Chapter Text

Ch 1

The Heartlands, 1899

As if the ordeal of riding in a rickety stagecoach across the country wasn't unappealing enough, the decision to continue pushing the horses through the night and not rest in Rhodes was enough to make Margot Van Kamp want to plunge herself through the window and let the O'Driscolls take her. She took mental measurements of the size of the window, briefly appraised the massive heap of skirts and coats she had bunched around her waist, and rolled her eyes.

Simply not worth the effort, she decided.

"Miss Van Kamp, try to not look so miserable," Margot's attendant remarked. Hardwick was an old employee of her father's whose permanently swollen knuckles and deep scar across his forehead told everyone exactly what his role at The National Star was in his youth. Now, with his enforcing days behind him and several decades' worth of favors left to repay, William Van Kamp kept him on payroll as his recently-engaged adult daughter's minder, a role both parties despised equally. Margot twisted the soft gold-colored rope around her velvet coin purse between her fingers and rolled her eyes beneath the wide brim of her emerald colored hat. It was a platitude Hardwick had advised her of on several occasions, but with less and less enthusiasm as her wedding date grew closer and the end of his contract approached with it. Hardwick stretched his toe across the stagecoach floor and gently tapped Margot's foot to get her attention, and she looked up to see a sudden change of expression on his face. He looked across the coach at her, and all the resentment he typically wore on his face was replaced with something like empathy.

"Young Mister Cornwall will make this whole journey worth the effort, miss. I promise you that," the old brawler said with a wink. Margot blinked her dark brown eyes at Hardwick and managed to pause before immediately reacting. She swallowed her contempt eventually— it wasn't Hardwick's fault she had been Shanghai'd into a stagecoach with the promise of a loveless arranged marriage to the son of a railroad and oil tycoon, after all. Ezekiel Cornwall was undoubtedly waiting for Margot at their new mountain home north of Strawberry, prenuptial agreement in one hand and a freshly minted diamond-encrusted set of handcuffs in the other, Margot looked up from her now-tightly-knotted coin purse strap and gave Hardwick a flat smile, but said nothing. She closed her eyes, leaned her head back against the plush upholstery, and closed her eyes.

"WOOOAH!"

The stagecoach skidded to a halt on the loosely packed dirt road, knocking Margot off balance enough that she tumbled off the seat and onto the stagecoach floor. She adjusted her hat and pushed a lock of hair out of her eyes, but was stopped by Hardwick's large hand when she made an attempt to get up. She raised her eyes to look up at him, but the panic-stricken look on his ordinarily stoic face kept her from asking what was happening— at least out loud.

"Stay down," Hardwick whispered hoarsely, motioning for Margot to lay flat on the stagecoach floor. The grizzled old fighter peeked out the heavy velvet curtain and assessed the situation on the road, and his practiced had found his old war revolver holstered faithfully on his hip. After a quick glance at the cylinder, Hardwick snapped the gun shut up, gave one last warning to Margot, and covered her with his heavy wool coat as he kicked the stagecoach door open.

"Uh oh, fellas, we've got ourselves a hero!" a deep, theatric voice bellowed from the road. Margot shook violently on the floor under Hardwick's coat, the artificial darkness not doing anything to make the mystery any more bearable. She inhaled deeply, held her breath, and fought to separate the different sets of footsteps and hoof steps from each other in a feeble attempt to figure out what was happening. The stagecoach door slammed shut, followed by Hardwick's familiar, yet uncharacteristically nervous, overly vocal demands for surrender.

"Gentlemen, lay down your weapons. There is no need for violence," Margot heard Hardwick shout. There was not a good way for her to see the goings-on outside the stagecoach door, but the scattered sounds of footsteps convinced her that Hardwick was, unfortunately, out of his depth.

CRACK! CRACK!

As if on cue, Margot heard the telltale sounds of two newly-deceased bodies fall off the front of the coach heavily onto the ground. Her eyes shot open and a terrified scream threatened to burst out of her throat, but she muffled it with her own wrist just in time.

"Now, now, I assure you that was wholely unnecessary. Let me get into the lockbox. I can assure you we are not traveling lightly, and any amount of money you can find will more than compensate you for your troubles today, and—"

"Mr. Bell, I believe our bespectacled vigilante has outlasted his usefulness," the first mystery voice declared, cutting off Hardwick's diplomatic plea. A second mystery voice, one higher pitched and definitely lubricated with whiskey or moonshine, let out a laugh, strangled and coarse, before replying, "You read my mind, boss."

CRACK!

This time, the gunfire came from Hardwick's gun, followed by the unmistakable twang of a bullet ricocheting a metal sign in the distance. The two mystery men each laughed, and once more, there was the crack of a gunshot and the clumsy thud of body hitting the ground right beside the stagecoach door.

"Mr. Morgan, please make yourself useful and check the stagecoach for any valuables once you find our precious cargo," the first voice ordered, and the second voice added, "don't let this one slip away either, Morgan!"

She would have run if she'd been able to get her wits about her, but Margot lay frozen on the stagecoach floor. The giant coat that covered her from head to toe was still warm from being on Hardwick's lap just a minute ago— still smelled like pipe tobacco and liquor— as if she was just meant to hold it for him and he'd be coming right back any second. The sound of a bullet boring a hole through Hardwick's skull followed by the sound of his lifeless body crashing into the ground… both seemed so fake, like a vivid hallucination inspired by a childhood nightmare. She would have blinked her eyes or pinched herself or shouted for Hardwick to quit messing around and get back in the coach, but her body— her limbs, her fingers, her voice— remained hopelessly paralyzed.

"I know, I know… keep your shirt on… goddamn parasite…" muttered a new, third voice on the opposite side of the coach from where Hardwick's body lay dead in the dirt. The handle on the door jiggled roughly, and a brand new surge of adrenaline shot through Margot's body, allowing her to sit bold upright and scramble under the seat. It was a lost cause; the bandits clearly knew she was there, both exits from the coach were flanked by at least three armed and ruthless men on horseback, and the only means of self defense Margot in her possession was probably laying in a grassy ditch alongside the road after it flung out of Hardwick's hand as he collapsed. Without an escape, all Margot could do was quake violently under the seat and squeeze her eyes shut when the door finally swung open.

