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Chapter Text

October 1892

The rain hammered against the cabin roof like bullets, each drop echoing the hollow ache in Arthur's chest. He held the small bundle closer, feeling the tiny heartbeat against his own, the only warmth left in this godforsaken world. Isaac. His son.

Eliza lay still on the bed behind him, her face peaceful now in a way it hadn't been for hours. The midwife had done what she could, but sometimes nature took its course regardless of human will. Arthur had arrived just in time to hold Eliza's hand as she slipped away, whispering the boy's name like a prayer.

"What am I supposed to do with you now, partner?" Arthur's voice cracked as he looked down at the infant's scrunched face. Isaac's eyes were closed, his tiny fists curled tight, oblivious to the tragedy that had brought him into this world alone.

The midwife had left him with bottles and instructions that made about as much sense as Latin. Arthur's hands shook as he tried to remember her words, something about feeding every two hours, keeping the baby warm, watching for signs of... what? Everything seemed like a sign of something when you'd never held a baby before. Isaac's skin looked pale, almost translucent, and his breathing seemed too fast, too shallow. Or maybe too slow? Arthur couldn't tell anymore.

He'd tried feeding the boy twice since the midwife left, but Isaac barely took any milk before turning his head away with weak little cries. The sound cut through Arthur like a blade, helpless and desperate. Each rejected bottle felt like another step toward losing the only piece of Eliza he had left.

"Come on, son," Arthur whispered, trying again with the bottle. "You gotta eat. You gotta..." His voice broke as Isaac's tiny mouth refused the nipple again, his cries growing weaker. "Please, Isaac. Don't you leave me too."

The grief hit him in waves, one moment he was focused on keeping Isaac alive, the next he was staring at Eliza's still form and feeling like his chest was caving in. She was supposed to be here, supposed to know what to do. She was supposed to be the one holding their son, not lying cold under a sheet while Arthur fumbled with bottles and blankets like a fool.

By the time Arthur finally wrapped Isaac in every blanket he could find and mounted his horse, the baby had gone frighteningly quiet. Not sleeping, Arthur could tell the difference now, but that awful, weak stillness that made his blood run cold. The ride back to camp felt like a race against time itself, every mile stretching into eternity while Isaac's breathing grew more labored against his chest.

The gang was finishing supper when Arthur rode into their camp at Hangman’s Rock, his horse lathered and his clothes soaked through. John looked up first, his spoon halfway to his mouth, expression shifting from casual greeting to alarm at the sight of Arthur's face.

"Arthur?" Hosea rose from his place by the fire, his voice carrying that gentle concern that had gotten Arthur through more scrapes than he could count. "Son, what's wrong?"

Arthur dismounted with shaking hands, cradling the bundle against his chest. Isaac's cries were barely whispers now, more like the mewling of a sick kitten than a healthy baby. The sound made something wild and desperate claw at Arthur's insides.

"This is Isaac," Arthur said, his voice raw. "He's... he's my boy. His mama died birthin' him, and I don't..." He looked down at the pale little face, at the way Isaac's tiny chest struggled for each breath. "I don't know what I'm doin' wrong, but he ain't takin' milk proper. He's gettin' weaker."

The words hung in the air like a confession. Arthur had faced down lawmen and rival gangs, had killed men without batting an eye, but this tiny, helpless thing in his arms had brought him to his knees. He was watching his son die by inches, and he didn't know how to stop it.

The camp had gone silent except for the crackling fire and Isaac's labored breathing. Arthur looked around at the faces of his family, all men who knew as little about babies as he did. John stepped closer, his young face creased with concern, but Arthur could see the same helplessness in his eyes that he felt in his own chest.

"Three days," Arthur whispered when Hosea asked. "Born Sunday night. She... Eliza lasted long enough to name him, then..."

Miss Grimshaw approached with careful steps, her usually stern expression softened by worry. "Let me see him, Arthur."

Arthur found himself reluctant to let go. What if Isaac stopped breathing the moment he wasn't holding him? What if-

"It's alright," Miss Grimshaw said gently, taking Isaac with surprising tenderness. "Lord, he's so small. Arthur, have you been able to get him to feed proper?"

"I tried," Arthur said, feeling like he was confessing to murder. "The midwife left bottles, but he keeps pushin' them away. I don't know if the milk's wrong, or if I'm holdin' him wrong, or..."

Miss Grimshaw examined Isaac with careful eyes, her expression growing more concerned by the moment. "He's not getting enough milk, that's certain. And he's too cold." She looked up at Arthur, her face honest but kind. "Arthur, I helped birth a few babies in my time, but caring for one this young... it takes knowledge none of us have. He needs proper tending."

Dutch had been standing in the shadows, his jaw working like he was chewing on bitter words. Finally, he stepped forward, his voice tight with barely controlled anger.

"Arthur, what the hell were you thinkin'? Bringing a baby here? We're outlaws, not nursemaids. This ain't no place for-"

"Dutch," Hosea's voice cut through the night like a knife. "The boy's here, and he needs help. That's what matters now."

"What matters," Dutch snapped, "is that Arthur's lost his damn mind. We got the law breathin' down our necks, we got mouths and jobs to plan, and now he wants to play house with some-"

"Don't." Arthur's voice was low, dangerous. "Don't you say nothin' about Eliza. She's dead, Dutch. Dead because I wasn't there when she needed me most. I ain't gonna fail her boy, too."

The silence that followed was thick with tension. Arthur could feel the weight of every eye in camp, could sense the calculations running through Dutch's mind. But all he could focus on was Isaac's shallow breathing, the way the baby's skin felt too cool against his palm.

"Arthur," Miss Grimshaw spoke up, her voice surprisingly gentle. "The child needs proper care. More than any of us can give him out here."

"I know," Arthur said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I know he ain't thriving. I can see it. But I can't... I won't abandon him. He's all I got left of her."

John stepped forward, his young face serious. "What about findin' him a family? Someone in town who could-"

"No." Arthur's grip tightened protectively around Isaac. "He's mine. He's my responsibility."

"Then what's your plan?" Dutch demanded. "Because right now, that baby's dyin' on your watch, and all your good intentions ain't gonna change that."

The words hit Arthur like a physical blow because they were true. Isaac was failing, and Arthur's love wasn't enough to keep him alive. He looked down at his son's pale face, at the way those tiny features seemed to be fading even as he watched.

"I don't know," Arthur admitte+d, his voice breaking. "I don't know what to do."

It was Hosea who finally stepped forward, placing a weathered hand on Arthur's shoulder. The older man's touch was gentle but firm, grounding Arthur amid his panic.

"We'll figure it out," Hosea said simply. "We always do. But first, let's get this boy warm and fed proper. Miss Grimshaw, you think there's anything we can do?"

"I can try," Miss Grimshaw said, though her voice carried uncertainty. "But Arthur, what that baby needs is someone who knows anything about caring for infants.” 

As the camp slowly organized around the crisis, Arthur found himself sitting by the fire with Isaac still in his arms, watching his son's chest rise and fall with each precious breath. The baby's grip on his finger was so weak it barely registered, but Arthur held on like it was the only thing keeping them both alive.

It was then that a soft voice spoke from the edge of the firelight.

"Mr. Morgan"

He looked up to see Maureen Lawless approaching, her auburn hair catching the flames' glow. She'd been with the gang for three months now, ever since Dutch had offered her protection after she'd killed her husband. The Pinkertons were still looking for her, but she'd proven herself useful with her quick hands and quicker wit. Still, she mostly kept to herself, speaking only when spoken to.

"I heard what happened," she said quietly, settling beside him on the log. "With the baby's mother. I'm sorry for your loss."

Arthur nodded, his throat too tight to speak. Isaac stirred weakly in his arms, making those soft mewling sounds that had become increasingly faint throughout the evening.

"May I?" Maureen asked, extending her hands.

Arthur hesitated, then carefully transferred Isaac to her arms. She held him with a confidence that surprised him, supporting his head properly, adjusting his position with practiced ease.

"He's not getting enough nourishment," she said after a moment, her voice gentle but certain. "The milk you've been giving him, it's not sitting right with his stomach. Some babies, especially ones born under strain, need something different."

"Different how?" Arthur asked, leaning forward.

"When I lived with my aunt and uncle in Boston, I helped care for my young cousins. Two of them had the same problem, couldn't keep down regular milk. My aunt used to prepare a special formula. Condensed milk mixed with water and a bit of sugar, warmed just so." She looked up at Arthur, her brown eyes serious. "I could ride to town tomorrow, get what we need. It might help."

Arthur felt something that might have been hope stir in his chest. "You think it would work?"

"I think it's worth trying," Maureen said. "And Mr. Morgan... caring for a baby, it's not something you learn overnight. But it can be learned. I could teach you, if you'd like."

The offer hung in the air between them, weighted with possibility. Arthur looked down at Isaac, who seemed slightly more settled in Maureen's arms, and felt that desperate clawing in his chest ease just a fraction.

"I'd... I'd be grateful," Arthur said, his voice rough. "I don't know the first thing about any of this."

"Nobody does, at first," Maureen said softly. "But you love him. That's the most important part."

The next morning, Maureen was up before dawn, quietly preparing for the ride to Valentine. Arthur hadn't slept at all, sitting vigil over Isaac through the night, trying to coax a few drops of milk into the baby every hour. By sunrise, Isaac's breathing had grown so shallow that Arthur could barely detect it.

"I'm going now," Maureen said, checking her saddlebags. "I'll be back before noon."

Arthur nodded, cradling Isaac close. "What if he... what if he doesn't make it till you get back?"

"He will," Maureen said with quiet certainty. "He's got his father's stubborn streak, I can tell."

The hours crawled by like years. Arthur paced the camp, Isaac limp in his arms, while the other gang members cast worried glances his way. Dutch had made himself scarce since the night before, but Arthur could feel his disapproval hanging over the camp like storm clouds.

It was just past eleven when Maureen's horse thundered back into camp. She dismounted quickly, her arms full of packages from the general store.

"I got everything," she said, slightly breathless. "Condensed milk, clean bottles, proper nipples for feeding, and some other things we'll need."

Arthur watched as she set up near the fire, her movements quick and efficient. She mixed the condensed milk with warm water in careful proportions, testing the temperature on her wrist, adjusting until it was just right.

"Now," she said, settling beside Arthur, "let me show you how to hold him for feeding. The angle matters, see how his head needs to be elevated? And you want to let the milk flow slowly, let him set the pace."

To Arthur's amazement, Isaac latched onto the new bottle almost immediately. The baby's weak sucking grew stronger as the formula filled his stomach, his pale color slowly improving as he drank.

"There we go," Maureen murmured, her voice warm with satisfaction. "That's a good boy."

Arthur felt tears prick his eyes as he watched his son feed properly for the first time. "How did you know?"

"Experience," Maureen said simply. "My cousin Tommy was the same way. Born too early, couldn't keep anything down. My aunt nearly went mad with worry before we figured out what he needed."

Over the next few hours, Maureen taught Arthur the basics of infant care. How to support Isaac's head, how to tell when he was hungry versus when he was just fussing, how to burp him properly after feeding. She showed him how to check if the baby was too hot or too cold, how to change his diaper without fumbling, how to swaddle him so he felt secure.

"The key," she explained as Arthur practiced holding Isaac in different positions, "is to stay calm. Babies can sense when you're tense, and it makes them anxious too. You're doing better than you think."

By evening, Isaac was taking regular feedings and his color had returned to something approaching normal. His cries were stronger, more demanding, and Arthur found himself actually grateful for the sound.

"You saved his life," Arthur said as they sat by the fire, Isaac sleeping peacefully in his arms. "I don't know how to thank you."

"No need," Maureen said softly. "I know what it's like to lose everything. I'm glad I could help you keep what matters most."

Arthur looked at her then, really looked at her. He'd known she was pretty, of course, but tonight he saw something else, kindness, competence, the kind of strength that came from surviving hardship without losing your humanity. She'd stepped in when he was drowning, thrown him a lifeline without asking for anything in return.

"You're good with him," Arthur said quietly. "Natural."

"I always liked children," Maureen replied, her eyes distant. "Always thought I'd have some of my own someday."

They sat in comfortable silence for a while, watching Isaac sleep. Arthur felt something shift inside him, not just gratitude, but a recognition of what Maureen had given him. Not just the knowledge to keep his son alive, but the confidence to believe he could actually do this.

He was an outlaw, a killer, a man who lived by the gun and the take. But looking down at Isaac's peaceful face, and glancing at the woman who'd helped save his son's life, Arthur Morgan began to think that maybe, just maybe, he could become something else entirely.

The morning sun cast long shadows across Hangman’s Rock as Arthur adjusted his gun belt, preparing for another job Dutch had outlined the night before. It had been a few weeks since Isaac's arrival, and the routine had settled into something approaching normal, at least as normal as life with an outlaw gang could be.

"You sure you don't mind, Mrs. Lawless?" Arthur asked Maureen for what felt like the hundredth time, though he knew the answer. She was already reaching for Isaac, her movements confident and natural.

"Mr. Morgan, if you ask me that one more time, I'm going to feed you to the wolves," she said with a smile that took the sting out of her words. "Go on. Isaac and I will be just fine."

Arthur watched as she settled Isaac against her shoulder, the baby's tiny fist tangling in her auburn hair. The sight did something to his chest, a warmth that had nothing to do with the West Elizabeth sun. Isaac had thrived under Maureen's care, his cheeks filling out, his cries growing stronger and more demanding. More than that, the baby seemed to recognize her now, his fussing calming the moment she took him.

"Dutch is gettin' impatient," Arthur said, though his feet remained planted. "Says I've been distracted lately."

"You have been," Maureen replied matter-of-factly. "And you should be. This little one needs you." She adjusted Isaac's position, her hands sure and gentle. "But he also needs you to provide for him. Go. We'll be here when you get back."

Arthur nodded, though something twisted in his gut as he mounted his horse. Dutch had been increasingly vocal about his displeasure with the "domestic situation," as he called it. The previous night, he'd made pointed comments about Arthur's priorities, about the gang's needs coming first. The unspoken threat hung heavy in the air, and Dutch's patience was wearing thin.

As Arthur rode out with John and Bill to scout a potential robbery target, he found his mind wandering back to camp. Was Isaac eating enough? Was he too warm in the heat? Maureen had assured him she knew what to do, but the worry gnawed at him like a persistent ache.

"You're thinkin' about that brat again," Bill said with a sneer. "Dutch is right, you've gone soft, Morgan. Used to be you could focus on a job without moonin' over some mick woman and a brat."

Arthur's hand moved instinctively to his gun. "That's my son you're talkin' about, Bill. And Mrs. Lawless ain't 'some mick woman.' She's family."

"Family?" Bill laughed, but there was no humor in it. "She's been here three months, Arthur. That don't make her family. Hell, for all we know, she's still got the Pinks following her."

"Enough." Arthur's voice was deadly quiet. "Keep your goddamn mouth shut on matter that concern Mrs. Lawless."

John rode between them, his young face tense. "Can we just focus on the job? Dutch wants us back before sundown."

The scouting mission took most of the day, and by the time they returned to camp, Arthur's nerves were frayed. He'd found himself checking his pocket watch every few minutes, calculating how long he'd been gone, wondering if Isaac had eaten properly.

He found Maureen sitting by the water's edge, Isaac cradled in her arms, singing softly in what sounded like another language. The baby was alert and content, his blue eyes, so like Arthur's own, tracking the movement of her lips.

"How'd he do?" Arthur asked, settling beside them on the sandy shore.

"Perfect angel," Maureen replied in her faint Irish lilt, though her smile seemed strained. "Took his bottles on schedule, slept for two hours this afternoon. Miss Grimshaw said he's gaining weight."

Arthur reached out to touch Isaac's cheek, marveling at how much stronger his son looked. "You're gettin' to be a fine boy, ain't you?" he murmured.

"Mr. Morgan," Maureen said quietly, not meeting his eyes. "Dutch spoke to me while you were gone."

Arthur's blood ran cold. "What did he say?"

"He asked about my plans. How long I intended to stay with the gang, whether I understood that this wasn't a permanent arrangement." She shifted Isaac to her other arm, her movements careful and controlled. "He made it clear that he sees me as a temporary solution to a temporary problem."

"And what did you tell him?"

"I told him I'd stay as long as Isaac needed me." She finally looked at Arthur, her brown eyes serious. "But Arthur, I can see the strain this is putting on you. The way Dutch looks at you when you're with Isaac, the comments the others make. They think you've lost your edge."

Arthur felt something cold settle in his stomach. "You think I should give him up."

"No." The word came out sharp and fierce. "I think you should choose what kind of life you want to give him. Because living like this, with Dutch's disapproval hanging over us all, with the constant worry about raids and the law... It's not sustainable. Not for Isaac, and not for you."

That evening, as Arthur helped Maureen prepare Isaac's bottles, Hosea approached them with the careful steps of a man about to broach a delicate subject.

"Arthur, son, can I have a word?"

Arthur looked up from measuring the condensed milk, noting the thoughtful expression on Hosea's weathered face. "Course, Hosea. What's on your mind?"

"It's about your situation," Hosea said, settling on a crate beside them. "With Isaac, and with Mrs. Lawless here."

Maureen continued her work, but Arthur could see the tension in her shoulders. "What about it?"

"Well, I been thinkin'. And talkin' to Dutch, though he ain't exactly receptive to the idea." Hosea paused, choosing his words carefully. "The way I see it, you got two problems that might solve each other."

"How do you mean?"

"Mrs. Lawless here, she needs protection from the law. The Pinkertons are still lookin' for her, and a woman on her own... well, it ain't safe. And you, you need someone reliable to help care for Isaac. Someone who knows what they're doin'."

Arthur felt his pulse quicken. "Hosea, what are you suggestin'?"

"I'm suggestin' maybe you two should consider makin' this arrangement more permanent. Legal-like." Hosea's eyes were kind but serious. "A marriage would give Mrs. Lawless a new life, new protection. And it would give Isaac a mother to care for him."

The words hung in the air like gunpowder smoke. Arthur looked at Maureen, who had gone very still, her hands frozen over Isaac's bottle.

"That's... that's a big step," Arthur said carefully.

"It is," Hosea agreed. "But sometimes the biggest steps are the ones that make the most sense. I've seen how you two work together, how natural it is. And I see how that baby takes to her. Seems to me like it could be a good thing for all of you."

Arthur felt his face burn. "Hosea, I appreciate the thought, but I can't ask Maureen to-"

"You're not asking," Hosea said gently. "I am. Mrs. Lawless, what do you think? Would you consider it?"

Maureen was quiet for a long moment, her fingers tracing the rim of Isaac's bottle. When she finally spoke, her voice was carefully neutral. "I... I'd need to think about it."

"Course you would," Hosea said, rising from his crate. "Take all the time you need. But Arthur, son, Dutch's patience is wearin' thin. You're gonna have to make some decisions soon about how you want to handle this. For Isaac's sake, if nothin' else."

After Hosea left, Arthur and Maureen finished preparing Isaac's evening meal in silence. The baby was fussy, picking up on the tension between the adults, and it took both of them working together to get him settled.

"I'm sorry," Arthur said as they finally got Isaac to sleep. "I didn't know Hosea was gonna suggest that. I don't want you to feel pressured."

"I don't," Maureen replied, though her voice was distant. "I just... I need to think."

They said their goodnights awkwardly, and Arthur retreated to his tent with Isaac's makeshift cradle. He lay awake for hours, staring at the canvas ceiling and listening to his son's steady breathing. The idea of marrying Maureen wasn't unpleasant, far from it. But the thought of asking her to tie herself to a man like him, to the dangerous life he lived, made his chest tight with guilt.

He was just beginning to drift off when he heard soft footsteps outside his tent. "Arthur?" Maureen's voice was barely above a whisper.

"Come in," he said, sitting up quickly.

She slipped inside, her nightgown ghostly pale in the darkness. Isaac stirred at the sound but didn't wake. Maureen settled on the edge of Arthur's cot, her hands clasped tightly in her lap.

"I've been thinking about what Hosea said," she began, her voice soft but steady. "About marriage."

Arthur's heart hammered against his ribs. "And?"

"I want to tell you something first. About my husband, my late husband." She took a shaky breath. "My uncle was a drunk and a gambler, and when he finally exhausted his last creditor, he sold me to the man he owed the most money to. Donal was twenty-seven years older than me.” 

Arthur remained silent, sensing there was more. She pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders.

"He was terribly cruel, Arthur. In every sense a man can be. I lived in fear for many years, and my family refused to take me back. I had nowhere to go and no one to turn to.” Her voice grew smaller. "My brother came once to give me money to help me leave, but we were discovered and it sent Donal into such a rage I thought he was going to kill me.” She sighed. 

“There was a moment when I realized that I could either get up from the floor or die there. I don’t remember much of what happened next, but I had hit him in the back of the head with a fire poker, and I took that money and ran.” 

Arthur felt something murderous stir in his chest. "Maureen..."

"I'm telling you this because I need you to understand, I'm still afraid. I'm afraid of giving that kind of power to another man. Of being trapped again." She looked at him directly, her eyes bright with unshed tears. "But I also know that Isaac needs stability. And I know that you need help. And I... I care about both of you more than I probably should."

Arthur reached out slowly, giving her time to pull away, and took her hand. "I ain't him, Maureen. I ain't perfect—Lord knows I got my faults—but I would never hurt you. I would never hurt any woman, but especially not you."

"I know," she whispered. "I can see it in the way you are with Isaac, the way you've been with me. You're gentle when you don't have to be. Kind when the world's taught you to be hard."

"So what are you sayin'?"

Maureen was quiet for a long moment. "I'm saying that if you promise me, really promise me. that you'll never raise a hand to me in anger, that you'll never try to control me or make me feel small... then yes. I'll marry you. For Isaac's sake, and for practical reasons, but also..." She paused, her cheeks flushing. "Also, because I think we could be companions."

Arthur felt something break open in his chest, something warm and bright and terrifying. "I promise," he said, his voice rough. "I swear to you, Maureen, I ain’t ever gonna be like that man.” 

She smiled then, the first real smile he'd seen from her all day. "Then yes, Arthur Morgan. I'll marry you."

As if summoned by their words, Isaac stirred and began to fuss softly. Maureen moved to comfort him, and Arthur watched as she lifted his son with practiced ease, settling him against her shoulder with gentle shushing sounds.

"We'll be a family," Arthur said, the words feeling strange and wonderful in his mouth.

"Yes," Came her whispered reply, her voice warm with certainty. "We just need to make it official."

Chapter Text

Dutch paced the length of his tent like a caged animal, his boots wearing a path in the packed earth. Arthur stood just inside the entrance, hat in hand, waiting for the storm to break.

"Marriage," Dutch finally said, the word dripping with disdain. "You want to marry some woman you've known for three months because she can change diapers."

"It ain't just about that, Dutch, and you know it," Arthur replied, keeping his voice steady. "Isaac needs stability. Maureen needs protection. And we—"

"And you need to remember who you are," Dutch interrupted, whirling to face him. "You're Arthur Morgan. You're my right hand, my most trusted gun. You ain't some domesticated farmhand playing house."

Arthur felt his jaw tighten. "I can be both."

"Can you?" Dutch's voice was silky with doubt. "Because lately, it seems like every time I need you, you're worried about feeding schedules and whether that baby is too warm or too cold. How long before you start putting their needs before the gang's?"

"That ain't gonna happen."

"Isn't it?" Dutch moved closer, his dark eyes boring into Arthur's. "Tell me, Arthur, if I needed you to ride out tomorrow on a job that would keep you away for a week, would you go?"

Arthur hesitated, and that hesitation was answer enough. Dutch's face hardened.

"I see. And there's my answer." Dutch turned away, his voice bitter. "Fine. Marry her. Get it out of your system. But don't expect me to pretend this doesn't change everything between us."

"Dutch…"

"But maybe," Dutch continued, as if Arthur hadn't spoken, "maybe if you're legally bound to her, you'll stop mooning over her and that kid like a fool. Maybe you'll remember that your first loyalty is to this gang, to me, to the family that took you in when you had nothing."

Arthur bit back his response. He'd had plenty before Dutch found him, but arguing that point would only make things worse.

"So yes," Dutch said finally, waving his hand dismissively. "Marry her. But remember, Arthur, that ring on your finger doesn't change who you are or what you owe me. Now get out. I have plans to make."

The wedding was a small affair, held three days later at an old church in Valentine. Reverend Swanson officiated, his hands only slightly shaking from his most recent bout with laudanum. Hosea stood as Arthur's witness, while Miss Grimshaw served as Maureen's. The rest of the gang stayed at camp, Dutch's absence speaking louder than any words.

Arthur had bought Maureen a simple blue dress from the general store, and she'd pinned her auburn hair up with the ivory combs that had been her mother's. She looked beautiful, but Arthur could see the tension in her shoulders, the way her hands trembled slightly as she spoke her vows.

"I, Maureen Katrina Lawless, take thee, Arthur Morgan, to be my lawfully wedded husband..."

Her voice was steady, but Arthur caught the way her breath hitched on certain words. When it came time to kiss the bride, he leaned in slowly, giving her time to pull away if she needed to, and pressed his lips gently to her forehead instead.

"Thank you," she whispered, so quietly only he could hear.

They rode back to camp in comfortable silence, Isaac sleeping peacefully in Maureen's arms. Arthur found himself stealing glances at her profile, at the way the afternoon light caught the gold in her hair. She was his wife now, in name and law if not in heart. The thought both thrilled and terrified him.

That evening, as the gang settled around the campfire, Arthur found himself pacing nervously outside the tent he and Maureen would now share. He'd moved his belongings earlier, arranging them carefully to give her as much space as possible. Isaac's cradle sat between their two cots, a buffer and a reminder of what had brought them together.

When Maureen finally emerged from behind Miss Grimshaw's tent, she was wearing a simple white nightgown and wrapper. Her hair fell loose around her shoulders, and Arthur's breath caught at the sight of her.

"Mrs. Morgan," he said softly, testing the name.

"Mr. Morgan," she replied, but her smile was strained.

Inside the tent, an awkward silence fell. Arthur busied himself checking Isaac, who was sleeping soundly, while Maureen stood frozen by the tent flap as if she might bolt at any moment.

"Maureen," Arthur said gently, turning to face her. "You look like you're about to face a firing squad."

She laughed, but it came out sharp and broken. "I'm sorry. I'm being foolish."

"No, you ain't." Arthur approached her slowly, his hands visible and non-threatening. "You're scared. And you got every right to be, considering what you've been through."

Her eyes filled with tears. "I don't know if I can... Arthur, I want to be a good wife to you, but I don't know if I can be that kind of wife. Not yet. Maybe not ever."

Arthur felt something twist in his chest at the fear in her voice. "Hey," he said, reaching out to touch her arm lightly. "Look at me."

She raised her eyes to his, and he could see the ghosts of old pain haunting them.

"I married you because Isaac needs you, and because you needed protection," Arthur said quietly. "And maybe because I was getting mighty fond of your company. But I didn't marry you expecting anything from you that you ain't ready to give."

"But married people, they're supposed to—"

"Married people are supposed to care for each other," Arthur interrupted. "They're supposed to be partners, companions. Everything else... well, that comes if and when it comes. And if it don't, then it don't."

Maureen's shoulders sagged with relief. "You mean that?"

"I mean it." Arthur gestured to the two cots he'd arranged. "We'll sleep separate. You ain't gotta worry about me expecting anything from you. If you ever want more than that, you let me know. Until then, I'm just happy to have you as my partner in keeping this little one alive."

Isaac chose that moment to stir, making the soft whimpering sounds that meant he'd be demanding food soon. Maureen moved to him automatically, her maternal instincts overriding her fear.

"I should prepare his bottle," she said, her voice already steadier.

"I'll help," Arthur offered, and together they went through the familiar routine of mixing formula and testing temperature. As they worked, Arthur caught Maureen watching him with something like wonder.

"What?" he asked.

"You really mean it, don't you? About not expecting anything."

"I really mean it."

She smiled then, the first genuine smile he'd seen from her all day. "Then I think we're going to be just fine, Arthur Morgan."

Isaac continued to grow and thrive in the next four months of life, and so did Arthur’s relationship with his wife. Arthur paused in saddling his horse to watch Maureen chase Isaac around the camp. His son, now eight months old, had recently discovered the joys of crawling and was proving to be remarkably fast for someone who couldn't even walk yet.

"Isaac Morgan, you come back here this instant," Maureen called, laughing as she hurried after him. "You're getting into everything!"

Isaac, delighted by the game, crawled faster toward the water's edge, his chubby legs pumping with determination. Arthur was about to intervene when Maureen scooped him up from behind, spinning him around as he shrieked with laughter.

"Gotcha, you little scoundrel," she said, pressing kisses to his chubby cheeks. "What am I going to do with you?"

Isaac babbled something that sounded remarkably like "Mama," and Arthur felt his chest tighten with emotion. The baby had been saying it for weeks now, his first clear word, and each time Arthur heard it, something settled more firmly into place in his heart.

"He's getting quick," Arthur said, approaching them with a smile.

"Too quick," Maureen replied, settling Isaac on her hip. "Yesterday I caught him trying to eat one of John's cigarette butts. Heaven knows what he'll get into next."

Arthur reached out to ruffle his son's dark hair. Isaac immediately lunged for him, demanding to be held, and Arthur obliged, marveling at how solid and healthy the boy had become. His cheeks were round and rosy, his eyes bright with intelligence and mischief.

"Da-da-da," Isaac babbled, patting Arthur's face with sticky hands.

"That's right, son," Arthur said softly. "That's me."

Over the past months, Arthur had watched Maureen transform from the frightened, guarded woman who'd agreed to marry him into something approaching her natural self. She laughed more now, spoke up during gang discussions, and had even started carrying a gun when she rode into town. More importantly, she'd stopped flinching when Arthur moved too quickly or spoke too loudly.

Their marriage had settled into a comfortable rhythm. They shared meals and evening conversations, took turns caring for Isaac during the night, and worked together on the countless small tasks that kept a baby healthy and happy. It wasn't love, not yet, but it was something deeper than friendship. It was partnership, trust, and a growing affection that warmed Arthur's days like spring sunshine.

"You heading out with Dutch today?" Maureen asked, adjusting Isaac's little jacket.

"Yeah, should be back by evening," Arthur replied. "You sure you don't mind watching him?"

Maureen gave him a look that had become familiar over the months. "Arthur Morgan, that boy is as much mine as yours now. Stop asking if I mind."

It was true, Arthur realized. Somewhere along the way, Isaac had become theirs rather than his. Maureen had taken to motherhood with a naturalness that amazed him, and Isaac had responded with the pure, uncomplicated love that children give to those who care for them.

"I know," Arthur said, feeling foolish. "I just... I worry sometimes. About asking too much of you."

"You're not," Maureen said firmly. "This is what families do, Arthur. They take care of each other."

Family. The word still felt strange and wonderful in Arthur's mind. He'd never thought he'd have one, not really. The gang was a family of sorts, but this was different. This was his wife and his son, his small piece of peace in a violent world.

Isaac began to fuss, demanding attention. Maureen took him back, bouncing him gently as she shushed his complaints.

"Go on," she said to Arthur. "Dutch is waiting, and you know how he gets when you're late."

Arthur nodded, though he found himself reluctant to leave. These moments of domestic contentment were precious to him, more valuable than any gold or jewels the gang might steal.

"I'll be back for supper," he promised.

"We'll be here," Maureen replied, and something in her tone made it sound like a promise of its own. Before he could turn to go, she lifted onto her tiptoes and placed a kiss on his cheek. Not wanting to feel left out, the baby began to smack his lips together, and Maureen lifted him so he, too, could place a sloppy kiss on his father’s cheek. 

As Arthur rode out of camp, he turned for one last look and saw Maureen sitting by the water's edge with Isaac in her lap, pointing out the birds and flowers as she spoke to him in that gentle voice that had become the soundtrack of Arthur's new life.

He was a lucky man, Arthur thought. Luckier than he deserved, perhaps, but he wasn't about to question his good fortune. 

That night, Arthur woke to the sound of Isaac's crying and found Maureen already up, pacing the tent with the baby against her shoulder. Her hair was mussed from sleep, and her nightgown was wrinkled, but she was humming softly, trying to soothe the fussing infant.

"I'm sorry," she whispered when she saw Arthur stirring. "I tried to get to him before he woke you."

"You don't need to apologize," Arthur said, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. "He's my son too."

But even as he said it, Arthur could see the exhaustion in Maureen's face. She'd been taking most of the night feedings, insisting it was her responsibility as his wife. The arrangement that had seemed so practical was wearing on her.

"Let me take him," Arthur offered, reaching for Isaac.

"I can manage—"

"Maureen." Arthur's voice was gentle but firm. "We're partners, ain’t we? That means we share the load."

She hesitated, then passed Isaac to him. The baby immediately began to calm, recognizing his father's scent and touch. Arthur settled back against his pillow, Isaac on his chest, and began to hum the same tune he'd heard Maureen use.

"You don't have to do everything yourself," Arthur said quietly. "I know you're trying to prove you're worth keeping around, but that ain't in question. You're part of this family now, which means you get to rest sometimes too."

Maureen's eyes filled with tears. "I just... I don't want to be a burden."

"You ain't a burden. You're a blessing." Arthur shifted Isaac to one arm and reached out to touch Maureen's hand. "Now get some sleep. I got him."

The next morning brought an unusual sight to the Van der Linde camp: John Marston crouched awkwardly beside Isaac's blanket, staring at the baby as if he were some exotic creature that might bite.

"He's just sitting there," John said, his voice carrying a note of bewilderment. "What's he supposed to do?"

Arthur chuckled from where he sat cleaning his revolver. "He's eight months old, John. Sitting is pretty much his whole repertoire right now."

"But he keeps looking at me," John protested, scooting back slightly as Isaac began to crawl toward him with determined enthusiasm. "What does he want?"

"Probably just wants to say hello," Maureen suggested, emerging from the tent with a basket of washing. "He's friendly."

Isaac reached John and promptly grabbed hold of his bootlace, tugging on it with surprising strength. John froze as if the baby might explode at any sudden movement.

"Uh, Arthur? He's got my boot."

"He ain't gonna hurt you, John," Arthur said, not bothering to hide his amusement. "Just talk to him."

"Talk to him about what? Weather? The price of ammunition?"

Isaac looked up at John with wide, curious eyes and made a happy gurgling sound. Then, to John's horror, the baby began trying to put the bootlace in his mouth.

"Oh, no, no, no," John said, panic creeping into his voice. "That ain't clean, little fella. That's been through mud and probably worse."

Without thinking, John gently tried to extract his bootlace from Isaac's grasp, but the baby held on stubbornly. The tug-of-war lasted several seconds before Isaac suddenly let go, sending John tumbling backward onto his behind.

The baby found this absolutely hilarious and began laughing, a sound so pure and joyful that even John couldn't help but crack a smile.

"Well, I'll be damned," John said, sitting up and dusting himself off. "Kid's got a sense of humor."

"He likes you," Maureen observed, settling down to sort through the laundry. "Look, he's trying to crawl to you again."

Sure enough, Isaac had turned around and was making his way back toward John with the single-minded determination of a man on a mission. This time, when he reached John, he grabbed onto his pants leg and tried to pull himself upright.

"Whoa there, partner," John said, instinctively reaching out to steady the baby. "You're getting ahead of yourself."

Isaac babbled something that sounded remarkably like "John," though it was probably just coincidence. John's expression softened despite himself.

"He's stronger than he looks," John admitted, letting Isaac grip his finger. "Got a good hold on him."

"That's my boy," Arthur said proudly. "Going to be a fighter, just like his old man."

The peaceful domestic scene was interrupted by the arrival of Bill Williamson, who swaggered into camp with his usual arrogant swagger. He took one look at John sitting on the ground with a baby clinging to his finger and let out a harsh laugh.

"Well, ain't this precious," Bill sneered. "The great John Marston, reduced to nursemaid duties."

John's face reddened, but before he could respond, Isaac turned to look at Bill and immediately began to cry. The baby's distress was instant and intense, his little face scrunching up as he wailed.

"Now look what you did," Maureen said sharply, moving quickly to scoop up Isaac. "You've frightened him."

"I didn't do nothing," Bill protested, but his voice carried less conviction than usual. "Babies cry. It's what they do."

"Not Isaac," Arthur said, standing up and fixing Billwith a hard stare. "He's usually happy around people. 'Less they give him reason not to be."

Isaac continued to cry, reaching for John over Maureen's shoulder. To everyone's surprise, John stood up and held out his arms.

"Come here, little man," John said gently. "It's alright."

Maureen passed Isaac to John, and the baby immediately began to calm, though he kept his wary eyes on Bill. John bounced him slightly, the motion awkward but well-intentioned.

"Smart kid," John murmured, loud enough for Bill to hear. "Knows who to trust."

Bill's face darkened, but he seemed to realize he was outnumbered. With a final disgusted look at the domestic scene, he stalked off toward Dutch's tent.

"Well," said a new voice, "seems like young Isaac's got good instincts."

They turned to see Hosea approaching, his weathered face creased with amusement. The old man had been watching the entire exchange from his spot near the fire.

"Hosea," Arthur greeted him warmly. "Come to greet your newest gang member?"

"I suppose I should," Hosea said, settling himself on a nearby log. "Though I have to say, John, you look more comfortable with that baby than I expected."

John flushed slightly but didn't deny it. Isaac had grabbed onto his shirt and was contentedly chewing on the fabric.

"He's not so bad," John admitted. "Still don't know what I'm supposed to do with him, though."

"Same thing you do with any friend," Hosea said wisely. "Just be yourself. Children are remarkably good judges of character."

As if to prove his point, Isaac suddenly reached out toward Hosea with both arms, making grabbing motions with his tiny fingers. Hosea chuckled and took the baby, settling him on his lap.

"Hello there, young man," Hosea said in the gentle voice he reserved for horses and children. Isaac stared up at Hosea with wide, fascinated eyes, then reached up to touch the old man's gray beard. Hosea laughed as tiny fingers tugged at the whiskers.

"He's got his father's curiosity," Hosea observed. "And his mother's good sense, I'd wager."

"He's got his own personality," Maureen said, sitting down beside them. "Every day he does something new."

"That's the wonder of children," Hosea said, gently bouncing Isaac on his knee. "They're full of surprises. Why, I remember when Arthur was just a boy-"

"Hosea," Arthur warned, but his tone was fond rather than serious.

"Oh, yes," Hosea continued, ignoring Arthur's protest. "Always getting into things he shouldn't, asking more questions than any adult could answer. Sound familiar?"

Isaac had discovered Hosea's pocket watch and was trying to grab it with both hands. Hosea obligingly pulled it out, letting the baby examine the shiny surface.

"Careful with that," Arthur said. "He puts everything in his mouth."

"Don't we all, at that age," Hosea replied philosophically. "It's how we learn about the world."

As the afternoon wore on, more of the gang members found themselves drawn to the unusual sight of Hosea entertaining a baby. Even Dutch emerged from his tent, though he maintained his distance and his disapproving expression.

Karen approached with a smile, cooing over Isaac and asking Maureen questions about his care. Miss Grimshaw, who had been trying to maintain her stern demeanor, finally cracked when Isaac smiled at her and reached out to touch her face.

"Well, I suppose one baby won't hurt anything," she said gruffly, though her eyes were soft as she looked at Isaac. "Long as he don't interfere with camp duties."

"He won't," Maureen assured her. "He's a good baby."

Even the Reverend, usually quiet and reserved, found himself smiling when Isaac crawled over to investigate his bow, babbling curiously at the unfamiliar object.

"He's got a good spirit," Swanson observed. "Strong but gentle."

As the sun began to set, Arthur found himself watching the scene with deep contentment. His son was surrounded by people who, despite their rough exterior and dangerous profession, had shown him nothing but kindness and protection. It wasn't the life Arthur had imagined for Isaac, but it was a life filled with love and loyalty.

"You did good, Arthur," Hosea said quietly, appearing at his elbow. "The boy's got a family now. A real family."

Arthur looked around at the gang members who were taking turns entertaining Isaac, at Maureen who was laughing at something Karen had said, at John who was still hovering nearby as if he'd appointed himself the baby's personal guardian.

"Yeah," Arthur said, a smile tugging at his lips. "I reckon he does."

Later that evening, after Isaac had been fed and put down for the night, Arthur found himself sitting by the water's edge, sketching in his journal by the light of a small lantern. The camp was quieter now, most of the gang having settled in for the night, though he could still hear the low murmur of conversation around the dying campfire.

"Mind if I join you?"

Arthur looked up to find Maureen approaching, carrying two cups of coffee. She'd changed out of her day dress into a simple skirt and blouse, her hair loose around her shoulders.

"Course not," Arthur said, closing his journal and accepting the coffee gratefully. "The boy sleeping?"

"Like a stone," Maureen said, settling beside him on the fallen log he'd claimed as a seat. "I think all the attention wore him out. I've never seen him so social."

Arthur chuckled. "John looked like he was going to break out in hives when Isaac first crawled over to him. Thought he might bolt."

"But he didn't," Maureen observed, a note of fondness in her voice. "He stayed, and he was gentle with him. They all were."

They sat in comfortable silence for a while, watching the moonlight dance on the water. Arthur found himself stealing glances at Maureen's profile, noting the way her posture had relaxed over the months. She no longer sat poised to run, no longer kept her hands folded tightly in her lap as if preparing for a blow.

"Can I ask you something?" Maureen said suddenly, her voice quiet.

"Sure."

"Do you ever regret it? Marrying me, I mean. Taking on Isaac when you could have just... moved on."

Arthur set down his coffee cup and turned to face her fully. "Why would you ask that?"

Maureen shrugged, but he could see the vulnerability in her eyes. "I saw how Dutch looked at you today. How he's been looking at you since the wedding. I know this has caused problems for you."

"Dutch's problems with me ain't your fault," Arthur said firmly. "He's been pulling away ever since Isaac was born, marriage or no marriage. That's on him, not you."

"But if you hadn't married me-"

"Then Isaac wouldn't have a mama and I'd be missing out on..." Arthur paused, searching for the right words. "on watching my son grow up safe and loved." He was quiet for a moment, then added, "My mama died when I was young. My daddy... well, he wasn't much of a father even when he was alive. I watched him hanged when I was eleven, and I can't say I mourned him much. Isaac's got something I never had,  a mama to take care of him and a daddy who wants to be better than what came before."

Maureen was quiet for a long moment, staring out at the water. When she finally spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper. "I know what it's like to lose a family. My brothers were sent to a penal colony in Australia when I was just eight. They got caught up in something they shouldn't have." She wrapped her arms around herself, as if warding off a chill. "My father... he loved them more than life itself. When they were taken, he just... broke. Started drinking away everything we had. The farm, the livestock, even my mother's wedding ring."

Arthur watched her face in the moonlight, seeing the old pain etched in her features.

"When there was nothing left," Maureen continued, "he sent me to America with my aunt and uncle. Said it was for my own good, that I'd have opportunities there." She let out a bitter laugh. "What I had was three years of being treated like a servant in their house. Worked from dawn to dusk, never allowed to keep a penny of the wages they claimed to pay me. And when I finally got too old and too... difficult for them to manage, my uncle sold me to Donal like I was a piece of livestock."

Arthur felt his hands clench into fists. "Maureen..."

"I never knew what a real family looked like," she said, turning to meet his eyes. "Not until I saw you with Isaac. The way you look at him, the way you worry about him, the way you want to protect him... I didn't know fathers could be like that. I didn't know husbands could be like that either."

Arthur felt his chest tighten with a mixture of anger at what she'd endured and something deeper,  a fierce protectiveness that extended far beyond duty or obligation.

"You got a real family now," he said quietly. "Isaac's got two parents who love him, and you got someone who'll never let anybody hurt you again. That's a promise."

Maureen smiled at that, and for a moment Arthur caught a glimpse of who she might have been before life had worn her down. There was a brightness in her eyes, a spark of humor that he was seeing more often these days.

"I've been thinking about learning to shoot," she said suddenly. "Really shoot, I mean. Not just carrying a gun for show."

Arthur raised an eyebrow. "What brought that on?"

"Today, when Bill was being... himself. I realized I want to be able to protect Isaac. And protect myself. I don't want to be helpless anymore."

"You ain't helpless," Arthur said. "But I understand what you mean. You want to be able to stand your ground."

"Exactly." Maureen turned to face him, her expression determined. "Would you teach me? I know you're busy, but—"

"I'd be honored to teach you," Arthur interrupted. "We could start tomorrow, if you want. Find a quiet spot away from camp where you can practice without waking Isaac."

"Really?"

"Really.” 

Maureen's smile was radiant. "Thank you, Arthur. For everything.” They fell into another comfortable silence, and Arthur found himself thinking about how much had changed since that first night when he'd brought Isaac back to camp with him.

"We should probably get some sleep," Maureen said eventually. "Isaac will be up early."

"Probably," Arthur agreed, but neither of them moved to get up.

"Five more minutes?" Maureen asked, and Arthur could hear the smile in her voice.

"Five more minutes," Arthur agreed, and they sat together in comfortable companionship, watching the stars reflect on the water and enjoying the rare quiet moment in their complicated lives.

Chapter Text

The morning sun cast long shadows across Hangman's Rock as Arthur emerged from his tent, Isaac balanced in his arms. The baby had taken to waking at dawn, chattering happily to himself until someone came to get him. Arthur had learned to appreciate these quiet moments before the camp stirred to life.

"Morning, partner," Arthur murmured, adjusting Isaac's tiny jacket against the cool morning air. "You're up early again."

Isaac babbled something in response, his chubby hands reaching for Arthur's beard. At ten months old, he was becoming more interactive every day, responding to his name and showing clear preferences for certain people and activities.

Arthur found Maureen already up, tending to the fire and preparing coffee. She looked up as they approached, her smile warm and welcoming.

"There’s my favorite little man," she said, reaching for Isaac. "Did you sleep well, sweetheart?"

The baby practically launched himself into her arms, making happy gurgling sounds as she settled him on her hip. Arthur watched them with quiet contentment, marveling at how natural they looked together.

"Probably dreaming about all the trouble he's going to get into once he starts walking," Maureen said, bouncing Isaac gently. "John says he's already trying to pull himself up on furniture."

"Don't remind me," Arthur groaned. "I ain't ready for him to be mobile. He gets into enough mischief just crawling."

They sat in comfortable silence, watching the sunrise paint the sky in shades of gold and pink. Isaac was content to sit quietly, occasionally reaching for something that caught his eye. Arthur found himself sketching the scene in his mind, storing it away with all the other precious moments he'd collected over the past months.

"Arthur," Maureen said suddenly, her voice careful. "What was Eliza like?"

Arthur's coffee cup paused halfway to his lips. They'd never really talked about Eliza beyond the basic facts, that she'd died in childbirth, that she was young. It was a topic he'd avoided, not ready to examine the complex mixture of grief and guilt that surrounded her memory.

"What do you want to know?" he asked quietly.

"Just... what she was like. He’ll have questions one day, and I want to be able to answer them.” 

Arthur set down his coffee and stared out at the water, remembering. "I…didn’t know her well," he said finally. "But she was playful, always laughing, always finding something good in every situation. Even when times were hard, she'd make the best of it."

Isaac chose that moment to clap his hands together, making a pleased sound that was purely joyful. Arthur smiled despite the ache in his chest. “Yeah, that's her right there," he said, reaching out to touch Isaac's cheek.

“She deserved better than what life gave her. Better than me." Arthur's voice grew rough. "I weren’t there when she needed me most. I was off playing outlaw while she was dying."

“You couldn't have known—"

"Could I?" Arthur interrupted, his voice sharp with old pain. "I knew she was expecting. I knew she was alone. But I stayed with the gang because Dutch needed me for some job that didn't amount to nothing in the end."

Isaac must have sensed the tension in the air because he began to fuss, reaching for Arthur with grabbing hands. Arthur took him automatically, the baby's warm weight against his chest both comforting and heartbreaking.

"She wrote me letters," Arthur continued, his voice barely above a whisper. "Told me about how the baby was growing, how she was getting ready for him. She never complained, never asked me to come home. Just... shared her joy with me, even though I wasn't there to share it with her."

Maureen was quiet for a long moment. "Do you still have them? The letters?"

Arthur nodded, unable to speak. He'd kept every one, though he could barely bring himself to read them anymore. They were too full of hope, too full of the future that had been stolen from her. 

“When he’s old enough, Isaac should have them.” She reached out and stroked the baby’s chubby cheek. 

"She used to sing to him," Arthur said, the memory hitting him like a physical blow. "When she was carrying him, said he liked it. I ain’t got a clue how she could tell.” 

"I sing to him sometimes," Maureen admitted. “I hope that's alright."

Arthur looked at her then, really looked at her. She was watching Isaac with such tenderness, such protective love, that his chest tightened with emotion. This woman had taken his son and loved him as her own, had stepped into a role that should have been Eliza's without complaint or reservation.

"It's more than alright," Arthur said roughly. "It's... it's perfect. She would have wanted that.”

Isaac had grown heavy in Arthur's arms, lulled by the rhythmic sound of their voices. His dark eyelashes fluttered against his cheeks as he dozed.

"I think about her every day," Arthur confessed. "Wonder what she'd think of how I'm raising him. Wonder if she'd approve of the choices I've made."

"She'd be proud," Maureen said with quiet certainty. "She'd see how hard you're trying to be the father he needs.” 

"I failed her, Maureen. I wasn't there when she needed me, and now Isaac's never going to know her. All he'll have are stories, and most of those I ain't even fit to tell."

"Then tell me," Maureen said suddenly. "Tell me about her, about what she was like, what she loved. I'll help you remember. I'll help you tell Isaac about his mother when he's old enough to understand."

Arthur stared at her, overwhelmed by the generosity of the offer. "You'd do that?"

"Of course I would.”

Arthur nodded, not trusting his voice. In that moment, he understood that what he felt for Maureen was growing into something deeper than gratitude or companionship. She wasn't trying to replace Eliza or erase her memory; she was honoring it, ensuring that Isaac would know about the woman who'd given him life.

So Arthur talked, sharing memories he'd kept locked away for months. Isaac slept through it all, peaceful in his father's arms, while Arthur painted a picture of the woman who'd given him life. And Maureen listened with the attention of someone who understood that these memories were precious gifts, stories that would someday help a little boy understand where he came from. 

They sat in comfortable silence as the camp began to stir around them. Isaac continued to sleep, blissfully unaware of the conversation that had just taken place about his origins. Arthur felt something loosen in his chest, a knot of grief and guilt that had been there since the night Eliza died.

Arthur shifted Isaac in his arms. "We should probably get him fed before he wakes up cranky."

"Probably," Maureen agreed, standing and reaching out for the little boy. Isaac began to stir, making the soft sounds that meant he'd be demanding breakfast soon. 

Oh the summer time has come

And the trees are sweetly bloomin'

The wild mountain thyme

Grows around the bloomin' heather

Will ye go, Lassie, go?

Maureen half sang, half hummed to the baby on her hip as she ladled him a small bowl of porridge. Isaac babbled happily as he ate, his blue eyes bright with contentment. 

The evening air was warm and still as the gang gathered around the campfire. Isaac had been fussy all day, teething and cranky, but the gentle crackling of the flames and the soft murmur of conversation seemed to settle him. He sat on Maureen's lap, gnawing on a wooden toy Arthur had whittled for him, his eyelids growing heavy.

"There's my boy," Arthur said, settling down beside them on the fallen log. "Finally calming down, ain'tcha?"

Isaac looked up at his father with tired eyes, then turned back to Maureen, burying his face against her shoulder. She rubbed his back gently, humming that same tune from the morning.

"He's been clingy all day," Maureen said softly. "I think his back teeth are coming in."

Dutch wandered over with his cup of coffee, settling into his usual spot across from the fire. "How's our youngest gang member tonight?" he asked, his voice carrying that familiar warmth he reserved for moments like these.

"Tired," Arthur replied. "Been giving Maureen here a run for her money."

"Well, that's what mothers do," Dutch said with a knowing smile, taking a sip of his coffee. "They weather the storms so the rest of us can function."

Maureen glanced up at him, surprised by the casual acknowledgment. Dutch caught her look and nodded approvingly.

"Arthur's been able to focus on work again these past few months," Dutch continued. "The Strawberry job last week, the cattle rustling up near Valentine, he's got his head back in the game. That's thanks to you, Mrs. Morgan. You've given him something he needed."

Arthur shifted uncomfortably beside her, but Dutch wasn't finished.

"A man needs to know his family is taken care of before he can do what needs doing. We’re all lucky that we have you to look after young Isaac."

Isaac chose that moment to lift his head from Maureen's shoulder, looking around at the faces lit by firelight. His little mouth opened and closed a few times, making the soft sounds that usually preceded his attempts at words.

"What's that, little man?" Arthur asked, leaning closer.

Isaac looked directly at Maureen, his blue eyes serious and intent. "Ma... ma-ma," he said clearly, his chubby hand patting her chest.

The words hung in the air for a moment. Maureen's breath caught, her heart simultaneously soaring and plummeting. She glanced quickly at Arthur, searching his face for any sign of pain or anger.

Arthur was staring at Isaac, his expression unreadable. The silence stretched, broken only by the crackling of the fire and the distant sound of John's laughter from across the camp.

"Arthur, I—" Maureen began, her voice barely a whisper.

"Ma-ma," Isaac repeated, more insistently this time, reaching up to touch Maureen's face.

Dutch cleared his throat softly. "Well, I'd say that settles that," he said with quiet satisfaction. "Boy knows who's been taking care of him."

Arthur finally looked up, and Maureen was relieved to see his eyes were soft, not pained. "Smart kid," he said quietly. "Knows a good thing when he sees it."

"Arthur, I never tried to—"

"I know you didn't," Arthur interrupted gently. "But look at him. He's happy, he's healthy, and he knows he's loved."

Isaac babbled something else, seemingly pleased with the reaction his new word had gotten. He clapped his hands together, then reached for Arthur, who took him with a smile.

"Besides," Arthur said, bouncing Isaac gently on his knee, “that’s what you are to him, ain’tcha?”

Dutch stood up, brushing off his pants. "Well, I'd say this calls for a toast, but seeing as how our newest talker here is probably ready for bed..." He smiled at the little family before him. 

As Dutch walked away, Arthur turned to Maureen. "How does it feel?" he asked quietly.

"How does what feel?"

"Being a mama."

Maureen looked over at Isaac, who was now fighting sleep, his head nodding as he struggled to keep his eyes open. "Terrifying," she admitted. "And wonderful all at the same time.” 

Isaac's eyes finally closed, his breathing evened out as sleep claimed him. Maureen stood carefully, cradling him against her chest.

"I'll put him down," she whispered.

Arthur remained by the fire, staring into the flames.

The next morning came too soon, with Dutch calling for Arthur to wake before the sun had fully risen. Isaac was still sleeping peacefully in his makeshift crib, one tiny fist curled near his cheek.

“Bank robbery in Valentine,” Dutch said quietly, his voice carrying the familiar edge of excitement that meant money. “Easy money, but we need to move fast before the law catches wind.”

Arthur rubbed his eyes, already calculating how long he’d be gone. “How long?”

“Day and a half, maybe two if we run into trouble.” Dutch glanced over at the sleeping baby. “Mrs. Morgan will manage fine. She’s got a good head on her shoulders.”

Arthur nodded, though something in his chest tightened at the thought of leaving Isaac. It was different now, somehow. The boy had become his anchor, and being away from him felt like losing a piece of himself.

Maureen was already up, quietly preparing coffee by the dying embers of last night’s fire. She looked up as Arthur approached, her eyes immediately understanding.

“Job?” she asked simply.

“Yeah. Day or two at most.” Arthur kept his voice low, not wanting to wake Isaac. “He’s been sleeping through the night mostly, but if he gets fussy—”

“Arthur,” Maureen interrupted gently, placing a warm hand on his arm. “We’ll be fine. We’ve done this before.”

“I know, it’s just…” Arthur glanced back toward Isaac’s crib. “ I don’t like leaving him.”

Maureen’s expression softened. “He’ll be here when you get back. I promise.”

Arthur nodded, though the knot in his stomach didn’t ease. He’d been on countless jobs before Isaac, but fatherhood had changed everything. Every risk felt magnified, every bullet potentially the one that would leave his son orphaned. 

“You be careful,” Maureen said, as if reading his thoughts. “Come back to us.”

Us . The word hit him harder than he’d expected, and Arthur found himself leaning down to kiss her forehead without really thinking about it. “I will,” he promised.

The robbery itself went smoothly until it didn’t. The general store in Valentine was small, the take decent, and they’d been in and out without much trouble. It was the escape that went wrong, a deputy with better aim than most and a rifle that sang its bullet just a little too true.

Arthur felt the burn across his shoulder before he heard the shot, his left arm going numb as warm blood began to soak through his shirt. The pain came a second later, sharp and immediate, but not enough to put him down.

“Arthur!” John’s voice called from somewhere to his right. “You hit?”

“Just grazed,” Arthur called back, though he could feel the blood running down his arm. “Keep moving!”

They made it out of town, but Arthur’s shoulder throbbed with every stride of his horse. By the time they stopped to rest, his shirt was thoroughly blood-soaked, and his arm felt like it was on fire.

“Jesus, Arthur,” Bill said, looking him over with something that might have been concern. “That’s more than a graze.”

“It’s fine,” Arthur insisted, though when he tried to lift his arm, the pain nearly brought tears to his eyes. “Just need to clean it up.”

They rode hard for camp, Arthur gritting his teeth against the pain. All he could think about was Isaac, about Maureen, about getting home. The wound wasn’t life-threatening, but it hurt like hell and bled more than he’d have liked.

Maureen was hanging laundry when they rode into camp, Isaac playing happily in the grass at her feet. She looked up at the sound of hooves, her face brightening until she saw Arthur’s bloodied shirt.

“Oh my God,” she breathed, dropping the shirt she’d been holding. “Arthur!”

She was at his side before he’d even finished dismounting, her hands hovering over the wound as if she could heal it through sheer will.

“It’s alright,” Arthur said, though his voice was rougher than he’d intended. “Bullet went clean through.”

 “Arthur, you’re soaked in blood! Sit down, right now.”Maureen’s voice pitched higher with worry.

Isaac had crawled over to them, pulling himself up on Arthur’s leg and babbling happily. Arthur reached down to ruffle his hair with his good hand, relieved to be home.

“Hey there, little man. Did you miss your old man?”

“Ma-ma,” Isaac said clearly, reaching up toward Maureen, who was already bustling around gathering medical supplies.

“Don’t you ‘it’s just a graze’ me,” Maureen muttered, returning with a basin of water and a clean cloth. “Take that shirt off. Now.”

Arthur tried to comply, but lifting his arm sent fresh waves of pain through his shoulder. Maureen saw him wince and immediately stepped closer.

“Here, let me help.”

She began carefully peeling the bloody fabric away from the wound, her touch gentle but efficient. Arthur found himself studying her face as she worked, noting the way her brow furrowed with concentration, the way she bit her lower lip when she was worried.

“This is going to hurt,” she warned, pressing a clean cloth to the wound.

Arthur hissed between his teeth as she cleaned the blood away. The wound was deeper than he’d thought, and going to need stitches.

“Hold still,” Maureen ordered, though her voice was soft with concern. “I need to see how deep it is. This is going to need proper stitching.”

She worked with practiced efficiency, cleaning the wound thoroughly before threading a needle. Arthur had to admit, she had steady hands.

“Where’d you learn to do this?” he asked, trying to distract himself from the pain.

“My husband was a degenerate gambler and a drunk,” Maureen said simply, beginning to stitch. “I had to sew him up plenty of times. Now hold still, Arthur Morgan, or I’ll make these stitches crooked on purpose.”

From across the camp, Arthur could hear John’s voice, deliberately loud enough to carry. “Look at our big tough gunslinger, getting nursed by his woman.”

“Least I got someone who cares if I bleed to death,” Arthur shot back, though there was no real heat in it.

“Oh, she cares alright,” Uncle chimed in with a snicker. “Look at her fussing over him like he’s dying.”

Arthur felt his jaw tighten, but before he could respond, Mrs. Grimshaw’s voice cut through the air like a whip.

“That’s enough out of you lot,” she said sharply, marching over with her hands on her hips. Though secretly, Susan Grimshaw was pleased as punch that someone was finally keeping Arthur in line and taking proper care of him. The man had been running himself ragged for years, and it was about time he had someone who’d make him sit still long enough to heal properly.

“Maybe if you had someone who gave a damn about your sorry hides,” she continued, “you wouldn’t be walking around with half-healed wounds and infections. But I suppose that would require you actually to earn a woman’s attention, wouldn’t it?”

John shifted uncomfortably. “I didn’t mean nothing by it, Mrs. Grimshaw.”

“Well, maybe you should think before you speak,” she snapped. “Arthur’s got more sense than the lot of you combined, finding himself a good woman who’ll take care of him proper. Course, I suppose some of you boys are just jealous you don’t have a pretty woman to warm your bed.”

Maureen’s face went scarlet, her hands stilling on Arthur’s bandage as she ducked her head in embarrassment. Arthur felt his own face heat up.

“Mrs. Grimshaw,” Maureen said quietly, her voice barely audible.

“What? It’s true,” the older woman said matter-of-factly. “Nothing wrong with a woman taking care of her man, especially when he’s fool enough to get himself shot.”

Maureen’s cheeks flushed pink, but she didn’t stop her careful ministrations. “It’s really not that bad,” she said quietly to Arthur. “Clean entry and exit. It should heal fine as long as we keep it clean.”

“Thank you,” Arthur said, and he meant it for more than just the medical attention.

Mrs. Grimshaw wasn’t finished with her lecture. “And another thing,” she continued, glaring at John and Uncle. “When you’ve got a woman who’ll take care of your child like he’s her own, you treat that arrangement with respect. You don’t make jokes about it.”

Isaac had crawled over to his toy box during the commotion, returning with a wooden horse that he offered to Arthur with a serious expression.

“For me?” Arthur asked, taking the toy with his good hand. “Well, thank you, son.”

“He’s been playing with that all morning,” Maureen said, beginning to wrap Arthur’s shoulder with clean bandages. “I think he missed you.”

“I missed him, too,” Arthur admitted, watching as Isaac settled himself against Arthur’s good leg. “Both of you.”

Maureen’s hands stilled for just a moment before she continued wrapping the bandage. “You need to be more careful,” she said quietly. “We… he needs you.”

“I know,” Arthur replied, catching the correction she’d made. “I’ll try to be.”

“Good,” Mrs. Grimshaw said with satisfaction, apparently having finished her scolding of the other men. “Mrs. Morgan, you make sure he rests that shoulder. And Arthur, you listen to her. She’s got more sense about healing than most of the fools in this camp.”

As Mrs. Grimshaw walked away, John shook his head with a rueful smile. “Damn, Arthur. You really did find yourself a good one.”

Arthur looked down at Maureen, who was putting the finishing touches on his bandage, then at Isaac, who was contentedly playing with his wooden horse. “Yeah,” he said softly. 

“There,” Maureen said, securing the final stitch and beginning to wrap the wound with clean bandages. “Twelve stitches. That should hold, but you need to take it easy for at least a week. No heavy lifting, no sudden movements, and definitely no more getting shot.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Arthur said with a small smile, though he was still feeling the effects of Mrs. Grimshaw’s blunt comments.

Isaac looked up at the sound of his father’s voice, then at Maureen, as if checking to make sure everyone was where they should be. Satisfied, he clapped his hands together and babbled something that sounded almost like a complete sentence.

“Smart boy,” Arthur said, reaching out to stroke Isaac’s cheek. “You keep an eye on camp while I was gone?”

“Ma-ma,” Isaac said clearly, tugging at Maureen’s skirts before crawling back to Arthur’s side.

Arthur caught Maureen’s eye and saw the same mixture of joy and uncertainty he’d seen the night before. But this time, there was something else there too, a quiet confidence, a sense of belonging that hadn’t been there before.

Isaac settled himself against Arthur’s leg, looking up at him with those bright blue eyes. Then, as if he’d been saving it for just the right moment, he reached up with one chubby hand and patted Arthur’s thigh.

“Da-da,” he said clearly, his voice carrying across the camp.

Arthur went completely still, his breath catching in his throat. Isaac had babbled plenty of sounds before, but this was different. This was deliberate, intentional.

“Did he just…?” Arthur’s voice was low, masking any emotion.

“Da-da,” Isaac repeated, more insistently this time, as if he was proud of his new word and wanted to make sure everyone heard it. He carefully lifted Isaac with his good arm, holding him close. “That’s right, son,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “I’m your da-da.”

Isaac babbled happily, seemingly pleased with the reaction he’d gotten. He reached up to pat Arthur’s face. “Da-da.”

Arthur looked at his son, then at his wife who was smiling softly to herself, and felt something settle in his chest. Despite the pain in his shoulder, despite the chaos of their lives, this moment was perfect.

Chapter Text

The October air carried the scent of woodsmoke and dying leaves as Arthur returned from his latest job with Dutch. The camp had grown considerably over the past few months, new faces joining their makeshift family with increasing frequency. Some, like Charles Smith, had fit in seamlessly, the quiet, thoughtful man had proven himself reliable and trustworthy almost immediately. Others, like the Callander brothers, were still finding their place in the group's delicate social balance.

Arthur could hear Isaac's delighted squeals before he even saw him, the now one-year-old having discovered the joy of chasing fallen leaves around the camp. His son had taken his first steps just two weeks ago, and already he was into everything, requiring constant supervision to keep him from wandering too close to the water or getting underfoot of the horses.

"There's my boy," Arthur called out, dismounting from his horse with practiced ease. His shoulder, fully healed now from the Valentine job, moved without any residual stiffness.

Isaac looked up from where he was playing with a pile of colorful leaves, his face breaking into a wide grin. "Da-da!" he called out, abandoning his leaves to toddle unsteadily toward Arthur on chubby legs.

Arthur scooped him up, spinning him around once before settling him on his hip. "You been good for your mama while I was gone?"

"He's been an angel," Maureen said, approaching with a warm smile. She'd been helping Jenny Kirk with some mending, and Arthur noticed how the younger woman looked up to Maureen, seeking her guidance on everything from cooking to handling the various personalities in camp.

"Mama!" Isaac pointed excitedly at the leaves he'd abandoned, his vocabulary expanding daily.

"I see them, sweetheart," Maureen said, reaching up to smooth down a cowlick in Isaac's dark hair. "Did you have fun playing in the leaves?"

Arthur watched the easy interaction between them, marveling as always at how natural they looked together. Isaac had started calling her "Mama" consistently now, and it no longer caused Arthur any pain. If anything, it filled him with a deep sense of gratitude that his son would never know what it felt like to be without a mother's love.

"How'd it go?" Maureen asked, her hand briefly touching Arthur's arm in greeting.

"Good. Dutch is pleased." Arthur glanced around the camp, noting the new additions. "Everyone settling in alright?"

"Charles has been wonderful," Maureen said, and Arthur caught the genuine warmth in her voice. "He helped me fix the tear in our tent yesterday, and he's so good with Isaac. Very patient."

Arthur nodded approvingly. He'd taken an immediate liking to Charles Smith himself, the man was quiet, competent, and had a way of making himself useful without being asked. More importantly, he treated Maureen with the same respectful courtesy he showed everyone, never overstepping or making her uncomfortable.

"And the Callander boys?"

Maureen's expression shifted slightly, becoming more guarded. "Davey's fine. Young, but eager to help. Mac is..." She paused, seeming to choose her words carefully. "He's still adjusting to camp life."

Something in her tone put Arthur on alert, but before he could ask more, Dutch's voice called from across the camp.

"Arthur! Come tell us how our friends in Strawberry are doing."

Arthur reluctantly handed Isaac back to Maureen, pressing a quick kiss to the top of his son's head. "I'll be back in a bit," he promised.

As Arthur walked away, he noticed Mac Callander watching the interaction with calculating eyes. The man was handsome in a rough sort of way, with dark hair and the kind of easy smile that some women found charming. But there was something about him that Arthur didn't trust, though he couldn't put his finger on exactly what.

The next few days passed peacefully enough. Arthur found himself genuinely enjoying Charles's company, the two of them often working together on various tasks around camp. Charles had a dry sense of humor that Arthur appreciated, and he was one of the few people who could keep up with Arthur's pace when it came to hunting or scouting.

Meanwhile, Maureen had taken young Jenny Kirk under her wing almost immediately. The sixteen-year-old had arrived at camp three weeks ago, thin and wary, having run away from an orphanage in Saint Denis. She'd been caught trying to pick Dutch's pocket, but instead of turning her in, he'd offered her a place with the gang. Now she followed Maureen around like a lost puppy, eager to learn and desperate for the guidance she'd never had.

"Mrs. Morgan," Jenny said one afternoon as they worked together preparing vegetables for the evening stew, "how do you know which onions are good?"

Maureen smiled patiently, setting down her knife to show the girl properly. "Feel for soft spots first," she said, guiding Jenny's hands. "And look at the skin, it should be papery and dry, not slimy. A good onion should feel firm and heavy for its size."

Jenny nodded seriously, as if Maureen were teaching her the secrets of the universe rather than basic cooking skills. "I never learned any of this at the orphanage. They just gave us whatever slop they had."

"Well, you're learning now," Maureen said gently. "And you're doing very well. You picked up bread-making faster than most."

Jenny beamed at the praise, her young face lighting up with pride. She'd been starved for approval her whole life, and Maureen's patient teaching meant everything to her.

Isaac toddled over, attracted by the activity, and reached up toward the cutting board with grabby hands. "Up, up!"

"Oh no, little man," Maureen said, scooping him up and settling him on her hip as he squirmed in her arms. 

"I could watch him while you finish," Jenny offered eagerly. "I'm good with children."

"I know you are," Maureen said, handing Isaac over to the girl. "But be careful, he's faster than he looks."

Jenny took the toddler with practiced ease, having helped care for younger children at the orphanage. "Come on, Isaac. Let's go look at the pretty leaves."

As they walked away, Isaac babbling happily in Jenny's arms, Maureen felt a familiar tug at her heart. The girl was so young, so eager to please, and yet she'd already seen more hardship than most adults. 

"You're good with her," Arthur said, appearing at Maureen's elbow. He'd been watching the interaction with quiet approval.

"She reminds me of myself at that age," Maureen replied, returning to her onions. "Lost, trying to figure out how to survive in the world. She just needs someone to look out for her."

"Lucky for her, she found you," Arthur said. 

Later that evening, as the camp settled down for the night, Jenny approached Maureen hesitantly. "Mrs. Morgan? Could I... could I ask you something?"

"Of course, Jenny," Maureen said, looking up from where she was folding Isaac's clothes. "What is it?"

Jenny sat down beside her, fidgeting with her hands. "How do you know when a man is...I mean, how do you tell the difference between someone being friendly and someone being... wrong?"

Maureen's hands stilled on the tiny shirt she was folding. "Has someone been bothering you, Jenny?"

"Not exactly," Jenny said quickly. "It's just... I never had anyone to teach me these things. At the orphanage, they kept us away from men, mostly. And now I'm around all these men all the time, and I don't know how to tell if someone's being proper or not."

Maureen set down the laundry and turned to face the girl fully. "Well, first of all, you trust your gut. If something feels wrong, it probably is. A good man will respect your boundaries and won't make you feel uncomfortable."

Jenny nodded, absorbing this. "What about touching? I mean, some of the men here are friendly and some are... different."

"Different how?"

"Well, Mr. Smith or Mr. Marston might pat my shoulder when I do something good, but it feels... safe. Like how a brother might. But the younger Mr. Callander finds excuses to touch my hand when he's talking to me, and it makes my skin crawl."

Maureen felt a chill run down her spine. "Has Mac been bothering you?"

"A little," Jenny admitted. "Nothing serious. Just... comments about how I'm growing up pretty, how I won't be a little girl much longer.” 

"Sweetheart, listen to me very carefully. You never have to tolerate unwanted attention from any man, whether he's part of this gang or not. If someone makes you uncomfortable, you stay the hell away from them. And if they won't leave you alone, you come to me. Or to Mr. Morgan. We'll handle it."

Jenny's eyes filled with tears. "Really? You'd do that for me?"

"Of course I would," Maureen said, pulling the girl into a gentle hug. "We look out for each other."

I never had anyone look out for me before," Jenny whispered.

"Well, you do now," Maureen said firmly.

"And Jenny? That feeling you get around Mac Callander? Don’t ignore it.” 

Finally, Jenny pulled back, wiping her eyes. 

“Jenny, honey. The world isn't always kind to us, but we can be kind to each other."

Jenny smiled through her tears. "Thank you, Mrs. Morgan. For everything. For teaching me things, for being patient with me. The nuns would have just rapped my knuckles for asking questions.” 

As Jenny headed to her tent, Maureen felt a renewed sense of purpose. She wasn't just Arthur's wife or Isaac's mother; she was becoming a guide for a young girl who needed it. And if Mac Callander thought he could intimidate a sixteen-year-old girl under her watch, he had another thing coming.

It was that evening when Arthur first noticed Mac Callander paying particular attention to Maureen. The gang had gathered around the fire after dinner, and Arthur was helping Isaac practice his walking, holding the toddler's hands as he took careful steps across the uneven ground.

"Look at that," Mac said, his voice carrying across the fire. "Maureen, you've got yourself quite the little family there."

Maureen looked up from where she was mending one of Arthur's shirts, offering a polite nod. "He's learning so fast."

"I bet he is," Mac said, his eyes not on the child but on Maureen herself. "Smart mama usually means smart baby."

Arthur felt his jaw tighten slightly, but he forced himself to focus on Isaac, who was babbling happily as he took another wobbly step.

"Course, it helps when the mama's as pretty as she is smart," Mac continued, his tone taking on a quality that made Arthur's hands clench. Maureen's cheeks flushed, but her face became strained. "That's kind of you to say, Mr. Callander."

"Mac," he corrected, his grin widening. "And it ain't kind if it's true."

Arthur straightened up, lifting Isaac into his arms. "Alright, partner, I think it's time for bed."

"No, Dada!" Isaac protested, but his eyes were already heavy with sleep.

"Come on," Arthur said, walking over to where Maureen sat. "Your mama's got to finish her sewing, and you need your rest."

Maureen looked up at him gratefully, clearly uncomfortable with Mac's attention. "I'll be right behind you," she said softly.

Arthur nodded, but not before giving Mac a long, measured look. The younger man met his eyes with a challenging smirk, as if daring Arthur to say something.

Over the next several days, Mac's attention to Maureen became increasingly obvious and increasingly unwelcome. She began to avoid certain areas of camp when Mac was around; she would quickly find excuses to leave when he approached. But Mac seemed to interpret her polite rejections as encouragement, becoming more persistent and crude rather than backing off.

"Maureen," Mac called out one morning as Maureen was hanging laundry, Isaac playing nearby with his wooden blocks. "Let me help you with that."

"It’s Mrs. Morgan. Thank you, but I can manage," Maureen replied, not looking at him as she continued hanging Arthur's shirts.

"Course you can," Mac said, stepping closer than was proper. "But a lady like you shouldn't have to do all this work herself. Where's Arthur anyway? Always seems to be off somewhere when you need him."

Maureen's hands stilled on the clothesline. "My husband works very hard for this camp. We all do our part."

"Sure, sure," Mac said, his voice taking on a crude tone as his eyes traveled deliberately down her body. "But seems to me like you're doing more than your share. Woman with your... attributes... shouldn't be wasting away doing laundry. You should be in a warm bed, being appreciated properly."

Maureen's face flushed with anger and embarrassment. "Mr. Callander, that's completely inappropriate."

"Inappropriate?" Mac laughed, stepping even closer. "What's inappropriate is a man leaving a woman like you alone so much. If you were mine, I'd make sure you knew exactly how a real woman should be treated. Every night."

"I am taken care of," Maureen said firmly, trying to step back but finding herself trapped between him and the clothesline. "Mr. Morgan is a good husband to me."

Mac's smile turned predatory. "Husband? I heard rumor that what the two of you have is a convenient arrangement. Which means you're free to explore other options."

Arthur saw Maureen's face go white. He'd been approaching to help with Isaac, but Mac's words stopped him in his tracks.

"I mean," Mac continued, his voice becoming more explicit, "far as I can tell, you're available. And I think you could do better than playing house with a man who probably can't even satisfy you properly. I bet you're starving for real attention from a real man."

"That's enough," Maureen said, her voice shaking with anger and fear. "You don't know anything about my situation, and you have no right to speak to me this way." 

"I got eyes, sweetheart," Mac said, his tone becoming more aggressive as he moved closer still. "I see how he treats you. More like a convenient nursemaid for his kid than the passionate woman you really are. You deserve a man who knows how to make you feel alive, who can show you what you're missing."

Arthur had heard enough. He stepped out from behind the clothesline, his face thunderous. "Got something to say about me, Callander, you say it to my face."

Mac spun around, his hand instinctively moving toward his gun before he caught himself. "Arthur. We were just talking."

"Sounded like you were talking about me," Arthur said, his voice dangerously quiet. "And about my wife. That's interesting, considering you ain't been here long enough to know anything about either."

"I'm just saying," Mac said, his bravado returning, "a woman like her might want to consider her options."

Arthur took a step closer, his eyes never leaving Mac's face. "She's got options and she made it pretty damn clear she ain’t choosing you.” 

"For now," Mac said with a challenging smile.

Arthur's hand moved to his gun, but Maureen's voice stopped him.

"Arthur, please," she said quietly. "Isaac's watching."

Arthur glanced over and saw his son looking between the adults with wide, uncertain eyes. He forced himself to relax, though his eyes remained fixed on Mac.

"You're right," Arthur said finally. "Isaac don't need to see this." He turned to Mac, his voice becoming deadly serious. "But you and me, we're gonna have a conversation later. Away from my family."

Mac's smile widened. “What for? I thought we shared everything in this gang.” His eyes once again trailed up and down the lengths of Maureen’s body. 

Arthur felt his earlier resolve snap and he lunged forward and grabbed Mac by the collar. “Arthur!” Dutch barked from across camp. “A word, please.” Arthur gripped Mac a little tighter before shoving him to the ground. 

When he spoke, his voice was deadly low. “Stay the fuck away from my wife.” 

But the promised conversation never came. That afternoon, Dutch sent Arthur and John out on a scouting mission that would keep them away from camp for two days. Arthur didn't want to go, not with Mac's behavior escalating to such crude levels, but Dutch needed the information and Arthur couldn't refuse without explaining why.

"You sure you'll be alright?" Arthur asked Maureen as he prepared to leave.

"Of course," she said, though he could see the worry in her eyes. "Charles and Mrs. Grimshaw will be here. I'll be fine."

Arthur nodded, though something in his gut told him he shouldn't go. But Dutch was already mounting his horse, and Arthur had no choice but to follow.

It was their second day away when Arthur's unease became unbearable. They'd accomplished their mission, scouting the law presence in the nearby towns, but Arthur found himself unable to concentrate on anything but getting back to camp.

"You're antsy as a cat in a rainstorm," John observed as they made camp for the night. "Something eating at you?"

Arthur stared into the fire, his jaw working. "Just want to get back to Isaac."

"And Maureen," John added with a knowing look.

Arthur didn't deny it. 

They rode back to camp the next morning, arriving just as the sun was reaching its peak. Arthur immediately looked for Maureen, but didn't see her anywhere around the main camp area.

"Where's Mrs. Morgan?" he asked Jenny, who was tending to the fire while balancing his son on her hip.

"She took a walk," Jenny said, her expression troubled. "About an hour ago. Said she needed some air."

Something in her tone made Arthur's blood run cold. "Which way did she go?"

"Toward the woods," Jenny replied. "Mr. Morgan, Mac's been... he's been really bad while you were gone. Much worse than before. Mr. Smith stepped in, but Mac kept ignoring him.” 

Arthur felt rage build in his chest, but he forced himself to stay calm. "How bad?"

"Bad enough that she's been avoiding him completely. This morning he cornered her by the water when she was washing Isaac's clothes. I couldn't hear everything he said, but..." Jenny's young face flushed with embarrassment. "But it was real crude things. She looked scared when she came back."

Arthur was already moving toward the woods, his heart pounding. He found her tracks easily enough, following them deeper into the forest until he heard it, the sound of quiet crying.

He found her sitting on a fallen log while she wept silently. Her shoulders shook with suppressed sobs, and Arthur felt his heart break at the sight.

"Maureen," he said softly, not wanting to startle her.

She looked up, her eyes red and swollen. "Arthur. You're back early."

"Not early enough, it seems," he said, settling beside her on the log. "What happened?"

Maureen shook her head, wiping at her eyes. "It's nothing. I'm being foolish."

"You're crying alone in the woods," Arthur said gently. "That ain't nothing. Tell me what happened."

For a long moment, she didn't speak. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, she said, "He cornered me this morning. When I was washing clothes. He said... he said horrible things about what he wanted to do to me.” 

Arthur's hands clenched into fists, but he kept his voice steady. "What else?"

"He got very close," Maureen continued, her voice trembling. "Too close. He said I was driving him wild, that I was teasing him on purpose. When I tried to leave, he... he grabbed my arm and pulled me back. Said I shouldn't walk away from him when he was telling me how beautiful I was, how much he wanted me."

Arthur felt something dangerous unfurl in his chest. "He hurt you?"

Without speaking, she rolled up the sleeves of her blouse to reveal ugly, dark bruises around her wrists. Arthur stared at the bruises on Maureen's wrists, his vision going red around the edges. The marks were dark purple against her pale skin, clearly in the shape of fingers where Mac had gripped her too tightly.

"Arthur," Maureen said quietly, pulling her sleeves back down. "I'm sorry. I should have been more careful, shouldn't have—"

"Don't," Arthur said, his voice rough. "Don't you dare apologize for that bastard's behavior."

"But maybe I gave him the wrong impression somehow," Maureen continued, her voice breaking. "Maybe I was too friendly, or—"

Arthur turned to face her fully, his hands gentle as they cupped her face. "Listen to me, Maureen. You didn't do nothing wrong. Nothing. You hear me?"

She nodded, tears spilling over again. "I was so scared. When he grabbed me, I thought... I thought he might—"

"He ain't gonna touch you again," Arthur said, his voice deadly calm. "I promise you that."

They walked back to camp together, Arthur's arm protectively around Maureen's waist. The moment they emerged from the treeline, Arthur could see the tension in the air. Charles Smith was standing near the fire, his jaw tight, while Jenny Kirk clutched Isaac close to her chest. Mrs. Grimshaw was pacing back and forth, her face thunderous.

"There you are," Dutch called out, approaching with his usual diplomatic smile. "Arthur, my boy, we need to talk."

"Where's Callander?" Arthur asked, ignoring Dutch's outstretched hand.

"Now, Arthur," Dutch said, his voice taking on a cautionary tone. "I know there's been some... misunderstanding between you and Mac, but—"

"Misunderstanding?" Mrs. Grimshaw's voice cut through the air like a whip. "That's what you're calling it? That animal has been terrorizing the women in this camp!"

"Susan," Dutch said warningly. "Let's not blow this out of proportion."

"Out of proportion?" Mrs. Grimshaw marched over, her face flushed with anger. "He's been making crude comments to a sixteen-year-old girl! And look at Mrs. Morgan's wrists!"

Dutch's eyes flicked to Maureen, who reluctantly pushed up her sleeves again. His expression darkened slightly, but he maintained his diplomatic tone. "I'm sure it was just a misunderstanding. Mac's young, he probably doesn't know his own strength—"

"Horse shit," Charles Smith said quietly, speaking for the first time. "A man knows when he's hurting a woman. He knows exactly what he's doing."

"Charles is right," John said, having appeared from wherever he'd been. "I saw how he was looking at Maureen before we left. Ain't nothing misunderstood about that."

Arthur felt a surge of gratitude toward the men who were standing up for his wife. But before he could respond, Mac himself sauntered into the clearing, his cocky grin firmly in place.

"Well, well," Mac said, his eyes immediately finding Maureen. "Look who's back. And Arthur too, I suppose."

The camp fell silent. Arthur felt Maureen tense beside him, her hand finding his arm.

"Callander," Arthur said, his voice deceptively calm. "I hear you've been keeping yourself busy while I was gone."

Mac's grin widened. "Just being friendly. Trying to make sure everyone felt... welcomed."

"Is that what you call it?" Mrs. Grimshaw snapped. "Grabbing women and making filthy suggestions?"

"Now, now," Mac said, his tone condescending. "Women sometimes misinterpret a man's attention. Maybe if they weren't so—"

He didn't get to finish the sentence. Arthur's fist connected with his jaw with a sickening crack, sending Mac stumbling backward.

"Arthur!" Dutch barked. "That's enough!"

