Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The world had been unkind to Josephine Harper. From a young age, she'd learned to fend for herself, her heart a barren landscape scarred by neglect. She'd weathered storms of loneliness, her spirit battered but unbroken. Now, at the age of twenty-eight, she was a survivor, her eyes holding a depth of experience far beyond her years.

Before the Van der Linde gang, there was only the harsh reality of the open road. A mere sixteen when Dutch found her, she was a ghost haunting the edges of society, a shadow cast by misfortune. He offered her a flicker of warmth in the endless winter of her life.

Under their tutelage, she transformed from a frightened waif into a hardened survivor. She learned the language of steel, the rhythm of the horse beneath her, and the art of deception. Loyalty, a rare commodity in her world, blossomed for this unlikely family.

Years of riding, robbing, and running had forged her into the woman she was now. And now, Valentine was their next target.

Dawn was a bruised eye opening over Valentine, its sleepy indifference shattered by a deafening roar. The bank erupted in a spray of brick and smoke. Jo’s heart, a wild stallion, pounded in her chest. Beside her, Karen’s face was a mask of cold determination. Arthur, Bill, and Lenny were shadows moving with lethal grace. This was their symphony, chaos their conductor.

The town was a waking nightmare. Gunfire painted the air with crimson streaks, and fear was the only currency. Jo’s senses honed in. The crackle of flames, the thud of boots, the sharp intake of breath – a cacophony of survival. Arthur’s voice, a whip cracking through the storm, urged them forward.

They stormed the bank, a tide against the fortress. Bullets kissed the walls, a frantic ballet of defiance. Inside, the world was a panicked carnival. People, like frightened deer, collided with furniture. Jo, a predator in this chaos, moved with a cold efficiency. The safe yielded to her touch, its secrets unlocked by practiced fingers. Karen, her guardian angel, watched their backs, her eyes twin hawks scanning the shadows.

The first wave of lawmen hit Valentine like a tidal wave. Their shouts were swallowed by the thunder of gunfire, but their desperate urgency was clear in the way they fumbled for cover. The air crackled with the electricity of fear, and the smell of cordite hung heavy.

Lenny, a coiled spring of tension, found his rhythm. The sharp crack-crack of his rifle echoed through the chaos as he picked off lawmen with chilling efficiency. Each hit was a domino, sending the remaining officers into a frenzy of panic. "Keep ‘em off us, Lenny!” Arthur yelled over the din, his voice a gritty command.

"You got it, Arthur!" Lenny replied, his focus unwavering.

Arthur and Bill stood back-to-back, their bodies weaving and dodging through the hail of bullets. “Watch your six!” Arthur barked, his eyes scanning the crowd for new threats. Bill nodded, his face a mask of grim determination.

Inside the bank, Jo and Karen worked like a well-oiled machine. Bags filled with stolen cash bulged under their arms. "We're almost done here!" Karen shouted, her voice strained. Jo nodded, her hands moving with a blur of speed. A bullet shattered the glass counter in front of them, sending shards flying. "Damn it!" Karen cursed, her eyes darting around the room.

The standoff was a deadly dance. The air was thick with the smell of gunpowder and fear. Arthur's voice cut through the chaos. "We hold 'em off a little longer, we're golden!"

"Easier said than done," Bill replied, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

Suddenly, a voice boomed over the chaos. "This is the law! You're surrounded! Surrender now!"

Karen's jaw clenched. "Surrender? And give up all this pretty paper?" she scoffed, her voice dripping with sarcasm. Jo grinned, a spark of defiance in her eyes. "Not a chance in hell," she replied as her grip tightened on her revolver and she moved back toward the main room of the bank. She positioned herself beside Arthur, her back pressed against his as they faced the oncoming threat together.

The lawmen burst through the shattered entrance like a hungry pack. Their faces were a grim mask of determination, but their eyes held a flicker of fear. Arthur and the gang met their charge with a wall of steel. Guns roared, and the air crackled with the energy of life and death.

Jo and Arthur fought side by side, their movements a deadly ballet of instinct and training. Bullets whizzed past, kicking up chips of plaster. "Watch your back!" Arthur shouted, his voice barely audible over the din. Jo nodded, her eyes locked onto a target. The crack of her revolver echoed in the chaos.

"Nice shot!" Arthur yelled, a grin splitting his face. For a brief moment, the world narrowed to just the two of them, a deadly partnership against overwhelming odds.

Karen held the line at the entrance, her figure a defiant statue amidst the storm. Each shot was a controlled explosion, sending lawmen reeling. "Don't let 'em in!" she shouted, her voice a battle cry.

The gang fought as one, a brotherhood forged in fire. Their trust was as solid as the bank's walls. Lenny's rifle cracked like thunder, while Bill's knife flashed with deadly precision.

As the last echoes of gunfire faded, a heavy silence descended. The bank was a graveyard of fallen men, and the gang stood victorious. Their breaths came in ragged gasps, but their eyes burned with adrenaline.

Arthur grinned, a wolfish satisfaction in his eyes. "We did it, boys and girls," he said, his voice thick with pride. "Time to hit the road."

With bags bulging with stolen wealth, the gang poured out of the bank. The fresh air was a sweet relief, and the sunlight felt like a warm embrace. Horses were saddled and ready, their breath misting in the cold morning air.

"Well, would you look at that," Bill Williamson remarked, a satisfied grin spreading across his face as he surveyed the scene before them. "Easy money, indeed."

Arthur nodded, a rare smile tugging at his lips. "We earned it," he replied, his eyes scanning the town one last time.

Karen pulled down her neckerchief, revealing a face flushed with adrenaline. "Hell of a morning's work," she said, her voice hoarse with excitement. Jo simply nodded in agreement, her focus already on their escape.

The gang erupted from Valentine, a cloud of dust billowing behind them. Their horses, eager to leave the chaos behind, surged forward. Arthur, mounted on his sleek, reverse-dapple black thoroughbred, Atlas, led the way. Bill's sorrel, Brown Jack, matched his rider's boisterous spirit. Karen's sturdy Nokota, Old Belle, carried her with surefooted grace. Lenny's smaller, agile Maggie kept pace effortlessly. And Jo, astride her reliable palomino Quarter Horse, Daisy, brought up the rear.

As they rode, the wind whipped through their hair, carrying the scent of gunpowder and fear. Arthur glanced back at the town, a flicker of concern in his eyes. "Keep your eyes peeled," he warned, his voice cutting through the wind. The others nodded, their attention focused on the road ahead.

Jo, her gaze sharp, scanned their surroundings for any potential threats. "You got it, cowboy," she replied, her voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through her veins.

Arthur led the gang on a winding path, avoiding the main roads. His eyes scanned the horizon for any sign of pursuit, a constant tension in his shoulders. The others followed, their own senses on high alert.

After what felt like hours, Arthur raised a hand, signaling a halt. The gang reined in their horses, breathing heavily from the exertion. "We'll split up here," Arthur announced, his voice low and clear. He divided the spoils, a methodical efficiency in his movements. A portion was set aside for the camp, the rest divided evenly among the gang.

"Bill, Karen, you take the west. Lenny, head east. Jo, you stay with me. We'll circle back to camp," he ordered.

Murmurs of agreement rippled through the group. With a final glance at each other, they spurred their horses in different directions. Dust kicked up in their wake as they disappeared into the vast expanse of the wilderness.

As the others vanished into the distance, a comfortable silence settled between Arthur and Jo. The setting sun cast long shadows, stretching across the prairie like an artist’s brushstroke. Arthur's gaze lingered on Jo for a moment, a complex emotion flickering in his eyes.

"Actually," Arthur began, his voice low but resolute, "we ain't going back to camp just yet."

Jo raised an eyebrow, a mischievous glint dancing in her eyes. "Oh? Planning on a detour to rob another bank?" she snorted, a playful smirk playing on her lips.

Arthur chuckled, shaking his head at her jest. "Not this time, Trouble," he replied, his tone indulgent. "Got some unfinished business to take care of at the Downes Ranch."

Jo's smirk widened into a forced grin, her eyes flickering with irritation rather than amusement. "Ah, so we're playing debt collector now, are we?" she quipped, her tone light but edged with a hint of annoyance and begrudging acceptance.

Arthur nodded, a wry smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Seems that way," he replied, his gaze flickering towards the horizon. "Come on, let's go."

“I hate those…” With a playful roll of her eyes, Jo spurred her horse forward, falling into step beside Arthur as they set off towards the Downes Ranch. As they rode, the tension from the heist began to dissipate, replaced by a casual camaraderie. They exchanged lighthearted banter, their laughter echoing across the open plain. For a brief moment, it was easy to forget the dangers that lurked just beyond the horizon.

The Downes ranch was a sorry sight, a crumbling testament to neglect. A chill ran down Jo's spine as they dismounted, a sense of foreboding settling over her.

Arthur knocked on the weathered door, his knuckles echoing in the still afternoon. Silence greeted them, a heavy, oppressive silence. He knocked again, louder this time. Still, nothing.

Jo's gaze scanned the deserted property. A shiver ran down her spine. "Something's not right," she murmured, her voice barely audible.

Arthur nodded, his face etched with concern. "Let's check the barn," he suggested, his voice low.

As they rounded the corner of the house, two riders appeared on the horizon. Their figures were dark silhouettes against the setting sun, but their approach was swift and determined.

Jo’s heart pounded in her ears. Her hand instinctively reached for the revolver at her hip. "We've got company," she said, her voice barely a whisper.

Arthur's eyes narrowed as he assessed the approaching riders. One was larger, his posture that of a seasoned fighter. The other was smaller, but there was a dangerous edge to his movements. "Bounty hunters," Arthur muttered, his fist clenching.

Before they could react, the bounty hunters spurred their horses forward, closing the distance with alarming speed. Arthur and Jo exchanged a tense glance, knowing they had no choice but to flee.

“Let’s move!” Arthur’s voice was low but urgent as he swung onto Atlas’ back.

Jo didn’t need to be told twice. Her heart pounded as she leapt onto Daisy, and they both kicked their horses into a full gallop, leaving a cloud of dust in their wake. The bounty hunters were close behind, their shouts slicing through the stillness of the evening.

Hooves pounded against the dry earth, the sound a relentless drumbeat in Jo’s ears. The open plain stretched out before them, but the bounty hunters were relentless, their pursuit narrowing the gap with every stride. Wind whipped across Jo’s face, stinging her eyes, while her long, blonde hair escaped her deep brown cowboy hat, thrashing wildly in the wind.

The bounty hunters were gaining on them, their relentless pursuit a growing menace. Arthur's face was a mask of grim determination, his eyes fixed on the horizon. Jo's heart pounded in her chest, a mix of fear and adrenaline fueling her every move.