"Well, there y'are," the third new voice said. This one was warmer than the first two; nearly melodic in quality, even from just the one statement. Regardless of how calm the man sounded, Margot remained glued to the back of the stagecoach and shook violently. A stream of sunlight entered the coach and flushed out the safe darkness as the man swung the door even further open, and he bent low to peer under the seat. The bottom of the velvety seat cushion tipped his leather hat back on his sweat-soaked head, and in turn also pushed his stringy blonde hair out of his eyes along with it. Just above a filthy black bandana that covered his nose and mouth, the man's piercing blue eyes opened wide at the sight of Margot huddled under the seat, but they softened almost immediately and he tugged the bandana down, revealing a rough 5 o'clock shadow that covered his leathery, suntanned face.

"Come on out, miss. I ain't in the business of gunning down helpless ladies," he beckoned softly. Margot took a shaky breath and adjusted herself to be more mobile, but made no move to actually leave the safety of the coach. The stranger stood back, placed his hands on his hips, and tutted at her.

"I said I weren't in the business of shooting ladies, but I ain't above dragging them out of hiding by their ankles," he said jovially, and he reached back into the coach with one massive gloved hand.

"Don't you dare touch me!"

With one swift movement, Margot struck out with her left foot, jabbing the pointed heel of her shoe into the back of the bandit's hand. The bandit yelped and jerked his hand back, but with her eyes glued to the third bandit who looked back at her with a strange mix of fury and amusement on his face, Margot didn't notice the other door to the coach swing open and the first two bandits just outside. The second bandit, a scaly, greasy blonde man with a thick, unkempt mustache, reached blindly under the seat and cackled as he wrapped his hand around Margot's wild blonde curls and pulled— hard— until Margot fell to the dirty ground right beside Hardwick.

"Goddammit, Micah, she ain't a stuck foal," the third bandit hollered impatiently as he rounded the coach to join the other two men. The second bandit, the man known as Micah, rammed his boot into Margot's ribcage and laughed low and deep. Margot bellowed, but curled into herself rather than make a move to stand.

"Hellfire… get up, girl!" Micah cajoled, and as if the first kick to the ribs wasn't enough, he followed it up with a second kick to Margot's opposite side. Margot cried out in pain, but did her best to crawl into the weeds, gasping for breath to fill her bruised lungs. The thought that one of the three men might put a hole through her skull as well did enter her mind briefly, but it didn't last. She knew if they had any interest in shooting her, they'd have done so already.

"Arthur just hogtie her, would you? We're wasting precious time," the first man ordered. The third bandit, the blue-eyed man known as Arthur, sighed and loped into the ditch after Margot and unwound his lasso from his belt as he moved.

"You ain't getting away, ma'am. You might as well make this easy on yourself and come quietly," he said, and he reached down to flip Margot onto her stomach. With her face in the dirt and her hands and feet bound securely, she finally admitted she was in no condition to make a run for it.

"Want 'er on your horse, Dutch?" Arthur asked as he effortlessly swung Margot up over his shoulder like a feed sack. The first man, a clean and well-dressed dark fellow with a pristine silk vest and a glittering pocket watch chain dangling from his waist, shook his head and lit a cigar.

"No, put her on Bodicea, Arthur. Micah and I are going to ride into town and see what we can find out about Young Mister Cornwall's plans for picking up his betrothed," Dutch replied. "Get her back to camp, get her cleaned and dressed, and make sure she's comfortable. We'll be back before nightfall."

Micah chuckled darkly and he mounted his horse and followed Dutch down the road. "Don't let that nasty mare throw ya, Morgan!" Micah called over his shoulder, motioning to the bound socialite secured on the back of Arthur's horse.

Margot still could not see much of what haws happening. Her face hung upside down over the horse's croup and Arthur had not only hogtied her, but strapped her down like a slain deer. She listened intently for any clues as to what was going on— the crack of metal against a lockbox told her everything she needed to know. She heard Arthur rifle through her belongings and heard a pile of clothing hit the ground, then the telltale jangling of gold chains and cash, followed by the fffflip of a stack of bills.

"You got any more valuables on your person, Miss Van Kamp?" Arthur asked as calmly as he would if he were asking a store proprietor if he carried flour or salt. Despite everything, Margot had enough sense to shake her head.

"N-no. Nothing," she responded. The most expensive thing on her, her brand new hat she'd just picked up from the haberdasher that morning, lay trampled in the dirt a few yards from where Hardwick lay stiff in a pool of his own blood. Arthur grunted in response and mounted his horse, the warm pressure of his lower back against Margot's bruised ribs doing little to comfort or console her.

"Settle in, miss. It ain't a long ride back to camp, but that don't mean it's going to be comfortable," he said, and with a cluck of his tongue, Bodicea started off down the road going the opposite direction of Micah and Dutch. After a few minutes, once the dusty trail disappeared over the horizon and was replaced with rugged, rocky prairie and wild, thorny bushes. The relentless sun baked the back of Margot's neck, and horseflies seemed to stick to whatever sweat-drenched skin had come uncovered during the ordeal. Once in a while, Arthur muttered to his horse, but didn't make a move to even glance back at his unwilling passenger. For the first time all week, Margot cried, and the tears did not stop falling until Arthur navigated into a copse of trees and hollered a coarse greeting to his criminal companions.

Oh, Margot… what have you gotten yourself into now?

Chapter Text

Horseshoe Overlook

"Aaaand… down you go!"

Arthur hoisted Margot off the back of his horse roughly and with about as much caution as he'd have used to handle an uncooperative bounty, and as if her ribs didn't hurt enough, her sudden and forceful contact with the ground knocked the wind out of her lungs for the second time that day. Arthur knealt by her and unsheathed his knife to cut the knots that held her in place, but with a cockeyed smirk he waved the blade in her face.