But Arthur was already advancing on Mac, who was spitting blood into the dirt. "You think you can put your hands on my wife?"

Mac straightened up, his hand moving to his gun. "Your wife? From what I hear, she ain't really—"

Arthur's second punch caught him in the stomach, doubling him over. "What I hear," Arthur said, grabbing Mac by the collar and hauling him upright, "is that you've been terrorizing the women in this camp like some kind of animal."

"Arthur, stop!" Dutch commanded, but his voice was lost in the chaos.

Mac managed to land a punch to Arthur's ribs, but Arthur barely felt it. He grabbed Mac by the throat and slammed him against a nearby tree.

"You touch my wife again," Arthur snarled, his face inches from Mac's, "and I'll kill you. You understand me?"

Mac's eyes were wide with fear now, but he still managed to gasp out, "Dutch... Dutch won't let you—"

"I don’t give a goddamn what Dutch thinks," Arthur said. "It's just you and me now."

"Arthur, enough!" Dutch's voice cut through the red haze. "Let him go!"

Arthur reluctantly released Mac, who slumped against the tree, gasping for breath. Dutch immediately stepped between them.

"This ends now," Dutch said firmly. "Mac, you're going to apologize to Mrs. Morgan and Miss Kirk. And then you're going to keep your distance from the women in this camp." 

Mac straightened up, wiping blood from his mouth. "I ain't apologizing for nothing. I was just being friendly."

"Friendly?" Jenny Kirk spoke up for the first time, her young voice shaking with anger. "You told me I was growing up pretty and that you could teach me things! That ain't friendly, that's disgusting!"

Mrs. Grimshaw's face went purple with rage. "That's it! Jenny, you're sleeping in my tent from now on. I won't have you subjected to this... this predator!"

"Susan," Dutch said tiredly. "Let's not—"

"No!" Mrs. Grimshaw cut him off. "I've had enough of your diplomatic nonsense, Dutch van der Linde. That girl is under my protection now."

"Mac, you so much as look at either of them wrong, and Arthur won't be the only one you have to worry about." Charles Smith said quietly, but his words carried weight. John nodded in agreement.

Dutch looked around the camp, clearly recognizing that he was outnumbered. "Fine," he said. "But this fighting stops now. We're a gang, not a collection of individuals. We need to work together."

"Then maybe you should choose your recruits more carefully," Mrs. Grimshaw said coldly. "Some of us have standards."

Mac pushed himself off the tree, his face twisted with anger and humiliation. "This ain't over," he said, his eyes fixed on Arthur. "Yes, it is," Arthur replied calmly. "You make it not over, and I'll finish what I started."

As Mac stalked away, muttering under his breath, his brother stood silently at the edge of the gathering glaring at Mac as he stalked away. Arthur turned to check on Maureen. She was pale but composed, Isaac now back in her arms.

"You alright?" he asked softly.

She nodded, then surprised him by saying, "Thank you. For believing me. For not thinking I... that I encouraged him somehow."

Arthur's expression softened. "Maureen, that ain't your fault. A man like that, he don't need encouragement. He just takes what he wants, or tries to."

"Arthur's right," Mrs. Grimshaw said, her voice gentler now. "You done nothing wrong, dear. Some men are just animals, and they need to be put in their place."

As the camp began to settle back into its normal rhythm, Arthur noticed Dutch watching from across the clearing, his expression unreadable. Arthur had won this battle, but he had a feeling the war was far from over.

That night, as they settled into their tent, Maureen finally spoke about what had really happened.

"He said things," she whispered into the darkness. "About how you didn't deserve me. How he could show me what a real man was like."

Arthur's jaw clenched, but he kept his voice gentle. "What else?"

"He said..." Maureen's voice broke. "He said he knew I wanted it. That all women like me, we pretend to be proper but we're really just waiting for a man to take charge."

Arthur rolled over to face her, his hand reaching over Isaac’s makeshift cradle, finding hers in the darkness. "That's not true. You know that, right?"

"I know," she said. "But Arthur, I'm scared. What if he tries something when you're not here?"

"Then Charles and John will handle it," Arthur said firmly. "And if they can't, Mrs. Grimshaw will shoot him herself."

Despite everything, Maureen laughed softly. "She probably would."

"She definitely would," Arthur agreed. "But it ain't gonna come to that. I ain't leaving you alone with him again."

As they lay in the darkness, Arthur's mind was already working, planning. Dutch might want to keep the peace, but Arthur had his own ideas about how to handle Mac Callander. Some men only understood violence, and Mac was proving to be one of them.

“We’re resuming your shooting lessons in the morning, Maureen.” He said firmly. 

“Maura.” Her words were so soft he could scarcely hear them in the darkness. 

“What?” 

“My family called me Maura. I would like you to call me that.” 

Arthur felt his breath catch in his throat. In the darkness, he could barely make out her profile, but he could hear the vulnerability in her voice. She was offering him something precious - not just her real name, but a piece of her past, her true self.

"Maura," he repeated softly, testing the name on his tongue. It felt right somehow, more intimate than Maureen or the more formal Mrs. Morgan she'd always insisted on. "That's... that's a real pretty name."

He felt her hand squeeze his gently. "No one's called me that in years. Not since I left home.” Her voice was barely a whisper. "I stopped using it after I came to America. It hurt too much to hear it. But now... I think I'd like to hear it again." After months of careful distance, of maintaining the polite boundaries of their arrangement, she was giving him an inch. 

"Maura," he said again, swallowing down any emotion. "I'm honored you'd want me to call you that." They lay in comfortable silence for a moment, the weight of this new intimacy settling between them. 

"Get some sleep, Maura," he said finally, his voice soft with affection.

“Goodnight, Arthur.” 

Chapter Text

The tent flap rustled in the night breeze as Maura lay listening to the sounds of the dying camp, the last embers of the fire crackling, someone's distant snoring, the soft nickering of horses settling for the night. Isaac slept peacefully in his small cot nearby, one arm thrown over his favorite wooden horse that Arthur had whittled for him.

She'd been drifting toward sleep when she heard the unsteady footsteps outside. Heavy boots stumbling slightly, a muffled curse as someone, Arthur, she realized, caught himself against something. The tent flap opened with more force than necessary, and Arthur's silhouette swayed in the moonlight. Cold air blasted through the tent, making the sleeping Isaac whimper. 

The smell hit her first. Whiskey, sharp and unmistakable, mixed with cigarette smoke and the general scent of the saloon. Maura's entire body went rigid, every muscle tensing as memories she'd tried to bury came flooding back. The sound of heavy footsteps on wooden floors. The reek of alcohol and anger. A phantom pain in her left wrist throbbed from when it had been broken and never properly healed.

No, she told herself, pressing back against her bedroll. This is Arthur. This is different. 

But her body didn't listen to reason. Her heart hammered against her ribs as Arthur stumbled slightly, catching himself against the tent pole. In the darkness, she could see him swaying, trying to orient himself. Every instinct screamed at her to make herself small, invisible, the way she'd learned to do when Donal came home in this condition.

So, she squeezed her eyes shut and forced her breathing to remain steady and deep, feigning sleep. Maybe if he thought she was unconscious, he'd just collapse on his own bedroll and leave her be until morning.

Arthur moved carefully through the tent, his footsteps unsteady but trying to be quiet. She heard him pause near Isaac's cot, and despite her fear, her heart clenched at the soft sound he made, pure affection even through his drunken haze. "My beautiful boy," he whispered, his voice thick with drink and emotion. She dared to open one eye and watched as he reached into the boy’s cradle and stroked his chubby cheek. 

Then she heard him moving toward their sleeping area, and her body tensed again. She thought her spine might shatter from the tension as she felt him collapse behind her on her bedroll. He rolled toward her and reached an arm around her waist and pulled her body tight against his. His whiskey warmed breath fluttering against her cheek. As subtle as she could she locked her ankles together and squeezed her thighs closed, hoping that maybe her small resistance might deter him from violating her body. 

"Maura?" he whispered, so quietly she almost didn't hear it. "You sleeping, sweetheart?"

She kept her breathing even, her eyes closed, every muscle in her body coiled tight despite her efforts to appear relaxed. Arthur was quiet for a long moment, and she could feel his eyes on her her in the darkness. When he spoke again, his voice was soft, wondering, like he was talking to himself more than to her.

"God, you're beautiful," he murmured into the skin of her neck. "Even sleeping... I can't believe you're really here.” 

Maura's heart skipped, but she forced herself to remain still. This wasn't what she'd expected from a drunk man. Donal’s alcohol-fueled words had been cruel, cutting, designed to tear her down. But Arthur's voice held only tenderness.

"I don't deserve you," he continued, his words slightly slurred but full of emotion. “You saved my boy.” She felt tears prick behind her closed eyelids. Even drunk, Arthur was gentle, reverent. She could hear him shifting on his bedroll, but he made no move to touch her further. 

“I can be a better man, darlin’. I know it.” Maura had to fight the urge to open her eyes, to reach for him. But she remained still, listening. The tent was quiet except for the soft sounds of Arthur moving restlessly trying to get comfortable behind her. When he finally stilled his hand splayed flat across her belly, she could feel the warmth through her thick wool nightgown. Within minutes, his breathing had deepened into the heavy rhythm of sleep. But Maura lay awake for hours, his words echoing in her mind, her initial fear completely forgotten in the face of such raw, honest emotion.

Morning came too soon, harsh sunlight filtering through the tent walls and the sounds of camp stirring to life. Maura kept her eyes closed, listening as Arthur woke with a groan that spoke of a substantial headache.

"Shit," he muttered, and she could hear him sitting up slowly, probably holding his head. There was a long pause, and then she heard him curse again, more vehemently this time. He arm untangled itself from around her waist and he jerked away from her as if he had been burned by the touch. 

She risked opening her eyes slightly, watching through her lashes as Arthur stared at her sleeping form with an expression of pure horror.

"Oh, God," he whispered, running his hands through his hair. "What did I do?"

She watched him remember, watched the mortification cross his face as the events of the night came back to him. His jaw clenched, and he looked at her with such regret and self-loathing that it took all her willpower not to sit up and comfort him.

Arthur stood carefully, moving like every step pained him. He dressed quickly and quietly, pausing only to press a gentle kiss to Isaac's forehead before slipping out of the tent. Through the canvas, she could hear him talking to Hosea in low, urgent tones.

She couldn’t exactly make out what he was saying but she could guess at the topic of conversation based on his tone. Maura's heart clenched. He was torturing himself over nothing, over words that had actually been kind. She wanted to rush out and tell him it was okay, that she wasn't upset, but something held her back. Perhaps she was too much of a coward. 

Arthur spent the entire day avoiding their tent, their usual spots, even Isaac. She watched him from a distance, saw the way he flinched whenever he caught sight of her, the self-recrimination in every line of his body. He was punishing himself for what he saw as a transgression. As evening approached, Maura made her decision. While Arthur was still off somewhere, probably finding reasons to stay away, she began rearranging their sleeping area. She pushed his bedroll right up against hers, creating one larger sleeping space. She moved Issac’s cradle from between the two of them to instead nestle beside just her. Then she arranged their few belongings, his journal, her sewing kit, Isaac's toys, in a way that suggested a more cohesive togetherness.

When Arthur finally returned to the tent after dark, clearly steeling himself for an uncomfortable conversation, he stopped short at the sight of their reconfigured sleeping arrangement.

"Maureen?" His voice was uncertain as he used her more formal name.

She looked up from where she was brushing her hair for bed, giving him a soft smile. "Welcome back."

Arthur stared at the combined bedrolls, then at her, confusion and wonder warring on his face. “You didn’t have to do this.” He gestured towards the new sleeping arrangement. She patted the space beside her and he hesitantly made his way across the small room. 

“I wanted to.” She said simply. 

"I... I thought you'd be angry. Thought you'd want space after last night." 

"Why would I be angry?"

"Because I... I came home drunk and I violated your space when you asked me not to." Arthur remained standing, as if afraid to accept the invitation.

Maura's heart swelled with tenderness for this man who was beating himself up over showing her kindness. "Arthur Morgan, come here." 

He approached slowly, like he was afraid she might change her mind. When he was close enough, she reached out and took his hand.  “It was fine Arthur, I didn’t mind at all." She squeezed his hand.

Arthur's face went through a series of emotions, embarrassment, relief, confusion. "You heard...?"

Her own face grew pink with embarrassment as she nodded. Arthur sank down beside her, his hand still in hers. “I spent all day thinking I'd overstepped and made you want to leave."

“Please stop torturing yourself, Arthur.” She looked down at her hands, too overwhelmed too look him in the eyes. “It was nice to be beside you.” Afraid of her own admission she untangled their hands and continued to pull the brush through her hair. “At the very least I didn’t wake in the middle of the night shivering.” 

Arthur watched the rhythmic motion of the brush through her auburn hair, mesmerized by the way the lamplight caught the strands. Her admission, that it was nice to be beside him, sent warmth spreading through his chest, though he couldn't quite bring himself to voice the same sentiment.

"Well," he said finally, his voice rougher than intended, "I run hot anyway. Probably kept you warmer than an extra blanket would."

She glanced at him then, a small smile playing at her lips. "Probably."

The silence stretched between them, comfortable now in a way it hadn't been moments before. Arthur began unbuttoning his shirt, then paused, suddenly self-conscious.

"I can step outside while you—"

"Arthur." Her voice was gentle but firm. "We're sharing a bed. I think we can manage getting ready for sleep in the same space."

He nodded, continuing to undress down to his union suit while she finished with her hair. When she set the brush aside and moved to blow out the lamp, their eyes met briefly in the golden light. She leaned over one last time to check on Isaac. 

“He could sleep through a hurricane.” She murmured, a small smile on her lips. They settled into the makeshift double bed, both carefully maintaining a respectable distance at first. But as the night deepened and sleep began to claim them, they unconsciously moved closer until by morning they were a tangle of limbs. 

The pattern had become as natural as breathing. Each night, they would prepare for bed with careful politeness, maintain their invisible boundary for all of ten minutes, then wake in the morning tangled together, her head on his chest, his arm curved protectively around her, Isaac's soft breathing the only sound in the tent.

Neither spoke of it. Neither questioned it. It simply was.

Which made Dutch's summons all the more jarring.

"Week-long scouting mission," Arthur explained to her as he packed his saddlebags, his movements more agitated than usual. "Maybe longer, depending on what we find."

Maura nodded, focusing intently on mending one of Isaac's shirts. "Please be careful out there."

"Always am." 

That night, Arthur lay in his solitary bedroll at the scouting camp, staring up at stars that seemed colder somehow. Davey's snoring grated against his nerves, and every small sound made him reach instinctively for a warmth that wasn't there. His arm felt empty, purposeless without the gentle weight of Maura's head in the crook of his shoulder.

Miles away, Maura pulled Isaac from his cradle into her bedroll, but the small space felt cavernous without Arthur's steady presence beside her. She'd grown accustomed to the security of his breathing, the way he'd unconsciously tighten his hold on her when nightmares threatened. Now, sleep eluded her entirely. Issac snuggled closer into her chest and she sighed. She didn’t want to create bad habits and have him crawl into bed with them every night but she also couldn’t stand the thought of being alone in her cold bed that night. So, she snuggled her little boy closer to her and tried to drift off to sleep.

On the fourth night, Dutch found Arthur sitting by their dying campfire, looking more haggard than a simple scouting mission warranted.

"You thinking about your little family back at camp?" Dutch asked, settling beside him.

Arthur's jaw tightened. "Just thinking."

"That's the problem, Arthur." Dutch's voice carried a sharp edge. "You're thinking too much about the wrong things. Your head's been elsewhere this entire trip."

Arthur looked up, surprised by the sudden shift in tone. "What do you mean?"

"I mean you missed two obvious patrol routes today, and Davey had to point out tracks you should've spotted an hour ago." Dutch leaned forward, his eyes hard in the firelight. "The gang needs you focused, son. We all got attachments, but we can't let them cloud our judgment."

"I ain't—"

"You are." Dutch's voice was firm. "Whatever's happening between you and that woman, it's making you soft. Distracted. That's dangerous for all of us."

Arthur's hands clenched into fists. "She's taking care of my boy."

"And that's admirable. But the gang comes first, Arthur. It always has. These people depend on us, on you, to keep them safe and fed. You can't do that if you're pining away like some lovesick fool."

The words stung more than Arthur cared to admit. He stared into the dying flames, feeling the weight of Dutch's disapproval settle heavy on his shoulders.

"We got three more days out here," Dutch continued, standing. "I need your head in the game, not back in some tent. You understand me?"

Arthur nodded curtly, but as Dutch walked away, he found himself missing that empty space beside him even more fiercely than before.

Arthur's horse kicked up dust as they rode hard into camp, three days later than expected. The job scouting job had gone sideways when they ran into a nest of O’Driscolls and had to hunt them down across two counties. All he wanted now was to see his family, to hold his son and sleep in his own bed next to his wife.

The camp was too quiet. A few people were milling about but not a one said anything to the group that had rode back into camp. His heart was pounding loudly against his ribs as he reached their tent. 

Maura sat beside Isaac's cradle, her auburn hair hanging in unwashed tangles around her face. Her dress was wrinkled and stained, her eyes red-rimmed and hollow. She held a damp cloth in one hand, gently dabbing at Isaac's fevered brow while her other hand clutched a bundle of colored beads all strung together with a wooden cross at the end, an item Arthur had never seen before.Isaac lay still and pale, his breathing shallow and labored. He looked impossibly small beneath the blanket, his dark hair matted with sweat. 

“Sé do bheath' a Mhuire, atá lán de ghrásta, tá an Tiarna leat. Is beannaithe thú idir mná

agus is beannaithe toradh do bhruinne losa. A Naomh Mhuire, a mháthair Dé, guí orainn na peacaithe, anois is ar uair ar mbás. Amen.” Maura's voice cracked as she spoke the prayer. 

"Maura." Arthur's voice was barely a whisper.

She looked up, and the relief that flooded her face was immediately replaced by something close to hysteria. "Arthur! Oh God, Arthur, I didn't know when you'd be back. He's been like this for two days. The fever won't break, and I—" Her voice broke entirely. "I don't know what to do. I've tried everything.” Tears flowed freely down her pale face. 

Arthur dropped to his knees beside the bed, his large hand immediately going to Isaac's forehead. The heat that met his palm made him curse under his breath. "Jesus, he's burning up."

"I haven't slept," Maura continued, her words tumbling over each other. "I can't leave him. Every time I try to rest, he gets worse. Look at him, Arthur.” 

He studied Isaac's face, noting the flush in his cheeks, the way his small chest struggled with each breath. "What started it?"

"A cold, I thought. Just sniffles. But then yesterday morning he could barely wake up, and the fever..." She gestured helplessly at the collection of remedies scattered around the bed—cups of lukewarm tea, damp cloths, bottles of patent medicines that Arthur suspected were useless. "I tried everything I could think of. I even..." She looked down at the beads in her hand, shame coloring her features. “I’ve been asking for intercession on his behalf.” 

Arthur reached out and covered her hand with his own, stilling her nervous fidgeting with the cross. "Hey. Hey, look at me."

She met his eyes, and he saw the fear there, raw and desperate.

"You did everything right," he said firmly. "You kept him safe. You stayed with him. That's what matters."

"But what if it's not enough?" The words came out as a sob. "Arthur, I love him. I  know I'm not his real mother, but I can't help it. When I look at him, when he calls me Mama, I forget that he's not mine. And if something happens to him I don’t know what I would do."

"Maura, stop." Arthur moved closer, his voice gentle but firm. "You are his real mother. Blood don’t make a mother, love does. The way you've cared for him, the way you sing to him, the way you're here now, refusing to leave his side. That's what makes you his mama."

She looked at him through her tears. "You mean that?"

"’Course." Arthur brushed a strand of hair from her face. "And Isaac knows it too. Even sick as he is, he knows you're here. He knows you love him." 

As if summoned by his words, Isaac stirred, his eyes fluttering open. They were glassy with fever, but they immediately found Maura's face.

"Mama," he whispered, his voice like sandpaper. His eyes flitted over to Arthur with what strength he had left in his little body, he lifted his arms towards his father. “Dada up.” Arthur obligingly reached down and cradled his boy to his chest. 

“It’s alright son.” He whispered more to himself than to the little boy in his arms. “You’re gonna be alright.” Maura once again reached for the damp cloth and dabbed the sweat off Isaac's head. 

“Mrs. Grimshaw and Jenny went to town for the doctor but he refused to come out and see him. He said we had to bring Isaac into the office but I’m too scared to move him. I don’t want to make him worse.” 

“I’ll keep an eye on him tonight and if ain’t getting better by the morning I’ll take you both.” 

Maura shook her head. “You’ve been gone for a week Arthur, I can’t let you stay up with him.” She reached her arms out to take him but Arthur didn’t move. “Darlin’ you ain’t no good to us if you’re tired and hysterical. Go to bed, I’ll wake you if anything happens.” 

Maura looked like she was going to protest but Arthur gave her a hard look and she relented. She dragged herself onto their shared bed not even bothering to remove her dress or corset before her head hit the pillow. Arthur dimmed the kerosene lamp, the movement jostling Isaac just enough to let out a small whimper. 

“It’s alright, partner. I’ve gotcha.” The low timber of his voice seemed to soothe the boy back to sleep. 

Arthur settled into the wooden chair beside Isaac's makeshift bed, the boy's fevered weight familiar against his chest. The camp had finally quieted for the night, leaving only the soft sounds of dying embers and distant conversations. Isaac's breathing was still labored, each small exhale a whisper against Arthur's shirt.

He adjusted his hold, making sure the boy was comfortable, and began to hum softly, an old song his own mother had sung to him once, before the memories grew too dim to trust. Isaac's eyelids fluttered at the sound, and Arthur felt a small hand curl weakly against his chest.

"That's it, son," Arthur murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "Just rest now."

The hours crawled by with agonizing slowness. Arthur found himself checking Isaac's temperature every few minutes, his calloused palm gentle against the boy's burning forehead. The fever seemed relentless, wave after wave of heat radiating from the small body in his arms.

Around midnight, Isaac stirred restlessly, his small body trembling. Arthur reached for the damp cloth Maura had left nearby, carefully wiping the sweat from his son's face and neck. The boy's eyes opened, unfocused but seeking.

"Mama?" Isaac's voice was barely a breath.

Arthur glanced toward the bed where Maura lay curled on her side, finally getting the rest she desperately needed. Dark circles shadowed her eyes even in sleep, and her hand was still clutched around those prayer beads.

"Mama's sleeping, partner," Arthur said softly. "But I'm here, I got you."

Isaac seemed to accept this, his head settling back against Arthur's shoulder. Arthur continued his vigil, replacing the damp cloth regularly, offering small sips of water when Isaac would take them, and murmuring reassurances that he hoped were true. 

It was sometime in the darkest hours before dawn when Arthur noticed the change. Isaac's breathing seemed to ease slightly, less of that frightening wheeze that had plagued him for days. Arthur pressed his palm to the boy's forehead and the fever felt less intense. 

Arthur barely dared to hope. He'd seen fevers break before, had seen enough sick gang members to know that sometimes the worst heat came just before the body won its fight. But this was Isaac, his son, and he couldn't bear the thought of false hope. 

As the night wore on, Arthur became more certain. Isaac's skin, while still warm, no longer burned like a coal against his palm. The boy's breathing grew steadier, deeper. Around four in the morning, Isaac stirred and his eyes opened—not the glassy, unfocused stare of fever, but clear and aware.

"Dada," Isaac whispered, his voice still weak but more like himself.

Arthur's throat tightened with relief. "Hey there, little man. You feeling better?"

Isaac lifted his head over Arthur’s arm, seemingly noticing that something was missing. "Mama?" Arthur turned Isaac so he could see the bed.

"She's sleeping, but she's right here." Arthur kept his voice low, not wanting to wake Maura yet. She needed rest, and he wanted to be sure Isaac was truly on the mend before he got her hopes up.

Isaac accepted this explanation and dozed fitfully in Arthur's arms. Each time the boy woke, he seemed a little stronger, a little more present. By the time the first pale light of dawn began filtering through the tent walls, Arthur was certain, the fever had broken.

Isaac was sitting up slightly in Arthur's lap, taking small sips of water and whining for "Mama" with increasing insistence. Arthur could no longer keep the smile from his face.

"Maura," he called gently, his voice thick with emotion. "Maura, darlin', wake up."

She was up instantly, as if she'd been waiting for his voice. Her eyes immediately went to Isaac, and Arthur watched as hope and fear warred across her features.

"How is he?" she whispered.

Arthur's smile was answer enough, but he said it anyway. "Fever broke about an hour ago. He's asking for you."

Maura's hand flew to her mouth, a sob of relief escaping. She was across the small space in seconds, her hands immediately going to Isaac's forehead to confirm what Arthur had told her.

"Oh, thank God," she breathed, tears streaming down her face. "Oh, my sweet boy."

Isaac reached for her with more strength than he'd shown in days. "Mama, up."

Maura gathered him into her arms, holding him close while tears of relief continued to fall. "I'm here, honey. Mama's here."

Arthur watched them, his own eyes suspiciously bright. The fear that had gripped him since riding into camp the day before was finally loosening its hold on his chest.

"We should probably still take him to the doctor," Arthur said quietly. "Make sure he's really out of the woods."

Maura nodded, not taking her eyes off Isaac. "Yes, but..." She looked up at Arthur, her face radiant with relief and gratitude. "He's going to be alright."

"Yeah," Arthur said, reaching out to stroke Isaac's hair. "He is."

The wagon wheels creaked steadily as they made their way into town, Isaac bundled in blankets between Arthur and Maura on the buckboard. The boy was alert now, his fever completely gone, but Arthur wanted to be certain there were no lingering complications.

"You sure about this doctor?" Arthur asked as they pulled up to the modest wooden building with a painted sign, 

Maura adjusted Isaac's blanket. "Mrs. Grimshaw said he's the only one in town.” She said with a shrug. 

Dr. Henley was a thin, severe-looking man with wire spectacles and an air of barely concealed irritation. He glanced up from his desk when they entered, his expression immediately souring as he took in Arthur's worn clothes and gun belt.

"What seems to be the problem?" he asked curtly, not bothering to stand.

"Our boy here had a terrible fever," Arthur began, but the doctor's attention was already dismissive.

"Children get fevers. It's hardly unusual." Dr. Henley barely glanced at Isaac, who was now sitting up in Maura's arms, looking around with curiosity.

"It lasted three days," Maura said, her voice steady but firm. "His breathing was labored, and he was barely conscious. I've seen childhood fevers before, Doctor, and this was different."

The doctor's eyebrows rose with condescension. "Oh, you've seen fevers before? Are you a medical professional, Mrs...?"

"Hanlon," Maura replied, lifting her chin slightly. "And no, I'm not a doctor, but I know when a child is dangerously ill."

"I see." Dr. Henley finally stood, approaching them with obvious reluctance. "Well, Mrs. Hanlon,” Clearly clocking the fake name. “Perhaps you should leave the medical diagnoses to those of us who actually studied medicine."

Arthur's jaw tightened at the man's tone, but he held his tongue as the doctor gave Isaac a cursory examination, barely spending two minutes listening to his chest and checking his throat.

"The boy is fine," Dr. Henley announced, already turning away. "A simple childhood fever, nothing more. Children are resilient. A bit of rest and he'll be good as new."

"But Doctor," Maura pressed, "he could barely breathe. His temperature was—"

"Mrs. Hanlon," the doctor interrupted, his voice dripping with patronizing patience, "I understand that mothers, especially... inexperienced ones, tend to overreact to minor illnesses. But I assure you, this child shows no signs of serious illness."

The insult hit its mark. Maura's face flushed, but before she could respond, Arthur stepped forward. "Now hold on there, Doc," Arthur's voice was dangerously quiet. "That woman sat by this boy's bedside for three days straight, barely slept, barely ate. She knows what she saw."

Dr. Henley's eyes narrowed. "Mr. Hanlon, I'm sure your... wife is well-intentioned, but medical matters require education and experience, not maternal hysteria."

"Hysteria?" Arthur's voice dropped to a growl. "She saved my boy's life. While you were sitting here in your clean office, she was fighting to keep him alive."

"I'm sure she did her best," the doctor replied with insufferable condescension, "but let's not be dramatic. The child obviously recovered from a minor fever. Nothing more."

Arthur took another step forward, his hand instinctively moving toward his gun belt. "You calling her a liar?"

The doctor's face paled slightly as he noticed the gesture. "I'm calling her an anxious mother who lacks medical training. There's a difference."

"Arthur." Maura's voice was soft but firm. She stood, Isaac still in her arms, and placed her free hand on Arthur's arm. "It's alright. Isaac is better now. That's what matters."

Arthur looked down at her, seeing the hurt in her eyes that she was trying to hide. His anger flared hotter, but he could see she wanted to leave with dignity intact.

"How much do we owe you?" Arthur asked through gritted teeth.

"Two dollars," the doctor replied, already moving back to his desk.

Arthur slammed the coins down harder than necessary. "Keep the change."

As they walked back to the wagon, Arthur could feel the tension radiating from Maura. She was quiet as she settled Isaac in the wagon bed, arranging the blankets around him with perhaps more care than necessary.

"Maura," Arthur began.

"I know what I saw," she said quietly, not looking at him. "I know how sick he was."

"I know you do." Arthur helped her up onto the wagon seat. "That man's a lazy fool.”

She finally met his eyes, and he saw the tears she was fighting back. "I felt so helpless, Arthur. For three days I watched him suffer and I couldn't fix it."

"But you stayed with him. You kept him safe until his body could fight it off." Arthur took her hand. "That's what mattered. Not whatever that pompous ass thinks."

They were about to head out of town when a familiar voice called out from across the street.

"Arthur! Well, I'll be damned!"

Arthur turned to see Uncle approaching, his distinctive gait unmistakable even from a distance. But he wasn't alone. Behind him walked a young woman with dark hair and a defiant set to her shoulders, despite the obvious weariness in her face.

"Uncle," Arthur replied as the older man reached their wagon. "What the hell are you doing here with respectable folks?"

"Business," Uncle replied with a smug grin. "Arthur, Mrs. Morgan, I'd like you to meet Miss Abigail Roberts. Abigail, this is Arthur Morgan and his wife, and that one is Isaiah." 

“Isaac.” Maura and Arthur said simultaneously. 

Abigail nodded politely, but Arthur could see the wariness in her eyes. She was probably around John’s age, pretty in a worn sort of way, with the kind of hardness that came from a difficult life.

"Pleased to meet you," Abigail said, her voice carrying a slight accent that Arthur couldn't quite place.

"Miss Roberts here needs a fresh start," Uncle continued, "and I told her our camp might be just the place for it. That is, if you folks wouldn't mind sharing your wagon for the ride back."

Arthur glanced at Maura, who was studying the young woman with curious eyes. "Course not. Plenty of room." Maura handed Isaac to Arthur then jumped down to join Abigail in the wagon bed, clearly intent on getting some answers from the girl. When she settled she reached forward and took Isaac out of his arms. 

Arthur caught Uncle's eye. "You get this girl in some kinda trouble, old man?" Arthur asked quietly.

Uncle's expression grew serious. "Got herself fired from the brothel for refusing a client who got too rough. Madame wasn't too pleased about losing the business." 

Arthur nodded grimly. He'd seen enough of how those places operated to understand the situation. "She got anywhere else to go?"

"Not really. Figured Dutch might find a place for her. Lord knows we could use someone with her... skills." Maura grimaced, no longer pretending she wasn’t listening to her husband’s conversation. 

"I can sew, cook, and handle a gun if needed," Abigail said from the wagon bed, her voice matter-of-fact. "I'm not afraid of hard work." She said defensively. Maura smiled reassuringly at the other woman. 

As they pulled out of town and onto the dirt road towards camp, Maura watched as Abigail pulled her knees up to her chest and rocked back and forth nervously. Every so often she caught the other woman glancing at the child in her arms curiously. 

“You want to hold him?” Maura offered. Abigail stared at her, momentarily stunned. “I ain’t never held one before.” 

Maura held the boy out to Abigail who accepted Isaac into her arms. “He might be a bit fussy, he’s been sick.” But to her surprise the boy settled easily into the young woman’s arms. The group lulled into an uncomfortable silence for a spell before Abigail looked up from the boy in her arms. 

“Most respectable ladies don’t want my kind around much less holding their babies.” Maura laughed. “Miss Roberts I am very far from a respectable lady and I’m happy to have my arms free for the first time in days.” 

The familiar sounds of camp life reached them before they could see the tents through the trees, the whinny of horses, the clatter of pots, someone tuning a guitar. Arthur felt the tension in his shoulders ease as they approached home, Isaac babbling happily in the back and pointing at everything he'd spotted along the trail.

"Our little prince is back!" Hosea called out, rising from his chair by the fire starting towards Isaac. "And with company, I see."

Dutch emerged from his tent, his keen eyes immediately assessing the newcomer as Arthur helped Abigail down from the wagon. "Uncle, you old dog, what have you brought us?"

"Miss Abigail Roberts," Uncle announced with a flourish. 

Arthur noticed John approaching from the horse lines, probably drawn by the commotion. The younger man's steps slowed considerably when his eyes landed on Abigail, and Arthur had to suppress a smirk at the obvious change in John's demeanor.

"Ma'am," John said, touching the brim of his hat and straightening his posture in a way that made Arthur want to roll his eyes.

Abigail nodded politely. "Mr...?"

"Marston. John Marston." He was practically preening now, and Arthur caught Maura hiding a smile behind her hand as she lifted Isaac from the wagon.

"Miss Roberts here needs a place to stay," Uncle explained to Dutch. "Figured she might be useful around camp."

"We'll see about that," Mrs. Grimshaw interjected, appearing with her arms crossed and a skeptical expression. "We ain't running a charity for every stray that wanders in."

"Now, Susan," Dutch said smoothly, "let's not be hasty. Miss Roberts, what exactly are your skills?"

Before Abigail could answer, John stepped forward. "I'm sure she's got plenty of useful talents. We could always use more help around here."

Mrs. Grimshaw's eyes narrowed. "Oh, could we now? And I suppose you're volunteering to find her work, John?"

"Well, I mean..." John's face reddened slightly. "If she needs someone to show her around camp, I'd be happy to—"

"She can stay in my tent until we get her set up proper," Mrs. Grimshaw declared, her tone brooking no argument. "And John Marston, you can keep your helpful suggestions to yourself."

Arthur watched the exchange with growing amusement. John looked like he'd been slapped, while Abigail seemed caught between embarrassment and irritation at being discussed like she wasn't standing right there.

"I can earn my keep," Abigail said firmly. "I don't need anyone's charity."

"Course you can," John said quickly. "I didn't mean to suggest—"

"What John means," Mrs. Grimshaw interrupted with a withering look, "is that he's suddenly very interested in making sure everyone pulls their weight around here. Funny how that concern never extended to his own laundry."

Hosea chuckled. "I think what we all mean is welcome to our little family, Miss Roberts. We're glad to have you."

As the group began to disperse, Arthur noticed John lingering near where Abigail was gathering her few belongings. The younger man kept opening his mouth like he wanted to say something, then closing it again when Mrs. Grimshaw shot him another warning look.

"Isaac, honey, let's get you settled," Maura said, but the boy was more interested in the activity around camp than rest.

"Dada?" Isaac asked, tugging on Arthur's pant leg and holding up his wooden horse. 

"In a bit, partner. Let's get you some food first." Arthur scooped up his son, but not before catching John's latest attempt to approach Abigail being thwarted by Mrs. Grimshaw physically stepping between them.

Later that evening, after Isaac had been fed and was playing quietly with his wooden horse, Arthur and Maura sat by their tent watching the camp settle into its evening routine. John was still hovering near Mrs. Grimshaw's tent, presumably hoping for another glimpse of Abigail.

"He's been at it for hours," Maura observed, following Arthur's gaze. "Poor boy's practically wearing a path in the dirt."

Arthur snorted. "Poor boy nothing. He's making a fool of himself."

"I think it's sweet," Maura said, then paused thoughtfully. "Well, mostly sweet. That bit where he tried to impress her by demonstrating his quick draw was... concerning."

"You mean when he nearly shot his own damn foot off?" Arthur grinned. "Yeah, that was something."

They watched as John finally worked up the courage to approach Mrs. Grimshaw's tent, only to be firmly turned away by the older woman's stern voice carrying across camp.

"She's got nowhere else to go, John Marston, and she don't need you sniffing around making her uncomfortable!"

John's reply was too quiet to hear, but his gestures were emphatic.

"I can't make out what he's saying," Maura said, leaning forward slightly.

Arthur leaned forward dramatically. "I believe he's making a passionate argument about the importance of... helping new camp members feel welcome."

"Oh, is that what he's calling it?" Maura laughed softly. "And here I thought he was just smitten."

"Completely and utterly," Arthur agreed. "Boy's got it bad. Haven't seen him this worked up since he tried to go after that baker's daughter in Valentine."

"How did that work out for him?"

"About as well as you'd expect for an outlaw trying to court respectable folk." Arthur shifted Isaac to his other knee as the boy began to nod off. "Though I got to say, Miss Roberts seems like she can handle herself better than most."

"She'll have to, if she's going to survive John's attempts at charm."

They watched as John finally gave up his argument with Mrs. Grimshaw and slouched away, his dejected posture making him look even younger than his years.

"Think we should put him out of his misery?" Maura asked. "Give him some advice?"

Arthur considered this. "Nah. Let him figure it out. Besides, might be good for him to work for something instead of having it handed to him."

"You're terrible," Maura said, but she was smiling.

"Just practical. Though I got to admit, it's entertaining watching him try to be a gentleman."

"Is that what he's doing?" Maura raised an eyebrow. "Because when he offered to carry her bags and then dropped them all over the ground, I wasn't sure what to call that."

"While Dutch was literally cleaning his guns in the background."

"Made for quite the picture." Arthur looked down at Isaac, who had finally succumbed to sleep in his lap. "Think she'll stick around?"

Maura followed his gaze to Mrs. Grimshaw's tent, where a soft light still glowed. "She's got grit, I'll give her that. And she didn't seem fazed by any of this." She gestured around the camp. "Most folk would've been halfway back to town by now."

The moment stretched between them, comfortable and warm, before being broken by John's voice carrying across camp once more.

"I'm just saying, Mrs. Grimshaw, maybe someone should check if she needs anything!"

"That someone ain't you, John Marston!"

Arthur and Maura exchanged looks and burst into quiet laughter.

"This is going to be interesting," Maura said.

"That's one word for it," Arthur replied, standing carefully so as not to wake Isaac. "Come on, let's get this little one to bed before John decides to serenade her or something equally mortifying."

As they headed toward their tent, Arthur caught sight of John still pacing near the fire, clearly working up the courage for another approach. It was going to be a long night for the poor fool, and Arthur found himself almost looking forward to tomorrow's entertainment.

Chapter Text

Arthur checked his saddlebags one final time. Isaac sat on a blanket nearby, playing with his wooden horse while Maura folded extra blankets into the back of the wagon. The trip to Valentine for supplies had been planned for days, but Arthur found himself reluctant to leave camp, not because he didn't want to go, but because the weeks they'd spent together after Isaac's recovery had felt like something approaching normal family life.

"You sure you don't want to stay here and rest?" Arthur asked, though he knew the answer. Maura had been cooped up in camp for weeks, and he could see the eagerness in her eyes at the prospect of town.

"I need to get out of here before I go mad," she replied, lifting Isaac to her hip. "Besides, Isaac could use the change of scenery. Couldn't you, sweetheart?"

Isaac babbled happily, reaching for Arthur's hat. "Dada."

"That's right, partner." Arthur settled his hat more firmly on his head, then turned his attention to the commotion near the cook fire.

John was attempting to serve Abigail coffee, his movements overly careful and formal. He'd clearly made an effort with his appearance; his hair was actually combed, and his shirt looked like he'd attempted to iron it with dubious results.

"Thank you, John," Abigail said, accepting the cup with a small smile that made John's face light up like Christmas morning.

"I could get you some sugar for that," John offered eagerly. "Or maybe some—"

"John Marston!" Mrs. Grimshaw's voice cut across the camp. "That coffee ain't gonna drink itself, and these dishes ain't gonna wash themselves neither!"

John's face fell, but Abigail placed a gentle hand on his arm. "Maybe you could sit with me for a minute? After the dishes, I mean."

The transformation in John's expression was immediate and dramatic. Arthur had seen him face down armed lawmen with less enthusiasm than he now showed for dishwashing duty.

"I'll get right on those dishes, Mrs. Grimshaw!" John called out, already moving toward the wash basin with unprecedented speed.

"Well, I'll be damned," Dutch muttered from his tent entrance, coffee cup in hand. "The boy's actually working."

Bill appeared beside him, his expression sour. "Ain't natural, a man making a fool of himself like that over some five-cent whore."

Arthur's jaw tightened at the word, but before he could respond, Hosea's voice cut through the morning air.

"That's enough, Mr. Williamson. The girl's part of this camp now, and she'll be treated with respect."

"Respect?" Bill spat. "She's a—"

"She's a young woman who's had a hard life and deserves better than your poison tongue," Hosea interrupted firmly. "Find something useful to do."

Arthur watched Bill stalk away, his displeasure obvious. The man had been making comments about Abigail since she'd arrived, and Arthur could see it was starting to wear on Dutch's patience, too.

"Ready?" Maura asked, adjusting Isaac in her arms.

Arthur helped them up onto the wagon seat, Isaac immediately fascinated by the reins in his father's hands. The ride to Valentine was pleasant, the late winter air crisp and clean. Isaac pointed at everything they passed, birds, trees, other travelers, keeping up a constant stream of chatter that had both Arthur and Maura smiling.

"He's getting so much more talkative," Maura observed as Isaac attempted to form more recognizable words. "I think he's picking up more than we realize."

"Long as he don't start cursing like Uncle, we'll be fine," Arthur replied, then paused. "Though I did hear him say something that sounded suspiciously like 'damn' yesterday."

"Arthur Morgan, you didn't!"

"Wasn't me! Could've been anyone in that camp." He grinned at her mock outrage. "Though I suppose I should watch my language around him."

"We all should. He's like a little sponge."

Valentine was busier than usual, with several wagons loading supplies and groups of men conducting business outside the general store. Arthur helped Maura down from the wagon and lifted Isaac into his arms, the boy's eyes wide as he took in all the activity.

Isaac shrieked happily and pointed at a group of horses tied outside the saloon.

"I see them, Isaac." Maura smoothed his hair back from his forehead. "Should we go get our supplies?"

He held his hand out to her, and she climbed the steep stairs up to the boardwalk. As he ascended after her, and voice called out his name. 

"Arthur Morgan? Is that really you?"

He turned to see Mary Linton approaching. She was almost exactly how he remembered her, dark hair pinned up in an elegant bun, clothes pristine despite the dust of the road. Arthur stiffened at the sight of her. 

“Mrs. Linton.” Arthur's voice was carefully neutral, though he felt Maura's attention sharpen beside him. 

"My goodness, it's been a long time, hasn’t it?" Mary's dark eyes moved from Arthur to Maura to Isaac, and he watched her expression shift from surprise to something more complex.

"Mary Linton," Arthur said carefully, "this is my wife, Maureen. And this is my son Isaac." He adjusted the boy in his arms, noting how Isaac had gone shy in the presence of a stranger.

"Mrs. Morgan," Mary said, extending her graceful hand to Maura with a politeness that seemed genuine. “What a pleasant surprise to meet you."

Maura shook the offered hand, her own manner perfectly cordial. “Mrs. Linton, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” Arthur seriously doubted that was true, but he appreciated Maura's diplomacy. There was something in her tone, though, that suggested she'd figured out exactly who Mary was.

“You have such a beautiful child. He has your eyes, Arthur."

"Thank you," Arthur said simply, unsure of what else to say.

An awkward silence stretched between them before Maura spoke up. “Isaac and I can start on the shopping if you and Mrs. Linton would like some time to catch up." She reached for the boy, who went willingly into her arms. "We'll be at the general store when you're ready."

"Maura, you don't have to—"

"It's fine," she said, her smile warm but her eyes unreadable. "Take your time."

Arthur watched her walk away, Isaac babbling to her about the horses, before turning back to Mary.

"Your wife is lovely," Mary remarked, and Arthur could hear the sincerity in her voice. 

"She is," Arthur replied firmly. 

Mary studied his face, and he saw something wistful in her expression. "You look happy, Arthur. Different, but happy. More at peace than I've seen you in... well, in a long time."

"I am." He found, somewhat to his surprise, that it was true.  "What about you?” 

Mary's expression grew more thoughtful, a touch of sadness creeping into her eyes. "It's... it's good, Arthur. Barry's a good man. Stable. Respectable. He treats me well."

"I hear a 'but' in there."

Mary let out a small, rueful laugh. "You always could read me too well." She looked down at her hands. "There's no 'but,' really. Just... sometimes I wonder about the paths not taken, you know? But that's foolish. We both made our choices, and they were the right ones."

Arthur felt something tighten in his chest at the quiet sadness in her voice. "Mary—"

"I should go," she said gently, looking back up at him with a brave smile. "Barry's waiting for me at the hotel. But Arthur, I want you to know... I'm genuinely happy for you. Seeing you with your family, seeing that contentment in your eyes... it makes me smile. You deserve that happiness."

"Mary, if you're not happy—"

"I'm fine, Arthur. Really." She reached out and briefly touched his arm. "My life is good, just... different from what I once imagined. But that's true for all of us, isn't it?" She glanced toward the general store where Maura and Isaac had gone. "I’m glad you’ve found some peace, Arthur. You deserve it."

She walked away before he could respond, leaving Arthur standing alone in the dusty street, feeling unsettled in a way he couldn't quite name.

He found Maura and Isaac in the general store, Isaac enchanted by a display of colorful penny candy while Maura spoke quietly with the shopkeeper about their supply list.

"Everything alright?" Maura asked when she saw him, her tone carefully neutral.

"Fine," Arthur said, though he wasn't entirely sure that was true. "How's our list coming?"

"Nearly done. Isaac's been very helpful." She ruffled the boy's hair affectionately. "Haven't you, honey?"

Isaac held up a piece of peppermint candy out to him.

"You saving some for me, son?" The boy giggled and offered Arthur the sticky piece of candy, which he accepted with exaggerated gratitude. 

The rest of their shopping passed quietly, Isaac providing entertainment by trying to help load supplies into the wagon. It wasn't until they were on the road back to camp that Maura spoke again.

"She was very kind, your friend Mary," Maura said, adjusting Isaac on her lap. "And she clearly cares about you. I could see it in her eyes when she looked at you."

"Mary? Yeah, she... she's a good woman." Arthur considered his words carefully. "We had something once, but that was a long time ago. She's married now, has her own life."

"I could tell there was something there," Maura said softly. "The way she looked at you... there was affection.” 

Arthur felt a pang of guilt at the perception in Maura's voice. "Maura, I want you to know—"

"I'm not upset, Arthur," she interrupted gently. "I could see that whatever you once had, it was real. And I could also see that she genuinely wished you well. That speaks well of both of you."

They rode in silence for a while, the comfortable quiet broken only by Isaac's occasional babbling at passing birds. Finally, Maura spoke again, her voice careful but not accusatory.

"I wouldn't blame you, you know. If seeing her again stirred up old feelings, or if you needed to find companionship elsewhere. I know our marriage isn't... conventional."

Arthur's hands tightened on the reins. "Maura—"

"I mean it, Arthur. I can't expect you to live like a priest just because I'm not... because we're not..." She trailed off, her cheeks flushing pink.

"Stop." Arthur's voice was firm enough that she looked up at him in surprise. "Just stop. You think I'd do that to you? To Isaac?"

"I'm not saying I'd like it, but I'd understand—"

"There ain't nothing to understand." Arthur pulled the wagon to a stop, turning to face her fully. "I ain't interested in Mary Linton or anyone else. You hear me?"

Maura's brown eyes searched his face. "But she's so beautiful, and refined, and—"

"And she's married to someone else, and I'm married to you."

"We don't have... I mean, we're not really..." Maura's voice was small, uncertain.

"We're a family," Arthur said firmly. "You, me, and Isaac. That boy loves you and I..." He paused, the words he wanted to say stuck in his throat. "I care about you as well. You think I'd risk that for anything?"

"I just don't want you to feel trapped." She said, her voice firmer this time.

"The only thing I feel trapped by is this damn conversation," Arthur said, his voice gentle despite the words. She looked down at Isaac, who had fallen asleep against her shoulder, completely oblivious to the tension between the adults.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I just... seeing her, seeing how she looked at you..."

"How she looked at me don't matter. That part of my life is over and this is what matters to me now.” 

Maura nodded, not trusting herself to say more. 

"No more talk of affairs or finding companionship elsewhere," he said firmly. “All I want to talk about on our way back is how much of a fool John made of himself while we were away.”

 He urged the horses forward again, and they continued toward camp in comfortable silence, Isaac sleeping peacefully between them. Arthur found himself thinking about Mary's sad smile, about the word 'should' in her voice when she'd talked about her marriage.

He looked over at Maura, who was humming softly to Isaac, and felt a surge of gratitude for the woman who'd never asked him to be anything other than exactly who he was. Whatever he'd once felt for Mary Linton, it seemed pale and distant compared to the quiet contentment he felt in this moment.

By the time they reached camp, Arthur had put the encounter with Mary firmly behind him. He had more important things to focus on. As they unloaded their supplies, Arthur caught sight of John and Abigail sitting together by the fire, talking quietly while she mended one of his shirts. John looked more relaxed than Arthur had seen him in months, and Abigail had lost some of the wariness that had marked her first days in camp.

"Looks like things are progressing there," Maura observed, following his gaze.

"About time," Arthur replied. "Though I got a feeling it's gonna cause more drama before it's over."

"What do you mean?"

Arthur nodded toward where Uncle sat with Bill, both men watching John and Abigail with obvious disapproval. "Some folks ain't happy about the arrangement."

"Their opinion doesn't matter," Maura said firmly. "John's a good man, and they both deserve some happiness.” 

Arthur suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. “John’s a boy playing at a man.” 

Maura’s lips curled upwards. “We were all twenty and stupid once, weren’t we?” Maura adjusted Isaac in her arms as he began to stir. "Besides, I think she's good for John. He's been trying harder since she arrived."

"That's one way to put it," Arthur agreed, remembering John's earlier enthusiasm for dishwashing.

As they approached their tent, Arthur felt the last of his unsettled feelings about Mary fade away.

The following evening, Arthur was cleaning his rifle when he heard Dutch's voice calling the camp to attention. He looked up to see Dutch and Hosea approaching with a stranger, a young man with wild red hair and an easy grin that seemed to take up half his face.

"Everyone, gather 'round!" Dutch called out, his arms spread wide in that theatrical way he had. "I want you all to meet our newest member."

The red-haired stranger stepped forward with a swagger that reminded Arthur of a rooster in a henhouse. "Sean McGuire's the name, and I'm pleased to make your acquaintance!" His Irish accent was thick as molasses, and Arthur could see several of the camp members exchange glances.

"Now, Sean here," Dutch said with obvious amusement, "had the audacity to try and rob Hosea and myself on the road yesterday."

"Audacity!" Sean protested cheerfully. "I prefer to call it 'misdirected ambition.'"

Hosea chuckled, shaking his head. "Boy couldn't hit the broad side of a barn if he was standing inside it. Nearly shot his own horse trying to intimidate us."

"The gun was unfamiliar!" Sean defended himself with mock indignation. "And I maintain that your horses were unnaturally fast."

"So naturally," Dutch continued, "we decided someone with that much courage and that little sense might fit right in with our little family."

"Trouble's me specialty, it is!" Sean laughed, seemingly delighted by the retelling of his failure. "Though I suppose you fine folks know a thing or two about proper trouble-making."

Arthur watched as Sean's eyes swept the camp, taking in the faces around him. When his gaze landed on Maura, who was sitting by their tent with Jenny and Abigail, his expression brightened considerably. He waltzed over to where the women were seated and planted himself directly in front of them, his eyes never leaving the auburn haired woman. 

“And who might you be?” His voice as smooth as silk. 

“Maureen Morgan.” She smiled up at the Irishman who had extended a hand to her. 

"Well, well," Sean said, his grin widening. "Don't tell me there's another lost Irish soul in this American wilderness."

"You've got a good ear," she replied, her own accent becoming more pronounced in response to Sean's. "I’m from Castlebar, originally."

"Ah, a fine Galway girl! I’m from Donegal, meself." Sean practically bounced on his toes. “But Morgan isn’t an Irish name, ma’am. You’re not a Protestant are ya?” 

A small smile curved across her lips and she shook her head. “Morgan is my married name. I was Maureen O’Hanlon when I came over.” Arthur felt something twist in his chest at the way Sean's face lit up at the introduction. The young man stepped closer, his attention completely focused on Maura

"Morgan, you say? Then you must be married to this fine gentleman here." Sean gestured toward Arthur with obvious enthusiasm. "Lucky man, he is. It's been too long since I've heard a proper Irish voice. And might I say, you're even lovelier than the green cliffs of Donegal themselves."

"Mr. McGuire," Maura said with a small laugh, her cheeks flushing slightly. "You're quite the charmer."

"I speak only the truth, Mrs. Morgan. Beauty recognizes beauty, and here I am, recognizing it in abundance." Sean's grin was boyish but his eyes held a flirtatious gleam that made Arthur's jaw tighten.

"It's nice to meet someone from home," Maura said warmly, and Arthur noticed how her smile seemed more genuine than it had been in days.

"From home, indeed!" Sean laughed. "Tell me, Mrs. Morgan, An bhfuil Gaeilge agat?” 

Arthur watched as Maura's face softened with memory. “Only a little. We spoke it at home but it’s been so long, I fear I’ve lost most of it.” 

"Well, we'll have to remedy that, won't we?" Sean said, his charm in full display.

Arthur felt his jaw tighten. The kid was laying it on thick, even if it seemed innocent enough. He caught Dutch watching the interaction with interest, while Hosea looked mildly concerned.

"Sean," Dutch interrupted smoothly, "why don't you let me show you where you'll be sleeping? Then we can discuss your... skills." As Dutch led Sean away, Arthur noticed the young man glance back at Maura twice before they disappeared into Dutch's tent.

"He seems nice," Maura said, as Arthur brought a cranky Isaac over to settle in her lap. "I haven’t met someone from home since I left Boston."

"Hmm," Arthur replied noncommittally, returning his attention to his rifle with perhaps more focus than necessary. 

Over the next few days, Arthur found himself increasingly irritated by Sean's presence. The young man seemed to have boundless energy and an even more boundless mouth, regaling the camp with stories of his exploits back in Ireland. But what bothered Arthur most was how Sean seemed to gravitate toward Maura whenever possible.

"Tell me, Mrs. Morgan," Sean said one afternoon as she was hanging laundry, "do you ever miss the green hills of home? Though I suppose with hair as beautifully auburn as an Irish sunset, you bring a bit of home wherever you go."

Arthur, who was supposed to be checking their horses, found himself listening from behind the wagon, his grip tightening on the brush in his hand.

"Every day," Maura replied softly. "Especially when the weather turns gray like this. It reminds me of the mornings in Castlebar."

"Ah, you understand perfectly!" Sean's voice was animated. "These Americans, they don't know what real green looks like. Everything here is so... brown."

Maura laughed, and Arthur felt that familiar twist in his chest. When was the last time he'd made her laugh like that?

"It grows on you," she said diplomatically. "This country has its own beauty."

"Perhaps, but nothing like the beauty of the old country. Or," Sean paused, his voice taking on a more obviously flirtatious tone, "the beauty of its most enchanting daughters. I swear, Mrs. Morgan, you could make a man forget all about the rolling hills of Eire."

"Mr. McGuire," Maura said, her voice carrying a gentle warning. "I'm a married woman."

"Of course, of course!" Sean backpedaled quickly, though his grin remained playful. "I meant no disrespect, Mrs. Morgan. I simply meant that it's refreshing to speak with someone who understands the soul of Ireland, you know? Someone with such grace and wit."

He turned to find John approaching, looking cleaner and more put-together than Arthur had seen him in months. The boy was still clearly trying to impress Abigail.

"What?" Arthur's voice came out sharper than he intended.

John raised his hands defensively. "Just wondering if you wanted to ride out with me later. Thought we could check those snares we set up north."

"Can't you handle it yourself?" Arthur asked, then immediately felt bad for his tone. "Sorry, John. I'm just... yeah, we can check the snares."

John studied his face. "You alright? You've been in a mood since that Irish kid showed up."

"I'm fine," Arthur said, leading the horse back toward the hitching post. "Just tired."

"If you say so." John didn't sound convinced. "But if it helps, I don't think Abigail's particularly impressed with all his stories about Donegal."

Arthur shot him a look. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing, nothing." John held up his hands again. "Just that some of us have noticed he's taken quite a shine to your wife, and you've been watching him like a hawk ever since."

"I ain't watching nobody," Arthur protested.

"Sure you ain't." John's grin was knowing. "Come on, let's go check those snares. Maybe some time away from camp will improve your mood."

Three days later, Dutch announced they were having a celebration. A recent job had gone well, and he felt the gang deserved a night of relaxation. Someone had procured a bottle of decent whiskey, and Mrs. Grimshaw had managed to acquire fresh beef for a proper feast.

As the sun set, the camp transformed. A fire was built up larger than usual, and someone had brought out a guitar. The mood was jovial, with even the usually dour Bill cracking a few smiles.

Arthur found himself sitting on a log near the fire, nursing a glass of whiskey and watching Maura chat with some of the other women. She'd had a few drinks herself, and her cheeks were flushed pink in the firelight. She looked beautiful, relaxed in a way she rarely was.

"This is more like it!" Sean's voice boomed across the camp as he approached with his own bottle. "A proper Irish celebration!"

"How exactly is this Irish?" Arthur asked, his voice carrying an edge.

"Any celebration with good drink and good company is Irish in spirit, my friend!" Sean laughed, apparently oblivious to Arthur's tone. "Now," Sean said, his voice carrying that infectious enthusiasm, "who knows how to play a proper reel?"

Someone with a fiddle stepped forward, and soon a lively tune filled the air. To Arthur's dismay, Sean immediately approached Maura and extended his hand.

"Would you do me the honor of a dance, Mrs. Morgan? It's been too long since I've danced with a proper Irish lass."

Maura looked toward Arthur, as if seeking permission. Arthur wanted to say no, wanted to claim her for himself, but he couldn't think of a reasonable objection. Instead, he nodded stiffly.

"Just one dance," Maura said, taking Sean's hand.

Arthur watched as Sean led her toward the open space near the fire. The young man was clearly an experienced dancer, and soon he had Maura spinning and laughing, her skirts swirling around her legs. Her face was flushed and happy, and Arthur felt something dark and ugly twist in his chest.

"They dance well together," Jenny commented nearby, and Arthur's grip tightened on his glass.

The dance seemed to go on forever, with Sean spinning Maura around with increasing enthusiasm. She was laughing, her eyes bright, and Arthur realized he'd never seen her look so carefree. It should have made him happy, but instead, it made him feel like he was watching something that should have been his.

When the song finally ended, Sean dipped Maura dramatically, and she dissolved into giggles. The camp cheered, and Arthur downed the rest of his whiskey in one gulp.

"Another dance!" Sean called out, still holding Maura's hand. "Come on, just one more!"

"I should check on Isaac," Maura said, but she was still smiling.

"The boy's fine," Sean insisted. "Look, he's sound asleep. One more dance, and then I'll let you go."

Arthur stood up abruptly, several people looked his way, but he ignored them and stalked toward the edge of camp. He needed air, needed to get away from the sight of Sean's hands on his wife.

He found himself at the edge of the treeline, staring out into the darkness. Behind him, he could hear the music starting up again, could hear Maura's laughter mixing with Sean's enthusiastic calls. His hands were clenched into fists, and he felt like he might explode.

"Arthur?"

He turned to find Maura approaching, her steps slightly unsteady. She looked concerned, her earlier joy replaced by worry.

"Are you alright? You left so suddenly."

"I'm fine," he said, his voice harsher than he intended.

"You don't look fine." She stepped closer, and he could smell the whiskey on her breath mixed with the faint scent of soap and campfire smoke. "Are you upset with me?"

"Why would I be upset with you?" But even as he said it, he knew his tone betrayed him.

"I don't know. You've been strange all week." Her voice was soft, uncertain. "Have I done something wrong?"

Arthur felt the fight go out of him all at once. She looked so worried, so vulnerable in the moonlight, and he realized he was being an ass.

"No, Maura. You ain't done nothing wrong."

"Then what is it?" She stepped closer, close enough that he could see the firelight reflected in her eyes. "You've barely spoken to me in days."

Arthur struggled to find the words. How could he explain the jealousy that had been eating at him? How could he tell her that watching her laugh with Sean made him feel like he was losing something he'd never actually had?

"I just..." He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. "I don't like the way he looks at you."

"Sean?" Maura seemed genuinely surprised. "Arthur, he's just being friendly. We're both Irish, it's natural that we'd—"

"It ain't natural the way he's been sniffing around you," Arthur interrupted, his voice rougher than he intended. "And I don't like it."

Maura stared at him for a long moment, and Arthur saw something shift in her expression. "You're jealous," she said softly, and it wasn't a question.

"I ain't—" Arthur started to protest, but she cut him off.

"You are. You're jealous of Sean." There was something like wonder in her voice. "Arthur Morgan, you're jealous."

"So what if I am?" The words came out before he could stop them, and he immediately felt exposed, vulnerable. "So what if I don't like watching him put his hands on you?"

"Arthur..." Maura's voice was soft, almost breathless. "You don't need to be jealous of Sean. Or anyone else."

"Don't I?" Arthur's voice was raw. "You light up when he talks to you. You laugh at his stories. You dance with him like—"

"Like what?" she challenged.

"Like you're happy," Arthur finished quietly. "Like you're real happy."

Maura stepped closer, close enough that he could feel the warmth radiating from her body. "I am happy, Arthur. But not because of Sean."

"Then why—"

"Because despite everything, the circumstances that brought us together, and how strange our situation is, I like my life here. I like being Isaac's mother. I like being your wife." Her voice grew stronger, more certain. "For the first time since I left home, I feel like I belong somewhere. Like I'm cared for. Not just by you, but by everyone here. This gang, it's given me something I forgot I was missing."

Arthur felt his heart hammering in his chest. "Maura—"

"I don't want Sean McGuire," she said firmly, her hands coming up to rest on his chest. "I don't want anyone else. I want you, Arthur.” 

Before he could respond, she rose up on her toes and kissed him. It was soft at first, tentative, but when Arthur's arms came up to circle her waist, she deepened it, pressing closer against him.

When they finally broke apart, both were breathing hard. Arthur rested his forehead against hers, his eyes closed.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm sorry for being a jealous fool."

"You're not a fool," Maura replied, her hands still pressed against his chest. "You're just... you're mine, Arthur. And I'm yours. Sean McGuire doesn't change that." 

Arthur cupped her face in his hands, his thumbs brushing across her cheekbones. They kissed again, deeper this time, and Arthur felt the last of his jealousy melt away. When they finally broke apart, Maura was smiling, her eyes bright again. 

"Come on," she said, taking his hand. "Let's go back to the party. I want to dance with my husband."

As they walked back toward the fire, Arthur felt lighter than he had in weeks. Sean was still there, still charming and enthusiastic, but Arthur no longer felt threatened by him.

"There you are!" Sean called out as they approached. "I was hoping for another dance, Mrs. Morgan."

"Thank you, Sean," Maura replied graciously, "but I think I'll dance with my husband now."

Arthur felt a surge of pride as she led him toward the dancing area. He wasn't much of a dancer, but with Maura in his arms, he felt like he could do anything. As they swayed together by the firelight, Arthur caught sight of Sean watching them with what looked like understanding and maybe a little disappointment. But the young man raised his bottle in a small salute, and Arthur found himself nodding back.

"He's not a bad kid," Arthur admitted quietly.

"No," Maura agreed, her head resting against his shoulder. "He’s not, but he’s no Arthur Morgan.”

Chapter Text

The morning sun filtered through the canvas of their tent, casting soft shadows across the makeshift bed where Maura lay sleeping, one arm draped protectively around Isaac. The boy had crawled into their bed sometime during the night, as he often did, and now lay curled against his mother's side, his small fist tangled in her auburn hair.

Arthur sat quietly on the edge of the rickety wooden chair, his journal balanced on his knee, trying to capture the peaceful scene with quick, careful strokes of his pencil. The way the light caught the copper highlights in Maura's hair, the soft curve of Isaac's cheek against her shoulder, the contentment that seemed to radiate from both of them even in sleep, it was a moment he wanted to preserve.

The Morgan Family , he wrote beneath the sketch, the words feeling more natural each time he put them to paper. March 15th, 1894. Isaac's getting bigger every day, hard to believe he's already a year and a half old. Maura says he's starting to look more like me, but I hope he gets her temperament. She's got a patience with him I never seen before, the way she talks to him, gentle but firm, even when he's being stubborn as a mule. Makes me wonder what kind of mother my own mama might have been if she'd lived long enough for me to remember her proper. I suppose I’m grateful that things worked out the way they did. Can't imagine my life without Isaac's babbling or Maura's quiet strength. Hard to believe sometimes that she chose this life, chose me, but she did. And I aim to make sure she never regrets it . This boy's changed everything for me. Made me want to be better than I am. 

Isaac stirred, his blue eyes fluttering open. When he saw Arthur watching him, a sleepy smile spread across his face.

"Dada," he whispered, not loud enough to wake Maura.

"Morning, son," Arthur murmured back, setting his journal aside to lift the boy into his arms. "You sleep good?" The boy sleepily snuggled into his father’s chest and Arthur picked the journal back up. 

He continued working on the drawing, the hair on Isaac’s head, the curve of Maura's hip. Isaac studied the sketch with the serious concentration only a toddler could muster. “Mama.” 

"That's right, son.” He ruffled the boys hair affectionately. “Your mama sure is pretty, ain’t she.” Isaac giggled and clapped his hands together as if he were agreeing. Arthur glanced at Maura's sleeping form.

Isaac had begun to babble softly, his small hands reaching up to touch Arthur's face with the innocent curiosity that never failed to make Arthur's chest tighten with emotion. The boy's fingers traced along his father's stubbled jaw, and Arthur found himself thinking about all the mornings like this he'd missed in his own childhood, all the quiet moments his own father had never shared with him.

"You hungry, little man?" Arthur whispered, bouncing Isaac gently on his knee. The boy giggled, a sound that seemed to fill the tent with warmth.

Maura stirred at the sound, her eyes opening slowly. When she saw Arthur holding Isaac, a soft smile crossed her face. "Morning," she said quietly, her voice still thick with sleep.

"Didn't mean to wake you," Arthur said, though he was glad she was awake. These moments, when it was just the three of them, felt precious in a way that made him almost superstitious about disturbing them. 

Isaac shrieked happily, reaching toward Maura with both arms. She laughed softly, sitting up and smoothing down her auburn hair. "Good morning, sweetheart." She reached for Isaac, who immediately gave her a wet kiss on the cheek, content now that both his parents were awake.

Arthur watched them together, his journal forgotten on his lap. Sometimes he still couldn't believe this was his life. After years of violence and uncertainty, of never knowing what tomorrow might bring, he had this, a  family, a home of sorts, even if it was just canvas and stolen moments.

"What were you writing?" Maura asked, noticing the journal.

"Not writing, drawing" Arthur said, suddenly feeling bashful. “You and him.” Gesturing to her and Isaac. "Wanted to remember it."

She leaned over to look at the sketch, careful not to disturb Isaac. "It's beautiful," she said softly. 

“I didn’t know you had this kind of talent.” She smiled, her fingers tracing the lines of his work. Arthur shrugged feeling embarrassed by her attention. 

For a moment, they sat in comfortable silence, Isaac playing with the buttons on Maura's nightgown while she and Arthur simply looked at each other. The morning light continued to filter through the tent, casting everything in gold, and Arthur thought he could stay in this moment forever.

Their quiet moment was shattered by Mrs. Grimshaw's voice rising from across camp, sharp and angry enough to wake half the gang.

"You little hussy!” 

Arthur's head snapped up, his jaw tightening as he recognized the venom in the older woman's tone. Isaac jumped at the sudden noise, pressing closer to his mother’s chest. 

"What's happening?" she whispered, sitting up straighter.

"Don't know yet," Arthur murmured, but his free hand was already moving toward his gun belt out of habit. "Stay here with Isaac."

Across the camp, Mrs. Grimshaw stood with her hands on her hips, her face flushed with indignation as she faced down Abigail Roberts. The younger woman stood her ground, chin raised defiantly despite the obvious fear in her eyes.

"You can't just throw me out!" Abigail's voice cracked with desperation. "I got nowhere else to go!"

"Should've thought about that before you spread your legs for every outlaw from here to Saint Denis," Mrs. Grimshaw spat. "We can't afford another mouth to feed, especially not some bastard child."

"That's enough." Dutch's voice cut through the tension as he emerged from his tent, Hosea close behind. Other gang members were beginning to gather, drawn by the commotion.

Arthur stood slowly, passing Isaac to Maura. "I better see what this is about."

"A pregnant woman, Dutch," Mrs. Grimshaw continued, her voice rising. "In our condition, moving from place to place, always one step ahead of the law. It ain't practical."

Abigail's face went pale, but her voice remained steady. "So what, you're gonna leave me to die?” 

"It's about survival, girl. Something you clearly don't understand."

"Wait just a minute," Abigail's voice cracked with desperation, but she wasn't angry, just confused and hurt. She gestured toward Arthur and Maura's tent, her tone almost pleading. "I don't understand. Maureen's got a child in camp. Why is that different?"

The camp fell silent. Arthur felt every eye turn toward him and his family. Maura's grip tightened on Isaac, who had gone quiet, sensing the tension.

Mrs. Grimshaw's face darkened. "That's completely different and you know it."

"But how?" Abigail asked, her voice breaking slightly. "I'm not trying to cause trouble for anyone, I just... I need to understand what makes my situation so different. Why is Isaac welcome here but my baby won't be?"

Arthur found himself caught off guard by the genuine confusion in her voice. She wasn't attacking his family, she was drowning and looking for any lifeline she could find.

Maura stood slowly, Isaac balanced on her hip. Her voice was gentle but firm. “I agree with Miss Roberts. It’s clear that someone in this camp is responsible for her situation.” 

Mrs. Grimshaw huffed at the comment. Abigail looked between Maura and Mrs. Grimshaw. “There's got to be some reason why one child is acceptable and another ain't.” 

“Well for one do you even know who the father is?” Mrs. Grimshaw interjected harshly.

Arthur saw Abigail flinch as if she'd been struck. The cruelty of it made his stomach turn, even if he understood Mrs. Grimshaw's concerns.

Dutch held up his hand. "Enough. Everyone just... calm down." He looked between the two women, then at Arthur and Maura. "This is something we need to discuss as a group."

"Ain't nothing to discuss," Mrs. Grimshaw said firmly. "Girl made her choice. Now she's gotta live with it."

"Or die with it," Abigail whispered, one hand moving protectively to her still-flat stomach.

Arthur found himself caught between his loyalty to the gang and his growing unease with the situation. He looked at Maura, who was watching the scene with troubled eyes, Isaac now fussing in her arms.

"Maybe we should—" he began.

"No," Mrs. Grimshaw cut him off. "Don't you start getting soft on me, Arthur Morgan. This gang's got rules for a reason."

The standoff continued, tension crackling in the morning air like electricity before a storm. "That's enough," Maura said sharply, stepping forward with Isaac still in her arms. "There's no call for that kind of talk."

Mrs. Grimshaw turned her glare on Maura. "Don't you start—"

“Abigail's right.” Maura cut her off, her voice steady but fierce. “She has just as much right to be here as anyone else.”

“Maura—" Arthur began, but she whirled on him.

"Don't you dare try to manage me right now, Arthur Morgan." Her eyes flashed with anger. "A woman is being cast out to die, and you're worried about camp politics?"

Arthur held up his hands. "I'm just saying we need to think about this practically. Mrs. Grimshaw's got some valid concerns about—"

"Valid concerns?" Maura's voice rose, making Isaac whimper. She bounced him gently while keeping her furious gaze on Arthur. "What exactly are you trying to say?"

"I'm not saying anything against Abigail," Arthur said carefully. "But we gotta consider what's best for everyone."

“Was bringing your newborn son to camp in everyone’s interest, Arthur Morgan?” She had never taken such a sharp tone with him before.The words hit Arthur like a physical blow. He saw Dutch step forward, clearly uncomfortable with the direction the argument was taking.

"Now hold on," Dutch said. "We're all on the same side here."

"Are we?" Maura asked, her voice cold as she looked at Arthur. "Because it sounds like some of us are willing to sacrifice a pregnant woman to make things easier."

Arthur felt the eyes of the entire camp on him. "That ain't what I'm saying, and you know it."

"Then what are you saying?" Maura demanded. "Because from where I'm standing, it sounds like you're trying to find reasons to justify throwing Abigail out."

"I'm trying to find a solution that works for everyone," Arthur said, his own temper starting to rise.

"There is a solution," Maura pointed at Abigail. "We help her.”

Mrs. Grimshaw scoffed. "Pretty words, but who's gonna feed that baby? Who's gonna keep it quiet when we're hiding from the law?" 

"The same people who fed and protected Isaac," Maura replied without hesitation.  

"I just think we need to consider all the angles," he said weakly.

"No," Maura said firmly. “There is only one angle.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Arthur felt like he'd been stripped bare in front of the entire gang, and the worst part was, he wasn't sure Maura was wrong. 

"Come on, Abigail," Maura said quietly, adjusting Isaac on her hip. "Let's go for a walk."

She didn't look back at Arthur as she headed toward the edge of camp, Abigail following hesitantly behind her. Arthur started to follow, but Maura's voice stopped him cold.

"Don't."

The single word carried enough finality that Arthur stayed rooted to the spot, watching his wife and son disappear into the trees with Abigail. The rest of the gang began to disperse, the show apparently over, but Arthur could feel their eyes on him, their judgment.

Maura led them to a fallen log near the stream, far enough from camp that they wouldn't be overheard. She settled Isaac on her lap, letting him play with the wildflowers growing nearby while she and Abigail sat in the dappled sunlight.

"I'm sorry," Abigail said after a long moment. "I didn't mean to cause trouble between you and your husband."

"You didn't cause anything," Maura replied firmly. "Arthur did that all by himself." She watched Isaac grab at a dandelion, his face scrunched in concentration. "Sometimes I forget that men can be cowards about the things that matter most." 

Abigail was quiet for a moment, then asked softly, "How do you do it? Make it look so easy, I mean. Being a mother in this life."

Maura let out a bitter laugh. "You think this is easy?" She gestured back toward camp. "Isaac's poor mother died giving birth to him.” She combed her fingers through Isaac’s downy hair. “Dutch wanted Arthur to abandon Isaac with some local family, but he refused. Nearly tore their relationship apart.” 

"Arthur was lost," Maura continued, her voice matter-of-fact. "Had this tiny baby and no idea what to do with him. I was... in trouble with the law. Arthur needed someone to care for Isaac, and I needed protection. It was a practical arrangement." 

"But you love him now?" Abigail asked.

Maura was quiet for a long moment, watching Isaac try to catch a butterfly. "I don't know about that," she said finally. "I love Isaac and I…care about Arthur. But love?" She paused. "What I do know is that Isaac needs stability, and Arthur... Arthur tries hard to be a good father, even when he's being a fool about everything else."

“You don’t have to stay.” Abigail pointed out. 

“I can’t leave my son, and I certainly couldn’t take Isaac away from his father. It would kill him. The best thing for all three of us is to make it work.” She looked at Abigail.

Abigail picked at the bark on the log. "At least Arthur acknowledges Isaac is his. At least he wants to be a father.” 

What do you mean?"

Abigail was quiet for so long that Maura thought she wouldn't answer. Finally, she whispered, "It's John's. The baby. But he won't even look at me anymore, acts like I'm some kind of disease."

Maura felt her heart sink. She knew it was a real possibility with the way that John had been pining after her for months.

“Soon as I told him, he started making excuses about why it couldn't be his, about how I'd been with other men."

"Had you?"

"Not for months," Abigail said quietly. "Not since I got here. But that don't matter now, does it? He's convinced himself it ain't his problem."

Maura shifted Isaac to her other knee, her mind racing. "Does Dutch know?"

"I don't think so. And I ain't about to tell him, not if John won't stand up and claim what's his." Abigail's voice cracked. "Maybe Mrs. Grimshaw's right. Maybe I should just go."

"No." Maura's voice was fierce. "You're not going anywhere. That baby deserves better than to be born on the road with no one to help. And you deserve better than to be thrown away like garbage."

"But if John won't—"

"Then John's a coward.” 

Maura stood up, settling Isaac on her hip. "But that doesn't change what's right. You're staying, and we're going to figure this out."

Abigail looked up at her with tears in her eyes. "Why? Why would you fight for me? We barely know each other.” 

Maura was quiet for a moment, thinking of her own desperate flight from the law, of arriving at camp with nothing but the clothes on her back. “I’ve been desperate before. I know what it feels like.” 

Maura bit the inside of her lip, mulling whether or not she should trust Abigail with her revelation. “I’ve been pregnant with no one to turn to.” she said quietly. 

Abigail furrowed her brow. “But I thought you said Isaac-” 

“I was married before Arthur, and it was a very bad situation. I knew I would be trapped if I had that baby. There was a nun who helped me end my pregnancy.” Abigail nodded sympathetically. 

“I’ve never told anyone else.” 

Abigail reached over and squeezed Maura's hand. "Thank you for telling me. And for fighting for me."

"We have to look out for each other," Maura said simply. "Especially when the men in our lives forget how to be decent."

They sat in comfortable silence for a while, watching Isaac chase after a butterfly that kept landing just out of his reach. Finally, Maura stood and brushed off her skirt.

"Come on. Let's go back. And don't let anyone make you feel ashamed about this baby. You hear me?"

Abigail nodded, wiping her eyes. "What about Arthur?"

Maura's jaw tightened. "Arthur can sleep under the stars for all I care. You're staying with me until we get this sorted out."

When Maura and Abigail returned to camp, Arthur was waiting near their tent, Isaac reached out for his father and Maura deposited the boy into his arms, careful to avoid any sort of contact with him. 

"Maura, can we—"

"The father is John Marston," she said quietly, her voice like ice. "In case you were wondering."

Arthur felt his stomach drop. He glanced at Abigail, who was looking at the ground, then back at Maura. "John? Are you sure?"

"She's sure. And so am I." Maura's brown eyes were hard as flint. "So now you know. The baby has a father in this camp, a man who's too much of a coward to claim what's his."

Arthur ran a hand through his hair. "If John's the father, then maybe—"

"Maybe what, Arthur? Maybe it's more convenient now?” Maura's voice was sharp enough to cut glass. 

"That ain't what I meant."

Isaac started fussing in his arms clearly attuned to the argument happening around him. “I have things to do.” She said coldly but reached out to take the boy back. Arthur shook his head. “I got him.” She nodded and turned without another word. 

Arthur watched them walk away, feeling more lost than ever. He'd thought knowing the father might make things clearer, but instead it only made his position more complicated. John was practically family, had been with them for years. But he was also young, irresponsible, and clearly terrified of the situation he'd created.

The next three days passed in a cold war that had the entire camp walking on eggshells. Maura moved Abigail’s belongings into their tent, pointedly ignoring Arthur's increasingly desperate attempts to talk to her. She was civil when necessary, accepting his help with Isaac, acknowledging his presence at meals, but the warmth that usually existed between them had frozen solid.

Arthur sat by the dying campfire, poking at the embers with a stick. Most of the gang had turned in for the night, but sleep seemed as distant as Maura's forgiveness. He could hear Isaac's soft noises from the tent, followed by Maura's gentle hushing, and the sound made his chest ache with loneliness.

"You look like a man with the weight of the world on his shoulders."

Arthur looked up to find Hosea approaching, two cups of coffee in his hands. The older man settled beside him on the log, offering one of the cups.

"Thanks," Arthur muttered, accepting the coffee gratefully.

They sat in comfortable silence for a while, watching the fire crackle and pop. Finally, Hosea spoke.

"You know, I've been watching this whole situation unfold, and I have to say, I'm disappointed in you, Arthur."

Arthur's jaw tightened. "Not you too."

"Yes, me too." Hosea's voice was calm but firm. "That girl is scared and alone, and instead of doing what's right, you're worried about camp politics."

"It ain't that simple, Hosea. We got limited resources, and Dutch—"

"Dutch, Dutch, Dutch." Hosea shook his head. "When did Dutch's opinion become more important than your own moral compass?"

Arthur stared into his coffee. "He's kept us together all these years. His judgment—"

"His judgment isn't infallible, son. And neither is his word law." Hosea leaned forward. "You have a good heart, Arthur. I've seen it. So why are you letting fear override it now?"

"I ain't scared of nothing."

"No?" Hosea raised an eyebrow. "Then why are you sleeping out here on your own? Why are you letting the woman who took in your son think less of you?"

Arthur was quiet for a long moment. "What if Dutch decides we can't afford to keep Abigail? What if he kicks John out too?"

"And what if he doesn't? What if you're borrowing trouble that ain't even there?" Hosea sipped his coffee. "But even if he did, would that change what's right?"

Arthur didn't answer.

"Let me ask you something," Hosea continued. "When Isaac was born, when his mother died, what did Dutch want you to do?"

Arthur's hands tightened around his cup. "He wanted me to find a family to take him. Said a baby had no place in this life."

"And what did you do?"

"I kept him."

"You kept him," Hosea repeated. "You stood up to Dutch, risked his anger, because you knew it was right. And look how that turned out. You got yourself a fine son and a good woman.”

Arthur looked toward the tent where Maura and Isaac were sleeping. "She won't even talk to me."

"Can you blame her? She's watching you abandon everything she thought she knew about your character." Hosea's voice was gentle but cutting. "That woman gave up her freedom to help you raise Isaac. She could have left a us a long time ago but she stayed because of you and your boy.” 

"I'm trying to think about what's best for everyone."

"No, you're trying to avoid making a hard choice. There's a difference." Hosea stood up, brushing off his pants. "You know what needs to be done, Arthur. The question is whether you're brave enough to do it."

Arthur watched the older man walk away, then looked back at the dying fire. In the distance, he could hear Isaac crying softly, and Maura's voice singing a lullaby. The sound made his decision for him.

"And what about loyalty? What about everything Dutch has done for us?"

"What about everything Maureen's done for you?" Hosea countered. "She took in your son, Arthur. Made him her own. Gave you a family when you thought you'd never have one. And now you're willing to watch another woman get cast out because it's inconvenient?"

Arthur watched the older man walk away, then looked back at the dying fire. In the distance, he could hear Isaac crying softly, and Maura's voice singing a lullaby. Arthur was quiet for a long moment. "I don't know what to do."

"Yes, you do. You're just scared to do it."

On the third night, Arthur couldn't take it anymore. He'd watched Maura care for Isaac during the day, seen her gentle kindness with Abigail, and felt the growing distance between them like a physical pain. After everyone had gone to sleep, he approached their tent.

"Maura?" he whispered. "Can we talk?"

"No." Her voice was muffled but firm.

"Please. I know you’re upset, but—"

He stood there for a moment longer, then walked away, his shoulders slumped in defeat.

The next morning, Arthur found himself watching John at breakfast. The younger man was pointedly avoiding looking in Abigail's direction, and every time Isaac toddled near him, John would find an excuse to move away. Arthur had seen enough.

"Marston," he said quietly. "We need to talk."

"About what?"

"You know what. Meet me at the saloon in Valentine after lunch. Just you and me."

John's face went pale, but he nodded.

The saloon in Valentine was nearly empty in the early afternoon, just a few locals nursing their drinks and the bartender polishing glasses. Arthur ordered two whiskeys and waited. John arrived ten minutes later, looking like a man heading to his own execution.

"Drink," Arthur said, sliding the glass across the table.

John downed it in one gulp. "I know what this is about."

"Do you?" Arthur leaned back in his chair. "Because I'm not sure you do."

"It ain't mine, Arthur. I don't care what she says—"

"Stop." Arthur's voice was quiet but carried enough authority to make John shut his mouth. "I ain't asking you what you think. I'm telling you what I know."

John shifted uncomfortably. "You don't know nothing."

"I know you've been sniffing around Abigail for months. I know you disappeared for a whole night around the time she would've gotten pregnant. And I know you're running scared because you can't face up to what you done."

"She's been with other men—"

"Not for months, and you know it." Arthur leaned forward. "Look at me, John. Look me in the eye and tell me that baby ain't yours."

John opened his mouth, then closed it again. His hands shook as he reached for his empty glass.