A quick glance over her shoulder made Jo’s heart skip. The smaller bounty hunter—there was something unsettlingly familiar about him, but before she could place it, Arthur’s voice cut through her thoughts.

"We can't outrun them forever," Arthur shouted, his voice barely audible over the wind.

Jo nodded, her breath coming in ragged gasps. She scanned the landscape, searching for a way out. A narrow ravine appeared in the distance, a glimmer of hope in the desperate situation.

Without hesitation, she urged Daisy towards the ravine. The ground beneath them turned rocky and uneven, but Jo’s skill as a rider kept them steady. Arthur followed, his horse's hooves pounding against the unforgiving terrain.

The bounty hunters were right behind them, their shouts echoing through the ravine. The rocky walls seemed to close in, amplifying the chaos. Jo's blood pounded in her ears, but she refused to give in to fear. She focused on Daisy, her faithful companion, and the narrow path ahead.

As they plunged deeper into the ravine, the bounty hunters' progress slowed. Their horses struggled with the uneven ground, giving Jo and Arthur a precious advantage. A surge of adrenaline coursed through Jo's veins. "We're losin’em!" she shouted, her voice filled with triumph.

Just as they seemed to be gaining ground, a gunshot rang out. A bullet whizzed past Jo's head, kicking up dust in its wake. She ducked instinctively, her heart pounding in her chest.

"You okay?" Arthur shouted, his voice filled with concern.

Jo nodded, her hands trembling slightly. She glanced back at the bounty hunters, her eyes narrowing. The smaller one was aiming again.

With a quick movement, Jo drew her revolver. She took aim and fired, the shot echoing through the ravine. She was unstoppable, a force of nature in her own right, and nothing would stand in their way. The bounty hunter's horse reared, throwing him off balance. Jo and Arthur seized the opportunity, urging their horses forward, putting as much distance as possible between them and their pursuers.

The ravine opened up into a small clearing, bathed in the golden light of the setting sun. They pulled their horses to a halt, breathing heavily. The sound of the bounty hunters' pursuit faded into the distance.

"We lost them," Arthur said, relief washing over his face.

Jo nodded, her heart still pounding. She slid off Daisy and collapsed onto the soft grass, her legs trembling. Arthur joined her, his arm around her shoulders in a comforting gesture.

"You did good out there," he said, his voice gentle.

Jo managed a weak smile. "Thanks," she replied, her voice barely a whisper.

They sat in silence for a few moments, the only sound the gentle rustling of the wind through the grass. The sun was beginning to set, casting long shadows across the land.

"We should get goin’," Arthur said finally, breaking the silence. "It's getting late."

Jo nodded, standing up and brushing the dirt off her clothes. They mounted their horses and rode on, the setting sun casting a warm glow on their faces.

The wind carried the faint scent of pine, a welcome change from the acrid smell of gunpowder. Jo glanced at Arthur, his profile etched against the fading light. There was a quiet determination in his eyes, a contrast to the recklessness she'd seen earlier.

"We should be getting close to camp," she said, breaking the silence.

Arthur nodded, his gaze scanning the horizon. "Yeah, not too much further."

As they rode, the weight of the day began to settle over them. The adrenaline rush from the chase had faded, replaced by a sense of exhaustion. Jo's muscles ached, and her hands were stiff from gripping the reins.

Finally, the familiar sight of Clemens Point came into view. Smoke curled lazily from the campfires, and the sounds of laughter and conversation carried on the wind. A wave of relief washed over Jo as they rode into the clearing.

The camp was a bustling hive of activity. Hosea sat near the campfire, his weathered face illuminated by the dancing flames as he mended a worn leather glove. Beside him, Charles was sharpening his hunting knife, the rhythmic strokes of the whetstone a soothing counterpoint to the crackling fire.

Across the camp, Lenny and Sean were engaged in a heated game of poker, their faces a mask of concentration. A half-empty bottle of whiskey sat between them, a testament to their competitive spirit.

Karen, Tilly and Mary-Beth were gathered around a makeshift washbasin, their laughter as clear as the running water. Abigail sat nearby, her attention divided between her infant son, Jack, and a half-finished quilt.

Javier was strumming his guitar, his fingers dancing across the strings. His soulful melody filled the air, a comforting counterpoint to the day's chaos.

Kieran tended to the horses, his gentle hands soothing the animals as he murmured soft words of comfort to them.

As Arthur and Jo rode into camp, everyone's eyes turned towards them. A chorus of greetings erupted, breaking the peaceful ambiance.

"Welcome back, you two!" Hosea called out, his voice filled with relief. "We were starting to worry."

"We're fine, Hosea," Arthur replied, dismounting his horse. "Just a little excitement on the way back."

Jo nodded, handing the reins to Kieran. Not many trusted him, while they had their own reasons as to why, Jo entrusted him well enough to take care of her horse. She stretched her arms, feeling the tension in her muscles begin to ease.

"You look like you could use a hot meal," Mary-Beth said, her eyes filled with concern. "I'll get you something to eat."

"Thanks, Mary-Beth," Jo replied gratefully.

As they settled around the campfire, the gang shared stories and laughter. John recounted a humorous tale about a run-in with a particularly stubborn grizzly bear, while Dutch reminisced about his younger days as a prospector.

Jo and Arthur listened, their weariness slowly melting away. The warmth of the campfire and the camaraderie of their friends created a sense of peace and belonging.

The night deepened, the warmth of the campfire and the camaraderie of her friends filled Jo with a rare sense of peace. Yet, a nagging emptiness gnawed at her. She longed for something more than just the warmth of the fire.

With a quiet sigh, Jo excused herself, heading towards the supply wagon. She grabbed a beer, the cool metal a welcome contrast to the heat of the day. The soft crunch of gravel beneath her boots was a soothing rhythm as she wandered towards the edge of camp.

Daisy lingered by a nearby tree, her head lowered, munching on hay. Jo approached her gently, running a hand along the horse's soft mane. The familiar scent of leather and horse mingled with the cool night air, grounding her amidst the lingering adrenaline of the day's events.

Lost in thought, she didn't notice Hosea approaching until his voice broke through her reverie. "You're awful quiet tonight, dear," he said, his voice carrying a gentle concern.

Jo turned to face him, taking a sip of her beer. "Just thinkin’," she replied, her voice vague.

"Something on your mind?" Hosea pressed gently.

Jo hesitated, "I dunno, Hosea." She confessed, her voice low. "There were those bounty hunters after us today... and that—I swear I recognized one of 'em but can't say from damnit where..."

Hosea nodded understandingly. "Sometimes our minds play tricks on us, especially in high-stress situations," he said. "But if you think there's more to it, we should keep our eyes open. Can't hurt to be a little extra cautious."

Jo appreciated his concern. "Thanks, Hosea," she said, her voice filled with gratitude.

They stood in companionable silence for a moment, the only sound the soft rustle of the trees and the distant murmur of the camp.

With a final pat on Daisy’s neck, Jo straightened up, a sense of calm washing over her. “Guess I should try to get some rest. Tomorrow’s another day, after all,” she said, her voice a soft counterpoint to the crackling campfire.

Hosea nodded, his expression warm and understanding. “Good idea, Jo. Sleep well.”

As she retreated to her tent, the tranquility of the camp seemed to amplify the turmoil within her. The canvas walls closed in, and the night's silence pressed against her ears. For a moment, Hosea’s words offered a comforting shield, but they were quickly overwhelmed by the relentless replay of the day’s events.

The camaraderie around the campfire, the shared laughter - it all felt like a distant memory now. In their place was a cold dread, a gnawing uncertainty. The image of the bounty hunter, a faceless specter, haunted her thoughts. Who was he? What did he want? The questions echoed in the darkness, relentless and unanswered.

Fear nibbled at the edges of her courage. The safety of the camp, once a comforting cocoon, now felt like a fragile illusion. She was a lone wolf, trapped in a pack, her past threatening to shatter the fragile peace.

Chapter Text

The first light of dawn seeped into Arthur's tent, painting the canvas in soft hues of pink and gold. He stretched, groaning as his muscles protested the unfamiliar comfort of a mattress. Swinging his legs over the side, he pulled on his boots and stepped out into the cool morning air.

The camp was stirring, a lazy hum of morning activity beginning to replace the quietude of night. Smoke curled lazily from the campfire, mingling with the crisp morning air. Arthur ran a hand through his thick beard, the coarse stubble scratching his jaw. He poured himself a much-needed cup of coffee, the bitter aroma a welcome contrast to the sweet morning light.

Lenny and Bill, their eyes still heavy with sleep, were on guard duty, their silhouettes sharp against the rising sun. Hosea sat at a nearby table, his intense gaze focused on the pages of his journal. A flicker of concern crossed his face as he glanced up, his eyes lingering on Arthur for a moment before returning to the page. Dutch was nearby, a plume of smoke curling from his expensive cigar, his eyes closed in apparent relaxation.

And then there was Jo. She was already on her feet, her movements efficient as she carried a sack of supplies towards Pearson's wagon. Her face, pale in the morning light, bore the marks of a restless night. Despite the shadows under her eyes, she was undeniably beautiful, a wildflower blooming against the harsh backdrop of their lives.

Arthur paused, his gaze lingering on Jo, her face etched with lines of fatigue. He'd known her for years, had seen her grow from a scared young girl into a hardened survivor. He'd watched her endure the harsh realities of their life together, the constant danger, the uncertainty.

He filled a tin cup with coffee, the dark liquid steaming in the cool morning air. 

A flicker of guilt passed through him. Though it wasn't his decision to bring her into the gang, he felt a sense of responsibility for her well-being. Had they done the right thing by letting her join them? Was he protecting her, or leading her further into harm's way?

He walked up to her and handed her the coffee, his fingers lingering on the rim of the cup. "Troubled sleep?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

Jo nodded, her gaze fixed on the ground.

Arthur wanted to ask her what was wrong, to offer comfort and support. But he knew she wasn't ready to talk. He'd learned that over the years. Sometimes, the best thing to do was to be there, quietly, offering a listening ear without demanding answers.

He watched her take a sip of coffee, her eyes closed in a moment of respite. “What gave me away?” she asks, a hint of a smile playing on her lips.

Arthur grinned. “Yer early delightful personality,” he teased, but his eyes held a genuine concern. 

Jo forced a laugh, the sound brittle in the morning air. "Very funny," she retorted, her gaze darting away.

Arthur's eyes held hers for a moment longer, a silent question in his gaze. "So?" he prompted, his voice low.

She took a deep breath, the tension in her shoulders evident. "Yeah, troubled sleep. You could say that," she replied, the words a mere whisper against the morning sounds.