"Now, I'm going to untie you, but when I do, you ain't goin' to run off into them trees, alright?" Arthur said, his tone teasing and sarcastic. Without another word, Margot scowled, drew back as far as she could from her position on the ground, and spat directly between Arthur's blue eyes. Unbeknownst to her, a sizable crowd had formed around her, and as Arthur recoiled from the sticky projectile that landed on his forehead, the other gang members let out a collective "OOOOOH!" Margot scooted to a seated position, still bound around the ankles and wrists, and shot daggers toward her captor through her eyes.

"I will do what I damn well please, and I'll go where I damn well please," she hissed. "If you think you're the first group of common road men who think they can make a buck off a vulnerable little rich girl, you're even less intelligent than I originally thought!"

Arthur used his black handkerchief to clean himself off, and when he uncovered his face, it was clear he had not stopped laughing since before Margot snapped at him. He wagged a finger disapprovingly at her as he tried a second approach, and this time, one of the other gang members, a much younger black man with a grin as wide as Arthur's, held her in place by her shoulders.

"Miss Van Kamp, I ain't much of a genius, but I ain't unintelligent, and I won't be made a fool of, alright?" Arthur said firmly, his voice just barely teetering on the edge of a laugh. He knealt down again by Margot's side and took her bound feet in one hand and repositioned his knife in the other. "Now, if you think you can outrun a whole camp of seasoned veteran outlaws…" Slice! "…and their horses…." Slice! "…and their guns, why, that would be your prerogative, ma'am… but I wouldn't recommend it."

Margot's limbs fell free of the ropes, and rather than stretch and work out the cramps in her joints, she tensed up more and slid back and away from Arthur and the others. Back against a fallen log, she gripped whatever she could get her fingers around, whether it was dirt, gravel, twigs, or fallen leaves. Obviously, there was nothing in her immediate vicinity that would out-shoot even one revolver out of the bunch. Arthur scoffed and placed his knife back into the sheath. He crouched down to meet her eyes, held his hands up in surrender, and shook his head in clear disbelief at Margot's poorly planned attempt at self defense. "Now, I think we both know a fistful of sticks ain't going to do much, right, Margot?"

"It's Miss Van Kamp, thank you."

The gang members loitering around the vicinity chuckled darkly and whistled at Margot's stinging correction. One of them, a large bearded man, squawked at her, stepped forward, and narrowed his eyes menacingly. "If you think for a second you're going to be taken care of with a piss-poor attitude like that—"

"Can it, Bill," Arthur muttered, swatting him off like a pest. Bill mumbled incoherently and plodded off toward the stew pot, and several others followed. Arthur turned his attention back to Margot, and he bent his knee to her to get closer. Margot blinked into the sunlight and met his gaze. He was softer now than he had been before; the weather-worn creases around his eyes and forehead smoothed, his jaw loosened, and those steel-blue eyes that she hadn't forgotten from the stagecoach melted.

"I'm sorry. I know. Miss Van Kamp. My apologies," he finally said, kneeling close enough that Margot could feel his tobacco-scented breath on her forehead. Her body and every rapid-fire muscular response her brain ordered her to obey, relaxed. The vicious killer who'd hauled her back to his camp like furniture was nowhere to be found, and Arthur grunted as he adjusted his knee on the ground and cleared his throat.

"Miss Van Kamp, I ain't under any delusion that you want to be here right now. I can't say I blame you. Reckon last place I'd want to be is in your shoes right now. All's I know right now is none of us have any interest in hurtin' you, and that's the truth," he said, his voice low and rough, but soft. Arthur shifted his weight on his feet, and Margot, startled by the very slight movement, sat back on her heels and narrowed her eyes at him.

"Don't touch me," Margot bit, and she gathered her heavy pine-colored skirts tight around her shins as she scrambled backwards as much as she could before her back was flush against a boulder. Arthur dropped his head and his wide shoulders drooped with a sigh.

"I won't. I won't touch you. I'm not a good man, but I ain't an animal. I won't touch you," he replied firmly. A few feet behind them, the stew pot sputtered and bubbled over the fire, and Arthur raised his eyebrows and tilted his chin toward it.

"Now, I know you must be hungry. Way I see it, you can either sit here in the dirt shakin' like a leaf, cold, and hungry… or, if you'd rather, you can join us around the fire and have a bowl of stew, and at least be terrified, warm, and full," Arthur said calmly. He stood up, keeping his palms up and facing Margot, and smiled warmly at her.

"It's your choice, miss," Arthur said, and he slowly extended a cracked, calloused hand to her, inviting her to stand up and join him. "But I'd be happy to fix you a plate."

Margot took a breath. Her heartbeat had long since settled into a normal rhythm, and the crude taunts from the other gang members had stopped completely once they all eventually split off to handle other tasks around camp. She should have been afraid— that was painfully obvious— but the man whose portrait could be found on every Wanted poster from Tumbleweed to Van Horn was far from fearsome. Margot bit her lip and laid her hand gently on Arthur's. They lingered for a moment, each tentatively daring to look each other in the eye, and the moment Margot untangled her skirts from around her legs, Lenny shouted, "DUTCH AND MICAH ARE BACK!"

Two sets of loud, proud hooves announced Dutch's return soon after Lenny did, but Micah rounded the corner into camp before Dutch did. His horse skidded to a halt in the same patch of grass as everyone else's horses, and he dismounted with a clumsy slide as he turned his attention toward Arthur.

"Well, how about that, cowpoke… looks like you've got that filly broke for ridin' after all," Micah sneered. Under the wide brim of his hat Arthur shot a quick glance down at Margot, then looked back at his two accomplices as they strode closer.

"Shut up, Micah," Arthur grumbled, and he turned his back and shuffled to the fire. Micah, greasy and sunburnt, hooked his thumbs behind his belt, and draped his thick, heavy arm over Margot's shoulders. She recoiled briefly and shrunk away from him, desperate to disappear inside of her now wrinkled and soiled dress. Micah's forced chuckle escaped his raw, sticky throat again as he forcefully guided her toward the stew pot.

"Arthur, everything is already going exactly to plan!" Dutch bellowed victoriously, his booming voice a dinner bell for his hungry followers. Margot noticed immediately how effortlessly the older man could command attention from everyone in the camp, but more than that, it was clear to her how much he seemed to enjoy it. As he passed each gang member, they each put their chores down and followed him, wordlessly and reverently, to his tent where he held court.