"That's what I thought." Arthur signaled the bartender for another round. "Now, you listen to me, and you listen good. I spent the last two years scared out of my mind. Didn't know nothing about being a father, didn't think I'd be any good at it. But you know what I learned?"

John didn't answer.

"I learned that being a father ain't about being perfect. It's about showing up. It's about taking responsibility for what you've done and trying to do right by your kid."

"What if I can't?" John's voice was barely a whisper. "What if I'm no good at it?"

"Then you learn. Same as I did. Same as every man who's ever had a child." Arthur's voice softened slightly. "But you don't run away. You don't leave that woman to face it alone."

John was quiet for a long moment. "Dutch won't like it."

"Probably not. But Dutch ain't the one who's gonna have to live with himself if something happens to Abigail or that baby." Arthur finished his whiskey. "And I'll tell you something else, my wife won't speak to me because I was more worried about keeping Dutch happy than doing what was right. Don't make the same mistake I did."

"Your wife's a good woman," John said quietly.

"Yes, she is. And she's willing to fight for Abigail when the rest of us were ready to throw her to the wolves." Arthur stood up. "You think about what I said. And John? If you decide to do the right thing, you'll have my support."

Arthur returned to camp as the sun was setting, his mind clearer than it had been in days. He found Maura sitting by the stream, Isaac splashing in the shallow water under her watchful eye. She looked up when he approached, but didn't speak.

"I talked to John," he said quietly.

She raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"Told him he needs to step up. Take responsibility for what he's done."

Maura was quiet for a moment, then asked, "And what did he say?"

"He's scared. But I think he'll do the right thing." Arthur sat down beside her, careful to leave some distance between them. "I was wrong, Maura. About Abigail, about the whole situation. I let my loyalty to Dutch cloud my judgment."

"Yes, you did."

Arthur winced at the coldness in her voice. "I know you're angry—"

"I'm not angry anymore, Arthur. I'm disappointed." She lifted Isaac out of the water and dried him off with a linen sheet. "I thought I knew who you were. I thought you were better than this."

“I'm trying to be."

"Are you? Or are you just saying what you think I want to hear?"

Arthur was quiet for a long moment. "When Eliza died," he said finally, "I was so scared. Scared I'd mess him up, scared I wasn't good enough to be his father. But you... you never doubted that he belonged with us. You never questioned it at all." She still wouldn’t look at him. 

"I should have done the same for Abigail.”

Maura's expression softened slightly.  "I told John I'd support him if he decides to claim his child. Whatever Dutch says." 

"And if Dutch doesn't like it?"

Arthur met her eyes. "Then Dutch and I will have words. Some things are more important than keeping the peace." For the first time in days, Maura's expression showed a hint of approval. Isaac squirmed in Maura's arms, reaching for Arthur. She let him take the boy without a fuss. 

Maura stood and crossed her arms over her chest. “When John talks to Dutch, you can come back.” She stated firmly but there was a hint of hopefulness in her tone. She gathered Isaacs scattered items around the riverbed and left him there holding his son. 

He watched her walk back towards camp. “Think your mama will forgive me?” The boys only response was to reach up and start to yank at his hair and giggle when Arthur winced. 

By nightfall, Arthur found John by the horses, nervously checking and rechecking his saddle. The younger man looked like he hadn't slept.

"You talk to Dutch yet?" Arthur asked.

"No," John muttered. "Keep thinking of reasons to put it off."

"The longer you wait, the harder it gets."

John's hands stilled on the leather. "What if he kicks me out? What if he decides both of us ain't worth the trouble?"

Arthur considered this for a moment. “That ain’t gonna happen.” 

"Easy for you to say. You're his golden boy. Dutch would forgive you for murder."

"Dutch ain't the one who matters here," Arthur said firmly. "That baby's gonna be born whether Dutch likes it or not.” He patted the younger man on the shoulder. “C’mon now Marston.” 

They found Dutch in his tent, reading a book and smoking a cigar. He looked up when they approached, his expression curious.

"Arthur, John. What can I do for you?"

John opened his mouth, then closed it again.

"Dutch," John began, his voice cracking slightly. “There’s a possibility…” Arthur shot him a hard look. “Well more than a possibility that Abigail’s baby is mine.” 

Dutch set down his book slowly. "I see."

"I know you got concerns about another mouth to feed," John continued. "But I'll work harder. I'll take on extra jobs.” 

Dutch sat back to his chair, picking up his cigar again. "You understand that acknowledging this child means taking full responsibility for both mother and baby? Not just when it's convenient?"

"Yes, sir."

Dutch took a long drag from his cigar. "Very well. Miss Roberts stays. But John, if you ever try to shirk your responsibilities again, you'll answer to me. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir. Thank you, Dutch."

"Don't thank me yet," Dutch said dryly. "Go tell Mrs. Grimshaw about your decision. And John? You might want to start by apologizing to Miss Roberts for your behavior."

John nodded and hurried off, leaving Arthur alone with Dutch. The older man shook his head. “This place is starting to turn into a goddamn nursery.” He picked his book back up, a clear dismissal. 

Slowly he walked back towards his shared tent, wondering if this was the night that Maura would let him back. He saw John and Abigail at the edge of camp clearly having some sort of heated discussion. 

He pushed the canvas back and watched silently as Maura stroked Isaac’s dark hair and read to him from a tattered old book she had borrowed from Hosea. Isaac eyes were heavy as he listened to the soothing lilt of Maura’s voice. As the boys eyes started to flutter closed, Maura placed the book to the side. 

“Everything settled?” She asked simply. He nodded and she gave him a small smile and beckoned him further. He slid off his boots and laid down on bedroll with Isaac positioned between them. 

She leaned over and dimmed the kerosene lamp until it was just bright enough to make out each other’s shapes in the night.“ Am I back in your good graces?” 

She hummed softly. “Only if you put Isaac to bed. I’m too tired to pick him up.” 

Arthur chuckled and scooped the boy up in his arms and placed him in his makeshift crib. Isaac whined for a moment before settling down into the tiny bed. Arthur brought the blankets up around his shoulders and removed the boy’s thumb from his mouth, a habit they had been trying hard to break him from. 

Finally, he was able to strip down and slide into bed next to his wife. She blew out the lamp, plunging them into darkness. Without saying anything she moved until she was securely in his arms. He wrapped an arm around her middle and pulled her into his chest. 

They listened to Isaac's soft breathing and the distant sounds of camp settling down for the night. Arthur's hand found its way to Maura's hair, fingers threading through the auburn strands he'd missed touching.

"I couldn't sleep," he admitted quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. "These past few nights, I kept reaching for you and you weren't there."

"I know," she murmured against his chest. "I could hear you tossing and turning. I wanted to come to you, but..."

"But I was being a fool."

"A stubborn fool," she corrected gently, but there was no heat in it anymore.

Arthur tightened his arms around her, breathing in the familiar scent of her hair. "I won't make that mistake again.” 

"Arthur?" Maura's voice was soft, drowsy.

"Mmm?"

Instead of speaking, she shifted up slightly and found his lips with hers in the darkness. It was a gentle kiss, unhurried and forgiving. When they broke apart, she settled back against his chest with a contented sigh.

"Good night," she whispered.

"Good night," he replied, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

Chapter Text

The oppressive heat of the desert was nearly unbearable as they crossed into New Austin. What had started as a tactical retreat from the Heartlands after a botched train robbery had turned into a slow, miserable march through increasingly hostile terrain. Arthur pulled his hat lower over his eyes and adjusted his grip on the reins, trying to ignore the way his shirt stuck to his back with sweat.

Behind him, he could hear Isaac's fretful crying from the wagon where Maura sat with their belongings. The boy had been inconsolable for the past hour, his small face red and blotchy from the heat. Even Abigail, now visibly showing at five months pregnant, looked wilted despite the makeshift canopy John had rigged over part of the wagon.

"How much further?" John called out, his voice strained with exhaustion.

"Not far now," Dutch replied from the head of the column, though Arthur could hear the uncertainty in his voice. They'd been saying "not far" for the past three hours.

Arthur guided his horse closer to the wagon. "Here, let me take him for a while," he said, reaching for Isaac. The boy's clothes were damp with perspiration, and his usual cheerful babbling had been replaced by tired whimpers.

"Poor little thing," Maura murmured, carefully passing Isaac to Arthur. "He's never been in heat like this before."

Arthur settled Isaac in front of him on the saddle, using his body to shield the boy from the worst of the sun. "We'll find some shade soon, son," he murmured, though he wasn't sure he believed it himself.

The landscape stretched endlessly in all directions, nothing but scrub brush, cacti, and red dirt baked hard as brick. It was beautiful in its own harsh way, but Arthur found himself longing for the green hills and cool streams of the Heartlands.

"This is all John's fault," Sean's voice carried from somewhere behind them. "If he hadn't gotten spooked and started shooting early—"

"That's enough," Arthur called back sharply. The last thing they needed was to relitigate the failed job. They'd all made mistakes during the train robbery, but John had been taking the brunt of the blame for days now.

Mrs. Grimshaw's voice rose from another wagon. "I don't care whose fault it is. We need to find shelter before nightfall, or we'll have more problems than just a botched job."

Arthur glanced back at Abigail, who was fanning herself with a folded newspaper. Her face was pale despite the heat, and she kept shifting uncomfortably on the wagon seat. John rode beside her, casting worried glances her way every few minutes.

"She needs water," Arthur said quietly to Maura. "And rest. This heat ain't good for someone in her condition."

"I know." Maura's voice was tight with worry. "I've been watching her. She's been getting these pains on and off for the past hour."

Arthur felt a knot form in his stomach. "What kind of pains?"

"The kind that makes a woman worry," Maura said simply.

Before Arthur could respond, Dutch's voice rang out from ahead. "There! Cholla Springs!"

Arthur looked up to see a cluster of buildings wavering in the heat haze. It wasn't much, a few ramshackle structures that looked like they'd been abandoned for years, but it was shelter. More importantly, Arthur could see the glint of water reflecting the late afternoon sun.

"Thank God," Maura breathed.

The next hour was a blur of activity as they set up camp in and around the abandoned buildings. Arthur helped Maura establish a makeshift nursery in what had once been a storefront, hanging blankets to create shade and privacy. Isaac had finally stopped crying, but he remained listless in the heat.

"We need to cool him down," Maura said, examining the boy's flushed face. "The spring water—"

"I'll get some," Arthur said, already heading for the door.

The spring was a blessing, clear, cold water bubbling up from somewhere deep underground. Arthur filled several canteens and a washbasin.

Isaac's eyes went wide as she lowered him into the cool water, and for the first time all day, he smiled. He splashed happily, and Arthur felt some of the tension leave his shoulders.

"That's better," Maura murmured, using a wet cloth to cool the boy's face and neck. "Much better."

A commotion from outside made them both look up. Through the thin walls, they could hear raised voices.

"—told you to slow down! She can't take this pace!"

"Don't you dare blame this on me, Marston!"

Arthur and Maura exchanged glances. "Stay with Isaac," Arthur said, reaching for his gun belt.

Outside, he found John and Bill squared off near the wagons, with Abigail sitting on a crate between them, her face gray with pain. Mrs. Grimshaw knelt beside her, looking grim.

"What's going on?" Arthur demanded.

"Miss Roberts has heat sickness," Jenny said a hint of panic in her voice. 

"She's burning up and can barely keep water down." Mrs. Grimshaw said without looking up. 

Arthur's stomach clenched. Heat sickness could be dangerous for anyone, but for a pregnant woman it could be deadly. 

"John, start filling that old washtub. Bill, make yourself useful somewhere else."

"The heat," Abigail gasped, gripping the edge of the crate. "Everything's spinning. I can't—"

"You can and you will," Mrs. Grimshaw said firmly. "We're gonna get your temperature down and get some fluids in you."

Arthur found himself standing uselessly as the women took charge. Maura appeared at his side, having left Isaac with Hosea.

"What can I do?" she asked Mrs. Grimshaw.

"Get her into shade. Real shade, not this half-hearted attempt. And we need cool water, lots of it."

The next few hours passed in a haze of activity. They moved Abigail into the most sheltered building, rigging blankets and canvas to block out every ray of sun. Maura and Mrs. Grimshaw worked together with an efficiency born of crisis, using cool water to bring down Abigail's fever and forcing small sips of water past her lips when she could keep them down.

Arthur found himself relegated to keeping John calm and Isaac entertained, both of which proved challenging. John paced like a caged animal, alternating between blaming himself and everyone else for their situation. Isaac, meanwhile, had become clingy and fretful in the strange new environment. He constantly whined for his mama who was busy with Abigail. 

"Is she gonna be all right?" John asked for the tenth time, staring at the building where Abigail lay.

"She's strong," Arthur said, though he wasn't sure he believed it himself. "And Mrs. Grimshaw knows what she's doing."

"It's my fault," John muttered. "I shouldn't have pushed for us to keep moving. I should have—"

"You should have done exactly what you did," Arthur interrupted. "We all needed to get out of there. Abigail knew that."

Dutch appeared at Arthur's elbow, his usual composure cracked around the edges. "How is she?"

"Fever's coming down," Arthur replied. "Mrs. Grimshaw thinks the worst has passed."

"Good." Dutch's relief was palpable. "Good. We can't afford to lose anyone else."

The comment hung in the air like a stone. They'd nearly lost two men in the botched train job, and the mood in camp had been dark ever since. Adding another crisis to their troubles felt like the last straw.

As night fell, the heat finally began to ease. Arthur sat outside the makeshift medical tent, Isaac asleep in his arms, listening to the soft murmur of voices from within. Maura emerged occasionally to update him. Abigail's fever had broken, she was keeping water down, and the immediate crisis had passed.

"She needs rest," Maura said during one of these updates. "Complete rest, for at least a few days. And we need to keep her out of this heat."

"We can't stay here long," Arthur said quietly. "This place is too exposed. Too close to the main roads."

"Then we'll have to make it work," Maura replied firmly. "Because moving her right now, in this condition, could make her sick again."

Arthur nodded, understanding the implications. They were stuck in Cholla Springs, like it or not.

The next morning brought no relief from the heat. If anything, it seemed worse, the sun climbing relentlessly in a cloudless sky. Arthur woke to find Isaac fussing again, his small body hot to the touch.

"It's this damned heat," Maura said, joining him by the spring where he'd brought Isaac to cool off. "It's too much for him."

"It's too much for all of us," Arthur replied, watching as Isaac played listlessly in the shallow water. Around them, the camp was stirring slowly, everyone moving like they were walking through molasses.

"How's Abigail?" Arthur asked.

"Better. Fever's stayed down, and she's eating a little. But she's still weak, and this heat..." Maura shook her head. "We need to keep her cool and make sure she drinks plenty of water."

A shout from the direction of the camp made them both look up. Dutch was standing on a crate, addressing the assembled gang members.

"I know this ain't ideal," Dutch was saying, his voice carrying across the desert air. "But we're gonna make the best of it. We're safe here, we got water, and we got each other. That's what matters."

Arthur picked up Isaac and walked closer to hear better.

"Now, I know some of you are worried about our situation," Dutch continued. "But this is temporary. We'll rest, we'll regroup, and we'll come back stronger than ever."

"What about supplies?" someone called out. "We're running low on everything."

"Arthur and I will ride into Armadillo tomorrow," Dutch replied. "Get what we need. But for now, we conserve what we have and we look out for each other."

After the meeting, Arthur found himself walking the perimeter of their makeshift camp with Isaac. The boy seemed fascinated by the strange new environment, the cacti, the lizards sunning themselves on rocks, the distant call of coyotes. Despite the heat and the tension in the camp, Isaac enjoyed toddling around his new environment.

"Different from the Heartlands, ain't it, son?" Arthur murmured, adjusting his hat to better shade the boy's face. 

Isaac babbled and pointed at the sun with an accusatory finger that made Arthur chuckle despite everything.

"You're right about that," Arthur agreed. "Definitely hot."

As they walked, Arthur found himself thinking about their situation. They were isolated, vulnerable, and stuck in place by circumstances beyond their control. But watching Isaac's wide-eyed wonder at this new world, seeing the way Maura had stepped up to help Abigail, witnessing John's determination to protect his family,  it reminded him that maybe Dutch was right. Maybe they did have what mattered most.

That evening, as Arthur sat beside the spring with Maura and Isaac, watching the sun finally begin to sink toward the horizon, he felt something almost like peace. The heat was still brutal, their situation still precarious, but they were together. They were surviving.

Arthur looked at Isaac, happily splashing in the shallows despite the day's ordeal. As if sensing his father's gaze, the boy suddenly grinned mischievously and smacked his small palm against the water's surface, sending a spray of cool droplets across both his parents.

"Isaac!" Maura laughed, wiping water from her face.

Delighted by the reaction, Isaac splashed again, this time with both hands, giggling as Arthur pretended to be shocked by the sudden shower.

"Oh, you think that's funny, do you?" Arthur said, cupping his hands to gently splash the boy back. Isaac shrieked with laughter, his earlier fussiness completely forgotten.

Maura joined in, creating small waves that made Isaac bounce excitedly in the shallow water. For a few precious minutes, the harsh desert, their precarious situation, and the day's worries faded away. There was only the sound of Isaac's delighted giggles, the gentle splash of water, and the warmth of being together.

"There's my happy boy," Maura said softly, smoothing Isaac's wet hair back from his forehead. The coolness had brought color back to his cheeks, and his eyes sparkled with joy.

As the last rays of sunlight painted the desert in shades of gold and crimson, Arthur felt the familiar weight of responsibility settling back on his shoulders. The moment of peace couldn't last forever, and reality had a way of intruding even on the most precious family moments.

"We should get him dried off before the temperature drops," Maura said, as if reading his thoughts. Desert nights could be surprisingly cold, and Isaac's wet clothes would only make things worse.

Arthur lifted Isaac from the water, the boy's protests quickly turning to shivers as the evening air hit his skin. "Come on, son. Let's get you warm."

Back at their makeshift shelter, Arthur watched Maura expertly change Isaac into dry clothes while humming softly.

"Arthur." Dutch's voice cut through his reverie. The older man stood in the doorway, his face grave in the flickering lamplight. "We need to talk."

Arthur glanced at Maura, who nodded understanding. "I'll put Isaac to bed," she said quietly.

Outside, the desert had transformed into something almost beautiful. The oppressive heat had given way to a blessed coolness, and stars were beginning to appear in the darkening sky. But Arthur could tell from Dutch's posture that this wasn't a conversation he was going to enjoy.

"We got problems," Dutch said without preamble. "Sean rode back from his scouting run an hour ago. Says there's been activity on the roads leading here. Lawmen, asking questions in the towns."

Arthur's stomach tightened. "How close?"

"Close enough." Dutch pulled out a cigarette, his hands steadier than Arthur felt. "We might have a day, maybe two before they start searching these old settlements."

"Abigail can't travel yet," Arthur said immediately. "You heard what Mrs. Grimshaw said—"

"I heard." Dutch's tone was sharp. "But we might not have a choice. If they find us here, we're sitting ducks."

Arthur ran a hand through his hair, feeling the familiar weight of an impossible decision. "There's got to be another way. Maybe we could send a small group ahead, find a safer place to hole up. I could take Isaac and Maura, scout for somewhere better—"

"And leave the others here to face whatever's coming?" Dutch shook his head. "We stick together, Arthur. That's what we do."

"Even if it kills Abigail?"

The words hung between them like a challenge. Dutch's eyes flashed, but when he spoke, his voice was controlled. "Nobody's dying on my watch. Not if I can help it."

"Then what do you suggest?"

Before Dutch could answer, Sean’'s voice cut through the darkness from the camp's edge.

"Dutch! We got riders on the horizon. Looks like law."

Arthur and Dutch exchanged a look before moving quickly toward where Sean stood. In the distance, barely visible in the dying light, Arthur could make out the silhouettes of mounted figures against the desert sky.

"How many?" Dutch asked.

"Hard to say. Maybe six, seven riders. They're still a ways off, but they're heading this direction."

Arthur's stomach tightened. "We need to move. Now."

"What about Abigail?" Dutch said quietly. "She's still weak from the heat sickness."

"She'll have to manage," Arthur replied, though he hated saying it. "We don't have a choice."

They returned to the camp to find John already helping Abigail to her feet. She was steadier than she'd been earlier, but still pale and moving slowly.

"I heard," she said simply. "I can travel. I have to."

"We're taking you to a doctor first," John said firmly. 

"The nearest doctor is in Armadillo," Dutch said. "That's a hard ride, even under the best circumstances."

"Then we make it work," John replied. "I won't risk her health or the baby's."

Arthur found himself caught between competing loyalties. His instinct was to protect his own family, to get Isaac and Maura away from whatever was coming. But looking at Abigail's worried face, at John's protective stance, he knew they couldn't abandon them.

"All right," he said finally. "Here's what we're gonna do. John, you take Abigail to Armadillo and get her looked at by that doctor. Make sure she's all right after today's heat. Dutch, you take the others and head north, find somewhere safe to regroup."

"And you?" Dutch asked, though Arthur suspected he already knew the answer.

"I'm staying with my family," Arthur said firmly. "We'll follow John and Abigail to make sure they don’t run into any trouble."

"Arthur—" Dutch started, but Arthur cut him off.

"This is how it has to be. We're spread too thin, trying to move too many people at once. Smaller groups have a better chance."

For a moment, it looked like Dutch might argue. Then he nodded slowly. "All right. But we stay in contact. And if anyone gets into trouble—"

"We'll handle it," Arthur said. "We always do."

The next hour was a blur of activity as they prepared for the split. Arthur helped John hitch up the fastest horse to the lightest wagon, while Maura packed medical supplies and water. Isaac, sensing the tension, had become clingy and fretful again.

When they reached Armadillo, the doctor confirmed what they'd all feared: Abigail needed complete bed rest for the remainder of her pregnancy. "Heat exhaustion in her condition," the elderly physician explained gravely. "She was lucky. But she can't travel for at least a week, maybe two."

John's face went pale. "A week? We can't stay in town that long."

"There's a boarding house on the edge of town," the doctor suggested. "Quiet, discrete. Mrs. Patterson runs it; she's helped women in... delicate situations before."

Arthur knew what he meant. Women whose men lived outside the law.

Mrs. Patterson's boarding house sat on a dusty side street, far enough from Armadillo's main thoroughfare to avoid unwanted attention but close enough to the general store and doctor's office for convenience. It was a two-story clapboard building, weathered gray by the desert sun, with a wraparound porch that offered precious shade during the brutal afternoon hours. Arthur had expected something rough and temporary, but as Mrs. Patterson led them through the front door, he was surprised by the care evident in every detail.

The parlor was small but comfortable, with actual glass windows instead of just shutters, and curtains that looked like they'd been sewn with attention to more than just function. There were doilies on the side tables, a mantle clock that actually worked, and even a few books scattered about. Real books, not just newspapers or wanted posters. The floors were swept clean, and Arthur caught the scent of something baking in the kitchen.

"I've got two rooms ready," Mrs. Patterson said, a plump woman in her fifties with kind eyes and work-worn hands. "The smaller one for the expecting couple, and a larger one for your family. Both have proper beds, not just cots."

Arthur felt something strange stir in his chest at the words "your family." When was the last time anyone had referred to him, Maura, and Isaac that way? In the gang, they were Arthur's woman and Arthur's boy, but here, they were simply a family seeking shelter.

The room Mrs. Patterson showed them was nothing fancy, but it felt like a palace after weeks of sleeping on bedrolls under the stars. There was a real bed with a proper mattress, a washstand with a mirror, and even a small chest of drawers. A window looked out onto the boarding house's back garden, where Arthur could see clotheslines swaying in the breeze and a small vegetable patch.

"There's a communal dining room downstairs," Mrs. Patterson explained. "Breakfast at seven, dinner at six. I ask that guests be respectful of the quiet hours after nine in the evening." She paused, studying Arthur's face. "And I don't ask questions about a man's business, long as he pays his bills and causes no trouble."

After she left, Arthur stood in the middle of the room, unsure what to do with himself. Isaac had immediately claimed the bed, bouncing on the mattress with delighted squeals while Maura unpacked their few belongings. The normalcy of it all felt almost foreign.

Maura ran her fingers along the quilted bedspread. “I can’t remember the last time I slept in a real bed.” 

Arthur couldn't remember. Years, certainly. Maybe longer. He watched as she moved about the room, arranging their things with the efficiency of someone who'd learned to make any space feel like home. But this was different. This actually could be home, at least for a while.

"Papa! Up!" Isaac demanded, reaching his arms toward Arthur from beside the bed.

Arthur lifted Isaac onto the bed, where the boy immediately began patting the soft mattress with wonder. "Yes!" Isaac said, one of his clearer words, and Arthur's heart clenched at the simple pleasure in his son's voice.

That evening, they ate dinner in the communal dining room with the other guests. There was a traveling salesman, a widow visiting her sister, and an elderly couple who'd been staying at the boarding house for three months while their own home was being repaired. Normal people, living normal lives. Arthur found himself relaxing in a way he hadn't in months.

Isaac charmed everyone at the table, clapping his hands and babbling "more" and "yes" while pointing at his food. The older woman made exaggerated faces that sent Isaac into fits of giggles, his whole body shaking with delight. Maura chatted easily with the other women about recipes and the weather, looking more at ease than Arthur had seen her since they'd left the Heartlands. Even John seemed to find some peace, sitting close to Abigail and making sure she ate every bite of her dinner.

"Your boy's got quite the appetite," Mrs. Patterson commented, watching Isaac demolish a plate of mashed potatoes.

"He's been fussy with the travel," Maura explained. "But he seems to like it here."

"Children do better with routine," the elderly woman added kindly. "All that moving around, it's hard on little ones."

Arthur felt a pang of guilt. Isaac had never known routine, never had a proper home. His whole life had been wagons and camps and hasty departures in the middle of the night. What kind of father did that make him?

After dinner, they sat on the front porch while Isaac toddled around with his wooden horse that Maura had dug out of one of their bags. The boy was fascinated by the toy, pushing it along the porch boards and making "neigh" sounds that were close approximations of horse noises. The desert air was finally beginning to cool, and Arthur found himself actually relaxing for the first time in weeks.

"He's happy," Maura said softly, following his gaze.

"Yeah, he is."

"I know this is temporary, but... it's nice."

Arthur squeezed her hand, but the word "temporary" stuck in his mind like a thorn. Everything in their life was temporary. Every moment of peace, every small happiness, all of it built on borrowed time.

The next morning, Arthur woke to sunlight streaming through real glass windows and the sound of Isaac's contented babbling from where he lay between his parents. For just a moment, before full consciousness returned, Arthur felt completely at peace. This was what mornings should be like. Waking up in a real bed, in a real room, with his family safe beside him.

Maura was already awake, watching Isaac play with his own toes. "Morning," she whispered.

"Morning." Arthur reached over to ruffle Isaac's hair. "Sleep well?"

"Like the dead. That mattress is a miracle after all those bedrolls."

They dressed slowly, taking their time in a way that felt luxurious. Arthur helped Isaac into his clothes while Maura brushed her hair in front of the mirror. Such simple acts, but they felt profound in their normalcy.

Breakfast was another revelation. Mrs. Patterson had made flapjacks, real ones with syrup, and there was fresh milk for Isaac. Arthur watched his son's face light up with each bite, syrup getting everywhere despite Maura's attempts to keep him clean.

"Good?" Arthur asked.

Isaac agreed emphatically, sticky hands reaching for more.

After breakfast, while Maura helped Mrs. Patterson with some sewing in exchange for their room and board, Arthur took Isaac to explore the small town. It was nothing like the bustling cities back east, but it had everything a person needed: a general store, a blacksmith, a church, even a small schoolhouse.

Arthur found himself imagining what it would be like to live here permanently. Isaac could go to that schoolhouse when he was older, learn to read and write properly. Maybe Arthur could find work at the stable or help the blacksmith. Honest work, the kind that didn't require looking over his shoulder or sleeping with a gun under his pillow.

"Papa!" Isaac pointed excitedly at a mare tied outside the general store.

"That's right, son. A horse."

Isaac reached his arms up, the universal toddler signal for wanting to be picked up. Arthur obliged, lifting the boy so he could get a better look at the mare. But as they walked, Arthur found himself thinking about teaching Isaac to ride properly, not just sitting in front of him on the saddle but actually learning horsemanship. In a normal life, that would be a father's privilege. Teaching his son to ride, to fish, to hunt. All the things a man should pass on to his boy.

They spent the afternoon in the small garden behind the boarding house. Mrs. Patterson had given Isaac an old wooden spoon and a small pot, and he was "helping" Arthur tend to the tomato plants. The boy was more interested in digging holes and trying to put dirt in his mouth than actually gardening, but Arthur found himself charmed by his son's enthusiasm for exploration.

"No, no," Arthur said gently, catching Isaac before he could eat another handful of soil. "Dirt's not for eating, son."

Isaac looked at him with wide, innocent eyes, then immediately reached for another handful. Arthur laughed despite himself, redirecting the boy's attention to the earthworms instead.

Maura appeared in the doorway, sleeves rolled up from her sewing work. "How are my gardeners doing?"

"Isaac's discovered worms," Arthur reported.

She laughed, settling down on the garden bench to watch them work. "Mrs. Patterson says we're welcome to stay as long as we need. She likes having Isaac around. Says he brightens up the place."

Arthur felt that dangerous warmth in his chest again. The idea of staying, of building something here, felt almost possible. "That's kind of her."

Arthur's hands stilled on the tomato plant as he watched Isaac toddle between the garden rows, completely absorbed in his exploration. The boy looked so natural here, so content. Arthur found himself imagining what it would be like if this was permanent, if Isaac could play in this garden every day, if he could watch his son grow up in one place instead of constantly moving from camp to camp.

The thought crept in unbidden: what would it be like to have more children? To watch Maura's belly grow round, to have Isaac become a big brother. A little girl, maybe, with Maura's eyes and gentle nature. Or another boy for Isaac to play with, to teach and protect.

That evening, after Isaac had been put to bed, Arthur and Maura sat by the window, watching the sunset paint the desert in shades of gold and crimson. The day had been so normal, so peaceful, that Arthur had almost forgotten why they were there.

"This is nice," Maura said softly.

"Yeah." Arthur's voice was rougher than he intended. "Real nice."

Arthur stared out at the quiet street below, his mind spinning with possibilities he'd never allowed himself to consider. He could see it so clearly now, a little house on the edge of town, maybe with a garden like Mrs. Patterson's. White picket fence, a porch where Isaac could play safely. A workshop where Arthur could do honest work, maybe helping the blacksmith or working with horses.

He imagined coming home each evening to the smell of Maura's cooking, to Isaac running to greet him at the door. Isaac learning to read, maybe even going to school with kids his age.

And more children. 

The thought kept returning, stronger each time. A house full of laughter and chaos, babies to rock to sleep, little ones learning to walk in their own backyard instead of around campfires. Maura singing lullabies in a proper nursery, not whispered songs to keep a baby quiet while they fled from the law.

Arthur closed his eyes, letting the fantasy wash over him. It felt so real he could almost taste it,  the sweetness of a normal life, the peace of knowing his family was safe and settled. No more running, no more looking over his shoulder, no more teaching his son to be quiet when the law rode by.

But then reality crashed back in like a cold wave. What was he thinking? Dutch and the others were out there, probably in danger, probably needing help. And here he was, sitting in a boarding house, playing house and dreaming about white picket fences like some fool who'd never lived a day outside the law.

"I should check on the horses," he said suddenly, standing up.

"Arthur?"

"I need some air." The words came out harsher than he intended, but he couldn't help it. The guilt was eating at him, the shame of how easily he'd let himself forget their real situation.

He left before she could respond, stepping out into the cool desert night. The stars were brilliant overhead, and Arthur found himself thinking about all the nights he'd slept under those same stars. How many camps, how many desperate flights, how many mornings waking up to the sound of Dutch planning their next job?

What kind of man was he, to be dreaming about settled life while his family, his real family, the one that had raised him and needed him, was out there facing God knows what dangers? Isaac's contented babbling at breakfast, Maura's peaceful smile as she sewed with Mrs. Patterson, the fantasy of more children playing in a garden,  it all felt like a betrayal now.

He was supposed to be better than this. Stronger. More loyal. Dutch had saved him from the streets, given him purpose and belonging when he had nothing. John was like a brother to him. The gang had been his whole world for over a decade, and here he was, ready to throw it all away for the promise of domesticity.

But God help him, he wanted it. Wanted it so desperately, it made his chest ache. The vision of that little house, of Isaac growing up safe and happy, of Maura round with a baby, played in his mind like a song he couldn't stop humming. What would it be like to wake up every morning in the same bed, in the same room, with no need to pack up and run? 

To give Isaac siblings a proper family. To watch his children grow up in one place, to see them make friends and go to school, and have all the things Arthur had never had. The thought was intoxicating and terrifying in equal measure.

The horses were stabled behind the boarding house, and Arthur spent a few minutes checking them over, more for something to do than any real need. 

"What do you think, girl?" Arthur murmured, scratching behind the horse's ears. "Think we could get used to sleeping in a real stable instead of wherever we can find shelter?"

Arthur returned to the boarding house to find Maura already in bed, her back turned to his side. 

"Maura?" he whispered.

“Hmm?” She sleepily turned towards the sound of his voice. 

“Nothing, go back to sleep.” 

He wanted to reach for her, to explain the war going on inside his head, but he didn't know how to put it into words. Instead, he lay there staring at the ceiling, listening to Isaac's soft breathing from the small bed they'd set up for him next to them. 

No, it was better for him to say nothing. The kind of life he was pining after was never meant to be. It was better to keep those yearnings to himself. But as he drifted off to sleep, he could see the visions of Isaac riding a horse in his own yard and a gaggle of little girls with ribbons in their hair who called him papa.

Chapter Text

The fifth morning at Mrs. Patterson's boarding house, Maura woke to find Arthur already gone. His side of the bed was cold, and through the window, she could see him in the garden, methodically chopping wood that didn't need chopping. Isaac was still sleeping, his small fist curled around the wooden horse that had become his constant companion.

She dressed quietly and went downstairs, finding Mrs. Patterson in the kitchen preparing breakfast.

"Morning, dear. Your man's been up since before dawn," Mrs. Patterson said, nodding toward the window where Arthur's rhythmic chopping could be heard. "Restless soul, that one."

Maura's stomach tightened. "Yes, he... he doesn't like staying in one place too long."

The older woman gave her a knowing look. "Some men are like that. Born to wander. Makes it hard on the women who love them."

The words hit closer to home than Maura wanted to admit. She poured herself coffee and sat at the kitchen table, watching Arthur through the window. His movements were sharp, almost angry, as if he were working out some internal frustration on the helpless wood.

She'd noticed the change in him over the past two days. The initial wonder in his eyes at their comfortable room, the way he'd smiled watching Isaac play in the garden, it had all slowly been replaced by something else. A restlessness, a distance that made her chest ache with familiar dread.

He wanted to leave. She could see it in the way he avoided her eyes, the way he found excuses to be outside or checking on the horses. The boarding house, the routine, the glimpse of normal life, it was all making him uncomfortable. He was already planning their departure, probably counting the days until Abigail was well enough to travel and they could rejoin Dutch and the others.

Isaac appeared in the doorway, hair mussed from sleep, wooden horse clutched in his small fist. "Mama!"

"Good morning, sweetheart." Maura lifted him onto her lap, breathing in the sweet scent of his hair. At least Isaac was happy here. He'd stopped the fussing and crying that had plagued him during their desert journey. He ate well, slept through the night, and spent his days exploring the garden and charming the other boarding house guests.

But that would all end soon. They'd be back to sleeping on the ground, eating whatever they could catch or steal, constantly looking over their shoulders. Isaac would go back to being fretful and uncomfortable, and Maura would go back to pretending that this was the life she'd chosen.

"Mrs. Patterson, would you mind watching Isaac for a bit?" she asked suddenly. "I should go check on Mrs. Marston."

"Of course, dear. I do so enjoy having a little one in the house."

Isaac clapped his hands at the sound of his own name, and Maura felt a pang at how easily he'd adapted to this domestic routine. How easily they all had, except for Arthur.

She found Abigail sitting by the window in her room, looking much better than she had when they'd first arrived. The color was back in her cheeks, and she'd gained back some of the weight she'd lost during the heat sickness.

"How are you feeling?" Maura asked, settling into the chair beside her.

"Better. Restless, but better. The doctor says I can probably travel in a few more days, if we take it easy." Abigail studied Maura's face. "You look tired."

"I am tired." The admission came out more raw than Maura intended. "I'm tired of running, tired of never knowing where we'll sleep or what we'll eat. Tired of watching Isaac try to make sense of a world that's always changing around him."

Abigail nodded slowly, her hand coming to rest on her swollen belly. "It's a hard life for children."

"I keep thinking about this baby you're carrying," Maura continued, placing a gentle hand on Abigail's rounded belly. "How you want to give him or her the best life possible. And here I am, watching Isaac thrive in this place, seeing how happy he is with routine and safety, and I know Arthur's already planning our escape."

"What makes you think that?"

Maura gestured helplessly. "He's been distant since we got here. Avoiding me, finding excuses to be outside. I can see it in his eyes, that restless look he gets when he's ready to move on. This place, this life, it's making him uncomfortable."

Abigail was quiet for a moment. "Or maybe he's scared."

"Scared of what?"

"Of wanting something he doesn't think he can have." Abigail's voice was gentle but knowing. "Men like Arthur, like John, they're not used to thinking about the future. They're used to living day to day, job to job. The idea of settling down, of building something permanent... it terrifies them."

"Then why won't he talk to me about it? We're supposed to be partners, but he's shutting me out."

"When's the last time you two were really alone together? I mean, properly alone?"

Maura blinked, caught off guard by the question. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, when's the last time you had time to just be together? Without Isaac, without the gang, without all the pressures and dangers. Time to actually talk, to you know, be intimate?"

Heat flooded Maura's cheeks. "Abigail, I don't think—"

"I'm not trying to pry, honey. But it sounds like you need to make time for each other. Let me watch Isaac tonight. You and Arthur can have some privacy, maybe work through whatever's bothering him."

"That's very kind, but—"

“Lord knows John and I both could use some practice watching a child.” 

Maura twisted her hands in her lap, feeling heat creep up her neck. "Abigail, I... Arthur and I, we don't... I mean, we've never..." She took a shaky breath. "We're not intimate. Not in that way." 

Abigail's eyes widened. "Never? But you two seem so—"

Maura brought her hand up to feel her burning cheeks. “I told him when we first got married that I didn’t want to…I mean, he's never pressed for it, and I've never felt ready.”

"Oh, honey. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.” 

“I don’t want to deny him forever, but” she once again twisted her hands in her lap. “I don’t know that I’m up to the task.” 

Through the window, they could hear Isaac's delighted laughter from the garden, probably charming Mrs. Patterson while she hung laundry. The sound made Maura's chest ache with longing for all the mornings they could have like this, all the simple domestic moments that felt like luxury after years of running.

“He’s a good man, he’ll follow your head, honey.” 

Before Maura could respond, heavy footsteps echoed in the hallway. John's voice called out, "Abigail? You in there?"

The door opened, and John Marston stepped inside, his face dusty from travel. He looked better than when they'd left him, but there was something in his expression that made Maura's stomach sink.

"John!" Abigail struggled to stand, and he moved quickly to help her. “You’re back early!” 

John’s eyes flicked between the two women. "I found Dutch. Found the whole gang, actually."

Maura's heart dropped. "Where?"

"About two days' ride northeast. They're holed up in some abandoned mining town, planning their next move." John's gaze settled on Maura. "Dutch wants everyone back. Soon as possible."

"How soon?" Maura asked, though she already knew the answer would disappoint her.

"Tomorrow, if Abigail's up for it. Day after at the latest."

Abigail's face fell. "I'm feeling better, but the doctor said—"

"The doctor said you could travel if we took it easy," John interrupted gently. "We'll go slow, make plenty of stops. But Dutch... he's not in a patient mood."

Maura stood abruptly, her chair scraping against the floor. "Of course he's not. Heaven forbid we take time to actually recover from nearly dying in the desert." 

She felt the familiar weight of inevitability settling over her. Of course this would happen just as she'd started to hope they might have a few more days, maybe even a week, of this normal life. She could already picture Arthur's relief when he heard the news, the way his shoulders would straighten at the prospect of returning to the familiar chaos of gang life.

"I'll go tell Arthur," she said, moving toward the door.

"Maura—" Abigail started.

"No, it's fine. We all knew this was temporary.” 

She left the room before either of them could say anything else, her footsteps echoing in the hallway as she made her way outside. She found Arthur still in the garden, though he'd moved from chopping wood to repairing a section of Mrs. Patterson's fence. His movements were more relaxed now, purposeful rather than aggressive.

"Arthur," she called softly.

He looked up, wiping sweat from his brow. "Maura. How's Abigail feeling?"

"Better. John's here."

Arthur's entire demeanor changed. His shoulders straightened, and she caught a flash of something in his eyes, not quite relief, but something close to it. "Already?"

"He found Dutch. The whole gang. They want us back." She tried to keep her voice neutral, but she could hear the disappointment seeping through. "Tomorrow, or the day after at the latest."

Arthur nodded slowly, setting down the hammer he'd been using. "Well, I suppose it was always going to come to this."

"Were you hoping it would?"

The question hung between them, and Maura saw something flicker across Arthur's face, guilt, maybe, or confusion. "I don't know what you mean."

She bit her lip; it wasn’t worth bringing up. “Nothing, I don’t mean anything by it.” 

That evening, after a quiet dinner, John explained their departure to Mrs. Patterson and made arrangements for the next morning. Maura found herself alone in their room. Abigail had still insisted on taking Isaac for the night, claiming she needed practice before her baby arrived, though Maura suspected her friend had other motives. Arthur had gone to help John with the horses, giving her time to prepare.

She stood before the small mirror above the washbasin, studying her reflection with critical eyes. When was the last time she'd really looked at herself as a woman, rather than just Isaac's mother or another member of the gang? Her russet hair had grown longer during their time in West Elizabeth. She'd been eating well enough at the boardinghouse that her cheeks had filled out, losing the gaunt look she'd carried through the desert.

With trembling fingers, she unpinned her hair, letting it fall in waves past her shoulders. Arthur had mentioned once, months ago, that he liked it down. She'd dismissed the comment at the time, but now she found herself remembering the way his eyes had lingered on her face when he'd said it.

She splashed water on her face and pinched her cheeks to bring color to them, the way she'd seen other women do. In her small bag, she found the little pot of rose salve that Abigail had given her weeks ago, something about keeping her lips soft. She'd never used it, but tonight she dabbed a small amount on her lips, then immediately worried it was too much.

Her chemise was wrinkled from the day's wear, but it was the nicest one she owned. She smoothed it down, adjusting the neckline and wishing she had something prettier, something that would make Arthur look at her the way John looked at Abigail when they weren’t fighting. The thought made her stomach flutter with nerves.

Maybe tonight could be different. Maybe tonight she could be brave enough to let herself want something, to give Arthur what he deserved. The boarding house would be quiet, Isaac would be safely with Abigail, and they would have the privacy they rarely found on the trail.

She took a deep breath, smoothing her hands over her skirt one more time, and headed towards the bed in the middle of the room, settling down in it and waiting for her husband to return. 

I can do this, she told herself, though her heart was racing so fast she felt dizzy. I want to do this.

She settled onto the bed, trying to arrange herself naturally, her book open in her lap more for her trembling hands to hold than to actually read. Every sound from the hallway made her pulse spike. Was that his footstep? The creak of the floorboards outside their door?

When the door finally opened and Arthur stepped inside, she couldn't bring herself to look up immediately. Her heart was hammering so loudly she was certain he could hear it from across the room. She stared at the words on the page, not seeing them, acutely aware of every movement he made as he took in the room.

Arthur sat on the edge of the bed, slowly unlacing his boots. The silence between them felt heavy, charged with all the things they hadn't said over the past few days. He looked around the room, confused. “Where’s Isaac?” 

She forced herself to appear calm, thumbing through the pages of her book as if the words actually held meaning. "Abigail and John wanted the practice of taking care of him." Her voice came out steadier than she felt, though she could hear the slight breathlessness underneath.

Arthur snorted, and she could hear the smile in his voice. "They'll be mighty surprised when their newborn don't sleep through the night the way a toddler does."

The familiar warmth of his humor gave her courage. She smiled despite her nerves and placed her book on the nightstand, finally allowing herself to look at him fully. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, methodically unlacing his boots, but she caught him glancing at her with an expression she couldn't quite read. Curiosity? Appreciation? Hope?

As he climbed into bed next to her, she felt the familiar comfort of his presence, the way the mattress dipped under his weight, the scent of soap and leather that always clung to him. He blew out the lamp, plunging them into the intimate darkness that somehow made her feel both safer and more vulnerable.

Her heart was racing as she turned to face him fully, gathering every ounce of courage she possessed. In the darkness, she could barely make out his features, but she could feel the warmth radiating from his body, hear the slight catch in his breathing when she reached out to cup his cheek.

"Maura?" His voice was soft, questioning, as if he couldn't quite believe what was happening.

Instead of answering, she leaned in for a kiss, soft and tentative at first, her lips barely brushing his. When he didn't pull away, when she felt him respond with a soft intake of breath, she pressed closer, deepening the kiss with a desperation that surprised her. This was what she wanted, this connection, this moment of being completely present with each other.

His arms came around her, pulling her closer, and she could feel the careful restraint in his touch, the way he held himself back even as he responded to her kiss. Months of patient waiting, of sleeping beside each other without truly touching, had led to this moment, and she could feel the weight of all that unexpressed longing in the way his hands trembled slightly against her back.

"Is this...are you sure?" he whispered against her lips, his voice rough with emotion and barely contained desire.

"Yes," she breathed, and meant it. For the first time in their marriage, she truly meant it.

Arthur's hands found her waist, his fingers tracing the curve of her body through the thin fabric of her nightgown. She didn't stop him; she didn't want to stop him. Every touch sent shivers through her, awakening feelings she had buried so deep she'd forgotten they existed. His touch was reverent, almost worshipful, as if he were afraid she might disappear at any moment.

She wanted this. She wanted him . Wanted to give him something real and true before they had to return to their life of running and hiding, before Dutch's demands pulled him away from her again. This felt like their last chance at something resembling normalcy, something that belonged just to them.

His hands moved with increasing confidence, sliding from her waist to the curve of her hip, then lower, mapping the shape of her body with a gentleness that made her breath catch. She could feel his restraint in every movement, the way he paused at each new boundary, waiting for her permission to continue.

But as his hands moved down her thigh toward the hem of her nightgown, as the reality of what was happening truly hit her, the past came crashing back with devastating force. Suddenly, she wasn't in the soft bed at Mrs. Patterson's boarding house with her gentle husband; she was back in that cramped tenement in South Boston, with rough hands and cruel words and the taste of whiskey and violence.

The memories crashed over her like a wave, and her body tensed involuntarily, every muscle freezing as panic flared in her chest. She couldn't breathe, couldn't think beyond the sudden, overwhelming terror that gripped her.

Arthur immediately stopped, his hands falling away from her as if he'd been burned. The loss of his touch felt like a physical wound, but the panic was stronger, more immediate.

She was crying now, tears of frustration and disappointment streaming down her face. She had wanted this so badly, had prepared herself, had been so close to giving them both what they deserved. But her body had betrayed her, her mind had betrayed her, and now she was left with the crushing weight of failure.

Arthur's expression immediately softened, understanding flooding his features. He had always been able to read her pain, even when she tried to hide it.

"I do want to, eventually," she said desperately, needing him to understand that this wasn't rejection, wasn't a judgment of him or their marriage. "I thought tonight, since Isaac is gone..." She let out a frustrated huff, unable to find the words to explain the complex tangle of desire and fear that lived inside her.

"Hey," he said gently, reaching out to touch her face with infinite tenderness. "It's okay. We have all the time in the world."

But even as he said it, they both knew it wasn't true. Tomorrow, they would rejoin the gang, and Dutch would pull Arthur away for jobs and plans and the endless cycle of running. Time was the one thing they didn't have, and this moment, this chance, was slipping away from them.

She could see him pulling back, being even more careful with her now, and somehow that made the distance between them feel even wider. The easy intimacy they had built over the past few days was crumbling, replaced by a careful politeness that felt like a wall between them.

The next morning came too soon. Maura woke to find Arthur already packing their few belongings, his movements efficient and purposeful. The easy domesticity of the boarding house was being systematically erased, folded away into saddlebags and bundles.

"Morning," he said without looking up from his task. "Mrs. Patterson's got breakfast ready downstairs."

The careful politeness in his voice made her chest ache. After last night's failed attempt at intimacy, they'd both retreated to their respective sides of the bed, maintaining a careful distance that somehow felt wider than the desert they were about to cross.

We should get moving soon. John wants to be on the road within the hour."

Maura dressed in silence, twisting her hair back into its practical style. The woman who had let her hair down the night before felt like a stranger now. She was back to being just another member of the gang, another mouth to feed, another person to protect.

Isaac was cranky about leaving, clinging to her skirts and crying when Maura tried to lift him into the wagon bed.

 "I know, sweetheart," Maura murmured, settling him next to Abigail in the back of the wagon. "I know."

Arthur mounted his horse without a word, his jaw set in that stubborn line she'd learned to recognize. He was already gone, mentally if not physically, already planning their route back to Dutch and the others.

The journey northeast took them through increasingly desolate country. What had started as rolling hills and scattered farms gradually gave way to rocky outcroppings and sparse vegetation. The sun beat down mercilessly, and by midday, they were all feeling the familiar weight of the desert's oppressive heat.

Isaac grew fussier with each mile, his earlier contentment at the boarding house now just a memory. He wanted down from the wagon, wanted water, wanted his wooden horse which had somehow gotten buried in one of the packs. Maura found herself constantly trying to soothe him while also trying to watch Abigail for signs of sickness, sweat beading on her forehead despite the shade of her hat.

"Here," Arthur said during their second stop, approaching with Isaac's wooden horse. "Found it in John's pack."

Their fingers brushed as he handed it over, and Maura felt that familiar spark of connection. But when she looked up to meet his eyes, he was already turning away, busying himself with checking the horses' water.

"Thank you," she said to his retreating back.

By evening, they'd made camp in a shallow canyon that provided some shelter from the wind. The temperature had dropped with the sun, but the air still shimmered with residual heat. Isaac had finally fallen asleep, exhausted from crying, and lay curled against Maura's side on their bedroll.

Arthur sat by the small fire, methodically cleaning his guns. The ritual seemed to calm him, his movements steady and precise. Maura watched him from across the fire, noting the tension in his shoulders, the way he kept glancing out into the darkness as if expecting trouble.

"You're worried about something," she said quietly, not wanting to wake Isaac.

Arthur's hands stilled on his revolver. "Always something to worry about out here."

"That's not what I mean, and you know it."

He looked up then, and in the firelight, she could see the conflict in his eyes. He stopped, as if to say something to her but instead shook his head. "We should get some rest."

But neither of them moved toward their bedrolls. The silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken words and missed opportunities. She felt the life she had dreamed about in Armadillo slowly slipping through her fingers. 

The next day brought more of the same harsh landscape and strained silence. They were getting close to the mining town, according to John, maybe another day's ride at most. The prospect should have been encouraging, but Maura found herself dreading their arrival. Once they rejoined the gang, there would be no more opportunities for private conversation, no more chances to work through whatever was going on between them.

Arthur rode ahead, leaving Maura to manage Isaac alone. The boy was getting heavier, and her arms ached from holding him. When he started crying again, demanding to get down, she felt her patience finally snap.

"Isaac, please," she said, her voice sharper than she'd intended. "Just sit still."

The harshness in her tone made him cry harder, and Arthur immediately wheeled his horse around, riding back to them.

"What's wrong?" he asked, reaching for Isaac.

"Nothing's wrong," Maura said tersely. "I can handle my son."

Arthur's eyes flashed. "He's my son too."

The words hung in the air between them, charged with all the complications of their unconventional family. 

The reminder of that complicated dynamic only made the distance between them feel wider.

"Of course he is," Maura said quietly. "I'm sorry. I'm just... tired." Arthur studied her face, and she saw something soften in his expression. "Here, let me take him for a while."

As Arthur settled Isaac in front of him on his horse, Maura watched the easy way her son melted into the man's embrace. Isaac's crying stopped almost immediately, and he began pointing at things along the trail, chattering in his mixture of words and sounds that Arthur seemed to understand perfectly.

This was what she was afraid of losing. Not just the domestic comfort of the boarding house, but this, the simple moments of connection that made them feel like a real family. Out here in the desert, with the gang's demands pulling at them and their own fears keeping them apart, it felt like they were all slowly disappearing into the endless expanse of rock and sand.

That evening, as they made camp in the shadow of a massive rock formation, Maura found herself staring out at the horizon. Tomorrow they would reach the mining town, and whatever fragile thing they'd built between them would be tested again by the chaos of gang life.

Arthur approached quietly, carrying two cups of coffee. "Figured you might want some," he said, settling beside her on the ground.

"Thank you." She accepted the cup gratefully, wrapping her hands around its warmth.

"Maura." His voice was gentle but firm. "I know you ain’t happy right now and I know I ain't making it easy. But maybe we should just... let things be what they are. At least for now."

She looked at him, seeing the exhaustion in his eyes, the way the desert had worn at him just as it had worn at her. "And what are they?"

"I don't know," he admitted. "But I know we're both doing the best we can. And that's got to be enough. It don’t do anyone any good to pine for anything else.” From his tone she wasn’t sure if he was speaking more to her or to himself. 

“Of course.” She looked down into the rim of the tin cup and traced nonsensical patterns into the red dirty next to her. 

“This is the life we have and we might as well get used to it.” 

“I understand.” For the first time in their marriage she used the same meek and obedient voice she had always used with Donal. She drank her coffee in absolute silence and when she was finished she brought it over to the washing bucket without another word. 

Maura walked towards the wagon where they had earlier set up their bedrolls in the bed but instead of placing Isaac on the side so she could sleep next to Arthur, instead she moved him to the middle, creating even more distance between them. 

The mining town of Caldera emerged from the desert haze like a mirage, its weathered buildings and abandoned mining equipment scattered across the valley floor. Smoke rose from several chimneys, and Maura could see figures moving between the buildings, the gang had made themselves at home.

"There!" John said, pointing toward a cluster of buildings near what had once been the main mine shaft. “Finally.” 

As they approached, Maura could see familiar faces emerging from the buildings. Susan Grimshaw appeared first, her hands on her hips as she surveyed their small procession. Behind her came Hosea, looking older and more weathered than when they'd left him, and finally Dutch himself, striding out with his characteristic confident swagger.

"Arthur, my boy!" Dutch called out, his arms spread wide. "And the lovely Mrs. Morgan, of course. How was your little sojourn in civilization?"

There was something in his tone that made Maura's spine stiffen. Not quite mockery, but a kind of amused condescension that suggested he found their time at the boarding house quaint and ultimately meaningless.

Arthur dismounted and handed Isaac down to Maura before approaching Dutch. "Dutch. Good to see you."

"I trust your wife and son are well-rested?" Dutch's eyes moved from Arthur to Maura, and she felt as though she were being evaluated. "Ready to get back to real life?"

"We're fine," Maura said carefully, settling Isaac on her hip. He was staring wide-eyed at the bustling camp, overwhelmed by the sudden change from their quiet journey.

"Excellent. We have much to discuss, Arthur. The Pinkertons have been sniffing around the territories to the north, and there are opportunities opening up to the south. Rich opportunities."

Arthur nodded, and Maura watched as he seemed to straighten, his shoulders squaring in a way that reminded her of a soldier coming to attention. The man who had sat by the fire with her just hours ago, admitting his uncertainty about their future, was already disappearing.

"Let me get my family settled first," Arthur said, but his tone suggested it was more courtesy than necessity.

"Of course, of course. Susan will show Mrs. Morgan where she'll be staying. Arthur, when you're ready..."

Maura found herself being led away by Susan Grimshaw, who was full of questions about their time in Armadillo and pointed observations about how well-fed Isaac looked.

"Proper food and regular meals," Susan said approvingly. "Does a body good. Though I suppose that's all behind us now."

Their accommodations were a small room in what had once been the mining town's boarding house. It was clean enough, but a far cry from Mrs. Patterson's comfortable establishment. The bed was narrow, the window small, and the walls thin enough that she could hear conversations from the neighboring rooms.

"It'll do," Susan said briskly. "Better than sleeping under the stars. Arthur will be in and out quite a bit, I expect. Dutch has been planning while you were away."

That evening, as the gang gathered around the communal fire for dinner, Maura got her first real taste of how quickly their brief interlude of domestic peace would be forgotten. Arthur sat with Dutch and Hosea, deep in conversation about routes and territories and opportunities. Isaac sat on Maura's lap, picking at his food and whimpering softly whenever the conversation grew too loud or animated.

"Mama," he said quietly, pointing toward Arthur. "Papa?"

"Papa's talking to Dutch," she murmured, smoothing his hair. "He'll come say goodnight later."

But Arthur didn't come say goodnight. When the meeting finally broke up, he found Maura in their small room, already in her nightgown with Isaac asleep beside her on the narrow bed.

"Sorry," he said quietly. "Dutch wanted to go over some maps, and then Hosea had some concerns about—"

"It's fine," Maura interrupted, though her tone suggested otherwise. "Isaac asked for you, but I told him you were busy."

Arthur's face tightened slightly. "I said I was sorry."

"I know. I'm not angry, Arthur. I'm just... tired."

He stood there for a moment, looking at her and Isaac on the bed, and she could see the conflict in his expression. But then he simply nodded and began preparing for bed, the easy intimacy they'd shared at the boarding house already feeling like a distant memory.

The pattern established itself quickly. Arthur would be gone before dawn, riding out with whoever Dutch had assigned him to work with that day. Sometimes it was Sean, scouting new territories. Sometimes it was John, checking on various contacts and opportunities. Often it was just Arthur alone, handling whatever delicate negotiations or reconnaissance Dutch deemed necessary.

Maura found herself falling into the rhythm of camp life, helping with cooking and cleaning, taking care of an increasingly large Abigail, and trying to carve out some semblance of routine in the chaos. But it was a far cry from the peaceful mornings at Mrs. Patterson's, where she'd had time to read, to think, to simply be.

Isaac struggled with the change. He was fussy and clingy, crying when Arthur left in the mornings and difficult to soothe when he didn't return by evening.

"Papa?" became his constant refrain, and Maura found herself making excuses she didn't quite believe herself.

"Papa's working."

"Papa will be back soon."

"Papa's helping Dutch."

By the third week, Arthur had been gone for four days straight on what was supposed to be a two-day scouting mission. Maura put Isaac to bed alone again, listening to him cry himself to sleep while asking for his father. When she finally emerged from their room, she found Abigail sitting by the dying fire, her hand resting on her growing belly.

"Rough night?" Abigail asked gently.

"He doesn't understand why Arthur isn't here," Maura said, settling beside her friend. "I'm running out of ways to explain it."

"Have you talked to Arthur about it?"

Maura let out a bitter laugh. "When? He's been gone more than he's been here. And when he is here, he's either exhausted or planning the next job with Dutch."

"Maybe you should talk to Dutch."

"And say what? That his best gun should spend more time playing with his son? You know how that would go."

Abigail nodded slowly. It was an unspoken truth in the gang that Dutch's needs came first, always. Families, relationships, personal desires, they all took a backseat to whatever vision Dutch had for their future.

"John's been gone a lot too," Abigail said quietly. "Sometimes I wonder if this is what it's going to be like when the baby comes. Just me, trying to manage alone while he's off being Dutch's right hand."

Maura had wondered the same thing. 

Arthur returned the next evening, dusty and tired but with a satisfied look that suggested the mission had been successful. He found Maura mending clothes by lamplight, Isaac already asleep.

"How'd it go?" she asked without looking up from her sewing.

"Good. Real good. Dutch was right about the railway payroll—easy pickings if you know the right timing." He began stripping off his dusty clothes. "How's Isaac been?"

"Difficult. He's been asking for you."

Arthur paused in his undressing. "I'm sorry. I know it's been a lot lately, but Dutch says if we can pull off a few more jobs like this one, we might be able to afford to move somewhere better. Maybe even California."

"California." Maura's needle stilled. "And then what? More jobs? More time away?"

"Maura—"

"I'm not complaining," she said quickly. "I know this is what you do. What we do. I just... Isaac misses you."

Arthur sat down on the edge of the bed, his shoulders sagging. "I know, I miss him too. But this is important work, and Dutch needs—"

"Dutch needs," Maura repeated. "Yes, I know."

Something in her tone made Arthur look at her more carefully. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing. I'm just tired." She set aside her mending and began preparing for bed. "Long day."

But Arthur didn't let it go. "No, you said something. What did you mean?"

Maura turned to face him, and for a moment, all the frustration and loneliness of the past weeks threatened to spill out. But then she saw the exhaustion in his eyes, the way his hands shook slightly from fatigue, and she swallowed her complaints.

"I meant nothing by it, Arthur. I'm glad the job went well."

He studied her face for a long moment, clearly sensing there was more she wasn't saying. But he was too tired to push, and she was too tired to fight.

"I'll try to stay closer to camp for a while," he said finally. "Spend more time with Isaac."

"That would be nice."

But even as she said it, Maura knew it was a promise he wouldn't be able to keep. Dutch's needs would always come first, and Arthur's loyalty to the gang leader was stronger than any obligation he felt to her or Isaac.

She was right. Two days later, Arthur was gone again, this time to scout potential targets along the Mexican border. The job was supposed to take a week, but it stretched into two when complications arose. Maura found herself once again explaining to Isaac why Papa wasn't there for breakfast, why Papa couldn't read him a story, why Papa was always somewhere else.

As spring turned to summer, the pattern became their new normal. Arthur would return from a job, spend a day or two in camp, and then be off again. Isaac grew more distant from his father, more clingy with Maura, and more prone to crying when his routine was disrupted.

"He doesn't know me anymore," Arthur said one evening after Isaac had shied away from him, hiding behind Maura's skirts when Arthur tried to pick him up.

"You've been gone for three weeks," Maura said, keeping her voice careful. "What did you expect?"

Arthur's jaw tightened. "I was working. For all of us. For him."

"I know that. And I'm grateful. But he's two years old, Arthur. He doesn't understand why his father is never around."

"I'm around. I'm here now."

"For how long?” 

The question hung between them like a challenge. Arthur opened his mouth to respond, then closed it, because they both knew the answer.

"This is temporary," he said finally. "Dutch says if we can build up enough money, we can all settle somewhere safe. Maybe buy some land, live quietly."

"Arthur." Maura's voice was gentle but firm. "How long have you been telling yourself that story?"

He looked at her, and she saw something flicker across his face, doubt, maybe, or recognition. But then he shook his head, as if physically pushing the thought away.

"It's not a story. It's a plan."

“Who’s plan?” 

Arthur's expression hardened. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"I think you know what it means."

They stared at each other across the small room, Isaac's soft breathing the only sound between them. Finally, Arthur turned away.

"I should check on the horses," he said.

“Perhaps you should.” 

Outside, she could hear voices around the fire, Dutch's distinctive laugh carrying across the camp. She wondered if Arthur was already out there, drawn back to the familiar comfort of gang life, where his value was never questioned and his loyalty was never divided.

Isaac stirred in his sleep, and she smoothed his hair, whispering soft reassurances. At least one of them would sleep peacefully tonight. 

Chapter Text

The stranger arrived on a Tuesday evening, his horse lathered with sweat and his dark eyes scanning the camp with the wariness of a man who'd been running hard. Sean had found him half dead in the desert from dehydration but had still managed to get the jump on the other man. Sean had entered camp first and explained everything to Dutch before Charles and Mac had let him through to camp. 

"Javier Escuella," the man said, dismounting with fluid grace despite his obvious exhaustion. "I was told you might have a use for someone with my... particular skills."

Dutch's smile was predatory. "Indeed, we might, Mr. Escuella. Indeed, we might."

Within an hour, the newcomer had been fed, given a place to wash up, and integrated into the evening's planning session. Maura could see Arthur through the window, sitting with Dutch and the others as they listened to Javier's stories of rebellion in Mexico. There was something in Arthur's posture that suggested he was impressed, maybe even relieved to have another skilled gun in their ranks.

Isaac had been fussy all day, sensing the tension that seemed to follow Arthur like a shadow whenever he was in camp. The boy had taken to hiding whenever his father approached, as if Arthur had become just another stranger in their chaotic world.

"He brought news," Abigail said, settling her increasingly unwieldy form into the chair beside Maura. "About opportunities down south. Dutch is practically vibrating with excitement."

"More jobs," Maura said flatly. "More time away."

"Maybe. Or maybe this Javier fellow will take some of the pressure off Arthur. Share the load."

Maura watched as Arthur laughed at something Javier said, his whole body relaxing in a way she hadn't seen in weeks. The sight should have made her happy, but instead it only highlighted how tense and distant he'd become with her.

"I doubt it," she said quietly. "Dutch will just find more work to fill the time."

Three days later, Dutch declared a celebration. The gang had successfully robbed a train carrying mining payroll, and the haul was just successful enough to put everyone in high spirits despite the heat and their dwindling supplies. More importantly, it was Javier's first job with them, and it had gone flawlessly.

"Tonight, we celebrate properly," Dutch announced, producing several bottles of good whiskey from his personal stash. "To new friends and profitable ventures!"

The camp transformed as evening fell. Someone had found a guitar, and Javier's fingers moved across the strings with practiced skill, filling the desert air with melancholy Spanish melodies. The fire burned higher than usual, casting dancing shadows across the faces of the gang members as they passed bottles and shared stories.

Maura found herself with a cup of whiskey before she'd even decided to drink, pressed into her hands by a jubilant Sean who was already well into his cups. "Come on, Mrs. Morgan," he said with his characteristic grin. "Even the most virtuous among us can celebrate a job well done."

She took a sip, feeling the burn of good liquor, and found herself taking another. When was the last time she'd had a drink? It hadn’t been since the beginning of the year when they had still been in West Elizabeth.

The whiskey warmed her from the inside out, and she felt some of the constant tension in her shoulders begin to ease.

Arthur was across the fire, deep in conversation with Hosea and Dutch, but she caught him glancing at her occasionally. When their eyes met, he'd look away quickly, as if he'd been caught doing something he shouldn't.

"Play something lively," Dutch called out to Javier, who obliged with a faster melody that had some of the gang members clapping along. The whiskey continued to flow, and Maura found herself accepting refill after refill. The alcohol loosened something inside her that had been wound tight for weeks, months, maybe. When Hosea offered her his hand as Javier struck up a particularly lively tune, she didn't hesitate.

"Mrs. Morgan," Hosea said with an exaggerated bow that made her laugh. "Would you do me the honor?"

She glanced toward Arthur, who was still talking with Dutch, seemingly oblivious to her presence. "I'd be delighted, Mr. Matthews."

Hosea spun her around the fire, both of them laughing as they stumbled slightly on the uneven ground. The other gang members cheered and clapped, and for the first time in weeks, Maura felt genuinely happy. When the song ended, Sean immediately stepped forward.

"My turn with the lovely lady," he declared, his Irish accent thick with drink. "I'll show you proper dancing, not whatever that was."

Sean's version of proper dancing involved more spinning and dipping than Maura had experienced in her entire life. She found herself giggling, actually giggling, as he whirled her around with theatrical flair. Through the swirl of movement, she caught glimpses of Arthur, who had finally looked up from his conversation and was watching them with an unreadable expression.

"Your husband is a fortunate man."

"Is he?" The words slipped out before she could stop them, tinged with bitterness that even the alcohol couldn't fully mask.

Maura's cheeks were flushed with exertion and alcohol, her carefully pinned hair coming loose in wisps around her face. She felt reckless, alive in a way she hadn't felt since before she had joined the gang. Maybe even since before she'd married Donal.

When the song ended, Charles stepped forward quietly. "If you're not too tired," he said politely.

Charles danced with the same quiet competence he brought to everything else, steady and sure-footed. But even his respectful distance felt like a statement. Over Charles's shoulder, she could see Arthur's jaw tightening, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. But he made no move to intervene, and that only fueled her reckless mood.

She was watching Isaac toddle around the group, charmed by all the attention from the gang members, when Abigail approached her with a tired smile.

"I think I'm going to turn in," Abigail said, one hand pressed to her lower back. At eight months pregnant, even sitting by the fire had become uncomfortable. "This little one is sitting right on my bladder, and all this music is making my head pound."

"Of course," Maura said, moving to gather Isaac. "I should put him to bed anyway—"

"No," Abigail interrupted, catching her arm. "Let me take him tonight. You deserve a night off, and he'll be fine with me." She glanced meaningfully toward Arthur, who was still deep in conversation with Dutch. "Maybe it's time you reminded your husband that you're more than just Isaac's mother."

Maura felt heat rise in her cheeks. "Abigail, I couldn't ask you to—"

"You're not asking. I'm offering." Abigail's smile was knowing. "Trust me, honey. Sometimes a woman needs to be seen as a woman first."

Before Maura could protest further, Abigail had scooped up Isaac, who went to her willingly. "Come on, little man. Aunt Abigail has some stories to tell you."

"Mama!" Isaac called over Abigail's shoulder, but he was already settling into her arms, tired from the excitement of the evening.

"I'll be right here," Maura called back, though she felt strangely bereft watching her son disappear into the darkness toward Abigail's room. Maura was pulled back to the group when she heard the sound of Jenny’s too-loud giggling and watched as Sean threw a not-so-casual arm around her shoulders. She watched as Jenny took a long sip of the amber liquid in her glass, and the girl winced as it hit her throat. She sighed to herself, even though her son was safely tucked into bed, it seemed her mothering duties were far from over. 

She walked over to the pair and gave Sean a hard look until he understood her meaning and made himself scarce. She took Jenny by the shoulders, “Off to bed with you, darling.” She encouraged Jenny to stand and pushed her towards the ramshackle structure that served as their home. 

When she turned, John was standing there holding out his hand. “Maureen?” Her eyes once again flickered towards Arthur, who wasn’t even pretending he wasn’t watching her every move. John's dancing was less refined than Hosea's or Sean's, but she enjoyed it all the same, even when he almost tripped her halfway through. 

When Javier finally took a break, Maura found herself breathless and exhilarated, her hair coming loose from its pins and her cheeks bright with color. She hadn't felt this alive in months, and the whiskey had made her forget all the reasons she usually held herself back.

"Mrs. Morgan," came a voice from behind her, and she turned to find Arthur standing there, his expression unreadable. "Enjoying yourself?"

There was something in his tone that made her lift her chin defiantly. "I am. It's been a while since I've had the chance."

"I can see that," he said, his eyes flicking to where Sean was still grinning and catching his breath. "You've certainly been... popular this evening."

The jealousy in his voice was unmistakable, and Maura felt a flutter of satisfaction. So he had been watching. So he had noticed.

"It's just dancing, Arthur," she said, but there was a challenge in her voice. "Something I used to enjoy."

Arthur's jaw tightened. "I didn't realize you missed it so much."

"I miss a lot of things," she said, the whiskey making her bold. "But I don't often get the chance to indulge."

They stared at each other for a moment, the air between them charged with tension. Around them, the celebration continued, but they were lost in their own small confrontation.

"Dance with me," Arthur said suddenly, his voice low and rough.

Maura blinked in surprise. "What?"

"You heard me. If you want to dance so badly, dance with your husband."

Before she could respond, he'd taken her hand and pulled her back toward the fire. Javier, sensing the shift in atmosphere, began playing a slower, more intimate melody. Arthur's arm came around her waist, and she found herself pressed against his chest, swaying to the music.

"You were trying to make me jealous," he murmured against her ear.

"Was I?" she asked, but they both knew the answer.

"It worked," he admitted, his hand tightening on her waist. "I didn't like seeing other men's hands on you."

Maura felt a thrill of vindication. "Then maybe you should pay more attention to your wife."

"Maybe I should," he agreed, spinning her slowly.

They swayed together in the firelight, the whiskey making Maura feel alive. Arthur's hands were warm and familiar on her waist, but there was a tension in his grip that spoke of barely contained emotion.

"You're drunk," he said, though his voice held no judgment, only concern.

"Not drunk," she corrected, though her words came out softer than intended. "Well, maybe a little."

The song ended, and they stood there for a moment, still holding each other as the fire crackled between them and the rest of the camp. But before Arthur could say anything more, Mac appeared at Maura's elbow.

"My turn with the lady," he said with his characteristic smirk, already reaching for her hand.

Arthur's entire body went rigid. "She's done dancing for tonight."

"Now, now, Morgan," Mac drawled, his pale eyes gleaming with mischief. "Ain't polite to monopolize her. Share and share alike, I always say."

"I said she's done," Arthur repeated, his voice dropping to a dangerous growl.

Maura could feel the confrontation building like a storm cloud, and the last thing she wanted was Arthur and Mac coming to blows over again. She took a step back, suddenly very aware of how many eyes were on them.

"I think I need some air," she said quickly, but Arthur's hand shot out to take her waist.

"We need to talk," he said, his eyes never leaving Mac’s face. 

Without waiting for her response, he began pulling her away from the fire, away from the music and laughter, toward the edge of camp where the darkness swallowed the desert beyond. She stumbled slightly, whether from the alcohol or the intensity of his grip, she couldn't tell. Behind them, she could hear Dutch's voice breaking the silence, making some joke about married couples that drew uncomfortable laughter from the others. 

"Arthur Morgan, where are we going?" she protested, trying to pull free.

He immediately loosened his grip but didn't let go entirely. "Sorry. I just... I need to get you away from all that."

"All what? People having fun? Me having fun? I’m sorry I forgot I wasn’t allowed to do that."

They'd reached the perimeter of camp now, far enough from the celebration that the music was just a distant melody. Arthur finally released her wrist and ran both hands through his hair, a gesture she recognized as his way of trying to control his temper.

"You were making a spectacle of yourself," he said, his voice tight with frustration.

Maura's eyes flashed with anger. "A spectacle? For dancing? For laughing? For acting like a woman instead of just a mother and a maid?"

“That's not what I meant—"

"That's exactly what you meant!" The whiskey had loosened her tongue, and weeks of suppressed resentment came pouring out. "God forbid I should enjoy myself for one evening. God forbid I should remember what it feels like to be paid attention to."

"Don't make this about me being gone. You know why I have to work." Arthur interrupted, his voice sharp.

"For Dutch," she said bitterly. "Always for Dutch. Never for your family."

"Everything I do is for my family!" Arthur's voice rose, and she saw him glance toward the wall, conscious of others who might be lurking. When he spoke again, his voice was lower but no less intense. "Every job, every risk, every day I'm out there, it's all for you and Isaac."

"Is it?" Maura stepped closer, her anger flaring. "Or is it because it's easier to be Dutch's right hand than to be a husband and father?"

Arthur's eyes flashed. "You don't know what you're talking about."

Davey Callander stepped out of the darkness from where he was on guard duty. Davey, unlike his brother, had turned out to be a gentle giant. “Every alright, Mrs. Morgan?” He made no move to step any closer, but the intention of his words was clear. 

Maura took a steadying breath. “Yes, Mr. Callander, we’re fine. I’m sorry to disturb your night.” 

Davey gave an assessing look between them but stepped back to his previous position at the front of the camp. “Perhaps we should bring this inside.” She lowered her voice. 

Arthur nodded, and once again his hand came around her waist as he guided her up the stairs. The door to their room closed behind them with a sharp click, and suddenly they were alone in the small space, the sounds of the celebration muffled but still audible through the thin walls.

“Here’s how I see things. Your son barely recognizes you anymore. I go to bed alone every single night. I know that the only time you touch me is by accident, and the only time you talk to me is when you need something."

"That ain’t fair-" Arthur started, but she cut him off.

"I know that you were relieved when John came to get us from the boarding house. I could see it in your face, Arthur. You couldn't wait to get away from the thought of a semi normal life."

Arthur's face was half-hidden in shadow, but she could see the conflict written in his posture. “That’s what this has really been about, hasn’t it?” She could see plain on his face that she had hit her mark. 

“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” Arthur said, but his voice was hoarse. “It’s late, you should get some rest.” His tone effectively ended their argument and he moved to grab the doorknob.

She took a challenging step forward. “Don’t you dare leave, Arthur Morgan. I’m not done with this conversation!” Her voice rose considerably. 

“Well, I am.” For a heartbeat, neither of them moved. Then Arthur's control snapped.

His mouth crashed down on hers, fierce and desperate, weeks of suppressed longing and frustration pouring out in a single kiss. Maura responded immediately, her hands fisting in his shirt as she pressed herself against him. This wasn't the gentle, tentative kisses they'd shared before. This was a raw need, honest and overwhelming.

Arthur's hands tangled in her hair, scattering the few pins that had held it in place. She could taste the whiskey and tobacco on his lips, feel the tremor in his hands as he held her face. When they finally broke apart, both were breathing hard.

"Maura, sweetheart," he said, her name a prayer and a question.

"Don't talk," she whispered, pulling him down for another kiss. "Just... don't talk."

They kissed again, deeper this time, and Maura felt herself melting into him. Arthur's hands moved to her waist, pulling her closer, and she could feel the heat radiating from his body. The whiskey had lowered her inhibitions, and for a moment, she thought they might cross that line they had danced around before. Her body certainly wanted to. The way Arthur's breathing had changed, the way his hands trembled slightly as they held her, suggested he was thinking the same thing.

But then Arthur pulled back slightly, resting his forehead against hers. His chest rose and fell rapidly, and she could see the internal struggle playing out across his features.

"We should..." he started, then stopped, swallowing hard. "You've been drinking."

"I'm not that drunk," she whispered, but even as she said it, she knew he was right to hesitate. This wasn't how she wanted it to happen between them, not in anger, not with whiskey clouding their judgment.

Arthur's hands moved to cup her face, his thumbs brushing across her cheekbones. "I want to," he said quietly, his voice rough with honesty. "God, Maura, you don't know how much I want to. But not like this."

She closed her eyes, leaning into his touch. The disappointment was sharp, but underneath it was something else, relief, maybe, or gratitude that he cared enough to wait.

They stood there for a long moment, holding each other in the dim light of their small room. Arthur's hands slowly moved to smooth down her hair, and she could feel some of the desperate tension leaving his body. She led him over to the narrow bed and dimmed the lamp until it barely lit the room. Maura cupped her face in his hands.

“You need rest too, Arthur.”  He hesitated before joining her, but capitulated when she opened her arms to him. He lay down next to her, not remembering the last time they had gone to bed at the same time.

“Those days at the boarding house," he said suddenly, his voice barely above a whisper. "I think about them all the time."

Maura's eyes opened, meeting his in the darkness. "Arthur..."

"I didn't want to leave," he continued, the words coming out in a rush as if he'd been holding them back for too long. "I kept telling myself it was temporary, that we'd go back to the life we knew, but... I hated how much I liked waking up next to you every morning. I liked having breakfast together, watching Isaac play in the yard. I hated how I liked pretendin’ we were just a normal family." 

Her heart clenched at the longing in his voice. "I know. I had those thoughts, too."

Maura brushed her fingers along the planes of his face. "I know we can't go back to that life, Arthur. Not now, maybe not any time soon. But perhaps we can try to find some of what we had there here.” 

"How?" The question was raw, vulnerable in a way that made her chest tight.

"More time together. Isaac needs his father, and I need..." She hesitated, then pressed on. "I need my husband."

Arthur's jaw tightened. "The jobs, Dutch's plans—"

"I'm not asking you to choose between us and the gang, I know better than to do that." Maura interrupted. "I'm asking you to choose us, too. I don’t want to just be another mouth to feed or another person who wants something from you."

Arthur studied her face in the dim light. "You'd really settle for that?"

"It's not settling," she said firmly. "It's choosing what we can have instead of mourning what we can't."

He pulled her closer then, wrapping his arms around her properly. She could feel the tension slowly leaving his shoulders as he held her. The sounds of the celebration still drifted through the thin walls. It wasn't a declaration of love, but it was something. Arthur's hands moved in slow circles on her back, and Maura felt some of the months of loneliness and resentment finally begin to ease. 

Maura woke to the unfamiliar sensation of Arthur's arm around her waist and his breath warm against her neck. For a moment, she lay perfectly still, afraid that any movement might break the spell of having him close. The camp was quiet except for the distant sound of someone, probably Mrs. Grimshaw, clattering around the cooking area, and pale morning light filtered through the thin curtains.

Arthur stirred behind her, his arm tightening reflexively before he seemed to remember where he was. She felt him go still, as if he too was afraid to disturb this fragile peace they'd found.

"Morning," she whispered, turning in his arms to face him.

"Morning," he replied, his voice rough with sleep. His eyes searched her face, as if looking for signs of regret or changed feelings in the harsh light of day.

"How's your head?" she asked, noting the slight wince as he moved.

"Been better," he admitted with a rueful smile. "Yours?"

"About the same." She reached up to brush a strand of hair from his forehead. "Do you regret last night?"

Arthur's expression grew serious. "Which part?"

"Any of it. All of it."

He was quiet for a moment, considering. "I regret that it took us this long to talk honestly with each other. I regret how long it took for you to get my attention." His hand found hers under the thin blanket. "But I don't regret waking up next to you." 

She hummed and burrowed herself deeper into his chest. It wasn’t long until the sound of small feet running across the camp reached their ears, followed by Isaac's voice calling, "Mama! Mama!"

Arthur immediately started to pull away, but Maura caught his arm. "Stay," she said quietly. "Please."

Isaac's footsteps stopped outside their door, followed by a tentative knock. "Mama?"

"Come in, sweetheart," Maura called, sitting up but keeping her hand on Arthur's chest.

The door opened slowly, and Isaac peered around the edge, his hair sticking up in all directions. His eyes widened when he saw Arthur in the bed, and for a moment, he hesitated in the doorway. 

"Papa?" Isaac's voice was small, uncertain.

Arthur's expression softened, and he held out his hand to his son. "Come here, partner."

Isaac approached cautiously, as if Arthur might disappear if he moved too quickly. When he reached the bed, Arthur lifted him easily, settling him between himself and Maura. Isaac immediately curled into his father's side, his small fist clutching Arthur's shirt.

"Did you sleep good?" Arthur asked, his voice gentler than Maura had heard it in months.

Isaac nodded against Arthur's chest, then looked up at his father with wide eyes. Isaac nodded against Arthur's chest, then looked up at his father with wide eyes. “Papa, stay?”

The question hung in the air, and Maura felt Arthur's body tense slightly. She knew he was thinking about Dutch's plans, about the jobs that always seemed to be waiting, about the expectations that pulled him away from moments like this.

"I'm gonna try," Arthur said finally, and Maura felt something ease in her chest at the honesty of it. He wasn't making promises he couldn't keep, but he was acknowledging what Isaac needed to hear.

“Maura? You decent?” Abigail's voice called from outside. “I've got coffee and some biscuits."

"Come in," Maura called, and Abigail entered carrying a tray with steaming mugs and a plate of food. She took in the scene, Arthur in bed with his family, Isaac settled contentedly between his parents. 

"Well, this is a sight for sore eyes," she said, setting the tray on the small table by the window. "Isaac here was up with the sun, asking when he could see his mama and papa."

Abigail lingered for a moment, her hand resting on her rounded belly. "Dutch is already up and about, talking to Hosea about something. But he seems to be in a good mood after last night's celebration."

Maura felt Arthur's subtle shift at the mention of Dutch, the way his shoulders straightened slightly even while he remained relaxed with Isaac. The reminder of the outside world and its demands was never far away, even in moments like this.

"Thank you for watching Isaac last night," Maura said, catching Abigail's eye.

"My pleasure," Abigail replied with a meaningful look. 

After Abigail left, they ate breakfast together in comfortable quiet, Isaac chattering half in English and half in his made-up baby language, while Arthur listened with patient attention. Maura found herself studying her husband's face, noting the way he looked at their son when he spoke, the way he responded to Isaac's excited questions about the horses and the camp.

"I should probably go see what Dutch needs," Arthur said eventually, though his tone suggested he wasn't eager to leave.

"Later," Maura said firmly. "Right now, you have some time to make up with a two-year-old.” 

Arthur looked at her for a long moment, and she could see the internal struggle playing out across his features. The old Arthur would have stood up immediately, would have prioritized Dutch's summons over everything else. But something had shifted last night, some understanding had been reached.

"You're right," he said finally, settling back against the pillows. "Dutch can wait an hour or two."

Isaac giggled at his father's decision, clapping his small hands together. "Play!"

Arthur's chest rumbled with quiet laughter. "Alright, what do you want to play, partner?"