Arthur studied her for a moment, his brows knitting together. "Wanna talk about it?" he asked, his voice gentle yet probing.

Jo shook her head, a small, tight smile on her lips. "Not much to say," she replied, her tone flat, though Arthur could sense the weight of unspoken thoughts behind her words.

He nodded, deciding not to push further. "Well, drink up. Day's only gonna get tougher from here," he said, a hint of humor in his voice, though his eyes never left her face.

Jo took a sip of the coffee, the warmth of it seeping into her, grounding her in the moment. "Thanks, Arthur," she said, her voice softening. She appreciated his concern, even if she wasn’t ready to share what had kept her awake. She glanced around the camp, the familiar sights and sounds of their morning routine providing a small measure of comfort.

As they stood there, the camp continued to come alive. Pearson was already grumbling about the state of his supplies, fussing over his cooking pot as he prepared breakfast for the gang. Sean and Karen stumbled out of their respective tents, Sean rubbing his eyes and muttering about needing a proper Irish breakfast while Karen shot him an amused look.

"Morning, Arthur. Jo," Hosea called from his spot at the table, closing his journal and standing up to join them. "You both look like you could use a bit more sleep."

Arthur chuckled, but Jo simply shrugged. "Guess we can sleep when we’re dead," she said with a half-hearted smirk.

"Let’s hope that’s not anytime soon," Hosea replied with a wink, though his eyes flicked to Arthur, as if asking him to keep an eye on her.

Dutch, having finished his cigar, approached with his usual air of confidence. "We’ve got a busy day ahead, folks. Rhodes isn’t too far, and I expect everyone to be on their best behavior when we head into town later." His gaze swept over the group, landing briefly on Jo, who gave a nod in acknowledgment.

As Dutch walked away to confer with Hosea, Arthur turned back to Jo. "You sure you're alright?"

Jo sighed, the weight of her sleepless night still pressing on her. "I'll be fine, Arthur," she said, trying to sound convincing. "I just need to keep busy."

Arthur gave her a long look, clearly not entirely convinced, but he knew better than to push her when she wasn’t ready to talk. Instead, he shifted gears. "Well, in that case, why don't we take a look at the lead I got from Trelawny?"

Jo raised an eyebrow, curiosity piqued. "What’s it about?"

Arthur reached into his satchel, pulling out a folded piece of paper. "Got a letter from him the other day. Says there’s a place near Van Horn, some big house that’s supposed to be empty for the moment. Could be worth our while."

Jo took the paper from him, unfolding it to scan Trelawny’s neat handwriting. "A big house, huh? Sounds like it could be a good haul. What’s the catch?"

Arthur shrugged, taking another sip of his coffee. "Trelawny didn’t mention one, but with him, there’s always something he’s not saying. Figure we go have a look, see if it’s worth our time."

Jo nodded, her mind already starting to work through the possibilities. A robbery like that could bring in a decent score, enough to help keep the camp running smoothly for a while. It would also give her something to focus on, something to keep her mind off the unease that had settled in her gut. "Alright," she said, folding the paper and handing it back to Arthur. "Let’s check it out. When do you wanna head out?"

“Figured we could leave now if you're ready. It's a long way from here to Van Horn, even if we head out now, we'd probably get there around the end of the day. We’d likely spend the night there and head back tomorrow," Arthur replied, tucking the paper back into his satchel.

Jo nodded again, feeling a slight spark of excitement. This was what she needed—a distraction, something to throw herself into. 

"Sounds good to me. I’ll get my things ready."

Arthur gave her a small smile, relieved to see a bit of her usual spark returning. "Good. I’ll meet you by the horses in a bit."

The sun was sinking low on the horizon by the time Arthur and Jo neared Van Horn. The sky had turned a dusky shade of purple, streaked with fiery reds and oranges, as the last light of day began to fade. The air was cooler now, carrying with it the faint scent of the sea from the nearby coast, and the distant sounds of waves crashing against the shore mingled with the rustle of leaves in the evening breeze.

Their horses, Atlas and Daisy, moved at a steady pace, their hooves crunching softly on the dirt road. Arthur led the way, his eyes scanning the terrain ahead, while Jo kept a watchful eye on their surroundings, the tension from earlier still lingering in the back of her mind.

As they crested a small hill, Van Horn came into view—a collection of weathered buildings huddled together near the coast, the town’s lighthouse casting a faint glow in the growing darkness. The house Trelawny had mentioned was just outside of town, a sprawling structure partially hidden by trees, its silhouette barely visible against the darkening sky.

Arthur pulled Atlas to a halt, motioning for Jo to do the same. "There it is," he said quietly, nodding towards the distant house. "Doesn’t look like there’s anyone home, but we’ll need to get closer to be sure."

Jo squinted at the house, her sharp eyes picking out the details in the fading light. "Looks abandoned enough," she agreed, though her hand instinctively drifted to the revolver at her hip. "But let’s not take any chances."

Arthur nodded, his expression serious. "We’ll tie the horses up here and approach on foot. If things look clear, we’ll make our move. If not…"

"We’ll deal with it," Jo finished, a determined edge in her voice.

Arthur gave her a small, approving nod. "Exactly. Let’s get this done."

They dismounted quietly, leading their horses to a cluster of trees where they could tether them out of sight. The two moved with practiced efficiency, their footsteps barely making a sound as they began their careful approach towards the house, the thrill of the impending heist sharpening their senses.

The house was massive, its dark silhouette looming against the twilight sky as Arthur and Jo approached. Despite the quiet, it was clear that this was no abandoned property. The grounds were well-kept, with a few lanterns left burning near the front porch, casting a warm, inviting glow. The grandeur of the place was undeniable, even in the fading light. The sounds of the town faded into the background, leaving only the soft rustling of leaves and the occasional call of a night bird.

“Place like this… ain’t exactly what I expected,” Jo murmured, her voice low. She eyed the house with a mix of suspicion and intrigue. “Trelawny might’ve left out a few details.”

Arthur grunted in agreement. “Wouldn’t be the first time. But if it’s empty like he said, we might just be in for a good haul. We’ll have to be quick, though. No telling when the owners might come back.”

He tried the front door, and to their surprise, it creaked open easily. They exchanged a glance, then stepped inside, moving cautiously through the entryway. The interior was just as grand as the exterior, with high ceilings and polished wood floors. A large chandelier hung overhead, its crystals glinting faintly in the dim light.

As Jo entered the house, a strange sense of familiarity settled over her. The grand staircase, the high ceilings, the ornate moldings—it all reminded her, unsettlingly, of her childhood home. The same dark wood paneling lined the walls, and the large, arched windows let in the fading evening light just as she remembered. It was eerie, like stepping back into a memory she had long tried to forget. 

She remembered the night her father had come home drunk, his anger a storm that had raged through the house. She had hidden in the library, her heart pounding with fear as she listened to the screams and the shattering of glass.

A shiver ran down her spine as she moved through the house, the familiarity of it all casting a shadow over her thoughts. It was as if the house itself was watching her, judging her, reminding her of who she used to be and who she was now. She shook her head, trying to push the memories aside, but they clung to her, whispering in the corners of her mind.

The resemblance was too strong to ignore, and it made her feel uneasy, as though the house was some kind of trap, pulling her back into a past she had no intention of revisiting. The same kind of old, heavy silence hung in the air, the same kind that had filled her childhood home after her parents had been done arguing—when the house had felt more like a cage than a home.

The weight of it pressed down on her chest, making it hard to breathe for a moment. But she wasn’t the person she used to be. Not anymore.

She shook her head sharply, as if to clear away the ghosts of her past, and forced a smirk onto her lips. “Fancy place,” Jo muttered, her eyes scanning the opulent surroundings. “Rich folk never seem to know what to do with all their money.”

Arthur chuckled under his breath. “Guess that’s where we come in.”

They split up to cover more ground, agreeing to meet back in the entryway if either of them found anything worth taking. Jo moved down a hallway to the left, her footsteps muffled by the plush carpet underfoot. The first room she entered appeared to be a library, the walls lined with shelves full of leather-bound books. A quick glance around told her there was nothing of immediate value—just a few ornate bookends and a dusty globe that looked like it hadn’t been touched in years.

Moving on, she came to what seemed to be a study. The desk was cluttered with papers, and a large map of the region hung on the wall behind it. She rifled through the drawers, finding little more than stationery and some old letters. Her frustration grew with each passing minute—so far, this place was all show and no substance.

Arthur, meanwhile, was making his way through a series of interconnected rooms on the other side of the house. He found a formal dining room, complete with a long, polished table and a set of fine china displayed in a glass cabinet. A quick inspection revealed little of interest, though he pocketed a silver candlestick for good measure.

He scaled the excessively extravagant staircase to the landing. At the top, he noted five doors to choose from and, knowing that there wasn’t much time to consider his options, got to searching through them as quickly and quietly as possible. He grabbed whatever he could — trinkets on shelves, bottles of unopened bourbon and rum, loose change, money clips, jewelry — and stuffed it into the bag he carried over his shoulder. In a room he assumed to be an office, he searched through the desk drawers and found some more money, along with bonds in relation to livestock and a couple of business related letters. He noted details they could use for possible future robbers if needs be, and found himself grinning at the possibilities. They had really struck gold with this lead.

After going through a study, a fancy bathroom, and a bedroom, he eventually arrived at the master bedroom. He worked his way through the cozy room, going through drawers, wardrobes, and cupboards in search of anything useful. An extensive jewelry collection had him grinning like a moron, as well as a number of Cuban cigars. 

Jo’s search took her into what looked like a parlor. A large, ornate cabinet caught her eye, and she couldn’t resist the urge to see what was inside. The doors swung open to reveal rows of bottles, each filled with amber liquid that glowed in the dim light. Jo grinned, recognizing the labels on some of the finer spirits. “Well, well,” she murmured, pulling out a bottle of what appeared to be aged whiskey. “At least these folks have good taste.”

A sudden noise made her jump. She spun around, the bottle nearly slipping from her grasp. There, in the doorway, stood Arthur, a smirk playing on his lips. “Well, don’t tell Karen or McGuire that,” he joked. “Or we’ll never get to taste it ourselves.”

"You scared the life outta me!" she exclaimed, her hand flying to her chest.

"Sorry ‘bout that," he chuckled, "didn't mean to startle you." He stepped into the room, his eyes scanning the cabinet. "Nice haul, there."

There was a short silence between them before she spoke, though her tone had shifted slightly from its previously jesting manner. “I, eh… meant t’say to you. Thanks for askin’ me to come along on this job.” As she spoke, a wave of relief washed over her. She had been feeling so lost and alone lately, and this heist had given her a sense of purpose. It was a distraction, a way to escape from her own thoughts. And now, she was starting to realize that she wasn't alone. She had friends, people who cared about her.