"You're going to want to pay attention to this, Peach," Micah oozed to Margot, and he pinched her pointed chin in his iodine-stained fingertips. Margot bristled, but stayed frozen under his grasp. Dutch's thin lips stretched into a juicy grin, and his eyes twinkled as he took a silent headcount of his audience.

"Everyone, I trust Arthur has introduced you to our esteemed guest, Margot Van Kamp, but you may recognize her father, Albert Van Kamp. Albert, as we all know—" Dutch paused to unroll a newspaper with a wide, boldly printed logo across the top, "—is the owner of this very popular rag, the National Star."

Dutch quieted just then and paced across his makeshift stage, waiting for the gravity of his statement to sink in. Arthur slouched his shoulders and scratched his beard, listening anxiously to his leader.

"Miss Van Kamp is engaged to be married, and if the headlines in the last few issues of Daddy's gossip rag are to believed, it is going to be the society event of the season! Would any of you expect any less for the heiress to a newspaper fortune, whose betrothed is the son of our sworn enemy Leviticus Cornwall?"

A few of the gang members gasped, and a few murmured in hushed tones to one another, but Arthur remained still, listening intently to the rest of Dutch's master plan. Dutch inhaled deeply, filling his barrel chest with the cool spring air, and he continued.

"With Miss Van Kamp's help— her final task as a single bachelorette with means— we'll finally be on our way out of here. We can forget all about that score back in Blackwater, my friends. Daddy Van Kamp's sitting on a fortune, and Papa Cornwall, as we all know… he's sittin' on a gold mine."

The drunken reverend Margot had seen ambling around camp furrowed his brows, and he retreated silently to his tent. Bill, beard and mustache still coated in venison stew, practically jumped to his feet and shouted, "That's going to be a sizable ransom, boss!"

Dutch smirked, pleased with himself and his scheme.

"Astute observation, Mr. Williamson! A ransom from either one of those esteemed east coast families will afford each one of us a life of freedom in the untamed west, mark my words!"

Margot's belly turned to ice and the color drained from her face. Her unceremonious dropoff at the Van Der Linde camp was her first clue that she wasn't there for the hospitality, but Dutch's confirmation that she was without a doubt a hostage being held for ransom felt like a sinkhole opened beneath her trembling feet.

"Don't forget to tell Arthur the best part of the plan, boss," Micah added in his tone-deaf singsong way. Arthur snapped to attention and stepped forward.

"Of course, Micah," Dutch replied, waving his cohort off with his bedazzled right hand. "It would be foolish of us to just let our most valuable possession wander free, right Arthur?"

Arthur's jaw parted slightly and his eyes flickered back and forth between Dutch and Margot. She knew right away what Dutch was going to say, and judging by the way the vein in Arthur's neck had started to pulse, he knew right away as well.

Dutch turned slowly to face Arthur directly, and he brought his fingertips together into a pleading prayer-like fashion.

"Arthur, I understand that this is a terrible imposition, but it would mean a lot to me, and the gang, if you would keep watch over Miss Van Kamp for the duration of her stay with us," he said, and he closed his eyes and sighed once Arthur protested.

"Now, Dutch, I—"

"You're very busy, I know! Trust me, son, I know that better than most. But, Arthur, I need someone I can trust, and I can trust you," Dutch replied, cutting Arthur off at the knees. He stepped down off the wooden crate he used as a stage and crossed the short distance to Arthur. Arthur was taller than Dutch, and without a doubt larger, but once Dutch laid his heavily bejeweled hand on Arthur's shoulder, the sandy-haired outlaw shrunk to half his size.

"I ain't a nursemaid, Dutch. I'm not in the business of tendin' to the needs of a spoiled little princess," Arthur grumbled. Margot winced at the comment, and Micah finally released her from his unyielding grip and marched over to join the two men.

"Aww, come on now, cowpoke. Think of what will be printed in all Daddy's papers when folks start talkin' and spreadin' rumors of how that pretty little daisy is running around with Dutch van der Linde's most fearsome compadre! And judgin' by what Dutch and I just heard at the saloon, those birds are already singin'! Ol' Daddy won't be too pressed to cut a check if she's here at camp peelin' potatoes, Arthur. But if Daddy finds out his little girl—" Micah paused to pinch Margot's cheek, which made her swat him away instinctively, "—is out turning over banks with a crew of hoodlums and scoundrels…?"

Dutch dropped both of his hands heavily on Arthur's sloping shoulders and held his eye.

"I need you, Arthur. I need you to keep Miss Van Kamp from running off, I need you to keep her from getting herself killed, and I need you to make her look as ugly and menacing as the rest of us. Can you do that for me, son?"

The camp was deathly silent and all eyes were on Arthur as he chewed his bottom lip and ran his fingers through his beard. Margot too watched him, but couldn't determine if she needed to be relieved that he obviously did not feel the same level of excitement about the plan as Dutch and Micah did, or offended that she was suddenly an enormous burden when just a few minutes ago he'd been inviting her to sit by the fire with him. Inadvertently, the two met each other's eyes, and Margot couldn't help but scowl at him.

"Yeah, alright, fine. But Dutch, if she slows me down or gets in the way just one time…"

"And she won't, will you, Miss Van Kamp?" Dutch sang out, and he took Margot's hand in his, brought it to his lips, and kissed it with the same rehearsed conviction as a Shakespearean actor. "But if she does trip you up… well, there's no shortage of inconceivable tragedies that could happen out there in the wilderness, right Arthur?"

A heavy stone dropped into the pit of Margot's gut. Arthur opened his mouth to speak, but stopped himself short. Instead of addressing Dutch, he turned his head to Margot. Whatever warmth she'd thought she'd seen in his face had been plastered over with cold, resolute stoicism.

"You need to be up bright and early tomorrow. If you ain't, you're bound to meet the side of me that don't like bein' inconvenienced," Arthur snarled, mere inches away from Margot's face.