For the next hour, Arthur allowed himself to be fully present. He helped Isaac build towers with small wooden blocks Hosea had carved, made silly faces that sent the boy into fits of giggles, and even got down on the floor to play horses, crawling around on his hands and knees while Isaac rode on his back.

Maura watched from the bed, her heart full in a way it hadn't been in months. But even as she savored the peace, she could hear the camp stirring outside. Voices carried on the morning air, and she caught fragments of conversation that made her stomach tighten with worry.

"...supplies running low..."

"...Dutch says we need to move soon..."

Arthur heard it too. She could see it in the way his shoulders gradually tensed, the way his attention started to drift toward the door even as he continued playing with Isaac. When footsteps approached their door, followed by a polite but persistent knock, they both knew their borrowed time was up.

"Arthur?" Hosea's voice was gentle but firm. "Dutch would like to see you when you have a moment."

Arthur's jaw tightened, but he kept his voice calm for Isaac's sake. "I'll be right there, Hosea."

"There’s no rush, son," Hosea replied, but they all knew that was a polite fiction.

Arthur sat back on his heels, looking at Isaac with obvious regret.

Isaac's face fell, and he reached out with both arms. "No go, Papa."

The simple plea hit Arthur visibly, and Maura saw him swallow hard. "I know, son. I know." He pulled Isaac into a tight hug, closing his eyes as he held him. "But I'll be back. I promise."

Maura rose from the bed and moved to sit beside them on the floor. “Why don’t you and I go see if there’s anything we can help Mrs. Grimshaw with, how does that sound?"

Isaac allowed himself to be distracted, but kept glancing toward Arthur as if afraid he might disappear. Arthur stood slowly, brushing off his knees, and met Maura's eyes.

"Tonight," he said quietly. "We'll have dinner together. All three of us."

It was a small promise, but it felt significant. Maura nodded, reaching up to squeeze his hand. "We'll be here." Tentatively, he leaned down and placed a chaste kiss on her cheek. 

After Arthur left, Maura took her time getting herself and Isaac ready for the day. She could hear the men's voices drifting from Dutch's tent, Arthur's low rumble, Dutch's animated planning, and Hosea's measured interjections. The tone suggested urgency, and that familiar knot of worry settled in her stomach.

She was braiding her hair when Abigail appeared in the doorway again, this time moving more slowly and with one hand pressed to her lower back.

"You look like you're in pain," Maura observed, setting down her brush.

"Just the usual aches," Abigail said, but her smile was strained. "This little one is getting heavier by the day, and I swear they’re using my ribs as a punching bag."

Maura finished her braid and turned to face her friend fully. "How much longer do you think?"

"Could be any day now," Abigail admitted, settling carefully onto the bed. "That's what has me worried. If Dutch decides to move camp..."

She didn't need to finish the thought. Moving camp with a woman in advanced labor would be dangerous, potentially catastrophic. But staying put when resources were running low and the law might be closing in was equally risky.

"It won’t come to that," Maura said, though she didn't sound convinced even to herself.

"Have you heard them talking? About the jobs drying up?" Abigail's voice was low, mindful of Isaac playing nearby. "John says Dutch is getting desperate. That's when he makes his worst decisions."

Maura felt a chill that had nothing to do with the morning air. She'd seen Dutch's desperation before, had watched him make increasingly reckless choices when backed into a corner. And Arthur always paid the price for those decisions.

“I thought the train job went well? Isn’t that why we were celebrating?” 

“It also brought the law on both sides of the border along with it,” Abigail said grimly. 

"Come on," she said, helping Abigail to her feet. "Let's get some air. Isaac can play outside, and we can keep an eye on things."

They made their way outside, where the camp was buzzing with a different energy than the celebration of the night before. Men clustered in small groups, their voices low and serious. Weapons were being cleaned and checked. Horses stamped restlessly in their makeshift corral.

Maura settled on a log near the fire with Isaac on her lap, while Abigail eased herself down beside them. From here, they could see Dutch's tent, where the flap was tied back to reveal the leadership huddled around a map.

"Papa, there?" Isaac pointed toward the tent.

"Yes, sweetheart. Papa's working."

"Working" is such a simple word for the complex web of loyalty, desperation, and violence that governed their lives. Maura watched Arthur's broad shoulders as he leaned over the map, saw the way he nodded at Dutch's words, the way his hand moved to rest on his gun belt.

"Mrs. Morgan?" Jenny's voice was small and uncertain. The girl approached slowly, her face pale and drawn. "Could I... could I talk to you?"

Maura looked up at the young woman, noting the way she kept glancing toward the tent where the men were meeting. "Of course, Jenny. Sit down."

Jenny perched nervously on the edge of a crate, her hands twisting in her skirt. "It's about last night. About the drinking."

"You don't need to apologize," Maura said gently. "We were all celebrating."

"But I do need to apologize," Jenny insisted, her voice thick with emotion. "I... I made a fool of myself. And I keep thinking about all the silly things I said and did..." She trailed off, but Maura understood.

"Jenny, look at me." Maura's voice was firm but kind. "You're young, and you're trying to find your place in all this. That's natural. But you need to be careful. Men like Sean... they're not bad men, but they're not thinking about tomorrow when they're drinking."

Jenny nodded miserably, her eyes filled with tears. “I understand, Mrs. Morgan. I’ll do better in the future.” 

“Oh, Jenny. I’m not reprimanding you.” 

“I don’t want to disappoint you or for you to think less of me.” 

She brought the young woman into a fierce hug. “Oh, honey, of course I don’t.” 

Their conversation was interrupted by raised voices from Dutch's tent. Arthur's voice rose above the others, though Maura couldn't make out the words. She saw Dutch gesture emphatically, his movements sharp with frustration.

"They're arguing about something," Jenny observed, her earlier vulnerability replaced by nervous energy.

"They're planning," Maura corrected, though she felt the same tension. "There's a difference."

But even as she said it, she could see the strain in Arthur's posture, the way his hands had moved to his hips in a gesture she recognized as barely contained disagreement. Whatever Dutch was proposing, Arthur wasn't happy about it.

The meeting broke up abruptly, with Dutch striding out of his tent and clapping his hands together. "Ladies and gentlemen," he called out, his voice carrying across the camp. "Gather 'round. We have some exciting news to share."

The gang members slowly converged, forming a loose circle around their leader. Dutch's smile was bright, but Maura had learned to read the tension around his eyes, the slight tremor in his hands when he was stressed.

"My friends," Dutch began, his voice taking on the theatrical quality he used when making grand pronouncements. "We find ourselves at a crossroads. The easy pickings in this area have dried up, and it's time for us to seek new opportunities."

Murmurs rippled through the group. Maura felt Abigail tense beside her.

"Now, I know what you're thinking," Dutch continued, raising his hands for silence. "Change is never easy. But I've received word of a job down south - a significant opportunity that could set us up for months."

Arthur stepped forward slightly, his expression carefully neutral. "Dutch, with all due respect, maybe we should discuss the timing-"

"The timing is perfect, Arthur," Dutch interrupted, his smile never wavering, but his eyes hardening. "Strike while the iron is hot, as they say."

"What about-" Arthur's eyes flicked toward Abigail, the question unspoken but clear.

"What about what, Arthur?" Dutch's voice carried a warning. 

The camp fell silent. Maura felt Isaac shift restlessly in her lap, sensing the tension even if he couldn't understand it. She could see Arthur's internal struggle, the way he weighed loyalty against practical concerns.

 "Just want to make sure we're all prepared."Arthur said finally, his voice flat.

"Excellent." Dutch's smile returned to full brilliance. "We'll be moving out tomorrow morning. Everyone should pack only what they can carry. We'll be traveling light and fast."

The announcement sent the camp into motion. People began gathering their belongings, checking supplies, and preparing for another upheaval. But Maura remained frozen, Isaac heavy in her arms, watching Arthur's face as he processed Dutch's words.

Tomorrow. They were leaving tomorrow, and Abigail was due any day.

As the crowd began to disperse, Arthur stepped forward, his voice cutting through the murmur of activity. "Dutch, we need to talk."

Dutch paused, his theatrical smile faltering slightly. "Arthur, we've already discussed this—"

"No, we haven't." Arthur's voice was firm, and Maura could see the resolve hardening in his shoulders. "Not properly."

John moved to stand beside Arthur, his usual casual demeanor replaced by something more serious. "He's right, Dutch. We can't just ignore the situation."

"And what situation is that?" Dutch's voice carried a dangerous edge, but Hosea stepped forward, his presence lending weight to the growing opposition.

"Abigail could give birth any day," Hosea said quietly, his calm tone somehow more compelling than any shout. "Three days of hard riding through rough country... it's not just dangerous, Dutch. It could be fatal."

Dutch's jaw tightened, and Maura could see the familiar flash of anger in his eyes when his authority was questioned. "We've managed difficult situations before—"

"Not like this," Arthur interrupted, his voice growing stronger. "This isn't about convenience, Dutch. This is about survival. Abigail's survival. The baby's survival."

"I won't risk losing them both for a bank job," John added, his voice rough with emotion. "I won't."

The camp had gone silent again, but this time it was different. The tension was sharper, more focused. Maura could see the other gang members watching, some nodding slightly in agreement, others looking nervously between Dutch and his challengers.

Dutch's smile had vanished entirely now, replaced by the cold calculation Maura had learned to fear. "So what are you suggesting? That we abandon our plans? That we let fear dictate our actions?"

"We're suggesting we split up," Hosea said, his voice reasonable but unyielding. "Temporarily. You take whoever's willing to go after this job. The rest of us find somewhere safe for Abigail to have her baby."

"A town," Arthur added. "Somewhere with a doctor, proper supplies. We can regroup afterward."

Dutch stared at them for a long moment, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. "You're asking me to divide the gang. To weaken us when we need strength."

"We're asking you to be practical," John said. "To think about more than just the next score."

"The next score keeps us alive," Dutch snapped, his composure finally cracking. "The next score keeps us fed, keeps us moving, keeps us free. You want to abandon that for what? To play house in some town where we'll be sitting ducks?"

"We want to keep our family alive," Arthur said quietly, and something in his tone made Dutch pause. "All of it. Including the parts that can't fight."

The silence stretched between them, heavy with years of loyalty and shared danger. Maura held her breath, Isaac fidgeting in her arms as if he could sense the importance of the moment.

Finally, Dutch's shoulders sagged slightly. "Fine," he said, his voice tight with barely controlled anger. "Fine. Anyone who wants to stay behind and coddle nursemaids can do so. But don't expect me to wait around while you all play at being respectable."

He turned on his heel and strode back toward his tent, leaving the rest of them standing in awkward silence. After a moment, Hosea cleared his throat.

"We'll need to find somewhere suitable," he said practically. "Somewhere with good water, close enough to a town for supplies and medical help if needed."

"I know a place," Charles said quietly, speaking for the first time. "Kingstowne is only a day or so ride from here. There’s no lawmen there, it’s too close to Thieves Landing, and it’s quiet enough not to draw attention."

Arthur stiffened. “I ain’t sending my wife, son, and a pregnant woman anywhere close to Thieves Landing.” 

“They won’t be alone, Arthur. Charles and I will go too.” Hosea said sternly. 

“I’ll go as well.” Davey Callandar stood from the log he was sitting on. 

“Uncle will join as well.” Hosea added. 

“Oh well thank God for that.” Arthur replied sarcastically. "Fine. We'll head out first thing in the morning. Take the women, the children, anyone who needs..." He paused, glancing toward Dutch's tent. "Anyone who wants to come."

As the group began to disperse, discussing practical arrangements in low voices, Arthur approached Maura. His expression was a mixture of determination and regret.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly, kneeling so he was at eye level with her and Isaac. "About splitting up. I know I just made promises to you."

“Arthur, it’s okay, I understand.” 

"But I said—"

"You said you'd try to be here for us. And you are." She gestured toward where Abigail sat, John's arm around her shoulders, relief evident in both their faces. "Standing up to Dutch like that... it couldn't have been easy."

Arthur's jaw tightened. "It wasn't about easy. It was about right."

"I know." Maura's voice was soft but fierce. 

The morning brought a precious break in the heat. Storms broke out across the desert, and the cloud covering was a revelation to the weary group. Arthur stood beside his horse, checking his saddlebags for the third time, while across the camp, Maura helped Abigail into the wagon that would take them to Thieves Landing. Isaac ran through camp, back and forth between his parents, unaware that their family would imminently be separated. 

Dutch's group was already mounted, their leader's face a mask of barely contained impatience. He'd spoken to no one since the confrontation the night before, his silence more unsettling than any angry words.

When the time came, Arthur walked slowly toward where Maura stood beside the wagon, Isaac balanced on her hip. Their eyes met across the dusty ground, and for a moment, all the progress they'd made seemed fragile as morning mist.

"So," she said, her voice carefully controlled. “How long do you think you’ll be away this time?” Her tone wasn’t accusatory as it had been in the weeks previous. 

Arthur sighed and shrugged. “I’m hoping no longer than a few weeks, but you can’t tell with these things.” 

She seemed to accept that answer and continued carefully. “And there’s a doctor in Kingstowne?” 

“According to Charles, he hasn’t been wrong yet.” 

"That's good," Maura said, though her voice was strained. "That's... that's what matters."

Isaac chose that moment to reach for his father, his small voice cutting through their conversation. "Papa up?” 

Arthur's composure cracked slightly. He stepped closer, his large hands gentle as he lifted Isaac from Maura's arms. "Hey there, partner," he said softly, his voice thick. "You gonna take good care of your mama for me?"

Isaac nodded solemnly, his small hand patting Arthur's cheek. "Papa, go?” 

The question hung in the air, and Maura saw Arthur's jaw tighten. “Just for a bit,” Arthur said finally, pressing a kiss to the top of Isaac's head.

When he finally handed Isaac back to Maura, their fingers brushed, and she felt the tremor in his hands. Around them, the two groups were making their final preparations, but for a moment, it felt like they were the only three people in the world. 

“Arthur, please be careful, no unnecessary risks,” she said, and her voice broke on the last word. "Please."

Dutch's voice cut through the morning air. "Arthur! Time to go!"

Arthur's shoulders tensed at the summons, but he didn't immediately turn away. Instead, he stepped closer, his hand coming up to cup her face. “I promise.” 

A single tear escaped, trailing down her cheek to where his thumb caught it. For a heartbeat, neither of them moved. Then Arthur leaned down and pressed his lips to hers. “You need to be careful as well and take care of yourself. No running yourself ragged, Mrs. Morgan.” She nodded. 

He pulled back, his hand lingering on her face for another moment before he stepped away. From his saddlebag, he pulled out a small leather pouch, pressing it into her free hand.

"It's not much," he said quietly. "But it should help until things settle."

Maura felt the weight of the coins through the leather, and her throat tightened. "Arthur, you don't have to—"

"I do," he said firmly. "Taking care of you is my job.” 

"Arthur Morgan!" Dutch's voice was sharp with impatience. "Now!"

Arthur's head snapped toward the sound, and Maura saw the old familiar tension return to his shoulders. But when he looked back at her, his eyes were soft, almost pleading.

"I'll find you," he said. "When this is over, whatever happens down there, I'll find you."

"We'll be in Kingtowne," she said, memorizing every line of his face. “We won’t leave until you’re back.” 

He mounted his horse with practiced ease, but his eyes never left her face. From horseback, he looked down at her and Isaac, and Maura saw something she'd never seen before in his expression, but whatever he was feeling, he didn’t feel the need to express it to her. 

Dutch wheeled his horse around and called out, "Gentlemen! Time to make our fortune!"

Arthur's jaw clenched, and he gave her one last, long look. Then he touched the brim of his hat, a gesture that somehow held all the words they'd never said, and spurred his horse forward.

Maura watched until the dust settled and the sound of hooves faded into the distance. Only then did she look down at the leather pouch in her hand, feeling the weight of Arthur's sacrifice, his love expressed in the only way he knew how.

Isaac stirred in her arms, looking around with confused eyes. "Papa?"

"Papa had to go away for a while," she said, her voice thick with tears she wouldn't let fall. "But he'll come back. He promised."

Maura clutched the pouch to her chest and whispered a prayer to whatever God might still be listening: Let him keep that promise. Let him come home.

Chapter Text

The firelight flickered across the rough paper as Arthur studied the drawing in his hands. Even in the dim light of the camp, he could make out every detail, Maura's gentle smile, the way her hair caught the light, Isaac's chubby fingers wrapped around a wooden toy horse. He'd drawn it from memory three days ago, when the ache in his chest had become too much to bear.

A month. 

A month since he'd kissed her goodbye, since he'd held his son, since he'd felt like anything more than Dutch's weapon pointed at whatever target needed destroying.

Arthur pulled his journal closer to the fire and began to write, his pencil moving slowly across the weathered pages.

Been in Mexico near three weeks now. The job Dutch was so excited about turned out to be a string of jobs, each one supposedly the "big score" that'll set us up for life. Meanwhile, I'm sitting here wondering if my boy still remembers what his daddy looks like. Drew another picture of Maura and Isaac today. Dutch caught me looking at it and started up again with his talk about "clarity of purpose" and "necessary sacrifices." Says a man can't serve two masters, can't be thinking about wife and child when he needs to be thinking about the gang's survival. Maybe he's right. Maybe I'm just fooling myself thinking I can be both.

Arthur paused, his pencil hovering over the paper. Around him, the camp was settling into the familiar rhythm of night watch rotations and quiet conversations. Sean's laughter carried from across the fire, and somewhere in the darkness, he could hear Mac cleaning his guns with methodical precision.

But then I think about all those mornings we had together, the three of us in bed, and I know Dutch is wrong. I know there's got to be a way to have both. Maura said it herself, she's not asking me to choose between them and the gang. She's asking me to choose them too. Problem is, every day I'm down here is another day I'm not choosing them. Every job Dutch sends me on, every risk I take, every night I don't come home, it's all a choice. And I keep choosing wrong.

The pencil snapped under the pressure of his grip. Arthur stared at the broken lead, then carefully set the journal aside. 

"Still mooning over that picture, Arthur?"

Arthur's head snapped up to find Dutch standing at the edge of the firelight, his expression unreadable. The older man moved with his characteristic fluid grace, settling onto a log across from Arthur without invitation.

"Just thinking," Arthur said carefully, not moving to put the drawing away.

"About what?" Dutch's voice was deceptively casual, but Arthur had known him long enough to recognize the probing tone.

"About family."

Dutch was quiet for a moment, his eyes reflecting the dancing flames. When he spoke, his voice carried the weight of paternal disappointment. "Arthur, my boy, you know I care about you. You know I want what's best for you."

Arthur's jaw tightened. "I know."

"Do you?" Dutch leaned forward, his gaze intense. "Because I've been watching you these past weeks, and I see a man divided. A man who's not fully present because part of him is always somewhere else."

"I'm doing my job," Arthur said flatly.

"You're doing your job adequately," Dutch corrected. "But adequate isn't what we need right now. We need excellence. We need total commitment."

Arthur felt the familiar surge of defensive anger, but he kept his voice level. "What are you saying, Dutch?"

"I'm saying maybe it's time to consider what's really best for everyone involved." Dutch's voice took on the smooth, persuasive quality Arthur had heard him use on marks and lawmen alike. "You've got a wife and child who need stability, security. They need a man who can provide for them without constantly looking over his shoulder."

"And you think I can't give them that?"

"I think you can't give them that and give this gang what it needs." Dutch's words were gentle but uncompromising. "I think you're trying to be two different men, and it's tearing you apart."

Arthur looked down at the drawing again, at Maura's face, at Isaac's innocent smile. "So what are you suggesting?"

"I'm suggesting you think about what would truly make them happy. A father who's present but always in danger, always on the run? Or a father who loves them enough to make the hard choice?"

"Which is?"

Dutch's smile was sad but firm. "Send them somewhere safe. Somewhere, they can build a real life. Send them money when you can, visit when it's safe, but let them have the stability they deserve."

Arthur felt something cold settle in his stomach. "You want me to abandon them."

"I want you to save them," Dutch said earnestly. "From this life, from the constant fear, from the knowledge that any day could be their last day with you. That's not love, Arthur. That's selfishness."

The words hit like physical blows, each one finding its mark in Arthur's deepest fears. He'd had the same thoughts, late at night when the guilt kept him awake. Maybe Maura and Isaac would be better off without him. Maybe his presence in their lives was more of a curse than a blessing.

"Think about it," Dutch said, rising to his feet. "Think about what kind of father puts his own need to have them close over their need to be safe. I’ve had the same conversation with John.” 

Dutch walked away, leaving Arthur alone with his thoughts and the picture that suddenly felt heavier in his hands.

Two hundred miles north, Maura pressed her back against the closed door of the small room she shared with Isaac and tried to count to ten. Outside, she could hear Isaac's wails echoing through the thin walls of the boarding house, punctuated by apologetic murmurs from Mrs. Wyatt, the proprietor's wife, who'd been kind enough to watch him for the few minutes Maura had stepped out.

She'd only gone to check on Abigail, who'd been having contractions on and off for the past two days. Each time, they'd thought this was it, only for the pains to fade and leave everyone exhausted and on edge. Dr. Turner had been called three times, and Maura could see the exasperation in his eyes even as he maintained his professional demeanor.

"Mrs. Hanlon?" Mrs. Wyatt's voice was strained. "He's asking for you."

Maura opened the door to find the older woman holding a red-faced, sobbing Isaac at arm's length. The boy's face was streaked with tears and snot, his usually neat hair sticking up in all directions.

"Mama!" Isaac launched himself at her legs, his small fists clutching at her skirt. “Where Papa?” 

"I know, sweetheart," Maura said, lifting him into her arms despite her aching back. "I know you miss Papa."

"Where Papa?" Isaac demanded, his voice rising to a shriek. 

Mrs. Wyatt winced, and Maura felt heat rise in her cheeks. "I'm so sorry. He's been having a difficult time—"

"Oh, don't you worry about it, dear," the woman said, though her smile was tight. "Children do miss their fathers. Though perhaps... well, perhaps it might be better if you could keep him in your room during his upset spells. The other guests..."

The unspoken complaint hung in the air. Maura nodded, her throat tight with embarrassment and exhaustion. "Of course. I understand."

She carried Isaac back to their room, closing the door behind them and settling into the single chair by the window. Isaac's sobs gradually subsided into hiccups, but his small body remained tense with misery.

"Papa coming back?" he asked, his voice small and hopeful.

"I don't know, darling," Maura said honestly, smoothing his hair back from his flushed face. "Papa's working. He's trying to come back to us."

It was the same conversation they'd had every day for a month, and Isaac never seemed satisfied with her answers. How could she explain to a two-year-old that his father was somewhere in Mexico, doing God knows what for Dutch van der Linde? How could she explain that she didn't know when he was coming back, or if he was coming back at all?

A soft knock at the door interrupted her spiraling thoughts. "Come in," she called, expecting Mrs. Wyatt or perhaps Charles with news about supplies.

Instead, Hosea's weathered face appeared in the doorway. "How are you holding up, my dear?"

Maura felt her composure crack slightly. "I'm... I'm managing."

Hosea stepped into the room, his keen eyes taking in Isaac's tear-stained face and Maura's obvious exhaustion. "That's not what I asked."

For a moment, Maura considered maintaining the facade of competence she'd been desperately clinging to for weeks. Then Isaac let out another wail, and she felt her carefully constructed walls crumble.

"I don't know how much longer I can do this," she whispered, her voice breaking. "Isaac cries for Arthur every night. Abigail is in agony, and I feel like I'm failing everyone. I can't be everything to everyone. "

Hosea moved closer, his expression gentle. "Have you eaten today?"

The question caught her off guard. "I... yes, I think so. This morning."

"That's not eating, that's surviving." He settled onto the edge of the bed, his presence somehow immediately calming. "When did you last have a full meal? When did you last sleep more than a few hours at a time?"

Maura tried to remember and came up empty. The days had blurred together in a haze of Isaac's tears, Abigail's needs, and her own growing desperation.

"You can't pour from an empty cup," Hosea said gently. "You can't take care of everyone else if you don't take care of yourself."

"I don't have a choice," Maura said, her voice raw. "Mrs. Grimshaw is taking care of everyone at camp, and Arthur isn't here. It's just me."

"No," Hosea said firmly. "It's not just you. You have help, but you've been too proud or too frightened to ask for it."

Before Maura could respond, another knock sounded at the door. This time it was Charles, his face grave.

"Hosea, Mrs. Morgan," he said quietly. "I think it's time. Abigail's asking for you."

Maura's heart sank. She looked down at Isaac, who was still sniffling in her arms, then back at Charles. "I can't bring him with me, and I can't leave him alone."

"I'll watch him," Hosea said immediately. "Go. Do what you need to do."

"But he's been so difficult—"

"Maura." Hosea's voice was firm but kind. "Go. Trust me with this."

She hesitated for another moment, then carefully transferred Isaac to Hosea's arms. The boy immediately began to protest, reaching for her with desperate hands.

"Mama, no! No go!"

"I'll be right back, baby," Maura promised, though she had no idea if that was true. "Uncle Hosea is going to stay with you."

She grabbed the few things Dr. Turner had shown her she needed in case he couldn't be reached in time and followed Charles down the narrow hallway. Behind her, she could hear Isaac's renewed sobs, and each cry felt like a knife in her chest.

In the room next door, Abigail was propped up in bed, her face flushed with pain and exhaustion. John sat beside her, holding her hand and looking terrified.

"Thank God," Abigail gasped when she saw Maura. "I think... I think this is really it this time."

Dr. Turner bustled in behind them, his medical bag in hand. "Let's see what we have here," he said briskly, then paused as Isaac's cries penetrated the thin walls. "Perhaps someone could...?"

"Hosea's with him," Maura said quickly. "He'll be fine."

But even as she said it, she felt the familiar tug of divided attention. Part of her was here, trying to help bring new life into the world, while another part was in the room next door, wanting to comfort her son. And somewhere in Mexico, Arthur was making choices that would determine all of their futures.

As Abigail's labor intensified, Maura found herself thinking about the morning they'd all shared together, the three of them in bed, Isaac giggling between his parents. It felt like a lifetime ago, like something that had happened to other people.

"Maura," Abigail's voice was strained but urgent. "Promise me something."

"Anything."

"If something happens to me, if this goes wrong..." Abigail gripped her hand tightly. "Promise me you'll make sure John doesn't do anything stupid. Promise me you'll help him with the baby."

"Nothing's going to happen to you," Maura said firmly, though her heart was racing. "You're going to be fine. The baby's going to be fine."

But even as she spoke the words, she wondered if she was trying to convince Abigail or herself. In the room next door, Isaac's cries had finally subsided, and she could hear Hosea's gentle voice reading to him from Treasure Island . 

She closed her eyes and sent up a desperate prayer to whatever God might be listening: Let Arthur come home. Let him choose us. Let us all survive this.

The hours stretched on like molasses, each contraction seeming to last an eternity. Dr. Turner came and went twice, assuring them that everything was progressing normally, though slowly. Maura lost track of time, moving between wiping Abigail's brow and checking on Isaac, who had finally fallen asleep in Hosea's arms in the chair by the window.

It was nearly three in the morning when Abigail's breathing changed, becoming sharper, more urgent.

"I can see the head," Dr. Turner announced, his voice cutting through the exhaustion that had settled over them all. "Just a few more pushes now."

Maura gripped Abigail's hand tighter, feeling the other woman's nails dig into her palm. "You're doing so well," she whispered. "They’re almost here."

"I can't," Abigail gasped, her head falling back against the pillows. "I can't do this without John. What if something goes wrong? What if—"

"Nothing's going wrong," Maura said firmly, though her own heart was hammering.

With one final, tremendous effort, Abigail pushed, and suddenly the room was filled with the thin, reedy cry of a newborn. Dr. Turner worked quickly, clearing the baby's airways and wrapping him in a clean blanket before placing him in Abigail's arms.

"A son," he said simply. "Healthy and strong."

Maura felt tears spring to her eyes as she looked down at the tiny, wrinkled face. The baby's eyes were squeezed shut, his mouth open in protest at being thrust into the cold world, but his cries were lusty and full of life.

"He's beautiful," she whispered, and meant it. Even red and wrinkled as he was, she could already see hints of John in the shape of his nose, the stubborn set of his jaw.

Abigail was crying too, her exhaustion temporarily forgotten as she cradled her son. "Look at him," she breathed. "Just look at him."

Dr. Turner finished his ministrations and began packing his bag. "Mother and child are both doing well," he said. "Mrs. Milton will need rest and proper nutrition, but I see no complications. The baby appears to be full-term and healthy."

After he left, the room fell into a peaceful quiet broken only by the baby's occasional soft sounds and Abigail's whispered endearments. Maura helped clean up, changing the bedding and making sure both mother and child were comfortable.

"Would you like to hold him?" Abigail asked, her voice thick with emotion. "While I rest for a moment?"

Maura's breath caught. She nodded, not trusting her voice, and carefully took the bundle from Abigail's arms. The baby was so small, so impossibly light, yet he felt substantial in her arms. 

She settled into the chair beside the bed, cradling him close to her chest. His crying had stopped, and now he seemed to be studying her face with the unfocused intensity of the very young. One tiny fist had worked its way out of the blanket, and Maura marveled at the perfect miniature fingernails, the way his fingers curled instinctively around her thumb when she offered it.

"What will you call him?" she asked softly.

Abigail's eyes filled with fresh tears. "I don't know. We never talked about names..." She shook her head. "It doesn't feel right, naming him without his father here. What if John hates whatever I choose?"

"He won't hate anything," Maura assured her, though she understood the fear.

As she spoke, she found herself studying the baby's face more intently. What would it be like, she wondered, to hold another baby in her arms? Isaac was the light of her life, and she loved him as fiercely as any mother could love a son. But sometimes, in quiet moments like this, she found herself wondering about a child with her auburn hair and Arthur’s striking blue eyes.

She was only twenty-five years old. Still young enough, certainly, if she and Arthur could ever find the stability to build that kind of life together. But watching Abigail's exhaustion, seeing the vulnerability in her eyes as she worried about John's reaction, Maura wondered if she was being naive to want that for herself.

The baby stirred in her arms, making a soft sound that was almost like a sigh. Without thinking, she began to hum, a lullaby her own mother had sung to her years ago, one she still sang to Isaac. The melody seemed to soothe him, and his eyes drifted closed.

"You're a natural," Abigail said drowsily, the laudanum the doctor had given her starting to kick in. "You and Arthur, you should have a dozen babies."

Maura's throat tightened. "Maybe someday," she said quietly. 

But even as she said it, she wondered if that day would ever come. Dutch's grand plans never seemed to end, and Arthur's loyalty to him ran deeper than blood. How could she ask him to leave the only life he'd ever known for just the possibility of a life with her? 

The baby's breathing had evened out into the deep rhythm of sleep, and Maura found herself reluctant to let him go. For these few moments, she could pretend. She could imagine that this was her son, that Arthur was downstairs instead of hundreds of miles away, that they were a real family in a real home instead of outlaws hiding in boarding houses and camps.

"I wish John were here," Abigail whispered, and Maura could hear the tears in her voice. "I wish they were all here. I wish we didn't have to do this alone."

"We're not alone," Maura said, though her voice lacked conviction. "We have each other. We have Hosea and Charles and the others."

"But not our men," Abigail said. "Not when we need them most."

Maura couldn't argue with that. She looked down at the sleeping baby, at this perfect, innocent life that had been born into a world of uncertainty and danger, and felt something harden in her chest. This child deserved better. They all deserved better.

Outside, the storm that had been threatening all evening finally broke, sending rain against the windows in driving sheets. But inside the small room, they were surrounded by the quiet sounds of new life.

Arthur stared at the broken pencil in his hands for a long moment before tossing it into the fire. The lead hissed and sparked as it hit the flames, and he watched it burn, Dutch's words echoing in his head like a curse.

Think about what kind of father puts his own need to have them close over their need to be safe.

The drawing of Maura and Isaac lay beside him on the log, and he found himself looking at it again despite himself. Isaac's chubby fingers wrapped around that wooden horse, his eyes bright with the kind of trust that only children possessed. The trust that said his papa would always come home, would always protect him, would always be there.

Arthur was so lost in his own dark thoughts that he didn't notice John approaching until the younger man cleared his throat.

"Mind if I sit?" John asked, his voice uncharacteristically subdued.

Arthur looked up, surprised. John's face was drawn, his usual cocky demeanor nowhere to be seen. "Course not."

John settled onto the log beside him, his hands fidgeting with a piece of rope. For a while, neither of them spoke, the crackling of the fire filling the silence between them.

"Dutch talked to you, too, didn't he?" John finally said.

Arthur's jaw tightened. "What makes you say that?"

"The way you're looking at that picture. Like it's burning a hole in your hands." John's voice was bitter. "He gave me the same speech about 'clarity of purpose' and 'necessary sacrifices.'"

Arthur felt something cold settle in his stomach. "What did he say to you?"

John let out a harsh laugh. "That maybe I should think real hard about whether I'm cut out for this whole family business.”

“And what do you think?” 

"I don't know." John leaned his head onto his elbows slightly. "Hell, Arthur, what do I know about being a father? I’ve been on my own since I was eight. Didn’t have a hell of a lot of parenting before that. I think Dutch is right, I’ll just screw up the kid.” 

"You think I knew what I was doing when Isaac was born? The kid nearly died on my watch." Arthur let out a short laugh. "Hell, I was terrified to hold him the first time. Thought I might break him. But you know what? You figure it out. You learn because you have to, because they're counting on you."

John was staring at his hands now, his shoulders hunched. "But what if the kid ain't even mine? What if Abigail was with someone else and I'm just—"

"Stop." Arthur's voice was sharp enough to cut through John's spiral. "Just stop right there. You know that ain’t true. Besides, you think blood is the only thing that makes a family?"

John looked up, confused.

"Dutch found you when you were twelve years old, half-starved and picking pockets just to survive. Did he ever treat you like you weren't his son? Did he ever make you feel like you didn't belong?"

"No, but—"

"No buts. And I was barely older than you when I joined up. We're all orphans here, John. Dutch, Hosea, you, me, we all know what it's like to be unwanted. You wanna do that to another kid?"

"Dutch says we can't serve two masters. Says we gotta choose our loyalties."

Arthur looked at the picture again, then carefully tucked it into his jacket pocket. "Maybe Dutch is wrong. Maybe it's time we all stopped letting fear make our choices for us."

John nodded slowly, something settling in his expression. "When we get back, I want to... I want to try."

"Good man." Arthur clapped him on the shoulder. As John walked away, Arthur remained by the fire, staring into the flames. The fire crackled and popped, sending sparks up into the star-filled sky. Somewhere to the north, his family was waiting under the same night sky. 

The wagon wheels creaked in a steady rhythm as they made their way along the dusty road toward camp. Maura held Isaac on her lap, one arm wrapped securely around his small frame while the other steadied herself against the wagon's constant jostling. Beside her, Abigail cradled the baby, still nameless after two weeks, against her chest, her face pale with exhaustion despite the rest she'd gotten in town.

"Almost there," Charles called from the driver's seat, his voice carrying over the sound of the horses' hooves. "Just around this bend."

Maura felt her stomach tighten with a familiar mixture of hope and dread. Every time they'd returned to camp over the six weeks, she'd scanned the faces of the gang members, looking for Arthur's familiar silhouette. Each time, she'd been disappointed.

Isaac squirmed in her arms, craning his neck to look ahead. "Papa here?" he asked, his voice bright with the kind of hope that made Maura's heart ache.

"I don't know, sweetheart," she said softly, smoothing his hair back from his forehead. "We'll see."

But even as she spoke, she could see the camp coming into view, and her heart sank. The familiar collection of tents and wagons was there, smoke rising from the cooking fire, but there were no new horses tied to the hitching posts. No sign of Dutch's returning party.

"Well, look what the cat dragged in!" Uncle's voice rang out as Charles brought the wagon to a stop. Jenny emerged from behind one of the wagons, a genuine smile lighting up her face. "About time you all came back. We've been eating Uncle's cooking for two weeks, and I swear the man's trying to poison us all."

"Hey now," Uncle's voice protested from somewhere near the fire. "My cooking ain't that bad. It's got character."

"Character ain't the word I'd use," Mrs. Grimshaw said dryly, bustling over to help them down from the wagon. Her sharp eyes immediately went to the bundle in Abigail's arms. "Well, I'll be. Let me see that little one."

Abigail carefully climbed down from the wagon, accepting Mrs. Grimshaw's steadying hand. "He's been good as gold," she said, pulling back the blanket to reveal the baby's sleeping face. "Barely cried the whole way here."

"Look at that," Mrs. Grimshaw's voice softened in a way Maura had rarely heard. "He's perfect. Just perfect."

Maura lifted Isaac down from the wagon, her eyes scanning the camp despite herself. Hosea emerged from his tent, his weathered face breaking into a warm smile when he saw them.

"Welcome back," he said, embracing Maura briefly before turning to Abigail. "How are you feeling, my dear?"

"Better," Abigail said, though the shadows under her eyes told a different story. "Tired, but better."

"Any word?" Maura asked quietly, though she already knew the answer from the look on Hosea's face.

"Nothing yet," he said gently. "But Dutch said they might be gone for up to eight weeks. It's only been six."

Only six weeks. The words echoed in Maura's mind as she helped unload their few belongings from the wagon. Six weeks since she'd kissed Arthur goodbye, since she'd watched him ride away with Dutch's party. Six weeks of wondering if each day would be the last day she'd have to wait.

"Mama, tent?" Isaac asked, tugging on her skirt.

"Right here, baby," she said, pointing to their familiar canvas shelter. "Home sweet home."

But as she said it, she wondered if this place would ever feel like home without Arthur in it.

The first few days back at camp fell into a familiar rhythm. Maura threw herself into the daily tasks, cooking, cleaning, helping with the baby, anything to keep her mind occupied. But as the days turned into a week, then two, she found her anxiety growing like a persistent ache in her chest.

Isaac had stopped asking about his papa every day, which somehow made everything worse. The hope in his eyes was fading, replaced by a kind of resigned acceptance that made Maura want to scream. A two-year-old shouldn't have to learn that the people he loved might just disappear.

"You're wearing a hole in the ground, Mrs. Morgan," Jenny observed one evening as Maura paced around the campfire for the dozenth time. "Maybe you should sit down before you make yourself sick."

"I can't," Maura said, her voice tight. "I just... I can't sit still."

"Still no word from Mr. Morgan and the others?" Jenny's voice was gentle, understanding.

Maura shook her head, not trusting her voice. Across the fire, Abigail was nursing the baby, her face peaceful in the flickering light. She'd finally given him a name three days ago, John Marston Jr., though they'd taken to calling him Jack.

"John will be proud," Hosea had said, and Abigail had cried, happy tears, she'd insisted, though Maura had seen the worry in her eyes too.

"They'll be back," Jenny said firmly.

They'll be back," Hosea said firmly. "Dutch always comes back."

"But what if they don't?" The words slipped out before Maura could stop them, giving voice to the fear that had been growing stronger each day. "What if something's happened to them? What if they're—"

"Don't." Hosea's voice was quiet but firm. "Don't go down that road, Maureen. It won't do anyone any good."

But Maura couldn't help herself. "It's been eight weeks, Hosea. Eight weeks without a word. Not a letter, not a telegram, nothing. What if Dutch's big score went wrong? What if they're in a Mexican prison somewhere, or worse?"

"Then we'll deal with it when we know for sure," Hosea said. "But until then, we keep going."

Isaac chose that moment to toddle over to Maura, his wooden horse clutched in his small fist. He climbed onto her lap without invitation, settling against her chest with the kind of trust that made her heart break.

"Story!" he demanded, holding up the toy.

Maura looked down at him, this beautiful boy who looked more like his father every day. Arthur's eyes, Arthur's stubborn chin, Arthur's way of tilting his head. How could she explain to him that his papa might never come home? How could she prepare him for a life without the man who'd loved him so completely?

“Why don’t you ask Uncle Hosea for your book?” Isaac nodded and walked confidently over to Hosea who happily handed over his well loved copy of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer. 

Isaac fell asleep in her arms before she finished a single chapter, his small body warm and trusting against her chest. Maura held him close, breathing in the scent of his hair, and tried to imagine a future where this was enough. Where she and Isaac could build a life together, just the two of them, without constantly waiting for Arthur to come home.

The thought terrified her almost as much as the possibility that she might have to. 

It was Uncle who spotted the riders first.

"Someone's coming!" he called out, shading his eyes against the afternoon sun. "Can't tell who yet, but there's a whole party of them."

Maura's heart leaped into her throat. She dropped the laundry she'd been hanging and ran toward the edge of camp, Isaac on her hip. Behind her, she could hear the others gathering, Abigail calling out, Mrs. Grimshaw muttering prayers, the sound of guns being checked just in case.

The dust cloud grew larger as the riders approached, and Maura squinted against the glare, trying to make out familiar shapes. There, Dutch's distinctive hat, unmistakable even at this distance. And beside him...

"It's them," she breathed, then louder, "It's them! They're back!"

The camp erupted in cheers and shouts of welcome. Maura felt tears spring to her eyes as she counted the riders, Dutch, Mac, Bill, Sean, John, and there, bringing up the rear, Arthur.

He was thinner than when he'd left, his face drawn with exhaustion, but he was whole. He was alive. He was home.

Isaac had spotted him too, his small body practically vibrating with excitement. "Papa!" he shrieked, his voice carrying across the camp. "Papa home! Papa home!"

Arthur's head snapped up at the sound, and even from this distance, Maura could see his face transform. He urged his horse forward, separating from the group. He was off his horse before it had fully stopped, catching her and Isaac in his arms in one fluid motion. Maura buried her face in his neck, breathing in the familiar scent of him beneath the dust and sweat of the trail.

"Papa! Papa!" Isaac was babbling, his hands patting Arthur's face as if to make sure he was real. "You come back! You come back!"

"I came back," Arthur said, his voice thick with emotion. "I told you I would, didn't I?” 

For a long moment, they just held each other, Arthur's arms tight around both her and Isaac, as if he could somehow make up for seven weeks of absence with the strength of his embrace. Maura felt the tension she'd been carrying in her shoulders finally begin to ease, the knot of fear in her chest starting to unravel.

"I was so worried," she whispered against his ear, her voice barely audible over Isaac's excited chatter. "I thought... I thought maybe you weren't coming back."

Arthur pulled back just enough to look at her, his blue eyes searching her face. "I'm here," he said simply, but there was something in his expression, a weight, a weariness that hadn't been there when he'd left. "I'm here, and I ain't going anywhere."

Isaac squirmed between them, demanding attention. "Papa, look! Horse!" He held up his wooden toy, the same one Arthur had whittled for him as an infant. 

Arthur's face softened as he took the toy, examining it with the kind of serious attention that made Isaac beam with pride. "That's a fine horse, son. You been taking good care of him?"

He nodded happily, pleased with the attention he was receiving. Eight weeks. For eight weeks, this little boy had been waiting, had been asking for his papa every day. The guilt that had been eating at him during those long nights in Mexico came flooding back, made worse by the pure joy on Isaac's face.

"I'm sorry I was gone so long," Arthur said, his voice rough. "I'm sorry you had to wait."

Behind them, the camp was alive with celebration. Dutch was holding court near the fire, regaling the others with tales of their adventures, his voice booming with satisfaction. But Arthur found himself reluctant to let go of his family, to join the festivities. He'd spent eight weeks being Dutch's weapon, Dutch's loyal soldier. Right now, he just wanted to be Isaac's father and Maura's husband. 

The sound of approaching footsteps made them both turn. John was walking toward them, his face a mask of barely controlled emotion. Behind him, Abigail was rising from her seat by the fire, baby Jack in her arms.

“That’s a fine kid you got there, Marston.” Arthur patted the younger man on the back. 

Jack chose that moment to fuss, letting out a thin cry that made John flinch visibly. Abigail immediately began to rock him, making soft shushing sounds, but John stepped back instead of forward.

"I don't... I ain't..." John's voice cracked. "What am I supposed to do with it?"

"Hold him," Abigail said, extending the baby toward him. "He's been waiting to meet his daddy."

John's hands came up instinctively, as if to ward off the offer. "I can't. What if I drop him? What if I hurt him?"

"You won't," Abigail said, but her voice was strained now, hurt creeping in around the edges. "John, please. Just hold your son."

Arthur watched the scene unfold with growing concern. He could see the fear in John's eyes, the same fear he'd felt when Isaac was born. But this was different, this was deeper, more fundamental. John wasn't just afraid of dropping the baby; he was afraid of being a father at all.

"Maybe," John said, his voice barely above a whisper, "maybe you should ask someone else to hold him. Someone who knows what they're doing."

The words hit Abigail like a slap. Her face crumpled, and she clutched Jack closer to her chest. "John, he's your son. Your blood. How can you just—"

"I never asked for this!" The words exploded out of John, loud enough to make several heads turn toward them. "I never asked to be a father! I don't know how to be a father!"

Jack began to cry harder, as if sensing the tension in the air. Abigail's tears started flowing freely now, her shoulders shaking with the effort of holding back sobs.

"John," Arthur said quietly, stepping forward. "Maybe you should—"

"Should what?" John whirled on him, his eyes blazing. "Should pretend I know what I'm doing? Should lie to her and tell her I'm ready for this when I ain't? When I don't even know if that baby is mine?"

The camp fell silent. Even Dutch stopped talking, his attention drawn to the unfolding drama. Abigail's face went white, then red, then white again.

"How dare you," she whispered, her voice shaking with rage. “After everything we’ve been through you’re questioning whether or not he’s yours?” 

"I ain't questioning nothing," John said, but his voice lacked conviction. "I'm just saying... I'm just saying maybe it's better if I don't—" 

"Don't what? Don't try? Don't care?" Abigail's voice rose to a near-shriek. "Fine, John Marston. You want to run away? You want to pretend this baby doesn't exist? Then go ahead. But don't you dare come crawling back when you realize what you've thrown away."

She turned on her heel and stalked away, Jack's cries echoing across the camp. John stood frozen for a moment, then began to follow her.

"Abigail, wait, I didn't mean—"

"Leave me alone, John," she called back without turning around. "Just leave us alone."

John stopped walking, his shoulders sagging with defeat. Around the camp, conversations slowly resumed, but the celebratory mood had been shattered. 

Arthur felt Maura's hand slip into his, squeezing gently. Isaac had gone quiet in his arms, his small face serious as he looked between his father and the retreating figure of Abigail.

"Mama sad?" Isaac asked, his voice small.

"Yes, baby," Maura said quietly. "Aunt Abigail is very sad."

“Maura, go check on Abigail.” She nodded and took the boy out of his arms, who began to whimper at the loss of contact. 

Arthur looked at John, who was still standing motionless in the middle of the camp, staring after Abigail. The younger man's face was a mask of misery and self-loathing. Arthur's hand shot out, grabbing John's shoulder with enough force to spin him around. "Where exactly do you think you're going?"

"I need to talk to her, I need to explain—"

"You need to shut your goddamn mouth," Arthur snarled, his voice low enough that only John could hear. "You just humiliated that woman in front of the entire camp. You questioned whether your own son is yours. You want to make it worse?"

John tried to pull away, but Arthur's grip was iron. "Arthur, you don't understand—"

"I understand plenty," Arthur's voice was deadly quiet. "I understand that you just broke the heart of the woman who just gave birth to your son. I understand that you're standing here feeling sorry for yourself while she's over there crying her eyes out." 

"I'm scared, alright?" John's voice cracked. "I'm scared I'll mess it up, I'm scared I'll hurt him—"

"So you hurt him first?" Arthur's grip tightened. "You think running away is protecting him? You think abandoning him is keeping him safe?"

"It's not abandoning—"

"It's exactly abandoning!" Arthur's voice rose enough that several gang members looked their way.

“No-”

"That's exactly what it is," Arthur continued ruthlessly. "You're about to do to that baby exactly what was done to you. And you're standing here making excuses for it."

"I don't know how to be a father!" John's voice was desperate now.

"So you learn!" Arthur shook him roughly. "You think I knew what I was doing when Isaac was born? You think any of us knew?” 

"What if I mess him up?"

Arthur released John's arm and stepped back, his expression hard. "You want to know what I think? I think you're a coward. I think you're so scared of being your father that you're willing to be nothing at all.” 

John had nothing to say to that particular accusation. “Get the hell out of my sight, Marston.” 

John stumbled away towards the center of the camp. Dutch opened a seat to the younger man, a clear sign that he was going to more receptive to John than Arthur was. 

Maura found herself standing outside Abigail's tent, Isaac's small hand gripping hers tightly. She could hear the soft sounds of crying from within, punctuated by Jack's occasional fussing.

"Abigail?" she called softly. "It's Maura. Can I come in?"

There was a pause, then a muffled, "Come in."

Maura pushed aside the tent flap and stepped inside, Isaac close behind her. Abigail was sitting on her cot, Jack cradled against her chest, tears streaming down her face. She looked up at Maura with red-rimmed eyes.

"I'm sorry," Abigail said, her voice thick. "I know everyone heard—"

"Don't you dare apologize," Maura said firmly, settling beside her on the cot. "You have nothing to be sorry for."

Isaac's eyes immediately fixated on the baby, his face lighting up with wonder. "Baby!" he announced, pointing at Jack. 

"That's right," Maura said softly. "This is baby Jack. Remember, I told you about him?"

Isaac nodded solemnly, then looked at Abigail with the kind of earnest concern that only small children could manage. "Auntie sad?"

Abigail's face crumpled again, and she nodded. "Yes, sweetheart. I'm sad."

Isaac asked, climbing onto the cot without invitation and settling himself cross-legged beside them. “I sorry.” He leaned over and hugged Abigail. 

"Sometimes grown-ups have big feelings," Maura said gently. "And it's okay to be sad sometimes."

Isaac considered this with the gravity of a philosopher, then reached out one small finger to gently touch Jack's tiny hand. "Baby play?"

"He's too little to play right now," Abigail said, managing a watery smile. "He's only two weeks old."

Isaac looked genuinely confused. “Please play baby?” 

"When he gets bigger," Maura explained. "Right now, he mostly just sleeps and eats and cries."

Isaac's face fell. "Oh.”

"I show horse!" Isaac announced, pulling his wooden toy from his pocket. Despite everything, Abigail let out a small laugh.

"Isaac, the baby can't see very well yet," Maura said gently. "His eyes are still learning how to work."

Isaac held the horse right up to Jack's face, speaking in the loud, clear voice children used when they thought someone wasn't listening properly. "BABY! LOOK!” 

Jack startled at the sudden noise and began to cry. Isaac immediately looked stricken.

"I hurt baby?" he asked, his lower lip trembling.

"No, no, sweetheart," Abigail said quickly, rocking Jack gently before gently depositing him in the crib they had procured for him in town. "You didn't hurt him. He just got surprised."

"I sorry, baby" Isaac declared, then leaned close to Jack's ear. The baby's cries began to subside, and Isaac looked pleased with himself. He leaned into Jack’s crib and held the wood horse to Jack once again, when the baby did not grab on to it Isaac simply tucked it into the blankets next to his head. 

“You're very good with babies, Isaac." Abigail said, her voice warming, Isaac beamed. 

Jack’s eyes began to flutter closed despite the noise of the room. Isaac settled back to watch the baby, his chin propped on his hands. "Baby sleep?” 

"Yes, he sleeps a lot," Abigail confirmed.

The tent flap rustled, and Arthur appeared in the doorway. "Everything alright in here?"

"Papa!" Isaac called out. Abigail and Maura winced as Jack began to wail again at the sudden outburst. “Baby sleep!” 

Arthur's expression softened as he took in the scene: Abigail looking calmer, Isaac chattering excitedly about the baby, Maura with her arm around Abigail's shoulders.

"Is that so?" Arthur said, stepping inside.

“Papa, see baby!” He pointed to the crib. Arthur looked at Abigail questioningly, and she nodded. He moved closer, his expression gentle as he looked down at Jack.

"Well, hello there, little man," he said softly, "He's a handsome little fellow. Must’ve got his looks from you, Abigail." Arthur said, then looked at Abigail. "You doing okay?"

She nodded, though her eyes were still red. "Better now. Isaac's been keeping me company."

Isaac carefully patted Jack's tiny hand with one finger. The baby's fist closed around Isaac's finger, and Isaac's face lit up like Christmas morning. 

“Is that your horse, partner?” Arthur asked gently. 

“Yes!” The enthusiasm in his voice was infectious, and even Arthur found himself smiling. Trust Isaac to find the pure joy in the situation, to see past all the adult complications to the simple fact that there was a new baby to love.

"That's very generous of you, son," Arthur said.

“You're going to be like a big brother to him,” Abigail said, her voice warm.

Arthur watched Isaac carefully arrange the wooden horse next to Jack's tiny hand, his small face serious with concentration. The sight of his son's gentle care for the baby made something tighten in his chest, pride mixed with a fierce protectiveness that extended to both boys now.

"Abigail," Maura said quietly, her voice steady despite the exhaustion Arthur could see in her eyes. "I want you to know something. Whatever happens with John, you're not alone in this."

Arthur nodded, his gaze meeting Abigail's. "That's right. You need anything, just ask. Isaac here seems to think he's got a new little brother, and far as I'm concerned, that makes us family."

"That's very generous," Abigail said, her voice thick with emotion. "But I don't want to be a burden—"

"You ain't a burden," Arthur interrupted gently. "You're family. And family looks out for each other, especially when times get hard."

Isaac looked up from his careful examination of Jack's tiny fingers. "Baby stay?" he asked hopefully.

"Yes, sweetheart," Maura said, smoothing Isaac's hair. "Baby Jack is staying with us."

He yawned then, the excitement of the day finally catching up with him. "Mama, tired."

"I think we all are," Arthur said, standing and scooping Isaac into his arms. The boy immediately nestled against his father's chest, his small arms wrapping around Arthur's neck.

"Thank you," Abigail said quietly, looking between them. "Both of you. I don't know what I would have done without you these past weeks."

"You don't have to thank us," Maura said, giving her a gentle squeeze. "Get some rest. Tomorrow we'll figure out whatever needs figuring out."

As they made their way back to their tent, Isaac's weight warm and familiar in his arms, Arthur felt the day's emotions finally settling over him like a heavy blanket. The joy of being home, the anger at John's behavior, the bone-deep exhaustion from seven weeks of Dutch's schemes, it all crashed over him at once. Maura lit the small lantern that hung from the tent pole, casting everything in a warm, golden glow.

"Papa, stay?" Isaac asked sleepily as Arthur laid him down on his small cot.

"I'm staying," Arthur said firmly, pulling a blanket up to the boy's chin. "I'm not going anywhere." Isaac smiled, his eyes already drifting closed. 

Within minutes, Isaac was asleep, his breathing deep and even. Arthur stood watching him for a long moment, memorizing the peaceful expression on his face, the way his small hand curled around the edge of his blanket.

"He missed you terribly," Maura said softly from behind him. "Every day, he'd ask when you were coming home."

Arthur turned to face her, and in the lamplight, he could see the toll the past eight weeks had taken. She was thinner, with shadows under her eyes, worry lines that hadn't been there when he'd left.

"I'm sorry," he said, his voice rough. "I'm sorry I was gone so long.” 

"You're here now," she said simply, but he could hear the forgiveness in her voice, the relief.

He pulled her into his arms, holding her close, breathing in the familiar scent of her hair. “I missed you, Maura honey.” 

She hugged him even tighter to her, letting herself melt into his embrace. “Please don’t ever leave for that long ever again, Arthur Morgan.” She felt his heartbeat against her cheek as he leaned down and placed a kiss to the top of her head. 

“I don’t care what no one says, I ain’t leaving for more than a few days at a time again.”

Chapter Text

The camp had been in motion for three days straight, and Maura felt it in every aching muscle of her body. Pack up, move, set up, pack up again. The routine had become a blur of canvas and rope, of trying to keep Isaac entertained while helping Abigail manage a fussy newborn, of cooking over hastily built fires and washing clothes in whatever stream they happened to be near.

She bent over the washboard, scrubbing at one of Isaac's shirts with more force than necessary. The soap stung her raw knuckles, but she welcomed the sharp pain; it was something concrete to focus on besides the exhaustion that seemed to live in her bones now.

"Mama, look!" Isaac called from where he was playing with Jack, who was lying on a blanket in the shade. At six weeks old, Jack was finally starting to focus on faces, and Isaac had appointed himself chief entertainer. "Baby smile!"

Maura looked up to see Jack's face screwed up in what might have been a smile or a grimace. Either way, Isaac was delighted, making exaggerated faces at the baby while Abigail watched from her perch on a nearby log.

"That's wonderful, sweetheart," Maura called back, then returned to the washing. Shirt, rinse, wring, hang. Repeat. The pile beside her seemed to grow rather than shrink, and she wondered if she was imagining things or if the laundry was multiplying.

"Mrs. Morgan," Jenny approached, her arms full of wet clothes. "You want me to take some of those? You've been at that washboard since dawn."

"I've got it," Maura said automatically, not looking up from her work. "There’s a pile of mending next to Miss Roberts you can help with."

Jenny hesitated, clearly wanting to say more, but Maura was already reaching for the next item in the pile. A pair of Arthur's jeans, mud-caked from yesterday's ride. She attacked the stains with renewed vigor, as if she could scrub away her weariness along with the dirt.

Behind her, she could hear Jack starting to fuss, the small sounds that usually preceded a full-blown crying fit. Abigail's voice was strained as she tried to soothe him, but Maura could tell from the tone that she was reaching the end of her rope.

"Come on, little man," Abigail murmured. "Please don't cry. Mama's so tired..."

Maura's hands stilled on the washboard. She should go help. She should take the baby, give Abigail a break. But her back was screaming, her hands were cracked and bleeding, and she wasn't sure she had the energy to stand up, let alone comfort a crying infant.

But then a wave of guilt hit her. What kind of person was she, to resent helping a friend who'd just given birth? What kind of woman put her own comfort above the needs of a newborn?

Jack's cries grew louder, and Isaac's excited chatter turned to worried murmurs. "Baby sad, Mama. Baby sad."

Maura forced herself to stand, her knees protesting after hours of kneeling by the stream. She turned to see Abigail rocking Jack frantically, tears of frustration starting to stream down her face.

"I don't know what's wrong," Abigail said desperately. "He's been fed, he's been changed, but he won't stop crying."

"Here," Maura said, reaching for the baby despite her exhaustion. "Let me try."

Jack's cries intensified when she took him, his small face red and scrunched with distress. Maura began the familiar dance of bouncing and swaying, humming under her breath, but her movements felt mechanical, lacking the gentle rhythm that usually soothed crying babies.

"Mama, why baby sad?" Isaac asked, his own voice starting to quiver with distress.

"I don't know, sweetheart," Maura said, her voice tight. "Sometimes babies just cry."

But Jack wouldn't be comforted. His wails echoed across the camp, drawing disapproving looks from some of the gang members who were trying to rest. Maura felt panic starting to rise in her chest. Why couldn't she calm him? She'd done this countless times with Isaac, had helped other mothers in town, but right now she felt completely useless.

"If it’s too much—"Abigail said, reaching for her son. 

"No, it's fine," Maura said quickly, turning away with the baby. "I've got it."

But she didn't have it. Jack's cries grew more desperate, and Maura's bouncing became more frantic. Her vision started to blur at the edges, and she realized she was breathing too fast, too shallow.

"Maura." Arthur's voice cut through the chaos, calm and steady. "Give me the baby."

She looked up to find him standing beside her, his expression concerned. Behind him, Hosea was watching with the same worried look.

"I can handle it," she said, but her voice cracked on the words.

"I know you can," Arthur said gently. "But you don't have to."

He reached for Jack, and this time Maura didn't resist. The baby's cries seemed to quiet slightly in Arthur's arms, or maybe it was just that his deeper voice provided a different kind of comfort. When the baby’s cries halted, he handed him back to his mother and walked Maura a few paces away. 

"When's the last time you ate?" Arthur asked quietly, his keen eyes taking in Maura's pale face and shaking hands.

"I..." Maura tried to remember. "This morning, I think. Maybe last night. I don't know."

"And slept?"

"Jack was fussy last night. John and Abigail have been fighting again." She rubbed her eyes, which felt gritty and dry. "Abigail needed help."

"What about what you need?" Arthur's voice was gentle but firm.

The question caught her off guard. What did she need? She'd been so focused on everyone else's needs, Isaac's need for attention, Abigail's need for support, the gang's need for clean clothes and hot meals, that she'd forgotten she was allowed to have needs of her own.

"I'm fine," she said automatically, the words hollow even to her own ears. 

"Maura," Arthur said carefully. "When's the last time you left camp? Not moving around actually left.” 

She opened her mouth to answer, then closed it again. Before Arthur had returned, she'd gone to town occasionally, had taken walks by herself, and had stolen moments of quiet. But since they'd been back, since Jack had been born, she'd been caught in an endless cycle of caring for others.

"I don't have time for that," she said finally.

“Look at yourself, Maura. You're about to collapse."

"I'm fine, Arthur.” 

“Maura, honey, you need to take a break.” 

Maura sighed and crossed her arms across her chest. “I appreciate your concerns, Arthur, but I still have too much to do today. I’m alright, I promise.” She patted his arm before turning heel and going back to her work.

"She's been at it since dawn," Hosea observed a little later, settling beside Arthur. "Washing, mending, and helping Mrs. Grimshaw with the cooking. Haven't seen her sit still for more than five minutes."

Arthur nodded, his jaw tightening. "Dutch needs supplies from town," Arthur said, making his decision. "Think I'll ask her to come along."

Hosea's eyes crinkled with approval. "Good idea. The girl needs to get away from camp for a bit. I’ll watch over the boy."

Arthur approached Maura as she wrung out the shirt, her knuckles white from the cold water. "Maura?"

She looked up, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear with a wet hand. "Yes?"

"I'm heading to town for supplies. Thought maybe you'd like to come with me. Could use the help carrying things back." It was a lie; he could manage the supplies alone, but he hoped she wouldn't question it.

Her face brightened slightly, though she tried to hide it. "I should finish this washing first, and then there's—"

"Someone else can pick up the slack for today," Arthur interrupted gently.

"Oh, I couldn't," Maura protested immediately. "Abigail needs help with Jack, and Isaac—"

"Isaac can stay with me," Hosea said firmly. "And Mrs. Grimshaw can help Abigail. The world won't end if you take one day for yourself."

Arthur was nodding, his expression thoughtful. "It's a good idea. We could use the supplies, and you could use the break."

"But—"

"No buts," Arthur said, his voice carrying a note of finality. "You're coming with me, and that's final."

Maura looked between them, seeing the determination in their faces. Part of her wanted to keep protesting, to insist she was fine, that she didn't need help. But another part of her, the part that was so tired she could barely stand, whispered that maybe they were right. Maybe she did need this.

"What about Isaac?" she asked weakly.

"I'll take good care of him," Hosea promised. "We'll read stories, maybe do some fishing if the weather holds. He'll be fine."

 "Go get ready. We'll leave in twenty minutes." Arthur's tone brooked no argument.

Hosea had walked back to where Isaac was standing over Jack’s cradle, trying to prevent the boy from putting leaves and earthworms in for Jack to enjoy. Arthur chuckled at the sight then turned back to his wife and extended a hand to help her up from her kneeling position. She began to protest, but Arthur wouldn’t hear it. 

“Darlin’, the world ain’t gonna stop turning because you leave camp for a day.” 

As she stood, smoothing her skirt, Arthur reached into his pocket and pulled out a small roll of bills. "Here. Get yourself something nice while we're there."

Maura stared at the money in his outstretched hand. "Arthur, I can't take this."

"Why not?"

"Because I haven't earned it. I can't take money from you for nothing."  She said quietly, glancing around to make sure no one could overhear.

Arthur's expression softened. "Maura, look at me." When she did, he saw the uncertainty there, the fear that she was overstepping some invisible boundary. "You take care of my son. You take care of me. Hell, you take care of this whole camp. If that ain't earning your keep, I don't know what is."

"But—"

"No buts." He pressed the money into her palm, closing her fingers around it. "Buy yourself a dress, or books, or whatever makes you happy. Lord knows you deserve it."

She stared down at the money, then back up at him. "Thank you." Fifteen dollars was more money than she had ever had to spend on herself before. 

The ride to town was pleasant, the season was finally changing from the brutal heat of the summer to a more mild autumn. Maura sat beside Arthur on the buckboard, and he found himself stealing glances at her profile as she watched the changing landscape. She seemed more relaxed already, away from the constant demands of camp life.

“Hosea is already trying to teach Isaac how to read. I know he’s only three, but he’s already doing well with his letters and numbers.” 

Arthur smiled at this, “He’s a smart boy. Took Hosea ages to teach me how to read. I was too stubborn for my own good.” 

“How old were you?” 

“Fourteen.” 

Maura looked shocked at this revelation. They didn’t speak much about their pasts. “You didn’t learn in school?” 

Arthur shrugged, suddenly feeling a touch embarrassed by her inquiry. “I only went to school for a few years. After my mama died, we roamed around too much for me to get any formal education.” 

Maura placed her hand on her heart as if mourning the little boy he once was. “We didn’t have a proper school in my town. It closed years ago because too many people had left. My uncle was a priest in one of the local parishes, and he taught me how to read after Mass on Sundays.” 

She twisted a lock of hair that came loose from her bun. “I thought reading was quite boring. I didn’t appreciate it until I came to America. It turns out I just wanted to read something other than the Bible or An Introduction to Irish Grammar .” 

Arthur chuckled at that, the sound warm and genuine. "Can't say I blame you. The Bible ain't exactly light reading.” 

They rode in comfortable silence for a while, the rhythmic clip-clop of the horses' hooves and the creaking of the wagon creating a peaceful backdrop. Maura found herself relaxing for the first time in weeks, her shoulders dropping from their perpetually hunched position.

"Arthur?" she said eventually.

"Yeah?"

"Thank you. For making me come today. I appreciate it."

He glanced at her, taking in the way some color had returned to her cheeks, how her eyes looked less hollow than they had that morning. "You don't have to thank me for taking care of you, Maura. That's what..." He paused, seeming to struggle with the words. "That's what people who care about each other do."

The simple statement hung between them, loaded with meaning neither quite knew how to address. Maura felt her heart do something complicated in her chest, a flutter of emotion she'd been trying to ignore for months.

As they crested a small hill, the city of Blackwater came into view below them, its buildings scattered along the main street like children's toys. Maura sat up straighter, already feeling lighter at the prospect of spending an hour or two at the dressmakers or the bookstore. 

Arthur boarded the horse and wagon in the stable next to the general store. "I'll be about two hours getting everything on Dutch's list. That give you enough time to do whatever you want?"

"More than enough." Maura climbed down from the wagon, smoothing her skirt. "Where should I meet you?"

"Right here. Five o'clock." Arthur consulted his pocket watch. "And Maura? Don't feel like you have to account for every penny. Spend every dollar on yourself."

She nodded, though he could see the habit of frugality warring with the unfamiliar pleasure of having money to spend freely. Arthur watched her walk toward the dressmaker, her step lighter than it had been in weeks, before turning his attention to the supply list Dutch had given him.

Maura stood on the wooden sidewalk for a moment after Arthur disappeared into the general store, the fifteen dollars feeling impossibly heavy in her pocket. When was the last time she'd had money that was truly hers to spend? Money that wasn't earmarked for necessities or emergencies or someone else's needs?

She turned toward the dressmaker's shop, its painted sign creaking gently in the afternoon breeze. Through the window, she could see bolts of fabric in colors she'd almost forgotten existed, deep emerald greens, warm burgundies, soft lavenders that reminded her of spring mornings back in Ireland.

The bell above the door chimed as she entered, and a middle-aged woman with kind eyes looked up from her sewing.

"Good afternoon, dear. What can I help you with today?"

"I... I'd like to look at premade dresses, please." The words felt strange in her mouth. When was the last time she'd bought something just because she wanted it?

"Of course! Are you looking for anything particular? Work dress, Sunday dress, something for special occasions?"

Maura touched the worn fabric of her current dress, noting how the hem had been let down twice and the sleeves mended more times than she could count. "Just something... nice. Something that fits properly."

The woman's expression softened with understanding. "Well then, let's find you something lovely."

For the next hour, Maura lost herself in the simple pleasure of trying on clothes that actually fit her properly. The dressmaker, Ms. Carter, fussed over her like a mother hen, pinning and adjusting, exclaiming over her coloring and suggesting fabrics that would complement her complexion.

"This green brings out the color of your hair beautifully," Ms. Carter said, stepping back to admire a day dress in dark emerald green. "And the cut is very flattering on your figure."

Maura looked at herself in the mirror and barely recognized the woman staring back. The dress fit perfectly, nipping in at her waist and flowing gracefully over her hips. The color made her skin look less sallow, her eyes brighter. She looked... pretty. When had she stopped feeling pretty?

"How much?" she asked, already dreading the answer.

"Six dollars for this one and the blue one you picked earlier, but I could do the alterations for free since you look so lovely in it." 

Six dollars. Almost half of what Arthur had given her. Maura bit her lip, calculating. If she bought the dresses, she'd have nine dollars left. But when she looked in the mirror again, she saw the woman she used to be, the woman who had dreams and opinions and desires of her own.

"I'll take it," she said before she could change her mind.

As Ms. Carter began to wrap the dress in brown paper, Maura hesitated, her cheeks warming with embarrassment. "Ms. Carter? I wonder if... that is, do you also carry ladies' undergarments?"

The older woman's knowing smile was gentle. "Of course, dear. A lady needs proper foundation garments to look her best. What did you have in mind?"

Maura touched her side self-consciously, where her old corset had been digging into her ribs through a broken stay. "My corset is... well, it's seen better days. And perhaps a chemise?"

"Absolutely. Let me show you what we have." Ms. Carter led her to a more private area of the shop, behind a curtain where delicate lace and silk were displayed with tasteful discretion.

The corsets were beautiful, nothing like the worn, practical thing she'd been wearing for years. Ms. Carter held up one in pale pink with delicate embroidery along the bust line. "This one provides excellent support without being too restrictive. Much more comfortable for daily wear."

Maura nodded, then her eyes caught on something else, a chemise in the softest ivory cotton she'd ever seen, with tiny buttons, a satin ribbon, and lace trim that seemed almost scandalously delicate. It was nothing like the plain cotton shifts she was used to. This was the sort of thing a woman wore when she wanted to feel beautiful, even if no one else would see it.

"That one is quite lovely," Ms. Carter said, following her gaze. "Very fashionable." 

"How much would both be?" Maura asked, though her voice came out barely above a whisper.

"The corset is two dollars, and the chemise is as well. But..." Ms. Carter leaned closer conspiratorially. "For a lady buying so much today, I could make it three dollars for both. 

Maura's mind raced. That would be nine total, and she still had other stores to go to. But the thought of proper undergarments, of soft cotton against her skin, of feeling feminine and pretty even beneath her practical clothes, was almost overwhelming.

“Deal.” Maura smiled. 

As Ms. Carter wrapped all the items together, the guilt began to creep in more forcefully now. Nine dollars! She could have bought medicine, fabric for new clothes for Isaac, and supplies for the camp. What kind of selfish woman spent that much money on herself, especially on things no one would even see?

But Arthur's words echoed in her mind: Buy yourself something nice. Lord knows you deserve it. And underneath the guilt was something else, a flutter of anticipation at the thought of wearing something both pretty and practical, of having a corset that wasn’t worn and didn't dig into her ribs, of feeling feminine again. 

Ms. Carter assured her she could have the alterations done by the morning, but Maura sadly informed her that she would be leaving later that afternoon. “Well, I’ll keep them in the back for you until your return to Blackwater.” 

The chemise and new corset were hidden beneath the brown paper, her secret indulgence that made her pulse quicken with a mixture of guilt and excitement. The bookstore called to her from across the street, its windows filled with leather-bound volumes that promised hours of escape.

Inside, she breathed deeply, inhaling the familiar scent of paper and ink. The elderly proprietor nodded at her from behind his spectacles but left her to browse in peace. She ran her fingers along the spines, reading titles she'd only heard whispered about in civilized drawing rooms.

She selected Little Women , having heard ladies in Valentine mention it with fondness. The book was fifty cents.  As she counted them out, she thought of Isaac, who had celebrated his third birthday the week before with nothing more than an extra piece of hardtack with molasses.

The guilt hit her anew. Here she was, spending money on frivolities, while her son had barely had a proper birthday. What kind of mother was she?

Before she could talk herself out of it, she asked the bookseller, "Do you have any children's books?” 

His face lit up. "Oh yes, we have a lovely selection. Are you looking for anything particular?"

Fifteen minutes later, she walked out with Little Women tucked in one arm and a beautifully illustrated book of fairy tales in the other. The children's book had cost her another dollar. The thought of Isaac's face when she gave it to him made her chest warm with something she hadn't felt in weeks: pure, uncomplicated joy.

Her final stop was the toy shop, a small place squeezed between the barber and the bank. She pressed her nose to the window like a child, marveling at the wooden horses, the painted tops, the rag dolls with carefully stitched faces.

Inside, the shopkeeper, a jolly man with a magnificent mustache, showed her his wares with obvious pride. "Looking for anything special, missus?"

"Something for my son, he just turned three.” 

"Ah, I have just the thing!" He disappeared into the back room and returned with a small wooden horse, painted white with a flowing mane and kind eyes. "Handmade by my brother. See how the legs move? And if you wind this little key..." He demonstrated, and the horse began to walk in a circle, its head bobbing gently.

Maura's breath caught. Isaac loved horses, spent hours watching the gang's mounts, and begging Arthur to let him sit on Boadicea. But this would be his very own horse, one that would walk for him whenever he wound the key.

"How much?"

“A dollar twenty-five, ma’am.” 

"I'll take it," she said, handing over her last coins without hesitation.. 

Walking back toward the general store with time to spare, Maura passed the haberdashery and paused. Through the window, she could see displays of men's accessories, pocket watches, cufflinks, and handkerchiefs. Arthur had been so generous with his money, so insistent that she spend it on herself. The least she could do was find him something small.

Inside, the shopkeeper, a thin man with meticulously waxed whiskers, looked up from arranging a display of ties. "Good afternoon, madam. How may I assist you?"

"I'm looking for something for my husband," she said, the word still feeling strange on her tongue even after years of using it. "Something small, but nice."

"Certainly. What sort of gentleman is he? Professional man? Working man?"

Maura considered how to describe Arthur. "He's... practical. Strong hands. He works outdoors mostly." She couldn't very well say he was an outlaw, though something about Arthur's bearing suggested he was more than just a simple laborer.

The shopkeeper nodded knowingly and led her to a case filled with items more suited to working men. "Perhaps a nice pocket knife? Or these handkerchiefs are quite popular, good quality cotton with subtle embroidery."

But it was something else that caught her eye: a pair of leather gloves, supple and well-made, the kind that would protect hands while still allowing dexterity. Arthur's gloves were worn thin, full of holes that he never bothered to mend. She could picture these on his hands as he worked with the horses or handled his guns.

"How much for the gloves?"

"Three dollars. They're made from the finest leather, very durable."

The last three dollars she had. But Arthur had spent his own money on her without hesitation, had insisted she deserved nice things. Didn't he deserve the same consideration?

She thought of his hands, how gentle they were when he helped her down from the wagon, how carefully he handled Isaac, how they trembled slightly sometimes when he thought no one was looking. Those hands worked so hard, did so much for all of them.

"I'll take them,"

As the shopkeeper wrapped the gloves in tissue paper, Maura felt a flutter of nervous excitement. She'd never bought Arthur a gift before, nothing that was purely for him, purely because she wanted to see him smile. The thought of presenting them to him made her stomach dance with anticipation.

As she walked back toward the general store, her arms full of packages, Maura felt a complex mixture of emotions. The guilt was there, stronger now, she’d spent all the money Arthur had given her, money they couldn't afford to spend on luxuries.

As Arthur loaded the last of the supplies into the wagon, and checked his watch. Five-fifteen. Maura was usually punctual to a fault, but he figured she might have lost track of time enjoying herself for once. The sky, however, was becoming increasingly ominous. Dark clouds had been building throughout the afternoon, and the wind was picking up, carrying the scent of rain. Arthur glanced up at the threatening sky and decided to find his wife.

Before he could wander too far, she came around the corner holding a bundle of brown paper packages in her arms and a genuine smile on her face that made his chest tighten with something he didn't want to examine too closely. 

"Sorry I'm late," she said, hurrying toward him. "I got caught up looking at everything-"

Her words were cut off by a massive crack of thunder that seemed to shake the very ground beneath their feet. Almost immediately, the clouds opened up, releasing a torrent of rain that had them both soaked within seconds.

"Jesus!" Arthur grabbed Maura's hand, pulling her under the shelter of the stable awning. "Where the hell did this come from?" 

They stood pressed against each other under the narrow awning, watching sheets of rain cascade down like a waterfall. The storm showed no signs of letting up, and Arthur could feel Maura shivering beside him, her thin dress already soaked through.

"We can't travel in this," he said, stating the obvious. The roads would be muddy, and visibility was near zero. "Looks like we're stuck here for the night."

Maura clutched her packages tighter, water dripping from her hair onto the brown paper. "What about Isaac? Hosea will be worried—"

"Hosea's been through worse storms than this. He'll know we had to take shelter." Arthur looked down the muddy main street, rain bouncing off the wooden sidewalks. "There's a hotel across the way. We'll have to make a run for it."

The Grand Blackwater Hotel was hardly grand, but it was dry. Arthur pushed through the heavy wooden doors, holding them open as Maura hurried inside, her packages clutched to her chest. The lobby was small but warm, with a crackling fire in the hearth and the smell of coffee and pipe tobacco.

Behind the desk, a portly man with wire-rimmed spectacles looked up from his ledger. "Evening, folks. Caught in the storm, I take it?"

"Need a room for the night," Arthur said, water pooling at his feet on the worn carpet.

The clerk's eyes moved between them, glancing critically at their ringless fingers and the way they stood carefully apart from each other. "Certainly. Sign here, please." He turned the register around. "That'll be two dollars for the night, includes breakfast."

Arthur signed quickly, his handwriting careful: Mr. and Mrs. Arthur Morgan . The truth of it should have felt natural by now, but standing there dripping wet next to Maura, their legal bond felt distant. 

"Room twelve, top of the stairs and to your right. There's towels and a wash basin, and a bathing chamber at the far end of the hall. The dining room serves until nine if you're interested in supper."

The key was heavy in Arthur's palm as they climbed the narrow staircase, their wet boots squelching with each step. Behind him, he could hear Maura's sharp intake of breath when a particularly loud crack of thunder shook the building.

Room twelve was small but clean, with a double bed covered in a faded quilt, a washstand, and a single window that looked out onto the storm-lashed street. Arthur set his hat on the dresser and turned to see Maura standing frozen just inside the door, her packages still clutched in her arms.

The awkwardness hit them both like a physical force. They hadn't been alone like this, really alone, since that night out in the desert of New Austin. The easy rapport they had built up before seemed to be gone. 

"I..." Arthur cleared his throat. "I can see if they have another room available."

"Don't be ridiculous," Maura said quickly, but her voice was strained. "We're married, we share a room at camp.” 

"Right," he said. "Of course."

They stood there for another long moment, neither quite sure what to do next. Finally, Maura moved toward the washstand, setting her packages down carefully on the small table beneath the window.

"You should get out of those wet clothes," she said without looking at him. "You'll catch your death."

Arthur nodded, then realized she couldn't see him. "Yeah. You too."

He turned toward the window while she rummaged through her packages, and he tried not to think about the fact that she was undressing on just the other side of the privacy screen. 

"Arthur?" Her voice was softer now, uncertain. "Could you... could you help me with the laces? My fingers are too cold."

He turned slowly to find her standing with her back to him, holding a towel around herself while her wet dress lay in a puddle at her feet. Her shift clung sinfully against her skin. The laces of her corset were soaked and knotted, impossible for her to manage with shaking hands.

"Sure," he said, his own voice rough.

His fingers fumbled with the wet laces, brushing against the warm skin of her back as he worked. She smelled like rain and the lavender soap she'd bought in town, and he found himself remembering things he'd tried to forget. The way she'd felt in his arms at night in bed, how she'd looked at him sometimes when she thought he wasn't watching, the sound of her laugh. 

"There," he said, stepping back quickly when the laces came free.

"Thank you." She didn't turn around, just stood there holding the towel while he retreated to the other side of the room.

Arthur stripped off his wet shirt, hanging it over the back of the chair to dry, and tried to think of something to say that wouldn't make the situation more awkward than it already was. The silence stretched between them, filled only by the sound of rain against the window and the distant rumble of thunder.

“I’m going to take a bath now.” She said quickly. 

Arthur nodded, grateful for the excuse to put more distance between them. "Good idea. I'll do the same after you're done."

Maura gathered her things and disappeared down the hallway. Arthur paced the small room, listening to the storm and trying not to think about what she was doing just a few doors away. When she finally returned, pink-cheeked and smelling faintly of rosemary soap, she was wrapped in a threadbare robe with her wet clothes bundled in her arms.

"All yours," she said, not quite meeting his eyes.

Arthur took his turn in the small bathroom, letting the hot water wash away the chill and tension of the day. When he finally returned to the room, he found Maura sitting on the edge of the bed, brushing her damp hair by lamplight.

She'd changed into what must have been one of her purchases from town, a new chemise of fine white cotton that was considerably more delicate than her usual practical nightgown. The neckline was lower, edged with subtle lace, and the fabric was thin enough that he could see the gentle curve of her shoulders, the graceful line of her collarbone. The fabric was pulled sinfully taut against her skin, and delicate pink ribbon pulled the garment together at the swell of her breasts. 

Arthur stopped short in the doorway, his mouth going dry. She looked up at him through her lashes, and he saw her cheeks flush slightly under his gaze.

"I... I bought it today," she said softly, her fingers smoothing the delicate fabric. "I've never owned anything so fine."

Arthur swallowed hard, forcing himself to look away as he moved toward his side of the bed. "It's... it's real pretty, Maura."

"I almost didn't buy it. It seemed too extravagant." She set down her brush and turned to face him more fully. "But then I thought about what you said.” She smoothed her hands down the front of the chemise self-consciously.

"You should have nice things," he managed, his voice rougher than intended.

"I got something for Isaac,” She carefully climbed off the bed, and Arthur could help but stare at her shapely, exposed legs. Her new garment rested only an inch or two above her knees. “I realized I never got him anything for his birthday last week. It's a little wooden horse that walks when you wind it up. Do you think he'll like it?"

"He'll love it."

She wrung her hands nervously, then, and dropped her voice slightly. "I bought you something too." She reached for one of her packages, unwrapping the tissue paper with careful fingers. When she held up the leather gloves, Arthur felt warmth bloom in his chest. 

"Maura, you didn't have to—"

"I wanted to." She held them out to him, and when he took them, their fingers brushed. "Your old ones are falling apart."

The leather was soft and supple, well-made and expensive. She'd spent her money, money he'd given her to spend on herself, on him instead. Arthur turned the gloves over in his hands, throat tight.

"They're real nice," he said quietly. "Real nice. Thank you."

“I realized that I don’t know when your birthday is. You’ve never said.” 

It occurred to him then that he didn’t know her birthday either.  “July 27th, 1863.” 

“May 8th, 1870.” She stated, and then giggled at how absurd this conversation was. She suddenly became aware of what she looked like. Hair unbound, falling in waves across her back and dreadfully exposed in her scandalous undergarments. As casually as she could, she walked back to the bed and slipped beneath the thick quilt. 

The movement caused the chemise to shift and reveal even more of her décolletage. Arthur forced himself to look at the ceiling as he moved to settle beside her, hyperaware of every breath she took, every small shift of her body under the thin cotton.

"Storm's getting worse," she observed as another flash of lightning illuminated the room.

Arthur settled carefully on the other side of the bed, maintaining a respectful distance. "Yeah. Could go all night." She jumped slightly when the crash of thunder rattled the window next to the bed. She used it as an excuse to move closer to him. Slowly, as not to scare her, he maneuvered her into his arms. That seemed to please her; she snuggled tighter against him and pulled the blankets above her shoulders. 

Arthur woke to the sound of rhythmic thumping against the wall and a woman's voice crying out from the next room. He lay still for a moment, disoriented, before realizing what he was hearing. The hotel, it seemed, catered to more than just travelers caught in storms.

Beside him, Maura stirred, her body tensing as the sounds grew louder and more frequent. Arthur felt her press closer to him, whether from embarrassment or instinct, he wasn't sure.

"I'm sorry," he whispered against her hair. "Blackwater's a nice place. Hotel's probably the only place in town that... accommodates that kind of business."

The woman's cries grew more theatrical, clearly performed for her client's benefit. Maura was quiet for a long moment, listening, before she spoke softly into the darkness.

