton nods. “We have men making discreet inquiries.”

Cornwall steps closer to Milton. “Discreet. I despise that word.”

“It is sometimes the more effective approach.”

“It is a word used by men who lack the stomach to be direct.”

Milton’s eyes cool slightly. “I do not lack the stomach for anything, Mister Cornwall. But a deer being hunted tends to bolt if the dogs bark too loudly.”

Cornwall says nothing for a beat. Then he smiles, thin and ugly.

“Do not mistake yourself for my equal, Agent Milton.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, sir.”

“No,” Cornwall says. “You would not.”

The clock ticks. Somewhere down on the street, a horse screams at another horse. The city moves on, indifferent to the little storm gathering in that room.

Milton sets his hat on the corner of the desk. “We do not believe she is dead.”

Spence stiffens, having already given that news to the magnate. Cornwall’s gaze sharpens.

“Why?” Cornwall asks.

“No body. No grave. No record of passage under her name, but also no sign of a woman matching her description among the unidentified dead after the Blackwater business.” Milton pauses. “She is alive. We have a lead coming out of Valentine that a woman that sounds like her just spent a week there, holed up at the Saints Hotel.”

Cornwall’s jaw works.

“Then where is she?”

“That,” Milton says, “is what I intend to discover.” The leather of his gloves squeals as his hand tightens over the corner of the desk.

“You said the same weeks ago.”

“And since then, sir, the West Elizabeth situation has become complicated.”

Cornwall waves this off. “Outlaws. Ferries. Dead men. I am aware.”

Milton’s gaze flicks briefly to Spence. “The van der Linde gang has drawn a great deal of heat. Most local law is occupied with that disaster. It has muddied the water.”

Cornwall turns back to the window. “Then drain the water.”

Milton’s mouth tightens. “I will find Ruth Shaw.”

“You will bring her to me.”

Milton holds his stare. “Alive is preferable, I understand. But I cannot promise what condition she will be in if she runs into rough company.”

Cornwall lifts his chin. “Don’t be poetic. It doesn’t suit you. You and your men are as rough company as any of those miscreants outside these walls.”

“Then plainly, we will find her. We do not currently believe she is under the protection of any organized outfit. No evidence suggests she has joined with criminals or crossed into Mexico. Most likely, she is hiding alone, aided by strangers, or staying with some acquaintance from her prior life.”

Spence exhales softly, almost relieved.

No one in that room knows about the dried creek bed in New Hanover. No one knows about the wagons beneath old oak roots, or Susan Grimshaw’s sharp voice, or Mary Beth’s curls bent over a book, or Arthur Morgan stalking through camp with a bruised heart and bloodied hands. No one knows that Ruth Shaw is not alone.

Cornwall presses his palm flat to the glass and looks down at the street as if he owns every soul moving upon it.

“Then pull apart her prior life,” he says. “Thread by thread. Friends. Doctors. Land agents. Hotel clerks. Priests. Shopkeepers. I want every name. Every letter. Every charitable fool who may have looked at her and seen a woman worth saving.”

Milton picks up his hat. “Understood.”

Cornwall turns from the window.

“And Agent Milton?" Milton pauses at the door.

“If you fail me in this,” Cornwall says, voice quiet as a knife drawn slowly from leather, “the widow Shaw will be the least of your concerns.”

Milton inclines his head. Then he leaves.

Spence remains where he stands, folder clutched to his chest. Cornwall reaches for a new cigar. “Well?” Cornwall says without looking at him.

Spence blinks. “Sir?”

“Get out.”

—

Cicadas shrill from the trees above like they are sawing the sun into pieces. You wake with a headache pressed behind your eyes.

Not from drink. No, that particular misery belongs to Arthur Morgan, whose silhouette you see at once across camp, bent over near his wagon with one hand braced against the wheel and the other pressed to his brow. He looks as if the morning itself has personally insulted him and intends to keep doing so.

Good. Let it.

You sit up from your bedroll and push your hair back from your face. Your curls have worked themselves wild during the night, strands sticking to your neck in the damp heat. For one foolish second, your body remembers the heat of him crowding you against the wall, the whiskey on his breath, the terrible things he said in a voice that made your own blood betray you.

Then the memory closes around your ribs. The guilt. The wedding ring hanging from your neck. Your husband, not three months gone. You reach for your boots.

Mary Beth is already awake beside you, sitting cross-legged with her hair loose down her back, tying one ribbon with the dreamy slowness of a girl not yet prepared to face the day. She watches you from under her lashes.

“You sleep at all?” she asks softly.

You pull on one boot. “Enough.”

“That don’t sound like enough.”

“It was enough.”

She presses her lips together. You can feel her wanting to ask more. She is gentle, Mary Beth, but not blind. Not stupid. She knows something happened in Rhodes, something to make you short-tempered and snap at her. But she won’t ask, won’t prod.

Across camp, Arthur straightens too quickly and immediately regrets it. He closes his eyes, jaw tight. His hat is low, but not low enough to hide the pallor beneath his tan.

Sean laughs at something near the fire, far too loud, too bright. Arthur turns his head with murderous slowness.

Sean’s laughter dies mid-note.

That almost pleases you.

Almost.

Abigail appears carrying a basket of laundry against her hip, Jack trailing after her with a stick in hand, drawing lines through the dust. She takes one look at you, one look across camp at Arthur, then gives the kind of sigh that suggests she has seen more than enough of men and women and the trouble they make when their hearts start chewing through their good sense.

“Well,” Abigail says, dropping the basket near the wash tubs. “Ain’t this morning just brimmin’ with joy.”

You stand and brush your skirt smooth. “I’ll help with washing.”

“You don’t gotta.”