"You certainly do not need to worry about me, Mister Morgan. I can handle myself just fine," Margot hissed back, meeting his stare with equal intensity. Arthur stood there for a moment as if he were flipping the pages in a catalog of witty retorts, but he slammed that catalog shut and put a cigarette between his lips.

"There's an extra cot in Pearson's wagon. I don't care where you put it. Get some sleep," he said flatly. Fists clenched at his side, Arthur turned his back to Dutch, Micah, and Margot, and trudged back to his tent.

Chapter Text

Ch 3

"This line of work does not appear to be any less gruesome or bloody than a train robbery, Mister Morgan. Actually, that bank robbery event you made me attend in Valentine was far less violent than that," Margot observed, her upper lip curling into a judgmental sneer. She did not turn to look at Arthur, who sat behind her in Bodicea's saddle as they hurriedly left the poor Polish man's humble home and made their way back for camp. She couldn't see his face, but she knew she struck a nerve by the way his chest grumbled against her back.

"Come to think of it, the only job I've had to watch so far that you truly did not need your gun was when you and John rustled those poor sheep. I'm sure those ranchers have needed to toil a great many hours to recompense their loss," Margot added.

"I didn't say it was pretty work. You came to that conclusion on your own," he replied.

Leopoldo Strauss was one of the gang's more quiet and aloof members. Margot had only exchanged a few words with him since her arrival; he'd greeted her with a particularly dry "Guten Morgen" once while briskly walking past her to get to his spot on the rocky ledge behind camp, and since then, Margot had thanked him for passing a flask once, to which he nodded curtly… and that was all. She'd heard whispers of the line of work Strauss was in, but she spent her childhood around bankers. None of them were any more or less unsavory than anyone else in any other line of work.

To her knowledge, though, none of the stuffy, buttoned up, bald-headed, cheek-pinching investment bankers who visited her father had ever put another man's skull through a door.

"Perhaps if the men who borrow from Herr Strauss were to put up a form of collateral— a plow, for instance, or a horse, or—"

"Miss Van Kamp, three quarters of these men ain't got a pot to piss in, let alone a plow. They're puttin' up their bodies as collateral, I guess. And they know the terms when they take that money from us. They all shook on it," Arthur interrupted. Margot looked down as if searching for a way to disappear, and instead saw Arthur's knuckles turning white around Bodicea's reins.

"Why are you upset? A man should be proud of the work he does, Mister Morgan, Aren't you proud that you can pummel an unarmed man who doesn't speak our language half to death and leave with his wedding ring? Don't you—"

"THAT'S ENOUGH!"

Bodicea skidded to a halt as Arthur steered her off the dirt road and yanked her reins back into his chest with a firm jerk. He was absolutely fuming— his ruddy face turning more and more purple by the second, and the veins in his temples throbbed along with the ones in his thick neck— but he slid down off of his mare's back silently. Margot, her face glued into a deep scowl and her arms crossed tightly across her chest, effortlessly swung to sit sidesaddle and face the outlaw. Arthur bent to strike a match on the bottom of his boot and feverishly lit the cigarette he'd already stuck between his lips, pushed the sleeves of his union suit up to his elbows, and turned around. Arthur narrowed his eyes and stared up at Margot. Even just sitting like that on his horse's saddle— ankles crossed, spine pin-straight, and hands folded delicately over her knees like she hadn't just poured salt into an open 20-year-old wound— God, she was infuriating. He took a long, deep, greedy drag off of his cigarette.

"Miss, I am doin' my damndest to be polite to you. I'm mindin' my manners. I'm sayin' 'Yes ma'am,' and 'No, ma'am,' and 'what in the goddamn blazes do you need now, ma'am,' and I think I've been as fair as I can be given the circumstances, but—"

"Oh, Mister Morgan, I wouldn't call kidnapping fa—"

"AS I WAS SAYING," Arthur shouted darkly. He took two long strides forward until he could grab the horn on Bodicea's saddle with one hand and the back with the other, and he pulled it sharply toward himself with one fierce tug. Bodicea, perhaps making an accidental comment toward her master's behavior, was unfazed, but her sidesaddle passenger was caught entirely by surprise and slipped forward. Caught between Bodicea's bay-colored abdomen and Arthur's sweat-soaked barrel chest and oak tree arms, Margot's mouth went stone dry and her heart hammered against the back of her ribcage.

"If I'm mindin' my manners as well as I am on your behalf, I would expect the same courtesy in return. It's a matter of respect, you see. You like to be respected, right, Miss Van Kamp?" Arthur asked casually, his tone even and cold. Margot nodded, and and her honey-blonde girls stuck to her suddenly quite misty forehead. The corner of Arthur's mouth tugged up into a smirk.

"Yeah, yeah, I learned that about you. We both like feeling respected, don't we? Right now, I'm havin' a hard time believing you respect me. Givin' me a lecture on what I do for employment, when you ain't worked a day in your life? I am sorry, Miss Van Kamp, but I have a hard time makin' that make sense. Kinda makes me feel like you think you're better than me, you know? I don't know how well you do with being disrespected, but…"

Arthur trailed off, clucked his tongue, and repositioned himself slightly, allowing for Margot to see Arthur move his hand from Bodicea's saddle to the hilt of his glittering sidearm.

"Well, we both know how well I handle being disrespected, I suppose. We don't need to talk about that. Understand, ma'am?"

There he was.

That was the man on all the Wanted posters.

Margot swallowed and nodded again, the tremor-like jerks of her head nearly indistinguishable from her body's quivering reaction to the Butcher of Blackwater's foreboding tone. Immediately, the mask dropped, and the gray and empty eyes Arthur was just using to strike fear into Margot's soul blinked away and once again twinkled with his wry sense of humor.

"Good! I'm glad we have that understanding," he said in his jovial sing-song way. He gently guided Margot to the side, adjusted Bodicea's girth and saddle, then turned back to Margot.

"Let me help you back onto your steed, my lady," Arthur said. Margot timidly stepped closer, and Arther closed his hands around her ribs and pulled her straight up off the ground and immediately down onto his mare's back. With a noticeable hard shove that put the saddle horn into Margot's belly, Arthur released her and climbed onto the saddle himself.