"I don't understand why she's making such a fuss," she said, her voice matter-of-fact. "It's not like it feels good."

Arthur went completely still, her casual words shocking him. The matter-of-fact way she'd said it, like it was simply an accepted truth, made his chest tighten with a mixture of anger and heartbreak.

"Maura, sweetheart," he said carefully, turning to face her in the darkness. "It's not supposed to be something you just endure."

She was quiet, and he could feel her confusion in the way her body remained tense against his.

"What do you mean?"

Arthur's jaw clenched, thinking of her dead husband, of all the ways the bastard had failed her. "I mean... when it's done right, with someone who cares about you, it shouldn't hurt. It should feel good for both people."

"That's not..." She trailed off, uncertainty creeping into her voice. “I just mean…” She gave a frustrated huff. “It’s not that I don’t believe you. It’s just that it’s never been anything but painful and humiliating for me.” Her words came out jumbled as if she were embarrassed to even admit them. 

Arthur's heart broke a little more. He shifted closer, his hand coming up to cup her face gently. "Darlin', it should never be like that. Your first husband was a sonofabitch, and if he weren’t dead already, I’d kill him myself.” 

That seemed to coax a small smile out of her. Maura was quiet for a long moment after that, processing this. When she spoke again, her voice was smaller, vulnerable. “I want to believe you, Arthur, I really do.” 

Arthur's thumb traced along her cheekbone, his touch infinitely gentle. "Do you…do you want me to show you?” Her whole body went rigid against him, and he feared that he had overstepped her boundaries again. “We don’t have to do everything, just enough to make you feel good.” He felt her relax slightly in his arms as she processed what he said. 

“You want to do that?” She asked, her voice barely louder than the storm outside. 

“‘Course I do," Arthur said, his voice rough with emotion. 

She pressed closer to him, her face buried against his chest. “I don’t even know what it is I’m asking for.” Arthur's arms tightened around her. 

“If you’re feeling up to it, I can start and you tell me when you want me to stop.” 

He could almost hear her mulling the proposition over in her head. Seconds ticked by, and more and more he felt like he had made a mistake. “Alright, but you promise to stop if I ask?” 

“I swear on my mama’s grave.” 

She relaxed again. “Where do we start?” 

Instead of answering with words, Arthur moved closer, his hand cupping her face in the darkness. "Can I?"

She answered by closing the distance between them, her lips meeting his in a kiss that was soft and tentative at first, then deeper as she pressed closer to him. Arthur's arm came around her waist, pulling her against him, and for the first time in many months, there was no barrier between them, no sleeping child, no pretense.

He was careful not to put too much weight on her, not wanting her to feel crushed or caged by him. Instead, he moved her onto her side while placing lazy kisses down the side of her throat and down to her shoulder. To his absolute delight, she gasped and shivered as he continued his journey across her exposed skin, gently removing the lacy strap of her chemise off her shoulder. 

Slowly so that she could stop him if she wished, he reached towards the ribbon at the front of the garment, pleased when she made no move to stop him. His rough hands fumbled with the delicate satin ribbon until it finally came free. He slid his hand underneath the sheer fabric until he was palming her breast. Again, she made no move to stop him, feeling bold, he gave it a gentle squeeze, earning another breathy gasp from his wife. 

He took her taut nipple between his thumb and his forefinger and gently rolled it until he could feel it pebble. His eyes traveled to her face as he slowly lowered his face back to her neck and collarbone. He continued to work his fingers across her sensitive nipple until she let out a shuddering breath and grasped his arm. He stilled. 

“You want me to stop?” His hand began its retreat from her body, but she reached out again and stopped him. 

“N-no, please don’t.” He couldn’t help the smirk that curled across his face at her words. His hand returned to her breast, and she moaned softly as he passed his thumb over her nipple once again. 

“You like that pretty girl?” She bit her lip but nodded vigorously. 

As he continued to pleasure her, he reached down with his other hand and began to gather the hem of her chemise until it was rucked up around her waist. Again, he waited for any sign that she wanted to stop, and when that did not come, his hand glided down until they reached the soft curls at the base of her sex. 

Arthur could feel her tense slightly, but then she tipped her head back, giving him even more access to her. He slid his fingers along the seam of her womanhood, enjoying every small sound that escaped from her pink lips as he did. 

Finally, when he felt like she couldn’t take any more teasing, he made delicate circular motions over the pearl between her legs. She mewled in pleasure, gripping onto his arm even tighter than before. 

“That’s it, sweetheart, that’s a good girl.” 

Moisture gathered around his fingers as he continued to pleasure his pretty wife. Instinctively, he moved down until he was sliding them just inside her entrance. It was then that she stiffened and grabbed his wrist. 

“No. Please not there.” He stilled completely, cursing at himself for pushing her too far, too soon. 

“I’m sorry, darlin’.”

“I don’t want you to stop.” She said a little breathless. “I’m not ready for that yet.” His fingers continued to swirl and stroke between her legs, and he watched in satisfaction as her fingers dug into the flesh of his arm. 

Warmth coiled tight in her belly, and she was too enraptured in his ministrations to be worried about the embarrassing noises falling from her lips. Just when she thought she couldn’t bear another moment of pleasure, the coil snapped. Her world splintered, and a low cry burst from her lips. He held her through the aftershock before gently pulling her chemise back down and splaying a hand across her waist. 

She lay there languid and boneless, trying to wrap her mind around what she had just experienced. If that is how men felt every time they had a woman in their bed, it was no wonder they were always so persistent. 

Arthur's hand traced lazy circles on her waist, his touch still gentle and reverent. The storm outside had quieted to a steady rhythm against the windows, and in the peaceful aftermath, Maura found herself thinking about all the nights that had come before this one. All those times she'd lain rigid and silent, waiting for it to be over, believing that was simply what marriage meant for a woman.

"I didn't know," she whispered into the darkness, her voice thick with emotion she couldn't quite name. 

"What, sweetheart?" Arthur's voice was soft, concerned by the tremor in her words.

She turned her face against his chest, overwhelmed suddenly by the magnitude of what she'd been denied. Not just the physical pleasure, but this, the tenderness, the care, the way he'd watched her face and responded to every sound she made. The way he'd stopped when she asked, the way he'd made sure she felt safe.

 "All that time…all those years.” 

She could barely get the words out over the lump forming in her throat. Arthur's arms tightened around her, and she felt his jaw clench against the top of her head. The tears came then, quiet and cathartic. Not tears of sadness, exactly, but of grief for the woman she'd been, the one who'd accepted so little for so long. And maybe, underneath it all, tears of gratitude for this man who'd shown her she deserved gentleness.

"Hey," Arthur murmured, his hand coming up to stroke her hair. “What’s wrong?” 

“I’m sorry, it’s nothing.” 

“We don't have to do anything you're not ready for, ever. Everything we do together it's on your terms, at your pace. I promise you that."

She pulled back slightly to look at him in the dim light filtering through the window. His thumb brushed away a tear from her cheek. And then, like lightning illuminating the storm-dark sky, another realization struck her with devastating clarity. This feeling blooming in her chest, this overwhelming gratitude mixed with something deeper, warmer, this was love. Real love. Not the desperate dependence felt for him at the beginning, not the polite partnership she'd thought their marriage was supposed to be. This was what all those novels had tried to describe, what she'd thought was just pretty fiction. 

She loved Arthur Morgan.

The realization should have filled her with joy, but instead, it sent a chill of fear through her that had nothing to do with the storm outside. Because their marriage wasn't born of love, it was born of necessity. She had married him because she needed protection, and he had married her because Isaac needed a mother. A practical arrangement that served them both. He was kind to her because he was a good man at heart, gentle with her because that was his nature, not because his heart belonged to her. His devotion was to his son, and she was simply the means to give Isaac the maternal care he needed and him some companionship. That’s what they had agreed upon. 

What would happen if she told him? If she laid bare these feelings that had crept up on her so gradually, she hadn't noticed until this moment? Would he feel trapped, obligated to pretend affection he didn't feel? Would it ruin this comfortable partnership they'd built, make every interaction awkward with the weight of her unspoken expectations?

"Sweetheart," Arthur whispered, his lips hovering just above the shell of her ear, as he felt her body tense against him. "What's wrong?"

"I'm being silly," she managed, forcing her voice to remain steady even as her heart hammered against her ribs.

"You ain't being silly." His thumb brushed her cheek again, and the gentleness of the gesture only made her chest ache more.

She wanted to tell him. The words pressed against her throat, begging to be spoken. I love you. Three simple words that felt impossibly heavy. But what if saying them changed everything? What if it made him pull away, made him remember that this was supposed to be temporary, practical? What if the kindness in his eyes turned to pity? No one had ever told her they loved her, save for Isaac, and she, in return, had never said it to anyone either. 

"It's just..." she started, then stopped, pressing her face more firmly against his chest so she wouldn't have to meet his eyes. "You've been so good to me, Arthur. More than I ever expected or deserved.” 

Arthur was quiet for a long moment, his hand still moving through her hair. When he finally spoke, his voice was rougher than before. “Not a soul in this world more deserving than you, darlin’.” 

Well, it wasn’t a love declaration, but it still made her heart stutter, hope and fear warring in her chest. But before she could examine his words too closely, before she could let herself believe they meant what she desperately wanted them to mean, she forced herself to remember reality. Arthur was a good man who cared about her welfare, who felt responsible for her and Isaac. Of course, he'd grown fond of her, but that didn't mean he loved her. Not the way she loved him.

Silence stretched between them, filled with all the things neither of them seemed able to voice. Arthur's arms remained around her, solid and warm, and Maura allowed herself this moment of closeness while building walls around her heart. She would love him quietly, safely, without burdening him with expectations he'd never signed up for.

"We should try to get some sleep," she whispered finally, settling more comfortably against him. "Isaac will be wondering where we are."

"Yeah," Arthur agreed, though his voice carried something that sounded almost like disappointment. "Long ride back tomorrow."

As the storm continued its gentle rhythm against the windows, Maura lay awake in Arthur's arms, memorizing the feeling of his heartbeat against her cheek, the weight of his hand on her waist. She loved him with a fierce certainty that both thrilled and terrified her, but she would keep that love to herself. After all, he had gotten more than what he'd bargained for, a mother for his son and someone to warm his bed. It would be selfish and foolish to burden him with feelings he'd never asked for, feelings that weren't part of their arrangement.

Some truths, she told herself, were not worth the risk to speak aloud.

Chapter Text

Maura woke up in a bed that wasn’t hers, in the gray pre-dawn darkness, the room still wrapped in shadows despite the faint promise of morning bleeding through the edges of the curtains. She was momentarily disoriented by the softness of the mattress beneath her and the clean scent of hotel linens. The storm had passed, leaving behind a crystalline morning that made the events of the previous night feel almost dreamlike.

Arthur's arm was still draped across her waist, his breathing deep and even against her neck. For a precious moment, she allowed herself to simply exist in this cocoon of warmth and safety, memorizing the weight of his body beside hers, the way his fingers curved protectively around her hip even in sleep.

Then reality crept in, as it always did.

First came the guilt. Isaac had probably been scared by the storm the night before, and with no mother there to comfort him, he likely went to bed weeping. Furthermore, what kind of woman lies in a hotel bed, savoring intimacies she had no right to treasure, when there was washing to be done and meals to prepare?

But underneath the guilt was something more dangerous: the memory of Arthur's hands on her skin, the way he'd whispered "sweetheart" like it meant something precious. The way her body had responded to his touch, the way she'd felt beautiful and desired and cherished for those stolen moments in the darkness.

Don't read too much into it, she warned herself, the same refrain she'd fallen asleep to. He's a good man, being kind to his wife. Nothing more.

The hotel was silent around them, not even the sound of other guests stirring yet. Back at camp, she knew, the gang would still be sleeping, Dutch and Hosea in their tent, the other men rolled up in their bedrolls, Isaac curled up in Hosea's wagon with whatever story the old man had told him before bed. She should be there with him, should have spent the evening brushing his hair and singing the lullabies her mother had sung to her.

Instead, she'd been here, letting Arthur's hands map territories of her body she hadn't known existed, letting herself feel things she had no business feeling.

Arthur stirred beside her, and she held her breath, going perfectly still. She wasn't ready to face him yet, wasn't sure she could look into his eyes in the intimacy of pre-dawn darkness without her newfound love spilling out like water from a broken dam. In a few hours, they would load the wagon and return to camp, where the demands of daily life would swallow up these stolen moments. Where she could pretend that last night had been nothing more than a practical demonstration, a kindness from a considerate husband.

But here, in the vulnerable quiet before sunrise, with his arm still heavy across her waist and the memory of his whispered endearments fresh on her skin, it felt impossible to pretend that what had happened between them was anything less than everything.

Arthur's breathing changed, becoming less deep and rhythmic, and she felt him shift slightly behind her. His arm tightened around her waist, pulling her closer against the solid warmth of his chest.

"You awake already?" he murmured, his voice rough with sleep and something else that made heat pool low in her belly.

She could have pretended to still be sleeping, could have bought herself more time to build up her defenses. Instead, she found herself nodding against the pillow.

"Yes," she whispered.

His hand moved, fingers tracing a slow path along her ribs through the thin cotton of her chemise. The touch was exploratory, questioning, giving her every opportunity to stop him if she wished. When she didn't pull away, his palm flattened against her stomach, thumb stroking gentle circles that made her breath catch.

"How are you feeling?" he asked, pressing a soft kiss to the sensitive spot just below her ear.

The tenderness in his voice made her chest tight. "I'm... I'm fine." More than fine, if she was being honest. Her body felt awakened in ways she'd never imagined possible.

"Good," he said, and she could hear the smile in his voice. His hand moved lower, fingers dancing along the hem of her chemise where it had ridden up in sleep. "Because I was thinking... if you're amenable... there's more I could show you."

Maura let out a sharp breath. She had not been expecting that. 

The words sent a delicious shiver down her spine. More? She'd thought what they'd shared the night before was the extent of it, the full breadth of what intimacy could offer a woman. The idea that there were other pleasures to be discovered, other ways Arthur could make her body sing, left her breathless with anticipation.

"More?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, turning slightly in his arms so she could see his face in the dim light.

Arthur's eyes were dark with want, but his expression remained gentle and patient. "Only if you want to, darlin'.”

The careful way he said it, the way he waited for her response without pushing, only made her desire stronger. This man, who could be so commanding with his gang, so fierce when protecting those he cared about, became infinitely tender when it came to her pleasure. The thought made her heart race.

"Yes," she said, surprising herself with the quickness of her response.

Arthur's smile was soft and devastating. "You sure?"

Instead of answering with words, she turned fully to face him, her hand coming up to rest against his chest where she could feel his heart beating strong and fast. "Show me," she whispered, her earlier fears about love and expectations temporarily forgotten in the face of this new hunger he'd awakened in her.

He smiled and lazily spread kisses across her neck, down towards her clavicle, across her breasts, and finally down the soft planes of her stomach. He pulled up her chemise and continued to place hot kisses on every surface in his path. By the time he reached her thighs, she was whimpering with need, desperate for his attention. He had barely touched her, and already she was falling apart. 

Arthur eagerly threw her legs over his shoulder and lowered his face to her core. She wanted to protest, to ask what he was doing, but instead allowed his mouth to continue its exploration. He placed a wicked kiss between her legs. His tongue played with her, swiping back and forth, but it wasn’t until he found one little spot and he focused on it that Maura let out a sharp gasp. 

“That it, darlin’?” She could feel his smirk against the skin of her thigh. “That’s what you like?” 

She couldn’t respond, only continued to grip the sheets until her knuckles turned white. He continued to focus on that spot with a featherlight touch. His strong arm across her belly was the only thing tethering her to reality. 

“A-Arthur,” She sobbed as he continued to do inconceivable things with his tongue. She felt so unbelievably wanton as she continued to cry out, no better than the woman who had woken them in the night. Tears gathered beneath her lashes as her hands moved of their own volition to tangle in his hair, shocking even herself. 

For just a moment, she hovered agonizingly on the brink before he brought his lips to that special bundle of nerves, circling it so agonizingly gently that she thought she might shatter completely. A string of nonsensical words left her mouth, and her legs clenched around his ears. Finally, her agony and ecstasy ended as the most divine pleasure washed over her in wave after wave. 

It was certainly a good thing that he continued to hold her so tightly because her limbs were suddenly as shaky and weak as jelly. She could do nothing more than pant and stare up at the ceiling above her as she tried to regain her senses. 

Arthur pressed gentle kisses to the inside of her thighs as she slowly came back to herself, his touch now soothing rather than demanding. When her breathing had finally steadied, he moved up to lie beside her again, gathering her trembling form against his chest.

"You alright, sweetheart?" he murmured, his voice warm with satisfaction and concern.

Maura could only nod against his shoulder, still too overwhelmed to trust her voice. The intimacy of what had just happened left her feeling exposed and raw, like every nerve ending was still singing. She'd never imagined such pleasure was possible, never dreamed her body was capable of such responses.

Arthur's hand stroked her hair with infinite tenderness. "Go back to sleep," he said softly, pulling the covers up around them both. "It's still early. We don't have to be up for a while."

The gentle command in his voice, combined with the exhaustion that was suddenly weighing down her limbs, made her eyelids grow heavy. She wanted to say something, to acknowledge what had passed between them, but sleep was already pulling her under. The last thing she registered was Arthur's lips pressing a soft kiss to the crown of her head.

When Maura woke again, pale morning light was filtering more strongly through the curtains, and the bed beside her was empty. For a moment, panic fluttered in her chest. Had he left?

Arthur was sitting in a chair near the small fireplace, fully dressed in his shirt and pants, his boots unlaced. He had one ankle resting on his opposite knee, and he was watching her with an expression she couldn't quite read. There was something contemplative in his gaze, almost studious, as if he were trying to solve some puzzle she presented.

The intensity of his attention made heat crawl up her neck. Suddenly, she was acutely aware of how she must look, her hair undoubtedly mussed, her chemise twisted around her body, the covers pooled at her waist. The memory of how wantonly she'd responded to his touch, how she'd cried out and pulled at his hair, made her cheeks burn with embarrassment.

She pulled the sheet higher, tucking it under her arms as she sat up. "How long have you been awake?" she asked, her voice still rough from sleep.

Arthur's mouth quirked up at one corner. "Not long," he said, though something in his tone suggested otherwise. "You looked peaceful. Didn't want to wake you."

The way he said it, the gentle rumble in his voice, made her stomach flutter. But there was something else in his expression now, a kind of careful distance that hadn't been there in the intimate darkness. As if now that daylight was creeping in, he too was remembering the boundaries that would soon reassert themselves.

"I should..." she began, gesturing vaguely toward her clothes draped over the nearby chair, but the words died in her throat. What should she do? Get dressed and pretend nothing had changed? Thank him for his instruction as if he were a patient teacher? The etiquette for such situations had not been covered in any of her mother's lessons on proper behavior.

Arthur seemed to sense her discomfort. He uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. "Maura," he said quietly, and something in the way he spoke her name made her look directly at him.

"Storm's cleared," he observed, glancing out the window at the muddy but passable street below. "Should make good time back to camp." Disappointment flooded her, but she simply nodded and moved from the bed.

But as they prepared to leave, Maura remembered her dresses still waiting at Ms. Carter's shop. She bit her lip, calculating. They could retrieve them on the way out of town, but the alterations wouldn't be finished for hours.

Arthur noticed her hesitation. "What is it?"

"My dresses," she said, feeling foolish. "Ms. Carter said she'd have the alterations done this morning, but she wasn't expecting me back so soon."

"Well, let's go see what she says."

The bell above Ms. Carter's door chimed cheerfully as they entered, and the dressmaker looked up from her sewing with surprise.

"Mrs. Morgan! I wasn't expecting you back so soon. I'm afraid the alterations aren't quite ready—"

"We got caught in the storm last night," Arthur explained. "Had to stay in town."

Ms. Carter's knowing smile suggested she'd drawn her own conclusions about their unexpected overnight stay. "I see. Well, let me fetch my niece. She's quite handy with a needle, and between the two of us, we could have your dresses ready within the hour."

Arthur reached into his pocket and pulled out another small roll of bills, pressing them into Maura's palm. "Five dollars and fifty cents," he said firmly. "The exact amount you spent on me and Isaac yesterday."

"Arthur, I can't—"

"You can and you will." He turned to Ms. Carter with a slight smile. "Ma'am, my wife needs to spend every single penny of this money on herself. I'll be back in an hour to collect her, and I expect to see her arms full of packages."

Ms. Carter clapped her hands together with delight. "Oh, what a wonderful husband you are! Don't you worry, Mr. Morgan. I'll make sure she finds plenty of lovely things."

Arthur tipped his hat. "Much obliged. I've got an errand to run anyway." He leaned down to kiss Maura's cheek, a gesture so natural and husbandly that it made her heart skip. "Spend it all, darlin'. I mean it."

As the door closed behind him, Arthur stood on the sidewalk for a moment, feeling the weight of what he was about to do. Down the street, he could see the jeweler's shop with its modest sign swaying in the morning breeze. Wedding rings. The idea had been nagging at him since yesterday, watching Maura's bare fingers as she counted out money, seeing the way the hotel clerk had looked at them with barely concealed judgment.

They were married in the eyes of the law, had been for almost three years now, but they had nothing to show for it. No rings, no real ceremony, nothing but a piece of paper filed away in some dusty courthouse. Last night had changed something between them; he could feel it in the way she'd responded to his touch, the way she'd looked at him this morning. But was it love, or just gratitude? Comfort, or something deeper?

Arthur's boots echoed on the wooden sidewalk as he made his way toward the jeweler, his mind churning with doubt. She'd been through hell with her first husband, and had married him out of necessity, not choice. Maybe what he'd taken for affection was just relief at being treated with basic human kindness. Maybe she felt safe with him, grateful for the protection he provided, but that was a far cry from the kind of love that made a woman want to wear a man's ring.

The bell above the jeweler's door chimed as he entered, and a thin man with wire spectacles looked up from his workbench.

"Good morning, sir. How may I help you?"

Arthur cleared his throat, suddenly feeling foolish. “Looking for wedding rings. Simple ones. Nothing too fancy."

The jeweler's face brightened. "Of course! For you and your bride?"

"My wife," Arthur corrected quietly. "We've been married a while, just... never had the rings."

If the jeweler found this odd, he didn't show it. He led Arthur to a case filled with gleaming bands of various metals and designs. Arthur's eyes moved over them, trying to imagine which ones Maura might like, if she'd even want to wear one at all.

"These are popular," the jeweler said, indicating a pair of simple gold bands. "Classic, elegant. Or if you prefer something with a bit more character..." He pointed to a set with subtle engravings.

Arthur picked up one of the plain gold bands, turning it over in his palm. It was heavier than he'd expected, substantial. The kind of ring that would catch the light when she moved her hands, that would mark her as his in a way their paper marriage never had.

But did she want to be marked as his? Did she want the world to know she belonged to Arthur Morgan, or was she simply making the best of a situation she'd never chosen?

"The lady's ring would need to be sized, naturally," the jeweler continued. "Do you know her measurements?"

Arthur shook his head, still staring at the ring. "She's got small hands. Delicate fingers."

"We could estimate, or you could bring her in—"

"No," Arthur said quickly. "I want it to be... I want to surprise her."

The jeweler nodded knowingly. "A romantic gesture. I understand completely. We could size it conservatively and make adjustments later if needed."

Romantic. Was that what this was? Arthur wasn't sure. Maybe it was just his way of trying to make their arrangement feel more real, more permanent. Maybe he was the one who needed the symbol, the visible proof that she was his wife in more than just name.

He thought about the night before, the way she'd trembled in his arms, the soft sounds she'd made when he touched her. There had been something real there, something that felt like more than gratitude or duty. But in the cold light of morning, his doubts crept back in. She was kind to him, comfortable with him, but that didn't mean her heart belonged to him.

"I'll take the plain gold ones," he said finally, pulling out his money. "Simple's better."

As the jeweler wrapped the rings in soft cloth, Arthur wondered if he was making a mistake. What if she saw the rings as another obligation, another expectation she'd have to live up to? What if she put it on out of politeness but never really wanted to wear it?

But then he thought about her smile yesterday when she'd given him the gloves, the way she'd said she wanted to get him something. That hadn't been duty or gratitude, that had been genuine affection. Maybe it wasn't love, not yet, but it was something. And maybe, with time and patience, it could grow into something more.

Arthur pocketed the rings and headed back toward Ms. Carter's shop, his heart heavy with uncertainty but determined to take this leap of faith. Even if Maura's feelings for him were born of gratitude rather than love, perhaps wearing his ring would remind her that she was worthy of being cherished, that someone in this world considered her precious enough to claim.

Ms. Carter turned to Maura with sparkling eyes. "What a treasure that man is! And my goodness, you're positively glowing this morning, dear. That chemise certainly worked its magic, didn't it?"

Maura's cheeks flamed red. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

"Oh, pish!" Ms. Carter waved a dismissive hand, bustling toward the back room. "I've been in this business for twenty years, dear. I know the look of a well-loved woman when I see one." She paused at the curtain, giving Maura a conspiratorial wink. "Mark my words, you'll be announcing a second baby by Christmas."

If possible, Maura's blush deepened further. "Ms. Carter!"

"Nothing to be embarrassed about, dear. It's the natural way of things between a husband and wife." The older woman disappeared into the back room, calling out, "Sarah! Come help me with Mrs. Morgan's alterations. And bring out those lovely stockings from the back, I have a feeling she's going to need something extra special."

Left alone in the front of the shop, Maura pressed her hands to her burning cheeks. Was it so obvious? Could everyone tell what had transpired between her and Arthur just by looking at her? She caught her reflection in the mirror and had to admit there was something different about her appearance, a softness around her eyes, a certain fullness and rosiness to her lips that hadn't been there yesterday.

Ms. Carter emerged with her niece Sarah, a girl of perhaps sixteen with quick fingers and a shy smile. "Now then," the dressmaker said, clapping her hands together, "let's see about getting you properly outfitted. Your husband was quite insistent that you spend every penny, and I intend to help you do just that."

For the next hour, Maura found herself swept up in Ms. Carter's enthusiastic ministrations. The emerald dress was adjusted to fit perfectly, nipping in at her waist and flowing gracefully over her hips. The blue dress received similar treatment, and then Ms. Carter began pulling out additional items. The softest stockings Maura had ever felt, a plum work dress she had passed over the day before, and a shawl embroidered with tiny flowers.

"I really shouldn't," Maura protested weakly as Sarah held up yet another garment for her consideration.

"Nonsense," Ms. Carter replied briskly. "A woman needs variety in her wardrobe. Besides, your husband was quite clear about his instructions. And after what I witnessed this morning, that man adores you, dear."

Maura's heart fluttered at the words, even as her practical mind tried to dismiss them. Arthur was kind to her and generous to a fault. That didn't mean he adored her, not in the way Ms. Carter implied.

But as the pile of packages grew and Ms. Carter continued her cheerful commentary about devoted husbands and the importance of a woman feeling beautiful, Maura found herself caught between embarrassment and a giddy sort of happiness. Perhaps it was foolish to read too much into Arthur's gestures, but in this moment, surrounded by beautiful things chosen specifically for her, it was easy to pretend that his affection ran as deep as her own.

When the bell chimed again precisely an hour later, Arthur stepped inside to find Maura nearly buried beneath brown paper packages, with Ms. Carter beaming proudly beside her.

"Did she spend it all?" Arthur asked with amusement.

"Every last cent," Ms. Carter confirmed. "And worth every penny. She's going to be the most beautiful woman in... where did you say you were from again?"

"We move around a lot," Arthur replied smoothly, then stopped mid-sentence as his eyes found Maura properly for the first time.

The rich green fabric seemed to make her skin luminous, and the expert alterations Ms. Carter had made transformed the garment into something that looked as though it had been crafted specifically for Maura's figure. The neckline was modest but flattering, drawing attention to the graceful line of her throat, while the fitted bodice emphasized her waist before flowing into a skirt that moved like water when she shifted nervously under his gaze.

Arthur felt his mouth go dry. He'd thought she was beautiful in her simple work dresses, but this... this took his breath away entirely. The color brought out the warmth in her brown eyes and made her hair seem to shine with hidden fire. She looked like a lady, like someone who belonged in fine drawing rooms and at elegant dinner parties, not washing clothes by a creek in some dusty camp.

"Work keeps us traveling," he finished belatedly, realizing Ms. Carter was still waiting for his response, though his voice came out rougher than he'd intended.

Maura's cheeks flushed pink under his stare, and she smoothed her hands nervously over the green fabric. "Ms. Carter insisted I wear it out. She said it was a shame to keep it folded up in paper when..." She trailed off, suddenly self-conscious under the intensity of Arthur's gaze.

"When you look absolutely stunning in it," Ms. Carter finished with satisfaction. "I told her, a dress like that needs to be seen. And judging by your husband's expression, I was absolutely right."

Arthur cleared his throat, trying to regain his composure, but his eyes kept returning to Maura. The way the dress hugged her curves, the way it made her look both elegant and incredibly feminine, it was doing things to his concentration that weren't entirely appropriate for a public setting.

"You look..." he started, then stopped, searching for words that wouldn't embarrass her in front of Ms. Carter. "You look real nice, darlin'."

The simple words, spoken in his low, genuine voice, made Maura's breath catch. There was something in his eyes, a heat that had nothing to do with the mild morning temperature, that made her feel as though the carefully fitted bodice had suddenly become too tight.

"Shall I wrap up her old dress?" Ms. Carter asked, bustling around them with barely concealed delight at the obvious effect Maura was having on her husband.

"Yes, ma'am," Arthur managed, though he was having trouble concentrating on anything other than the way the emerald fabric brought out the gold flecks in Maura's brown eyes. "That would be... that would be fine."

As they prepared to leave, Ms. Carter pressed Maura's hand warmly. "You take care of yourself, dear. And remember what I said about Christmas."

Outside, loading the packages into the wagon, Arthur found himself stealing glances at Maura as she arranged her parcels. The morning sun caught the red in her hair, making it shimmer, and when she bent to secure a package, the movement of the fabric over her form made his hands clench involuntarily around the wagon's side.

"What did she say about Christmas?" he asked, his voice still carrying that rough edge that hadn't quite smoothed out since he'd first seen her in the dress.

"Nothing important," Maura replied quickly, focusing intently on arranging her parcels, though she was acutely aware of the way Arthur's eyes kept returning to her, the way his gaze seemed to linger on the places where the dress hugged her figure most closely.

As Arthur helped her up onto the wagon seat, his hands at her waist lingered just a moment longer than necessary, and Maura felt the heat of his touch even through the layers of green fabric and cotton. When she was settled beside him, she caught him looking at her again, his blue eyes dark with something that made her pulse quicken.

"Arthur?" she said softly.

He blinked, seeming to come back to himself. "Sorry, darlin'. It's just..." He shook his head with a rueful smile. “Nothin’.” 

The journey back to camp passed in companionable silence, broken only by the steady rhythm of the horses' hooves and the creak of the wagon wheels. Arthur seemed lost in thought, occasionally glancing at Maura in her new dress, while she found herself acutely aware of every bump in the road that brought their shoulders into contact. Maura clutched her packages in her lap, including the carefully wrapped wooden horse she had bought for her son. Every few minutes, she'd glance at Arthur's profile, remembering the feel of his hands, the gentleness in his touch, and then force herself to look away before he could catch her staring.

As they crested the hill overlooking camp, they could see Isaac before he could see them, a small figure racing between the tents with Hosea walking calmly behind, clearly trying to keep up with the boy's boundless energy.

"Papa! Mama!" Isaac's delighted shriek carried across the camp as soon as he spotted the wagon. He ran toward them with the unsteady gait of a three-year-old at full speed, his face bright with joy.

Arthur pulled the wagon to a stop and barely had time to set the brake before Isaac was trying to climb up the side. "Easy there, son," Arthur laughed, reaching down to lift the boy up onto the seat between them. "Did you miss us?"

"I catched fish!" Isaac announced, practically vibrating with excitement.

"Sounds like you had quite an adventure," Maura said, her heart swelling at his enthusiasm. She'd missed him more than she'd expected during their brief absence.

As they climbed down from the wagon, Hosea approached with a knowing smile. "Storm looked pretty fierce last night. I figured you'd have to take shelter in town."

"Hotel wasn't much, but it was dry," Arthur replied, avoiding Maura's eyes as he began unloading supplies.

Isaac was bouncing from foot to foot, talking a mile a minute about Jack smiling, his dream about horses, and what he retained from the book Hosea read to him.

"Isaac," Maura laughed, crouching down to his level. "Breathe, sweetheart. We're not going anywhere." She reached into her packages, her heart racing with anticipation. "Actually, I have something for you."

Isaac's mouth fell open as she revealed the painted white horse.  For a moment, he was completely still, as if afraid the toy might disappear if he moved too quickly. His small hands hovered over the horse, but not quite touching it yet. When she wound the key and set the horse down, Isaac's delighted gasp could probably be heard three counties over. The wooden horse began its gentle walk in a circle, head bobbing rhythmically, and Isaac dropped to his hands and knees to follow it around. Arthur had stopped unloading supplies to watch, and Maura caught the soft expression on his face as he observed his son's pure joy. Their eyes met for just a moment, and she saw something there that made her chest tight: gratitude, warmth, and something deeper that she didn't dare name.

"That's some horse you got there, son," Arthur said, his voice rougher than usual.

Isaac clutched the toy to his chest and then started towards Abigail’s tent, his intent clear. 

Maura glanced toward Abigail's tent, where she could see the young mother moving quietly around. "Jack might be sleeping right now, sweetheart."

Isaac's face fell slightly, but then he perked up again, handing her the horse and the wind up key. "Again Mama?"

As Isaac became absorbed in making the horse walk in circles around the camp, Maura reached for her other package. "There's something else too."

This time, she revealed the beautifully illustrated book of fairy tales, its cover depicting a castle surrounded by magical creatures. Isaac's eyes grew even wider if that were possible. He took the book in his little hands. “Thank you, Mama!” He held the book in one hand and hugged her leg through her skirts. 

As the afternoon wore on, Maura found herself settling back into the familiar rhythms of camp life, but with Isaac as her constant shadow. The boy seemed determined not to let either her or Arthur out of his sight, as if afraid they might disappear again if he wasn't vigilant.

"Mama, read please?" Isaac asked as evening began to fall, climbing into her lap where she sat by their tent, having changed back into one of her simpler dresses.

"Of course, sweetheart," she replied, reaching for Isaac’s new book. As she opened to the first page, Isaac settled against her with the boneless comfort of a tired child, his thumb creeping toward his mouth.

Arthur watched them from where he was tending to the horses, and something in his expression made her heart flutter. There was such tenderness there, such quiet contentment. Isaac's eyes were already growing heavy, the excitement of reunion giving way to the sleepiness that came so quickly to small children. 

"Once upon a time," Maura began, her voice soft in the gathering dusk, "there lived a brave knight…” 

Chapter Text

Mist clung to the forest floor like ghosts as Arthur guided his horse through the dense woodland, his rifle resting across his lap. Three days had passed since their return from Blackwater, three days of stolen glances and careful politeness, of Maura wearing her new dresses and Isaac chattering endlessly about his toy horse. Three days of Arthur feeling like a man walking on the edge of a precipice, never quite sure if the ground beneath his feet would hold.

He'd volunteered for this hunting trip partly because the camp needed fresh meat, but mostly because he needed time away from his wife, away from the memory of her soft sighs in the hotel darkness, away from the increasingly impossible task of pretending his feelings for her weren’t fundamentally changed.

The forest was quiet except for the soft thud of his horse's hooves on the damp earth and the distant call of a mourning dove. Arthur pulled up near a small clearing, dismounting to examine some deer tracks in the soft ground. Fresh, maybe an hour old. He should follow them, should focus on the hunt that had brought him out here. Instead, he found himself leaning against a massive oak tree, his rifle propped beside him, and letting his mind wander to places it had no business going.

To say Arthur Morgan had been unlucky in love would be underselling the story completely. Hell, he wasn't sure he even believed in luck anymore, not when it came to matters of the heart. Seemed like everyone he'd ever cared about had either died or left, and he was starting to think maybe that wasn't a coincidence. Maybe it was just the natural order of things when it came to him.

 The word sat heavy in his chest like a stone. He'd been thinking about it more and more lately, turning it over in his mind like a man examining a bullet wound, trying to understand how deep it went and whether it might prove fatal.

He pulled off his hat and ran a hand through his hair, thinking about his mother. Beatrice Morgan had been a small woman with kind eyes and calloused hands, who'd sung lullabies in a voice like honey and died coughing up blood when Arthur was barely old enough to understand what death meant. He'd loved her with the fierce, uncomplicated devotion of a child, and she'd been taken from him before he'd even learned to properly say goodbye.

His father, Lyle... well, that was a different kind of heartbreak entirely. Arthur had spent his whole childhood trying to earn that man's approval, following him from one failed scheme to the next, desperate to be worthy of his attention. He'd loved his father the way a dog loves a master who kicks it but still throws it scraps, with a loyalty that bordered on pathetic. When Lyle was hanged, Arthur had not mourned the man, just all the words of affection that had never come.

Then there was Mary. Sweet, beautiful Mary Gillis with her proper family and her dreams of respectability. Arthur's chest still tightened when he thought about her, about the way she'd looked at him like he could be something better than what he was. He'd loved her desperately, foolishly, completely, and it hadn't been enough. How could it be, when he was an outlaw and she was a lady? When her family looked at him like something they'd scrape off their shoes? She'd married a banker in the end, someone who could give her the life she deserved, and Arthur had told himself he was happy for her even as his heart shattered like cheap glass.

He shifted against the tree bark, his jaw clenching as his thoughts turned to Eliza. He couldn't claim he'd loved her, not the way he'd loved Mary, but there had been something there. Affection, certainly. Desire. A kind of easy companionship that had made those stolen nights together feel like a respite from the chaos of his life. When she'd told him about the baby, he'd felt... responsible. Protective. Like maybe he could be the kind of man who deserved a family.

But he'd been wrong, hadn't he? He could still see Eliza's face, pale and drawn with exhaustion, her hand gripping his so tightly it left marks. He'd been there when Isaac came into the world, red-faced and screaming, and he'd been there when the bleeding wouldn't stop. Had held Eliza's hand as the life drained out of her, whispering promises he knew he couldn't keep about taking care of their son.

Arthur closed his eyes, remembering those final moments. The way she'd looked at him with such trust, such faith that he'd do right by Isaac. She had made him promise that he would bring the boy up right. 

He'd agreed, of course. What else could he do? But the guilt of it had nearly broken him anyway. If he'd been a different man, a better man, maybe she wouldn't have died. Maybe loving him hadn't cost her everything.

He loved his son, and on that issue, he had absolutely no choice in the matter. The minute he had set eyes on the boy, he had been a goner. But loving Isaac was the most terrifying thing Arthur had ever experienced, and that was saying something for a man who'd stared down the barrels of more guns than he could count. Every other love in his life had been complicated by want or need or circumstance, but Isaac? Isaac was pure vulnerability walking around on stubby little legs, asking Arthur to read him stories and fix his broken toys with complete and utter trust that his father would make everything right.

The boy had no idea how dangerous it was to depend on Arthur Morgan. Didn't know that everyone who'd ever counted on him ended up disappointed or dead. Isaac just knew that Arthur was his father, and in the simple, unquestioning way of children, he believed that meant he was safe.

Living with Isaac day in and day out only made it worse. There was no escape from the constant reminder of what he stood to lose, no way to keep that careful distance he'd once convinced himself was possible. The boy was there every morning when Arthur woke up, chattering about his dreams or complaining about nightmares, there every evening asking for stories, falling asleep curled up against Arthur's side like he belonged there. Like Arthur was someone worth depending on instead of a man whose very presence put everyone he cared about in danger.

The worst part was how good Isaac was, how sweet and funny and clever. He deserved so much better than an outlaw for a father, deserved someone who could give him a proper home and teach him to read and write and be respectable. Instead, he got Arthur, who could teach him to shoot and ride and survive, but not much else that mattered in the civilized world.

And now there was Maura.

Arthur's breath came out in a shaky exhale as he thought about his wife. Because that's what she was now, wasn't she? Not just in name but in truth. He'd felt it that night in Blackwater, in the soft sounds she'd made when he touched her, in the way she'd looked at him the next morning. Something had shifted between them, some invisible line had been crossed, and there was no going back.

He loved her. The realization had been creeping up on him for months, but he could no longer deny it. He loved the way she sang Isaac to sleep, her voice soft and sweet in the darkness. He loved how she'd stood up to Bill when the man had been cruel to the boy, all five and a half feet of her blazing with protective fury. He loved her stubborn insistence on mending everyone's clothes even when her own were falling apart, her quiet generosity, the way she made Isaac laugh. He loved the feel of her in his arms, the trust she'd shown him in that hotel room, the way she'd whispered his name like it meant something precious.

But loving Arthur Morgan was dangerous. Everyone who'd ever done it had paid a price.

A twig snapped somewhere to his left, and Arthur's head came up, his hand automatically moving to his rifle. A young buck stepped delicately through the trees, head raised and alert. Arthur should take the shot; it was a clean one, and the camp needed the meat. But his hands remained still, his thoughts too tangled to focus properly on the hunt.

What if his love was a curse? What if caring for him was what had killed his mother, driven away his father's affection, cost him Mary, and ultimately cost Eliza her life? What if by letting himself love Maura, by allowing their marriage to become real, he was signing her death warrant?

The thought made his stomach turn. Maura was too good for this life, too kind and gentle. She deserved better than a man whose love came with a body count. She deserved someone who could give her a real home, safety, a future that didn't involve running from the law or sleeping in tents or wondering if today would be the day everything fell apart.

The buck bounded away, startled by some sound Arthur couldn't identify, and he let it go without a second thought. He pushed off from the tree and walked back to his horse, his mind churning with dark possibilities.

Maybe the kindest thing he could do was pull back. Keep things polite and distant, treat her like what she was supposed to be, a marriage of convenience, nothing more. Protect her from the curse of his affection by keeping it to himself.

But even as he thought it, Arthur knew he was lying to himself. It was already too late for that. He'd already fallen, already let her into his heart in ways he couldn't take back. And selfish bastard that he was, he wasn't sure he had the strength to push her away, not when she looked at him like he was worth something, not when she let him hold her and touch her and pretend, for just a little while, that he could be the kind of man who deserved happiness.

Arthur mounted his horse but didn't turn back toward camp. Not yet. He could see the smoke rising through the trees in the distance, could almost hear the familiar sounds of daily life, but his chest felt tight at the thought of facing Maura. Of looking into those kind eyes and pretending everything was normal when his whole world had shifted on its axis.

He was a coward, plain and simple. Too much of a coward to do what was right and push her away, and too much of a coward to face her and let her see the truth written all over his face. So instead he turned his horse deeper into the woods, following a game trail that led away from camp, away from responsibility, away from the woman whose gentle presence had become both his salvation and his torment.

He was a coward, plain and simple. Too much of a coward to do what was right and push her away, and too much of a coward to face her and let her see the truth written all over his face. So instead he turned his horse deeper into the woods, following a game trail that led away from camp, away from responsibility, away from the woman whose gentle presence had become both his salvation and his torment.

The afternoon sun filtered through the canopy above, casting dappled shadows across the forest floor. Arthur told himself he was still hunting, still serving a purpose out here, but in truth, he was just hiding. Running from feelings too big to handle, from the terrible weight of loving someone he was certain he would lose.

Somewhere back in that camp, Maura was probably mending someone's shirt or helping Abigail with baby Jack, and Isaac was playing with his wooden horse, safe and loved. They'd wonder where he was when suppertime came, but Arthur couldn't bring himself to care. Better to let them think he was dedicated to the hunt than to face them and risk revealing the chaos in his heart.

He'd stay out until evening, until the cover of darkness could hide the worst of what he was feeling. Only then would he return, wearing that familiar mask of the easy-going gunslinger who took things as they came. Only then could he trust himself to look at his wife without giving everything away.

The sun was hanging low in the sky, painting the camp in shades of amber and gold, when Arthur finally emerged from the tree line. He'd managed to bag two rabbits in the last hour, more out of necessity than skill; his mind had been too scattered for proper hunting all day. But at least he wouldn't return empty-handed, and wouldn't have to explain why he'd spent the better part of the day avoiding his own life.

The familiar sounds of camp should have been comforting: the gentle nickering of horses, the crackle of the central fire, the low murmur of conversation. Instead, Arthur's stomach knotted as he heard raised voices cutting through the evening air. Even from a distance, he could recognize the sharp edge of anger in them.

As he drew closer, leading his horse toward the hitching posts, the scene before him came into focus like a bad dream. Abigail stood near the edge of camp, baby Jack crying in her arms, her face flushed with fury and exhaustion. John lounged against a wagon wheel nearby, hat pulled low over his eyes, the very picture of a man trying to pretend he couldn't hear the chaos around him.

"—not asking for the moon, John!" Abigail's voice carried across the camp, high and desperate. "I'm asking you to hold your own son for five minutes while I get some food in me!"

"I told you, I don't know nothing about babies," John muttered, not even bothering to look up. "All he does is cry anyway."

Arthur's jaw clenched as he watched the exchange. Around the camp, other gang members were finding excuses to be elsewhere, Mrs. Grimsahw suddenly very interested in his stewpot, Davey and Javier disappearing into the shadows between the wagons. Even Dutch seemed to be avoiding the domestic drama, though Arthur caught sight of him watching from his tent with that calculating look he got when trying to decide if something was worth his intervention.

Maura appeared from behind one of the wagons, her arms full of freshly washed clothes. Arthur's chest tightened at the sight of her, hair escaping from its pins, sleeves rolled up from her work, moving with that quiet efficiency he'd come to admire. She took in the scene with those perceptive eyes of hers, and Arthur could practically see her making the decision to step in where others wouldn't.

"Here, Abigail," Maura said softly, setting down the laundry and reaching for the baby. "Let me take him for a bit."

"You shouldn't have to—" Abigail began, but her protest was weak. She was exhausted; anyone could see that, with dark circles under her eyes and a tremor in her hands that spoke of too many sleepless nights.

"It's no trouble," Maura assured her, settling Jack against her shoulder with practiced ease. The baby's cries began to quiet almost immediately, responding to her calm presence.

Arthur watched his wife sway gently, one hand rubbing the baby's back in slow circles, and something twisted painfully in his chest. She was so natural with Jack, so patient and gentle. It reminded him of how she was with Isaac, how she'd stepped into the role of mother without hesitation or complaint.

"Ain't your job to clean up John's messes," came a gruff voice from Arthur's left. He turned to find Bill approaching, shaking his head in disgust. "Man's got responsibilities, he ought to face 'em."

For once, Arthur found himself in complete agreement with Bill Williamson. John's behavior toward his son was becoming harder to ignore, and seeing Abigail's exhaustion, seeing Maura step in to help where Jack's own father wouldn't, made Arthur's blood simmer with a familiar anger.

He tied off his horse and shouldered the rabbits, walking toward the group with deliberate steps. John must have sensed him coming because his head came up, wariness flickering across his features.

"Arthur," John nodded, trying for casual. "How was the hunting?"

Arthur dropped the rabbits near Pearson's station without taking his eyes off John. "Better than your fathering, seems like."

The words hung in the air like a challenge. Around them, conversations quieted as gang members sensed trouble brewing. John straightened, his hand instinctively moving closer to his gun belt.

"Don't know what you mean by that," John said, but his voice lacked conviction.

"Sure you do." Arthur stepped closer, his voice low but carrying enough edge to cut. "Your woman's dead on her feet, your boy's crying for attention he ain't getting, and here you are acting like it ain't your concern."

"The boy's fed and clothed, ain't he?" John's defiance was starting to show through the wariness. "What more you want from me?"

Arthur felt his hands curl into fists. In his peripheral vision, he could see Maura still holding Jack, her eyes wide as she watched the confrontation unfold. Abigail had gone very still, as if afraid to breathe wrong and set off an explosion.

"I want you to act like a man," Arthur said quietly. "I want you to take your responsibilities seriously, maybe show a little gratitude for what you got instead of running away from it."

"You don't know nothing about what I got," John snapped. "Easy enough to judge when you ain't got no idea—"

The punch connected before Arthur even realized he'd thrown it. His knuckles cracked against John's jaw with a satisfying thud, sending the younger man staggering backward into the wagon wheel. John's hat flew off, and he pressed a hand to his face, blood trickling from his split lip.

"What the hell—" John started, but Arthur was already advancing.

"I got no responsibilities?" Arthur's voice was deadly quiet, the kind of tone that made smart men reach for their guns. "I got a son, you worthless piece of shit. And I sure as hell know what it means when that child depends on you for everything."

Isaac chose that moment to come running over from where he'd been playing, clearly drawn by the commotion. He stopped short when he saw John's bloody face, his eyes going wide.

John straightened slowly, working his jaw and spitting blood into the dirt. "You always were quick with your fists, Morgan. Maybe I should give you something to remember me by."

"You want a matching black eye to go with that split lip?" Arthur asked conversationally, rolling his shoulders. "Because I got plenty more where that came from."

John's hand moved toward his gun, but before either man could escalate further, strong hands grabbed Arthur's arms. Bill and Charles had appeared as if from nowhere, hauling him back while Dutch himself stepped between the two men.

"Enough!" Dutch's voice cracked like a whip.

"Let me go," Arthur growled, struggling against the restraining hands. His eyes never left John's face, taking in the defensive stance, the way the man's fingers still hovered near his weapon.

"Arthur." It was Maura's voice, quiet but carrying across the sudden silence that had fallen over the camp. She was still holding Jack, who had mercifully stopped crying, and her eyes met his with an expression he couldn't read. The gentle reminder of his son's presence was like cold water on Arthur's rage. He looked down to see Isaac pressed against his leg, small hands clutching at his coat, and felt some of the fight drain out of him.

"I'm alright, son," Arthur said softly, his voice still rough with anger but gentler. "Just had a disagreement with Uncle John."

Dutch waited until he was sure Arthur wouldn't lunge again before releasing him. "John, go get that lip looked at. Arthur, I think you and I need to have a word."

But Arthur wasn't ready to be managed, not yet. His eyes found Maura again, and the shame of losing control in front of her, in front of Isaac, made him feel like the worst kind of bastard. 

"I'm sorry," he said to her, his voice carrying across the camp despite its quietness. "I shouldn't have... not in front of the boy."

Maura was quiet for a long moment, her eyes moving from Arthur to John and back again. When she finally spoke, her voice was steady but low enough that only those closest could hear.

"I suppose this makes me a terrible person," she said, shifting Jack to her other arm, "but I'm not sorry you did it." Her gaze flicked to John, and there was steel in it that Arthur rarely saw. "I've been watching Abigail work herself to death while he acts like his own son is an inconvenience. It makes me furious."

The admission hung in the air between them, and Arthur felt something shift in his chest. Here was his gentle wife, the woman who mended clothes and sang lullabies, admitting to a violence of feeling that matched his own. It should have shocked him. Instead, it made him love her more.

Abigail had tears in her eyes. John, meanwhile, was staring at Maura like he'd never seen her before. "So that's what you really think of me?"

"What I think," Maura said, her voice still calm despite the fire in her eyes, "is that you're a sorry excuse for a man. I think you’re the most pathetic coward I’ve ever had the displeasure of laying eyes on."

The camp was dead silent. Even Dutch seemed taken aback by the quiet fury in Maura's words. Arthur felt pride and love and a dozen other emotions he couldn't name swelling in his chest.

John worked his jaw again, spat more blood, and looked around at the faces watching him. "Well," he said bitterly. "Good to know where everyone stands."

He turned and walked away into the gathering dusk, leaving behind a camp full of people who didn't call him back.

The tension in the camp was still thick as smoke when Maura approached Arthur; Jack finally settled and was sleeping in her arms. She deposited the calmed baby back into his cradle in Abigail’s tent. The other woman gave her grateful nod, then turned her attention to Arthur's bloodied knuckles.

"Come on," she said quietly, her voice still carrying the edge of anger from her confrontation with John. "Let me see to your hand."

Arthur looked down at his split knuckles, surprised to find them still bleeding. The adrenaline was starting to fade, leaving behind the familiar ache of a fight well-fought and the growing awareness that he'd lost control in front of the whole camp.

"It's nothing," he started to say, but Maura was already taking his elbow, guiding him toward their tent with a firmness that brooked no argument.

"Isaac, you stay with Mrs. Grimshaw for a bit," she called over her shoulder. 

Their tent was small and cramped, barely big enough for the three of them, but it felt intimate in the lamplight as Maura pushed Arthur down onto their cot and knelt beside him. She reached for the basin of water they kept for washing, her movements efficient but gentle as she took his injured hand in hers.

"This is going to sting," she warned, dabbing at the broken skin with a damp cloth.

Arthur hissed between his teeth but didn't pull away. He watched her face in the golden light, noting the way her brow furrowed in concentration, the soft curve of her mouth as she worked. Her anger seemed to have transformed into something else, a kind of fierce tenderness that made his chest tight.

"You didn't have to do that," she said quietly, cleaning blood from between his knuckles. "Stand up for Abigail like that."

"Yeah, I did." Arthur's voice was rough. "Somebody had to. That boy deserves better than this bullshit Marston is pulling."

Maura's hands stilled on his, and when she looked up, her eyes were bright. “You’re a rare sort of man, Arthur Morgan.” 

Arthur felt heat creep up his neck. "Maura—"

"No, let me say this." Her grip tightened on his hand. "I've been so angry, Arthur. So angry at John for being awful to that sweet baby, at the others for pretending not to see it, at myself for not knowing what to do about it. And then you came back and you just... you did something about it."

She was leaning closer now, her free hand coming up to touch his cheek. Arthur's breath caught as he saw the fire still burning in her eyes, but it wasn't anger anymore. It was something warmer, something that made his pulse quicken.

"You're a good man," she whispered, and then her lips were on his.

The kiss was nothing like her careful, tentative explorations in Blackwater. This was fierce and hungry, full of the emotion she'd been holding back. Arthur groaned against her mouth, his good hand tangling in her hair as she pressed closer.

"Maura," he breathed when they broke apart, but she was already kissing him again, her hands working at the buttons of his shirt.

“The best man I've ever known.” She said breathily. 

Arthur captured her mouth again, swallowing her words, his heart hammering against his ribs.  His injured hand forgotten, he rolled them both until she was beneath him on the cot, her hair spread across the rough blanket. She looked up at him with such trust, such open affection, that it nearly undid him completely.

Arthur leaned down to kiss her throat, feeling her pulse flutter beneath his lips, when the sound of approaching footsteps made them both freeze. A moment later, Mrs. Grimshaw's voice cut through the evening air like a knife.

"Mrs. Morgan? I've got your boy here looking for his mama and daddy."

Arthur and Maura sprang apart as if they'd been burned. Maura's hands flew to her disheveled hair while Arthur hastily buttoned his shirt, both of them trying to look presentable as Isaac's chatter grew closer.

The tent flap opened and Isaac tumbled inside, still talking a mile a minute, followed by Mrs. Grimshaw's knowing smirk.

"Something came up and I can’t keep an eye on him," she said dryly, her eyes taking in Arthur's rumpled appearance and Maura's flushed cheeks. "Figured you might want him back before he gets into any trouble."

"Thank you, Mrs. Grimshaw," Maura managed, her voice only slightly breathless. "We were just... Arthur hurt his hand in the fight."

"I can see that," the older woman replied with barely concealed amusement. "Well, I'll leave you to your... doctoring."

She disappeared back into the night, and Isaac threw himself onto the bedroll between his parents, oblivious to the tension crackling in the air.

"Papa hand hurt?" he asked, reaching for Arthur's bloodied knuckles with gentle fingers.

Arthur caught Maura's eye over their son's head, seeing his own frustrated desire reflected there along with something softer, a promise that this was only postponed, not forgotten.

"It's better now, son," Arthur said quietly, meaning more than just his hand. "Much better."

Twenty minutes later, Isaac was finally settled, his wooden horse clutched in one small fist as he breathed deeply in sleep. Arthur watched his son for a moment longer, adjusting the blanket around his shoulders, before turning to find Maura watching him with that same soft expression that had been undoing him all evening.

"He's out," Arthur whispered, his voice rougher than he'd intended.

Maura nodded, but made no move to resume what they'd started earlier. Instead, she seemed to be studying his face in the dim lamplight, as if trying to read something there.

"Come with me," he said suddenly, extending his hand to her.

Maura glanced toward Isaac, then back at him. "Where?"

"Just... away from here. Away from listening ears and interruptions." His voice dropped lower. She hesitated for a moment, color rising in her cheeks, but then she took his hand. Arthur led her carefully through the camp, past the fire where a few gang members still sat talking in low voices, past the wagon where he could hear Mrs. Grimshaw snoring softly. They moved like shadows through the darkness until they reached the edge of camp, where a fallen log provided a natural seat overlooking the valley below.

The moment they were out of earshot, Maura turned to him, and Arthur felt that same electric tension from the tent crackling between them. Moonlight caught in her auburn hair, making the rich copper strands gleam, and when she stepped closer.

"Arthur," she whispered, and then her hands were on his chest, pushing him back until his legs hit the fallen log.

He sat heavily, pulling her down with him until she was straddling his lap, her skirts pooling around them both. The position was intimate, improper, and Arthur's hands found her waist instinctively, holding her steady.

"We shouldn't—" he started, but she silenced him with a kiss that was nothing like the gentle woman who sang lullabies and mended clothes. This was fire and hunger and months of careful restraint finally breaking free.

Arthur groaned against her mouth, his hands sliding up to tangle in her hair as she pressed closer. She was warm and soft and perfect in his arms, and when she moved against him, he thought he might lose his mind entirely.

"Maura," he breathed against her throat, tasting the salt of her skin.

Her response was a soft sound that sent heat straight through him, her hands working at the buttons of his shirt with trembling fingers. Arthur caught her wrists gently, stilling her movements even though it took every ounce of his willpower.

"Wait," he said roughly. "There's something... I got something for you."

She pulled back to look at him, her lips swollen from his kisses, her eyes bright with desire and confusion. "Arthur?"

He shifted beneath her, reaching into his vest pocket with fingers that weren't quite steady. The small object felt heavier than it should as he pulled it out, the plain gold band catching the moonlight.

"I, uh..." Arthur cleared his throat, suddenly feeling foolish. Here he was, holding his wife in his lap like some lovesick boy, about to give her a ring after they were already married. It seemed backward, wrong somehow. "I bought this in Blackwater. For you."

Maura's breath caught as she saw the ring, her eyes going wide. "Oh, Arthur..."

"I know it ain't much," he said quickly, the words tumbling out in his nervousness. "Just a plain band, nothing fancy. But I thought... well, a man's wife ought to have a proper ring, don't you think? Even if the marriage ain't exactly... I mean, even if we didn't start out..."

He was making a mess of this, he knew. The romantic speeches he'd imagined in his head were nowhere to be found, leaving him fumbling for words like a schoolboy.

Maura took the ring from his palm with reverent fingers, holding it up to catch the light. It was simple, unadorned, just a smooth circle of gold, but she looked at it like it was the most precious thing she'd ever seen.

"It's perfect," she whispered, and Arthur felt his chest constrict at the wonder in her voice.

"Here, let me..." He took the ring back, his hands steadier now as he reached for her left hand. Her fingers were trembling as he slid the band onto her ring finger, and it fit perfectly, like it had been made for her.

Maura held up her hand, admiring the way the gold gleamed against her skin. "Arthur, I don't know what to say. It's beautiful."

Relief flooded through him at her reaction, followed quickly by a fierce satisfaction. She liked it. She was pleased. The woman in his arms, his wife, was looking at him like he'd hung the moon and stars just for her.

The way she said his name made heat pool low in his belly again, and when she leaned forward to kiss him, Arthur forgot all about awkward speeches and proper romance. This was better than any fantasy he'd conjured up, better than the careful scenarios he'd imagined. This was real, and she was his, and the ring on her finger proved it.

His hands found her waist again, pulling her flush against him as she deepened the kiss. The log wasn't the most comfortable seat, and anyone could come looking for them at any moment, but Arthur couldn't bring himself to care. All that mattered was the woman in his arms and the way she sighed his name against his lips.

When they finally broke apart, both breathing hard, Maura rested her forehead against his.

"Thank you," she whispered. 

Arthur's throat felt tight again. He wanted to tell her that she didn't need to thank him, that he'd buy her a dozen rings if it made her happy. He wanted to tell her how beautiful she looked in the moonlight, how right this felt, how much he—

"There's, uh..." He cleared his throat again, reaching back into his vest pocket. "There's one more thing."

Maura pulled back slightly, watching with curious eyes as he produced a second ring, this one larger, clearly meant for a man's hand. It was just as simple as hers, just as plain, but something about seeing the matching band made her breath catch all over again.

"You bought yourself one too?" The wonder in her voice made Arthur's chest swell with pride and nervousness in equal measure.

"Well, I figured..." He turned the ring over in his palm, suddenly self-conscious. "If you're wearing my ring, then I ought to wear yours too. Let everyone know I'm spoken for."

The smile that spread across Maura's face was radiant, and Arthur felt like he could breathe again. She took the ring from his hand with the same reverence she'd shown her own, holding it up to examine it in the moonlight.

"Give me your hand," she said softly.

Arthur extended his left hand, and Maura took it in both of hers. Her fingers were warm and steady as she slid the gold band onto his ring finger, and Arthur watched her face as she worked, memorizing the concentration in her expression, the gentle curve of her mouth.

The ring fit perfectly, and when it was in place, Maura lifted his hand to her lips, pressing a soft kiss to his knuckles just above the new band.

"Perfect," she whispered against his skin.

Arthur's other hand tightened on her waist. He wanted to tell her everything he had been feeling in the last few days. But the words stuck in his throat, too big and dangerous to say out loud. Instead, he kissed her again, pouring everything he couldn't say into the touch of his lips against hers, hoping she could feel what he was too afraid to speak.

Chapter Text

The winter camp north of Rhodes was far nicer than their previous hideouts. Flat Iron Lake stretched out before them like a mirror, reflecting the gray December sky, while bare trees stood sentinel along the shoreline. Arthur had to admit it was peaceful, even beautiful in its stark way. The gang had settled into an old farm house that Dutch had deemed "atmospheric," though Arthur suspected the real appeal was its proximity to Saint Denis and all the opportunities that city promised.

Isaac loved it here. The boy spent hours collecting smooth stones along the lake's edge, building elaborate castles in the sandy soil, or pestering Charles to teach him how to track the deer that came to drink at dawn. Watching his son explore with boundless curiosity, Arthur felt something close to contentment. For the first time in months, they weren't running from anything, weren't looking over their shoulders for lawmen or rival gangs.

It helped that things with Maura had settled into something deeper, more comfortable than the tentative dance they'd been doing for so long. The rings they wore caught the light when they moved, small symbols of something real between them. Arthur found himself looking forward to the quiet moments, helping her hang laundry while Isaac played nearby, sharing coffee by the fire before the camp woke, the way she'd take his hand when they walked down to the water's edge in the evenings.

But their peace was interrupted on a cold morning when Dutch returned from one of his increasingly frequent trips to Saint Denis with more than just new leads.

Arthur was chopping wood behind the main house when he heard the commotion. Horses approaching at a gallop, Dutch's voice calling out orders, the general bustle that always accompanied his return from the city. But there was something different this time, an edge of excitement in Dutch's tone that made Arthur set down his axe and walk around to the front of the camp.

Dutch sat astride his stallion, his coat mud-splattered from the ride, but his eyes were bright with the kind of manic energy that usually preceded either great fortune or great disaster. Beside him, on a chestnut mare, sat a young woman Arthur had never seen before.

She was beautiful, that much was immediately obvious. Red hair that caught the winter light like flame, pale skin that suggested she hadn't spent much time outdoors, and clothes that were clearly expensive, a deep purple traveling dress with intricate beadwork and a matching hat adorned with feathers. She looked like she belonged in a Saint Denis drawing room, not a gang's winter camp.

"Everyone gather 'round!" Dutch called out, dismounting with a theatrical flourish. "I want you all to meet Miss Molly O'Shea, who'll be joining our little family."

Arthur felt his stomach sink as he watched Dutch help the woman down from her horse with exaggerated gallantry. Around the camp, other gang members were emerging from tents and buildings, drawn by Dutch's announcement. Arthur caught sight of Mrs. Grimshaw standing near the main house's porch, and even from a distance, he could see the way her face had gone carefully blank.

"Miss O'Shea comes to us from Dublin by way of Saint Denis," Dutch continued, his arm sliding around the woman's waist with casual possession. "She's had quite enough of city life and expressed an interest in something more... authentic."

Molly O'Shea smiled, but Arthur noticed it didn't quite reach her eyes. There was something brittle about her composure, like fine china that might crack if handled roughly.

"How lovely to meet you all," she said, her Irish accent lending music to the words. "Dutch has told me so much about his... associates."

The way she said 'associates' made it clear she thought herself above such terminology. Arthur glanced around the camp and saw similar reactions on other faces, Javier's polite but wary nod, Bill's obvious skepticism, John's barely concealed sneer.

"Mrs. Grimshaw," Dutch called out, and Arthur watched the older woman's spine stiffen. "I trust you'll help Miss O'Shea get settled? She'll be sharing my room, of course, but I'm sure she'll appreciate a woman's touch in making her comfortable."

The silence that followed was deafening. Arthur could practically feel the tension radiating from Mrs. Grimshaw, could see the way her hands clenched at her sides. Years ago, she had been Dutch's woman, had run his household and shared his bed, and commanded respect as the camp's unofficial matriarch. Now she was being asked to play servant to her replacement.

Arthur watched the two women walk away, Mrs. Grimshaw with her back ramrod straight, Molly O'Shea glancing around the camp with poorly concealed disdain. Dutch, meanwhile, was already holding court with some of the men, no doubt spinning tales of his conquest in the city.

"Well," came a quiet voice beside him. Arthur turned to find Maura approaching, Isaac clinging to her skirts and peering curiously at the newcomers. "That's... interesting."

"That's one word for it," Arthur muttered.

She shook her head and grabbed a basket of washing, desperate to put distance between herself and this latest mess. The air was crisp and clean by the water, a welcome change from the stifling atmosphere around the main house.

She'd settled onto the flat washing stone for almost two hours when she heard footsteps on the sandy shore behind her. Her back screaming, she turned and saw Abigail approaching, the other woman's face etched with the same weariness that seemed to plague all of them lately.

"Mind if I join you?" Abigail asked, settling down beside Maura without waiting for an answer. "Jack is napping and I needed to get away from... all that." She gestured vaguely toward the camp, where Dutch's voice could still be heard regaling someone with tales of Saint Denis society.

"Of course," Maura replied, making room on the washing stone. She studied Abigail's face in the fading light, noting the tension around her eyes. "How are you holding up?"

Abigail's laugh was bitter. "Well, John's been making himself scarce ever since Arthur knocked sense into him, so at least I don't have to listen to his excuses anymore." She paused, watching the water lap against the shore. "But that's not what's really bothering me."

Maura waited, recognizing the look of someone who needed to unburden themselves. She'd worn that expression often enough herself in recent months.

"It's her," Abigail said finally, lowering her voice. "That O'Shea woman. Did you see how she looked at Mrs. Grimshaw? Like she was something she'd found on the bottom of her shoe?"

Maura's hands stilled on the shirt she was washing. "I saw."

"And the way Dutch just... stood there. Letting it happen. Making Susan help her settle in like she's some kind of servant." Abigail's voice was tight with anger. "Susan's stayed with him for years, Maura. Years. She's run this camp, taken care of all of us, put up with his moods and his grand schemes, and this is how he repays her?"

"I keep thinking about how she looked at us earlier," Maura said quietly. "Like we're animals in a zoo put on display for her entertainment."

Abigail snorted. "Oh, that's not even the worst of it. She asked Mrs. Grimshaw if we had any 'proper ladies' in camp. Made it clear she thinks the rest of us are just common whores."

Maura felt heat rise in her cheeks. "She said that?"

"Practically. And Mrs. Grimshaw just... took it. Smiled and nodded and offered to show her where the good soap was kept." Abigail's voice cracked slightly. "It's not right, Maura. None of this is right." They fell into silence, both women lost in their own thoughts. 

"Sometimes I wonder," Abigail said suddenly, so quietly Maura almost missed it, "what it would be like to just... leave. Find a little house somewhere, try to build something normal for Jack."

"I think about that too," she admitted, surprising herself with the admission. 

"You do?" Abigail turned to look at her, hope creeping into her voice.

Maura nodded, glancing back toward the camp where she could see Arthur chopping wood behind the main house again, his movements sharp and efficient. "Arthur's a good man, better than most. But this life... It's wearing on him. On all of us. Isaac deserves better than constantly looking over his shoulder."

As if summoned by their conversation, the sound of laughter drifted down from the main camp. Dutch's voice, loud and theatrical, no doubt entertaining Miss O'Shea with another story of his exploits. The sound made Maura's stomach turn.

"We should head back," she said, gathering up the washing. "Before people start wondering where we've gotten to."

When they returned, they were surprised to see John sitting in the center of camp, Jack balanced carefully in his lap. The baby was wide awake, reaching up with chubby fingers to grab at John's hat, and for once, John wasn't pulling away or looking uncomfortable. Instead, he was making soft sounds at his son, almost smiling as Jack gurgled happily.

"Well, I'll be," Abigail murmured, stopping short at the sight.

Maura touched her arm gently. "Go to them," she whispered. "This might be important."

Abigail approached slowly, as if afraid any sudden movement might break the spell. "He's been fussy all evening," she said quietly, settling down beside John on the log. "I couldn't get him to settle."

"He just wanted some attention," John said, and there was something different in his voice. Softer. More uncertain, but in a vulnerable way rather than his usual defensive manner. "Been talking to me for the last ten minutes. Real serious conversation about... well, I ain't sure what about, but he's got opinions."

Jack made another happy sound and managed to grab John's hat, pulling it askew. Instead of getting irritated, John chuckled, actually chuckled, and gently extracted the hat from his son's grip.

"He's got a strong grip," John observed, offering Jack his finger instead. The baby immediately latched onto it, his tiny hand barely wrapping around John's calloused digit. "Gonna be trouble, this one."

"He's perfect," Abigail said softly, and for the first time in weeks, there was no tension in her voice when she spoke to John.

Maura found herself smiling as she watched the small family. Maybe Arthur's confrontation had done some good after all. Maybe John was finally starting to understand what he had, what he stood to lose if he kept running from his responsibilities.

"I should put Isaac down for his nap," she said quietly to Arthur, who had appeared beside her.

"Already done," Arthur replied, his voice warm as he watched John with Jack. "Boy was tired out from playing."

They stood together, watching as John carefully shifted Jack to his shoulder, patting the baby's back with surprising gentleness. But the moment was broken by the sound of Miss O'Shea's voice carrying from Dutch's room, sharp with complaints about the "primitive conditions". The spell shattered like glass, and Maura saw John's face close off again, his shoulders tensing.

"Here," he said abruptly, standing and holding Jack out to Abigail. "You should take him. I ain't... I don't know what I'm doing with babies anyway."

"John, you were doing fine—" Abigail started, but John was already walking away, disappearing into the shadows between the tents.

Abigail clutched Jack to her chest, tears threatening at the corners of her eyes. "For a minute there, I thought..."

"I know," Maura said gently, placing a comforting hand on her friend's shoulder. "So did I."

After dinner, the women gathered around the large washbasin near the edge of camp, sleeves rolled up and hands already pruned from the hot, soapy water. It had become something of a ritual, the four of them working together to tackle the mountain of dishes that accumulated from feeding a camp full of outlaws who seemed to think clean plates appeared by magic.

Mrs. Grimshaw stood at one end of the basin, her graying hair pulled back in its usual severe bun, scrubbing at a particularly stubborn pot with the kind of vicious efficiency that suggested she was imagining it was someone's face. Abigail worked beside her, quieter than usual but moving with renewed energy since Jack had finally started sleeping through the night. Jenny hummed softly as she dried each plate with meticulous care, while Maura worked at the other end, strands of hair falling into her eyes as she bent over her task.

"I'm telling you," Mrs. Grimshaw was saying, her voice carrying that familiar note of righteous indignation, "that O'Shea woman has ideas above her station. Acting like she's some kind of princess instead of the whore Dutch picked up in Saint Dennis."

Jenny made a soft sound of agreement, though her attention seemed more focused on making sure each dish was properly dried. "She did walk right past me today when I was trying to get help hanging the laundry. Acted like she didn't even see me."

"Oh, she saw you," Mrs. Grimshaw said grimly, attacking the pot with renewed vigor. "She just thinks she's too good for honest work now that Dutch is whispering sweet nothings in her ear."

"Any fool with eyes can see what needs doing around here. The woman just thinks she's special because she can bat her eyelashes and make Dutch forget he's got a gang to run." Mrs. Grimshaw's voice cracked like a whip.

Maura remained diplomatically quiet, focusing intently on the cup in her hands. She'd learned early on that Mrs. Grimshaw's tirades were best weathered in silence.

"Mark my words," Mrs. Grimshaw continued, waving a dripping spoon for emphasis, "she'll get tired of playing outlaw soon enough. These pampered city girls always do. Then she'll run back to whatever fancy family she came from, and Dutch will be left wondering how he ever fell for such obvious—"

"Oh my Lord, Mrs. Morgan!" Jenny's sudden exclamation cut through Mrs. Grimshaw's rant like a knife. The younger woman had grabbed Maura's left hand, holding it up to catch the sunlight streaming through the trees. "Is that what I think it is?"

All eyes turned to Maura's hand, where the simple gold band caught the evening light with a warm gleam. Maura felt her cheeks flush as the other women crowded closer, their dish-washing forgotten for the moment.

"It's just..." Maura started, then stopped, unsure how to explain the gift that had meant more to her than Arthur probably realized. "Arthur got it for me. In Blackwater."

"Just?" Abigail breathed, reaching out to touch the ring with one damp finger. "Honey, it's beautiful. Look how it catches the light!"

Mrs. Grimshaw had abandoned her pot entirely, her stern expression softening into something almost maternal as she examined Maura's hand. "Well, I'll be damned.” 

Jenny was practically bouncing on her toes with excitement. "How did he give it to you? Was it romantic? Did he get down on one knee?"

"Jenny!" Abigail laughed, but her eyes were bright with the same curiosity. "Let the woman breathe."

"It wasn't like that. We’re already married after all.” Maura's flush deepened, but she found herself smiling at their enthusiasm. “He gave it to me and said that I ought to have it.” She left out the finer details of what position they were in when he gave it to her. 

Jenny sighed happily. "Well, that’s still romantic," Jenny declared. 

Maura twisted the ring around her finger, remembering the weight of it in Arthur's palm, the careful way he'd slid it onto her finger. "He got himself one too," she admitted quietly. "Said if I was wearing his ring, he ought to wear mine."

Even Mrs. Grimshaw seemed at a loss for words, and Jenny looked like she might swoon. 

"Lord have mercy," Abigail declared. “That man loves you something fierce.” 

“Oh, I’m not sure about that.” She plunged her hands back into the murky water, suddenly more interested in dirty dishes than in the conversation. Mrs. Grimshaw scoffed. 

 “I suppose we'd better make sure you take proper care of that ring. Can't have it getting all tarnished from dish water." The older woman remarked. “You should get a chain to place it on for when you are doing chores.” 

The next morning dawned gray and cold, with frost covering the ground and a bitter wind blowing off the lake. Maura woke early, as had become her habit, and slipped out of the tent to start the coffee before the rest of the camp stirred. The morning routine was usually peaceful, a quiet time to gather her thoughts before the day's chaos began.

But something felt wrong. The camp was too quiet, even for the early hour. As she moved toward the fire pit, she noticed John's bedroll was empty, neatly made but unused. His horse was missing from the hitching area.

"He's gone," came a voice behind her. Maura turned to see Mrs. Grimshaw standing in the doorway of the main house, her face drawn with exhaustion and something that might have been relief.

"Gone?" Maura repeated, though she already knew what the older woman meant.

"Left sometime in the night. Took his horse, his guns, what little money he had stashed away." Mrs. Grimshaw's voice was matter-of-fact, but Maura could hear the disappointment underneath. "Left this for Abigail."

She held out a crumpled piece of paper, and Maura took it with trembling fingers. The handwriting was John's familiar scrawl, barely legible in the dim light.

Abby, I ain't no good for you or the boy. You deserve better than what I can give. I’m sorry. I tried. - JM

Maura felt her heart sink. After last night, after that moment of connection with his son, she'd thought maybe John was finally ready to step up, to be the father Jack needed. Instead, he'd run again, just like he always did when things got too real, too complicated.

"Does she know?" Maura asked quietly.

Mrs. Grimshaw shook her head. "Still sleeping. But she will soon enough. That baby's going to start crying for his breakfast, and then..." She didn't need to finish the sentence.

"I should tell her," Maura said finally. "She shouldn’t find out on her own."

Mrs. Grimshaw nodded. "Probably best coming from a friend." She paused, studying Maura's face in the growing light. "You've been good to her, Mrs. Morgan. Good to all of us. Don't think it goes unnoticed."

Before Maura could respond, they heard Jack's first tentative cries from Abigail's tent, followed by his mother's sleepy voice trying to soothe him. Soon, Abigail would discover that she was truly on her own now, that the man who'd given her hope just hours before had vanished like morning mist.

Maura folded the letter carefully and walked toward her friend's tent, her heart heavy. Maura stood outside Abigail's tent for a long moment, listening to the gentle sounds within - Jack's soft babbling, Abigail's murmured responses as she prepared to face another day. The letter felt like lead in her hands, each word John had scrawled a small betrayal of the hope they'd all witnessed the night before.

Taking a deep breath, she called softly, "Abigail? Can I come in?"

"Of course," came the reply, though Abigail's voice carried a note of curiosity. "Just getting Jack sorted. Come on through."

Maura pushed aside the tent flap and stepped into the dim space. Abigail sat on her bedroll, Jack nestled against her as she tried to coax him to take his bottle. She looked up at Maura with a smile that faltered when she saw her friend's expression.

"What is it?" Abigail asked immediately, that maternal instinct that made her so attuned to trouble. "Is something wrong? Is Isaac—"

"Isaac's fine," Maura said quickly, settling down across from her. "Everyone's fine. It's just..." She held out the letter, her throat tight. "John left this for you."

Abigail's face went very still. For a moment, she didn't move to take the paper, as if refusing to touch it might somehow make it untrue. Jack gurgled and reached for the bottle, oblivious to the tension filling the small space.

"When?" Abigail's voice was barely above a whisper.

"Sometime in the night. Mrs. Grimshaw found his bedroll empty this morning." Maura kept her voice gentle, watching as Abigail finally reached out with trembling fingers to take the letter.

The silence stretched as Abigail read the few lines John had managed to write. Maura watched her friend's face carefully, saw the moment when disappointment settled in her features like dust after a storm. But there was something else there too - not surprise, exactly, but a weary kind of resignation.

"'I ain't no good for you,'" Abigail read slowly,  her voice hollow. She let the paper flutter to her lap. "Well, at least he got that part right."

“He did indeed,” Maura remarked, anger seeping into her voice. 

“There’s a part of me that’s glad he’s gone. Is that terrible?” Abigail asked, crumpling the piece of paper in her hands. 

"That's not terrible," Maura said firmly. "That's self-preservation. You've been living on eggshells, waiting for him to make a choice. Now he has."

Outside, the camp was starting to wake up, voices carrying on the morning air, the crackle of someone building up the fire, Dutch's distinctive laugh already echoing from his tent.

"What am I going to tell Jack when he's old enough to ask?" Abigail said suddenly, her voice small.

"The truth, when he's ready for it," Maura replied. "That his father wasn't ready to be what Jack needed him to be, but that doesn't mean Jack isn't loved. Look around this camp, Abigail. You think Arthur would let anything happen to either of you? Or Charles, or even Dutch in his own way? Jack's got more family than most children ever see."

"Including you," Abigail said, managing a watery smile. "You and Isaac, and Arthur. You're family too."

"We are," Maura agreed, surprised by how much she meant it. When she'd first found herself in this strange collection of outlaws and misfits, she'd never imagined she'd come to think of them as anything more than temporary allies. But watching Abigail with Jack, seeing the way the other women had eventually rallied around her during her pregnancy, witnessing Arthur's fierce protectiveness of them all, it had become something deeper than convenience.

"Mrs. Grimshaw will want to know you're all right," Maura said eventually. "And Arthur will, too, when he hears. Do you want me to tell them, or would you rather—"

"I'll tell them myself," Abigail said, straightening her shoulders in a gesture that reminded Maura forcefully of Mrs. Grimshaw. "I won't have people tiptoeing around me like I'm made of glass. John made his choice, and now I'll make mine."

"Which is?"

Abigail looked down at Jack, who had finished his nursing and was now making soft, contented sounds as he dozed against her chest. When she looked back up at Maura, there was steel in her eyes that hadn't been there before.

"To be the parent my son deserves, with or without his father.” 

Later, Arthur found Maura curled up on their bed in the small room they'd claimed in the farmhouse, her knees drawn up to her chest as she stared out the frost-covered window. The sounds of camp life drifted through the thin walls, the men gathered outside telling stories, the clattering of dishes,  and underneath it all, Mrs. Grimshaw's sharp tones berating someone about something.

"There you are," Arthur said quietly, closing the door behind him. "Been looking for you."

Maura glanced up at him, offering a weak smile. "Just needed some quiet. Mrs. Grimshaw's been going on about Miss O'Shea again, and I..." She trailed off, wrapping her arms around her knees.

Arthur settled onto the edge of the bed, close enough that his thigh brushed against her feet. "She's been at it all day. Think half the camp's taken to hiding just to avoid her."

"I feel terrible," Maura admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "About avoiding her, I mean. And about Abigail, too."

"Why?" Arthur's brow furrowed as he studied her face. "You been nothing but good to both of them."

Maura was quiet for a long moment, picking at a loose thread on the quilt beneath her. When she finally spoke, her words came in a rush. "I feel bad for being happy, and they're both miserable. Mrs. Grimshaw has to watch another woman take her place, and Abigail's now has to raise her baby alone because John can't face his responsibilities." She looked up at him, guilt plain on her face. "What kind of person does that make me, being content while they're suffering?"

Arthur stared at her for a moment, something shifting in his expression. "You said you're happy," he said carefully, as if testing the weight of the words.

 "I mean... yes,” she replied, then seemed to realize what she'd admitted. A flush crept up her neck. “Despite everything that's happened, I am. Does that make me awful?"

"No," Arthur said immediately, his voice rougher than usual. "No, that ain't awful at all." He reached out, his calloused fingers brushing a strand of hair away from her face. "You’re allowed to have good things happen to you."

The simple touch sent warmth spreading through her chest, and she found herself leaning slightly into his hand before he pulled it away. For a moment, the chaos of camp life seemed very far away.

"You being happy don't take nothing away from them," Arthur said eventually. "World's got enough misery without you adding to it on purpose."

"Maybe," Maura said, though she still sounded uncertain. "I just... I look at Mrs. Grimshaw, how dignified she's trying to be about everything, and at Abigail being so strong for Jack, and I feel like I should be doing more. Being more supportive."

"You think sitting around being miserable would help them any?"

"No, but—"

"Then don't." Arthur's voice was firm but kind. "You been there for Abigail through everything with John, and Mrs. Grimshaw grown woman, and it ain’t the first time this has happened.”

The weight of his gaze made her breath catch slightly. There was something in the air between them, unspoken but palpable, like the charged moment before lightning strikes. She found herself leaning slightly toward him, drawn by the warmth radiating from his large frame.

"Arthur," she began, not sure what she meant to say.

His eyes dropped to her lips for just a heartbeat before meeting hers again, and she saw something flicker there, want, longing, maybe even lust, though he'd never said the words. His hand moved almost involuntarily toward her face, fingers hovering just inches from her cheek as if he were afraid to close the distance.

"Maura," he said quietly, her name rough on his tongue. There was a question in it, in the way his thumb almost brushed her jawline before pulling back.

She could feel the heat of him, smell the familiar scent of leather and gunpowder, and something uniquely Arthur that made her want to close her eyes and lean into him completely. 

 She was the one who closed the distance.

Her hand came up to cover his where it still hovered near her face, guiding his palm to rest against her cheek. The contact sent a shiver through both of them, and she heard his sharp intake of breath as she leaned forward, her eyes fluttering closed.

Arthur met her halfway, his lips finding hers with a gentleness that surprised her. The kiss was soft at first, almost hesitant. But when she sighed against his mouth, her free hand fisting in the fabric of his shirt, something seemed to break loose in him.