“I said I’ll help.”

Abigail looks at you sharply, “Alright then.”

The two of you fall into work. Water sloshes. Soap roughens your hands. Your knuckles ache from scrubbing shirts that belong to men who never seem to notice laundry unless it is missing. 

Tilly joins after a while, then Mary Beth, and the four of you make a small ring of labor at the edge of the camp.

Arthur is impossible not to notice.

You try. You fail.

He moves around his wagon with jerky irritation, gathering cartridges, checking a saddlebag, stopping once to swallow hard like his own stomach has turned traitor. He snaps at Bill for standing too close. He tells Sean to shut his damn mouth before Sean has even opened it. When Pearson asks him if he wants coffee, Arthur says something too low for you to hear, but Pearson takes three steps back and suddenly remembers business elsewhere.

“Lord,” Tilly murmurs, wringing out a shirt. “Somebody oughta put him out of his misery.”

“Or ours,” Abigail chimes in.

Mary Beth looks at you. You keep scrubbing.

The shirt beneath your hands is already clean. You keep scrubbing anyway, dragging the fabric against the washboard until your wrists burn.

Abigail notices.

“You’re gonna scrub holes through that,” she says.

You stop. Slowly, you wring it out and stand to hang it on the line. Of course, it’s one of Arthur’s shirts. Of course it is. Your skirt brushes your ankles, damp from splashed water. Your head throbs. Your heart throbs worse.

You do not look at Arthur. You look at the shirt. At the line. At the wooden pin in your hand.

Then Arthur’s voice cuts across camp.

“Where’s my goddamn gun oil?”

The whole creek bed seems to pause.

John, seated near the fire, lifts his head like a dog hearing thunder in the distance. “How the hell would I know?”

“I seen you messin’ with that crate.”

“I didn’t touch your oil.” John snaps back, the scars on his face rippling with his scowl.

Arthur stalks toward him. “You sure?”

John rises halfway, eyes narrowing. “What’s your problem?”

“My problem is everybody in this camp touches what ain’t theirs and then looks stupid when asked about it.”

“Oh, you wanna talk stupid?”

“Don’t,” Abigail snaps from the washtub.

John looks toward her. “I ain’t started nothin’, woman.”

“You never do,” she says. “Somehow it always starts anyway.”

You hang the shirt. Your fingers tremble against the clothespin.

Arthur glances toward the women’s side at Abigail’s voice, and for one second, his eyes catch yours. It is not soft. That might have been easier.

His gaze is bloodshot and bruised with hangover, shadowed by anger and something beneath it that he refuses to name. Your own anger rises to meet it, hot and immediate, a dog straining at its chain.

You look away first and hate that you do.

Behind you, Abigail makes a small sound. Not a sigh. Not a word. Something in between, edged with pity and annoyance. Like she knows everything that has gone on between the two of you.

“Don’t,” you say quietly.

“I didn’t say nothin’.”

“You were about to.”

She wrings a union suit so hard that water rains into the tub. “Fine. I won’t.”

Mary Beth ducks her head, but her gaze keeps slipping between you and Arthur like she is reading one page, then the next, trying to understand how the story got so ugly overnight. Like one of her stories that she fawns over. 

You lift another shirt from the tub.

“Some things ain’t worth asking after,” you say, trying to backpedal on your tone previously.

Abigail gives you a sidelong look. “That so?”

“Mhm.”

“And some things rot if nobody airs ’em out.” She says, with wisdom beyond her years.

You turn to her, anger flaring again. “Some things rot whether you air them out or not.”

The words come sharper than you intend.

Mary Beth stills. Tilly looks down at the water.

Abigail’s brows rise. For a moment, you think she might snap back, and some ugly part of you almost wants her to. Wants a clean fight. A simple one. One that has nothing to do with Arthur’s hands, Arthur’s mouth, Arthur’s wounded pride, Arthur’s talent for making you feel both safe and foolish in the span of a single breath.

But Abigail only nods once.

“Alright,” she says. “Then we won’t.”

That makes you feel worse.

You drop the shirt back into the tub and turn away.

“I need more soap.”

“There’s some by Pearson,” Tilly says.

You know that, but go anyway.

Crossing camp feels like traversing open ground under fire. You feel eyes on you, or imagine them. Maybe both. Camp is too small for secrets. Grief can hide in tents and sorrow can tuck itself under shawls, but anger walks around in daylight. People notice the aura of it.

You reach Pearson’s wagon and find the soap near a stack of tin plates. Pearson himself is busy stirring the pot with a grave expression, as if the future of civilization depends upon his continued punishment of carrots.

“Missus Shaw,” he says. “You uh… need somethin’?”

“Soap.”

“Right. Right there.”

“I see it.”

You take it.

Behind you, boots scuff the ground.

You know before turning.

Arthur stands a few feet away, hat tipped low, one hand resting near his gunbelt. Up close, he looks worse. His eyes are bloodshot. Stubble shadows his jaw. His mouth is set in a grim line, but there is a faint unsteadiness to him, a man held together by spite, leather, and the last bitter fumes of whiskey from yesterday.

You should walk away. You do not.

His gaze drops to the soap in your hand. “Mornin’.”

“Ain’t a good one.” You breathe back, trying to choke back a snarl that you wish desperately to let out.

Pearson suddenly becomes fascinated by the stew.

Arthur glances past you, toward the women at the tubs. Then back. “You alright?”

You laugh once, low and sharp. “That’s what you want to ask me?”

His expression hardens. “Ain’t allowed?”

“Not after yesterday.”

The two of you stare at each other. There are things you could say. Honest things. You could tell him you barely slept. That you felt something at his drunken confession. But your pride is like a thornbush, and you are standing in the middle of it barefoot.