Neither spoke for quite some time, but Margot eventually felt Arthur relax in the saddle behind her. His chest loosened, the reins drooped, and his massive thighs no longer threatened to squeeze the life out of their horse; all good indications that she'd dodged a literal bullet today… as long as she behaved herself.

"Does that mean I get to shoot you if you piss me off too?"Margot mumbled, barely audible over the creak of the worn leather saddle. Arthur tensed for half of a second, but Margot's back vibrated with each booming laugh he forced to keep inside his chest. Neither said anything more until Bodicea rounded the corner toward camp. As they did, the foppish looking gentleman in a top hat and tails known as Trelawny stood up off of the log near the entrance and flagged Arthur down with his newspaper.

"Still out entertaining our guest I see, Arthur!" Trelawny called out, and even though Arthur had already slowed to a stop, Trelawny planted his hand on Bodicea's neck as if to keep her from moving any further forward.

"I have a favor to ask of you both," he said, his famous Cheshire grin stretching across his narrow face from ear to ear. Arthur sighed, but it was only perceptible to Margot, who felt him push the sigh out his nostrils and over the top of her ear. Arthur straightened up in the saddle and looked down at Trelawny while Bodicea seized the opportunity to munch on some clover.

"Whad'ya turn up?" Arthur asked, flipping the switch back to Tireless Worker Bee. Trelawney smile beamed brighter, and Margot could nearly hear the wheels turning inside his head as he approached Bodicea's saddle with his newspaper opened wide. He jabbed his finger into the paper, pointing at a photo of a middle-aged and elegant woman posing with her nose in the air.

"This big city opera singer is traveling through the area on her way to St. Denis today. A passenger like that would be carrying all manner of gem and jewel on her person, and I think it's only neighborly to lighten that load for her, wouldn't you agree, Arthur?"

Arthur grumbled under his breath and scratched his beard. "I s'pose…"

Trelawny nodded and began to speak, but stopped himself when he again noticed Margot sitting in the saddle.

"Miss Van Kamp, I have a job for you too, don't you worry," Trelawny said brightly, but before either he or Margot could continue, Arthur waved his hands and cut them both off.

"Now I don't think Miss Van Kamp has any interest in actively participating—"

Margot jabbed her oversized captor in the ribs.

"Nonsense, Mister Morgan! Weren't you just saying I've never worked a day in my life? Would it not be beneficial for both of us if I were to gain an understanding for your vocation if I'm to be of use to you and Mister Van Der Linde?" Margot asked, and she twisted around in the saddle to face Arthur. Arthur's jaw tightened and he exhaled a bit more forcefully than normal.

"She makes a salient point, Arthur, my boy! Imagine the fearsome yarns she could spin for the papers once she's able to build a resumé!" Trelawny commented optimistically. "You have been to the opera, Miss Van Kamp, yes?"

"Oh, certainly, Mister Trelawny. You know, I had the honor of playing Papagena in the Sinclair School's production of—"

"PERFECT! She'll be an excellent help, Arthur. Of course, I'll still need your knack for intimidation just in case, but with a high society lady of leisure on our side, we may be able to charm the rings off Mrs. Damsen's fingers."

"Great," Arthur mumbled under his breath.

Arthur paced back and forth in the shade of a sloping elm about twenty yards back from the ostentatiously adorned rented stagecoach and forced himself not to watch the scene unfold between Trelawny, Margot, and the unwitting and all-to-eager disgraced opera singer they'd coaxed out of her carriage. He struggled to hear their conversation, but Mrs. Damsen's shrill off-key soprano notes had no trouble piercing his ears. Margot, dressed in the emerald green traveling dress she'd worn the day Micah dragged her out of her own stagecoach, was putting on a show worthy of her own operatic performance. She clasped her hands at her cheek, she applauded and giggled vibrantly every time Mrs. Damsen's stretched to hit the high C, and she hopped in place and squeezed Trelawny's shoulder excitedly when the singer completed a measure.

"Pfft."

Arthur continued to pace back and forth until he wore a path in the soft earth beneath him and the toes of his boots caught on the newly exposed tree roots. Trelawny, who'd been playing a support role to Margot in their endeavor more than he'd expected to, looked up the hill to him gleefully and gave him a thumbs-up behind Margot's back. Arthur, reacting the only way he felt was appropriate, rolled his eyes and turned around to take a drag off of his cigarette.

Two full cigarettes and half a flask of whiskey later, the sound of the coachmen shouting to their horses and the rumbling wooden coach wheels rolling steadily away let Arthur know his pointless trip the outskirts of New Hanover had finally come to a close.

"Well then, how'd you come out?" He shouted to Trelawny as he mounted his horse. Trelawny urged Gwydion forward with a light heel to his ribs and caught up to Arthur, chuckling smugly.

"You should ask Miss Van Kamp how it went, Arthur! Seems to me we didn't have a use for that terrifying revolver in your holster after all!"

Arthur grimaced as Margot trotted her new Nokota gelding to catch up with the men, and once she rode side by side with Arthur she wiggled her new ruby pendant at him.

"How the hell did y— that can't be all you—"

"Mister Morgan, you think me an amateur when it comes to procuring new jewelry, do you?" Margot replied with a sly wink. Margot tucked her hair behind her ears and showed off a new pair of matching ruby earrings, and lifting her hands to her ears revealed a pair of shining gold-and-diamond bracelets. Speechless for once, Arthur looked to Trelawny and expressed how dumbfounded he was with little more than his eyes.

"Your guest has a natural flare for the dramatic, Arthur! She charmed the gems right off of her! Once she improvised a story about how she sold her father's champion thoroughbred to finance singing lessons, it was all we could do to keep the lady from giving her everything on her person to support the cause!"

Arthur's eyes darted from Trelawny to Margot. He was thankful for the wide brim of his hat and how well it concealed his face, as he couldn't decide whether he needed to convey how reluctantly impressed he was ,or how deeply annoyed he was.