His other arm came around her waist, pulling her closer as the kiss deepened. She could taste coffee on his lips, could feel the slight roughness of his beard against her skin. When they finally broke apart, both breathing unsteadily, he rested his forehead against hers.

They heard Isaac's voice calling for her from somewhere outside, followed by Charles's patient response that she'd be out in a minute. Arthur cleared his throat and stood, the spell broken but not forgotten.

"Come on," he said, offering her his hand. "Boy's wondering where his mama got to."

Maura took his offered hand, letting him pull her to her feet. The moment between them settled into something warm and steady, not forgotten but tucked away like a treasured keepsake. She smoothed down her skirts and tucked the loose strands of hair behind her ears, trying to look presentable.

"I suppose I should go see what Isaac needs," she said, though she made no immediate move toward the door. "And check on Abigail again."

Arthur nodded, his thumb brushing once across her knuckles before he released her hand. "And I should probably go see what Dutch is planning now. He's been pacing around all morning with that look in his eye."

They both knew what that meant: another scheme, another job, another reason for the men to ride out and leave the women to hold the camp together. It was the rhythm of their lives, as predictable as the changing seasons.

After he left, Maura stood alone in their small room for another moment, touching her lips where she could still feel the warmth of his kiss. Outside, she could hear Isaac's laughter mixing with Charles's deeper voice, probably teaching him something new about tracking or survival. The sound grounded her, reminded her of what mattered most.

She straightened her shoulders, much as she'd seen Abigail do earlier, and opened the door to step back into the chaos of camp life. Mrs. Grimshaw was indeed still holding court near the washing area, her voice carrying sharp opinions about "certain people" who thought themselves too good for honest work. Miss O'Shea was nowhere to be seen, probably still holed up in Dutch's room

The familiar rhythms of the camp wrapped around her like a well-worn shawl. There would be meals to prepare, clothes to mend, small disputes to smooth over, and a hundred other tasks that kept their makeshift family functioning.

She was happy here, despite everything. Despite the uncertainty, despite the knowledge that this peace was probably temporary, despite the heartbreak happening all around them. She had Arthur, she had Isaac, and she had found her place among these unlikely people who had somehow become her family. It wasn't the life she'd once imagined for herself, but it was hers. And that, she realized as she went to find her son, was enough.

Chapter Text

Mr. Pearson was a revelation, though not in the way anyone had expected.

The large former sailor had joined their camp barely two weeks before, but his arrival had lifted a burden from the women's shoulders that none of them had fully realized they'd been carrying until it was gone. For years, the endless cycle of meal planning, food preparation, and the constant worry about stretching provisions had fallen primarily to Mrs. Grimshaw, with Maura and the other women stepping in wherever needed. The mental load of keeping everyone fed, deciding what to cook, when to cook it, and how to make the meager supplies last had been as exhausting as the physical labor itself.

Now, suddenly, that weight had been lifted entirely. Mr. Pearson had taken one look at their haphazard food situation and immediately established a system that, while far from gourmet, actually worked. He knew exactly how much salt pork would feed everyone, could stretch a single rabbit into a stew that would satisfy the whole camp, and had somehow managed to make their supplies last longer than anyone thought possible. His good-natured efficiency meant the women were relegated to occasional prep work and cleanup, a welcome change that left them free to focus on other pressing camp duties.

While it was true that his skills when it came to making anything taste good were certainly lacking, hardly a night passed without someone quietly nursing a stomach ache from his heavy-handed use of whatever seasonings he could find; his efficiency and ability to get two meals a day to every member of the group were unmatched. The man could turn shoe leather into something approaching edible, and he did it all with a cheerful disposition that somehow made even his most questionable culinary creations seem less offensive.

More endearing still was his soft spot for Isaac. Maura had caught him more than once slipping the boy extra slices from the canned peaches, or saving him the choicest bits of meat when a hunt had been particularly successful. The sight of the burly man conspiratorially winking at her son while sneaking him treats never failed to warm her heart, even when it meant Isaac was too full to finish his regular portions.

For the first time since joining the gang, Maura found herself with entire afternoons free from the constant planning and preparation that had consumed so much of her energy. Mrs. Grimshaw, too, seemed to have shed years from her shoulders now that she could focus her considerable organizational talents on other aspects of camp life rather than constantly fretting about whether they had enough flour to last the week.

Despite Mr. Pearson's introduction to the camp, tensions had reached a breaking point in the days after John's departure. Miss O'Shea had taken to issuing orders like she owned the place, asking that Mrs. Grimshaw fetch her particular soap from Rhodes and complaining loudly about the sleeping arrangements. Mrs. Grimshaw had responded by becoming increasingly sharp-tongued, her barked orders echoing across the lake as she took her frustrations out on anyone within earshot.

"That woman is going to be the death of us all," Mrs. Grimshaw had muttered that morning while aggressively scrubbing pots, her knuckles white with the force of it. "Mark my words, she'll have Dutch doing her bidding before the month's out, and the rest of us can go to hell."

Even the men were feeling it. Mac had gotten into two separate arguments over nothing, Davey was skulking around like a kicked dog after Dutch had dismissed one of his suggestions in favor of something Miss O'Shea had whispered in his ear, and Charles had taken to disappearing into the woods for hours at a time just to escape the suffocating atmosphere.

Arthur had watched it all with growing irritation, the way Dutch seemed oblivious to the discord his new woman was causing, how Abigail moved through camp with quiet dignity while caring for Jack alone, how even Charles had taken to disappearing for longer stretches to avoid the domestic warfare. 

Arthur couldn't blame him. The whole place felt like a powder keg waiting for a spark.

"I need to get out of here for a while," he told Maura that evening as they sat by the water's edge, watching Isaac skip stones across the lake's surface. "Was thinking of heading up to New Hanover, do some hunting. Camp's running low on meat, and..." He gestured vaguely toward where Dutch's voice could be heard regaling Miss O'Shea with yet another story of his supposed brilliance.

"How long?" Maura asked, not taking her eyes off Isaac as the boy whooped with delight at a particularly good skip.

"Few days, maybe more. Long enough to fill up the camp's stores and get some peace and quiet." Arthur picked up a flat stone himself, sending it dancing across the water with practiced ease. "Charles might come along, or maybe I'll just go alone."

Maura was quiet for a long moment, and Arthur thought the conversation was over. Then, so softly he almost missed it, she said, "Could I come with you?"

Arthur's stone-throwing hand froze mid-reach. "What?"

"Could I come with you?" Maura's voice was stronger now, more certain. She finally looked at him, and he could see something desperate in her eyes. "I know it's not... I know hunting trips aren't usually for women, but I need to get away from all this, too. Just for a little while."

Arthur stared at her, his mind racing. The idea of having her with him for several days, away from the camp's chaos and prying eyes, was more appealing than he cared to admit. But it would mean leaving Isaac behind, and he wasn't sure she'd be willing to do that.

"I don’t think we can take Isaac with us." he asked carefully.

"I’ll ask Jenny and Mrs. Grimshaw to look after him. She's always telling me I don't let the boy be independent enough anyway." Maura's smile was rueful. "And honestly, he'd probably love having all the aunties spoiling him for a few days. Plus, Charles would make sure he's safe."

Arthur found himself nodding before he'd fully thought it through. "All right then. But it won't be comfortable, sleeping the first night rough, eating whatever we can catch, and you'd need to learn to handle a rifle properly if you're coming along."

"I can learn," Maura said quickly, hope lighting up her features. "And I don't need comfort, Arthur. I just need... away. Like when we went to Blackwater."

"All right," he said again, this time with more conviction. "We'll leave the day after tomorrow. Give us time to get supplies sorted and to make arrangements for Isaac." The smile that spread across Maura's face was worth whatever complications this might bring. 

Two days later, they rode north through the early morning mist, their horses' breath visible in the crisp air. Arthur had packed light but practical bedrolls, basic cooking supplies, ammunition, and his most reliable rifle. Maura wore one of her warmest dresses with a warm coat and her hair braided practically down her back.

They left with minimal fuss. Isaac had been excited about his "adventure" with Mrs. Grimshaw and Jenny, too caught up in the novelty to be upset about his mother leaving.

 Arthur had packed light but thoroughly, bedrolls, basic supplies, ammunition, and his best rifle carefully secured to his saddle. Maura rode beside him on a gentle mare that Charles had picked out, her small pack containing what Arthur had deemed "city woman essentials" with fond amusement.

The morning was crisp and clear, the kind of winter day that made everything look sharp-edged and pristine. As they put distance between themselves and the camp, Arthur felt some of the tension leave his shoulders. No Dutch pontificating, no Miss O'Shea's shrill complaints, no Mrs. Grimshaw's increasingly creative curses, just the steady rhythm of hoofbeats and the clean, cold air.

"Free," Maura said softly as they crested the first hill and left the camp behind them. "Lord, I didn't realize how much I needed this."

Arthur glanced over at her, noting the way her shoulders had relaxed, how the tension lines around her eyes had already started to fade. "Camp getting to you that much?"

"It's not just the camp," Maura replied, urging her horse to keep pace with his. "It's... I don't know how to explain it. Sometimes I feel like I'm disappearing into everyone else's problems, you know?" Arthur understood that feeling more than he cared to admit.

"You ever been hunting before?" he asked as they crested a hill that gave them a view of the valley below.

"It was illegal to hunt back home, and there wasn’t much need for such things in Boston," Maura replied, adjusting her grip on the reins. 

Arthur pulled his horse next to hers. “Illegal to hunt?” 

“We were barred from owning any land; everything belonged to the landlord. Hunting was considered poaching.” Arthur shook his head in amazement. 

“What kind of backass country are you from, honey?” 

“Arthur!” She laughed. “Why do you think so many of us are here?” 

He shrugged. “Guess I never really thought about it.” 

“Oh!” She exclaimed. “My brothers took me fishing once. But I suspect from the look on your face that doesn’t count.”  

Arthur chuckled. "Not exactly the same thing, no.” 

“I know you can shoot a pistol, but have you ever tried a rifle?” She shook her head. 

"Well, we'll work on that," Arthur said, then paused. "If you want to, I mean. Might be useful to know, out here."

They rode in silence for hours, following game trails that wound through the pine forests of New Hanover. Arthur found himself stealing glances at Maura, noting how she sat her horse with more confidence than he'd expected, how the cold air had brought color to her cheeks. There was something different about her out here, away from the constraints of camp life, more relaxed, like she had been in Blackwater. 

By midday, they'd reached a small clearing beside a stream that Arthur remembered from previous hunting trips. It was sheltered from the wind but open enough to spot game, with good access to water for the horses.

"We'll make camp here," Arthur said, dismounting and beginning to unpack his gear. "This is good hunting country; lots of deer come down to drink from the stream."

Maura slid down from her horse with only slightly shaky legs, looking around the clearing with interest. "It's beautiful," she said, and Arthur followed her gaze to where the afternoon sun slanted through the pine boughs, casting everything in golden light.

"Yeah," he agreed, though he found himself looking at her rather than the scenery. "It is."

They worked together to set up camp, Maura proving more capable than Arthur had expected at tasks like gathering firewood and clearing rocks from their sleeping area. She wasn't graceful at it; she clearly hadn't done much outdoor work, but she was determined and didn't complain when she scraped her knuckles or got her dress snagged on branches.

As evening approached, Arthur retrieved his rifle from his saddle and checked it over carefully. "You still want to try shooting?" he asked. "Won't hurt to practice before we see any game."

Maura nodded eagerly, and Arthur set up a makeshift target using a piece of bark propped against a fallen log. He spent several minutes explaining the basics, how to hold the rifle, how to sight down the barrel, how to breathe, and squeeze the trigger rather than pull it.

"Most important thing is not to be afraid of it," he said, standing behind her as she struggled to get the heavy rifle positioned correctly. "I know it's loud and it kicks, but if you're tense, you'll never hit anything."

"I'm trying not to be tense," Maura muttered through clenched teeth, her arms trembling slightly as she attempted to hold the rifle steady.

Arthur stepped closer, his chest nearly brushing her back as he reached around to adjust her grip. "Here, let me..." His hands covered hers on the rifle, and he felt her sharp intake of breath at the contact. "You're gripping too tight. Just firm, not like you're trying to strangle it."

He was acutely aware of how close they were, how he could smell the faint scent of soap in her hair, how her body fit perfectly against his as he helped her aim. For a moment, he forgot entirely about the lesson, his focus narrowing to the warmth of her body against his chest.

"Arthur?" Maura's voice was slightly breathless. "Should I...?"

"Right," he said, clearing his throat and forcing himself to focus on the task at hand. "When you're ready, just squeeze gentle-like. Don't hold your breath too long or you'll start shaking."

Maura took a careful breath, held it, and squeezed the trigger. The rifle cracked loudly, the recoil sending her stumbling back against Arthur's chest. The bark target remained completely undisturbed.

"Well," she said after a moment, her voice slightly shaky from the adrenaline. "That was thoroughly unsuccessful."

Arthur couldn't help but laugh. "You're pulling to the right. Here, try again." He helped her resettle the rifle, his hands once again covering hers. This time he was prepared for the way her hair tickled his chin, the way she leaned back into him for support.

The second shot was no better than the first, sailing wide of the target entirely. The third hit the log, though several inches below where she'd been aiming. By the fourth shot, Maura was laughing despite her frustration.

Arthur whistled. “Honey, you may actually be getting worse.” She sighed, lowering the rifle and handing it back to him. They were still standing very close, close enough that Arthur could see the flecks of gold in her brown eyes, could count the freckles across her nose.

"Practice makes perfect," he said quietly, his voice rougher than he'd intended.

"Does it?" she asked, and Arthur had the distinct impression they weren't talking about shooting anymore. He swallowed. Now was not the time to be thinking about his wife in any sort of compromising position. Not when they had to sleep rough tonight. 

“I ain’t letting you off the hook until you hit the target once.” Maura groaned but gamely took the rifle from him.

Arthur had set up several new targets, pieces of bark at varying distances, trying to find something she might be able to hit. He positioned her carefully, once again standing behind her to adjust her stance, trying to ignore how natural it felt to have her leaning back against him.

"Remember what I told you earlier," he said, his hands covering hers on the rifle. "Don't grip so tight, and don't hold your breath too long."

Maura nodded, took careful aim at the closest target, and fired. The shot went wide by at least three feet, disturbing nothing but air and a few pine needles.

"Well," Arthur said after a moment, "at least you're consistent."

"Arthur Morgan!" Maura turned to glare at him, though her eyes were dancing with amusement. "Are you making fun of me?"

"Would I do that?" Arthur asked innocently. "I'm just saying, most people can at least hit the tree they're aiming at."

"Most people have probably held a gun before," Maura retorted, but she was smiling as she repositioned the rifle.

“You’ve held a gun before. Hell, you own a gun.” She huffed and looked back at him. 

“Not one like this!” 

Her second shot was marginally better, hitting the ground about two feet in front of the target. Arthur made a show of examining the impact site.

"Getting closer," he announced solemnly. "At this rate, you might hit something by Christmas. Of next year."

Maura made an indignant sound and elbowed him in the ribs, though not hard enough to hurt. "You're supposed to be encouraging your student, not mocking her complete lack of natural ability."

"Who says you ain't got natural ability?" Arthur grinned. "Maybe you're just naturally gifted at missing things. That's a talent too, sweetheart."

The third shot somehow managed to be worse than the first two, disappearing entirely into the forest without leaving any trace of where it had gone. Arthur scratched his head and looked around dramatically.

"Don’t you dare say anything," Maura laughed, lowering the rifle. "At this point, I'm beginning to think you gave me a broken gun just to torment me."

"Gun's fine," Arthur assured her, taking it from her hands and firing a quick shot that neatly splintered the center of the nearest target. "See? Works perfectly."

"Show off," Maura muttered, but she was grinning as she took the rifle back. "One more try. And no commentary from you this time."

Arthur held up his hands in surrender, though his eyes were bright with mischief. "Not a word. I'll be quiet as a church mouse."

Maura took her time with the fourth shot, settling into position, adjusting her grip, taking careful aim. Arthur watched her face, noting the little crease of concentration between her eyebrows, the way she bit her lower lip as she squeezed the trigger.

This time, miracle of miracles, the shot actually hit the target. Not the center, not even close to where she'd been aiming, but it definitely made contact with the piece of bark.

"I hit it!" Maura exclaimed, spinning around with such enthusiasm that she nearly knocked Arthur over with the rifle barrel. "Did you see? I actually hit it!"

Arthur couldn't help but grin at her excitement, even as he carefully took the rifle from her hands before she accidentally shot something. "I saw. Course, you were aiming at the one on the left and hit the one on the right, but I suppose that still counts."

"Arthur!" But she was laughing as she swatted at his arm. "Can't you just let me have this moment?"

"All right, all right," Arthur conceded, his voice warm with affection. "You hit the target. Good shooting, Mrs. Morgan." The way he said her married name, with that particular tone that made something flutter in her chest, was almost enough to make her forget about the rifle lesson entirely. Almost.

"Does this mean I'm ready to hunt deer?" she asked hopefully.

Arthur looked at the target she'd hit, barely clipped along one edge, and then back at her eager face. "Well," he said diplomatically, "maybe we start with something that don't move quite so fast."

As the sun began to sink toward the horizon, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink, Arthur busied himself with preparing their evening meal. He'd managed to catch a few fish from the stream earlier while Maura had been practicing her shooting on her own, and now he worked to clean them by the flickering light of their small campfire.

Maura sat on a fallen log nearby, watching him work with the easy efficiency of someone who'd done this countless times before. But as the shadows grew longer and the forest around them darker, Arthur noticed she kept glancing nervously at the trees surrounding their small clearing.

"Getting cold?" he asked, looking up from the fish he was preparing.

"A little," Maura admitted, though she pulled her coat tighter around herself. "It's just... it's very dark out here, isn't it?"

Arthur followed her gaze to the wall of pines that encircled their camp. "Darker than you're used to, I suppose." He speared the fish on a makeshift spit and positioned it over the fire. "Don't worry, the fire will keep most critters away."

"Most critters?" Maura's voice pitched slightly higher. "What about the ones it doesn't keep away?"

"Well," Arthur said, settling back on his heels with a grin, "there's always bears. And wolves. Mountain lions, sometimes. But they probably won't bother us."

"Probably?" Maura turned to stare at him, and Arthur had to bite back a laugh at her expression.

"Maura, you sleep outside most nights anyway," he pointed out reasonably. "Just 'cause there's canvas between you and the world don't mean you're any safer."

"That's completely different!" she protested. "There are other people around, and Dutch always posts guards, and—" She gestured helplessly at the vast darkness surrounding them. "This is just... us. Alone. In the middle of nowhere."

Arthur turned the fish carefully, hiding his smile. "You afraid of the dark, Mrs. Morgan?"

"I am not afraid of the dark," Maura said with as much dignity as she could muster. "I'm afraid of what might be in the dark. There's a difference."

"Mm-hmm." Arthur's voice was full of barely suppressed amusement. "And what exactly do you think is out there that's gonna come after us?"

Maura was quiet for a moment, staring into the shadows between the trees. "I don't know," she said finally. "That's what makes it frightening."

Arthur looked at her properly then, noting the genuine worry in her eyes, the way she kept her back to the fire as if trying to keep watch on all sides at once. His teasing mood softened.

"Hey," he said gently, moving to sit beside her on the log. "I ain't gonna let anything happen to you out here. You know that, right?"

She turned to look at him, and in the firelight, he could see she was trying to put on a brave face. "I know you'd try to protect me. But what if there's something you can't handle? What if—"

"Maura." Arthur reached over and patted her thigh, squeezing it gently. "I've been sleeping rough for more years than I care to count. Been in these woods hundreds of times. Ain't nothing out here that's gonna get past me to hurt you."

"Well, I don’t want anything to hurt you either and how can you be so certain?" she asked, her fingers tightening around his. 

Arthur was quiet for a moment, considering his words. "Because," he said finally, "I ain't gonna let anything happen to you. Simple as that.” 

The simple certainty in his voice made something warm unfurl in Maura's chest despite her nervousness.

"Besides," Arthur continued, his tone lightening as he squeezed her hand once more before releasing it, "if something did try to get you, you could always try shooting it. Course, given this afternoon's performance, you'd probably hit me instead."

"Arthur!" Maura laughed despite herself, swatting at his shoulder. “I’m being serious!” 

"I know, sweetheart," Arthur said, his voice gentling again. "But I need you to trust me on this. I ain't never let anything bad happen to you yet, have I?"

Maura considered this, thinking of all the times Arthur had stepped between her and danger, all the ways he'd protected and provided for her since she'd joined the gang. "No," she admitted. "You haven't."

"Then don't start doubting me now." Arthur stood to check on their fish, then glanced back at her with a crooked smile. "Though I gotta say, it's nice to know there's something that scares you. Been starting to think you were fearless."

"Hardly," Maura said with a rueful laugh. "I'm scared of quite a lot of things, actually."

"Like what?" Arthur asked, settling back down beside her with genuine curiosity.

Maura was quiet for a moment, staring into the fire. "Losing Isaac," she said finally. "Losing you. Being alone." She glanced at him sideways. "Wild animals in dark forests, apparently."

Arthur felt something tighten in his chest at her words, in the casual way she'd included losing him in her list of fears. "You ain't gonna lose Isaac or me," he said quietly. "And you definitely ain't gonna be alone.” 

Later, after they'd eaten and banked the fire for the night, they settled into their bedrolls side by side near the dying embers. Arthur had positioned them close to the fire's warmth, though he could already tell it was going to be a cold night.

The temperature had dropped considerably with the sun, and despite her heavy coat and the wool blanket Arthur had insisted she take, Maura found herself shivering within minutes of lying down. She tried to stay quiet, not wanting to seem like she was complaining. He had warned her it would be difficult, but the cold seemed to seep through every layer she wore.

Arthur lay on his back, one arm behind his head, listening to the sounds of the forest settling for the night. But gradually, another sound began to intrude on his awareness, a faint but persistent chattering that wasn't coming from any nocturnal creature.

He turned his head toward Maura's bedroll and could see her curled into a tight ball, trembling so violently that her teeth were clicking together in a rapid staccato rhythm.

"Maura," he said quietly. "You all right over there?"

"F-fine," came her muffled reply, though the chattering of her teeth made the word barely intelligible. "Just a l-little cold."

Arthur frowned, listening to the sound of her shivering. It was getting worse, not better, and he was genuinely worried she might chip a tooth if this kept up much longer.

"C’mere," he said, sitting up and shrugging out of his heavy coat.

"What?" Maura's voice was barely a whisper through her chattering.

"You're gonna freeze to death over there, and that chattering's loud enough to scare off every deer in three counties." Arthur waved her over. "Come on, we can share body heat.” 

 Moved closer to where Arthur was waiting, settling against his side with a shaky sigh of relief. Arthur pulled his large coat over both of them, wrapping his arms around her to share his warmth, and immediately, the difference was remarkable.

"Better?" he asked, trying to ignore how right it felt to have her tucked against his side.

"Much," Maura admitted, her teeth finally beginning to still as his body warmth surrounded her. "Thank you."

Arthur pulled the coat up higher around her shoulders, his arm naturally settling around her to keep her close. "Can't have you catching pneumonia on our hunting trip. Isaac would never forgive me."

Maura smiled at that, finally beginning to relax as the shivers subsided. "Is this how you usually stay warm on hunting trips?"

"Usually I just suffer through it," Arthur admitted with a quiet chuckle. "But I ain't usually responsible for keeping a city woman from turning into an icicle."

"I'm not a city woman anymore," Maura protested softly. 

"No," Arthur agreed, his voice warm with affection. "I suppose you ain't."

The morning came too early and too cold.

Arthur was up before dawn, as was his habit, quietly stoking the fire and setting coffee to brew while Maura still slept curled beneath his coat. When he finally nudged her awake, she emerged from the warmth like a reluctant hibernating creature, her hair escaping its braid in soft waves around her face. Her nose and the tips of her ears were pink from the cold. 

"Time to get moving," Arthur said gently, offering her a cup of the strong black coffee. "Want to get deeper into the territory while the light's good."

Maura accepted the coffee gratefully, using both hands to wrap around the warm tin cup. Every muscle in her body protested as she sat up fully, a dull ache radiating from her lower back down through her thighs. Yesterday's long ride had taken a toll she hadn't fully appreciated until now.

She watched Arthur break camp with practiced efficiency, rolling bedrolls and securing supplies with economical movements. When he brought her horse over, already saddled and ready, Maura took a steadying breath and stood. The simple act of walking to the mare sent sharp reminders through her legs of muscles unaccustomed to so many hours in the saddle.

"You ready?" Arthur asked, swinging up onto his horse with an ease that Maura couldn't help but envy.

"Ready," she replied, gripping the pommel and pulling herself up. The motion sent a particularly sharp protest through her inner thighs, and she had to bite back a soft gasp. Arthur had warned her it would be difficult. She wasn't about to prove him right by complaining on the second day.

They rode out of the clearing as the sun painted the eastern sky in pale gold, following a game trail that wound deeper into the pine forests. Arthur set a steady but unhurried pace, occasionally glancing back to check on her progress.

After the first hour, Maura began to understand why experienced riders made it look so effortless. Every step of the horse seemed to find new ways to remind her muscles of yesterday's exertion. She shifted position frequently, trying to find some relief, but there seemed to be no comfortable way to sit.

"Country gets rougher up ahead," Arthur called back to her as they started up a steeper incline. "But there's better hunting once we get to the ridge."

"How much farther?" Maura asked, hoping her voice sounded casual rather than strained.

"Few more hours to where I want to set up," Arthur replied. "You doing all right back there?"

Maura straightened in her saddle, ignoring the way the movement made her wince. "Fine. Just taking in the scenery."

Arthur's mouth quirked slightly, as if he saw right through her brave front, but he didn't comment. Instead, he pointed ahead to where the trail crested a hill. "Wait'll you see the view from up there. Makes all this riding worth it."

As they climbed higher, the trees thinned enough to offer glimpses of the valley spread below them. Despite her discomfort, Maura found herself genuinely admiring the vast expanse of wilderness, the way the morning mist clung to the distant mountains.

"It's beautiful," she said, and meant it.

"Gets prettier the higher we go," Arthur said. "Though I reckon you'll appreciate it more once we make camp and you can rest those city muscles."

There was no mockery in his voice, just understanding, and Maura felt some of her determination to suffer in silence soften slightly.

"They're not city muscles anymore," she said, echoing her words from the night before.

"No," Arthur agreed, his voice warm with approval. "But they're still learning what country living means."

As they continued deeper into New Hanover, Maura found herself settling into the rhythm of the ride despite the ache in her body. Arthur had been right about many things being difficult out here, but he'd also been right about other things, like how the beauty of the wilderness could make the hardships feel worthwhile, and how sometimes the best way through discomfort was simply to keep going.

The cabin appeared through the trees just as the afternoon sun began to warm her slightly, looking like something conjured from Arthur's memories rather than an actual structure. Maura's first glimpse of it brought such relief that she nearly sagged in her saddle.

It wasn't much to look at, weathered logs gone gray with age, a stone chimney with several loose stones, many windows were chipped and covered with oiled cloth. But after a night spent shivering against Arthur's side while every sound in the forest seemed amplified in the darkness, it looked like a palace.

"This is it," Arthur said, dismounting and stretching muscles stiff from the cold night. "Been using this place for years. Hunter built it, far as I can tell, then abandoned it when most of the game moved on. Nobody's bothered with it since."

Maura slid down from her horse and approached the structure with growing appreciation. The cabin was small but solidly built, designed to weather mountain storms. Someone had put real thought into its construction, the logs were chinked properly against the wind, the roof looked sound despite its covering of pine needles and moss, and there was even a small covered area for the horses.

"It's perfect," she said, and meant it. After spending the night hyper-aware of every snap of a twig, every rustle in the underbrush, the idea of four walls and a real door felt like luxury beyond measure.

Arthur pushed open the heavy wooden door, which swung on hinges that protested with only the faintest creak. The interior was dim, lit only by the pale light filtering through the cloth-covered windows, but as her eyes adjusted, Maura could see it was better than she'd dared hope.

The main room was small but well-proportioned, with a stone fireplace dominating one wall and built-in shelving along another. A rough wooden table sat near the windows, flanked by two chairs that looked handmade but sturdy. But what made Maura's heart leap with relief was the raised sleeping area in the back corner, and more importantly, the actual mattress that lay upon it.

"Oh, thank God," she breathed, moving toward it with something approaching reverence.

Arthur followed her gaze and chuckled. "Left that here myself a couple years back. Found it in an old homestead, figured it was better than sleeping on the ground every time I came up here." He ran a hand over his beard, looking slightly embarrassed. "It ain't much, but it's clean. I keep it wrapped up in oilcloth when I'm not here."

Maura sat down on the edge of the mattress and nearly sighed with pleasure. After the better part of three years sleeping on a thin cot, it felt impossibly soft and welcoming.

"Arthur Morgan," she said solemnly, "you are a practical genius."

He laughed at that, the sound warming the small space. "Just a man who got tired of waking up with rocks digging into his back." Arthur moved to the fireplace, examining the chimney and clearing out old ash. "Let me get a fire going, warm this place up proper."

While Arthur worked on building up the fire, Maura explored their temporary home more thoroughly. Someone had left behind a few basic supplies, tin plates, a dented coffee pot, and some rusted but serviceable cooking implements. The built-in shelving held an assortment of items Arthur had accumulated over multiple visits: ammunition, basic medical supplies, a few books with cracked spines, and even a bottle of whiskey tucked behind a row of canned goods.

"You've really made this place your own," she observed, running her fingers along the spine of a well-worn copy of poetry that seemed wildly out of character for him.

"Gets lonesome sometimes," Arthur said without looking up from the fire he was coaxing to life. "Nice to have somewhere to go that feels like... I don't know. Not home, exactly, but not camping either."

By the time the sun reached its zenith, Arthur had the fire crackling warmly and had brought their supplies inside. The temperature difference was remarkable; what had felt brutally cold during their night in the open now seemed merely crisp inside the cabin's walls.

"I'm going to set some snares before it gets dark," Arthur said, checking his rifle and gathering some supplies. "The best spots are about a mile from here. Should be back in a few hours."

Maura nodded, settling into one of the chairs by the fire with a contentment she hadn't felt in months. "I'll be here. Maybe see if I can make this place a bit more comfortable for the night."

Arthur paused at the door, looking back at her with something unreadable in his expression. "You sure you'll be all right alone? I know last night—"

"I'll be fine," Maura assured him, gesturing to the solid walls around them. "Four walls and a real door make all the difference. Besides, if anything tries to get in here, I'll just shoot wildly in all directions. Bound to hit something eventually."

Arthur's laugh followed him out the door, and Maura listened to his footsteps fade into the forest before allowing herself to truly relax. The silence here was different from the oppressive quiet of the deep woods, warmer somehow, more welcoming.

She spent the afternoon making small improvements to their shelter. She aired out the mattress properly, made the bed,  arranged their supplies more efficiently, and even gathered pine boughs to sweep the floor clean. But as the afternoon wore on and shadows began to lengthen outside the windows, her thoughts kept drifting to Arthur's return.

Salt pork, flour, some dried beans that looked like they'd been there since the the Civil War, a tin of coffee that rattled promisingly when she shook it. Not exactly the ingredients for a romantic dinner, but she could make something decent. Something better than what they'd been eating around the campfire.

Romantic dinner. The thought made her pause, her hand halfway to reaching for the coffee tin. Was that what she was planning? And if so, why?

She knew why. Had known since this morning when she'd woken pressed against Arthur's warmth, his arm still curved protectively around her, his breath stirring the hair at the back of her neck. The knowledge had been there in the way he'd looked at her over their morning coffee, in the careful distance he'd maintained while helping her mount her horse, in the dozen small courtesies he'd shown her that spoke of a man trying very hard to be a gentleman.

Tonight. The word had been echoing in her mind all day like a bell tolling the hour. Tonight they would share that mattress, share this small, intimate space with its thick walls and heavy door that shut out the rest of the world. Tonight there would be no Isaac sleeping nearby, no gang members within earshot, no Mrs. Grimshaw or Dutch or Miss O'Shea to interrupt or intrude.

Tonight would be the night if she could find the courage. 

The realization that she wasn't afraid, that for the first time in years the thought of physical intimacy brought anticipation rather than dread, made her hands shake slightly as she measured out flour into a bowl. Three years of marriage, three years of sharing a bed mostly chastely, three years of Arthur never pushing, never demanding, always giving her space. 

She'd never told him, had never found the words to explain that somewhere between his patient kindness and his steady presence, the fear had simply... evaporated. Replaced by something warm and wanting that she'd thought had been killed in her forever.

She mixed the flour with water and a pinch of salt, working the simple dough with more vigor than it required. Her mind wandered as her hands worked, remembering how he had been with her that night in Blackwater. She'd been acutely aware of every point of contact, every breath, every small shift of his body against hers. They hadn’t had a true night alone together since then. 

And this time she wanted more.

The admission, even to herself, sent heat coursing through her body. She wanted his hands on her, wanted to feel his skin against hers, wanted to discover what lay beneath the careful restraint he'd shown her for three long years. She wanted to taste him, to learn the sound he might make when she—

"Lord," she whispered, pressing her flour-dusted hands to her burning cheeks. When had she become this wanton creature? When had desire replaced fear so completely that she could barely think of anything else?

She knew when. It had been a gradual thing, so slow she'd barely noticed it happening. Arthur's gentle humor wearing away at her walls. The way he spoke to Isaac, patient and kind, never raising his voice even when the boy was at his most trying. The nights he'd held her, asking nothing in return. The morning she'd woken to find he'd already started the coffee and was sitting quietly by the fire, reading, giving her space to wake naturally instead of hovering or making demands.

A dozen tiny kindnesses, a hundred small considerations, all building into something she'd never experienced before: the absolute certainty that she was safe. Not just physically, though Arthur would die before letting anyone harm her, but emotionally. Safe to be herself, to have opinions, to take up space in the world without fear of retribution.

She shaped the dough into small cakes and set them on a flat stone near the fire to cook, then turned her attention to the salt pork. It would need to be sliced thin and fried carefully to render out some of the salt and fat. Not gourmet fare by any means, but filling and warm, which was what mattered most on a cold December evening.

As she worked, her thoughts continued their restless circling. How did one seduce one's own husband? Especially when that husband had spent years being scrupulously careful not to push for anything? Arthur was many things: strong, capable, fiercely loyal, but he was not a man who assumed. He would never simply take what he wanted, at least not from her.

Which meant if anything was going to happen tonight, she would have to be the one to initiate it.

She trusted him. The knowledge sat warm and solid in her chest, as comforting as the fire crackling in the hearth. She trusted him with her body, with her heart, with her very life. And more than that, she wanted him to know it.

The salt pork began to sizzle in the pan, filling the small cabin with the rich smell of rendered fat and salt. She flipped the pieces carefully, thinking about the way Arthur's eyes had warmed when he'd called her "Mrs. Morgan" during rifle practice. The way he'd said it, like a caress, like something precious.

She was Mrs. Morgan. His wife in name and law, but not yet in deed. Tonight, that would change.

As she set the rough wooden table, she caught herself smoothing her hair, checking her reflection in the darkened window. Foolish, perhaps, Arthur had already seen her at her worst, travel-worn and exhausted, first thing in the morning before she'd had coffee. But tonight felt different. Special.

The sound of boots on the cabin's small porch made her heart jump, and she smoothed her skirts nervously as the door opened. Arthur stepped inside, bringing the cold evening air with him. 

"Something smells good," he said, hanging his hat on a peg by the door. His cheeks were red from the cold, his hair slightly mussed, and the sight of him made something flutter low in her belly.

"I hope you're hungry," Maura replied, pleased that her voice sounded steadier than she felt. 

Arthur's smile was warm as he moved to wash his hands in the basin she'd set out for him. "You didn't have to go to all that trouble."

"It wasn't any trouble," she said, watching the efficient movements of his hands as he cleaned away the evidence of his afternoon's work. "I wanted to. It's nice, having a real kitchen to work in. Even a simple one like this."

They settled at the small table, Arthur praising her cooking with an enthusiasm that was probably more generous than the simple meal deserved. But Maura found herself barely tasting the food, too aware of his presence across the narrow table, of the way the firelight caught in his eyes, of how intimate this felt, just the two of them, sharing a meal in the warm circle of light cast by the fire.

"How did it look out there?" she asked, trying to focus on conversation rather than the way his throat moved when he swallowed.

"Very good. Set some snares that should give us fresh meat for the next few days, and there's a clearing about two miles north that's perfect for deer hunting. Saw plenty of sign." Arthur cut another piece of salt pork, glancing up at her with a slight smile. "Might even let you try your hand at it, if you promise not to shoot me by accident."

Maura laughed, the sound warmer and more relaxed than she'd expected. "I make no such promises. You’ve seen my aim."

"I have indeed." Arthur's eyes crinkled with amusement. "Remind me to stand well behind you when you're holding a rifle."

The easy banter continued through the meal, but underneath it, Maura was increasingly aware of a different kind of tension building. Every time their hands brushed reaching for the coffee pot, every time Arthur's gaze lingered on her face, every time he smiled that particular smile that seemed reserved just for her, the anticipation coiled tighter in her chest.

When the meal was finished and the simple dishes cleaned and put away, they found themselves sitting by the fire, Arthur in one of the wooden chairs and Maura curled up on the edge of the mattress, both of them seeming reluctant to acknowledge that evening was settling in around them.

"This is nice," Arthur said quietly, his voice thoughtful as he stared into the dancing flames. "Peaceful. Makes a man think maybe there's something to be said for settling down somewhere permanent."

Maura looked at him sharply, surprised by the wistful note in his voice. She knew not to press him on this particular issue; they’d been down this road before, and so far it had amounted to nothing. Instead, she said nothing, just allowing herself to enjoy what she had instead of what she didn’t. They both watched the fire crackle for a long after the sun went down over the horizon.

Arthur cleared his throat and stood abruptly, the sudden movement making the wooden chair scrape against the floor. "I should, uh..." He gestured vaguely toward the door. "Check the perimeter one more time. Make sure the horses are settled proper for the night."

Maura looked up at him, noting the tension in his shoulders, the way he wouldn't quite meet her eyes. "Didn't you already check on them when you came back?"

"Well, yes, but..." Arthur reached for his hat, then seemed to remember he'd already hung it up. His hand dropped to his side. "Can't be too careful. And I want to make sure those snares are set right. Sometimes the wind can—"

"Arthur." Her voice was gentle, understanding. "The snares are fine."

He finally looked at her then, and she saw something almost desperate in his expression. Want warring with restraint, desire tempered by an almost painful consideration for her feelings.

"I just need some air," he said quietly. "Few minutes to... clear my head."

Maura nodded, her heart racing as she recognized what was really happening. He was giving her space, giving them both a moment to breathe before they had to share the small space for the night. Always the gentleman, even when she could see the strain it cost him.

"Take your time," she said softly. "I'll get ready for bed."

Something flickered in Arthur's eyes at those words, there and gone so quickly she might have imagined it. He grabbed his coat from the peg by the door, shrugging into it with movements that weren't quite steady.

"Won't be long," he promised, then stepped out into the cold night air, leaving Maura alone with the crackling fire and her racing pulse. The way he'd looked at her just then, she understood now that his desire for her was just as strong as what she felt for him. The knowledge sent heat coursing through her veins.

She moved to the small pile of their belongings, her hands trembling slightly as she began to undress. Her traveling dress, her chemise, her stockings, all of it folded carefully and set aside until she stood in nothing but her drawers and the thin cotton shift she wore beneath her corset.

But even that felt like too much, too many barriers between herself and what she wanted. Her fingers found the hem of the shift, hesitating for just a moment before she pulled it over her head and added it to the pile of discarded clothing.

She shivered in the firelight, goosebumps rising along her arms and shoulders. Not from cold, the fire kept the small cabin comfortably warm, but from the magnitude of what she was about to do.

Arthur's spare shirt hung from a peg near their belongings, the one he'd planned to change into in the morning. Without allowing herself to second-guess the impulse, she reached for it, pulling the soft cotton over her head. It fell to mid-thigh, the sleeves hanging past her fingertips until she rolled them up. It smelled like him, that mixture of leather and tobacco and something indefinably masculine that made her feel safe and desired all at once.

She settled on the edge of the mattress to wait, her bare legs tucked beneath her, the oversized shirt providing modesty while making her intentions unmistakably clear. Her hair had begun to escape its braid throughout the day, and she pulled it loose entirely, letting it fall in waves around her shoulders.

Outside, she could hear Arthur's boots on the frozen ground as he made his unnecessary rounds, checking on horses that were already settled, adjusting snares that were already perfectly set. Taking the time he needed to compose himself, to remind himself to be a gentleman.

But tonight, Maura didn't want a gentleman. Tonight, she wanted her husband.

Arthur stood in the frigid night air, his breath forming white clouds as he tried to regain control of himself. The horses were fine, had been fine when he'd checked them earlier. The snares were set perfectly. Hell, he could probably recite every tree within fifty yards of the cabin at this point; he'd been walking these same circles for so long.

But every time he thought about going back inside, about sharing that small space with Maura, about lying on that mattress beside her in the dark... Christ. His whole body went tight with want, and he had to stop walking and grip the nearest tree trunk until his knuckles went white.

Three years. Three goddamn years of sharing a bed with the most beautiful woman he'd ever laid eyes on, of waking up with her warm body pressed against his, of watching her move around their camp in ways that made his mouth go dry. Three years of being the perfect gentleman, of never pushing, never taking what his body screamed for every single night.

He'd told himself it was the right thing to do. That she'd been through hell before she found them, that she needed time, needed safety. But Lord help him, the waiting was killing him.

The way she'd looked at him during rifle practice, pressed back against his chest while he'd shown her how to aim. The way she'd melted against him last night when the cold had driven her to seek his warmth. The way she had been in Blackwater so willing and wanton with him once she knew she was safe. 

And tonight, sitting by the fire after dinner, he'd caught her looking at him with something new in her eyes. Something that had made his pulse race and his hands shake when he'd reached for his coffee cup.

Arthur kicked at a fallen branch, sending it skittering across the frozen ground. He was a grown man, for Christ's sake. He should be able to control himself better than this. Should be able to go inside and lie down beside his own wife without his body betraying him like some untried boy.

The solution was simple: he'd sleep on the floor. Tell her he was used to rougher conditions anyway, that she should have the comfort of the mattress. It would be the gentlemanly thing to do, and it would save them both the awkwardness of sharing such close quarters when his self-control was hanging by a thread.

Resolved, Arthur straightened his shoulders and headed back toward the cabin. He could do this. He could be the husband she needed, patient and respectful and—

The sight that greeted him when he pushed open the cabin door drove every noble intention straight out of his head.

She had changed while he was gone, trading her practical traveling dress for something far more daring: one of his shirts, the soft flannel hanging loose on her smaller frame, the sleeves rolled up to her wrists. She had unbuttoned just enough to reveal a hint of cleavage, the hem falling to mid-thigh, but there was no mistaking that it was all she wore.

"Maura," Arthur's voice was rougher than usual, his eyes fixed on her with an intensity that made her pulse quicken. "What—"

"I've been thinking," she said, rising from her place on the bed and moving toward him with more confidence than she felt. "About why I really wanted to come with you on this trip."

Arthur swallowed hard, his hands still gripping the rifle he'd forgotten he was carrying. "Yeah?"

"It wasn't just to get away from camp," Maura continued, stopping just close enough that she could see the way his chest was rising and falling more quickly than normal.

"Maura." Her name was barely a whisper, but she could hear everything in it, want and uncertainty and something deeper that made her bold.

"I wanted us to be alone," she said simply. "Really, truly alone. Just us." She reached out and carefully took the rifle from his hands, setting it aside against the wall. "Just us, Arthur."

For a moment, he stood frozen, looking at her as if he couldn't quite believe she was real. Then, slowly, his hands came up to frame her face, his thumbs brushing over her cheekbones.

"You sure about this?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "I was going to sleep on the floor," he managed, his eyes never leaving her face. "Didn't want to... didn't want you to feel..."

Instead of answering with words, Maura rose up on her toes and kissed him, pouring three years of careful restraint and growing love into the contact. Arthur's response was immediate and overwhelming; his arms came around her, pulling her against him as if he'd been starving for this touch.

The kiss deepened, became something desperate and grateful and long overdue. When they finally broke apart, both breathing hard, Arthur rested his forehead against hers.

"I've wanted this," he said quietly, his hands tracing the line of her jaw, the curve of her neck. "God, Maura, I've wanted this for so long."

"Then have it," she whispered, her fingers working at the buttons of his shirt. Her smile was soft and sure and devastating.  She stood on her tiptoes and spread kisses across his jaw. He groaned as her breasts pressed into his chest. 

His palms glided up her waist and up over her shoulders, across her neck, until finally he framed her face. The heat from his touch branded her, it felt as though she would have permanent marks on her cheeks from his fingers. 

Unable and unwilling to deny the probing of his tongue, she relaxed and allowed him to slide inside. Warm and rough. So very deliciously sinful. The temptation to taste him back was too strong and shyly she brushed her tongue over his lips. He groaned, clutching her even closer to him. She jumped back, fearing she did something wrong, but he hauled her back and recaptured her mouth again. 

Tentatively, she ran her tongue over the seam of his lips again. He relaxed his lips against hers and granted her access. Feeling bold, she pushed forward, shivering from the pure carnality of it. His hands left her face and moved down to work the buttons on the flannel she wore. Before she may have felt vulnerable and exposed but now she burned for him. He lowered the shirt over one shoulder and then followed each line and curve with his lips. 

Each inch of skin he exposed, he kissed, sliding downwards until the garment fell away, leaving her completely bare under his gaze. 

“You’re so beautiful, darlin’.” His voice husky, his warm breath whispered over the raised gooseflesh that dotted her skin. They walked the edge of the room until the back of her knees hit the bedframe. 

Arthur cupped her breast, her nippled beaded so tight that it sent tiny shards of lightning down her belly. He kneeled in front of her so he could flick his tongue over the peak and her knees almost buckled. With a gentle nudge she landed on the bed with a soft bounce. He joined her then, looming over her, his strong arms holding him up. 

Arthur stared so unabashedly at her that she moved to grab the quilt to cover herself up, anything to make her feel less exposed to his gaze. He stayed her hand and his gaze met hers, “Don’t cover yourself, sweetheart. I ain’t done looking at you yet.” 

He trailed a finger over the curve of her waist, down to her hip, and the back up again until it circled her taut nipple. She let out a shuddering breath at the movement.

He backed off the bed and she panicked, had she done something wrong? She felt relieved as he began shedding his own clothes with much less finesse than he had done with her. 

Looking at him was inevitable. Truly she couldn’t have glanced away if she wanted to. There was something so mesmerizing about the rugged, work-honed contours of his body. Scars, some old, some much fresher were mapped across his flesh. With a nervous swallow, Maura dropped her gaze to the juncture of his legs, she had never dared to look at one so close before. She tried to keep her eyes from widening at the sight of him so hard and big. No wonder, sex had always caused her such pain before. 

Sensing her nervous energy, Arthur rejoined her on the bed and kissed her. His lips were so warm and tender that it made her forget her previous anxiety. He continued to kiss her, sliding his mouth down the line of her jaw, then lower to her neck, and placed a kiss on the sensitive skin just below her ear. He took his time grazing his teeth over the pulse point there.

“Oh!” The sensation shocked her but caused Arthur to smile against her neck. He trailed lower until he was precariously close to her breasts. He didn’t tease and for that she was thankful, instead he closed his lips around her nipple and used his other hand to grope the other. 

Maura arched her back into his touch and squeezed her thighs together, needing the friction. He took his time giving each side attention, switching between circling the sensitive flesh with his tongue and using his teeth to sweetly nip at the peak. 

She bit her lip, embarrassed by the sounds of pleasure she was uttering. Arthur stopped what he was doing causing her to pout. “Ain’t no one out here for miles, sweetheart. You can be as loud as you want.” 

His fingers glided down her stomach taking his time as he ventured to the juncture of her thighs. Finally, he slid one single finger between her folds, she tensed. 

“This alright?” His voice was so kind that she could do nothing more than smile and nod, despite her fears. His fingers found a particularly sensitive spot and began to rub lightly then rotated in a circular motion. Maura gasped and squeezed her eyes shut as the pleasure made her toes curl. He released her breast from his mouth and started making his way down the midline of her body. 

Arthur nudged his way between her legs, lowering his mouth until it found her heated core. A wave of indescribable pleasure washed over her as he continued to work his mouth over her center. Her hands found their way into his hair and tugged at the roots with every swipe of his tongue against her bundle of nerves. She had no idea how long he had been between her legs but she felt like she was dangling off the edge of a precipice when he slid a single digit into her entrance. His tongue was doing such wickedly wonderful things that she didn’t tense. 

He smiled against her and after a few pumps, added a second. Her breaths were coming out in short pants now as she felt him curl the fingers inside her. Her orgasm swept over her as he relentlessly lapped at her sweet spot. 

Maura gripped his shoulders and hauled him back up to her and she kissed him with a ferocity that she didn’t know she possessed. S tasted herself on his lips. She wrapped her arms around his neck and hitched a her leg around his waist, trying to signal to him she was ready for him but he pulled back and looked at her one last time.

 “You sure?” 

Her heart pounded in her ribs, God she loved this man. A smile broke across her face and she nodded enthusiastically. He tilted her hips and lined himself up with her hot entrance. Maura took a breath to steady her nerves but she still felt herself go rigid at the movement. 

Arthur stopped, dropping a kiss to the top of her head. “Relax, Maura.” He kissed her again and rested his forehead against hers. “I ain’t gonna hurt you and if I do, you tell me.” She raised her chin to meet his eyes and kissed him with all the sweetness she could. 

“I know, Arthur.” 

And she did. She knew that this was different, that he was different and that thought helped her to relax. His hips moved forward slowly. As her muscles eased he was able to go deeper, the fullness almost overwhelming and to her surprise there was no pain. A moan ripped through him, when he bottomed out. He was lodged so deeply she felt him in every nerve of her body. 

He began to move, a slow seductive rhythm that made her mad with need. Her fingers danced across his back, frantic to find purchase, needing to anchor herself. His thrusts increased, faster and more forceful. Arthur rolled his hips, his cock dragging sensually against her inner walls. 

Maura raised her legs so that they both wrapped around his hips, spurring him on even more. He gripped the mattress harder and brought one hand down between her legs, hoping to coax another climax out of her before he finished. She moaned so sweetly Arthur feared he would embarrass himself with how quickly he came. He leaned down and whispered sweet nothings into her ear and he continued to work her pearl. 

She rocked her hips against his as they both barreled towards completion. Her second orgasm hit her and she clenched down hard on his cock as he continued to move inside her. The tightness of her channel sent him spiraling over the edge only barely managing to pull out in time and spend on her belly. 

With all the strength left in his body he collapsed next to her. He listened as her breathing evened out before reaching into the satchel next to the bed and grabbing an old bandana to help her clean up. He pulled the quilt over the two of them and she snuggled close to him, laying her head on his chest. 

After a few minutes with just the crackling of the fire in the background, he finally spoke. “Well, sweetheart, I hope you enjoyed yourself because I ain’t gonna be able to pretend that I don’t want you every hour of every day now.” 

Her sweet laughter filled the small cabin. Maura traced lazy patterns across Arthur's chest with her fingertip, marveling at how right this felt, the two of them tangled together in the firelight, her head pillowed on his shoulder, his arm wrapped securely around her waist.

"You're thinking awfully hard over there," Arthur murmured, his voice still rough. "I can practically hear the wheels turning in that pretty head of yours."

She tilted her face up to look at him, noting how the flickering flames cast shadows across his features, softening the harsh lines around his eyes. "Just thinking about how different this is."

"Different how?" His hand began stroking through her hair, the gentle motion making her eyes flutter closed.

"Good different," she assured him quickly, feeling him tense slightly beneath her. 

Instead of trying to find words for feelings too big and new to name, she pressed a kiss to the warm skin of his chest, right over his heart.

"That tickles," Arthur said with a chuckle, though he made no move to stop her as she continued pressing soft kisses across his skin. "You're gonna start something you might not be ready to finish, Mrs. Morgan."

"Am I?" She looked up at him with mock innocence, then deliberately scraped her teeth gently across his collarbone. The sharp intake of breath he made in response sent heat pooling low in her belly all over again.

"Christ, woman," Arthur groaned, his free hand coming up to cup the back of her head. "You're gonna be the death of me."

"What a way to go, though," Maura said with a grin that was probably far too wicked to be proper. The look Arthur gave her in response suggested he was thinking along the same lines.

"You know," he said conversationally, his fingers trailing down her spine in a way that made her shiver, "I always suspected there was a little hellcat hiding under those good manners.” 

"A hellcat?" Maura laughed, the sound bright and carefree in the intimate space.

"Mm-hmm." Arthur's hand settled possessively on the curve of her hip. "My hellcat, though. Don't go getting any ideas about practicing those claws on anyone else."

The casual possessiveness in his tone should have alarmed her, would have alarmed her, coming from someone else. Instead, it sent another wave of heat through her, the knowledge that he wanted to claim her, protect her, keep her as his own. "Jealous, Mr. Morgan?" she teased. 

"Damn right I am," he said, his voice dropping to that gravelly tone that made her toes curl.

“There’s no need.” Maura whispered, leaning down until her lips were just a breath away from his.  The kiss that followed was different from their earlier passion, slower, deeper, heavy with unspoken promises and feelings too new and precious to be voiced aloud. She hitched her leg over his hip and pulled herself even closer to him. When they finally broke apart, both were breathing hard.

"Maura," he said, her name carrying the weight of everything he couldn't yet say. She understood, felt the same words pressing against her ribs, too important and too frightening to release just yet.

They listened to the pop and crackle of the dying fire, the distant call of an owl somewhere in the forest. Maura felt herself beginning to drift, lulled by the steady rhythm of Arthur's heartbeat beneath her ear.

"I should probably put more wood on the fire," Arthur said eventually, though he made no move to get up.

"Probably," Maura agreed, equally reluctant to leave the warm cocoon they'd created.

"Cold night like this, fire goes out, we'll freeze before morning."

"Mm-hmm."

Another few minutes passed.

"Really should get up," Arthur said again, his arm tightening around her.

"Any minute now," Maura murmured against his skin, then smiled when she felt his chest shake with quiet laughter.

"You're not moving either, you know," she pointed out.

"Can't. Got a beautiful naked woman wrapped around me. Be ungentlemanly to disturb her."

"How very thoughtful of you." Maura placed another kiss on his chest, then reluctantly began to untangle herself. "But you're right about the fire. And I'm not quite ready to go back to chattering teeth just yet."

Reluctantly Arthur tore himself from the warm bed and grabbed some logs to feed the fire. When it was crackling merrily again, he settled back into bed, Maura once again curled against Arthur's side, his arm wrapped securely around her.

"Better?" Arthur asked, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

"Much," Maura sighed contentedly. "Though I have to say, you make an excellent blanket yourself."

"Is that so?" Arthur's voice was amused. "Glad to know I'm good for something."

"Oh, you're good for lots of things," Maura said, then grinned wickedly up at him. "Some of which I'm very much looking forward to exploring further."

Arthur groaned, his arm tightening around her. "You're going to kill me, woman. Three years of being a perfect gentleman, and now you're trying to make up for all of it in one night."

"Not trying," Maura corrected, her hand sliding teasingly down his chest. "Succeeding."

The promise in her voice made Arthur's blood heat all over again, but before he could act on it, she'd already settled back against him with a satisfied hum, clearly intending to sleep.

"Tease," he accused fondly, though he was smiling as he said it.

As Maura's breathing evened out and she fell asleep in his arms, Arthur stared up at the cabin's rough-hewn ceiling and marveled at how completely his world had shifted in the space of a single evening. Three years of careful restraint, of being the gentleman she needed, of loving her quietly and patiently from whatever distance she required.

And now this. Her warm body pressed against his, her trust absolute, her desire matching his own. The pull of sleep was too great and eventually the soft sounds of the night lulled him into a peaceful sleep.

Chapter Text

Arthur woke to the peculiar muffled silence that only came with heavy snowfall. Even before he opened his eyes, he could feel the weight of it in the air, that thick quiet that settled over the world when winter decided to make itself known in earnest. The cabin felt different, too, warmer somehow, insulated by the blanket of white that had surely accumulated during the night.

He lay still for a long moment, acutely aware of the warm weight pressed against his side. Maura slept deeply, her breathing slow and even, one hand curled against his chest where it had fallen sometime during the night. Her hair spilled across the pillow they shared, catching the pale morning light that filtered through the cloth-covered windows, and Arthur found himself studying the way it fell in soft waves around her face.

Beautiful. The word seemed inadequate, too small to contain what he felt looking at her like this, unguarded and peaceful in sleep. Three years he'd shared a bed with her, but this morning felt different. Everything felt different after last night.

He should get up. Check the traps, hunt for fresh meat while the storm might drive the deer to shelter in predictable places. That's what any sensible man would do. But Arthur found himself reluctant to disturb the perfect stillness of the moment, to leave the warmth of the bed and the woman beside him.

The snow provided the perfect excuse.

Too heavy to hunt properly , he told himself, though he'd hunted in worse conditions countless times. Tracks'll be covered, and the animals will be bedded down deep . All true enough, though not exactly compelling reasons for a man who'd spent most of his adult life living rough in all kinds of weather.

No, the truth was simpler and more selfish: he simply didn’t want to get up. Moving carefully so as not to wake her, Arthur eased himself up against the rough wooden headboard and reached for his satchel. His journal was tucked inside, along with the stub of pencil he'd worn down to almost nothing through years of sporadic writing. The leather cover was soft with age and handling, the pages within filled with his careful observations of the world around him, sketches of animals, pressed flowers, rambling thoughts about the places they'd been and the things they'd done.

But this morning, the words that came were different. More honest than he usually allowed himself to be, even in the privacy of his own thoughts.

December 9, 1895

Snowing heavy outside the cabin this morning. Maura's still sleeping beside me, and I ain't got the heart to wake her. Or maybe I ain't got the courage. Don't know what I did to deserve any of this. Can't figure it out no matter how I turn it over in my mind. She's got more goodness in her little finger than I got in my whole body, and here I am, taking what she offers like I got some kind of right to it.

Maybe that's what scares me most. Not that she'll leave, but that she'll stay. That she'll keep looking at me like I'm some kind of good man when we both know what I am. What I’ll always be. 

She deserves better than an outlaw who ain't got nothing to offer but a hard life and an uncertain future. Deserves someone who could give her a real home, safety, and respectability. All the things I can't be. She’s young and beautiful; she could find someone else easy.  But selfish bastard that I am, I can't seem to let her go. Can't seem to do the right thing and step aside so she could find someone worthy of her. Because the truth is, I love her. Love her so much it feels like drowning sometimes. 

Arthur paused, his pencil hovering over the page. Outside, he could hear the wind picking up, driving the snow against the windows in whispers. The fire had burned low during the night, but the cabin held its warmth well, creating a cocoon of comfort that felt removed from the harsh world beyond these walls.

Never told her that. Don't think I ever will.

She might not feel the same and might start resenting me for pining after her like a lost puppy. Or worse, what if she does feel the same, and I ruin it? What if loving me destroys something pure and good in her, the way everything else I touch seems to turn to ash eventually?

Arthur's hand stilled, the pencil trembling slightly between his fingers. These were the thoughts that kept him awake at night, the fears that made him maintain that careful distance even when every instinct screamed at him to pull her close and never let go.

She looks so peaceful when she sleeps. Like all the worries and fears just fall away, leaving behind the woman she might have been if the world had been kinder to her. Makes me want to be better than I am, want to be the kind of man who could keep that peace on her face always.

But I ain't that man. I'm Arthur Morgan, and that name carries weight. Blood and violence and choices that can't be undone. She married that name, married me, but I sometimes wonder if she truly knows what that means. What it'll cost her in the end.

Arthur glanced up from his journal to look at her again, and something in his chest tightened painfully. Her face was turned toward him, lips slightly parted, one hand still resting against his ribs where she could feel his heartbeat. In sleep, she looked impossibly young, vulnerable in a way that made his protective instincts flare.

Setting the pencil aside, Arthur turned to a fresh page and began to sketch instead, his fingers moving with practiced ease as he captured the curve of her cheek, the way her hair fell across the pillow, the peaceful expression that made something in his chest feel too tight to breathe properly.

The drawing came together quickly under his hands; he'd always been better at showing things than saying them, better with images than words when it came to the things that mattered most. Each line was carefully considered, lovingly rendered, as if he could somehow capture not just her appearance but the way she made him feel when she looked at him like he was worth something.

He was so absorbed in the work that he didn't notice when her breathing changed, didn't realize she'd begun to wake until her voice, soft and still heavy with sleep, broke the morning quiet.

"Is that me?"

Arthur's hand jerked, nearly smudging the careful shading he'd been working on. His cheeks flushed red as he looked down to find her brown eyes watching him with something that might have been wonder.

"I... uh..." He started to close the journal, suddenly embarrassed by the intimacy of what he'd been doing. "Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you."

"You didn't." Maura shifted closer, propping herself up on one elbow to get a better look at the sketch. "Arthur, that's beautiful.” 

"It ain't much," Arthur mumbled, still fighting the urge to hide the page from her view. "Just passing time while you slept."

But Maura reached out, her fingers gentle as she prevented him from closing the journal entirely. "May I see it properly?"

Something in her voice made him relax slightly, and he angled the book so she could see the drawing clearly. Her sharp intake of breath made his pulse quicken. “I wish you would show these to me more often. You’re so talented.” 

He didn’t know how to respond to her praise, so he changed the subject. "The snow's coming down pretty heavy," Arthur said finally, his voice softer than it had been. "Probably best to stay put today. Let it pass."

Maura's smile was like sunrise, warm and golden and full of promise. "Probably best," she agreed, settling back down beside him, closer this time, her head finding its place against his shoulder. "No need to rush back to the world just yet."

Arthur closed the journal carefully, setting it aside before wrapping his arm around her. Through the windows, he could see the snow falling steadily, transforming the familiar landscape into something new and clean. 

 Arthur's arm wrapped securely around her shoulders, both of them listening to the wind drive snow against the cabin walls. The storm showed no signs of letting up, and Arthur found himself grateful for nature's insistence that they remain exactly where they were.

Eventually, though, Maura stirred against him, stretching slightly. "I should probably get up," she murmured, though she made no immediate move to do so. "Make us some breakfast. Coffee, at least."

Arthur's arm tightened almost imperceptibly around her. "Coffee can wait."

"Can it?" There was amusement in her voice, but she began to shift as if to rise. "I know how you get without your morning coffee, Arthur Morgan."

Before she could pull away entirely, Arthur's other arm came up, gently but firmly drawing her back against his chest. "Storm's too bad," he said, his voice still rough with sleep. "Too cold to be getting up and moving around. Best to stay warm."

Maura laughed softly, the sound vibrating against his ribs. "The stove's not that far. I can manage a few steps."

"Nah." Arthur's hand found the curve of her waist, his thumb tracing lazy circles through the thin fabric of her nightdress. "Storm like this, you never know what might happen. Could lose your way between here and the kitchen."

"Arthur," she said, and he could hear the smile in her voice even though he couldn't see her face. "It's a one-room cabin."

"Dangerous," he insisted solemnly, though his own mouth was twitching with suppressed amusement. "Best not to risk it."

She tried again to sit up, and again Arthur pulled her back, this time rolling slightly so she was partly beneath him, his weight gentle but effective in keeping her pinned to the mattress. "Arthur Morgan, are you trying to keep me prisoner in this bed?"

He looked down at her, taking in the way her hair spread across the pillow, the flush in her cheeks from the warmth and their closeness, the bright amusement dancing in her brown eyes. The sight made something twist pleasantly in his chest.

"Maybe," he admitted, his voice dropping to that low rumble that never failed to make her breath catch. "Would that be such a terrible thing?"

For a moment, she just looked up at him, and Arthur saw something shift in her expression, the playfulness giving way to something softer, more serious. Her hand came up to rest against his cheek, fingers tracing the line of his jaw.

"No," she said quietly. "I don't think it would be terrible at all."

"Good," he managed, his voice rougher than he'd intended. "'Cause I ain't planning on letting you go anytime soon."

The storm had indeed proven Arthur right about staying put. By the time they finally roused themselves from the warmth of their bed, the snow had piled nearly two feet against the cabin door, and the wind still howled with enough force to rattle the shutters. But the worst of it seemed to have passed, leaving behind the kind of crystalline brightness that only came after a heavy snowfall.

Arthur stood at the window, already dressed and nursing his first cup of coffee. Maura had eventually won that particular battle, though not without considerable negotiation, watching the way the morning sun turned the fresh snow into something that glittered like crushed diamonds.

"Beautiful," Maura said softly, coming to stand beside him with her own steaming mug. She'd wrapped herself in one of his old shirts over her shift, the fabric hanging loose on her smaller frame but providing extra warmth against the morning chill.

"Pretty enough," Arthur agreed, though his attention had shifted from the landscape to the woman beside him. "Gonna make for some hard work, though. Need to dig us out, check that the roof ain't struggling under all that weight."

Maura nodded, but her mind wandered as she watched him over the rim of her coffee cup. The strong line of his shoulders, the way his hair caught the morning light, the careful way he held himself even in their private moments, as if he were always ready to leave, always prepared for the next job Dutch might call him away for. Even here, snowed in and miles from anyone, she could feel that restlessness in him, that loyalty that pulled him away from moments like these.

"When do you think we'll be able to get back?" she asked quietly.

Arthur glanced at her, something flickering across his face. "Few days, maybe. Depends how much more comes down." He paused, then added, "You worried about Isaac?"

"A little." It wasn't entirely a lie. She did worry about the boy, and Arthur knew it.

He moved away from the window, setting his coffee down on the small wooden table. "He'll be fine. Charles’ got a soft spot for him, and Miss Grimshaw won't let anything happen to either of the boys."

The way he said 'boy' made something warm in Maura's chest. Isaac wasn't the only child in camp; there was Jack, and a whole little community that Arthur was part of, that pulled him away from her again and again.

"I know," she said, forcing a smile. "You're right."

But Arthur was studying her face now, those keen eyes of his picking up on something in her tone. "What is it?"

"Nothing. Just... thinking about him. About home."

"This is home for a few days," Arthur said, and there was something almost defensive in his voice. "Ain't it?"

The question hung between them, loaded with all the things they never said. This cabin, these stolen moments away from the gang, felt more like home to Maura than anywhere else. But they were temporary, always temporary. Arthur would get restless, or Dutch would send word, or some job would come up that required his particular skills, and they'd pack up and leave this peace behind.

"Yes," she said finally. "Of course it is."

Arthur relaxed slightly, but she could see he wasn't entirely convinced. He moved toward the door, pulling on his heavy coat. "I should get started on digging us out. Clear a path to the woodpile at least."

Maura watched him prepare to venture into the cold, something tightening in her throat. Even with the storm, even with their perfect excuse to stay warm and close, he couldn't quite settle into the moment. Couldn't let himself rest completely.

"Arthur," she said, and he paused with his hand on the door latch. "It can wait a little longer, can't it? The digging?"

He turned back to her, and she saw the internal struggle play out across his features. The practical man who believed in preparation and hard work warring with the part of him that wanted to stay here, in this warm pocket of peace they'd created.

"I suppose it could," he said slowly.

Maura set down her coffee and moved toward him, her hands finding the front of his coat. "Then stay. Just a little longer."

Arthur's hands came up to cover hers, his calloused fingers gentle against her skin. "Maura..."

She could hear the conflict in his voice, could see it in the way his jaw tightened. Always torn between what he wanted and what he thought he should do, between the life they could have here and the life he thought he owed to Dutch and the gang.

Instead of arguing, she simply began unbuttoning his coat, her fingers working slowly at the fastenings. Arthur stood very still, watching her face as she pushed the heavy fabric off his shoulders and let it fall to the floor.

"The snow isn't going anywhere," she said softly, her hands moving to the buttons of his shirt.

"No," Arthur agreed, his voice rougher now. "I suppose it ain't."

This time, when she drew him back toward the bed, he didn't resist. He lay down on the bed and guided her until she straddled his waist. Arthur reached up and impatiently removed her shift, leaving her completely bare on top of him. She tried to ignore the blush creeping down from her cheeks across her chest. 

“You've got my undivided attention, Mrs. Morgan.” He said cheekily. Ignoring her burning embarrassment, she clumsily unbuttoned his flannel shirt. Once she reached the bottom, he shrugged out of it, discarding it haphazardly on the floor. He shot up, running his fingers along the expanses of her back and kissing her with wild abandon. Her hands worked their way from where they were placed on his chest to the button of his jeans. She could feel his hardened cock through the material, and it sent a thrill through her. 

He shrugged the jeans down his hips until they, too, lay abandoned on the floor. Feeling bold, she took him in her hand and marveled at his size. As she enclosed her fingers, he hissed in pleasure, shooting sparks straight to her core. She ran her thumb over the tip, and his hips bucked into her hand. Never in her twenty-five years had she felt this powerful. He was breathing hard and looking at her through half-closed eyes. She released him and ran a delicate finger down a throbbing vein that ran from root to tip. His grip became even tighter. 

“You keep that up, Mrs. Morgan, this will finish before it even started.” He warned, his voice gravelly. 

His fingers dug into her hips almost painfully as she braced her hands against his chest again. He lifted her just enough so that she could sink down on his length. She took every inch without complaint, biting her lip as she took him all in. Once she was fully seated, she rocked her hips back and forth, testing out this new position. His head lulled back against the headboard, lips parted, and chest heaving. She moved again, this time she angled herself to try and take him deeper, causing them to both gasp at the sensation. 

He used his purchase on her hips to help her set a rhythm, slowly at first and then faster and more desperate. “That’s it, sweetheart.” He moaned as he caught her nipple between his fingers. Her fingers curled on his chest, and she worried for a second that she may have scratched him too hard.

Arthur’s hips jerked to meet her thrusts, and she nearly collapsed from the pleasure. She moved even faster, changing up the angle to try and take him as deep as possible. 

“Fuck,” He moaned, “Such a good girl.” 

His words send another thrill through her, and despite the burning sensation in her thighs, she continued to bounce and grind on his cock. He reached between them and slid his fingers down her mound until they reached her little bundle of nerves, massaging it until her eyes rolled back and her own gasps drowned out his. 

His hips began to snap in an uneven tempo; she could tell he was close to the end. Her legs began to shake violently as her climax overwhelmed her. Her movements paused as she tried to catch her breath. Before she could fully recover, Arthur flipped her onto her back and continued thrusting with a punishing pace. 

“A-Arthur.” She called out, her fingers digging into his scalp. His hips snapped against her, and she saw stars behind her eyelids. Finally, his thrusts became sloppier, and he tensed. At the very last moment, he pulled away and finished on her stomach. 

Later, as they lay tangled together in the aftermath, Maura felt the familiar pang of disappointment settle in her chest. Arthur had been careful again, pulling away at the crucial moment despite the way his whole body had seemed to fight against it. She'd felt the tension in him, the moment of hesitation before he'd lifted himself away from her, his breathing ragged against her neck.

She didn't say anything, but the question was there, burning in the back of her throat. Why? Was it because he didn't trust her? Didn't want to risk bringing another child into their uncertain life? Or was it something deeper, a fear that he didn't want that kind of future with her?

Arthur lay beside her now, one arm thrown across his eyes, his chest still rising and falling with the effort to catch his breath. In the pale light filtering through the cloth-covered windows, she could see the flush that hadn't quite faded from his skin, the way his hair stuck to his forehead with sweat despite the morning chill.

Beautiful, she thought. But there was something untouchable about him even now, even in their most intimate moments. As if part of him was always held back, always protected.

"You're quiet," Arthur said after a while, not moving his arm from his eyes.

"Just thinking."

"'Bout what?"

Maura hesitated, then settled for a partial truth. "About Isaac. Whether he misses us when we're gone like this."

Arthur's arm dropped, and he turned to look at her. "Kids are resilient."

"Are they?" The question came out sharper than she'd intended, and she saw Arthur's expression shift slightly.

"What do you mean?"

Maura pulled the blanket higher, suddenly feeling exposed. "I just... I wonder sometimes if it's fair. To him. All the uncertainty."

Arthur was quiet for a long moment, and when he spoke, his voice was careful. "It ain't perfect. But it's the life we got. Ain’t that what you said?” 

“Yes, I did.” 

“I know things have been tense but Dutch and Hosea, they've done right by us. By all of us."

There it was again, that reflexive loyalty, that way he had of deflecting any criticism of their lifestyle back to the good Dutch had done. Maura bit back the words that wanted to spill out, the arguments they'd had before about whether this was really the only life available to them.

"I know," she said instead. "I'm not criticizing. Just... thinking out loud."

But Arthur was studying her face now, those perceptive eyes of his picking up on the currents beneath her words. "You miss having a settled place," he said quietly.

Maura looked down at her hands, uncertain how to answer. "Sometimes. Don't you?"

Arthur was quiet for a long moment. "I reckon I do," he admitted. "But wanting something and being able to have it... those are different things."

There was something resigned in his voice that made Maura's chest tighten. She looked up at him, taking in the way his jaw was set, the distance that had crept into his eyes even though he was right beside her.

"Are they?" she asked softly.

Arthur sat up slightly, leaning back against the headboard. The movement was subtle, but Maura felt the shift, the way he seemed to withdraw even without moving away from her.

"For folks like us? Yeah, they are." His voice was matter-of-fact, but she could hear the weight behind it. "I ain't built for that kind of life, Maura. The settled kind."

She wanted to argue, to tell him that wasn't true, she had seen him yearn for it before, but something in his expression stopped her. Instead, she found herself thinking about Isaac, about the life he was growing up in, always moving, always temporary.

"What about Isaac?" she asked.

Arthur's hands stilled on the blanket. "Isaac's got something most kids don't: he's got people who care about him. You and I, Dutch, Hosea, the whole gang. That ain't nothing."

She suspected he was talking about himself when he mentioned “most kids”. 

"I know. I didn't mean—"

"He's safe," Arthur continued, and there was something almost defensive in his tone now, though it was quiet. "Fed, looked after. Loved. That's more than a lot of children get, even the ones with fancy houses and proper schooling."

Maura nodded, but the words felt hollow somehow. She thought about the careful way Arthur had pulled away from her earlier, the way he always did, and wondered if his definition of 'enough' extended to other parts of their life too.

"You're right," she said finally. "Of course you're right."

But Arthur was watching her face, and she could see that he'd caught something in her tone. "You don't sound convinced."

"I am. I just..." She hesitated, then tried to smile. “I shouldn’t have brought it up.” 

Arthur was quiet, and when she looked at him, she saw something complicated flicker across his features. "You ever regret it?" he asked. "Marrying into this life?"

The question was asked so softly she almost missed it, but the weight behind it was unmistakable. She turned to face him fully, taking in the way he held himself, braced, as if expecting a blow.

"No," she said, and meant it completely. 

Arthur nodded, but she could see he didn't quite believe her. There was something in his eyes that made her think he was cataloging all the things she'd given up, all the reasons she should feel differently.

"Good," he said finally, but his voice was distant. "That's... good."

The silence stretched between them, filled with all the things neither of them seemed able to say. Finally, Arthur shifted, reaching for his clothes.

"I should get started on that path," he said. "Get us dug out before more snow comes."

Maura watched him dress, noting the way he avoided her eyes, the careful distance he maintained even in the small space of the cabin. She wanted to say something, to bridge the gap that had opened between them, but the words wouldn't come.

"The storm's not letting up much," she offered.

"No, but it's lighter now. And the work needs doing." Arthur pulled on his shirt, his movements efficient but somehow final. "Can't put it off forever."

And with that, he was gone, leaving Maura alone in the bed, listening to the sound of his shovel biting into the snow outside and wondering how two people could share such intimacy and still feel so utterly alone. She lay still for several minutes, staring at the rough wooden ceiling and feeling the familiar weight of regret settle in her chest. Why had she brought it up? They'd been so content this morning, so perfectly wrapped up in each other and the peace of being snowed in together. And she'd ruined it, again, with her restless thoughts about permanence and stability.

They'd had this conversation before, in different forms, and each time Arthur had looked at her with that same guarded expression, as if he was waiting for her to finally admit that she'd made a mistake marrying him. Each time, she'd reassured him that she was happy with their life, that she understood what she'd signed up for, that she didn't need anything more than what they had.

And she'd meant it, mostly. She did love their life together, loved the freedom, and the way it felt like their little group against the world. But sometimes, in quiet moments like these, she couldn't help wondering what it would be like to build something lasting, something that couldn't be packed up and moved at a moment's notice.

The sound of Arthur's shovel had a sharp, aggressive rhythm to it now, and Maura winced. She'd done this, taken their perfect morning and turned it into another reminder of all the ways she might not be suited for the life he could give her.

Pulling herself from the bed, she wrapped Arthur's shirt around herself more tightly and moved to the window. Through the cloth covering, she could see his figure working methodically to clear a path from the door to the woodpile. His movements were efficient, focused, but there was something almost punishing about the way he attacked the snow.

She pressed her forehead against the cold glass, watching him work and berating herself for her selfishness. Here was a man who'd married her to give his son a mother, who'd opened his home and his heart to her despite having every reason to keep both guarded. He'd given her protection, companionship, and a love so fierce it sometimes took her breath away, even if he'd never put a name to it.

And what did she do? Pick at the edges of their happiness, always wanting just a little bit more.

The worst part was that she knew she sounded ungrateful. Arthur provided for her, protected her, and included her in a life that many people in their situation could only dream of. The gang was his family, had been long before she came along, and they'd welcomed her with a warmth she hadn't expected. The gang had embraced her, Abigail was like a sister. Isaac loved her, and she loved him.

But Arthur didn’t love her, so why did she think he would upend his life for her? For some woman who was convenient to have around, who helped with Isaac, who warmed his bed when he wanted companionship?

The life they had should be enough. It was enough, most of the time. So why did moments like these keep happening? Why did she keep circling back to these restless thoughts about what else their life could be?

Outside, Arthur had paused in his work, leaning on the shovel handle and breathing hard. Even from a distance, she could see the tension in his shoulders, the way he held himself like a man carrying a weight too heavy for his frame. She'd put that weight there, with her careless words and her wandering thoughts. 

Moving away from the window, Maura began to dress, her movements quick and purposeful. She needed to fix this, needed to find a way to take back the doubt she'd planted in his mind. Maybe she could make him breakfast, something special to show him that this, the cabin, their life, their stolen moments together, was exactly where she wanted to be. Even if part of her would always wonder what else might be possible, she could at least make sure Arthur never doubted that she'd chosen him, and would keep choosing him, no matter what.

When the sound of the shovel finally ceased, and Maura heard Arthur's heavy boots on the wooden steps, followed by the dull thud of him knocking snow off against the doorframe. She'd spent the intervening hours preparing, coffee kept warm by the fire, a simple stew simmering with what provisions they had, and bread she'd managed to bake in the small Dutch oven. But mostly, she'd thought about what she wanted to say, how she could bridge the gap that had opened between them.

The door opened with a gust of cold air that made the fire flicker, and Arthur stepped inside, his face reddened from the wind and exertion. Snow clung to his coat and hat, and she could see the weariness in the set of his shoulders. He'd been working hard, too hard, probably, using the physical labor to work through whatever she'd stirred up in him.

"Got us a good path cleared," he said without looking directly at her, already shrugging out of his coat. "And checked the roof. She's holding fine under all that weight."

"Good," Maura said softly, moving toward him. "You must be frozen through. Come sit by the fire."

Arthur hesitated, his eyes finding hers briefly before sliding away. "Should probably check the chimney first, make sure—"

"Arthur." The firmness in her voice stopped him. "Please. Come sit."

Something in her tone must have reached him, because he nodded and moved toward the chair she'd positioned near the hearth. But even as he settled into it, she could feel the careful distance he maintained, the way he held himself ready to get up again if needed.

Maura didn't give him the chance. Before he could start talking about practical matters or find another reason to keep busy, she moved to stand in front of him, then carefully settled herself onto his lap. She felt his sharp intake of breath, the way his hands came up instinctively to steady her even as confusion flickered across his features.

"You're cold," she said simply, her arms coming up to circle his neck. "Let me warm you up."

Arthur went still beneath her, and she could feel the conflict in his body, the desire to pull her closer warring with whatever walls he'd built back up during his hours in the cold. His clothes were still damp from the snow, and she could feel the chill radiating from him, but underneath that was the familiar warmth that was purely Arthur.

"I'm fine," he said automatically, but his voice was softer now, some of the stiffness leaving his posture as her warmth began to seep into him.

She shifted slightly, settling more comfortably against him, and felt some of the tension drain from his frame. One hand moved to rest against his chest, over his heart, while the other traced gentle patterns at the base of his neck.

"I made stew," she said quietly. "And coffee's still warm. But it can wait."

Arthur's hands had settled on her waist, his touch light but warm through the fabric of her dress. "You didn't have to go to trouble."

"It wasn't trouble." She could feel his heartbeat under her palm, steady but still slightly elevated from the cold and exertion. "I wanted to."

They sat in silence for a moment, the only sounds the crackling fire and the gradually calming wind outside. Maura could feel Arthur slowly relaxing beneath her, his body remembering their closeness even as his mind kept that careful distance.

"Arthur," she said eventually, her voice barely above a whisper. "About this morning..."

His jaw tightened slightly, and she felt his hands still on her waist. "You don't need to apologize for nothing, Maura."

The words were gentle, but she could hear the guardedness beneath them, the way he was bracing himself for whatever she might say. She studied his face, taking in the careful blankness of his expression, the way his eyes had gone distant even though he was looking right at her.

"I know," she said simply, and left it at that.

She could see the surprise flicker across his features, the way he'd been prepared for explanations or reassurances that didn't come. Instead, she just held him, her thumb tracing small circles against his chest, letting the warmth between them speak for itself.

"The storm's finally passing," Arthur said after a while, his voice carefully neutral.

"Seems to be." Maura glanced toward the window, where the light had grown brighter, less harsh. "We'll probably be able to head back in a day or two."

Something shifted in Arthur's expression at that, so subtle she almost missed it. A tightening around his eyes, a barely perceptible straightening of his shoulders. The reminder of their temporary sanctuary coming to an end, of having to return to the world where their quiet moments were stolen between jobs and obligations.

"Yeah," he said quietly. "Probably should."

But neither of them moved. Maura could feel the tension creeping back into Arthur's frame, the way his mind was already moving ahead to practical concerns and responsibilities. She wanted to pull him back, to keep him here in this moment with her, but she'd learned not to push when he got like this. Instead, she simply shifted closer, her cheek coming to rest against his shoulder.

"The work can wait," she murmured against his shirt. "You've done enough for today."

Arthur's arms came up to encircle her properly then, though she could still feel the restraint in the gesture, the way he held part of himself back even as he drew her closer.

"Reckon it can," he agreed, but there was something resigned in his voice, as if he was allowing himself this moment while already preparing for it to end.

Maura closed her eyes, breathing in the familiar scent of him beneath the lingering cold of the outdoors. She could feel the careful balance they were both maintaining, the tenderness they shared warring with the knowledge that the fundamental differences between what they each needed would always be there, creating distance even in their closest moments.

Arthur's hand moved to stroke her hair, the gesture automatic and soothing, but she could sense the restlessness in him even as he tried to settle into their closeness. Part of him was already thinking about the path back to camp, about what Dutch might need from him, about all the ways this peace couldn't last.

And part of her was thinking about permanence again, about what it would be like if moments like these didn't have to be stolen, if they could build something that didn't depend on storms and isolation to exist. But she didn't say any of that. Instead, she let herself sink into the warmth of his arms, the steady rhythm of his breathing, the way the firelight played across his face when she tilted her head to look at him. 

The silence stretched between them, fragile, like ice that might crack under too much weight. Maura could feel Arthur's pulse beneath her palm, could sense the way his thoughts kept drifting toward practical matters even as he held her. She knew she needed to say something before that restlessness pulled him away again, before the moment slipped through their fingers entirely.

"I'm not ungrateful," she murmured, the words careful but firm. "For this life, for what we have. I hope I never gave you that impression."

Arthur was quiet for a long moment, his thumb resuming its gentle stroke through her hair. When he spoke, his voice was sterner than usual. "You got every right to want more than what I can give you, Maura."

The resignation in his tone made something twist painfully in her chest. She pulled back slightly so she could see his face, taking in the way he avoided her eyes, the set of his jaw that spoke of old wounds and older fears.

"That's not what I meant," she said firmly. "When I talk about Isaac, about settling... I'm not asking you to change everything about who you are. I'm just..." She paused, searching for the right words. "Sometimes I think out loud about things that don't matter. It doesn't mean I want something different."