Arthur rubs at his brow. “Look, Ruth…”

The sound of your name in his mouth twists something in you, “No.”

His eyes narrow. “No?”

“You do not get to say my name like that after yesterday.”

His face closes. “Like what?”

“Like you’re thinking with anything other than your cock.”

That hits.

He looks away, nostrils flaring. “That ain’t fair.”

Your jaw catches as your eyes narrow. He wants to talk about fair? After yesterday? Pearson makes a very small squeak and shuffles backward from the fire.

Arthur takes half a step closer, then stops himself. His voice drops. “You wanna do this here? In front of everyone?”

You look around. Abigail is watching openly now. Mary Beth less openly. John pretends not to. Sean doesn’t even bother pretending until Charles gives him one quiet glance, and he turns away fast.

“No,” you say. “I don’t.”

“Then quit talkin’ like you do.”

Heat blooms in your throat. “Don’t give me orders.”

His face goes pale beneath the tan. Anger flashes bright, but hurt is quicker.

For one heartbeat, the whole camp falls away. There is only Arthur Morgan, hungover and furious and wounded, looking at you like you are a door he cannot open without breaking the hinges.

Your fingers tighten around the soap. Instead of going any further, you turn and walk away.

The back of your neck prickles all the way to the wash tubs. You do not look back, though every part of you feels him watching. You sit down beside Abigail, toss the soap into the water, and plunge your hands after it.

No one speaks for a while.

Then Mary Beth murmurs, very softly, “Ruth…”

“Please don’t.”

Her mouth closes.

Abigail watches you with a curiosity and reservation that nearly undoes you. “Alright.”

Across camp, Arthur’s voice rises again, harsher than before, “Marston, move your damn saddle!”

John barks back. Bill laughs. Susan shouts at them all to quit acting like a pack of rabid dogs before breakfast.

The day continues because days are cruel that way.

—

By midmorning, the camp has settled into a wary rhythm.

You keep to the wash tubs with Abigail, Mary Beth, and Tilly, working until the skin at your knuckles goes tender from soap and water. Across camp, Arthur has finally stopped barking at every man within ten feet of him, though that only means he has retreated into a silence so foul it seems to sour the air around his wagon.

You are pinning the last of the shirts to the line when hoofbeats sound from the road above camp.

Charles looks up first. Then Javier. Then Arthur, one hand drifting toward his gun out of habit before recognition stills him.

Hosea Matthews rides down into the dried creek bed with his hat low and his coat dusty from the road. Silver Dollar picks his way between roots and wagon tracks with practiced patience, the grey horse’s ears twitching toward campfire smoke and voices. Hosea looks tired, but there is a brightness in his eye that suggests he has brought back something more useful than sundries.

Dutch steps out from beneath the shade of his tent before Hosea has even swung down.

“Well?” Dutch calls, spreading his arms as if welcoming some grand performer to the stage. 

“What song does Rhodes sing, old friend?”

Hosea dismounts slowly, one hand pressed briefly to his lower back before he lets go of the reins. “An ugly one.”

Dutch smiles. “The ugly songs are often the most profitable.”

You look down at the shirt in your hands, but your ears tilt toward them despite yourself.

Hosea leads Silver Dollar to the hitching post and pats the horse’s neck before joining Dutch near the big tent. Arthur, who had been oiling a revolver at his wagon, looks up but does not move closer. Not at first.

Dutch gestures for Hosea to sit, but Hosea waves him off and pulls a folded newspaper from inside his coat.

“Rhodes is rotten straight through,” Hosea says. “Pretty little place on the surface. Clean streets. Fresh paint. Men smiling like they were born for town socials and fraud.”

Dutch’s expression warms with interest. “Go on.”

“You were right about those two families. “You were right about the Grays and Braithwaites,” Hosea says, pulling a folded newspaper from inside his coat. “Rhodes belongs to them in all but name. Sheriff is a Gray. Leigh Gray. Cousin to the family, and apparently as purchasable as any other man with a badge.”

Dutch’s eyes brighten. “And the Braithwaites?”

“Catherine Braithwaite runs that place like an old queen holding court over a ruined kingdom. There is moonshine moving somewhere between the two houses, and enough talk of buried Confederate gold to keep every drunk in Rhodes dreaming.”

Dutch laughs low. “Now there is a woman worth meeting.”

Hosea gives him a look. “Careful.”

“My dear Hosea, I am always careful.”

Arthur snorts. Dutch ignores him.

Hosea folds the newspaper again, but keeps it in his hand. “There’s bad blood between the families. Not ordinary neighborly hatred. Generations of it. Land, liquor, pride, old murders, stolen horses, burned barns. Depends who tells the story. Truth is likely buried under a few generations of lies.”

“Old feuds,” Dutch says softly. “They make men careless.”

“They also make men violent.”

“Yes, yes.” Dutch waves a hand. “Violence is the language of lesser minds. Fortunately, we speak many tongues.”

Hosea’s eyes narrow slightly. “Dutch.”

Dutch steps closer to Hosea, lowering his voice just enough that you have to strain to hear.

“So what are you suggesting?”

“Between the two families, there’s all this talk of confederate gold.”

Dutch smiles slowly. “You don’t say.”

Hosea almost smiles, wiping his brow again.

Dutch’s gaze sharpens, “Listen to what Hosea is saying. Two powerful families. Both proud. Both rich. Both hating each other so deeply that they likely cannot see the ground under their own feet. That, gentlemen, is opportunity.”

Arthur folds the rag over his revolver, finally entering the conversation. “Or a trap.”

“Everything is a trap if you walk into it blind,” Dutch says. “We won't be blind.”