He turned his attention away from the cabinet he was ransacking to look at her. She had her eyes fixed on a fancy painting before she met his gaze.

“Don’t mention it,” he replied. “I knew you’d be a helpful set of hands for it.” He gave her his best attempt at a smile and went back to searching in the other piece of furniture he had yet to empty. Though he felt her eyes on him, he kept busy, cursing himself for being so awkward when it came to conversing with women in most regards. He hoped he at least hadn’t made himself look like a fool. Really he just hoped that she did feel a bit better.

Having cleared the room, they quickly headed down the stairs with their bags weighing heavily on their shoulders. 

Just as they reached the bottom step, a sharp creak echoed through the house. Their hearts pounded in their chests as they exchanged a panicked glance. 

“ Awh shit —!” Before Arthur could comprehend any plan of action, the front door rattled as a key announced the return of the house’s occupants.

They were currently standing in the center of the front hall, completely out in the open and resembling sitting ducks.

Without warning he grabbed Jo by the arm and pulled her into the darkened corner beneath the staircase. He found himself shielding her frame as she was pressed into the wall, and a look of surprise covering her face. At that moment, the door opened with an ominous creak. She looked up at him with wide eyes, but he merely placed a finger on his own lips. Choosing not to risk having a peak just yet in case it compromised them, Arthur placed his hands on the wall either side of her as they squeezed themselves into the safety of the darkness.

Jo found herself pressed tightly against Arthur, their bodies barely fitting in the cramped space. She could feel his breath against her hair, the warmth of his chest against her back. Her heart pounded in her chest, both from the close call and the unexpected proximity. She could feel every inch of him, his presence overwhelming in the confined space. A wave of fear washed over her, but she forced herself to stay calm. She knew that if she panicked, it would only make things worse.

Footsteps sounded on the wooden flooring and Arthur used them to judge just how near or far the man was. 

Arthur’s hand rested lightly on her waist, his grip firm but not uncomfortable. “Stay quiet,” he whispered, his breath hot against her ear. The sound of his voice sent a shiver down her spine, and she nodded, too aware of how close they were.

The voices outside grew louder as the owners moved through the house, their footsteps echoing in the silence. Jo held her breath, praying they wouldn’t come into the parlor. The air in the wardrobe was stifling with the scent of old wood mingling with the faint smell of Arthur’s leather coat. 

After what felt like an eternity, the voices began to fade as the owners moved deeper into the house. Arthur’s grip on her waist relaxed slightly, but he didn’t let go. Jo felt a strange mix of relief and tension, unsure whether she wanted to move or stay right where she was.

Finally, Arthur leaned closer, his lips brushing against her ear as he whispered, “They’re headed upstairs. We’ll make a break for it as soon as they’re out of earshot.”

Jo nodded again, her mind racing. Every inch of her body was hyper-aware of his presence, the way they were pressed together in the darkness. She could hear his heartbeat, steady and strong, and for a moment, she wondered if he could feel hers, too.

They waited in tense silence until the sound of footsteps faded completely. Arthur took a step back from her and heaved out a relieved sigh, just as she did the same. He attempted to clear a lump that had formed in his throat, hyper aware that he just all but shoved a young lady — his friend no less — into a dark corner in an unfamiliar house and forced his way into her personal space. He probably made her severely uncomfortable in the brief moment that the husband had returned. They didn’t speak, didn’t dare make a sound as they slipped out into the night and hurried to where their horses were tied.

As soon as they were safely outside, Jo let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “That was close,” she mused, glancing back at the house. “We would’ve been done for if you hadn’t’ve pulled us under here.”

He was quick to wave off her thanks. “I think we’re in the clear now at least. Sorry for uh, manhandlin’ you.”

She let out an amused chuckle at his apology, causing him to frown. “You’re grand. If you hadn’t manhandled me, we’d probably be fleein’ from the law right now. I’d rather you did it again instead of leavin’ me to get caught.”

“Okay. Just wanted to make sure.”

She placed a gentle hand on his bicep and gave it a reassuring squeeze before releasing him again. “For future reference, I’d much rather you reef me under a staircase than leave me to fend off some rich bloke who has an unhealthy obsession with overpriced gin.”

He chuckled awkwardly and fixed his eyes on his boots. “Duly noted, Trouble.”

Arthur mounted Atlas, his movements smooth and practiced. “Let’s get out of here before they realize what’s missing.” 

Jo nodded, swinging up onto Daisy. Her heart was still racing, and she wasn’t sure if it was from the close call or the way Arthur had held her in that wardrobe. Either way, she pushed the thought aside, focusing instead on the need to get far away from this place.

Arthur breathed in deep as they left the uneasy atmosphere in the house behind. The cool air filled his lungs, relaxing his heart that was still beating irregularly after their close encounter.

Close in every sense of the word.

As they rode into Van Horn, the dimly lit town was quiet, with only the distant murmur of voices and the occasional bark of a dog breaking the silence. They made their way to the saloon, a weathered building with a flickering sign that barely illuminated the entrance.

Inside, the saloon was alive with the low hum of conversation, the clinking of glasses, and the soft strains of a piano. It was busy with poker players, raucous buddies, and working girls. The scent of tobacco smoke and spilled beer hung heavy in the air. Arthur and Jo found a table in the corner, away from prying eyes but close enough to the bar to catch the attention of the barkeep.

Arthur signaled for two drinks, and the barkeep nodded, quickly pouring two shots of whiskey before bringing them over along with two steaming bowls of stew. The food was simple, but after the adrenaline of the night, it was just what they needed.

Arthur lifted his glass, a rare grin spreading across his face. "To a job well done and another day above ground."

Jo clinked her glass against his, a smirk tugging at her lips. "And to those poor folks whose bad timing kept things interesting."

Arthur chuckled, the sound deep and genuine. "Wouldn’t be any fun if it was too easy."

They ate in companionable silence for a while, the warmth of the food and the strong whiskey easing the tension of the night. The close call at the house lingered in the back of their minds, but the camaraderie between them kept the mood light.

As Jo took a sip of her drink, she leaned back in her chair, her eyes scanning the room. “I’ll tell ya, Arthur,” she said, her voice low, “I could get used to this. Good company, good whiskey, and easy money.”

A bittersweet smile played on her lips. She knew that this lifestyle was dangerous, that it could end at any moment. But for now, she was enjoying the ride. She was with her friend, doing what she loved, and she was alive . 

But deep down, she couldn't shake the feeling that this wasn't the life she was meant to live. She yearned for something more, something stable and meaningful.

Arthur nodded, his eyes on the half-empty glass in front of him. “Ain’t nothing wrong with enjoying it while it lasts, Jo. But you know as well as I do, it never lasts long.”

Jo shrugged, taking another sip. “Maybe not, but that’s what makes it all the more worth it. You gotta grab the good times while you can.”

Arthur tilted his head, considering her words. “Reckon you’re right about that.”

They lapsed into silence again, the comfortable kind that only good friends could share. The saloon around them hummed with life, but in their little corner, it was just the two of them, enjoying the brief respite before the next storm.

As the night wore on, they ordered another round, the alcohol doing its job in washing away the lingering tension. For a while, they were just two friends, celebrating a victory in a world that rarely allowed for such moments.

The night deepened and the drinks kept coming. Jo's initial smirk had faded, replaced by a more somber expression as she stared into her glass, the amber liquid swirling in the dim light. Arthur noticed the change in her demeanor, but he said nothing, simply matching her pace, drink for drink. The two of them sat in a companionable silence, but there was a tension in the air, a heaviness that neither could quite shake.

Jo lifted her glass and downed the last of her whiskey, the burn a welcome distraction from the thoughts that churned in her mind. The house, with its eerie resemblance to her childhood home, had stirred memories she’d long tried to bury. Memories she wasn’t ready to face. As she poured herself another drink, her hands trembled slightly, betraying the calm facade she tried to maintain. 

A wave of sadness washed over her, a familiar feeling that she had tried to bury deep within herself. She had been trying to forget the past, to move on with her life, but the house had brought it all back.

Arthur’s eyes flicked to her hands, then back to her face. He could see something was bothering her, something more than just the adrenaline of the job. He watched her for a moment before speaking. “You alright, Jo?”

She glanced up at him, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just… thinkin’ about my mother.”

Arthur’s brow furrowed at her words. He’d known Jo for a while, long enough to notice she rarely spoke about her past, especially not about her family. He took a slow sip of his drink, considering his next words carefully. “You never talk much ‘bout yer parents.”

Jo’s gaze dropped to her glass, her fingers tracing the rim as she avoided Arthur’s eyes. She took a deep breath, steeling herself for what she was about to say. “My mother was sick when I was eight,” she began, her voice steady, but there was a tightness in it, a tension that Arthur couldn’t miss. “She died quickly. My father? Couldn’t bear it.”

The lie slipped out so smoothly, she almost believed it herself. But as soon as the words left her lips, the alcohol began to cloud her mind, making everything feel lighter. Jo leaned back in her chair and let out a loud, tipsy laugh, shaking her head as if to dismiss the heaviness of her words. “God, I’m sorry. Here I am ruining our fun night with a sad story,” she said, her cheeks flushed and her smile wide. “What a downer, huh?”

Arthur chuckled, shaking his head. “It’s alright. We can have fun and talk about heavy things. Ain’t life just a big ol’ mess of both?”

Jo nodded, her laughter bubbling up again as she raised her glass in a toast. “To life! The good, the bad, and the whiskey!” She clinked her glass against Arthur’s, and they both took generous swigs, the whiskey warming them from the inside out.

Arthur leaned back in his chair, a grin plastered on his face as he watched her. The tension from earlier had melted away, replaced by the easy camaraderie they shared on their best days. Jo’s cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright with laughter, and Arthur couldn’t help but think that this was how he liked to see her—free, unburdened, if only for a little while.

Chapter Text

Maybe, just maybe, they had too much to drink tonight.

They were definitely drunk. 

After a few too many drinks, they had been both asked to leave the saloon, or rather forcibly dragged out of it by two-three patrons.

Her vision swam as she stared at the dimly lit room they had somehow managed to stumble into, her fingers idly tracing her mother’s necklace. The walls, rough-hewn and lined with faded wallpaper, seemed to shift and sway as she tried to focus. A large, worn bed sat in the middle of the room, its lumpy mattress looking more inviting by the second. In the corner, an old wooden dresser leaned slightly to one side, its drawers partially open, revealing crumpled linens within. A single oil lamp flickered on a small bedside table, casting long, dancing shadows across the walls.

Jo blinked, trying to make sense of their situation. “Well,” she slurred, her voice thick with alcohol, “looks like we got the last room in town.”