Arthur's eyes finally met hers, and she saw the conflict there, the desire to believe her warring with a lifetime of expecting abandonment. "You sure about that?"

"I married you," she said simply. "With both eyes open. And I'd do it again, Arthur." Something in his expression softened at that, the careful walls he'd been building starting to crack. His hand came up to touch her cheek, thumb brushing across her skin with a tenderness that made her warm.

"You deserve better than a man who can't give you the kind of life other women have," he said quietly. "A real home, stability. All those things, I don’t think I can give you."

There was such pain in his voice that Maura felt her throat tighten. She covered his hand with hers, pressing it more firmly against her cheek. "I don’t want those things if it doesn’t include you.” 

Arthur leaned forward, pressing his forehead against hers. "Even when I'm difficult? When I get restless and start talking about moving on, just when things get comfortable?"

"Especially then," she said, and managed a small smile. "Though I reserve the right to complain when you decide to dig half of New Hanover out from under the snow just to avoid sitting still."

That earned her the ghost of a smile in return, and she felt some of the tension ease from his shoulders. "Weather needed checking," he said, but there was no real conviction behind it.

"I'm sure it did." Maura settled back against him, relieved to feel him relax beneath her again. "But next time, maybe check it from inside the cabin first?"

Arthur's arms tightened around her, and for a moment it felt like they'd found their way back to solid ground. But even as he held her close, Maura could sense something still unresolved between them.

Chapter Text

After that afternoon by the fire, Arthur and Maura had settled into a careful peace for the remainder of their time at the cabin. They filled their days with quiet domesticity, Arthur reading aloud from his collection of dime novels while Maura listened, both of them sharing the worn pages of a book of poetry she had found in his stash. In the evenings, when the fire burned low and the world outside disappeared into winter darkness, they made love with a tenderness that spoke of deeper feelings neither was quite ready to name.

Arthur had taken her hunting twice more before they left, patiently coaching her through the basics of tracking and shooting. She'd improved slightly with the rifle, though her shots still went wide more often than not, and Arthur had learned to position himself strategically to ensure they wouldn't go hungry. But Maura had proven surprisingly adept at reading animal signs, and her quiet presence in the woods had a way of putting the wildlife at ease in a manner that benefited them both.

They'd avoided any more conversations about the future or their place in each other's lives, both of them seeming to understand instinctively that such topics were dangerous ground. Instead, they'd simply existed together in the warm little bubble of the cabin, letting the snow outside provide an excuse for intimacy and closeness that the demands of camp life rarely allowed.

It had been, Arthur reflected as they packed their few belongings on that final morning, as close to perfect as any time in his adult life had ever been, which made the return to reality all the more jarring.

The journey back to camp took two days longer than Arthur had anticipated. Fresh snowfall had made the trails treacherous, and they'd been forced to take shelter in an abandoned trapper's cabin on the second night when Maura's horse had started favoring her left foreleg. By the time they finally rode into the familiar clearing where the gang had made their temporary home, both horses and riders were weary from the cold and the careful navigation through snow-laden branches.

But Maura's exhaustion vanished the moment she heard Isaac's thin, congested cough echoing from one of the tents. She was off her horse before Arthur had even finished tying his to the hitching post, her skirts gathered in her hands as she hurried toward the sound.

"Easy there," Arthur called after her, but she was already disappearing into the tent where Miss Grimshaw had been keeping watch over the boy.

Arthur took his time with the horses, giving them the attention they deserved after their hard journey, but his ears were tuned to the voices coming from the tent. He could hear Maura's gentle murmur, Isaac's hoarse little voice, and Miss Grimshaw's explanation of what had happened in their absence.

"Started four days ago," Grimshaw was saying when Arthur finally ducked through the tent flap. "Fever broke yesterday morning, but the cough's still hanging on something fierce. Been giving him willow bark tea, but you know how little ones are about taking medicine."

Isaac was propped up against a pile of blankets, his small face pale and his dark hair damp with sweat. But his eyes had brightened considerably at Maura's arrival, and Arthur could see the way the boy's thin shoulders seemed to relax now that she was back.

"Mama!" Isaac said, his voice rough and smaller than usual. 

"I'm here, sweetheart," Maura said softly, immediately settling beside Isaac's makeshift bed and reaching out to brush the hair back from his fevered forehead. "How are you feeling?"

"Sick," Isaac said simply, the way only a three-year-old could, and then immediately reached for her with both small arms. He demonstrated with a few theatrical coughs that were probably more dramatic than necessary. "Up, mama. Up."

Maura scooped him up without hesitation, settling him on her lap where he could curl against her chest. Isaac's thumb found its way to his mouth, a habit he'd mostly grown out of but always returned to when he was unwell or upset.

Arthur exchanged a grateful nod with Miss Grimshaw. The older woman had looked tired when they'd arrived, and Arthur could only imagine how challenging it had been to care for a sick toddler who wanted his mother while also managing her usual camp duties.

"Thank you for watching him," Maura said, echoing Arthur's thoughts. "I know it couldn't have been easy."

"Boy was good as gold," Grimshaw replied, though the weariness in her voice suggested otherwise. "Just missed his mama something fierce. Wouldn't settle proper for anyone else."

Arthur crouched down beside Maura, reaching out to touch Isaac's forehead with the back of his hand. The boy felt warm but not dangerously so, and when Isaac looked at him with those big, tired eyes, Arthur felt his chest tighten with a different kind of worry than he'd expected.

"Hey there, son," Arthur said softly. "You giving Miss Grimshaw trouble?"

Isaac shook his head solemnly, then turned his face back into Maura's shoulder. "Want mama," he mumbled against her dress, even though she was already right there holding him.

"I'm here now," Maura murmured, her hand rubbing gentle circles on Isaac's back. "I'm not going anywhere."

Arthur watched this reunion with mixed emotions swirling in his chest. Relief that Isaac was clearly on the mend, gratitude that they'd returned when they did, but also something else, a recognition of just how completely Isaac had bonded with Maura, how thoroughly she'd become the center of his small world.

The next few days settled into a pattern that was both heartwarming and exhausting to observe. Isaac, still weak from his illness, clung to Maura with the desperate intensity that only a sick child could manage. He wanted her to hold him constantly, became tearful and fretful the moment she tried to set him down or step away, and would only eat if she was the one feeding him.

Arthur found himself watching this dynamic with fascination and growing concern. Isaac had always been attached to Maura, but his illness and their prolonged absence seemed to have intensified that bond to an almost desperate degree. The boy would cry, real, heart-wrenching sobs, if Maura so much as walked to the other side of camp, and would only calm when she returned and picked him up again.

"He's just scared," Maura explained when Arthur mentioned his concern on the third day back. She was sitting by the fire with Isaac curled in her lap, the boy's thumb in his mouth and his free hand twisted in the fabric of her dress. "Being sick is frightening when you're little. He just needs to know I'm here."

Arthur could understand that logic, but watching Maura try to navigate even basic tasks while carrying a clingy three-year-old was beginning to worry him. She hadn't eaten a full meal since they'd returned because Isaac demanded her constant attention during mealtimes. She looked exhausted, with dark circles under her eyes from nights spent sitting up whenever Isaac's cough woke him.

"Maybe he could sit with me for a while," Arthur suggested gently. "Let you get some rest."

But when Arthur reached for Isaac, the boy immediately burst into tears and clung tighter to Maura, his small body shaking with the force of his distress.

"No! Want mama! Want mama!" Isaac wailed, his voice raw from crying and coughing.

Maura's arms tightened protectively around him, her hand smoothing over his hair. "It's alright, sweetheart. Mama's here. I'm right here."

Arthur felt something twist uncomfortably in his chest as he watched Isaac reject his comfort so completely. It wasn't that he begrudged the boy his need for Maura; Arthur could remember being young and sick and wanting nothing but the familiar presence of someone who made him feel safe. But there was something almost desperate in Isaac's clinging that went beyond normal childhood attachment.

"Boy's got her wrapped around his little finger," Uncle commented one evening, his tone carrying its usual edge of mockery. "Acting like he's dying instead of getting over a simple cold."

Arthur's jaw tightened, but before he could respond, Dutch's voice cut through the evening air with quiet authority. "The boy's been sick, Uncle. Natural for him to want his mother close."

His mother. Arthur caught the deliberate emphasis Dutch placed on the words, the way his eyes lingered meaningfully until the other man shrugged and turned away. It was a reminder of hierarchy, of family, of the way things were in their little community.

But it was also, Arthur realized with a mixture of pride and unease, an accurate description. In every way that mattered, Maura was Isaac's mother. The boy turned to her for everything: comfort, food, entertainment, security. And she had embraced that role so completely that Arthur sometimes wondered if she remembered she existed as anything other than Isaac's caregiver.

The shift, when it finally came, was as sudden as it was devastating to watch. Isaac woke up one morning feeling completely well for the first time in nearly three weeks. His energy had returned, his curiosity about the world around him had reawakened, and with it came a three-year-old's natural desire to explore and assert his independence.

"Down, mama," Isaac said when Maura automatically reached to pick him up after he'd finished his breakfast. "Want to play."

"Of course, sweetheart," Maura said, setting him on his feet. "What would you like to play?"

But instead of staying close to her as he had for days, Isaac walked toward Jack, holding his wooden horses out to the infant. For the first time since his illness, Isaac seemed more interested in toys and exploration than in Maura's constant attention.

Arthur watched Maura's face as Isaac played happily several feet away from her, noting the way her hands seemed to reach for him automatically before she caught herself. There was relief in her expression. Isaac was clearly feeling better, but there was something else there, too. Something that looked uncomfortably like loss.

As the day progressed, Isaac's newfound independence only grew stronger. He wanted to walk instead of being carried, wanted to feed himself instead of being helped, wanted to play with Jack and Uncle Hosea instead of sitting quietly in Maura's lap.

"I do it," Isaac announced when Maura moved to help him with his shoes, his small hands pushing hers away with the determined clumsiness of a toddler asserting his autonomy.

"Of course you can," Maura said, but Arthur heard the slight catch in her voice, saw the way her hands fell to her sides as if she didn't know what to do with them now that they weren't constantly occupied with Isaac's care.

The most heartbreaking moment came that evening when Isaac, tired from his first full day of normal activity, went to Arthur instead of Maura when it was time for bed.

"Papa," Isaac said, raising his arms to be picked up. "Story?"

Arthur glanced at Maura, seeing the hurt that flickered across her face before she quickly composed herself. For three weeks, she had been the only one Isaac would accept comfort from. Now, in the space of a single day, that had shifted back to the more normal pattern of seeking both parents for different needs.

"Sure, son," Arthur said, scooping Isaac up. But over the boy's head, he met Maura's eyes and saw something fragile and wounded there that made his chest tighten with concern.

Later, after Isaac had fallen asleep against Arthur's chest during the promised story, Arthur found Maura sitting alone by the fire, her hands idle in her lap in a way that was unlike her.

"He's feeling better," Arthur said, settling beside her with sleeping Isaac still in his arms.

"Yes," Maura agreed, but her voice was flat, colorless. "Much better."

Arthur studied her profile in the firelight, noting the careful composure that didn't quite hide the hurt underneath. "That's good news."

"Of course it is," Maura said quickly. "I'm glad he's well. That's what matters."

But Arthur could hear the sadness in her voice, could see the way her hands twisted in her skirt as if she needed something to hold onto. She had always been the most important person in Isaac's world, the only one who could provide the comfort and security he needed. Now, in the space of a single day, that had changed, and Arthur could see that the shift had left her feeling displaced and uncertain.

"Maura," he said gently. "You know this don't mean he don't need you anymore, right?"

She looked at him then, and in the firelight he could see the vulnerability she'd been trying to hide. "Doesn't it?"

The question was asked so quietly he almost missed it, but the pain behind it was clear. Arthur felt something cold settle in his stomach as he began to understand what she was really afraid of.

"He's three years old," Arthur said firmly. "Course he still needs you. He's just feeling well enough to be a normal little boy again, that's all."

Maura nodded, but Arthur could see she wasn't entirely convinced. "I know that. Logically, I know that. It's just..." She trailed off, staring into the fire. "For these past few years, I felt so... useful. Important. Like I was exactly where I was supposed to be, doing exactly what I was meant to do."

Arthur shifted Isaac in his arms, the boy's weight warm and familiar against his chest. "You are exactly where you're supposed to be."

"Am I?" Maura's voice was barely above a whisper. "Because today, watching him choose to play with Jack instead of me, watching him go to you for bedtime instead of me... it made me realize how brief this all might be."

"What do you mean, brief?"

Maura was quiet for a long moment, her gaze fixed on the dying fire. "Isaac's growing up, Arthur. He's already starting to want different things, need different things. And as he gets older, he's going to need you more and me... less."

 "That ain't how it works, Maura. A boy needs his mother—"

"But I’m not his mother, am I?" The words burst out of her with more force than she'd probably intended, and Arthur saw her immediately try to pull back, to moderate her tone. "I mean, I know I married you, and I know Isaac calls me mama, but I'm not... I didn't..." She struggled for the words. "What happens when he's old enough to understand that I'm not his real mother? What happens when he starts asking questions about where he came from?"

Arthur stared at her, recognition dawning with uncomfortable clarity. This wasn't just about Isaac's recovery or his return to normal childhood independence. This was about deeper fears, older wounds, questions about belonging and authenticity that had been festering beneath the surface.

"You are his real mother," Arthur said firmly. "In every way that matters, you're his mother."

"For now," Maura said quietly. "But what about when he's older? What about when he starts to understand that you married me because you needed help with him, not because..." She trailed off, but Arthur could hear the unspoken words: not because you loved me .

The silence stretched between them, filled with all the things neither of them seemed able to say. Arthur found himself grappling with how to respond, how to reassure her without making promises he wasn't sure he understood himself.

Because the truth was more complicated than either of them wanted to acknowledge. He had married Maura because Isaac needed a mother. But somewhere along the way, she had become essential to Arthur too, though he struggled to name exactly what that meant or how to express it.

"You're thinking too far ahead," Arthur said finally, his voice rougher than he'd intended. "Isaac's still just a baby. He's got years yet before he starts asking those kinds of questions, and by then..." He paused, trying to find the right words. "By then, you'll have been his mama for so long that those questions won't matter."

"Will they not?" Maura turned to look at him directly, and Arthur could see the desperate hope in her eyes warring with deeper fears. "Or will he start to see me the way everyone else does, as the woman his father married out of necessity, not choice?"

The words hit Arthur like a punch to the gut. Necessity, not choice. As if their marriage was purely transactional, as if she were nothing more than a convenient solution to a practical problem.

"That ain't how anyone sees you," Arthur said, his voice tight with an emotion he couldn't quite name. "And it sure as hell ain't how I see you."

"Isn't it?" Maura's voice was steady, but Arthur could hear the hurt beneath it. "Because sometimes I feel like I'm just... filling a role. Playing a part that someone else was meant to play. And I can't help wondering what happens when Isaac doesn't need that role anymore, or when you..." She stopped herself, but Arthur could hear the unfinished question: when you don't need me anymore either.

Arthur felt something fierce and protective rise in his chest at the vulnerability in her voice, at the fear that she might see herself as replaceable, temporary. He wanted to tell her she was wrong, wanted to find words that would chase away that look of uncertainty in her eyes.

But the words that wanted to come, the ones about love and forever and how empty his life had been before she'd filled it with warmth and purpose, those words stuck in his throat. Because saying them would mean acknowledging things he wasn't sure he was brave enough to acknowledge, it would mean making himself vulnerable in ways that terrified him.

Instead, he shifted Isaac to one arm and reached for Maura's hand with his free one, covering her cold fingers with his warm palm. "You ain't filling a role," he said quietly. "You're... you're part of us now. Part of our family. That don't change because Isaac's growing up or because he has good days and bad days."

It wasn't enough. Arthur could see that in the way Maura's expression didn't quite clear, in the way she accepted his reassurance with a nod that spoke of politeness rather than conviction. She wanted more from him, not just the promise that they'd need her, but something deeper, something that spoke to love and choice rather than mere necessity.

But Arthur couldn't give her that. Not yet. Maybe not ever. The words were there, buried under years of caution and self-protection, but they might as well have been locked behind a wall he didn't know how to breach.

So he squeezed her hand and held his silence, and tried to ignore the way something vital seemed to dim in her eyes as she accepted that this was all he could offer.

"I should put Isaac to bed properly," Maura said after a moment, her voice carefully neutral. "He'll sleep better in his own bed."

Arthur nodded and carefully transferred the sleeping boy to her arms, watching the way her expression softened automatically as Isaac settled against her shoulder. Even in sleep, the child seemed to recognize her touch, his small body relaxing completely in her embrace.

"Maura," Arthur said as she started to rise. "We do need you. Both of us. That ain't gonna change."

She paused, looking down at him with an expression he couldn't quite read. "I know you believe that," she said softly. "Right now, I know you do."

And then she was gone, moving toward the farmhouse with Isaac in her arms, leaving Arthur alone by the dying fire with the uncomfortable knowledge that his reassurances had fallen short of what she needed to hear.

Later, lying in their shared bed while she curled on her side facing away from him, Arthur heard the soft, carefully muffled sounds of crying and felt something break a little more inside his chest.

He lay still in the darkness, listening to Maura try to cry silently beside him, and felt the full weight of his own inadequacy settle around him like a shroud. She needed reassurance he couldn't give, promises he was too afraid to make, words of love he couldn't seem to force past the walls he'd built around his heart.

The irony wasn't lost on him. He'd married her to give Isaac a mother, to provide the kind of emotional security and care that Arthur knew he couldn't offer alone. But somewhere along the way, Maura had become the one who needed that security, who needed to know that her place in their lives was permanent and chosen rather than simply convenient.

And Arthur, who was supposed to be the one providing that security, found himself unable to give her the one thing she needed most: the certainty that she was loved for herself, not just for what she could do for them.

All he could do was reach out slowly, carefully, and draw her back against his chest, offering what comfort he could through touch when words failed him. She stiffened at first, then gradually relaxed into his embrace, though the tears continued to fall silently into the darkness.

"We need you," he whispered into her hair, the words rough and inadequate but the best he could manage. "I need you, Maura. That ain't gonna change."

It wasn't enough. They both knew it wasn't enough. But it was all Arthur could give, and Maura accepted it with the same quiet grace she brought to everything else, even as her tears continued to fall like rain against the drought of his unexpressed love.

In the morning, Arthur knew, they would wake up and go through the motions of their daily life. Isaac would continue to grow and change, asserting his independence in the natural way of children. Maura would continue to care for him with the devotion that came as naturally to her as breathing. And Arthur would continue to struggle with the words that might bridge the gap between them, the declarations that might give Maura the security she craved.

But for now, in the darkness of their shared room, all he could do was hold her and hope that somehow, his touch could communicate what his words could not: that she was not a convenience or a necessity, but the heart of their small family, the center around which both he and Isaac orbited.

Even if he was too afraid to say it out loud.

Maura had perfected the art of pretending everything was fine. She smiled when spoken to, completed her daily tasks with methodical precision, and lavished Isaac with all the warmth and attention he deserved. But beneath the carefully maintained facade, she felt like she was slowly drowning in a sea of her own inadequacy.

Every morning, she woke beside Arthur and felt the weight of all the things he didn't say, all the feelings he didn't share. Every evening, she watched him struggle for words that never came, saw him reach for her with hands that offered comfort but not love.

Isaac's recovery should have been a blessing, and in many ways it was. Watching him return to his normal, energetic self filled her with relief and joy. But his newfound independence also served as a stark reminder of how temporary her role in his life might be. Every time he chose to play with Jack instead of clinging to her, every time he went to Arthur for comfort instead of seeking her out, she felt a little piece of her purpose slip away.

What would happen when he no longer needed a mother's constant care? What would happen when Arthur realized he didn't need a wife, just someone to help with the practical aspects of raising a child?

He was so sincere when he had told her that they still needed her but she had no guarantee that those feelings would last. Nothing really tethered their lives together save for Isaac and his need to be cared for. 

The questions tormented her, especially in the quiet hours before dawn when she lay beside Arthur's sleeping form and tried to imagine a future that felt increasingly uncertain. These questions tormented her, especially in the quiet hours before dawn when she lay beside Arthur's sleeping form and tried to imagine a future that felt increasingly uncertain.

On the fourth morning after Isaac's recovery, Maura was sitting beneath the old oak tree, mending one of the boy's shirts with mechanical precision, when Abigail approached and settled beside her with her own basket of sewing.

"Beautiful morning," Abigail said conversationally, threading her needle with practiced ease.

"Yes," Maura agreed, keeping her eyes fixed on her work. "Very pleasant."

That sat together working for a while before Abigail spoke again. “You look like hell warmed over.” 

Maura’s head snapped to the side to look at her friend. “What?” 

“You heard me.” 

 "I’m fine," she said carefully. "Everything's fine."

"Has it?" Abigail's question was persistent. “Don’t seem like it.” 

Maura felt her throat tighten, the careful composure she'd been maintaining for days suddenly feeling fragile. "I'm just tired, I suppose."

"Maura." Abigail set down her sewing and turned to face her fully. "I can tell when you’re hurting something fierce."

The kindness in Abigail's voice nearly undid her completely. Maura had been carrying this pain alone for so long, convinced that admitting her fears would only confirm how pathetic and needy she'd become. But something about Abigail's gentle persistence made the walls she'd built around her emotions begin to crumble.

"It's nothing that can be fixed," Maura said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’m just being foolish and selfish.”

"Sometimes talking about things makes them less overwhelming." Abigail said simply.

Maura's hands stilled on Isaac's shirt, her fingers gripping the fabric as if it were an anchor. For a long moment, she battled with herself, torn between the desperate need to voice her fears and the humiliation of admitting how completely she'd misunderstood her place, 

"I thought..." she began, then stopped, shaking her head. "It doesn't matter what I thought."

"It matters to me," Abigail said gently. "And I suspect it matters to Arthur too, even if he's too thick-headed to show it properly."

Maura felt something break inside her chest. Before she could stop herself, the words and tears came pouring out. Abigail wrapped her arms around her shoulders, pulling them closer together. “Honey, what’s going on?” 

Maura released another sob, “Why doesn’t he love me?” she choked out. 

"Oh, honey," Abigail murmured, immediately gripping her tighter. Maura wiped her tears on the cuffs of her sleeve. 

"I thought that maybe, after we…after I gave myself to him, that he might love me back." The admission felt like stripping herself bare, leaving her vulnerable and exposed. "I know it was naive, you don’t have to tell me.” 

The tears continued to fall down her face in little rivers. “I just thought, given time…” 

"Why would you think Arthur doesn't love you?"

"Because he doesn't," Maura said, the words coming out harsh and broken. "He's kind to me, yes. He enjoys my company and I know he’s grateful to me. I'm useful to him, but I'm not... I'm not what he wants.” 

"What makes you so sure of that?" 

Maura wiped at her eyes with shaking hands, trying to compose herself even as the words continued to pour out. “He’s had every opportunity to say it and he never has. He's kind to me and gives me what he thinks I need, but his heart isn't in it.” 

The admission made her feel sick with shame. She sounded so desperate, so pathetic, a woman begging for scraps of affection from a man who'd be clear as to why he married her. 

"And now Isaac is getting older, more independent," she continued, unable to stop the flow of words now that they'd started. "He doesn't need me the way he used to. Soon he won't need a mother at all, just someone to cook and clean and mend his clothes. And when that happens, what reason will Arthur have to keep me around?"

Abigail was quiet for a long moment, her arm tightening around Maura's shoulders as the tears continued to fall.  "What's wrong with me that he can share a bed with me, can be kind to me, can depend on me, but he can't love me?" The question burst out of her before she could stop it, raw and desperate and filled with all the pain she'd been carrying.

"Oh, sweetheart," Abigail said, her voice thick with emotion. "There's nothing wrong with you. Nothing at all."

Abigail held her tighter, and Maura could hear the tears in the other woman's voice when she spoke. "You're not a fool, Maura. You're a woman who loves her husband and wants to be loved in return. There's nothing foolish about that."

"But it's not going to happen, is it?" Maura asked, voicing the fear that had been eating at her for weeks. "He's never going to love me.” 

"Maura, honey, I think you're seeing this all wrong," Abigail said gently, her hand rubbing soothing circles on Maura's back. "Arthur's not the kind of man who says pretty words easy, but that don't mean he don't feel them."

Maura shook her head, pulling back slightly from Abigail's embrace. "You're being kind, but I can't keep fooling myself anymore. I need to face reality instead of living in some fantasy where Arthur might actually love me." She wiped her eyes again, trying to compose herself. "I married him knowing exactly why he needed me. It was foolish of me to hope for anything more."

"But you've seen how he looks at you—"

"He looks at me with gratitude," Maura interrupted, her voice growing firmer despite the tears still tracking down her cheeks. "That's not the same as love."

Abigail frowned, clearly wanting to argue, but Maura pressed on before she could speak. "I've been living in a dream, thinking that if I just loved him enough, cared for Isaac enough, made myself indispensable enough, then maybe..." She trailed off, shaking her head. "But that's not how love works, is it? You can't earn it or deserve it into existence. Either someone loves you or they don't."

"Maura—"

"No, let me finish," Maura said, her voice growing steadier even as her heart continued to break. "I need to stop expecting something Arthur can't give me. I was right before. I need to be grateful for what I have instead of mourning what I'll never have. I have a good life, a safe life. Isaac calls me mama and that's... that should be enough."

The words tasted like ash in her mouth, but she forced herself to say them anyway. She had to start somewhere in learning to accept her reality. Abigail was quiet for a long moment, studying Maura's face with concern. "That sounds like you're trying to convince yourself more than me."

"Maybe I am," Maura admitted quietly. "But I have to start somewhere."

She looked down at her hands twisted in her lap, suddenly overwhelmed with shame for her emotional outburst. "I'm sorry, Abigail. I shouldn't be burdening you with this nonsense when you have your own troubles. Here I am crying about a husband who's kind to me when you're..." She gestured helplessly. "When John just up and left you and Jack without a word.” 

Abigail's expression softened, but there was steel in her voice when she spoke. "Don't you dare apologize for hurting. Pain ain't a competition, Maura. Just because my situation's different don't mean your feelings don't matter."

 “I hope that John is miserable, broke, and hungover in a ditch somewhere.” Abigail laughed at that and patted Maura’s shoulder. 

“Me too.” 

They sat in silence for a moment, two women who had found themselves caring for children they had never expected, each carrying their own particular brand of heartache.

"I just don't want to spend the rest of my life waiting for something that's never going to come," Maura said finally. "It's not fair to Arthur, and it's certainly not fair to Isaac.” 

"And what about what’s fair to you?" Abigail asked quietly.

Maura's throat tightened again. "I deserve what I have. A home, safety, purpose. A healthy boy and a husband who respects me. That's more than I ever imagined."

"But is it enough?"

The question hung in the air between them, simple and devastating. Maura stared out across the camp, watching the familiar rhythms of daily life play out around them, and tried to convince herself that it had to be enough. Because the alternative, admitting that she wanted more, that she needed more, was a luxury she could no longer afford.

Arthur watched as Isaac tried his hardest to sneak into Abigail’s tent. Jack was napping in there and he knew the boy was eager to play with someone closer to his own age. 

“Isaac,” Arthur called, perhaps a bit more sharply than he intended. “Come here, son. Leave the boy alone.” 

Isaac’s face crumpled slightly at his father’s stern tone but obediently ran towards him, a smooth heart shaped stone clutched in his palm. Arthur scooped the boy up, intending to show him that he wasn’t upset with the boy. “That’s a mighty fine rock, you got there, partner.” Arthur said softly. 

Isaac smiled, “For Mama!” he exclaimed happily, his eyes darting around the camp. “Where Mama go?” 

Arthur’s eyes found her sitting with Abigail underneath one of the large trees that dotted the old farm. He could see Maura wiping her eyes and the other woman pulling her into a gentle hug, their laundry baskets discarded next to them. 

He approached slowly, trying to give them time to finish their conversation. Isaac had other ideas, however. The boy squirmed out of his arms and took off running towards Maura as soon as his feet hit the ground. The boy collided into her skirts at full force and without hesitation she kneeled down to his level. 

“Mama?” His voice was small and uncertain. 

“Yes, darling?” Arthur watched as she composed herself and pushed her pain behind a calm mask she wore so expertly. The boy produced the small stone and held it out to her. 

“Wow! That’s beautiful, Isaac.” She smoothed out his hair affectionately. 

“For you, Mama.” Arthur watched as Maura’s face lit up at the gesture and watched her take the heart shaped stone in her hand. It was such a small thing, but Arthur could see how it impacted her. 

“Thank you, sweetheart. This is the nicest gift I’ve ever received.” Her voice was thick with emotion. He smiled shyly before reaching his arms up to her, silently asking her to hold him. 

Arthur felt something ease in his chest as he watched the boy curl into her embrace. Watched the way the boy’s presence seemed to chase away some of the shadows in her eyes. He caught the sounds of her genuine laugh in response to something the boy said. Maybe, he thought as he made his way back, that was enough for now. Maybe, Isaac’s simple, uncomplicated love could provide some of the reassurance that Arthur’s clumsy words had failed to give her.

Chapter Text

Tensions in camp began to simmer down as the new year came and went. Arthur noticed it first in the way conversations flowed more easily around the fire, in how the constant undercurrent of tension that had plagued them seemed to have dissipated like morning mist. Even Uncle's complaints carried less venom, though they remained as frequent as ever.

The changes had started small. Tilly Jackson had arrived first, a young woman with quick hands and quicker wit who'd taken to camp life with surprising ease. She'd proven herself useful with both needle and blade, spending her mornings helping with mending and her afternoons practicing her aim with whoever was willing to teach her. Arthur had watched with amusement as she'd charmed even the most skeptical members of their group, her easy laugh and sharp tongue earning her a place at their table faster than most.

"That girl's got sand," Hosea had observed one evening, watching Tilly argue politics with Dutch while deftly braiding Jenny's hair. "Reminds me of someone else when she first joined us."

Arthur had followed Hosea's meaningful glance toward Maura, who was listening to the debate with Isaac settled sleepily in her lap. There was something different about her lately, a quietness that hadn't been there before. She still carried herself with that careful composure, but underneath it Arthur sensed something had shifted, settled. It was as if she'd finally stopped waiting for permission to belong and had simply decided to move on.

Josiah Trelawny had been the next addition, though calling him an addition felt generous given how often he disappeared on mysterious business. The man had swept into camp with his usual theatrical flair, full of grand gestures and grander promises about opportunities in nearby towns. His presence always meant work was coming, the kind that required more finesse than their usual approaches.

Karen's return had been more subdued. She'd wandered into camp late on a Tuesday evening, her usual boisterous energy dampened by whatever experiences had kept her away for months. But within days, her laughter had begun echoing around the fire again, and Arthur had been grateful to see how quickly she'd rekindled her friendship with Tilly and the other women.

"Lord, I missed this place," Karen had confessed to Arthur during one of her first mornings back, watching Isaac chase Jack around the old oak tree while Maura and Abigail supervised from nearby. "Missed having a real family, you know?"

Arthur had understood exactly what she meant. Whatever their circumstances, whatever had brought them all together, this collection of misfits and outcasts had become something more than just a gang. They were a family, complicated and dysfunctional perhaps, but bound together by something deeper than mere convenience. It was this family that Dutch was always talking about protecting, this sense of belonging that made their work feel like more than simple thievery.

The only person who seemed untouched by the camp's improved spirits was Molly O'Shea. Dutch's woman had grown increasingly distant over the past weeks, spending her days reading fashion magazines and writing letters to people Arthur suspected didn't exist. She spoke less at meals, participated little in the communal work that kept their camp running, and had developed a habit of staring off into the distance with an expression Arthur couldn't quite read.

"I think she's homesick," Maura had observed one evening when Arthur had mentioned his concern. They were sitting together after supper, Isaac playing quietly with wooden blocks at their feet while the rest of the camp settled into their evening routines.

"Homesick for what?" Arthur had asked. "Saint Denis? She could go back."

"Not for a place," Maura had said softly, her eyes following Molly's solitary figure as she walked toward the edge of camp. "For a life she thought she was going to have. Sometimes the hardest thing isn't missing where you came from, but grieving the future you thought you were going to get."

Arthur had studied his wife's profile in the firelight, hearing something in her voice that made him understand she was speaking from experience. The observation struck him as particularly astute, especially given what he'd been wrestling with himself. But before he could ask, Isaac had knocked over his blocks and demanded their attention, and the moment had passed.

Reverend Swanson had been the last to rejoin them, stumbling back into camp three days ago in a state that made it clear his time away had been spent with bottle and needle rather than Bible. But even he seemed to be finding his footing again, helped along by Miss Grimshaw's firm hand and Hosea's patient counsel.

"The prodigal son returns," Dutch had said when the Reverend had first appeared, swaying slightly in his saddle. But there had been genuine warmth in Dutch's voice, the kind of acceptance that reminded Arthur why they all followed this man despite his flaws.

It was strange how quickly their numbers had grown, how seamlessly the new faces had integrated with the old. The camp felt whole again in a way it hadn't since before John left, since before they'd lost so much. Arthur found himself marveling at it as he watched Tilly teach Isaac a card game while Karen regaled them with stories of her adventures. Even Trelawny, for all his mysterious comings and goings, had taken to bringing Isaac small trinkets from his travels, delighting in the boy's wonder at each new treasure.

"Papa, look!" Isaac had exclaimed just that morning, running to Arthur with a small kaleidoscope Trelawny had produced from seemingly nowhere.

Arthur had crouched down to peer through the device, watching the colored glass create shifting patterns, and had been surprised by the simple joy of sharing his son's amazement. When he'd looked up, he'd found Maura watching them with an expression that seemed to hold equal parts love and sadness, though the sadness felt different now. Less desperate, more accepting.

Later that afternoon, Arthur had found himself watching Isaac and Jack play together near Abigail's tent. At three, Isaac was still small for his age, but next to Jack's infant form, he looked impossibly grown-up as he carefully showed the baby his collection of interesting rocks and sticks. The two boys shared the same dark hair, the same serious expression when concentrating, and something about the way Isaac protectively hovered over Jack made Arthur's chest tighten with recognition.

They could have been brothers.

The thought hit him unexpectedly, followed by a wave of grief so sharp it nearly took his breath away. Arthur found himself thinking of another dark-haired boy, who’d been just twelve when Dutch and Hosea had found him picking pockets outside a saloon in Chicago. John's absence felt like a wound that wouldn't heal, made worse by watching these children who should have known him, who should have grown up as cousins in this strange but loving family they'd built.

"They look like brothers, don't they?" Abigail's voice interrupted his thoughts. She'd approached quietly, settling beside him on an overturned crate to watch the boys play.

Arthur nodded, not trusting his voice for a moment. "Yeah," he finally managed. "They do."

Abigail was quiet for a moment, and Arthur could feel the weight of John's absence between them like a physical thing. "You miss him," she said softly. It wasn't a question.

"I do," Arthur admitted, the words coming out rougher than he'd intended. "Damn fool that he is, I miss him something fierce."

He watched Isaac carefully place a smooth stone in Jack's tiny palm, showing him how to hold it up to catch the light. "Seems like John was barely taller than Isaac when we found him. Scrawny little thing, all sharp elbows and attitude. Thought he was tougher than anyone, including us."

A small smile tugged at Arthur's lips despite the ache in his chest. "Used to follow me around like a lost puppy, though he'd have punched anyone who said so. Always wanting to prove himself, always getting into scrapes he couldn't handle."

The memory led Arthur deeper into the past, into recollections of the boy who'd become his brother, the same boy who'd walked away from his own son without looking back. The contradiction gnawed at him, how the same person could be capable of such fierce loyalty and such devastating betrayal.

"What was he like?" Abigail asked quietly. "As a boy, I mean. He never talked about it much."

Arthur leaned back, his eyes still on the children but his mind drifting to memories that felt both distant and immediate. "Stubborn as a mule, for one thing. Dutch would try to teach him to read, and John would sit there with his arms crossed, insisting he didn't need book learning. But then I'd catch him later, struggling through the same pages when he thought no one was looking."

He paused, remembering a particular evening by a campfire much like this one, when John couldn't have been more than twelve. "One time, he tried to prove he was as good a hunter as me. Went off on his own and got himself lost for two days. When we found him, he was half-starved and scared out of his wits, but the first thing he said was that he'd seen a ten-point buck and would've gotten it if he'd had a better rifle."

Abigail's smile was sad but genuine. "That sounds like John."

The conversation continued, each shared memory making John's absence feel both more real and more inexplicable. How could someone who'd been so deeply woven into the fabric of their family simply tear himself away? It was a question that haunted Arthur, especially as he watched the camp rebuilding itself, creating new bonds while nursing the wound of old ones broken.

When Dutch called Arthur over to where he and Trelawny were huddled around a map spread across the camp's main table later that afternoon, Arthur was still wrestling with thoughts of family and loyalty, of what it meant to belong somewhere and what it cost to walk away.

The afternoon sun filtered through the trees, casting dappled shadows across the hand-drawn streets of Saint Denis. Arthur recognized the timing, the way opportunity and need always seemed to converge in their world.

"Arthur, my boy," Dutch said without looking up, his finger tracing what looked like a route through the city's garden district. "Josiah here has brought us quite the opportunity."

Trelawny looked up with that theatrical smile of his, adjusting his vest with a flourish. "Indeed! A most fortuitous development involving a certain wealthy widow and her rather impressive collection of jewelry."

Arthur crossed his arms, already sensing where this was heading. The camp's improved spirits, the return of missing members, all of it had been building toward this moment. They were whole again, which meant they were ready to work again. "What kind of opportunity?"

"The kind that requires finesse," Dutch said, finally meeting Arthur's eyes. "Social graces. Someone who can move through polite society without raising suspicion."

"Dutch—"

"Now hear me out," Dutch continued, raising a hand. "Mrs. Catherine Aldridge, recently widowed, hosting a charity auction at her mansion next week. All of Saint Denis's finest ladies will be there, dripping in their finest jewels and carrying fat purses."

Trelawny picked up the thread seamlessly. "I've managed to secure an invitation through certain... connections. But we need someone who can blend in, play the part of a respectable woman. Someone with the right bearing, the right way of speaking."

Arthur's jaw tightened as understanding dawned. "You want my wife."

"She's perfect for it," Dutch said, his voice taking on that persuasive tone Arthur knew too well. "She’s well-spoken, knows how to carry herself in refined company. She could be there as my... business associate's wife or a wealthy widow, perhaps. Survey the layout, identify the best marks."

The suggestion didn’t settle right with him. After watching Isaac and Jack play together, after dwelling on family and what they owed each other, the idea of putting Maura at risk felt unconscionable. "Absolutely not."

The firmness in Arthur's voice made both men look up sharply. Dutch's eyebrows rose slightly, while Trelawny's smile faltered.

"Arthur," Dutch said carefully, "this is a significant opportunity. The kind of score that could keep us comfortable for months."

"Find another way."

"There is no other way," Trelawny interjected, his usual theatrical manner slipping slightly. "These people, they can smell desperation and deception from a mile away. They're like wolves that way. But Mrs. Morgan has been around these types of people before."

"She's not part of this," Arthur said flatly, thinking of Isaac's trusting smile, of the family they were still rebuilding. "She's got Isaac to think about, and she's not a criminal."

Dutch studied Arthur's face for a long moment, and Arthur could practically see the wheels turning behind those dark eyes. "Perhaps," Dutch said slowly, "we should let the lady decide for herself."

Before Arthur could object, Dutch was already calling across the camp. "Maureen, my dear, could you join us for a moment?"

Arthur watched his wife approach, noting the way she smoothed her skirts and composed her expression into that polite mask he'd come to recognize. She'd been doing that more often lately, especially around him, and it made something in his chest ache. The careful distance she maintained felt at odds with the sense of belonging he'd observed in her interactions with the camp, as if she belonged everywhere except with him.

"Gentlemen," she said with a small nod. "You needed something?"

Dutch launched into his explanation with characteristic charm, painting the job in broad strokes while emphasizing the social aspects rather than the criminal ones. Arthur watched Maura's face carefully, seeing the way her eyes sharpened with interest despite her neutral expression. There was something there, a spark of engagement he hadn't seen in days.

"It sounds quite straightforward," she said when Dutch finished. "And you believe my... background... would be useful?"

"Invaluable," Trelawny assured her. "Your natural deportment, your way of speaking, you could move through that crowd like you belonged there."

Arthur saw the moment something shifted in Maura's posture, a subtle straightening that he'd learned meant she'd made up her mind about something. The change was almost imperceptible, but after months of marriage, he'd learned to read the small signals that preceded her decisions.

"I appreciate the confidence," she said carefully, "but perhaps Mr. Morgan and I should discuss this privately before I give you an answer."

Dutch's smile widened. "Of course, of course. Take all the time you need."

Arthur followed Maura away from the table, past the cluster of tents toward the edge of camp where they could speak without being overheard. The familiar sounds of camp life faded behind them, Karen's laughter, the soft murmur of conversations, Isaac's delighted squeals as he played with Jack. It struck Arthur that these sounds represented everything he wanted to protect, everything that made their unconventional family worth preserving.

When they stopped near the old oak tree, Maura turned to face him, and Arthur was struck by how carefully controlled her expression was. The distance he'd been sensing for days was more pronounced now, as if she was preparing for a battle.

"I can tell you don't want me to do it," she said. It wasn't a question.

"No," Arthur said simply. "I don't."

"May I ask why?"

The politeness in her tone grated against him. This was how she'd been speaking to him for days now, ever since Isaac had recovered.

"Because it's dangerous," he said. "Because you're not part of this life, not really. Because you got Isaac to think about."

"I see." She was quiet for a moment, looking out toward the trees. When she looked back at him, there was something different in her eyes, a spark of something that made her seem less distant. "And what life am I part of, exactly?"

The question caught him off guard. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," she said, her voice still carefully modulated, "I live in this camp. I wear the clothes you provide, eat the food you put on the table, benefit from whatever money comes our way. But when it comes to how that money is earned, I'm to remain ignorant? Is that how this works?"

Arthur frowned, sensing the trap in her logic but not quite able to articulate why it felt wrong. "I don't want you apart of this."

"I don't understand why you think I'm good enough to take the money but too good to be part of earning it." Her voice was rising slightly, losing some of its careful control. "Why is it acceptable for me to benefit from robbery but somehow beneath me to participate in it?"

"It ain't like that—"

"Isn't it?" She took a step closer, and Arthur could see cracks forming in that polite facade. "So tell me, what exactly is the difference between taking money I know was stolen and actively helping to steal it? Besides making myself feel better about my own complicity?"

Arthur stared at her, taken aback by the heat in her voice. This wasn't the composed, accommodating woman who'd been tiptoeing around him for days. This was someone else entirely, someone with steel in her spine and fire in her eyes. It was as if the conversation had stripped away the careful performance she'd been maintaining, revealing someone he was only beginning to know.

"The difference," he said slowly, "is that if something goes wrong, if you get caught—"

"Then I face the consequences of choices I made," she interrupted. "Just like you do. Just like everyone else here does."

She was close enough now that he could see the gold flecks in her brown eyes, could see the way her chest rose and fell with barely contained emotion. The careful mask had fallen away completely, and Arthur found himself looking at someone who was both his wife and a stranger.

"Do you think I don't know exactly what you do when you ride out of camp with guns and masks? Do you think I don't know where the money that pays for our lives comes from?" Her voice carried a frustration that seemed to have been building for weeks. "I'm tired of being treated like I'm too delicate or too good to be trusted with the truth of what our life actually is."

She paused, breathing hard, and Arthur realized he was holding his breath. The woman standing before him bore little resemblance to the careful, accommodating person he'd grown used to. This version of Maura was vibrant, passionate, fully present in a way that made his chest tight with recognition and something that might have been desire.

"So don't tell me I can't do this job because I'm not part of this life," she said quietly. "I've been part of this life since the day I married you. The only question is whether you're going to let me be part of it honestly, or if you're going to keep pretending we're something we're not."

Arthur stared at her, his mind reeling. In all their time together, he'd very rarely seen her like this, passionate, angry, completely unguarded. It was like seeing her for the first time, and he found himself oddly breathless. This was the woman who belonged in their camp, who fit seamlessly with their strange family. This was who she became when she stopped trying to be what she thought he wanted.

"Maura," he said finally, his voice rougher than he'd intended.

"What?" she demanded, lifting her chin in a gesture that was pure defiance.

And for the first time since that night three days ago, Arthur felt like he was looking at his wife instead of a polite stranger.

"Nothing," he said, a slow smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Just... you got a point."

When they returned to Dutch and Trelawny, the dynamic between them had shifted palpably. Maura's decision was written plainly across her face, but more than that, there was an energy about her that hadn't been there before, as if their argument had awakened something that had been sleeping.

Arthur watched her square her shoulders and lift her chin in that determined way that made something warm unfurl in his chest. This was the woman who could walk into a mansion full of Saint Denis society and hold her own, not because she was pretending to be someone else, but because she was finally allowing herself to be exactly who she was.

"I'll do it," she told Dutch simply.

Trelawny clapped his hands together with obvious delight. "Marvelous! Absolutely marvelous! We'll need to discuss wardrobe, of course, and perhaps practice some of the finer points of Saint Denis society—"

"I can help with that," came an unexpected voice from behind them.

They all turned to see Molly O'Shea approaching, her usual distant expression replaced by something that might have been interest. She'd been so withdrawn lately that Arthur had almost forgotten she'd grown up in the world Maura would need to navigate. Her offer to help felt like another piece of their family reconnecting, another thread being rewoven into the fabric that John's departure had torn.

"Molly," Dutch said, his face lighting up with genuine pleasure. "That's a wonderful idea."

Molly's gaze flicked to Maura, and Arthur caught something complicated in her expression, a mixture of curiosity and what might have been longing. "I know the type of woman who attends these charity functions," she said carefully. "The way they speak, the way they move. The little signals they use to mark their territory."

"That's very kind of you to offer," Maura said, her tone warm but careful. The two women had never been particularly close, moving in different orbits within the camp's social structure.

"It's not kindness," Molly replied with characteristic bluntness. "It's practical. If you're going to do this, you need to do it right."

Over the next few days, Arthur found himself watching with fascination as an unlikely partnership formed. The collaboration between Molly and Maura seemed to energize both women, giving Molly a sense of purpose she'd been lacking and allowing Maura to channel her newfound assertiveness into something concrete.

Trelawny, in his element with matters of disguise and deception, had somehow procured a trunk full of fashionable dresses, complete with the kind of elaborate undergarments that made Arthur grateful he'd never had to navigate women's fashion.

"No, no, no," he heard Molly say one afternoon as he passed by the women's area of camp. "You're walking like you're trying to get somewhere. Ladies of leisure don't have destinations, they have... processions."

Arthur paused, pretending to examine his saddlebags while actually watching Maura attempt to glide across the uneven ground in a way that looked effortless but was clearly anything but. The transformation was remarkable to witness, each day revealing new facets of his wife's abilities.

"Think of it this way," Trelawny added, consulting a small notebook he'd produced from somewhere. "You're not Mrs. Morgan, wife and mother. You're Mrs... what shall we call you? Mrs. Hartford, perhaps? Recently widowed, comfortable but not ostentatious, with just enough refinement to blend in but not so much as to intimidate."

"Mrs. Hartford," Maura repeated, and Arthur could hear her testing the name, trying it on like one of the elaborate dresses. "And what does Mrs. Hartford care about?"

"Appearances," Molly said immediately. "Reputation. The subtle art of appearing generous while actually being quite calculating." Her voice carried a bitterness that made Arthur wonder if she was speaking from experience, drawing on her own attempts to navigate Saint Denis society.

"She would never reach for anything," Molly continued, watching critically as Maura practiced the gesture of accepting a glass of champagne. "Things come to her. People anticipate her needs."

Arthur found himself oddly mesmerized by the transformation. Each day, Maura seemed to shed a little more of her practical camp persona and take on something else entirely. The way she held her head changed, became more conscious of being observed. Her voice took on different cadences, softer but somehow more commanding. It was as if she was becoming the person she might have been in different circumstances, and Arthur found himself wondering how much of this elegance had always been there, waiting for the right opportunity to emerge.

The evening before the charity auction, the camp felt charged with anticipation. Everyone understood that this job represented more than just a potential score; it was proof that they were functioning as a unit again, that the losses they'd suffered hadn't broken them permanently. As Arthur watched the final preparations, he felt a complex mixture of pride and apprehension that had become familiar whenever their family undertook something dangerous together.

Maura found herself in her and Arthur's room in the old farmhouse, sitting on the edge of the bed while Molly knelt on the worn wooden floor, working on the final details of her dress. A single oil lamp cast warm light across the faded wallpaper, and through the thin walls, they could hear the muffled sounds of camp settling in for the night. Isaac was already asleep in his small bed in the corner, his breathing soft and even.

"There," Molly said with satisfaction, securing the last pin in the dress's hem. "That should do. Stand up, let me see."

Maura rose carefully, mindful of the pins, and turned slowly in the small space between the bed and the dresser so Molly could examine her handiwork. The emerald silk caught the lamplight, and for a moment, Maura caught sight of herself in the room's cracked mirror. The woman looking back at her seemed like someone she might have known in another life.

"You look every inch the lady," Molly said, but there was something wistful in her voice that made Maura glance at her sharply.

"Do I?" Maura asked, settling back down on the bed while Molly gathered up her sewing supplies. "I'm worried I won't fool anyone, that they'll be able to tell I don't belong."

Molly was quiet for a moment, folding the extra fabric with precise movements. When she spoke, her voice carried a weight of experience that surprised Maura.

"The secret," Molly said, "is understanding that most of them don't really belong either. They're all performing, playing roles just like you will be." She looked up, meeting Maura's eyes. "My father made his fortune in shipping, working his way up from nothing. Proud as anything of what he'd built, sure it would open every door for us. But the old families, the ones who'd been wealthy for generations, could smell the newness on us like cheap perfume."

Maura found herself leaning forward, recognizing something familiar in Molly's bitter tone. "They never let you forget where you came from."

"Never," Molly confirmed. "Oh, they'd invite us to their parties, they needed our money for their charities and causes, but we were always the Irish newcomers playing at being gentry. I could speak as fine as any of them, dress better than most, but the moment I relaxed my guard..." She touched her throat unconsciously. "The accent would slip, or I'd use some turn of phrase that marked me as common."

The shared understanding that passed between them felt like another piece of the camp's social fabric reweaving itself. Maura realized that Molly's recent withdrawal might have been less about homesickness and more about the exhaustion of constantly performing, of never being allowed to simply be herself.

"I thought it would be different here," Molly continued. "Thought in a place where everyone was from somewhere else, maybe the old rules wouldn't apply." Her laugh was sharp with disappointment. "But Saint Denis society is just as rigid as anything back home. Maybe worse, because at least in Dublin they were honest about hating us."

"My family was working class," Maura said quietly, understanding that this moment of honesty was something Molly needed. "I worked in service for a few years, one of those big houses in Boston. I had to learn to speak properly or they'd dismiss me. But I always knew that no matter how well I could mimic their manners, one wrong word would give me away."

"That's the thing they never tell you about climbing," Molly said, meeting Maura's eyes across the lamplight. "The higher you get, the farther you have to fall. And they're all waiting to watch you tumble."

The conversation continued in this vein, two women sharing the particular burden of having tried to belong in worlds that didn't want them. By the time Molly gathered her things to leave, both women seemed lighter somehow, as if the shared confession had lifted a weight neither had realized they were carrying.

Arthur barely recognized his wife the next morning. The silk dress had been carefully chosen to suggest wealth without ostentation, and Molly had arranged Maura's hair in an elaborate style that somehow made her look both younger and more sophisticated. But it was more than the clothes; everything about her posture, her expression, even the way she held her hands had changed.

As they prepared to leave for Saint Denis, Arthur found himself thinking about the conversations of the past few days, about family and belonging and the different ways people tried to find their place in the world. Watching Maura transform herself to infiltrate Saint Denis society felt like a natural extension of what they all did every day, adapting and performing and finding ways to survive in a world that didn't quite have room for people like them.

"Remember," Trelawny was saying in his stage whisper as they approached the Garden District, consulting his pocket watch, "you're recently widowed but not devastated. Comfortable in your grief, if you will. And your late husband was in... what did we decide?"

"Shipping," Maura replied, her voice carrying that refined cadence she'd been practicing. "Import business with connections to New York and Boston. Successful but not flashy."

"Perfect. And Arthur, you're her... bodyguard? Driver?"

Arthur adjusted the formal coat Trelawny had insisted he wear, feeling like he was playing dress-up but understanding the necessity. "Whatever keeps me close enough to watch her back."

The Aldridge mansion rose before them like something from a fairy tale, all white columns and manicured gardens. Carriages lined the circular drive, depositing women in elaborate gowns and men in fine suits. Arthur felt his jaw tighten as he took in the casual display of wealth, more money in jewelry and clothing than most folks would see in a lifetime, worn by people who'd never known what it meant to go hungry.

"Easy," Trelawny murmured, noticing Arthur's expression. "We're here to relieve them of some of that burden, remember?"

Arthur helped Maura down from the carriage, noting how naturally she accepted his assistance, not grabbing his hand but allowing him to steady her as she stepped onto the gravel drive. The transformation was complete; she moved like she belonged here, like she'd been born to this kind of life.

"Mrs. Hartford," Trelawny said formally, offering his arm. "Shall we?"

Arthur followed at a discreet distance, playing his part as hired help while keeping his eyes on Maura. The sight of her gliding up those marble steps made his chest tight with a complicated mixture of pride and worry, but underneath both emotions was a growing recognition that this job represented something more than a simple score. It was proof that their family could adapt, could face whatever challenges came their way, and emerge stronger.

The transformation felt surprisingly natural to Maura. Each step up the marble stairs seemed to strip away another layer of camp life, the practical concerns, the careful frugality, the constant awareness of being an outsider looking in. By the time they reached the grand entrance, she had fully inhabited her role, drawing on years of observation and the coaching of the past few days.

"Mrs. Catherine Aldridge," Trelawny announced with theatrical flourish as their hostess approached, "may I present my dear sister-in-law, Mrs. Eleanor Hartford of Boston. She's visiting us here in Saint Denis for an extended stay following her recent bereavement."

Maura felt a moment of appreciation for Trelawny's quick thinking; the Boston connection would explain any slight differences in her accent or mannerisms, while the recent widowhood provided perfect cover for any social awkwardness.

"Mrs. Hartford, how lovely to meet you," their hostess gushed, taking Maura's gloved hand with practiced warmth. "I do hope you'll find our little gathering a pleasant distraction. We're raising funds for the Saint Denis Children’s Hospital, such a worthy cause."

"The pleasure is entirely mine, Mrs. Aldridge," Maura replied, allowing just the right amount of refined melancholy to color her voice. "Your home is lovely. And what a noble cause, I confess, charitable work has become something of a solace for me in recent months."

Mrs. Aldridge's eyes lit up with the particular gleam of someone who'd identified a potentially generous donor. "Oh my dear, you understand then. There's such comfort in helping others, isn't there? Come, let me introduce you to some of our other ladies. I think you'll find we have quite a lovely community here."

As the afternoon progressed, Maura found herself genuinely enjoying aspects of the performance. The appreciation for beautiful objects, the discussion of art and literature, the sense of being taken seriously when she offered an opinion, these were pleasures she'd almost forgotten she was capable of experiencing. It reminded her that she'd once had aspirations beyond simple survival, dreams of a life where culture and beauty mattered.

But underneath the enjoyment was a growing clarity about their next move. The information she was gathering painted a clear picture of opportunity, but more than that, it suggested an approach that would be far more elegant than simple theft.

As they moved through the opulent rooms, Maura marveled at how easily the role came to her. Every gesture, every carefully modulated response, seemed to flow from some deep well of knowledge she'd accumulated during her years in service. She'd spent so long observing these people, learning their language and customs, that inhabiting their world felt almost like coming home.

"Mrs. Hartford," Mrs. Aldridge continued as they approached a cluster of elaborately dressed women, "allow me to present Mrs. Pemberton, Mrs. Davidson, and Miss Weatherby. Ladies, this is dear Josiah's sister-in-law from Boston."

The introductions flowed with practiced ease, each woman sizing up Maura with the subtle calculation of practiced social climbers. She could see them noting the quality of her dress, the understated elegance of her jewelry, borrowed from Molly's collection, the careful arrangement of her hair.

"Boston," Mrs. Pemberton observed with interest. "How exciting. I have family there myself, the Ashworth Pembertons. Perhaps you know them?"

Maura smiled with just the right mixture of recognition and regret. "I'm afraid I've been rather withdrawn from society since my husband's passing. William was always the social one between us." She allowed her voice to catch slightly on the name, noting how the women's expressions immediately softened with sympathy.

"Of course, my dear," Mrs. Davidson murmured. "Grief has its own timeline, doesn't it? But surely a little society is good for the soul. What line of business was your late husband in?"

"Shipping," Maura replied smoothly, remembering her rehearsed background. "Import business with connections throughout New England. William always said Boston was perfectly positioned for European trade." She paused, looking around the opulent room with apparent appreciation. "He would have loved seeing a home like this; he had such an eye for beautiful things."

The women exchanged glances that Maura read perfectly; a widow with money was always of interest, particularly one who seemed appropriately grief-stricken but not completely withdrawn from society.

"You simply must let us show you around," Miss Weatherby declared. "Mrs. Aldridge has the most exquisite taste. The art collection alone is worth seeing."

As they began their tour, Maura found herself genuinely impressed by the mansion's grandeur, even as she catalogued every detail that might prove useful. The grand staircase with its sweeping curves and marble banisters. The locations of servants' entrances and back hallways. The casual way Mrs. Aldridge mentioned that most of the staff lived off the property, returning to their own homes each evening.

"This portrait," Mrs. Aldridge said proudly, stopping before a massive oil painting of a stern-looking man in military dress, "is my late husband's great-grandfather. A colonel in the Continental Army, you know. The family has been in Saint Denis for generations."

"How wonderful to have such deep roots," Maura observed, studying the painting with apparent fascination. "And such beautiful heirlooms to remember them by." She gestured delicately toward a display case containing several pieces of elaborate jewelry. "That necklace is stunning."

Mrs. Aldridge fairly glowed with pride. "Oh, that's one of my favorites, rubies and diamonds set in white gold. It belonged to the Colonel's wife. In fact, most of the family jewelry has been passed down through the generations." She lowered her voice conspiratorially. "I'm having the entire collection appraised this week by Hartwell & Associates. One can never be too careful about insurance, you understand. They're sending their senior appraiser, Mr. Edmund Hartwell himself, along with his assistant."

Maura's pulse quickened, but she maintained her expression of polite interest. "Such responsibility. When Mr. Hartford was alive, he always insisted on using only the most reputable firms for such matters. Hartwell & Associates, the name sounds familiar. Don't they handle the Whitmore collection in Boston?"

"Indeed they do!" Mrs. Aldridge beamed. "You know of them? How reassuring. Mr. Hartwell comes personally for the more significant collections. They're scheduled for Thursday afternoon, though I confess I'm rather nervous about having strangers handling such precious family pieces."

"Oh, but Edmund Hartwell has such a sterling reputation," Maura assured her, improvising smoothly. "My late husband always said that proper documentation was half the value of any collection. I imagine they'll need several hours to do justice to pieces of such quality."

"Yes, Mr. Hartwell estimated three to four hours for a thorough cataloging. They'll photograph each piece, take detailed measurements, quite comprehensive." Mrs. Aldridge's chest swelled with pride. "He said it's one of the finest private collections he's encountered outside of New York."

As they continued the tour, Maura filed away every detail: the Thursday appointment, the senior appraiser's personal involvement, the estimated duration. But more importantly, she began to see an opportunity far more elegant than simple impersonation.

The auction itself proved to be a delicate dance of social maneuvering disguised as charitable giving. Each bid was an opportunity to display wealth while maintaining an appearance of selfless generosity. Maura found herself caught up in the performance, bidding on a small silver locket that she genuinely admired while using the opportunity to observe the other attendees.

It was during the auction's intermission that fortune smiled upon her. As she stood near the refreshment table, she overheard Mrs. Davidson speaking in hushed tones to a distinguished gentleman with silver hair and wire-rimmed spectacles.

"—simply cannot reschedule again, Mr. Hartwell. The insurance company is becoming quite insistent about the updated appraisals."

Maura's breath caught. The man turned slightly, and she could see the methodical way he consulted a leather-bound appointment book, his movements precise and professional.

"I understand completely, Mrs. Davidson," he replied in cultured tones. "Perhaps we could accommodate you Friday morning instead? I have the Aldridge appointment Thursday afternoon, but my Friday is relatively clear except for the Beaumont estate at ten."

Mrs. Davidson's relief was palpable. "Friday would be perfect. Shall we say two o'clock?"

"Excellent." Hartwell made a careful notation in his book, then tucked it into his inner coat pocket. "I'll send confirmation by messenger tomorrow."

Maura forced herself to turn away casually, her mind racing. The appointment book, if she could get her hands on it, they would have everything they needed. Not just the Aldridge appointment details, but Hartwell's entire schedule, his methods, perhaps even his client preferences and security protocols.

She moved through the remainder of the auction in a calculated dance, positioning herself near Hartwell whenever possible without appearing obvious. He was clearly a man of habit, checking his book before each conversation about scheduling, always returning it to the same inside left pocket of his coat. When he removed his coat to examine a particularly interesting auction piece more closely, draping it over the back of his chair, Maura saw her chance.

The key was patience and misdirection. She waited until the auction's final item, a painted porcelain vase, commanded everyone's attention. As bidding grew heated, she approached Hartwell's abandoned coat with the pretense of retrieving her own wrap from a nearby chair.

"Oh, I do hope the Whitmore foundation wins this piece," she said to the woman beside her, loud enough for her voice to carry. "Such a worthy cause." As she spoke, her fingers found the coat pocket, slipping the leather book free with practiced ease and sliding it beneath her own shawl in one fluid motion.

The entire maneuver took less than ten seconds. By the time the vase sold and Hartwell returned to reclaim his coat, Maura was across the room, examining the auction's closing announcements with apparent fascination.

"Such a lovely piece," she said to Mrs. Aldridge when her earlier bid on the silver locket proved successful. "It reminds me of one Mr. Hartford gave me on our first anniversary."

"You have exquisite taste," Mrs. Aldridge replied warmly. "And such generosity, the children at the orphanage will benefit greatly from contributions like yours."

As the afternoon wound down, Maura felt the weight of the stolen appointment book beneath her shawl like a tangible reminder of the line she'd crossed. When they finally made their graceful exit, her mind was already working through the implications of what she'd done.

The carriage ride back to the Saint Charles Hotel felt interminable. Arthur sat across from her, his eyes occasionally meeting hers with questions he couldn't voice in front of their driver. Trelawny maintained his theatrical persona until they were well away from the Aldridge estate, but she could see the anticipation in his posture.

"Well?" Trelawny asked the moment their hotel room door closed behind them. "How did our Mrs. Hartford fare?"

Maura began removing a few pins from her elaborate hairstyle, letting some of her hair fall loose around her shoulders. With her free hand, she withdrew the leather appointment book from beneath her shawl and placed it on the marble-topped side table.

"Better than expected," she said, noting how Arthur's eyes widened at the sight of the book. "I believe this contains everything we need to know about Edmund Hartwell and his methods."

Trelawny's theatrical manner dropped away entirely as he reached for the book, his movements suddenly sharp and focused. "Good God, Mrs. Morgan. You actually—" He opened it carefully, his eyes scanning the pages with professional interest. "This is extraordinary. Look at this, detailed notes on each client, preferred times, security concerns, even sketches of particularly valuable pieces."

Arthur moved closer, reading over Trelawny's shoulder. "Thursday, two o'clock, Aldridge estate. Estimated value fifty thousand. Note: Mrs. A. prefers detailed provenance documentation for insurance purposes."

"And here," Trelawny continued, flipping pages, "his entire methodology. He arrives precisely fifteen minutes early, always brings his assistant Marcus Webb, uses a specific camera and measurement tools. He even notes which clients prefer tea service during the appointment."

Maura sank into one of the room's velvet-upholstered chairs, suddenly feeling the weight of what she'd accomplished. "Mrs. Aldridge mentioned they're expected Thursday afternoon. If we could somehow delay or redirect the real appraisers..."

"More than that," Trelawny said, his voice growing excited as he continued reading. "According to this, Hartwell always confirms appointments by messenger the day before. If we intercept that confirmation and send our own message moving the appointment to Friday..."

Arthur caught on immediately. "They'd have no reason to show up Thursday. And if anyone questions us being there, we say Hartwell sent us ahead to do preliminary cataloging."

"Exactly!" Trelawny snapped the book closed with satisfaction. "But we'll need to be thorough. Study Hartwell's handwriting, his professional manner, even his equipment preferences. This book is a masterclass in his methods."

The magnitude of what they were planning began to settle over Maura. It was one thing to play a widow at a charity auction; it was another entirely to impersonate a professional appraiser in someone's home while committing robbery.

"There's something else," she said slowly. "From what I observed today, Mrs. Aldridge genuinely trusts Edmund Hartwell. She's known him for years, relies on his expertise. If something goes wrong, if she discovers the deception..." She met Arthur's eyes. "It won't just be theft. It'll be a betrayal of that trust."

Arthur's expression softened. "Maura, if you're having second thoughts—"

"No," she said firmly, surprising herself with the conviction in her voice. "I'm not having second thoughts. I'm just... I want us to be smart about this. Professional. If we're going to deceive, we're going to do it right."

Trelawny nodded approvingly. "Spoken like a true professional. Now, shall we adjourn to the hotel dining room? We have a great deal of planning to do, and I find I think better with good wine and proper food."

The private dining room was small but elegant, with rich wood paneling and soft lamplight that created an atmosphere of intimate conversation. As they settled into their chairs and the hotel staff began serving their meal, Maura found herself automatically maintaining the posture and mannerisms of Mrs. Hartford even here.

"So," Trelawny said once the servers had withdrawn, opening Hartwell's appointment book again, "let's discuss the particulars. We have until Wednesday evening to perfect this deception."

Arthur cut into his steak with methodical precision. "First thing we need is to intercept that confirmation message."

"Already considered," Trelawny replied, consulting his notes. "According to this, Hartwell uses Franklin & Sons messenger service exclusively. A small gratuity to the right messenger boy, a sob story about a family emergency requiring a schedule change..."

"And we send our own message in Hartwell's name, postponing until Friday," Maura finished. "But what about his handwriting? Surely Mrs. Aldridge would recognize it."

Trelawny smiled and flipped to a page filled with Hartwell's careful notations. "The man is meticulous to a fault. Look at these notes, every letter perfectly formed, completely consistent. It's actually easier to forge than a casual hand."

As their conversation continued, Maura found herself studying the appointment book with growing fascination. Hartwell's notes revealed not just scheduling information, but insights into his clients' personalities, their preferences, their securities concerns. It was like reading a master class in human nature.

"Mrs. Whitmore prefers morning appointments due to better natural light," she read aloud. "Mr. Beaumont insists on being present for every measurement. Mrs. Davidson becomes nervous if the process takes longer than anticipated." She looked up. "He's not just an appraiser, he's a student of human behavior."

"Which is exactly what makes this so perfect," Trelawny said, refilling their wine glasses. "We're not just stealing his appointment, we're stealing his expertise, his reputation, his relationship with these clients."

The waiter appeared to clear their main course, and Trelawny ordered dessert and coffee. As they waited, Arthur leaned back in his chair, studying his wife with something like amazement.

"You know what impressed me most today?" he said quietly. "Wasn't the theft, though that was smooth as silk. It was watching you work that room. You read every person, every situation, turned every conversation to your advantage. You've got instincts for this, Mrs. Morgan."

She felt heat rise in her cheeks at the compliment, but also a flutter of unease. "I’m not sure if that’s good or bad."

"It's remarkable," Trelawny interjected before Arthur could answer. "Most people spend years developing that kind of social intelligence. You seem to have a knack for it."

"Or maybe I just spent years watching the right people," she replied, thinking of all the wealthy families she'd served, all the social dynamics she'd observed from the invisible position of domestic help.

The coffee arrived, rich and dark, accompanied by delicate pastries that Maura found herself eating with the careful precision she'd maintained all day. Even here, in private, she seemed unable to fully shed Mrs. Hartford's refined mannerisms.

"Now then," Trelawny said, producing a small notebook from his pocket, "let's work out the timeline. Tomorrow we’ll send for more help,  study everything in Hartwell's book. Tuesday we practice, we'll need to be familiar with appraisal techniques, proper terminology, professional equipment. Wednesday we intercept the confirmation message and send our revised appointment. Thursday..." He smiled. "Thursday we walk through the front door as invited guests."

Arthur nodded slowly. "And what about after? Once we have the jewelry, what's to stop Mrs. Aldridge from contacting Hartwell when he doesn't show up Friday?"

"Nothing," Trelawny admitted. "Which is why we need to be long gone from Saint Denis by Friday morning. The beauty of this plan is that even when the deception is discovered, we'll have a substantial head start."

Maura sipped her coffee, tasting the bitter richness while her mind worked through the implications. "There's something else we should consider. In all his notes, Hartwell mentions bringing his assistant Marcus Webb. If I'm playing the role of senior appraiser, we'll need someone to play Marcus."

Both men turned to look at her, and she saw the same realization dawning in their eyes.

"We’ll need someone with steady hands for handling delicate pieces, and if we dress him properly, give him the right equipment..." she continued, warming to the idea. "Marcus Webb appears to be the quiet, competent type. According to these notes, he handles the photography and documentation while Hartwell does most of the talking."

As the evening wore on and they continued planning, Maura felt herself caught between excitement and apprehension. The complexity of what they were attempting was both thrilling and terrifying. They weren't just planning a robbery, they were crafting an alternate reality, one that would require them to maintain perfect performances under pressure.

"I do believe this calls for a celebration," Trelawny announced suddenly, signaling to their server. "A bottle of your finest champagne, if you please. We're celebrating."

Arthur raised an eyebrow. "Trelawny, we ain't pulled this job yet."

"Details, my dear fellow, details," Trelawny waved dismissively as the server returned with champagne, condensation beading on the green glass. "We're celebrating the artistry of it all. Besides, when was the last time you two had a proper evening out?"

The champagne bubbled golden in their glasses, and Arthur had to admit it tasted far better than anything they served at camp. Trelawny raised his glass with theatrical flair.

"To Mrs. Hartford," he declared, "and to the most elegant con I've had the pleasure to devise."

As the evening wore on and they worked through the champagne, Maura noticed how the alcohol seemed to dissolve some of the careful tension that had existed between her and Arthur. His laugh came easier, less guarded, and she found herself leaning closer to him as they bent over Hartwell's appointment book together.

"You know," Trelawny said, consulting his pocket watch as he finished his third glass, "I really should be getting back. Early morning tomorrow if we're going to begin our transformation into Hartwell & Associates." He stood, swaying slightly, and gathered his coat. "You two should enjoy the rest of the evening. Consider it... professional development.."

With another of his theatrical bows, he departed, leaving Arthur and Maura alone in the lamplight with half a bottle of champagne between them and Hartwell's stolen appointment book spread open on the table like a roadmap to their future.

Chapter Text

The walk to their adjoining rooms felt longer than it should have, the hotel's plush carpeting muffling their footsteps as they made their way down the dimly lit corridor. Arthur was acutely aware of Maura beside him, still carrying herself with that refined elegance she'd perfected for the disguise, though he could see the champagne had softened some of her careful edges.

They'd shared two bottles over dinner, celebrating the success of their reconnaissance mission, and Arthur felt the pleasant warmth of it humming through his veins. More than that, he felt the pride that had been building all afternoon as he'd watched his wife navigate that world of wealthy society women with such natural grace.

"Well," Maura said as they reached their doors, her voice carrying just the slightest breathiness that spoke to the wine they'd consumed. "That was... illuminating."

Arthur fumbled with his key, hyperaware of her proximity in the narrow hallway. "You were incredible today," he said, the words coming out rougher than he'd intended. "The way you handled all those women, got them talking... I ain't never seen anything like it."

She turned to face him fully, and in the soft gaslight of the hotel corridor, Arthur could see the flush the champagne had brought to her cheeks. "I surprised myself," she admitted, her usual careful composure slipping slightly.

There was something in her voice, a note of wonder mixed with something else Arthur couldn't quite identify. She was still in that silk dress, though she'd let her hair down, the carefully arranged curls now falling loose around her shoulders in a way that made his fingers itch to touch.

"Maura," he said, stepping closer without really meaning to.

"Yes?" The word came out barely above a whisper, and Arthur realized she was looking at his mouth.

The tension that had been building all day, hell, for weeks, seemed to crystallize in that moment. Here they were, alone for the first time since the cabin in New Hanover, in elegant surroundings with good wine warming their blood, and Arthur found himself remembering exactly why he'd wanted this woman.

Maura reached up and loosened his tie with deliberate fingers, her eyes never leaving his. Arthur's key turned in the lock on the second try, his hands less steady than usual as he pushed open the door. The room was bathed in soft gaslight, elegant and intimate with its rich fabrics and polished wood furniture. But Arthur barely noticed the décor because Maura was already moving past him into the room, and the sway of her hips in that dress was commanding all of his attention.

She turned to face him as he closed the door behind them, and Arthur felt his breath catch. The careful mask she'd been wearing for days was gone, replaced by something raw and immediate that made the air between them feel charged.

"Help me with this dress?" she asked, turning to present her back to him.

Arthur's hands shook slightly as he began working the tiny buttons that ran up her spine, each one revealing another inch of pale skin and delicate chemise beneath. The champagne had made him bold, but it was the way she leaned back slightly into his touch that made his pulse race.

"Been thinking about this," he murmured against her ear as his fingers worked, his voice rough with want. "About getting you alone, getting you out of all these fancy clothes."

He felt her shiver at his words, felt the way her breath hitched when his knuckles brushed against her skin. When the last button came free, the skirts pooled around her feet in a whisper of emerald silk, leaving her in nothing but her chemise and corset.

Maura turned in his arms, her hands already working at his shirt buttons with determined efficiency. "I've been thinking about it, too," she said, her voice breathier now. 

Arthur's shirt joined her dress on the floor, and when her hands splayed across his chest, he groaned low in his throat. "You know how hard to sleep next to you every night without having you like this?" he said, capturing her mouth with his. 

“I think I have some idea,” She murmured against his lips.

The kiss was desperate, hungry, fueled by her weeks of emotional distance. Arthur backed her toward the bed, his hands roaming over the curves he'd been aching to touch, and Maura met his urgency with her own, her fingers threading through his hair as she pulled him closer.

"Arthur," she gasped against his mouth, and the way she said his name, breathy and wanting, made something snap inside him.

He lifted her onto the bed, following her down onto the soft mattress, and for a moment, they just looked at each other. Maura's curls were spread across the pillows like spilled wine, her lips swollen from his kisses, and Arthur thought he'd never seen anything more beautiful.

"You sure?" he asked, though his hands were already working at the laces of her corset.

Instead of answering with words, Maura pulled him down to her, claiming his mouth with a kiss that left no room for doubt. Arthur groaned and gave himself over to the sensation, to the feel of her hands on his skin and the soft sounds she made as he finally, finally got his hands on her properly.

The corset fell away, and Arthur's mouth followed the path his hands had traced, pressing kisses to the delicate line of her collarbone, the soft curve of her breast. Maura arched beneath him, her hands clutching at his shoulders as he lavished attention on skin that tasted like sweet perfume and champagne.

"Sweetheart," he breathed against her throat. "You're so damn beautiful."

She responded by pulling at his belt, her movements clumsy with want and wine, and Arthur helped her, kicking off his remaining clothes with little regard for where they landed. When they were finally skin to skin, Arthur had to stop and breathe, overwhelmed by the sensation of her soft curves pressed against his harder frame.

"Please," Maura whispered, and Arthur didn't need her to elaborate.

He settled between her thighs, bracing himself on his forearms so he could watch her face as he slowly pressed into her. Maura's eyes fluttered closed, her mouth falling open on a soft moan that made Arthur's control slip dangerously.

"Look at me," he commanded roughly, and when her eyes opened to meet his, it felt like the first time he had truly seen her in weeks. There was no careful composure now. Just Maura, his wife, looking at him with naked want and trust.

He began to move, slow at first, savoring the way she felt around him, the way she responded to each thrust with soft gasps and wandering hands. But the champagne and weeks of celibacy made patience impossible, and soon Arthur was moving faster, harder, driven by the way Maura met him thrust for thrust.

"Yes," she gasped, her nails digging into his back. "Arthur"+

The sound of his name on her lips, breathless and pleading, made Arthur's rhythm falter. He shifted the angle of his thrusts, and when Maura cried out, her back arching off the bed, Arthur knew he'd found what he was looking for.

"Right there?" he asked, his voice strained with the effort of holding back.

"Yes," she pleaded, digging into his shoulders. "Please don't stop."

The way she was moving beneath him, the soft sounds she was making, the feel of her around him, it was everything he'd been craving for weeks. He could feel her getting closer, could see it in the flush spreading across her chest, the way her breathing became more erratic.

"C’mon, sweetheart," he urged, one hand slipping between them to stroke where they were joined. "Let go for me."

Maura's climax hit her like a wave, her body arching as she cried out his name. Arthur felt her pulse around him, felt the way she trembled and clutched at him, and his own control finally snapped. Only by some miracle was he able to pull himself out in time. 

For long moments afterward, they lay tangled together, breathing hard and trembling with aftershocks. Arthur's face was buried in Maura's neck, and he could taste the salt of her skin, could feel the rapid flutter of her pulse beneath his lips.

"Jesus," he finally managed, his voice muffled against her throat. Maura's laugh was breathless and satisfied. Her hands stroked lazily through his hair.

Arthur lifted his head to look at her, taking in her flushed cheeks and kiss-swollen lips. "How long until Isaac and Jack can share a room?" he joked, running his fingers up and down her spine. 

"Well, if they’re anything like you and John, never," Maura responded, still slightly out of breath. Her eyes began to flutter closed. 

Arthur pressed a soft kiss to her temple and gathered her closer against his side. Outside their window, Saint Denis continued its evening revelries, but inside their elegant hotel room, wrapped in expensive sheets with his wife's warm body pressed against his, Arthur felt something he hadn't experienced in weeks.

Peace.

The last thing Arthur heard before sleep took him was the soft sound of Maura's breathing and the distant music from the hotel's grand ballroom below. It seemed fitting, somehow, that they had spent the day playing roles, performing for strangers, but here in this room, they had finally been themselves again.

Maura was already dressed and waiting in the hotel lobby when Arthur came downstairs the next morning, her hair pinned back in a simple style that suggested efficiency rather than elegance. The transformation from Mrs. Hartford back to herself was complete, though Arthur noticed she still carried herself with some of that refined posture.

"Trelawny's arranged to meet us at the café across from Hartwell & Associates," she said without preamble, consulting a small pocket watch. "He wants to observe their morning routine, see how they conduct themselves."

Arthur nodded, accepting the cup of coffee she pressed into his hands. The hotel's morning crowd was sparse, mostly traveling businessmen and early-rising tourists, but Maura kept her voice low nonetheless.

Arthur studied her profile as they made their way toward the hotel's entrance. There was something different about her this morning, a restless energy that seemed at odds with her composed exterior.

The café Trelawny had chosen provided perfect surveillance of the Hartwell & Associates building across the street. Through the large front windows, they could observe the comings and goings of the jewelry appraiser's office while appearing to be nothing more than citizens enjoying their morning meal.

"Punctual as clockwork," Trelawny observed, consulting his pocket watch as two well-dressed men emerged from a carriage precisely at nine o'clock. "Mr. James Hartwell and his apprentice, Mr. Pierce. These are the gentlemen we'll need to study carefully."

Arthur leaned back in his chair, studying the two men as they approached their office building. Both carried leather satchels and moved with the careful dignity of men who handled valuable objects for a living.

"Pierce is the younger one," Trelawny continued quietly. "Nervous disposition, always checking his watch and adjusting his spectacles. Notice how he defers to Hartwell, three steps behind, never speaks first. Hartwell's the one with the gray beard and the gold-headed walking stick. Been in business for twenty years, has a reputation for absolute discretion."

Maura sipped her coffee, her eyes tracking the men's movements with professional interest. "What's their schedule today?"

"Two appointments," Trelawny replied, producing a small notebook from his vest pocket. "The Pemberton estate at ten-thirty, then the widow Morrison at two o'clock. Both routine insurance evaluations. This gives us the perfect window to observe their office procedures when they're not present."

Arthur frowned. "And then what? We can't exactly walk in there and announce we're casing the joint."

"Ah, but that's where our Mrs. Hartford's social connections prove invaluable," Trelawny said with a theatrical flourish. "We're going to walk in there as potential customers. Mrs. Hartford will be seeking an appraisal for her late husband's jewelry collection, a perfectly legitimate request that will allow us to observe their security measures, study their procedures, and any other tidbits that may come in handy."

Maura raised an eyebrow. "You want me to go in there under false pretenses?"

"Not false at all, my dear. You genuinely need to understand how their operation works, it's simply that your interest is more... comprehensive than they might realize. We need to know everything: how they handle valuable items, their documentation process, security protocols, staff habits. Most importantly, we need to observe the behavioral patterns of both Hartwell and Pierce so closely that we could step into their shoes."

They spent the next hour cataloging every detail they could observe from their vantage point. Arthur found himself impressed by Trelawny's methodical approach, the way he noted the timing of foot traffic, the locations of police patrols, even the habits of the local street sweepers and delivery wagons.

"The beauty of this approach," Trelawny explained as they watched Pierce nervously check his pocket watch for the third time, "is that by establishing Mrs. Hartford as a legitimate client, we create multiple opportunities for reconnaissance. Today's visit gives us the layout and procedures. Your actual appointment later this week puts you in a position for the final intelligence gathering."

Maura nodded slowly, understanding dawning in her expression. "And by then, we'll know enough about their operation to..."

"To ensure that when we need to gain the trust of their clientele, we'll know exactly how to do it without arousing suspicion," Trelawny finished with satisfaction.

At half past ten, as Hartwell and Pierce departed for their first appointment, Trelawny rose from his chair with characteristic theatrical flair.

"Time for our reconnaissance mission," he announced. "Mrs. Hartford, shall we go study our future... business partners?"

Arthur watched his wife transform once again, the subtle shift in posture and expression that brought Mrs. Hartford back to life. "I'll wait here," Arthur said, settling back with his newspaper. "Keep an eye on the street and make sure you two don't run into any trouble."

The Hartwell & Associates office was exactly what Maura had expected: understated elegance designed to reassure wealthy clients that their valuables would be handled with appropriate reverence. Dark wood paneling, leather-bound ledgers, and glass display cases containing examples of fine jewelry and precious objects.

"Mrs. Hartford," Trelawny announced to the clerk behind the mahogany desk, "may I present my sister-in-law, recently arrived from Boston. Mrs. Aldridge was kind enough to recommend your services most highly."

The clerk, a thin young man with ink-stained fingers and nervous energy, looked up from his ledger with practiced courtesy. Maura noted how he immediately straightened his posture and adjusted his spectacles, small mannerisms that would be crucial to replicate. "Of course, sir. I believe we received a message this morning regarding Mrs. Hartford's requirements."

"Indeed," Maura said smoothly, allowing just the right amount of genteel anxiety to color her voice while her eyes swept over the office staff, noting how they conducted themselves. "I have several pieces that belonged to my late husband's family, quite valuable, I'm told, and I find myself in need of proper documentation for insurance purposes."

The clerk nodded sympathetically, and Maura watched as he consulted a thick appointment ledger, noting the methodical way he turned pages and cross-referenced entries. His movements were precise, habitual, the kind of routine that could be predicted and exploited. "Certainly, madam. Mr. Hartwell handles all our estate appraisal work personally. Might I suggest an appointment for later this week?"

While maintaining her disappointed expression at the delay, Maura's attention was divided between the conversation and her systematic observation of the office. 

"The procedure is quite straightforward," the clerk continued, warming to his subject as he explained their process. "Mr. Hartwell examines each piece individually, documents its characteristics, and provides a detailed written assessment. For insurance purposes, we also photograph items of particular value." He gestured toward a door behind him. "Our examination room is equipped with proper lighting and magnification equipment."

Trelawny leaned forward with apparent interest. "How fascinating. I confess I've always been curious about the technical aspects of jewelry appraisal. Might we have a brief tour of your facilities? Mrs. Hartford is quite particular about ensuring her family heirlooms receive the most professional treatment."