Hosea tucks the newspaper back into his coat. “There’s also talk of moonshine. Lots of it. Braithwaites may be moving liquor. Grays may be trying to stop it, or steal it, or tax it. Depends who’s talking.”

Dutch’s smile widens.

“There,” he says. “Commerce.”

“Crime,” Hosea corrects.

Dutch spreads his hands. “In America, old friend, the distinction is mostly paperwork.”

That earns a tired chuckle from John near the fire. Even Javier grins into his coffee.

Arthur is not smiling. His face is hard, shadowed beneath the brim of his hat, but his gaze is fixed on Dutch and Hosea with the wary attention of a man who can already hear hoofbeats in the distance.

Hosea continues. “The Braithwaites think the Grays are beneath them. The Grays think the Braithwaites are poison. Both want to be seen as the true power in Scarlett Meadows.”

“And both will want outside hands,” Dutch says. “If those hands are useful.”

“Maybe.”

Dutch points at Arthur. “That is exactly why I need you to be subtle.”

Arthur’s expression sours. “Christ.”

Hosea looks toward him then, more serious. “Dutch is right about one thing. We need to know the ground. You take Lenny and maybe Bill into Rhodes again. Not to start anything. Just listen. Find out where the Grays drink. Where the Braithwaites send their wagons. Who hates who. Who owes money. Who’s scared. And for Christ’s sake, don’t start another bar fight. I heard that you slugged a man last night.”

“And Sean?” Dutch asks.

Hosea grimaces. “Only if you want subtlety shot dead in the street.”

Arthur gives a short laugh despite himself, though it fades quickly.

Dutch clasps his hands behind his back and looks pleased, almost serene, as if the day has offered him a shining apple and he has not yet seen the worm beneath the skin.

“Good,” he says. “Very good. This is precisely what we need. A divided kingdom.”

Dutch goes on talking, already spinning the first thread of the scheme.

The day is still hot. The creek bed still smells of clay and smoke. Arthur is still angry. And somewhere south, two old families sit behind gates and painted walls, waiting to be discovered by wolves who think themselves clever enough to prey on both.

-

By early afternoon, Arthur’s head still feels full of broken glass.

Each sound cuts. Sean’s voice cuts. Pearson’s ladle scraping the pot cuts. John’s boots in the dirt cut. Even the damn cicadas up in the trees sound like tiny saws worrying at his skull. But none of it cuts as deep as you walking away from him with that look on your face.

Arthur stalks toward his wagon because motion is easier than standing still. He finds the offending gun oil exactly where he left it.

That makes him angrier.

He snatches it from the crate and slams the lid shut. The bang sends a lance through his head. He swears, low and vicious, and presses the heel of his hand to one eye.

“Rough mornin’?”

Arthur does not turn. “Not now, Hosea.”

Naturally, Hosea comes closer.

The old man moves quietly when he wants to. Today he wants to. Arthur hears the faint crunch of dry clay beneath his boots, then the soft exhale as Hosea leans against the wagon.

“You and Missus Shaw seem cheerful.”

Arthur uncorks the oil. “Ain’t your business.”

“No,” Hosea says. “But that ain’t stopped me before.”

Arthur looks at him then. “I said not now.”

Hosea’s expression is mild, which means he is already angry. “You can snarl at me all you like. Won’t make you less a fool.”

Arthur laughs without humor. “There it is.”

“There what is?”

“You callin’ me stupid. Always gets there eventually.”

“You certainly make it easy.”

Arthur turns away, jaw clenched. He picks up a revolver and begins cleaning it with more force than necessary. The cylinder spins under his thumb. Oil glints dark in the morning light.

Hosea watches him for a moment.

“You drunk?” he asks.

“Was.”

“Hungover, then.”

Arthur says nothing.

“Explains some of it.”

“Some of what?”

Hosea’s voice hardens. “I saw the way she looked at you this morning. Then I rode into Rhodes and heard why.”

Arthur’s hand stills. His eyes flick toward the laundry tubs despite himself. The laundry is done, and the women disbanded, but Hosea knows who he is looking for.

“She’s mad,” he says.

“Course she is.”

“She got a reason to be?”

“Probably,” Arthur admits, rubbing at his temple again.

“Did you frighten her?”

Arthur’s jaw tightens.

Hosea’s voice goes quieter. “Arthur.”

“I said things.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

Arthur looks at his foster father. “You here to help or peck at me like a crow?”

“Depends whether there’s anything useful left on the carcass.”

Despite himself, Arthur almost smiles. Almost. It dies before it reaches his mouth. He sets the revolver down and drags both hands over his face. The hangover pulses behind his eyes, but beneath it is something worse. A sick, low ache. Not the easy kind that can be beaten out of a man in a fistfight or drowned under whiskey.

He thinks of you saying he gives orders. He thinks of Owanjila and the moonlight. He thinks of Valentine. Of leaving you.

“I ain’t mean to be ugly,” he says, so quietly Hosea almost does not hear.

“I know.”

“That don’t fix it.”

“No,” Hosea says. “It doesn’t.”

Arthur picks up his hat from the wagon and puts it on, tugging the brim low. “I need to get outta camp.”

“Arthur.”

“I need air.”

“You need sense.”

“Fresh out.”

Hosea steps in front of him before he can move off. The old man’s eyes are clear and tired and full of that terrible fatherly disappointment Arthur has never learned how to withstand.

Arthur exhales through his nose.

Hosea sees it all. Of course he does.

“Arthur,” he says softly. But Arthur steps around him. He does not go far, only to the far edge of camp, where the old creek bed narrows, and the roots claw out from the banks like fingers. He lights a cigarette with hands that are steadier than he feels. Smoke fills his lungs, bitter and familiar.