Arthur, equally inebriated, leaned heavily against the doorframe, a lopsided grin on his face. “Ain’t much, but it’ll do,” he muttered, his words nearly tripping over each other. He pushed off from the door, swaying slightly as he made his way to the bed. “Least it’s got a roof.”

Jo nodded, her head feeling like it was filled with cotton. She glanced around the room again, her gaze landing on the bed, then back at Arthur. “We, uh… we gotta share, huh?”

Arthur chuckled, the sound low and rumbling in his chest. “Seems like it.” He plopped down on the edge of the bed, the mattress creaking under his weight. “Ain’t the first time we’ve had to bunk together.”

“Yeah, but…” Jo trailed off, suddenly feeling self-conscious despite the fog of alcohol clouding her mind. 

They were friends, sure, but this was different. Still, it wasn’t like they had any other options. She sighed, the tension easing slightly as she stumbled toward the bed. “Guess it’s better than sleepin’ on the floor.”

Arthur watched her with a lazy, half-lidded gaze, his smile softening. “You worried I’ll steal the covers or somethin’?” he teased, his voice tinged with amusement.

She laughed, the sound a little too loud in the quiet room. “You better not, cowboy. I’ll kick you outta bed if you do.”

He grinned, kicking off his boots and leaning back on the bed, propping himself up on one elbow. “You’re welcome to try.”

Jo rolled her eyes, though the gesture lost some of its impact with the way she swayed on her feet. She kicked off her own boots, her fingers fumbling with the laces as she tried to maintain her balance. Finally, she managed to free her feet and collapsed onto the bed beside Arthur, her head spinning from the sudden motion.

The bed was small, barely enough room for the two of them, but the warmth of the blankets and the lingering buzz of alcohol made her care less. She stared up at the ceiling, trying to ignore how close they were, the heat radiating off Arthur’s body only inches from hers.

For a few moments, silence settled over them, broken only by the distant sounds of the town outside and the creaking of the old bed. Jo turned her head slightly, her gaze falling on Arthur, aware of every inch of space— or lack thereof —between them. His eyes were closed, his breathing slow and steady, but there was something in the way he laid there, so close, that made her heart skip a beat. Maybe it was the alcohol or the lingering adrenaline from the day, but before she knew it, she’d shifted closer, her arm brushing against his.

Arthur’s eyes opened, his blue gaze locking onto hers in the dim light. He didn’t say anything, just watched her with a look that was both questioning and knowing. The tension between them crackled like a live wire, and Jo found herself holding her breath, waiting for him to make the next move.

He did.

Without a word, Arthur reached out, his hand gently cupping the side of her face. The roughness of his palm against her skin sent a shiver down her spine. He pulled her closer, so close that she could feel the warmth of his breath against her lips. And then, in the quiet of the small room, with only the flickering lamp as a witness, he kissed her.

It was slow at first, almost hesitant, as if they were both testing the waters. But then something shifted, and the kiss deepened, all of the unspoken tension and unacknowledged feelings pouring into that one moment. Jo responded in kind, her hands tangling in his shirt as she pulled him closer, the world outside the room fading into nothingness.

Arthur broke the kiss first, his forehead resting against hers as they both tried to catch their breath. “Jo…” he started, but whatever he was going to say was lost as she kissed him again, harder this time, more insistent.

He responded in kind, his hands moving down her back, tracing the curve of her spine with a touch that sent shivers through her body. Jo’s fingers fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, their movements clumsy from both alcohol and the intensity of the moment. When she finally managed to undo the buttons, she pushed the fabric aside, her hands exploring the hard planes of his chest. His skin was warm, the muscles beneath it firm and solid.

Arthur’s hands roamed as well, his fingers slipping under the hem of her shirt, the calloused pads brushing against the softness of her skin. Each touch seemed to ignite something within her, a fire that burned hotter with every passing second. He pulled her closer, their bodies pressing together, the heat between them growing as the last remnants of restraint slipped away.

Jo let out a soft moan as Arthur’s lips found her neck, his breath hot against her skin. He kissed a trail down her throat, each press of his lips making her head spin, the alcohol and desire mingling in a heady mix that left her feeling lightheaded and breathless, as he descended lower and lower. She arched into him, her hands gripping his shoulders as if to ground herself, but it only seemed to pull them closer, the air between them charged with a tension that was impossible to ignore.

Arthur shifted, rolling them over so that he hovered above her, his weight a comforting pressure that made her feel safe and wanted all at once. He paused for a moment, his eyes searching hers as if to make sure she was still with him, still wanting this as much as he did. Jo answered by pulling him down to her, their lips crashing together in a kiss that was all fire and desperation.

His hands moved down her sides, taking her shirt with them, until it was tossed carelessly to the floor. Her skin prickled with the cool air, but Arthur’s touch quickly chased away the chill, his hands leaving trails of warmth wherever they roamed. She tugged at his shirt, wanting to feel him against her, needing the connection that was quickly becoming a lifeline in the swirling sea of emotions.

When his shirt finally joined hers on the floor, Arthur pressed himself against her, his bare chest against hers, the sensation sending a thrill through her entire body. They fit together perfectly, the lines of his body matching hers in a way that felt both new and familiar all at once. His lips found hers again, this time softer, more tender, but no less intense.

Jo’s hands roamed over his back, feeling the muscles shift under his skin as he moved against her. Each kiss, each touch, seemed to fan the flames higher, until she thought she might burn up from the heat of it all. She had never felt anything like this before, this overwhelming need that seemed to consume her, leaving no room for doubt or fear, only the raw, unfiltered desire that pulsed between them.

Arthur’s lips left hers, trailing down her neck, over her collarbone, and lower still, until she thought she might explode from the sheer intensity of it all. Every kiss, every caress, sent sparks shooting through her veins, until she was a trembling mess beneath him, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she tried to keep up with the sensations overwhelming her.

She could feel the roughness of his hands against her skin, the way he seemed to know exactly where to touch, how to move, to drive her wild. It was almost too much, too intense, but she didn’t want it to stop. Not now. Not ever .

As the night wore on, they lost themselves in each other, the outside world forgotten as they explored the boundaries of their friendship in a way neither had ever imagined. There was no room for second thoughts or regrets, only the shared need that drove them forward, each touch and kiss a promise that they wouldn’t be alone tonight.

When they finally collapsed together, exhausted and spent, their bodies still intertwined, Jo laid there for a moment, her head resting on Arthur’s chest. She could hear his heart pounding, matching the rhythm of her own, and for a brief moment, everything felt right. They had crossed a line, one they couldn’t uncross, but right now, with the warmth of his body against hers, she didn’t care.

Jo stirred, the hazy remnants of sleep slowly giving way to reality as she blinked against the bright morning sunlight streaming through the window. Her head throbbed, a dull ache that pulsed behind her eyes, but it wasn’t the headache that jolted her fully awake. 

It was the warmth of another body beside her, the steady rise and fall of a familiar chest beneath her hand. 

That was the first thing she noticed.

She blinked, her gaze focusing on the sight before her. 

The second thing she noticed was that Arthur laid next to her, still asleep, his face peaceful in the soft morning light. The memories of the night before came rushing back in a chaotic swirl—laughter, drinks, heated kisses, and the feeling of his hands on her skin, his body pressed against hers.

And finally as her breath caught in her throat,  she noticed them both tangled in the rumpled bed sheets, their clothes scattered haphazardly on the floor. Naked .

She was naked, her body pressed against his. 

The reality of what they had done hit her like a punch to the gut. They had crossed a line, one she had never thought they would. Her heart pounded in her chest, a mix of emotions churning in her stomach—regret, confusion, but also a lingering warmth, a secret part of her that couldn’t deny how much she had enjoyed the night.

But as she laid there, staring at Arthur’s sleeping form, a sense of panic began to creep in. This wasn’t supposed to happen. They were friends—best friends. She couldn’t let this complicate things, couldn’t let it ruin the bond they had. And what if he regretted it? What if he saw it as a mistake? The thought was unbearable.

Careful not to wake him, Jo slowly disentangled herself from the sheets, wincing as the mattress creaked beneath her. Her heart raced as she quietly slipped out of bed, her bare feet hitting the cold wooden floor. She quickly gathered her clothes, pulling them on with trembling hands, every movement filled with a sense of urgency. She needed to get out of there before he woke up, before he could say anything that would make this more real, more complicated.

Once dressed, Jo cast one last glance at Arthur. He was still asleep, his brow furrowed slightly as if he was already beginning to stir. She hesitated for a moment, a wave of guilt washing over her as she realized she was leaving him to wake up alone, to face the aftermath of their night together by himself. But she couldn’t stay. Not now. Not when everything felt so confusing, so uncertain.

Without another thought, she turned and slipped out of the room, her footsteps silent as she made her way down the hallway and out of the hotel. The cool morning air hit her like a slap, the brightness of the day a stark contrast to the warmth and intimacy of the night before. She took a deep breath, trying to steady herself, to push down the emotions threatening to overwhelm her.

As she walked away from the hotel and toward her horse still tethered in front of the saloon, the events of the night replayed in her mind. She couldn’t help but smile, despite the turmoil she felt, as she remembered the way he had touched her, the way he had made her feel. 

But that smile quickly faded as reality set in again. 

This couldn’t happen again. They had a job to do, a life that didn’t allow for complications like this. 

She would have to face Arthur eventually, but for now, she just needed to clear her head, to figure out how to deal with the mess they had made of things.

Arthur woke with a pounding headache, his mouth dry and his body aching. He groaned, rolling over and burying his face in the pillow as the midday sun filtered weakly through the curtains, casting a dull light across the room. He stirred, the pounding in his head making it hard to think straight. The familiar bite of a hangover clawed at his temples, and for a moment, he just laid there, eyes closed, trying to piece together the events of the previous night.

But as he shifted, the sheets rustling beneath him, memories began to surface—memories of Jo, her laughter, her touch, and the way they’d both given in to the pull between them. His eyes snapped open, the reality of what had happened hitting him like a freight train. He had slept with her, hadn't he?

He turned his head to the side, expecting to see her still lying there beside him, but the space where she had been was empty, the sheets cool to the touch. Panic flared in his chest as he sat up, his head spinning. She was gone.

Arthur quickly scanned the room, his clothes still strewn about haphazardly, a reminder of the night they had shared. He rubbed a hand over his face, trying to clear the fog from his mind as he swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up. The room tilted slightly as he moved, the hangover making it hard to focus, but he pushed through it, hastily pulling on his clothes.

Once dressed, he grabbed his hat and gun belt, strapping it on with practiced ease. He needed to find Jo, to talk to her, to make sure she was alright. But as he looked around the room, it was clear she had left hours ago, leaving no trace behind except the faint memory of her warmth beside him.