"Cheer up, Arthur! I'm sure we'll have a use for your very specific set of skills before you know it," Trelawny cheered, and he tipped his hat and rode off in the opposite direction of Horseshoe Overlook. Arthur gave a whistle for Bodicea to trot off, but Margot, who was fighting off a very superior looking skirt with every ounce of energy she had, managed to skillfully catch up to him.

"Don't be cross with me, Mister Morgan. Surely you are not upset that my presence has somehow lightened your workload, are you?" she asked, and she reached over to playfully tug Arthur's sleeve. Arthur scowled.

"Does that mean you know how to ride that horse without instructions too?" He groused. Margot released the reins, steered the gelding with he thighs, tossed her hair over her shoulder and tied it with a ribbon as she sped past Arthur and smoothly rounded the corner into camp.

"Show-off…" Arthur mumbled, but now that he was alone, he didn't bother hiding the wry smile that creased the corners of his eyes.

Chapter Text

“To Mister Van Kamp, my deepest gratitude to you for opening your doors for our engagement party, and for the blessing of your daughter's hand in marriage. My friends, my esteemed colleagues, and of course, Mister Van Kamp… your presence here tonight means the world to not only me, but my stunningly beautiful fiancée, Margot Elisabeth Beatrix Van Kamp as well, but if I am honest, your presents mean more!"

The crowd erupted into a tidal wave of riotous laughter and applause as Ezekiel joined them in laughing at his own witty quip and then joined them in a toast. Margot barely registered that he'd invited her to raise a glass as well until he touched her elbow.

"Darling? All is well, I assume?"

Margot smiled warmly at Ezekiel and nodded.

"Of course, my love. I was miles away for a moment," she responded swiftly. A member of the waitstaff lingered behind them, and she motioned for him to top off her flute so she had something to toast with. No one mentioned that it was the fourth time he'd done so since they'd sat down for dinner.

Ezekiel's father, Leviticus Cornwall, stood from his seat at the end of the table and proudly strode to his son and Margot and shook Ezekiel's hand briskly before raising his palms to the crowd to silence their applause. He wasn't a particularly large man, but six decades of decadent leisure and rich food made the space between Margot and the table a tight squeeze regardless. She covered the top of her glass and shuffled back against the wall to listen to another of his rabble-rousing speeches but was stopped by a loop of plum-colored beads on the hem of her dress wrapped itself around the heel of her right shoe. She stumbled, reached back to steady herself on whatever piece of furniture might be there, and instead grabbed the same waiter's sleeve and pulled him to the floor with her. The sudden collapse to the ground in front of a crowd of millionaires, politicians, businessmen, and their wives stood mouths agape at the scene as it unfolded directly behind Leviticus and Ezekiel. It would have been preferable for the tile floor to shatter beneath Margot and drag her straight to Hades than for her to get up and address the tumble head on.

"Miss Van Kamp, are you alright?" The waiter said. "I'm so sorry! I didn't— I mean— I should have known—"

"Davis, you idiot, of course it's not your fault!" Leviticus seethed. It was astonishing how quickly he dropped his public relations-friendly mask and once again wore the face known to the foremen on his railroad crews. He first, then Ezekiel, snatched Margot up off the floor and steadied her onto her feet.

"Christ's sake, woman, you've doused yourself in champagne…"

"Margot, did you think for even a second that four glasses of champagne might be a bit much?"

"…and in front of the senator…"

"I don't suppose you've brought anything to change into?"

"For fuck's sake, Davis, get her out of here through the back!"

Davis guided Margot through the patio door behind the table as her future father-in-law settled the crowd once again— "Quite the court jester, isn't she? A round of applause for Miss Van Kamp, yes indeed, yes indeed!"— and then led her to the outdoor entrance to the butler's kitchen.

"It's just champagne, miss. I'm sure it will come right out," Davis whispered, doing his best to console Margot as she furiously dabbed at the fragrant stain splashed across her bodice. "Shall I—"

"No, Davis, I'll be alright. I need to get some air anyway, thank you," she replied appeasingly. Davis hovered near her for a moment and searched her face for any unspoken requests, but he nodded his head to her and exited to the hallway once she waved him off.

Margot left the butler's kitchen through the opposite doorway back to the back lawn and braced herself against the railing that surrounded the lily pond. She inhaled deeply, sighed heavily, and squeezed her eyes shut as tightly as she could in a determined effort to dissolve her tears before they rolled down her heavily rouged cheeks. Once she recovered, she looked around to see if she ran the risk of bumping into anyone before going back into the house, but stopped short of going back to the same door by the sight of a lamp burning in her father's office. She slowly pushed the door open just a crack to see her father reclined in his office chair, hands folded over his eyes, and shoes propped on his large mahogany desk with no regard for the mess of documents and paperwork that was already there.

"What are you doing in here, Margot?"

Margot paused and bit her lip before replying to her father, who hadn't even uncovered his eyes before addressing her.

"I'm just getting some air, and I saw your light was on, so I thought—"

Van Kamp grunted deeply as he got to his feet and pressed his hands deep into his jacket pockets.

"Heard you made a spectacle of yourself in there."

Margot looked down to the floor and studied her shoes. Van Kamp exhaled the breath he'd been holding all night through his nostrils and stood nearly nose-to-nose with his oldest daughter, arms crossed and eyes narrowed to slits.

"We can't afford to have you cock this up, Margie… not when we are this close."

Margot furrowed her brows and twisted her coin purse in her hands, but nodded in agreement. Her father, obviously searching somewhere inside of himself for any amount of empathy, rigidly patted her frail shoulder in a small attempt at consolation before he turned back to his desk to tap a thick, professionally bound contract. VAN KAMP CLAIM - GAPTOOTH RIDGE was printed on the front page in large, bold typeface, and the words printed in its pages sealed Margot's, and by proxy, her family's, fate— her hand in marriage to Leviticus Cornwall's son, as well as the deed to a speculative oil claim way out in New Austin her father had won several years prior in a hand of poker, in exchange for permanent financial backing for Van Kamp's faltering newspaper, the National Star. Van Kamp flattened his hand across the front of the contract and paused as if he was gathering his thoughts, but said nothing until he crossed the office floor and had his hand on the doorknob.