Behind him, camp carries on. Ahead, the road waits.

Arthur smokes half the cigarette before throwing it down and crushing it beneath his boot.

By early evening, the heat has gone coppery and mean. It sits low in the creek bed, caught between the white clay banks, trapped under the roots and wagons and canvas, pressing sweat beneath collars and sourness into every look. Supper comes and goes with little ceremony. Pearson’s stew is ladled out. Tin spoons scrape against tin bowls. Someone laughs on the far side of camp, but the sound dies quickly, as if even joy knows better than to linger too long in this fetid air.

At your end of the fire, there is mostly silence. Abigail eats with Jack tucked against her side, her eyes occasionally lifting toward you but never staying long. Mary Beth sits close enough that her skirt brushes yours, a quiet kind of comfort she does not force. Tilly picks at her food and watches the flames with a thoughtful frown.

Arthur keeps to the far side of camp.

He speaks only when spoken to. Even then, his answers are short, gruff things, half-swallowed before they can become conversation. His shoulders stay tight beneath his shirt. His hat is pulled low. 

You feel Arthur’s eyes on you more than once.

You never give him the satisfaction of meeting them.

Let him look. Let him sit over there with his wounded pride and his hangover and all those things he refuses to say. Let him stew in it the way the rest of you stew in this cursed heat.

That is what you tell yourself. It doesn’t help.

When the sky finally darkens into a deep indigo, and the first stars blink through the branches overhead, you stand without a word and carry your bowl to Pearson’s wash basin. The campfire snaps softly behind you. Somewhere near the horses, leather creaks. Dutch’s voice murmurs low from his tent. The rest of camp begins to loosen into the night, bodies drifting toward bedrolls, bottles, cigarettes, and whatever small comforts can be stolen before sleep.

You slip away to the women’s lean-to.

Mary Beth offers you a small, worried smile as you pass, but she does not follow. Abigail is already curled beside Jack, one arm thrown over him, her breathing slow and even. Tilly is a dim shape in the corner, snoring softly with her shawl bunched beneath her cheek. Susan Grimshaw is absent, likely still making some final round of camp like a general inspecting a battered army.

You are grateful for the quiet.

You crawl into your bedroll fully dressed, boots kicked off, but skirt still tangled around your legs. The canvas above you sags low, patched and stained, the pitch of the lean-to pressing down like a held breath. The night air is thick and humid, carrying the distant snorting of the horses, the hum of insects, and the occasional pop of the dying fire.

Every small sound feels too loud. A murmur near the men’s wagons. A horse blowing through its nose. A tin cup knocked softly against wood. Your own breathing.

You turn onto your back and stare up at the sagging canvas.

You are furious with him.

Furious at the way he looked at you this morning, like you were something he both wanted and resented. Furious at the way he pushes and pulls, saves and wounds, touches tenderness with one hand and reaches for cruelty with the other.

Furious that even now, hours later, your body still remembers him. The shape of his hands.

The rough scrape of his voice when he told you what he wanted to do to you.

You close your eyes tightly.

You will not do this. Not here. Not with Tilly sleeping several feet away and Abigail breathing softly beneath her blanket. Not with the camp spread around you in the dark, full of ears and gossip and ghosts. Not with anger still sitting hot beneath your ribs.

But your body is a traitorous thing.

It remembers yesterday in pieces. His weight. His breath. The way his frame caged you in, covered you, and smothered you.

You press your thighs together beneath the blanket, trying to will the ache away, but it only sharpens.

“Damn you, Arthur,” you whisper into the dark.

The words vanish into the canvas and humid night.

Your hand slides down before you can talk yourself out of it.

The fabric of your skirt bunches at your waist. Your fingers slip beneath the thin cotton of your drawers and find you already wet, shamefully so. You bite the inside of your cheek to stay silent, eyes shut so tightly that little sparks bloom in the dark behind your lids.

You think of him anyway.

Of his broad shoulders braced over you yesterday. Of the ragged scrape in his voice when anger tipped into want. Of his hands braced beside your shoulders, keeping you there without touching what he threatened to take.

You imagine those same hands between your legs instead.

Thick fingers. Calloused skin. His mouth at your ear, voice rough and low, telling you to be quiet so the whole damn camp doesn’t hear.

Your breath hitches.

You circle your swollen clit with two fingers, quick and angry, chasing the feeling. Like if you can make yourself come apart fast enough, hard enough, you can burn him out of your blood. The tension coils tight in your belly, winding higher with every stroke of your most sensitive skin. Then it hits sharp and bright. You shove your face into the crook of your arm to muffle the small, choked gasp that escapes. Pleasure flashes through you in fierce waves, pulsing outward until your thighs tremble beneath the blanket and your fingers still against your own slick heat.

For a few seconds, there is nothing but the rush of it. The relief, the heat. Then it fades.

And the anger is still there.

Worse now, somehow. Now something thin and aching.

You lie there panting quietly, fingers still pressed between your legs, the cooling slickness of your arousal making you feel suddenly exposed despite the blanket pulled over you. Your heart beats too fast against your ribs. Your eyes sting with something that might become tears if you let it.

You withdraw your hand, wipe it against the edge of your blanket, and stare up at the sagging roof of the lean-to.

The ring at your throat has slipped loose from beneath your chemise. Frederick’s ring. Cold against your damp skin.

You close your fist around it until the metal bites your palm.

The ache between your thighs fades eventually.

Arthur’s head feels full of broken glass.

Each sound cuts. Sean’s voice cuts. Pearson’s ladle scraping the pot cuts. John’s boots in the dirt cut. Even the damn cicadas up in the trees sound like tiny saws worrying at his skull.