Arthur made his way downstairs, his boots heavy on the wooden steps as he descended to the hotel’s main floor. The clerk at the counter glanced up as he approached, a knowing look in his eyes.

“Morning,” Arthur greeted, his voice rough from sleep and the lingering effects of the alcohol.

“Afternoon, more like,” the man replied with a smirk. “Can I help you with somethin’, mister?”

Arthur ignored the jab, getting straight to the point. “The woman I was with last night… you seen her this mornin’?”

The man nodded. “Yeah, she left early. Seemed in a bit of a rush too. Didn’t say much, just paid the bills and was out the door.”

Arthur’s stomach sank. She’d left without a word, without even waking him. He nodded, forcing a casual tone. “Thanks.”

The man shrugged and went back to his business, leaving Arthur standing there, trying to make sense of what to do next. Jo had clearly wanted to put distance between them, but why? 

He could guess well enough—what they’d done had probably spooked her, made her question everything between them. Hell, it was making him question things too.

But one thing was clear: he had to find her. And there was only one place where she would’ve gone—back to camp.

Arthur stepped out of the hotel, the bright sunlight causing him to wince as it hit his eyes. He mounted Atlas, his trusty stallion, and turned him in the direction of Clemens Point. The ride back would take a few hours, maybe less if he pushed Atlas to a gallop, but he wasn’t in any mood to rush. He needed time to think, to figure out what the hell he was going to say to Jo when he saw her again.

As he rode, the landscape of Roanoke Ridge stretched out before him, the rolling hills and dense trees offering some comfort as he tried to piece together his jumbled thoughts. The farther he got from Van Horn, the more the reality of what had happened sank in. He and Jo had crossed a line, one they couldn’t easily step back from. But what worried him more was the fear that she might regret it, that she might pull away from him because of it, that it would sever their friendship.

The thought made his chest tighten, a knot of anxiety forming in his gut. Arthur wasn’t good with words, and he wasn’t good with feelings either, but he knew he couldn’t just let this fester. He had to find Jo, had to talk to her and figure out where they stood now.

He needed to figure out what to feel about this too. 

As the hours passed and the familiar sight of Clemens Point came into view, Arthur’s resolve hardened. Whatever was going on in Jo’s head, he needed to know. He couldn’t let what happened last night ruin the bond they had—couldn’t let it drive a wedge between them.

With a deep breath, he urged Atlas forward, the camp growing larger with each passing moment. 

Arthur rode into camp and the familiar sights and sounds of Clemens Point greeted him. The camp was alive with activity, the gang going about their usual business. Before he could get too far, Sean, who was on guard duty near the entrance, spotted him and let out a loud, cheerful exclamation. "Arthur! Ya're back!"

Arthur glanced over at Sean, who was grinning from ear to ear like a kid who’d just found a pot of gold. Sean was always like an annoying little brother to him—full of energy and mischief, but with a good heart buried somewhere underneath all that bravado.

“Sean,” Arthur greeted as he dismounted Atlas, patting the stallion’s neck to calm him after the long ride. “Good to see ya. You know where Jo’s at?”

Sean’s grin faltered slightly, and he shrugged, scratching the back of his head, his hat falling lightly onto his forehead. “Can’t say I do. Haven’t seen her since you two left for that job yesterday. Figured she’d be back with you.”

Arthur frowned, he’d hoped Jo would’ve returned to camp, but it seemed she was still keeping her distance. Before he could dwell too much on that, Sean’s curiosity got the better of him. “So, how’d it go, then? That job you two were on?” Sean asked, his eyes gleaming with interest. “Anythin’ exciting happen? Did ya get into any trouble? Or was it just an easy in and out?”

Arthur let out a small huff of amusement at Sean’s eagerness, leading Atlas toward the hitching post. “Easy enough. Found a place up near Van Horn, got what we came for. Had a close call with the owners comin’ back early, but we managed.”

Sean followed after him, still buzzing with questions. “Ah, sounds like a good bit of fun! Bet you both got a nice haul outta that one, eh? Did ya rough up any of them rich folk while ya were at it?”

Arthur couldn’t help but smirk at Sean’s excitement, but his thoughts were still on Jo. “Didn’t need to. They were too drunk to even notice us leavin’.”

Sean chuckled, giving Arthur a playful nudge with his elbow. “Well, that’s a shame. Could’ve had a bit of fun with that! But, I suppose it’s better when things go smooth, right?”

Arthur nodded, though his mind was elsewhere. “Yeah, smooth.” He paused for a moment, securing Atlas before turning back to Sean. “If you see Jo, let her know I’m lookin’ for her, alright?”

Sean nodded, though the playful glint in his eye remained. “Aye, I’ll keep an eye out. Though, somethin’ tells me she’s probably just hidin’ from all the rest of us. Can’t say I blame her, eh?”

Arthur gave him a strained smile, patting Sean on the shoulder before heading toward the main part of camp. “Thanks, Sean.”

As he walked away, Sean called after him, “No problem, Arthur! And hey, if ya ever need a partner for your next job, you know where to find me!”

Arthur raised a hand in acknowledgment, but his mind was already back on Jo. He needed to find her, to talk to her, to figure out what was going on in her head after last night. 

Arthur continued through the camp, his boots crunching on the dirt as he made his way toward Dutch’s tent. His mind was still preoccupied with thoughts of Jo, but he knew Dutch might have some idea of where she’d gone or at least some words of advice. As he approached the center of camp, he spotted Charles emerging from the outskirts, carrying a bundle of firewood on his shoulder.

“Hey, Arthur,” Charles greeted him with a nod, his calm, steady demeanor a welcome sight.

“Charles,” Arthur replied, pausing briefly. “Good job finding this spot.”

Charles gave a modest shrug, setting the firewood down near the campfire. “You found it too,” he answered, his tone even.

Arthur shook his head, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Wouldn’t have if you hadn’t talked me into it,” he admitted as he continued toward Dutch’s tent.

Charles offered a faint smile in return, appreciating the acknowledgment but not one to dwell on praise.

As Arthur approached Dutch’s tent, he noticed Micah sitting on a wooden chair just outside, meticulously cleaning his revolver with an oiled rag. The glint of the polished metal caught the morning light, and Arthur’s eyes narrowed slightly at the sight of the man.

“Micah…” Arthur greeted, his tone curt, not bothering to hide his lack of enthusiasm.

Micah didn’t immediately respond, instead taking his time to finish wiping down the barrel of his gun. Finally, he looked up at Arthur, a smirk playing on his lips. “Blessed are the peacemakers,” Micah began, his voice dripping with sarcasm, “for they shall be called…”

But Arthur wasn’t in the mood for Micah’s nonsense. He turned away, already scanning the camp for someone more useful, when he spotted Molly walking by, her steps brisk and her expression stormy.

“Hey, Molly!” Arthur called out, trying to get her attention. “Where’s Dutch?”

Molly didn’t break her stride, her irritation evident in the way she huffed and waved her hands in the air dismissively. She didn’t even bother to turn around, just shrugged in response as if to say she couldn’t care less where Dutch was. Her figure quickly disappeared down the path toward the lake, leaving Arthur standing there, more irritated than before.

Micah chuckled softly behind him, but Arthur ignored it, his patience wearing thin. Micah watched Arthur turn back toward him, his smirk never wavering. “Well…” Micah drawled, taking his time as he leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking under his weight, “however it goes.”

Arthur eyed him warily, his patience already thin. “I’m not sure that line of thought serves you or me very well,” he replied, his tone even, but with an underlying edge.

Micah let out a dry chuckle, spinning his revolver deftly in his hand before holstering it. “Well, that’s because, cowpoke, you are a man of profoundly limited intelligence,” he said, leaning back further, as if savoring the words.

“No doubt,” Arthur shot back, his voice laced with sarcasm, though he wasn’t about to get into it with Micah after such a hangover.

“While you and the old man have been running around,” Micah began, his tone shifting to something more pointed, “digging us even deeper into shit, old Mr. Pearson might have gone and lightened the load a little.”

Arthur’s brow furrowed as he processed Micah’s cryptic words. “Pearson!” Micah called out, raising his voice to get the camp’s butcher’s attention. Then, with a sly grin, he looked back at Arthur. “Ain’t you curious?”

Arthur’s eyes narrowed, but before he could respond, he spotted Dutch striding into camp with Pearson in tow. “I guess,” Arthur muttered, distracted now by the sight of Dutch and the camp cook, Pearson.

All thoughts of finding Jo vanished, at least for the moment. Whatever was going on, it seemed to be worth paying attention to.

Chapter Text

It should have been a simple day.

After a complicated night.

Jo had planned to spend the day investigating the bounty hunters who had pursued her and Arthur at Mr. Downes' ranch. It was supposed to help clear her head, keep her busy so she wouldn’t dwell on what they had done. But nothing went the way she'd wanted.

First of all, Jo couldn’t find anything about the bounty hunters. No leads, no whispers in the saloons, nothing. It was like they’d vanished into thin air. Secondly, getting into Valentine undetected by the police proved far more complicated than she’d anticipated. The town was still on high alert after the recent bank robbery. Here again, she was still hungover and her ideas were perhaps not the wisest, her thoughts sluggish and muddled, making her usual sharp instincts dull.

That’s why she was currently galloping out of Valentine at full speed, a pair of lawmen hot on her heels. The pounding of her horse’s hooves matched the frantic beat of her heart. She could hear the shouts of the lawmen behind her, the barking of orders, and the unmistakable crack of a rifle shot ringing out over the din. The locals weren’t about to forget her face after the robbery.

Cursing under her breath, Jo urged Daisy to go faster, her heart racing as she maneuvered through the dense trees and rocky terrain. The wind whipped through her hair, and the sound of the river rushing somewhere below told her she was heading straight for a dead end.

But there was no turning back now.

As she approached the cliff’s edge, the sound of the lawmen grew louder, closer. Jo’s mind raced. She didn’t have much time to make a decision. With a quick, determined breath, she pulled on the reins, bringing her mare to a sudden stop. She dismounted in one swift motion, her boots hitting the ground hard as she looked over the cliff’s edge. The river below was fast and unforgiving, but it was her only option.

“Sorry, girl,” Jo whispered, giving Daisy a quick pat on the neck. The horse whinnied softly, as if understanding the gravity of the situation. Jo didn’t have time for second thoughts. She took a few steps back, bracing herself.

Without another moment’s hesitation, she ran toward the edge and leaped, gunshots echoing around, the wind rushing past her as she plunged into the river below. The cold water engulfed her instantly, the shock of it taking her breath away. She fought against the current, trying to keep her head above water as she was swept downstream. Behind her, she heard the lawmen shouting, but their voices grew distant as the river carried her away.