The clerk hesitated, clearly torn between customer service and security protocols. Maura seized the moment. "Oh, I do hope it's not too much trouble. After hearing such wonderful things from Mrs. Aldridge about Mr. Hartwell's expertise, I'm simply dying to see where the magic happens, as it were."

"Well," the clerk said slowly, "I suppose a brief look wouldn't hurt. Mr. Hartwell is with the Pemberton estate this morning, but I could show you the examination room."

As they followed him through the interior door, Maura memorized every step just in case they needed to make a quick escape. The hallway was short, with two additional doors, one marked "Private" that likely led to Hartwell's office and another unmarked door that might be storage or a rear exit. The examination room itself was impressive: a large table with multiple oil lamps positioned for optimal lighting, various magnifying glasses and measuring instruments arranged with military precision, and a camera setup for documentation.

"Mr. Hartwell insists on the finest equipment," the clerk said proudly, demonstrating how the lamps could be adjusted. "Each appraisal follows a strict protocol, initial visual examination, weight and measurement documentation, detailed photographic record, and then final written assessment."

Maura nodded appreciatively while noting the clerk's explanation of their security procedures. How they sent a discreet messenger the day before the appointment, the equipment they brought, how many security guards, and how the jewels would be stored and brought back to the office if more examination was needed.

"And the documentation process?" Trelawny inquired. "How long does a typical appraisal take?"

"Depends on the complexity, of course, but Mr. Hartwell is quite thorough. A single piece might take thirty to forty minutes, longer for particularly intricate work. He prefers not to be interrupted during examinations, finds it breaks his concentration."

Perfect, Maura thought. Predictable timing and a preference for privacy during work.

"Perhaps Wednesday afternoon would be suitable?" the clerk suggested after consulting his appointment book again. "Mr. Hartwell has had a cancellation, and I believe he could accommodate Mrs. Hartford's needs."

"Wednesday would be perfect," Maura replied with genuine relief, though her mind was already calculating how this legitimate appointment could serve as cover for their true purposes. "You're very kind to accommodate me on such short notice."

As they prepared to leave, Trelawny paused at the display case near the front window, and Maura realized this, too, was part of their reconnaissance. "Magnificent workmanship," he observed, studying a sapphire brooch while positioning himself to observe the street view and potential escape routes. "Is this an example of Mr. Hartwell's appraisal work?"

"Oh no, sir," the clerk replied proudly, and Maura caught Trelawny's subtle hand signal indicating he'd spotted something significant. "That's from Mr. Hartwell's personal collection. He has quite an eye for exceptional pieces."

As they exchanged final pleasantries and confirmed the appointment details, Maura's mind was cataloging everything they'd learned. They emerged from the office with far more than just a scheduled appointment; they had a comprehensive blueprint for infiltrating one of Saint Denis's most trusted jewelry appraisal firms.

Arthur was still positioned at the café, his newspaper folded to suggest casual reading while his eyes remained fixed on the street. But as Maura and Trelawny approached the café's entrance, Arthur's posture shifted, becoming more alert.

"Everything go smoothly?" he asked as they rejoined him.

"Perfectly," Trelawny replied with satisfaction. "Mrs. Hartford now has a legitimate appointment with Mr. Hartwell, which provides us with excellent intelligence-gathering opportunities."

But Arthur was looking past them, his eyes scanning the street with the kind of focused attention that made Maura's pulse quicken. "We got company," he said quietly. "Man in the brown coat, been watching the Hartwell building since you two went inside."

Maura followed Arthur's gaze and felt her blood turn to ice. The man standing across the street, pretending to examine the contents of a shop window while keeping the jewelry appraiser's office in his peripheral vision, was someone she'd never thought she’d see again.

Eamon O’Hanlon stood exactly as she remembered him: tall and lean, with sharp features. His brown hair was longer than when she'd last seen him, and he'd grown a beard, but there was no mistaking the set of his shoulders or the way he held his head slightly tilted to the left when he was concentrating. 

"Maura?" Arthur's voice seemed to come from very far away. "You know him?"

She couldn't answer, couldn't move, couldn't do anything but stare at the impossible sight of the life she'd tried to leave behind. Eamon must have felt the weight of her gaze because he turned, and for a moment, their eyes met across the busy street.

Recognition flared in his face, followed immediately by something that might have been relief or rage or both. He took a step toward the street, and Maura's paralysis shattered.

"I have to go," she said, already moving toward the café's back entrance. "Now."

Arthur was on his feet instantly, but Maura was faster, her skirts hampering her only slightly as she pushed through the café's back door into the alley behind. Behind her, she could hear Arthur calling her name, but the sound was drowned out by the thunder of her heartbeat and the echo of her footsteps against the brick walls.

She emerged from the alley onto a side street she didn't recognize, the ordered grid of Saint Denis's commercial district suddenly feeling like a maze. Without conscious thought, she turned toward the denser crowds near the market district, some instinct telling her that anonymity lay in numbers.

The sound of pursuit came from behind her, the heavier footsteps that could have been Arthur or Eamon or both. Maura didn't dare look back, instead focusing on putting as much distance as possible between herself and the café, between herself and the confrontation she'd been dreading for years.

The market district was chaotic with morning shoppers and vendors hawking their wares, and Maura used the confusion to her advantage, weaving between stalls and darting down narrow passages between buildings. Her refined Mrs. Hartford clothing drew curious glances, but she ignored them, focused only on movement, on escape.

She could hear her name being called behind her, Arthur's voice rising above the market noise, but she couldn't stop. A fruit vendor's cart blocked her path, and she had to stop, pressed against a brick wall while the vendor and his customer completed their transaction. In that moment of forced stillness, she could hear the footsteps getting closer, could hear Arthur's voice calling her name with increasing urgency.

When the cart finally moved, Maura bolted again, this time toward the riverside district where the maze of warehouses and shipping offices might provide better cover. But her elaborate hairstyle was coming undone, pins scattering behind her, and the restrictive clothing that had made her look like a lady was now making her clumsy.

She stumbled, catching herself against a lamp post, and in that moment of vulnerability, a hand closed around her arm.

"Maura, goddamn it, what are you running from?"

Arthur's voice was rough with exertion and concern, but when she looked up at him, she saw not anger but fear. Fear for her, fear that something was terribly wrong.

"Arthur," she gasped, trying to catch her breath. "You don't understand—"

"Then help me understand," he said, his grip on her arm gentle but firm. "Who was that man? Why did you run?"

Before she could answer, a new voice cut through the noise of the street, carrying the unmistakable voice of her brother. “Maureen O’Hanlon, where the hell are you going?” 

Maura closed her eyes, feeling the last walls of her carefully constructed new life crumble around her. When she opened them again, Eamon was standing a few feet away, his chest heaving from the chase, his eyes moving between her and Arthur. 

“Hello Eamon,” she said quietly, and watched Arthur's expression shift as he realized this wasn't a stranger or a threat. 

The three of them stood frozen in a tableau of tension, the bustling Saint Denis street continuing around them as if nothing had changed. But for Maura, everything had changed in the span of a heartbeat. Her carefully constructed world was collapsing, and she could see the confusion beginning to dawn in Arthur's eyes.

"Maureen," Eamon said again. His voice carried the familiar mix of affection and exasperation she remembered from childhood. "Christ, when I saw you across the street, I thought I was seeing a ghost! Why the hell did you run away?” 

“I’m not going back there, I don’t care what the Lawless’ are paying.” 

The man stiffened. “Is that what you think of me? That I’d take a bribe from those rat bastards to hunt you down?” 

Maura looked uncomfortably at the ground. Arthur's grip on her arm tightened slightly, and she could feel the questions radiating from him. Eamon was talking again, his eyes now fixed on Arthur with growing suspicion.

"And who might you be?" Eamon's tone had shifted, taking on the protective edge she remembered from when they were children and he'd appointed himself her guardian against neighborhood bullies.

"Arthur," he replied simply, but Maura could hear the wariness creeping into his voice. "Arthur Morgan."

Eamon's eyes narrowed as he took in Arthur's appearance, his worn but well-made clothes, the way he carried himself, the protective stance he'd taken beside Maura. "Morgan," he repeated slowly. "And what exactly is your business with my sister?"

The word sister hit Arthur. Maura felt him stiffen beside her, maybe realizing how much of her life he still didn’t know about. But before she could find words to explain, Eamon's suspicion was hardening into something darker. 

“Sister?” He looked between the pair; he hadn’t clocked the similarities beforehand, but now he could see they were siblings plain as day. “I thought you said your brothers were in Australia?” 

“Our older brothers,” She said quickly. “Eamon is younger than me.” 

"I’ve been looking for you for nearly four years, Maureen," Eamon continued, his voice low and dangerous. "I’ve been sick with worry, and here I find you dressed like some fancy lady, running around Saint Denis with..." He looked Arthur up and down with obvious distaste. "What are you, Morgan? Her keeper? Her pimp?"

“What the hell did you call me?” Arthur took a step towards the other man. 

Eamon yanked his sister to his side. "Get away from him, Maureen." Eamon spat, his eyes blazing with protective fury. "I don't know what hold this bastard has over you, but—"

"He's my husband!" The words tore from her throat with desperate force, silencing both men instantly. "Arthur is my husband, Eamon. He didn't kidnap me; he didn't force me into anything. We're married."

“Jesus Christ, Maureen, what have you gotten yourself into?” He scrubbed a hand over his face, then grabbed her by her forearms, forcing her to look at him properly. 

"Listen, the Lawless brothers are dead. Both of them. Killed each other in a drunken fight about a year ago. The Pinkertons dropped the case because they’re not being paid, and as far as the police are concerned, you did them a favor by taking out Donal Lawless. There's no one looking for you anymore. You can come home."

"You don't understand," she said quietly, though she wasn't sure which of them she was addressing. "I can't just... I can't go back, Eamon. That life, that person, she's gone."

"The hell she is," Eamon shot back. "You're still my sister. Still Ma's daughter. She moved to Boston last year. Did you know that? Left home after Da died and moved to be with her remaining children, you and me. Except you weren't there, were you?” 

The guilt washed over Maura. Their mother, alone and grieving, waiting for news of a daughter who had chosen to disappear rather than face the consequences of her actions. And their father...

"Da?" she asked, though part of her already knew from the way Eamon's expression darkened.

"Dead two winters past. Pneumonia." Eamon's voice was rough with old grief.

The weight of her father's death settled over her. She could barely even recall what he had looked like; she was still so young the last time she saw him.

 "Arthur," she said quietly, not meeting his eyes, "could you... could you give us a few minutes? Please?"

She felt rather than saw Arthur's hesitation, the way his body tensed beside her. When she finally looked up at him, she saw hurt flickering across his features before he managed to school them into something more neutral.

"You sure?" he asked, and she could hear the deeper question underneath: Are you going to run again?

"I'm sure. I just... I need to explain some things to Eamon. Alone."

Arthur's jaw worked for a moment, then he nodded curtly. "I'll be at the café," he said, his voice carefully controlled. "When you're ready."

She watched him walk away, his shoulders rigid with tension, and felt her heart crack a little more. Then she turned back to face her brother, the man who still saw her as the wild, reckless girl who'd fled Boston in the middle of the night.

Eamon's expression softened slightly, but his stance remained protective, wary. "What happened after you left? We looked everywhere, sent word to every contact we had. It was like you just vanished."

Maura found herself studying her hands, unable to meet his eyes as she began to speak. "I sold my wedding ring. Took a train as far west as that money would carry me, then just... drifted. Worked odd jobs, stayed in cheap boarding houses, always moving. I was so afraid the Lawless brothers would find me, or that the law would catch up."

"And then?"

"Then I fell in with some people. Outlaws, if I'm being honest. The van der Linde gang." She looked up to gauge his reaction and saw his face darken with concern. "It wasn't... I wasn't robbing banks or anything like that. But they took me in when I had nowhere else to go. Fed me, protected me, became... family, I suppose."

Eamon let out a long breath. "Jesus, a gang of outlaws?"

"It's where I met Arthur," she continued, her voice growing stronger. "And it's where everything changed for me."

She could see Eamon processing this information, trying to reconcile the sister he'd known with this new version of her life. A small smile tugged at her lips despite everything. "A few months after I first arrived, he brought his baby. Isaac. The boy's mother had died in childbirth, and Arthur... he was drowning, Eamon. This man, who had always handled everything, was completely lost with a newborn."

"So you helped him?”

“Arthur needed someone to care for his son, and I... I needed protection from the law. So we made an arrangement."

Eamon was quiet for a long moment, his eyes searching her face. "An arrangement?” 

"Arthur got a mother for Isaac, and I got his protection. It worked for both of us."

"But you don't love him." It wasn't quite a question.

"I..." Maura hesitated, unsure how to explain the complicated situation she found herself in. "It's not about love, Eamon. It's about family, about taking care of each other. Arthur knows everything about Donal and the Lawless family, every reason I had to run. And he still offered me a place in his life."

"This sounds like a fairy tale, Maureen. A gang of outlaws with hearts of gold? An outlaw husband who rescued you from your past? What kind of life is that for you? What kind of future?"

The question hit harder than she'd expected because it echoed doubts she'd been trying not to voice, even to herself. "It's not perfect," she admitted. "It's dangerous, and uncertain, and there are days when I wonder what we're building toward. But it's real, Eamon. My love for Isaac is real. The family Arthur and I have built together is real.” 

“So, you escaped one arranged marriage just to be trapped in another?” Eamon stepped closer, his voice dropping to the concerned tone she remembered from childhood. "Listen to me. I've got a good job now working for the railroad. Steady work, good pay. I can help you get back on your feet, find you something respectable. You could see Ma again.” 

The image of her mother, gray-haired and alone, waiting for a daughter who might never come home, made Maura's throat tight with unshed tears. But even as guilt washed over her, she knew what her answer had to be.

"I can't, Eamon. I won't."

"Why?" His voice rose with frustration. "Because of this outlaw? Because of this gang? What happens when they're all dead or in prison? What happens to you then?"

"What happens to Isaac?" she shot back. "What happens to my boy? You want me to abandon him the way our father abandoned us when he was too drunk to remember he had children? Or like when he sent us away to America?"

The comparison was unfair and she knew it, but it struck home. Eamon flinched as if she'd slapped him.

"That's different and you know it."

"Is it? You're asking me to walk away from my family, Eamon. My husband and my son. I won't abandon them. Not for respectability, not for safety, not even for Ma."

They stood facing each other in the busy street, two siblings who'd once shared everything now separated by years and choices. Eamon's frustration was palpable, but underneath it, Maura could see the hurt of a brother who'd spent years wondering if his sister was dead or alive.

"I never stopped looking for you," he said quietly. "I didn’t give up hope that you were out there somewhere, that maybe you'd be able to come home."

"I know." Maura's voice was soft with regret. "And I'm sorry for the pain I caused you and Ma. But Eamon, this is my home now. Arthur and Isaac, even the gang... they're my family.

"Even if it means never seeing Ma again? Even if it means she dies never knowing what really happened to her daughter?"

"Don't," she whispered. "Please don't make me choose like that."

But even as she said it, she knew the choice was already made. Had been made the moment she'd chosen to stay with Arthur, to become Isaac's mother, to build a life in the margins of society with people who lived by their own rules.

“Maureen, this is insane. You need to come home.” 

Arthur sat at the café table, his coffee long gone cold, watching the street with the kind of focused intensity he usually reserved for tracking dangerous prey. Every woman with red hair, every flash of movement near the door drew his attention like iron filings to a magnet.

Trelawny had excused himself earlier with characteristic theatrical flair, muttering something about getting back to update Dutch and Hosea on their "fortuitous developments." Arthur had barely registered his departure, too consumed with scanning the crowd for any sign of his wife's return.

Wife. He mulled the word over, weighted with meanings he wasn't sure he fully understood. They'd been married for years, shared a bed, shared the care of Isaac, and built something that looked like a family from the outside. But had he ever given her a real reason to choose him over the respectable life her brother was no doubt offering?

The thought made his stomach clench with something that might have been panic. Arthur Morgan, who'd faced down lawmen and rival gangs without flinching, was terrified by the possibility that his wife might leave him.

He checked his pocket watch for the tenth time in as many minutes. Nearly an hour since she'd run. How long did it take to explain four years of life to a brother? How long to decide whether the family you'd built was worth keeping?

A group of well-dressed women passed by the café window, their laughter bright and careless, and Arthur found himself thinking about the way Maura had transformed herself yesterday. The grace with which she'd navigated that world of wealth and refinement, how natural she'd looked in silk and expensive jewelry. Maybe that was who she was underneath the facade she'd constructed for camp life. Maybe Mrs. Hartford wasn't a disguise at all, but a glimpse of who Maura could be if she weren't tied down to an outlaw who couldn't even promise her tomorrow, let alone a respectable future.

The bell above the café door chimed, and Arthur's head snapped up, hope flaring in his chest. But it was just another group of businessmen. Arthur slumped back in his chair, his hands clenching into fists on the table.

Come on, Maura, he thought desperately. Don't do this. Don't leave us.

But even as he willed her to return, part of him couldn't blame her if she didn't. What kind of husband was he? He'd given her his name and his protection, but he'd never given her the words that might have made her feel truly wanted rather than simply needed. He'd shared his life with her, but he'd held back the deeper parts of himself, the fears and hopes that might have shown her she meant more to him than a convenience. 

Another fifteen minutes crawled by before Arthur finally spotted them approaching through the crowd. Maura walked slightly ahead, her posture rigid, while her brother kept pace beside her, his hand hovering protectively near her elbow. Even from a distance, Arthur could see the way Eamon's eyes swept the street..

Arthur rose from his chair as they reached the café, his own body automatically falling into a defensive stance. Whatever conversation had taken place between the siblings, he could see from Maura's expression that it hadn't been entirely resolved. Her face was pale but determined, her jaw set in a way that reminded him of Isaac when the boy had made up his mind about something.

"Arthur," she said quietly as they approached, and something in her tone made his chest tight. 

Eamon's eyes never left Arthur's face, studying him with the kind of cold assessment that made Arthur's fingers itch for his gun. There was something in the other man's expression that went beyond brotherly concern, a hardness that spoke of violence witnessed, if not participated in.

"So you're the one who married my sister," Eamon said, his voice carrying the faint trace of an Irish accent that Maura had worked so hard to suppress. "The outlaw who convinced her to throw away her life for a gang of criminals."

"Eamon," Maura said sharply, but her brother ignored her, stepping closer to Arthur with deliberate intent.

"She told me about your arrangement," Eamon continued, his voice low and dangerous. "How convenient for you, getting a mother for your bastard son and a woman to warm your bed, all while she hides from the law that isn’t even looking for her anymore."

“Eamon!” Maura chided, her voice carried a warning in it. 

Arthur felt his temper spike, his hands clenching at his sides. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't I?" Eamon's smile was cold. "I know my sister sacrificed everything, her family, her future, her chance at a real life to run around with a criminal who can't even promise her tomorrow."

"She came to us running from her own troubles, and we gave her sanctuary. Gave her a family when she had nowhere else to go." Arthur growled.

"A family?" Eamon's laugh was bitter. "You call that a family? Living on the run, never knowing when the law might catch up, watching over your shoulder every day? What kind of life is that for her? Maureen has a real family waiting for back East.” 

Maura put a hand on her brother’s arm, “I chose this life. Chose to stay, chose to be Isaac's mother, chose to marry Arthur. Nobody forced me into anything." Her voice was firm. 

"Because you had so many other options?" Eamon shot back, then turned his attention back to Arthur. "Because you gave her a real choice, or because you convinced her she had nowhere else to go?"

The accusation hit closer to home than Arthur cared to admit. How much of Maura's initial agreement to marry him had been born of genuine want, and how much had been simple necessity? Had he ever really given her the option to leave, or had he just assumed she'd stay because it was easier for both of them?

"That's enough," Maura interjected, stepping between the two men before their confrontation could escalate further. "Eamon, I told you my decision. Arthur isn't keeping me prisoner, and he didn't manipulate me into staying.” 

But Eamon wasn't finished. He turned back to Arthur, his eyes blazing with protective fury. "Listen to me very carefully, Morgan. I don't know what hold you have over my sister, but she's the only sibling I have left. Our mother has been waiting in Boston, waiting to see her daughter. If Maureen won't come home because of you, because of this life you've trapped her in, then you better damn well make sure you're worth what she's giving up."

Arthur met the other man's gaze steadily, seeing the genuine pain beneath the anger. "I know what she's worth," he said quietly. "I know what she's sacrificed."

"Do you?" Eamon stepped closer, his voice dropping to a whisper that only Arthur could hear. "Because if you ever hurt her, if you ever make her regret choosing you over her family, I'll find you. I don't care how many guns you have or how dangerous your gang is. I'll find you, and I'll make you pay for every tear she's shed." 

The threat was delivered with such quiet conviction that Arthur had no doubt the man meant every word. There was something in Eamon's eyes that spoke of violence done and violence prepared to do again, the kind of controlled fury that came from watching someone you loved suffer.

"She won't regret it," Arthur said, and was surprised by the certainty in his voice. "I'll make sure of that."

Eamon studied him for a long moment, then stepped back with a curt nod. "See that you do."

The tension between them remained thick as fog, but something had shifted. Arthur could see that Eamon still didn't approve of his sister's choices, still believed she was throwing her life away. 

Maura looked between them, her expression unreadable. "Are you two finished posturing?"

"We're finished," Arthur said, though he kept his eyes on Eamon. "For now."

"Good." Maura's voice was crisp with authority. "Because we have a job to do, and I don't intend to let a little family drama interfere.” She turned to her brother, her expression softening slightly. “Eamon, I’m happy with my life and my choices, and I want you to respect that.” 

Eamon's face was a mask of barely controlled emotion. "And Ma? What about her?"

"Tell her I'm safe," Maura said softly. "Tell her I'm happy and I think about her every day. Tell her..." Her voice broke slightly. "Tell her I'm sorry I can't come home, but I’ll write to her if she wants.” 

Eamon closed his eyes, his shoulders sagging with defeat. "She won't understand."

"Maybe not," Maura admitted. "But it's the truth."

When Eamon opened his eyes again, "I have to try one more time. Please, Maureen. Come with me. Just for a visit. Let Ma see you're alive and well, then if you still want to come back to this life, I won't stop you."

For a moment, Arthur's breath caught in his throat. The offer was reasonable, generous even. A chance for Maura to see her mother, to say goodbye, to have some kind of closure with her past. How could she refuse? How could he ask her to?

But Maura was already shaking her head. "I can't risk it, Eamon.” She glanced towards Arthur. “I can't leave Isaac. He's still so young, and he needs his mother."

Maura quickly wrote down the Rhodes post office information on a scrap of paper, her handwriting hurried but careful. "You can reach me here if Ma wants to write." She pressed the paper into Eamon's hand, and Arthur watched as her brother's face softened with something like relief.

"I'll tell her," Eamon said quietly, pocketing the paper. He looked at Arthur one more time, his expression still wary but lacking the earlier hostility. "Take care of her, Morgan."

Arthur nodded. "I will."

They watched Eamon disappear into the Saint Denis crowd, his tall frame eventually swallowed by the bustling street. Maura stood perfectly still beside Arthur, her hands clasped in front of her, and he could see the careful control she was maintaining over her emotions.

"Come on," Arthur said gently, placing a hand on the small of her back. "Let's head back."

The walk to their hotel was quiet; both of them lost in their thoughts. Arthur found himself stealing glances at his wife, trying to read the expression on her face. She'd chosen to stay, chosen their life over the one her brother offered, but he could see the cost of that decision in the set of her shoulders, the distant look in her eyes.

Once they reached their hotel room, Maura moved to the window, staring out at the busy street below. Arthur closed the door behind them and stood awkwardly in the center of the room, unsure how to bridge the sudden distance between them.

"You could have gone with him," Arthur said finally, his voice rougher than he'd intended. "I wouldn't have stopped you."

Maura turned from the window, her eyebrows raising slightly. "I know you wouldn't have."

"I mean it, Maura. If you wanted to see your mother, to have that life he was offering..." Arthur ran a hand through his hair, struggling with words that felt too important to get wrong. "I know you ain't been entirely happy lately. Been questioning things, your place with Isaac, with me."

She was quiet for a long moment, studying his face with an intensity that made him shift uncomfortably. "You're right," she said finally. "I have been questioning things."

Arthur's heart clenched, but he forced himself to remain still, to let her speak. 

"But watching Eamon today, seeing the life he wanted to offer me," she interrupted, stepping away from the window to face him fully. "I realized something. That life might be safer, more respectable, but it wouldn't be mine. Not anymore." Her voice grew stronger. "My life is here, Arthur. With you and Isaac. You were right before, we are a family. Maybe not an entirely conventional one, but we're a family nonetheless."

Arthur felt something tight in his chest begin to loosen. "You sure about that?"

"I'm sure." She moved closer to him, close enough that he could map the constellation of freckles on her face. “I don’t know how many times I have to reassure you that I’m exactly where I want to be.” 

The relief that washed over Arthur was so intense it nearly staggered him. He reached out, his hands finding her waist, anchoring himself to her solid presence. "I know I can't give you everything," he said quietly. "Can't give you the security or the respectability that your brother could offer. Can't promise you a future that ain't uncertain."

"I'm not asking you to," Maura replied, her hands coming up to rest against his chest. "There will always be a part of me that mourns the fact that we can’t have that kind of stability, but I’m also unwilling to throw our family away because of it."

Arthur searched her face, looking for any sign of doubt or regret, but found only quiet determination. "Even knowing what you're giving up?"

"Especially knowing what I'm giving up." Her smile was soft but certain. "This is my choice, Arthur. Trust me to make it."

He pulled her closer, pressing his forehead against hers. There were words hovering on his tongue, three simple words that might have sealed this moment, might have given her the certainty she'd been seeking. But the fear of presuming too much, of asking for more than she was willing to give, kept them locked inside him.

Instead, he settled for holding her close, for breathing in the familiar scent of her hair, for letting the solid warmth of her body against his speak the words he still couldn't quite manage to say aloud.

Chapter Text

The Wednesday morning appointment had gone flawlessly. Maura and Trelawny had arrived at Hartwell & Associates precisely on time, with Trelawny carrying a small leather case containing what he described as "family heirlooms requiring professional assessment." The nervous clerk had ushered them into the examination room where Mr. Hartwell himself conducted the appraisal with methodical precision.

Maura had watched every movement, memorizing the way Hartwell adjusted his spectacles before examining each piece, how he held his magnifying glass at the same angle, and the specific sequence in which he documented weight, measurements, and photographic records. She noted his habit of clearing his throat softly before pronouncing judgment, the way he arranged his instruments in perfect parallel lines, and how Pierce stood exactly three feet to his left, ready to assist but never presuming to speak unless directly addressed.

"Exquisite workmanship," Hartwell had murmured over a sapphire brooch, his voice carrying the reverent tone of a man who genuinely appreciated fine craftsmanship. "Late Georgian period, I'd estimate. The setting shows characteristics of London goldsmithing, circa 1820."

Pierce had dutifully recorded every observation in his neat script, occasionally glancing up to catch details he might have missed. Maura catalogued these interactions too: how Pierce always wrote with his left hand while keeping his right free to handle instruments, how he invariably looked to Hartwell for confirmation before making notes, the precise way he blotted his pen after each entry.

When the appointment concluded, they had everything they needed. Within hours, the information had been passed to Dutch and Hosea, who spent the remainder of Wednesday evening drilling their performances until they could replicate Hartwell and Pierce's mannerisms with uncanny accuracy.

Now, Thursday morning, Maura sat in Mrs. Aldridge's elegant parlor, playing her part as the concerned Mrs. Hartford while her pulse hammered against her throat. The ornate clock on the mantelpiece showed half past ten—thirty minutes until Dutch, Hosea, Sean, and Arthur would arrive posing as the appraisal team she'd supposedly requested.

"I've been giving considerable thought to our conversation at the charity luncheon," Maura said, accepting the delicate china teacup with practiced grace. "About expanding charitable efforts to reach the working families of Saint Denis."

Mrs. Aldridge's face lit with genuine enthusiasm. "Oh, Mrs. Hartford, I'm so pleased you've taken an interest! There's such need in the factory districts, families struggling to put food on the table while we debate the merits of different champagne selections for our galas."

Maura nodded sympathetically, drawing from half-remembered conversations about charitable work she'd overheard in Boston years ago. "I was thinking we might organize a series of soup kitchens. Something more substantial than the occasional basket of goods."

"Soup kitchens aren't very chic; it would be a hard sell to get the high society ladies to turn out to such an event." Mrs. Aldridge tutted, then brightened. "What about a gala to support something like a new clinic?" She was practically glowing with philanthropic fervor, completely absorbed in their conversation.

Maura allowed herself a small smile of satisfaction. This was working perfectly. Mrs. Aldridge was so engaged in planning their imaginary charitable endeavors that she'd completely forgotten to be suspicious of her mysterious new friend's sudden appearance in Saint Denis society.

The doorbell's chime cut through their conversation at precisely eleven o'clock.

"Ma'am, Mr. Edmund Hartwell and his associate have arrived for the appraisal," announced the butler from the doorway.

"Oh!" Mrs. Aldridge glanced at the clock with mild confusion. "Goodness, how time flies when one has such pleasant company. Mrs. Hartford, I'm terribly sorry, but I do have this business appointment—"

"Please, don't apologize on my account," Maura interjected smoothly. "Professional matters are so important. I could take my leave if you prefer?"

"Nonsense! I wouldn't dream of cutting short such a lovely visit. If you don't mind, perhaps we could continue our conversation while I handle this brief business with the appraiser? It shouldn't take long to get them started."

It was exactly what they'd hoped for. Mrs. Aldridge's attention would remain focused on maintaining her social obligations to her refined guest, giving only cursory attention to the business of authentication.

When Hosea, Dutch, Arthur, and Sean were shown into the front hall, Mrs. Aldridge greeted them with distracted politeness, her mind clearly still on her conversation with Mrs. Hartford.

"Mr. Hartwell, how good of you to come personally," she said with a quick smile. "And this must be your associate?"

"Indeed," Hosea replied with Hartwell's precise diction, adjusting his spectacles in the exact manner Maura had observed. "This is John Pierce, my apprentice."

Dutch stepped forward with a slight bow, mimicking Pierce's nervous mannerisms perfectly. "Mrs. Aldridge, the pleasure is entirely ours."

She peered behind them at Arthur and Sean's less refined appearance. "And these gentlemen?"

"Our security consultants," Hosea explained smoothly. "Given the value of the pieces we'll be handling today, our insurance requires proper precautions."

Arthur touched the brim of his hat respectfully while Sean managed a formal nod, both playing their roles as professional but unobtrusive security.

"Of course, of course," Mrs. Aldridge said quickly. "Now, shall we get you settled? I was thinking the library would work well for your needs—good lighting, plenty of space for your equipment."

As they moved toward the library, Arthur could hear Maura's voice carrying from the parlor: "I do hope I'm not keeping you from important business, Mrs. Aldridge. These professional appointments can be so demanding."

"Not at all, my dear!" Mrs. Aldridge called back. "Mr. Hartwell is perfectly capable of managing without constant supervision, aren't you, Mr. Hartwell?"

"Absolutely," Hosea replied with professional confidence. "We prefer to work with minimal disruption to your daily routine."

Mrs. Aldridge showed them to the library, made vague gestures toward the jewelry displays arranged on green felt cloth across a mahogany table, and was back in the parlor with Maura within five minutes, leaving them completely unsupervised.

"Now then," Hosea said once they were alone, his voice dropping to normal tones, "let's see what Mrs. Aldridge has been kind enough to share with us."

Arthur positioned himself near the main hallway where he could observe both entrances to the library and monitor Mrs. Aldridge's location. Sean took up a post by the windows, ostensibly watching for external threats while providing a perfect vantage point for observing the household staff.

From the parlor came the pleasant murmur of conversation as Maura expertly maintained Mrs. Aldridge's attention with discussions of charitable work, proper mourning protocols, and the subtle social hierarchies of refined society.

The real work began in earnest. Hosea's portrayal of Edmund Hartwell was masterful, complete with the professional jeweler's careful attention to lighting and angles. While he appeared to be simply documenting pieces for insurance purposes, the most valuable items were being carefully transferred to specially prepared compartments in their equipment cases.

"This bracelet is particularly fine," Hosea observed to Dutch, holding up an elaborate ruby and diamond piece. "Late Victorian, I'd estimate. The craftsmanship suggests Cartier, possibly from their Paris workshop."

Dutch made careful notes in their documentation book while Arthur stepped closer, ostensibly to ensure the piece was handled securely. In reality, the bracelet was being photographed from multiple angles before disappearing into a hidden compartment in their case, replaced by a detailed sketch that would satisfy any casual inspection.

Sean, meanwhile, had engaged one of the housemaids in conversation about the mansion's security features. "Where are the staff entrances?" he asked with professional concern. "I need to keep an eye out for anyone who might have sticky fingers." He winked, and the maid blushed bright pink.

She eagerly pointed out the hidden doors and explained the intricate back stairway system of the house, exactly the information they needed for a swift exit if necessary.

An hour into the appraisal, they had worked through most of the downstairs collection and were preparing to examine Mrs. Aldridge's private jewelry when disaster struck.

The front doorbell rang again, its sound cutting through the afternoon quiet like a warning bell. Arthur felt his shoulders tense as he heard the butler's footsteps in the front hall, followed by a man's voice that made his blood run cold.

"Good afternoon. I'm Edmund Hartwell from Hartwell & Associates. I believe there's been some confusion about today's appointment."

The words hung in the air like a death sentence. Arthur caught Dutch's eye across the library, seeing his own alarm reflected there. In the sudden silence, they could hear Mrs. Aldridge's confused voice from the parlor.

"I'm sorry, did you say Edmund Hartwell? But that's impossible, Mr. Hartwell is here already, working in my library."

"Ma'am," came the real Hartwell's voice, tight with indignation, "I can assure you that no one from my firm has any appointment scheduled for today. If someone is in your home claiming to represent Hartwell & Associates, they are imposters."

Arthur was already moving, his hand instinctively checking the gun concealed beneath his jacket. Across the room, Sean had gone rigid, his easy charm replaced by predatory alertness. Dutch began quickly gathering the remaining pieces into their case.

But Hosea, still maintaining his performance, continued his methodical documentation as if nothing had changed. "Gentlemen," he said quietly, his voice carrying calm authority, "please continue with the inventory while I handle this confusion."

"Hosea—" Arthur started.

"Get the rest of the jewelery," Hosea repeated firmly. "I'll manage this."

The sounds of confusion were growing louder in the front hall as Mrs. Aldridge tried to understand how she could have two Edmund Hartwells in her house simultaneously. Arthur could hear Maura's voice, still maintaining her role as Mrs. Hartford, but with a new note of concern.

"Perhaps I should take my leave," Maura was saying. "You seem to have some business matters to attend to."

"No, no, please stay," Mrs. Aldridge replied, though her voice carried growing alarm. "I think there may be some sort of... deception occurring here."

Hosea straightened his shoulders and walked toward the library door with the measured pace of a man who had nothing to hide. "I believe there's been some misunderstanding," he called out in Hartwell's precise tones. "Perhaps we should clarify this matter directly."

Arthur felt his stomach drop as he realized what Hosea was planning. The older man was going to try to brazen it out, to convince everyone that he was the real Hartwell and the man at the door was the impostor.

It was a desperate gamble, and Arthur knew it wouldn't work the moment the two men stood face to face.

"Hosea, don't—" Dutch started, but it was too late.

Hosea had already stepped into the front hall, carrying their case of "documentation" with him. Arthur and the others could hear his voice, still perfectly mimicking Hartwell's mannerisms: "I'm terribly sorry for this confusion, Mrs. Aldridge. I believe this gentleman may be suffering from some sort of delusion."

The real Hartwell's voice exploded with outrage. "Delusion? Sir, I have been operating Hartwell & Associates for over twenty years! These are my premises, my reputation you're impugning!"

"Henderson!" Mrs. Aldridge's voice carried sharply through the house. "Henderson, please summon the police immediately!"

That was their cue to leave. Arthur began moving toward the library's secondary exit that led to the servants' quarters, with Dutch and Sean close behind. But as they reached the doorway, they heard a sound that made Arthur's blood freeze, a heavy thud, followed by Hosea's unmistakable grunt of pain.

"Good Lord!" came Pierce's shocked voice. "Mr. Hartwell, what have you done?"

Arthur spun around and rushed back toward the front hall, his hand moving to his gun. He arrived just in time to see Hosea crumpled on the marble floor, blood trickling from a gash on his forehead where the real Hartwell's heavy walking stick had struck him. The case containing their stolen goods lay beside him, its contents spilled across the expensive tile.

The real Hartwell stood over Hosea's unconscious form, his walking stick still raised, his face flushed with righteous anger. "Mrs. Aldridge," he said with grim satisfaction, "I believe we have our thieves."

Pierce was kneeling beside the scattered jewelry, his hands shaking as he began gathering the pieces. "These are all from your collection, Mrs. Aldridge. Look, here's the Cartier bracelet, the Georgian sapphire brooch, the diamond hair ornaments..."

Mrs. Aldridge stared at the evidence in horror, her earlier confusion crystallizing into cold fury as she turned toward the parlor where Maura waited. "Mrs. Hartford," she said icily, "perhaps you'd care to explain your part in this deception?"

Arthur felt the situation spinning completely beyond their control. Hosea was unconscious and bleeding, their stolen goods were in the hands of their victims, and the police were already on their way. Every instinct screamed at him to run, to get Dutch and Sean away while they still could.

But he couldn't leave Hosea behind. And he could hear Maura's voice from the parlor, no longer maintaining her refined Mrs. Hartford act.

"Let go of me!" she was saying sharply.

Arthur's blood ran cold. Drawing his revolver in one smooth motion, he stepped into the front hall. "Everyone stay calm," he said quietly, his gun trained on the group clustered around Hosea's prone form.

Through the parlor doorway, he could see Mrs. Aldridge gripping Maura's wrist with surprising strength for a woman her age, while Henderson the butler moved to block the French doors that led to the garden.

"Oh no, you don't," Mrs. Aldridge was hissing. "You're not Mrs. Hartford at all, are you? I should have known when you couldn't tell me which finishing school you attended. Henderson, don't let this woman leave!"

The real Hartwell stumbled backward with a startled cry, his walking stick clattering to the floor. Pierce pressed himself against the wall, his eyes wide with terror.

"Arthur!" came Maura's voice from the parlor, strained with effort as she struggled against Mrs. Aldridge's grip.

Arthur spun toward the sound, taking in the scene at a glance. Mrs. Aldridge had wrapped both hands around Maura's wrist and was pulling her toward the bell cord that would summon more servants. Henderson, a large man with the build of a boxer, stood between Maura and the French doors.

"Let her go," Arthur said quietly, his gun now trained on Henderson.

"She's not going anywhere!" Mrs. Aldridge declared shrilly. "I know exactly who you people are now, criminals, thieves! Henderson, stop them!"

The butler moved forward with surprising speed. Arthur was forced to shift his attention as Henderson charged, using his gun as a club to ward off the man's trained attack. They grappled briefly, Henderson landing a solid punch to Arthur's ribs before Arthur managed to break free.

In the chaos, Maura wrenched herself away from Mrs. Aldridge's grip, leaving the older woman holding nothing but torn silk from her sleeve. But as she ran toward the French doors, the real Hartwell moved to block her path, his walking stick raised threateningly.

"You're not leaving until the authorities arrive," he declared.

Arthur broke completely free of Henderson's grip, blood streaming from his nose but his gun still in his hand. He turned toward Hartwell with deadly intent.

"Get away from her," he growled.

Hartwell raised his walking stick defensively, but he was no match for Arthur's size and desperation. Arthur grabbed the older man by his expensive jacket and shoved him aside, clearing the path to the French doors.

"Go!" he commanded Maura. "I'm right behind you!"

Arthur knelt beside Hosea, checking the pulse at his throat while keeping his gun trained on the others. The older man was breathing but unconscious, blood matting his gray hair where the walking stick had connected.

Arthur called toward the library. "We need to go, now!"

Dutch and Sean appeared in the doorway, taking in the scene with professional assessment. Sean immediately moved to help Arthur with Hosea.

"Can you carry him?" Dutch asked tersely, his own gun now drawn as more servants appeared in the hallway.

"We'll manage," Arthur replied, he and Sean lifting Hosea between them. "Where's Maureen?"

"Here," She said quickly, appearing behind Arthur.

The sound of police whistles was already echoing from the street outside, growing steadily louder. They needed to move immediately or risk being trapped inside the mansion.

They spilled out into Mrs. Aldridge's elaborate garden, their careful escape plan forgotten in favor of desperate flight. Arthur and Sean continued to carry Hosea between them while Maura gathered her skirts and ran alongside, her elaborate Mrs. Hartford costume completely unsuitable for their current predicament.

"This way!" Dutch called, pointing toward a low stone wall that marked the boundary of Mrs. Aldridge's property.

They could hear shouts behind them as the police discovered their exit route, officers pouring into the garden in pursuit. Arthur's lungs burned as he struggled to maintain their pace while supporting Hosea's dead weight.

They reached the wall just as the first shots rang out, warning shots fired into the air, but clear evidence that the police were prepared to use deadly force if necessary.

"Over!" Dutch commanded.

Sean vaulted the wall first, then helped Arthur pass Hosea's unconscious form over to him. Maura gathered her skirts and scrambled over with Arthur's assistance, followed by Dutch who paused just long enough to return fire, driving their pursuers back into cover among Mrs. Aldridge's ornamental hedges.

They found themselves in the narrow alley that ran behind the row of elegant houses. Arthur could see their horses waiting where they'd left them, securely tied to a hitching post they'd arranged beforehand for their escape.

Arthur quickly untied his horse while Sean helped him get the unconscious Hosea draped across the saddle. Dutch and the others mounted swiftly, the practiced efficiency of men accustomed to hasty departures.

"Can you hold him steady?" Arthur asked Maura as she mounted beside him.

"I've got him," she replied, reaching across to help support Hosea's unconscious form. "Just ride."

They mounted quickly, Arthur holding Hosea in place while Dutch took point and Sean brought up the rear. Maura rode beside Arthur, her face pale with concern as she watched blood continue to seep from Hosea's head wound.

Behind them, the sounds of pursuit were growing organized. police whistles coordinating search patterns, officers shouting directions to seal off the surrounding streets. But they had a head start and the advantage of knowing Saint Denis's maze of back alleys.

Dutch led them on a circuitous route through the city's working-class districts, always moving away from the sounds of pursuit. Arthur's arms ached from supporting Hosea's weight, and he could feel the older man's blood soaking through his jacket.

"How much further?" Maura asked quietly, riding close enough to help steady Hosea if needed.

"Almost there," Dutch replied, though Arthur could hear the strain in his voice.

They finally reached the prearranged rendezvous point, a small livery stable on the outskirts of Saint Denis where Trelawny waited with a wagon and fresh horses. The man took one look at their condition and immediately began helping Arthur transfer Hosea to the wagon bed.

"My word," Trelawny murmured, examining the head wound with professional concern. "What happened?"

"The real Hartwell showed up," Dutch explained curtly. "Knocked Hosea cold with his walking stick and recovered all the jewelry we'd taken."

Trelawny winced. "All of it?"

"Every piece," Sean confirmed bitterly. "Plus they've got our faces, our descriptions, and probably half the police force in Saint Denis looking for us by now."

Arthur was kneeling beside Hosea in the wagon bed, using his bandana to try to stop the bleeding from the head wound. The older man's breathing was steady but shallow, his face pale beneath the blood.

"We need to get him to a doctor," Arthur said.

"No doctors," Dutch replied firmly. "Too risky. We'll take him back to camp and have Mrs. Grimshaw look at him. He's patched up head wounds before."

"Dutch—"

"No doctors, Arthur. We can't risk leading them back to us."

Arthur wanted to argue, but he knew Dutch was right. Any doctor near Saint Denis would be obligated to report a head injury that looked like the result of violence, especially once word spread about the jewelry theft.

They transferred their horses to Trelawny's wagon and began the long journey back to camp, taking back roads and avoiding main thoroughfares where they might encounter law enforcement. Hosea remained unconscious throughout the trip, his head pillowed in Maura's lap while she kept pressure on the wound.

Back at camp that evening, the mood around the fire was decidedly somber. Hosea lay in his tent, conscious now but groggy and nauseous from his concussion. Mrs. Grimsahw had cleaned and bandaged the head wound, pronouncing it serious but not life-threatening, provided the older man got plenty of rest.

Dutch sat on his usual crate, staring into the flames with the expression of a man reconsidering his fundamental assumptions about the world. The failure wasn't just about the lost profits, it was about the realization that their increasingly sophisticated approach to crime carried its own unique risks.

"All that planning," Sean said morosely, poking at the fire with a stick. "All that reconnaissance and practice, learning to walk and talk like fancy gentlemen, and for what? We come back with nothing but sore heads and the law breathing down our necks."

Arthur sat on a log beside Maura, his knuckles still raw from their escape. "Could've been worse," he pointed out. "Could've all ended up in cells. Or worse, Hosea could've—" He didn't finish the sentence, but everyone understood.

"That's the nature of the work," Dutch said quietly, though his voice lacked its usual philosophical confidence. "No matter how well you plan, there's always something that can go wrong."

During this post-mortem, Maura had been unusually quiet, sitting with her hands folded in her lap while the men dissected the day's failures. She'd changed out of her elaborate Mrs. Hartford costume into a simple wool dress, but she still carried herself with some of that refined posture she'd perfected for the role.

"You know," she said suddenly, her voice cutting through the general atmosphere of defeat, "it wasn't a complete loss."

All eyes turned toward her with expressions ranging from curiosity to skepticism. Dutch raised an eyebrow, clearly wondering if she was about to offer some philosophical observation about lessons learned.

Instead, Maura reached into the small cloth bag where she kept her personal belongings and withdrew something that caught the firelight with brilliant sparkles. She held it up for the others to see: an elaborate diamond bracelet, its stones arranged in an intricate floral pattern.

The silence that followed was profound. Sean's mouth fell open, Dutch straightened in his chair as if he'd been struck by lightning, and even Arthur leaned forward with suddenly sharpened interest.

"Is that...?" Arthur began, his voice trailing off as he stared at the jewelry in his wife's hand.

"Mrs. Aldridge's bracelet," Maura confirmed with a small, satisfied smile. "She was wearing it when we had our discussion. Quite loose on her wrist, actually, I noticed it sliding around every time she gestured. When she grabbed my arm during the chaos, well..." She shrugged delicately. "It seemed a shame to leave it behind when she was being so inhospitable."

Dutch began to laugh, a sound that started as a low chuckle and gradually built into something approaching amazement. "You mean to tell me," he said between gasps, "that while we were all running around like chickens with our heads cut off, you managed to lift that woman's jewelry?"

"The clasp was already loose," Maura explained modestly. "I just... encouraged it along a bit when she wouldn't let go of me. She was so focused on keeping me from escaping that she never noticed."

Sean was shaking his head in amazement. "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Here we are, mourning our spectacular failure, and you've been sitting there with a fortune in diamonds."

Arthur was staring at his wife with an expression that mixed admiration, amusement, and something that might have been pride. "How much you think it's worth?"

Dutch had produced a small magnifying glass from his vest pocket and was examining the bracelet with professional interest. "Based on the size of the diamonds and the quality of the setting, I'd estimate somewhere in the neighborhood of eight hundred to a thousand dollars. Possibly more if these are genuine Cartier diamonds."

A thousand dollars was more than many families saw in several years, enough to keep the gang supplied and mobile for months. It was also enough to make Hosea's injury seem less catastrophic from a purely practical standpoint.

"A thousand dollars," Dutch repeated slowly, as if testing the words. "For a bracelet you lifted during what we thought was a complete disaster."

Maura seemed uncomfortable with the attention she was receiving, but Arthur was looking at her with obvious pride. "That's my girl," he said quietly, and Maura felt warmth spread through her chest at the approval in his voice.

Sean raised his bottle of beer in Maura's direction. "Here's to Mrs. Morgan," he declared with theatrical grandeur. "Who turned disaster into triumph with nothing but quick fingers and steady nerves."

"To Maureen," Dutch agreed, raising his own drink. "Who reminded us all that sometimes the most valuable lessons come from the jobs that don't go according to plan."

As the others joined in the toast, Maura felt the last of her tension from the day's events finally begin to ease. They might have fled Saint Denis as wanted criminals, they might have burned their bridges with respectable society, and Hosea might be nursing a serious head injury, but they had also walked away with a prize that made their elaborate planning seem almost quaint by comparison.

"So what do we do with it?" Arthur asked, nodding toward the bracelet.

"We'll need to be careful about how we fence it," Dutch said thoughtfully. "Something this distinctive will be reported stolen within hours. But I know a man in Rhodes who specializes in... transforming jewelry into less recognizable forms."

"Break it apart?" Maura asked, feeling a small pang at the thought of destroying something so beautiful.

"Unfortunately, yes," Dutch confirmed. "The setting is too unique to sell intact, and Mrs. Aldridge will undoubtedly provide the authorities with a detailed description. But the individual stones... those can be sold separately without raising suspicions."

Arthur stood and moved to sit closer beside Maura on her log. As the fire burned lower and the conversation gradually shifted to other topics, Maura found herself thinking about the strange turns her life had taken. This morning she'd been playing the role of a refined Boston widow, sitting in an elegant parlor discussing charitable endeavors. Tonight she was back in an outlaw camp, being toasted for successfully picking pockets during a police raid.

But as the evening wore on and the others began drifting off to their bedrolls, Arthur's expression grew increasingly serious. When they were finally alone by the dying fire, he turned to face her with a look she recognized from their early days together—the stubborn determination that meant he'd made up his mind about something.

"Maura," he said quietly, his voice carrying a weight that made her attention sharpen. "What happened today... it can't happen again."

She blinked, certain she'd misheard. "I'm sorry?"

"You heard me." Arthur's jaw was set in that familiar line that brooked no argument. "No more cons, no more disguises, no more putting yourself in situations where you might get arrested or killed."

"Arthur, that's ridiculous." Maura turned to face him fully, her voice taking on the reasonable tone she used when trying to talk him out of his more overprotective moments. "Today proved I can handle myself. I got us out of there with more profit than we'd planned for."

"Today proved you got lucky," Arthur corrected firmly. "What if that butler had been armed? What if Mrs. Aldridge had managed to hold you until the police arrived? What if I hadn't been able to get back to you in time?"

"But those things didn't happen—"

"They could have." Arthur's voice rose slightly, then he caught himself and lowered it again, mindful of the sleeping camp around them. "And look what happened to Hosea. He's got a concussion that could've killed him, all because we thought we were smarter than we actually are."

Maura studied his face in the firelight, seeing genuine fear beneath his authoritative tone. This wasn't just masculine posturing or a desire to control her activities, this was fear at the thought of losing her.

"Arthur," she said gently, reaching out to touch his arm, "I understand you were frightened. I was frightened too. But we can't let one close call dictate how we live our lives."

"This ain't about one close call," Arthur replied, though he didn't pull away from her touch. "It's about the fact that every job we pull, every time we go up against the law or society folks, the stakes get higher. And now we got Isaac to think about."

"But I'm good at this work—"

"Being good at it don't make it safe." Arthur's voice carried a finality that made her stomach clench. "You ain't working another job. That's final."

Maura felt her own temper beginning to rise. "So I'm supposed to what, exactly? Sit in camp darning socks while you and the others take all the risks?"

"If that's what it takes to keep you safe, yes."

"That's not fair, and you know it." She stood abruptly, pacing to the other side of the fire so she could face him properly. "I'm just as capable as any of you. Today proved that beyond question."

"Today proved you're resourceful and brave," Arthur agreed. "It also proved that the kind of work we do puts you in situations where those qualities might not be enough to save you."

Maura could see she wasn't going to win this argument through logic or reason. Arthur had made up his mind, and when he got that particular look in his eyes, rational discussion became nearly impossible.

She moved back around the fire, settling herself on the log beside him but much closer this time. "You know," she said conversationally, letting her wrapper slip slightly off one shoulder, "I seem to remember you finding it quite... exciting when I told you about lifting that bracelet."

Arthur's jaw tightened, but she didn't miss the way his eyes followed the exposed line of her collarbone. "Maura..."

"And when I was playing Mrs. Hartford," she continued, her voice dropping to the husky tone that never failed to affect him, "I know you liked the way I looked in that dress..."

She let her hand rest on his thigh, her fingers tracing lazy patterns through the fabric of his pants. Arthur's breathing had become noticeably deeper, but he caught her wrist gently, stopping her ministrations.

"That ain't gonna work," he said, though his voice had roughened considerably.

"No?" Maura leaned closer, her lips nearly brushing his ear as she spoke. "Are you certain about that?"

For a moment, Arthur's resolve seemed to waver. His free hand came up to cup the back of her neck, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin just below her hairline. Maura felt victory within her grasp, she was learning exactly how to unravel his stubborn certainty.

Then a small, sleepy voice cut through the night air.

"Mama? Papa?"

Arthur's hand dropped from her neck while Maura quickly pulled her wrapper back into place. Isaac stood at the edge of the firelight, his small form dwarfed by an oversized nightshirt, his dark hair tousled from sleep.

"Isaac, sweetheart," Maura said, immediately shifting into mother mode as she rose to meet him. "What are you doing awake?"

The three-year-old rubbed his eyes with small fists, looking uncertainly between his parents. "Had a bad dream," he mumbled.

Maura's heart clenched with guilt. In all the excitement of the day's events and the evening's revelations, she'd barely spent any time with Isaac beyond a quick kiss goodnight when they'd returned to camp.

"I'm sorry, baby," she said, scooping him up into her arms. Isaac immediately buried his face against her shoulder, his small body warm and solid against hers. "Mama and Papa had some work to do today, but we're here now."

Arthur had risen as well, his earlier sternness melting away as he looked at his son's sleepy, confused face. "Come on, let's get you back to bed, son."

They walked together toward their shared room, Arthur holding the door open while Maura settled Isaac back onto his small cot. The boy stirred slightly as she tucked his blanket around him, but didn't wake fully. Arthur's hand settled on her shoulder as she knelt beside their child.

In that moment, looking down at Isaac's peaceful face, Maura understood something that went beyond logic or argument. Arthur's protectiveness wasn't about controlling her or doubting her abilities, it was about ensuring that this little boy would never have to grow up without his mother.

When they stepped back outside, Arthur's expression was gentler but no less determined. "I know you think I'm being unreasonable," he said quietly. "But every time you go out there, every time you put yourself at risk, I think about him waking up one morning and asking where his mama went."

Maura was quiet for a long moment, then sighed. "I understand," she said, and meant it. "I don't like it, but I understand."

Arthur's shoulders relaxed slightly at her acceptance. "There's always camp work that needs doing," he offered. "Or maybe you could help with planning jobs without actually participating in them."

"Safe work," Maura said, trying to keep any resentment out of her voice.

"Safe work," Arthur agreed. "Work that lets you come home to Isaac every night."

Maura nodded, accepting that the chapter of her life as an active member of the gang's criminal operations had just closed. She wasn't entirely happy about it, but she could live with it. For Isaac's sake, and for Arthur's peace of mind, she could accept.

Chapter Text

The letter arrived a few weeks after their return to camp, delivered by Mr. Pearson, who had stopped by the post office in Rhodes earlier that day. Maura recognized her mother's handwriting immediately, the careful, deliberate script that spoke of a woman who had learned to write as an adult and treated each letter as precious.

Arthur found her in their room, sitting on the edge of their shared bed with the cream-colored envelope unopened in her lap, staring at the faded wallpaper with an expression he couldn't quite read.

"Everything alright?" he asked, closing the door behind him and settling beside her on the creaking mattress.

"It's from my mother." Maura's voice was steady, but Arthur could hear the undercurrent of emotion beneath the words. "Eamon must have told her how to reach me."

Arthur glanced at the letter, then back at her face. "You gonna open it?"

"I'm afraid to." The admission came out so quietly that he almost missed it. "I haven't heard from her in so long, I have no idea what she'll say."

"Only one way to find out," Arthur said gently.

With trembling fingers, Maura broke the wax seal and unfolded the thin paper. As she read, Arthur watched her expression shift from fear to relief to something deeper, more complex.

"She's not angry," Maura said finally, her voice thick. "She says... she says she understood why I had to leave Boston, and she's just grateful to know I'm alive and safe."

Arthur felt some of the tension leave his shoulders. "That's good news, ain't it?"

"She wants me to come home." Maura looked up from the letter, her eyes bright with unshed tears. "Even if it's just for a visit. She says it's been over ten years since she's seen her only daughter, and she's desperate to know I'm truly safe. That she dreams about me still being the little girl who left Castlebar."

Over ten years. The separation that had begun when Maura was just a child had continued through her troubled marriage in Boston, and now stretched across the country to their outlaw life. The longing in those words was palpable.

"You should go," he said, the words coming out before he'd fully thought them through.

Maura blinked, surprised by the immediacy of his response. "Arthur, we've already discussed this."

"I know, but—"

"But what? Suddenly, you've changed your mind about me traveling alone with Isaac?" Her voice carried an edge now. "Or is this about something else entirely?"

Arthur ran a hand through his hair, struggling to find the words. The botched jewelry heist three weeks ago had shaken him more than he cared to admit. "Maybe Dutch is right. Maybe it's time we started thinking about... alternatives."

"Alternatives?" Maura's voice sharpened as she set the letter aside. "What kind of alternatives?"

"He mentioned setting you and Isaac up in a house somewhere. Safe, respectable. I could visit when jobs allow, send money—"

"Stop." The single word cut through his explanation like a blade. Maura rose to face him fully, her posture rigid with something that looked dangerously like anger. "Let me make sure I understand this correctly. Dutch suggested that you set me up somewhere like a kept woman, and you think this is a good idea?"

Arthur stood as well, feeling the familiar rise of his own temper. "It ain't like that—"

"Isn't it?" Maura's eyes blazed. "I'm to be tucked away somewhere safe and proper while you continue your life, visiting when convenient? And what about Isaac? He's to grow up seeing his father as a stranger who brings money and occasional visits?"

"I'm trying to protect you! Both of you!" Arthur's voice rose. "You think I want this? You think I want to send away the only good things in my life?"

"Then don't!" Maura shot back. "Nobody's forcing you to do anything, Arthur. This is your choice."

"My choice?" Arthur laughed bitterly. "My choice was made the moment Isaac was born. The moment I realized I had something worth losing."

"So we're something to be managed? A problem to be solved?" Maura's voice cracked with hurt. "I thought we were a family."

"We are a family! That's exactly why—"

"No, we're not." The words came out flat, final. "A family stays together. A family doesn't get parceled off when things get difficult."

Arthur felt something dangerous flare in his chest. "You want to talk about family? Real families don't drag their children into gunfights and robberies—"

"Real families?" Maura interrupted, her voice rising to match his. "What would you know about real families, Arthur? You've spent your whole adult life running with outlaws."

It was a low blow, and they both knew it. Arthur's jaw clenched, his hands curling into fists at his sides. "At least I'm trying to give him something better than what I had. At least I'm not so goddamn selfish that I'd rather keep him in danger just to prove a point."

"Selfish?" Maura's voice went deadly quiet. "I'm selfish for wanting to stay with my husband? For wanting your son to know his father?"

"So you'd rather Isaac grow up dodging bullets than admit that maybe, just maybe, I know what's best for my own son." The words came out harsher than Arthur intended, but he couldn't take them back now.

"Your son?" Maura's voice rose to a near shout. "He's my son too, Arthur! Not yours to dispose of when he becomes inconvenient!"

"I'm not disposing of you. What Dutch and I discussed—"

"Oh, I didn't realize that Dutch van der Linde was head of our household now," Maura said, taking a challenging step toward him.

Before she knew what was happening, her back was pressed against the peeling wallpaper. Arthur held her chin between his thumb and index finger, firm but gentle enough not to hurt. He forced her to meet his hard gaze.

"Mrs. Morgan," he said, his voice dangerously low. He leaned down so his lips were hovering just above the shell of her ear. "If you ever suggest that another man is the head of my household, I will have to bend you over that chest and remind you who's in charge here."

She shivered. His words should have caused her panic, should have had long-standing fears flowing back, but instead, heat pooled low in her belly. The intensity in his voice, the possessive way he held her—

Before she could respond, the sharp crack of gunfire split the air.

Arthur's head snapped toward the sound, his body immediately shifting into a different mode entirely. "Shit." He grabbed her shoulders, all traces of their intimate moment vanishing. "Get down. Where's Isaac?"

"He's outside with Jack and—"

"Maura, stay down!" Arthur's voice carried the authority of a man who'd survived countless firefights. More shots rang out, closer this time, followed by Dutch's voice shouting orders outside.

Arthur was already moving, grabbing his gun belt from the dresser. "Stay in here. Don't come out no matter what you hear."

"Arthur, wait—"

But he was already gone, the door slamming behind him. Through the thin walls, Maura could hear chaos erupting in the camp. Men shouting, horses whinnying in terror, and underneath it all, the distinctive crack of rifle fire.

She pressed herself against the wall beside the window and carefully peered through a gap in the shutters. The camp had exploded into chaos. Saint Denis lawmen had surrounded them, their badges glinting in the afternoon sun as they advanced with rifles raised.

Dutch and Hosea had taken cover behind the large oak tree, their guns blazing as they tried to hold the center. Javier was crouched behind a wagon wheel, picking off officers with deadly precision. Charles had positioned himself near the horses, his bow singing as arrows found their marks with silent efficiency.

Sean was whooping like a banshee as he fired from behind a wooden crate, his red hair wild in the afternoon light. "Come on then, you bastards! Is that all you got?"

Mrs. Grimshaw had appeared with a shotgun, her face set in grim determination as she protected the camp's supplies. "Tilly! Karen! Get to the house!"

But where was Isaac? Maura's heart hammered as she scanned the chaos, trying to spot her son among the mayhem. Then she saw him, pressed against the side of Pearson's wagon with Jack, frozen in terror as bullets flew over their heads.

Arthur had seen them too. She watched as he sprinted across the open ground, bullets kicking up dirt at his feet. A Saint Denis officer tried to cut him off, raising his rifle, but Javier's shot took the man down before he could fire.

The boys didn't move, too scared to leave their hiding spot. Arthur cursed and made another dash, this time reaching them safely. He scooped up both boys in one fluid motion, Jack under one arm and Isaac under the other.

"Papa!" Isaac's terrified cry pierced Maura's heart. The boy was reaching for Arthur desperately, his small face streaked with tears.

Arthur ran for the house, but he was exposed now, carrying both children. A lawman took aim from behind a tree. The shot rang out, and Arthur stumbled but kept running. Maura saw blood spreading across his shoulder.

"Arthur!" she screamed, but he couldn't hear her over the gunfire.

Charles appeared from nowhere, his massive frame stepping between Arthur and the shooter. His bow sang once, twice, and the lawman crumpled. "Go! I've got you covered!"

Arthur burst through the door, practically depositing both boys inside before collapsing against the wall, breathing hard. Blood seeped through his shirt, but he was already checking Isaac over with shaking hands.

"You hurt? Either of you hurt?" His voice was rough with adrenaline and fear.

"Papa, bleeding!" Isaac sobbed, his small hands reaching for Arthur's wounded shoulder.

"I'm fine, son. Just a scratch." Arthur pulled Isaac close with his good arm, his eyes meeting Maura's over the boy's head. "You stay with your mama, you hear? Don't you leave this room."

Abigail appeared in the doorway, relieved to see Jack, her face pale but determined. "How bad is it out there?"

"Bad enough." Arthur was already reloading his guns despite his wound. "Keep them away from the windows."

The firefight raged on outside. Through the walls, they could hear the Callander boys shouting coordinates to each other, working as a team to flank a group of officers trying to advance on the left side of camp.

"Bill's down!" someone yelled, though Maura couldn't tell who.

"I got him!" That was Charles, his deep voice carrying over the chaos.

A Saint Denis officer broke from cover, making a run toward the house. Arthur saw him through the window, his shot taking the man down before he'd made it halfway across the clearing. Another officer tried the same maneuver from the opposite side, but Sean's rifle cracked, and the man fell.

Isaac was trembling violently against Maura’s chest, his small body shaking with each gunshot. "Mama, scared."

"I know, sweetheart. I know." Maura's voice was soothing now, despite the adrenaline. "It'll be over soon. You're safe. Mama isn’t going to let anything happen to you."

"Promise?" Isaac's voice was so small, so frightened.

"I promise." 

Outside, the gunfire began to taper off, the shouts growing more distant. When silence finally fell over the camp, Dutch's voice broke it first.

"Anyone hurt? Sound off!"

One by one, the gang members reported in. Sean was nursing a graze on his arm and cursing colorfully about it. Javier had taken a bullet to the thigh but was still standing. The Callander boys were both fine, shouting insults at the retreating lawmen.

"Bill's got a hole in his shoulder, but he'll live," Charles called out.

"More's the pity," Mrs. Grimshaw muttered, loud enough for everyone to hear.

Arthur winced as he stood, his own shoulder wound making itself known now that the adrenaline was fading. Isaac clung to his legs, unwilling to let go.

"Papa, no leave," the boy pleaded, his voice thick with tears.

Arthur knelt despite the pain, bringing himself to Isaac's eye level. "I ain't going nowhere, son. But I need to check on the others, make sure everyone's okay. You stay here with your mama."

"No!" Isaac's grip tightened on Arthur's shirt.

The raw fear in their son's voice made Maura's heart break. She knelt beside them, placing a gentle hand on Isaac's back. "It's alright, sweetheart."

"Hey." Arthur cupped Isaac's face in his hands, forcing the boy to look at him. "I'm gonna be right outside, and I'll come back real soon. I ain't gonna let anything happen to you or your mama, you understand?"

It took several more minutes of gentle coaxing before Isaac would let Arthur go, and even then, the boy stood pressed against the window, watching his father's every move outside.

After the immediate danger had passed and Arthur had returned with his wound roughly bandaged, the family found themselves alone in their room again. The anger from their earlier conversation had returned to Arthur's face, hardened now by the reality of what had just happened.

"Still think this is a good life for him?" Arthur's voice was rough with exhaustion and frustration as he gestured toward Isaac, who was still clinging to Maura's skirts. "For you?"

Maura wrapped her arms around herself. "Arthur—"

"No, I'm done arguing about this." He ran both hands through his hair, leaving it disheveled. "You and Isaac are leaving for Boston. Tomorrow, if I can arrange it."

"No!" Isaac's voice was sharp with panic, though he didn't fully understand what was being discussed. "I don't want to go! I stay with Papa!"

Arthur knelt down, his face gentling as he looked at his son. "Isaac, you remember what I told you about keeping you and Mama safe?"

"Please, Papa," Isaac said, his voice breaking. "I stay."

"No, son." Arthur's voice faltered. How could he explain to a child that his very presence put them in danger?

"Because your papa thinks we're better off without him," Maura said too quietly for Isaac to hear.

"That ain't it and you know it," Arthur shot back, rising to his feet.

"Isn't it?" The tears came anyway, tracking down her cheeks. "You've been looking for an excuse to send us away since Dutch first suggested it. Well, congratulations, Arthur. You found one."

Arthur stared at her, something cracking in his expression. "Is that really what you think?"

"What else am I supposed to think?" Maura's voice broke. "You won't let us be a real family. You keep talking about sending us away, setting us up somewhere else. If you don't want us here, if you don't..." She couldn't finish the sentence, couldn't voice the fear that he didn't care for them enough to want them to stay.

"Mama, no cry," Isaac's small voice cut through the argument.

The innocence in their son's statement shattered something in both of them. Here was this child, their child, trying to make sense of a world that made no sense at all. For a long moment, Arthur just stood there, the fight seeming to drain out of him. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter, rougher with emotion.

"You think I want to send you away because I don't want you?" He took a step closer. "Maura, you and Isaac are the best thing that ever happened to me. The only good thing, maybe."

"Then why—"

"Because I can't lose you." The words came out raw, honest. "I can't lose him. And this life... I'd rather know you're safe and hate me for it than have you here and—" He couldn't finish the thought, couldn't voice the image of Isaac caught in crossfire, of Maura bleeding out in the dirt.

Arthur looked at their son, who was watching this exchange with wide, frightened eyes, then back at Maura's tear-streaked face. The war between his protective instincts and his need to keep them close played out in his expression.

"I don't want you to go," he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. "God help me, I don't want you to go. But after today..."

He gestured toward the window, where the aftermath of the gunfight was still visible. Bullet holes in the walls, overturned furniture, bloodstains in the dirt.

"After today, I don't know how I can ask you to stay."

The silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken fears and the weight of an impossible decision. Isaac had finally quieted against Maura's shoulder, exhausted by the day's terror, his small fist still clutching a handful of her dress.

Arthur sat heavily in the wooden chair by the window, his wounded shoulder making even simple movements painful. The bandage was already showing spots of red, but he seemed focused entirely on his wife and son.

"How long?" Maura's voice was barely a whisper, careful not to disturb Isaac.

Arthur looked up, confused. "How long what?"

"How long until you think it's safe enough for us to come back?" The question hung between them like a challenge. "A month? Six months? A year?"

"I don't know." The honesty in his voice was almost worse than a lie would have been. "I wish I could tell you, but I just... I don't know."

Maura shifted Isaac's weight in her arms, her jaw tight. "So I'm supposed to just... wait. Indefinitely. While you decide when we're allowed to be together again."

"It ain't like that—"

"Isn't it?" But there was less fire in her voice now, more resignation. "Arthur, I understand why you think this is necessary. After today, I can't pretend I don't see the danger. But you're asking me to trust that you'll send for us when you could just as easily decide we're better off staying away permanently."

Arthur leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. "You think I'd do that? Just... abandon you both?"

"I don't know what you'd do," Maura said quietly. "That's what scares me."

Arthur stood slowly, crossing to where she sat on the bed. He knelt beside her, careful not to jostle Isaac, who was still quivering, and took her free hand in both of his.

"I need you to understand something," he said, his voice low and intense. "This is the hardest thing I've ever had to do. Harder than anything Dutch has ever asked of me, harder than any job or fight or... Maura, you and Isaac are my whole world. Sending you away goes against every instinct I have."

"Then why—"

"Because loving you means protecting you, even from me. Even from this life." His grip on her hand tightened. "What kind of man would I be if I let my selfishness put you both in danger?"

Maura closed her eyes, feeling the truth of his words settle over her like a weight. "Promise me," she said finally.

"Promise you what?"

"Promise me that you'll write. As much as you can. Promise me that you'll send for us the moment you think it's safe." She opened her eyes, meeting his gaze directly. "And promise me that if something happens to you, someone will tell us. I won't spend years wondering if you're dead or if you just decided we weren't worth the trouble."

Arthur's grip on her hand tightened. "I promise. All of it."

"All right," she whispered. "All right, Arthur. We'll go to Boston. But not forever. Promise me not forever."

"Not forever," he agreed, his voice thick with emotion. "Just until things settle down here."

Isaac stirred in her arms, looking up at his parents with confusion. "Don't wanna go," he said, his lower lip trembling as he seemed to sense the gravity of the conversation.

"I know, son." Arthur reached out to stroke the boy's hair. "But it's just for a little while. And you'll get to see Grandmother."

As Arthur held their son and made promises he prayed he could keep, Maura watched them both with a heart that was breaking and healing at the same time. This was love, she realized. Not the fairy tale kind from books, but the real, complicated, sometimes painful kind that asks you to sacrifice everything for the people who matter most.

The morning came too quickly, gray and overcast as if the sky itself understood the solemnity of the day. Arthur had been up before dawn, checking and double-checking the train schedules, counting out money for their tickets, and pacing the camp like a caged animal.

Maura packed their few belongings in silence, folding Isaac's small clothes with careful precision, as if the ritual of it could somehow make this easier. Her mother's letter lay carefully tucked in her traveling bag, along with the money Arthur had pressed into her hands, more than she'd ever seen at one time.

"The 2:15 to Boston," Arthur said for the third time that morning, his voice rough from lack of sleep. "Your brother will meet you at South Station. I sent the telegram yesterday."

"You told me." Maura's voice was gentler than it had been the night before, though the hurt was still there, tempered now by understanding. "Arthur, you don't have to keep repeating yourself."

He stopped pacing and looked at her, really looked at her, as if trying to memorize her face. "I know. I just... I need to make sure everything's right."

Isaac sat on the floor nearby, playing with a wooden horse Arthur had carved for him when he was still an infant, blissfully unaware that his world was about to change. When Arthur mentioned they were going on a trip, the boy perked up with the excitement that only a three-year-old could muster.

Before they left for the station, Maura knew she needed to say her goodbyes. The thought of leaving without a word to the women who had become her sisters felt wrong, even under these circumstances.

She found Jenny first, sitting by the dying campfire and cleaning her rifle with the methodical precision that had become second nature. The bullet wound in her thigh was bandaged, but she was moving carefully.

"Jenny," Maura said softly, approaching with Isaac on her hip.

Jenny looked up, and her expression immediately grew serious. "So it's true then. Mr. Morgan is sending you away."

"It's what's best," Maura said, though the words felt hollow. "After yesterday..."

"After yesterday, I understand why he's scared," Jenny said solemnly. "But I’ll miss you and little Isaac so much."

The two women looked at each other for a moment, years of shared experiences passing between them. 

"Please take care of yourself, Mrs. Morgan," Jenny said finally, stepping forward to embrace Maura carefully around Isaac. 

Next, she found Abigail hanging laundry behind the main house, Jack sitting in the basket playing with clothespins. When Abigail saw Maura approaching with her traveling bag, her face crumpled slightly.

"Oh, honey," Abigail said, abandoning the laundry to pull Maura into a fierce hug. "I'm so sorry. I know this ain't what you want."

"It's what's necessary," Maura said, though her voice wavered. "Arthur's right. After what happened yesterday..."

"He is right," Abigail agreed, though she looked like the words pained her. "Don't mean it don't hurt like hell." She pulled back, holding Maura at arm's length. "You write to us, you hear? And not just Arthur. I want to know how you're doing, how Isaac's doing."

"I will." Maura's throat was tight. "And you... you take care of Jack. Take care of yourself. This life..."

"I know." Abigail's voice was soft. "Believe me, I know exactly what you're going through. But we're strong, us women. Stronger than they think. And we'll see each other again."

“Isaac, sweetheart, say goodbye to Jack. You won’t see him for a while.” Isaac reached down and lovingly patted the baby’s head. 

Mrs. Grimshaw appeared as if from nowhere, her stern expression softer than usual. "Well, I suppose this is goodbye then."

"For now," Maura corrected, lifting her chin.

"For now," Mrs. Grimshaw agreed with approval. "You've got more spine than most, girl. Don't lose that in Boston." She pressed a small wrapped package into Maura's hands. "Some biscuits for the journey. And some tea that'll help with... well, with missing people."

The older woman's kindness was almost Maura's undoing. Mrs. Grimshaw had never been demonstrative, but she had been a steady presence, a source of practical wisdom and unexpected comfort.

"Thank you," Maura managed. "For everything. For..."

"For treating you like family," Mrs. Grimshaw finished gruffly. "Because that's what you are. Family don't stop being family just because they're not in the same place."

Even Tilly and Karen appeared, both young women hugged Maura goodbye. Karen, already a bit drunk despite the early hour, pressed a small flask into Maura's hand with a wink.

"For emergencies," Karen said. "Or for when you just can't stand missing us anymore."

Through it all, Arthur watched from a distance, his expression unreadable. Maura could see the pain in his eyes, the way his hands clenched and unclenched at his sides as if he wanted to reach for them but was holding himself back. 

Finally, there was nothing left to do but leave. Arthur loaded their bags into the wagon, his movements careful and deliberate. Isaac, finally beginning to understand that something significant was happening, had grown quiet and clingy.

"Train?" Isaac asked uncertainly as Arthur lifted him into the wagon.

"That's right, son. A real big train." Arthur managed a smile as he settled Isaac between him and Maura. "You'll like it. It's loud and fast, and there's smoke that comes out the top."

Isaac's eyes went wide with wonder, though the excitement was tempered by confusion. "Isaac ride train?"

"You and Mama are going to ride the train all the way to see Grandmother and Uncle."

"Papa ride train too?"

Arthur's smile faltered slightly, but he kept his voice steady. "I’m going to take you to the train, and then you and your Mama will go by yourselves."

The wagon ride to Rhodes was quiet, filled with the kind of tension that comes before a goodbye nobody wants to say. Isaac sat between his parents, occasionally chattering about what he saw, but mostly sensing the somber mood and staying close to Arthur.

The train station in Rhodes was busier than usual, filled with travelers and the organized chaos of commerce. The great iron beast sat waiting on the tracks, steam hissing from its belly, black smoke curling up into the gray sky.

Isaac's eyes went wide as dinner plates when he saw it. "Big!" he breathed, his small hand gripping Arthur's tightly. "So big!"

"That's your train, son." Arthur lifted Isaac up so he could get a better look. "See how shiny it is? And look at all those cars behind it. That's where you and Mama will sit."

"Papa sit too?" Isaac asked, still mesmerized by the locomotive.

Arthur's throat worked for a moment before he could speak. "No, son. Papa's got to go back to camp. But you're going to have such an adventure."

The conductor called out the first boarding warning, ten minutes until departure. Arthur set Isaac down and turned to Maura, his expression serious.

"You got everything? The tickets, the money, Eamon's address?"

"I have everything." Maura's voice was steady, though her hands trembled slightly as she adjusted Isaac's small coat. "Arthur, I—"

"I know." He reached out and touched her face gently. "I know you're still angry. You got every right to be."

"I'm not angry anymore." The admission surprised them both. "I'm hurt, and I'm scared, and I wish things were different. But I understand why you think this is necessary."

Arthur's hand cupped her cheek, his thumb brushing away a tear she didn't realize had fallen. "It is necessary. Even if it's killing me to do it."

"All aboard! Train departing in eight minutes!"

The conductor's call made Isaac look up from where he'd been watching a pigeon pecking at crumbs near the platform. "Mama? Papa? Train time?"

"Almost, sweetheart." Maura knelt down to Isaac's level, her heart breaking at the trust still shining in his eyes. "Isaac, do you remember what Papa told you yesterday? About how he has to stay here to work, and we're going on an adventure?"

Isaac nodded, though there was growing uncertainty in his expression.

"Well, this is where Papa says goodbye to us. We're going to get on the big train, but Papa's going to stay here."

The change in Isaac's expression was immediate and devastating. The excitement drained from his face as the reality of separation finally hit his three-year-old mind.

"No." His voice was small, uncertain. "Papa, come too."

"Papa can't come right now, son." Arthur knelt down beside Maura, his voice gentle but firm. "Remember? Papa has work to do. But you'll see me again soon."

"NO!" Isaac's voice rose to a wail as understanding crashed over him. "Want Papa! No train!"

He launched himself at Arthur, small arms wrapping around his father's neck with desperate strength. Arthur caught him, holding him close as Isaac began to sob against his shoulder.

"I know, son. I know." Arthur's voice was thick with emotion. "I don't want you to go either. But you got to be brave for Mama, okay? You got to take care of her on the big train."

"Final boarding call! All aboard!"

Maura stood on shaking legs, her heart shattering at the sound of her son's cries. "Arthur, we have to—"

"I know." Arthur's voice was barely a whisper. He gently tried to pry Isaac's arms from around his neck, though the boy fought him every step of the way. "Isaac, look at me."

Isaac's tear-streaked face turned to his father, hiccupping sobs making his small body shake.

"Papa loves you more than anything in the whole world," Arthur said, his voice steady despite the pain in his eyes. "And Mama loves you, too. We're going to see each other again real soon, I promise."

"Promise?" Isaac's voice was so small, so broken.

"I promise." Arthur kissed Isaac's forehead, then carefully handed him to Maura. "You take care of your mama, you hear? And be good for her."

As Maura adjusted Isaac in her arms, Arthur reached out and cupped her face with both hands, his thumbs brushing away the tears on her cheeks. For a moment, they just looked at each other, memorizing this last moment together.

"You're the strongest woman I know," he said quietly, his voice meant only for her. "And the best thing that ever happened to me." He leaned down and kissed her softly, a kiss that tasted of goodbye and promises and all the words he couldn't bring himself to say. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against hers. "Take care of yourself, Mrs. Morgan. I'm gonna need you both waiting for me."

Isaac reached desperately over Maura's shoulder as she carried him toward the train, his cries echoing across the platform. "Papa! Papa, come back!"

Arthur stood frozen, every instinct screaming at him to run after them, to grab his family and take them home where they belonged. But he forced himself to stay put, watching as Maura climbed the steps to the train car, Isaac still sobbing in her arms.

She turned in the doorway, her own tears flowing freely now. "Arthur—"

"Go," he said, though it came out rougher than he intended. "Before I change my mind and damn the consequences."

Maura nodded, understanding. She disappeared into the train car, and Arthur could hear Isaac's muffled cries through the windows as she found their seats.

The train lurched into motion with a great hiss of steam and grinding of metal on metal. Through the window, Arthur could see Isaac pressed against the glass, his small hands flat against it, still crying for his papa. Maura sat beside him, one arm around their son, her free hand pressed to her lips as if holding back sobs.

Arthur walked alongside the train as it began to pick up speed, keeping pace with their window. Isaac saw him and pressed his face harder against the glass, his mouth forming the word "Papa" over and over.

"I love you," Arthur called out, though he knew they couldn't hear him over the noise of the locomotive. "I love you both." 

The train gathered speed, and Arthur's walking became jogging, then running, until finally he had to stop and watch as it carried away the two most important people in his world. Isaac's small face remained pressed to the window until the train rounded a bend and disappeared from sight, taking with it Arthur's heart.

He stood there long after the sound of the engine had faded, staring down the empty tracks as if willing the train to return. The platform had emptied of other travelers, leaving him alone with the weight of his decision and the echo of his son's cries.

Finally, with legs that felt like lead, Arthur walked back to where he'd left his horse. The ride back to camp stretched before him like a prison sentence, each mile taking him further from his family and deeper into the life he'd chosen to protect them from. But as he mounted up and turned his horse toward home, Arthur made himself a promise. No matter how long it took, no matter what he had to do, he would find a way to make this right.

Chapter Text

March 2nd, 1896

Boston, Massachusetts

Dear Mr. Callahan,

I am writing to inform you of our safe arrival in Boston. The journey was long and difficult, though Isaac found some fascination with the train once his initial distress subsided. He spent much of the trip pressed against the window, asking questions about everything we passed.

Eamon met us at South Station as arranged. We are staying with him and my mother in the North End. The landlady, Mrs. O'Sullivan, seems kind enough and does not ask too many questions about our circumstances.

Boston is much changed from when I left. The buildings seem to grow taller each year, and there are electric streetcars that fascinate Isaac greatly. He insists we stop to watch each one that passes. I suppose after the quiet of camp, the city must seem quite overwhelming to him. It’s been hard to get him to settle each night with all of the constant noise.

Isaac asks for you constantly. He does not understand why you could not come with us, and I find myself at a loss for explanations that will satisfy a three-year-old mind. Last night he cried himself to sleep, asking for you and wanting to know when we would go home. I told him we were visiting my family, but he was not convinced.

Mother was overjoyed to see us, though she was shocked to meet Isaac; evidently, Eamon failed to inform her about him. Nevertheless, she dotes on him constantly, which provides some distraction from his homesickness. She has been teaching him simple Irish words, which he attempts with great seriousness.

I trust you are well and that the situation which necessitated our departure has improved. Please write soon so that Isaac might know his father thinks of him.

Your wife, 

Mrs. M. Callahan

March 22nd, 1896

Somewhere in New Hanover

Dear Mrs. Callahan,

Your letter was a welcome sight after these past weeks. I'm glad to hear you arrived safely and that Eamon was there to meet you. Give him my regards and my thanks for looking after you both.

I'm sorry to hear Isaac is having such a hard time adjusting. Tell him his Papa thinks about him every day. Maybe that will give him some comfort.

Things here have been busy. We've had to move camp twice since you left, and Dutch thinks we may need to move again soon. The law seems to have gotten more persistent since that business in Saint Denis. We're keeping our heads down and staying out of trouble as much as possible, but you know how these things go.

The camp feels different without you both. Quieter, somehow. Mrs. Grimshaw asks after you regularly, and Jenny made me promise to tell you that she's doing well. Charles has been asking about Isaac and whether he's seen any of those big city horses yet. Jack has started to pull himself up to stand which has caused Abigail great pride and distress at the thought he could be walking soon. It reminds me of Isaac at that age, always getting into trouble.

I miss you both more than I can properly put into words. The mornings are the hardest, when I wake up expecting to hear Isaac's chatter and your voice. But I know this is for the best, even if it doesn't feel that way.