He finds the gun oil exactly where he left it.

That makes him angrier.

He snatches it from the crate and slams the lid shut. The bang sends a lance through his head. He swears, low and vicious, and presses the heel of his hand to one eye.

“Rough mornin’?”

Arthur does not turn. “Not now, Hosea.”

Naturally, Hosea does not heed the warning and comes comes closer.

The old man moves quietly when he wants to. Today he wants to. Arthur hears the faint crunch of dry clay beneath his boots, then the soft exhale as Hosea leans against the wagon.

“You and Missus Shaw seem cheerful.”

Arthur uncorks the oil. “Ain’t your business.”

“No,” Hosea says. “But that ain’t stopped me before.”

Arthur looks at him then. “I said not now.”

Hosea’s expression is mild, which means he is already annoyed. “You can snarl at me all you like. Won’t make you less a fool.”

Arthur laughs without humor. “There it is.”

“There what is?”

“You callin’ me stupid.”

“You sure make it easy some days.”

Arthur turns away, jaw clenched. He picks up a revolver and begins cleaning it with more force than necessary. The cylinder spins under his thumb. Oil glints dark in the morning light.

Hosea watches him for a moment longer.

“You drunk?” he asks.

“Was.”

“Hungover, then.”

You wake slowly, not all at once but bit by bit, as if your body is reluctant to leave the cocoon of sleep.

First comes the warmth — a heavy, living heat that sinks into your bones and refuses to let go. Then the weight: Arthur’s arm draped possessively around your middle, his broad palm splayed just below your ribs, fingers relaxed but heavy in sleep. His chest is flush against your back, solid and rising and falling in slow, even breaths that ghost warm across the nape of your neck. The confined space of the tent has trapped his scent everywhere — rich tobacco worked deep into the fibers of his shirt, the earthy musk of worn leather, faint whiskey, and something uniquely him that makes your pulse quicken before your mind even catches up.

Your body responds first. A slow heat blooms low in your belly, thick and insistent, spreading outward in lazy waves that settle between your thighs. It isn’t the frantic, desperate ache of the night before — this is quieter, deeper, a steady throb that matches the rhythm of his breathing against your skin. You can feel every inch of him pressed along your spine: the hard plane of his chest, the faint scratch of stubble where his jaw rests near your shoulder, the way his hips cradle yours. Even in sleep, he holds you like something precious. Like something he doesn’t want to lose. If only he were awake. If only this were something real.

You shift, just a fraction, testing the small space between your bodies. The movement drags your hips back against him, and you feel the unmistakable outline of his morning hardness nestled against the curve of your ass. The realization sends a fresh pulse of heat through you.

Arthur stirs.

A low, rough sound rumbles from deep in his chest — half sigh, half instinct — as his arm tightens around you. His hand presses more firmly against your stomach, fingers flexing, unconsciously pulling you closer. His hips rock forward once, slow and sleepy, grinding the thick length of him against you through the layers of fabric. The friction drags a tiny, involuntary sound from your throat.

Then he wakes.

You feel the exact moment awareness slams into him. His entire body stiffens. His breath catches sharply against your neck. The arm around you goes rigid, muscles corded with sudden tension. 

“…Mornin’,” he mutters, voice gravel-rough with sleep.

You swallow hard, suddenly hyper-aware of everything: the heat of his palm burning through your shirt, the way your bodies fit together far too perfectly, the slow, heavy throb of him still pressed against you. Your own arousal is slick and undeniable now, a quiet ache that makes it hard to breathe.

“Morning,” you whisper back, the word barely audible.

Neither of you moves. The silence stretches, thick and electric, broken only by the faint rustle of canvas and the distant shifting of the horses outside. His hand remains splayed across your stomach, thumb unconsciously stroking a small circle against the fabric. Your back stays pressed to his chest. Every breath you take pushes you more firmly against the hard line of his cock. The contact feels deliberate now, no longer accidental, and the air inside the tent has grown impossibly warm.

Arthur clears his throat, the sound strained.

“I should… get up,” he says, the words reluctant, almost pained. “Check on the horses. Get things goin’.”

You nod even though he can’t see it. “Of course.”

He lingers. For several long heartbeats, his body fights the decision before he forces himself to pull away. The loss of his heat is immediate and cruel — cold mountain air rushing in where his warmth had been, leaving your skin prickling with gooseflesh and a deeper unmet need.

He moves awkwardly in the cramped tent, trying desperately not to brush against you. But every accidental touch lingers too long: his knee nudging the back of your thigh, his hand dragging slowly along your side as he retracts it, the rough pads of his fingers catching on the hem of your shirt. Each point of contact sends sparks racing across your skin. Finally, he ducks out through the flap like the air inside has grown too thick; too dangerous to breathe.

Outside, the mountain cold slams into Arthur like a physical blow. It bites through his coat and clears his head for half a second. He bends to grab your bag and strap it to your horse’s saddle.

The moment his fingers close around the strap, something shifts.

It begins as a faint flicker low in his gut — subtle, unexpected, and entirely unwelcome. Arthur pauses, brow furrowing as he adjusts his grip, waiting for it to pass.

It doesn’t.

Instead, the sensation deepens, spreading like slow-burning oil through his veins. Heat coils low and heavy in his belly until it settles into something unmistakably carnal. His breath catches hard as his cock fills rapidly, thickening and hardening so fast it leaves him dizzy. This isn’t just the morning, the lazy bloodflow that leaves him half-hard with the sunrise. This is sudden, aching pressure that strains against the front of his pants, heavy and insistent, demanding attention.

“…The hell?” he mutters under his breath, voice barely audible over the wind.