It wasn’t long before the adrenaline began to fade, and the full weight of her situation settled in. Luckily, she knew how to swim and wasn’t one to be afraid of water. 

Jo’s body was tossed and turned by the fierce current, water rushing over her head as she tried to find her bearings. She fought to keep her head above the churning surface, coughing and sputtering as icy cold water filled her lungs. Her arms flailed, desperate for something—anything—to grab onto.

The cold seeped into her bones, making her muscles stiff and uncooperative.

She was disoriented, the rushing water and the swirling landscape making it impossible to tell where she was heading. All she could do was keep fighting, keep pushing forward, hoping the river would eventually calm enough for her to find an escape.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the river's fury began to subside. The current lessened, and Jo spotted a cluster of rocks jutting out along the riverbank. Gritting her teeth, she used the last of her strength to swim toward them, kicking hard against the current.

With a final burst of energy, she reached out and grabbed onto a jagged rock. Her fingers scraped against the rough surface, but she held on tight, using it to pull herself closer to the shore. Bit by bit, she dragged herself onto the bank, collapsing onto the damp ground, gasping for air. Her chest heaved with each ragged breath, her entire body trembling from the cold and the effort of her escape.

For a long moment, she laid there, drenched and exhausted, the sound of the rushing river fading into the background as she caught her breath. Her clothes clung to her, soaked and heavy, her damp honey-blond hair plastered to her face. She pushed herself up onto her elbows, her head spinning from the ordeal. Slowly, she sat up, her body protesting with every movement.

That’s when she felt it—a sharp, stinging pain in her arm. Jo winced and instinctively reached for it. Her fingers brushed against something warm and wet, and when she looked down, she saw it: blood. It wasn’t a deep wound, but a bullet must have grazed her during the chase.

“Damn it,” she muttered, her voice hoarse from the cold. She gingerly touched the wound, hissing at the sharp pain that radiated through her arm.

The cut was shallow but long, tracing a red line along her upper arm. The bleeding wasn’t severe, but it still needed to be treated. She couldn’t afford an infection out here, in the middle of nowhere.

Sighing, she took stock of her situation. The river had swept her far from the lawmen, and for now, she was safe. But she was alone, wet, and injured. With a grimace, she pulled herself to her feet, swaying slightly as the blood rushed from her head. She needed to bandage her arm.

Jo looked down at her already torn clothes. With a sharp tug, she ripped a strip of fabric from the hem of her shirt. Biting her lip against the pain, she wrapped the cloth tightly around the wound, tying it off with a firm knot. The makeshift bandage would have to do for now.

“There,” she muttered, flexing her fingers gingerly to make sure the blood flow wasn’t cut off. “Good enough.” She glanced up at the sky, seeing the sun beginning to sink lower toward the horizon. She needed to find shelter soon, somewhere to dry off and rest before nightfall.

Brushing the wet hair from her face, Jo took a deep breath, steeling herself for whatever came next. This day had gone sideways in every possible way. And yet, there was a part of her—some small, stubborn part—that couldn’t help but find the dark humor in it all.

“Hell of a day,” she murmured to herself with a bitter laugh. She picked a direction and started walking, hoping the river hadn’t carried her too far from civilization.

The road ahead was uncertain, but she had no choice but to keep moving. That’s what she’d always done. What she’d always been good at. 

The first light of dawn crept over the horizon, casting a soft, golden hue over the landscape. Jo stirred awake, the warmth of the small fire she had built last night now just a faint glow of embers. She had walked until she couldn’t anymore, her body drained of all energy, and finally found a small, sheltered spot under a cluster of trees. There, she’d made a fire to dry herself out and keep the cold at bay, before eventually succumbing to exhaustion.

She sat up slowly, wincing as the stiffness in her muscles reminded her of the previous day’s ordeal. Her makeshift bandage was still holding, though it was stained with dried blood and dirt. The wound throbbed dully, but it wasn’t as painful as it had been. Jo flexed her arm gently, testing the range of motion. She’d be alright, though she knew she’d need to clean and properly dress the wound soon.

The air was cool, crisp with the freshness of morning, and Jo took a deep breath, filling her lungs with it. For a moment, she just sat there, letting the quiet of the early hour wash over her. But she couldn’t linger. She had to find her steed.

“Alright, girl,” Jo muttered to herself as she pushed herself to her feet, brushing off her pants. “Time to find you.”

She scanned the area, looking for any sign of her horse. Daisy was smart; she’d likely have followed the river, but in this dense forest, it could still take some time to track her down. Jo gathered herself, kicking dirt over the last embers of her fire, and began to search.

The sun had fully risen now, casting long shadows between the trees, and she could hear the faint sounds of the forest coming to life around her. Birds chirped overhead, and somewhere in the distance, she heard the rustling of a small animal in the undergrowth.

After a good walk, Jo heard a whinny nearby. Her heart lifted as she quickened her pace, pushing through a thicket of bushes until she finally saw her horse. Daisy was standing in a small clearing, grazing on the dewy grass, her coat glistening in the morning light. Jo felt a wave of relief wash over her at the sight.

“There you are, girl,” Jo said with a smile, her voice soft as she approached. Daisy lifted her head, ears flicking forward at the sound of Jo’s voice, and let out a welcoming snort.

“Quite a day, isn’t it?” 

Jo nearly jumped out of her skin, her hand instinctively reaching for her revolver as she whipped around to see where the voice had come from. Her heart pounded in her chest as she spotted a man standing just beyond Daisy, partially obscured by the horse’s large frame. He had a friendly smile on his face, completely oblivious to the fact that he had just startled her half to death.

The man was standing behind a large, old-fashioned camera standing on a stand. He looked up from adjusting the lens, tipping his hat to her in greeting. “Apologies, I didn’t mean to startle you, miss,” he said, his tone warm and polite.

Jo relaxed her grip on the revolver, though she didn’t let go of it completely. 

"What a country," the stranger said, looking around the clearing with a mix of admiration and exasperation, his hands resting on his hips. "I'm working on a project. Photography," he added, adjusting the angle of his camera.

"Yeah, I guessed that bit," Jo responded, her eyes still on the man, watching his every move.

"Of course," he chuckled at her words, unfazed by her wariness. "Wildlife, that's my thing... or at least, that's what I want to be my thing." He started pacing in front of his camera, counting steps to find the perfect position, muttering to himself, "If I have to take another picture of a grumpy house frau, or some pompous middle-class burgher, I will feed myself to the lions."

Jo couldn’t help but crack a smile at his frustration. The man was clearly passionate about his work, even if it didn’t always go as planned.

Deeming he found the perfect spot, he stopped abruptly and pointed to the ground. "Stand here," he instructed, his tone more commanding than requesting.

"Here?" Jo asked, raising an eyebrow as she walked up to the spot he’d indicated, her steps cautious.

"Just..." Albert adjusted her position slightly, moving her by the shoulders with gentle but precise hands until he was finally content. "There," he said with satisfaction, stepping back to admire his handiwork. He then extended his hand to her, "Albert Mason."

Jo hesitated for a brief moment before shaking his hand. "Josephine Harper," she introduced herself, using her full name, though she wasn’t sure why she did. Maybe it was the man’s earnestness, or perhaps it was the odd situation she found herself in.

"Josephine," Albert repeated, testing the name on his tongue. "A fine name for a fine subject. Now, if you could just stay right there, I’ll take the shot."

Jo blinked, surprised. "You want to take a picture of me?"

Albert smiled warmly, adjusting his camera. "Why not? You’ve got that rugged, untamed look about you—suits the wilderness perfectly. Plus, it’s not often I come across someone who looks so… fitting for the landscape."

Jo shifted uncomfortably. "I’m not really the picture-taking type."

"Nonsense," Albert said, waving off her protests. "It’ll be quick. Just stay right there with your horse. The two of you make quite the pair."

Jo sighed but didn’t argue further. She stood beside Daisy, her hand resting on the horse’s neck, fingers gently combing through the mane. Daisy nickered softly, leaning into Jo’s touch. The idea of her picture being taken felt strange—exposing, even—but there was something about the way Albert spoke about the land, about capturing the essence of it, that made her curious. Maybe there was more to this photography thing than she’d given it credit for.

As Albert adjusted his camera, he started explaining, "I’m trying to find and capture images of our great predators before our greatest predators kill them all and stick them on some clubhouse wall."

"Well, good luck with that," Jo said, her focus drifting back to Daisy as she continued to stroke the horse's mane.

"Yes, not the easiest," Albert admitted with a sigh, preparing to take the picture. "But, well, I love a challenge."

The camera clicked, the sound of the shutter echoing in the clearing as Albert captured the moment. Jo and Daisy stood still, the image of the two of them frozen in time by the photographer's lens.

Albert straightened up, stepping back from the camera with a satisfied grin. "The trick," he began to explain, "is to leave a big load of meat and relax, and pray they don't mistake me for lunch."

Just as he finished speaking, a coyote appeared from the edge of the clearing, its eyes locked on Albert’s bag. The animal approached cautiously, sniffing at the bag before quickly grabbing it in its jaws and darting away.

"Oh! Good heavens. My bag, that thing is robbing me!" Albert exclaimed in disbelief, watching as the coyote made off with his belongings.

Without hesitation, Jo bolted after the coyote. "Damn it," she muttered under her breath as she sprinted through the underbrush, determined to catch up with the animal. The chase wasn’t easy—the coyote was quick and agile, darting between trees and over rocks. But Jo was relentless, her boots pounding the ground as she closed the distance.

After a few tense moments, the coyote, perhaps realizing it was being pursued, dropped the bag from its mouth and took off into the woods. Jo skidded to a halt and quickly retrieved the bag, breathing heavily from the run. She checked it over to make sure it was intact before starting the walk back to the clearing.

"I got your bag," Jo said as she returned, holding up the bag for Albert to see.

"Oh, thank you, thank you, miss!" Albert said, rushing over to her, his face a mix of relief and gratitude as he took the bag from her hands.

"Bag full of meat tends to attract animals like that coyote," Jo remarked with a small smirk.

"You are a kind lady," Albert began, tapping her shoulder in a gesture of appreciation. "The bag also had a lot of supplies. You've saved me days," he said, opening the bag to check for any missing items. "I can't thank you enough. I'm... I'm... Thank you."

"Don't worry about it," Jo assured him, brushing off his thanks with a casual wave of her hand.

Albert gave her a nod, clearly pleased with how the encounter had gone. "Well, Josephine, it was a pleasure. I wish you the best on your travels."

Jo gave a small nod in return. "And good luck with your predators. Hope you get your picture before they get you."