"Do not let me down, Margot," he said, and he beckoned for his daughter to follow him back into the hallway and then back into the ballroom.

"Are you trying to scrub another hole in that shirt, Margot?"

Margot snapped out of her daydream and looked up, wide-eyed, at Karen, who poured a tipple of whiskey into her steaming coffee mug as her lips twisted up into a half smirk. She held the flask out to Margot to offer her a swig, but Margot waved her off.

"It's a bit early, isn't it?" She asked. Karen scoffed loudly.

"Why? You gotta clock in at the workhouse later?"

Margot glanced to her left and saw Tilly and Mary-Beth each grinning back at her. Tilly saw her hesitation and rolled her eyes.

"You may as well get your fill before your nanny sees," she laughed as she gave Margot a nudge with her elbow. Margot then too rolled her eyes, but sighed dramatically and accepted the flask from Karen. Just as she brought it to her lips and tipped her head back to swallow its contents, the familiar lazy jangling of spurs and its accompanying greasy laugh drowned out the womens' giggles.

"You all ain't tryin' to corrupt this dainty society flower, are you?" Micah jeered loudly. "Karen, I'm surprised to see you're so willin' to share your liquor!"

"Bite my ass, Micah."

"Well, had I known you was offerin'…!"

Karen tossed her coffee onto Micah's feet before walking off into the trees. The other women, including Margot, scrambled to their feet and gathered up their laundry work to join Karen, but Micah reached out and wrapped his fingers around Margot's arm.

"I don't think it's wise to be hangin' around those filthy jezebels, Miss Van Kamp," Micah slurred. "With Arthur still out it'd probably be best for you to sit with me and Dutch."

Margot felt the whiskey she'd just swallowed begin to bubble back up into her throat as Micah leaned closer to drape his heavy arm over her shoulders and steer her toward Dutch's tent.

"I'd thank you to unhand me, Mister Bell."

Micah chortled and took Karen's flask out of Margot's hand and finished the remainder, and Margot grimaced.

"I don't think hostages have much in the way of bargaining power, Peach!" Micah laughed. "Wouldn't make ya much of a hostage if you could argue your own way out of a sticky situation like this, would it?"

"Get yer paws off of 'er, Micah," Arthur grumbled. "You're creepin' everybody out, not just her."

"Arthur! Fancy seein' you back here so quick. Did ya put that dirty Colm in the ground once and for all?" Micah replied loudly, spinning around on his heels to cover how much Arthur had caught him by surprise. Margot, too, jumped at how suddenly she heard Arthur's voice boom across the camp clearing, but she took the opportunity to duck out from under Micah's reach and she dashed back to the lean-to where the women of the gang slept and worked. She hunched over her work, but watched Arthur and Micah speak to each other more forcefully than she'd have originally thought they would. Finally, Micah held his palms up to Arthur in mock surrender, backed away dramatically, and slunk back into Dutch's tent. Arthur watched him retreat, hooked his thumbs over his low-slung leather belt, and made his way to Margot. Margot did her best to show off how focused she was on the gradually-disappearing bloodstain on the hem of Arthur's shirt.

"I told you you should have taken me with you," she grumbled without looking up. Arthur barked a laugh but collected himself quickly enough to respond.

"That would have been quite the sight to see: Little Miss Debutante kickin' down the door to that cabin with the heel of her fancy boot after dodgin' O'Driscoll bullets through them woods? Nah… you're better off here, even with that damn rattlesnake," Arthur replied dryly, letting his eyes flick over to Micah quickly before returning them to Margot. He was quiet for a second as he watched her work.

"The girls been good to you?"

"Yes, they've been nothing short of hospitable, thank you."

Margot's trademark curls, now ratty, windblown, and frizzy after weeks of rustic living, covered her eyes enough as she hunched over the soiled shirt in her hands so she couldn't see the perplexed look on Arthur's face.

"I ain't plannin' on wearin' it to church, Miss Van Kamp. It can be a little stained. Give that here," he said, reaching down to take the shirt from Margot. Margot shrugged, handed it over without meeting Arthur's eye, and reached into the washtub for Uncle's long-johns.

"…the hell is this?"

Margot looked up to see Arthur running his thumbs over what had been a tattered hole just above the cuff on the right sleeve of his old chambray shirt. In its place was something Arthur never expected to see on anything he wore, and certainly never asked for.

"Sorry. I was just killing time, and Karen misplaced that box of fabric scraps so I didn't have a patch, and I always liked embroidery in school, and—"

Arthur shook his head at Margot and swallowed the laugh that threatened to burst out of his chest.

"It's a flower, though!"

"Well, it's English Mace…"

"Right, like I said. It's a flower."

Margot crinkled her nose and shrugged.

"You're right. Sorry. I wasn't thinking. Here, I'll take it out."

Almost automatically, as if it were a reflex, Arthur gripped the shirt more tightly and pulled it closer to himself. His thumbs, cracked and calloused, traced the delicate green-and-yellow threads that Margot had arranged so expertly that the old knife fight tear on Arthur's sleeve was only a memory. He couldn't even see where she'd tugged the fabric together to close the hole first. It really looked to him as though the tiny design had always been there.

"No, no, don't worry yourself. I kinda like it. It'll help me tell my right from left," Arthur said, still not taking his eyes off of the tiny bouquet of yellow flowers on his sleeve. Margot's face relaxed, but her muscles tensed as she waited for the other shoe to drop.

"Thank you," Arthur said brightly. "This is nice. What else did they teach ya in that fancy finishin' school?"

Margot pulled her knees to her chest and couldn't stop herself from beaming up at Arthur.

"That's about all the skills that are useful here, Mister Morgan," she replied facetiously. Arthur scoffed as he walked back to his tent, but stopped briefly to look back at Margot over his shoulder.

"Why don't you give them long-johns to Karen to handle? She's more accustomed to the gifts Uncle leaves in the seat," he drawled. Karen hollered some obscenities at him, which he ignored, and Margot pretended she couldn't hear Tilly and Mary-Beth cooing at her from a distance.