There is no gentle build, no slow awareness — just sudden, throbbing need that makes his balls draw up tight and his cock twitch against the rough fabric. He shifts his weight and glances instinctively toward the tent.

You’re still inside. Thank God.

He turns away quickly, adjusting himself with a rough, frustrated hand. The contact only makes it worse. A sharp jolt of pleasure shoots straight up his spine and he has to bite back a groan. The ache is already bordering on painful, the head of his cock leaking steadily and soaking into his underclothes.

He exhales through clenched teeth and forces himself into motion, clinging to routine like a lifeline. Horses. Tack. Work. Normal things. Your saddle bag is on his shoulder, hitting his hip with each movement.

Arthur moves to the horses and begins checking straps and tightening buckles with more force than necessary. His hands stay steady and practiced, but his mind is a storm. Every shift of his hips reminds him of the thick, heavy weight pressing insistently against his pants. The friction of the fabric against his swollen cock is maddening. 

“Knock it off,” he growls quietly to himself.

Much like when he was a teenager, his cock doesn’t listen.

Unwanted images flood in without mercy.

You, warm and soft and pliant in the tent. The way you had curled back into him in your sleep, pressing your ass against his cock like you belonged there. The heat of your body bleeding through the thin layers. The perfect way your curves had molded against him. The tiny sound you’d made when he moved against you.

Arthur grips the saddle strap so hard his knuckles whiten.

His cock jumps violently.

“Fuck.”

The curse slips out, low and rough.

He glances around, but the mountains are quiet and empty. Shame burns hot in his chest even as the need sharpens. He knows he shouldn’t. Not here. Not with you only steps away. But his cock ain’t interested in what he knows.

Leaning slightly into the horse for cover, he braces one hand on the saddle while the other drifts downward almost of its own accord. His palm presses firmly against the rigid line of his erection through the fabric, rubbing once, slow and hard.

The response is immediate and brutal.

Heat surges through him so intensely that his head dips forward. “Christ…” The word comes out hoarse. His breath grows heavier, more ragged. He rubs again, firmer this time, grinding the heel of his hand along the thick shaft and feeling the wet spot spreading at the tip. It isn’t enough. It’s nowhere near enough.

He yanks his hand away like he’s been burned, chest heaving.

No. Not here. Not like this.

He glances at the tent again, heartbeat hammering in his ears.

“Gonna take a piss,” he calls out, voice rougher and tighter than he intended.

He doesn’t wait for an answer. Boots crunching over frost-hardened ground, he strides away, putting deliberate distance between himself and your small camp. Rounding a bend in the rock face, he finds a small outcrop that completely shields him from view.

The moment he’s hidden, his restraint snaps completely.

Arthur’s fingers fumble with his belt in rare clumsiness. He shoves fabric aside and frees himself. His cock springs out heavy and flushed dark red, already glistening at the slit and so hard it curves upward toward his stomach. The cold air does nothing to cool him — he’s burning.

“Fuck,” he breathes, the word half plea, half curse.

There is no teasing, no savoring. He wraps his rough palm around the thick length and strokes immediately — firm, fast, almost punishing. His hand slides up and down the swollen shaft, thumb sweeping over the sensitive head with each pass, spreading the steady leak of his arousal. The wet sound of skin on skin is obscene in the quiet mountain air. His hips jerk forward instinctively, chasing the friction, fucking into his fist with short, desperate thrusts.

The images of you return sharper, filthier.

You beneath him in that tent. Your breath catching. Eyes heavy-lidded and dark with want. His hand sliding lower, fingers finding you slick and hot and ready. The way you would whimper his name. The way you’d pressed back against him as if you needed him just as badly.

Arthur groans low in his chest, head tipping back against the rock. “Shit… fuck…”

His strokes grow frantic, erratic. His free hand braces hard against the cold stone, fingers splayed for balance as his rhythm turns sloppy and desperate. The coil at the base of his spine tightens viciously. His balls draw up tight, cock throbbing in his grip.

He comes hard — violently — without warning.

The orgasm crashes through him in blinding, heavy waves. His hips stutter forward as thick ropes of spend spill over his fist and splatter onto the ground. A strained, guttural groan tears from his throat, teeth clenched tight while pleasure rips through every nerve ending in pulsing, overwhelming surges. He keeps stroking through it, milking every last drop, hips jerking helplessly until the intensity finally ebbs.

For several long seconds, there is nothing but the fading throb, the sound of his ragged breathing, and the cold wind against his overheated skin.

Then reality slams back in.

Arthur goes utterly still.

He stares down at the mess on his hand, at his softening cock still twitching, at what he has just done — and who he was thinking about while doing it. Shame floods him, hot and bitter, twisting in his gut alongside the lingering aftershocks of pleasure.

“…Goddamn it,” he mutters, the words thick with self-disgust.

He cleans himself quickly and efficiently, jaw locked tight, movements almost angry. Tucking himself back into his pants with a rough motion, he drags his clean hand through his hair and leans back against the rock, forcing his breathing to slow.

Get a grip, Morgan.

He pushes off the stone, straightens his coat, and pulls himself back together piece by piece. By the time he walks back toward camp, his expression is carefully neutral once more — controlled, steady, nothing out of place.

But the memory lingers anyway.

Warm. Filthy. Unwanted.

And impossible to ignore.

---

The cold does not stay long once the sun finds its footing.

By the time you emerge from the tent, the pale gold light has grown stronger, slicing through the thin mountain air and softening the frost’s sharpest edges. It still bites when you inhale too deeply and still clings to the shadows between stones, but it is retreating.

Arthur is already working, of course.

He stands near the horses with his back to you, shoulders set in that familiar, rigid line, hands moving through the final checks of the tack with practiced precision. Outwardly, nothing seems wrong—no obvious sign of the storm that had raged through him earlier. Your bag is tightly cinched to your horse’s saddle.

Something feels different.

You notice it the moment you approach: the way he avoids meeting your eyes, the slight stiffness in his posture, the way every movement seems just a fraction too deliberate.  You step closer, rubbing your hands together against the lingering chill. The mingled scents of cold leather, horse, and dry mineral rock fill the air.

“Morning’s not so bad now,” you say lightly, trying to test the space between you.

Arthur offers a low grunt that might be agreement, though it lacks his previous easy warmth.

“Sun helps,” he replies, still not quite looking at you.

You tilt your head, studying him quietly, but decide not to press. Whatever is weighing on him, he clearly isn’t ready to share—a pang of hurt sears your chest. Instead, your gaze drifts past him to the narrow path sloping upward.

The pass.

“There’s more ahead,” you say after a moment, voice threaded with quiet excitement. “We didn’t make it over last night, but we were so close. I can feel it.”

Arthur finally glances at you, brow faintly furrowed.

“Feel it?” he echoes, skepticism gentle but unmistakable.

You nod, stepping closer to your horse and running soothing fingers along its neck.

“It has to lead somewhere useful,” you insist. “Passes like this don’t simply end. And if it opens up somewhere…” You pause as the full possibility crystallizes. “Arthur, this could change things.”

He studies you for a long, quiet moment.

Normally, he would push back, ask questions, weigh every risk with that careful pragmatism of his. Today, he doesn’t.

“Alright,” he says at last, voice even. “We’ll see it through.”

The agreement comes almost too easily.

A small spark of satisfaction blooms in your chest as you swing up into the saddle. Arthur mounts shortly after with his usual fluid grace, though he keeps a careful distance this time — not too far, but noticeably less intimate than the easy closeness you had shared on previous rides.

The difference is subtle, but you feel it anyway.

The climb resumes, but it ends sooner than expected. The narrow path crests, levels, then begins a gentle descent. The air changes almost immediately — growing drier, thinner, warmer. The sharp bite of pine and frost fades, replaced by dust and sun-warmed stone. The wind loses its icy edge, carrying hints of open land instead.

Arthur notices too.

“Feel that?” he mutters, half to himself.

You nod, eyes bright, urging your horse forward.

As you descend, the terrain transforms. Jagged rock slowly yields to looser stone, then packed earth, then sparse scrub. Tough, dusty plants cling to life in the dry soil. The sky opens up, vast above you. The confining walls of the pass fall away, revealing rolling basin land in sun-bleached shades of tan and gold.

Arthur finally rides up alongside you, his earlier reserve softening.

“This ain’t… right,” he says slowly, scanning the horizon.

You know exactly what he means.

It doesn’t resemble the Heartlands. It doesn’t look like anywhere near Emerald Ranch, Valentine, or even the edges of West Elizabeth you both know so well.

It looks… different.

The realization settles over you gradually, not as a shock but as a deep, dawning certainty.

The shape of the land. The color of the earth. The particular quality of the light and air against your skin.

You know this place.

“Arthur,” you say, voice tightening with disbelief and rising hope. “Arthur—look.”

He follows your gaze. The wide expanse of low ridges, scattered brush, and red distant cliffs stretches before you.

Recognition dawns on his face.

“…No,” he murmurs.

But it is. It has to be.

“Hennigan’s Stead,” you breathe.

Arthur lets out a short, disbelieving huff that almost becomes a laugh.

“That ain’t possible,” he says, though the conviction is already draining from his voice.

You guide your horse forward a few steps, heart racing as the implications crash over you.

“This is Pike’s Basin,” you continue, certainty growing with every word. “We crossed the mountains. We came out west of Blackwater. We—”

You stop, breath catching at the sheer weight of what you’ve discovered.

“This can save us.”

Arthur is quiet for a long moment, staring out over the land with new intensity. Disbelief gives way to something sharper — calculation, strategy, quiet wonder.

“You’re sure?” he asks, though his tone already carries the answer.

“Yes!” Excitement surges through you, bright and uncontainable. You turn toward him fully, your horse shifting beneath you.

“Do you understand what this means?” you press, voice almost breathless. “We could bypass Blackwater entirely. We could move the whole gang through here. West. South. Even into Mexico if we needed to!”

Arthur’s jaw tightens as he thinks it through — routes, risks, possibilities.

“It’d keep us off the main roads,” he mutters. “Away from patrols. Pinkertons wouldn’t be lookin’ for somethin’ like this.”

“Exactly,” you reply quickly. “It’s hidden. Remote.”

The warm wind stirs around you, carrying the dry scent of the basin. It feels like standing on the threshold of something enormous — something that could finally tip the scales in your favor.

Arthur looks at you then — really looks.

There is quiet admiration in his eyes, mixed with something deeper, something he hasn’t yet named.

“You did good,” he says finally, low and sincere.

The words land with unexpected weight.

You smile, softer this time, though the thrill still hums beneath it.

“We did,” you correct gently.

He huffs, almost a laugh.

“Yeah,” he concedes. “We did.”

The moment stretches between you, warm and full of possibility. You sit there together for a while longer, letting the discovery settle — the vast stretch of Hennigan’s Stead before you, the hidden pass at your back, and the knowledge that you have found something precious.

Eventually, Arthur shifts in his saddle.

“We oughta make sure it's safe all the way to the river,” he says, practical once more. ”

You nod eagerly, already turning your horse.

“Yes. Anything that would help guide the whole gang through safely.”

Arthur watches you for a beat, something unreadable flickering across his face.

Then he follows.