Albert laughed as he slung his camera bag over his shoulder. "That’s the plan." With that, he tipped his hat and began walking back into the woods, leaving Jo and Daisy alone in the clearing once more.

Jo watched him go, shaking her head slightly at the unexpected encounter. People sure were strange sometimes.

She patted Daisy’s neck, feeling the warmth of the horse’s coat under her hand. "Come on, girl," she said softly. "Let’s get out of here."

Jo rode steadily, the rhythmic clopping of Daisy’s hooves the only sound breaking the stillness of the late afternoon. The sun had dipped lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the landscape as she made her way back to Clemens Point. It was a long journey, and though she was eager to return, she knew Daisy needed a rest, and so did she.

Finding a secluded spot by a small creek, Jo dismounted and set up a modest camp. She started a small fire, the crackling flames offering some comfort against the approaching evening chill. Pulling out a piece of dried meat from her saddlebag, she sat down on a fallen log, the firelight casting flickering shadows across her face.

As she chewed the tough meat, her thoughts drifted back to the night she’d spent with Arthur. The memory was vivid, but it felt distant, like a dream she wasn’t sure she’d really had. The regret was gnawing at her, but it was mixed with something else—something she wasn’t ready to name. She shook her head, trying to push the thoughts away, but they clung to her like the smoke from the fire.

She couldn’t afford to be distracted, not now, not with everything that was happening. But it was hard not to be. The encounter with the bounty hunters, the constant need to watch her back, and now this... mistake with Arthur. It was all becoming too much. Her mind started to drift further, back to memories she had long buried, memories of her childhood, of the pain she had tried so hard to forget.

The crackling of the fire brought her back to the present. Jo stared into the flames, her hands tightening around the piece of dried meat. She wanted to scream, to let out all the frustration and confusion building up inside her, but she knew it wouldn’t help. Not out here, alone in the wilderness. But something had to give.

Suddenly, the distant howl of a wolf echoed through the trees, sending a shiver down Jo’s spine. The sound was haunting, lonely—much like how she felt. Her breath hitched, and she felt her chest tighten as old wounds, both physical and emotional, surfaced.

She stood abruptly, tossing the unfinished meat into the fire. She couldn’t sit still any longer, couldn’t keep running from the thoughts that had been chasing her all day. The howl of the wolf resonated in her ears, a chilling reminder of the dangers that lurked both outside and within.

Jo turned her back on the fire, her eyes scanning the darkening forest. The memories she had fought so hard to suppress came rushing back, like a flood she could no longer hold back. She clenched her fists, feeling the sting of her nails digging into her palms.

And that’s when she knew—she couldn’t escape it any longer. The past was catching up to her, whether she wanted it to or not.

Chapter Text

The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the fields, turning the sky into a canvas of deep oranges and reds. Eleven-year-old Josephine Harper crouched behind the weathered barn, her breath coming in quick, shallow gasps. She could hear the wind rustling through the tall grass, the distant calls of birds as they settled in for the night—but over it all, she could hear the unmistakable sound of her father’s voice, rough and slurred, calling out her name.

“You get back here right now, you little wretch!”

His words were thick with alcohol, each syllable dripping with anger. Josephine pressed herself tighter against the wooden wall of the barn, trying to make herself as small as possible. She knew better than to answer. She’d learned long ago that when he was like this, it was safer to stay hidden.

The sound of boots crunching on gravel grew louder, closer. Josephine’s heart pounded in her chest as she peeked around the corner, catching a glimpse of her father’s silhouette against the setting sun. He was stumbling, swaying slightly as he walked, the half-empty bottle dangling from his hand.

“Come out, girl,” he growled, his voice low and menacing. “I know you’re out here somewhere.”

Josephine pulled back, pressing herself against the rough wood. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself to be invisible, to be anywhere but here. She had to be careful, had to stay hidden until he gave up, until the drink pulled him under and he stumbled back to the house. But she knew from experience that could take hours, and sometimes, he didn’t give up.

The barn door creaked open, and Josephine’s eyes flew open in panic. She could hear him inside now, the sound of things being shoved aside, tossed to the floor as he searched for her. Her pulse raced as she realized how close he was, just a few feet away, separated by nothing more than a thin wall of wood.

Suddenly, there was a loud crash, and Josephine jumped, her hand flying to her mouth to stifle a gasp. He had knocked over something heavy—an old tool chest, maybe. The clang of metal echoed through the still air, followed by a string of curses that made Josephine’s blood run cold.

“Where the hell are you?” he snarled, his voice thick with frustration.

Josephine’s mind raced. She couldn’t stay here much longer; he was too close. If he found her, she knew what would happen. 

She had to run. But where? The open fields offered no cover, and if she made a dash for the woods, he’d see her for sure. Her only chance was to wait until he was in the barn, then slip around the back and head for the river. It was risky, but it was the only plan she had.

The sound of the barn door slamming shut jolted Josephine into action. She took a deep breath, her small body trembling as she prepared to move. She could hear him cursing under his breath, the heavy thud of his boots as he kicked aside tools and barrels. Now or never.

With a silent prayer, Josephine bolted from her hiding place, her feet barely making a sound as she ran around the side of the barn. She kept low, her eyes locked on the path that led down to the river. It wasn’t far, just a few hundred yards, but every step felt like an eternity.

She was almost there, just a few more steps, when she heard the barn door fly open again. Her father’s voice rang out, loud and furious.

She didn’t dare look back. Her legs burned as she pushed herself harder, the riverbank coming into view. She could hear him behind her now, his heavy footsteps pounding the earth, getting closer and closer.

The river was there, just ahead, its waters dark and fast. Without thinking, Josephine gathered all her strength, preparing to leap into the icy water and let the current carry her far away from him, from the terror that clung to her every thought.

But just as she pushed off the ground, a strong hand grabbed the back of her dress, yanking her back with a force that sent her crashing to the ground. The impact knocked the wind out of her, and before she could even attempt to scramble to her feet, her father was on her, his breath hot and foul against her ear.

“You think you can run from me, girl?” he hissed, his voice dripping with venom. “You’ll never escape. You’re mine, and you’ll pay for this—every last bit of it.”

The landscape of the camp's outskirts came into view, and Jo felt a mix of relief and apprehension. She wasn’t sure how she’d face Arthur, or even if she should. Jo rode back to camp, the morning sun casting a warm glow over the landscape as she urged Daisy into a steady trot. The familiar sounds of the camp came into earshot—voices, the crackle of a distant fire, the faint clatter of pots and pans. She was almost home.

As she approached the camp, Jo noticed Mary-Beth sitting by the edge of the camp, her face creased with worry. The young woman looked up, her expression brightening slightly when she saw Jo, but the concern didn’t fully leave her eyes.

"Jo!" Mary-Beth called out, standing up and hurrying over. "Thank goodness you’re back! I was startin’ to get worried."

Jo dismounted, patting Daisy’s neck before turning to face Mary-Beth. "I’m fine," she replied, though her voice was a bit strained. "Just took a little longer than expected."

Mary-Beth gave her a quick once-over, noting the wrinkled clothes and the weary look in Jo’s eyes. "You look like you been through hell. But it’s not just you I’ve been worried about..." she trailed off, glancing over her shoulder. 

Jo felt a knot form in her stomach. "What’s wrong?" she asked, her voice tense.

Mary-Beth hesitated. "Arthur came back yesterday... he was hurt pretty bad. Said he had a run-in with the O’Driscolls."

Jo’s heart skipped a beat, a rush of guilt and concern flooding through her. Colm and Dutch had an old grudge, and she was well aware of it. "Is he alright?"

"I think so, but... he didn’t say much about it. Dutch and Hosea were with him when he got back. They’ve been pretty tight-lipped about the whole thing," Mary-Beth explained, her brow furrowing. "I wanted to help, but they sent me away. They said it was best to leave it to them."

Jo clenched her jaw, her mind racing. She had left Arthur behind after that night, and now he’d been wounded. The guilt gnawed at her, but she couldn’t let it show. "Where is he now?"

"In his tent, Miss Grimshaw’s taking care of him," Mary-Beth admitted, her voice softening. "He’s been resting, I think. But if you want to know more, you should talk to Dutch or Hosea. They’d know more about what happened."

Jo nodded, trying to keep her emotions in check. "Thanks, Mary-Beth. I’ll go find ‘em."

Mary-Beth gave her a small, sympathetic smile. "I’m sure he’ll be alright, Jo. Arthur’s tough."

Jo forced a smile in return, though her mind was already elsewhere. "Yeah, he is. I’ll check in with him after I talk to Dutch."

Mary-Beth nodded, reaching out to give Jo’s arm a comforting squeeze. "Take care of yourself too, okay?"

"I will," Jo promised, though the words felt hollow. She watched as Mary-Beth returned to her seat, picking up her book with a distracted air, before turning her attention to the task at hand.

With a deep breath, Jo began to make her way through the camp, her eyes scanning the familiar faces around her.

She strode through the camp, her shoulders back and the weight of her worry and guilt pressing down on her. She needed answers, and she knew exactly where to get them. As she approached, she noticed Dutch wasn’t alone. Hosea and Micah were standing nearby, engaged in what seemed like a serious discussion. Their conversation came to an abrupt halt when they saw her approaching.

Dutch, always quick to regain his composure, offered her a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. "Well, well, look who’s back. We were starting to wonder if you’d gotten lost out there."

Micah's lips curled into a dismissive sneer as Jo approached them, his eyes scanning her from head to toe with a mixture of contempt and disdain.

“I bet she’s been out having adventures without us.” Hosea teased, a playful smile on his face. 

His gaze, however, immediately went to her arm, his sharp eyes catching the piece of fabric she had used to cover her wound. The cloth was stained with dried blood, a telltale sign that she hadn’t taken proper care of it. "What happened to your arm?" he asked, concern evident in his tone.

Jo glanced down at her arm, then back at the trio, brushing off the injury. “It’s nothing. Just a graze. I’ll be fine.” She quickly changed the subject, her voice tight with worry. “What happened to Arthur?”

The atmosphere grew tense as Hosea exchanged a glance with Dutch. 

Micah leaned back against a post, his usual smirk replaced with a more serious expression, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Hosea was the first to speak, his voice steady but tinged with the frustration that often accompanied dealing with Dutch’s plans. “Colm O’Driscoll reached out, said he wanted a parley with Dutch. Thought we could settle things once and for all. Micah and Dutch went to meet him. Arthur’s was on the lookout, making sure it goes smoothly.”

“But of course, it was a trap,” Dutch interjected, his tone bitter. 

Hosea, not one to let things slide, cut in, his tone sharp. "I warned you it would be a trap. But no one listened to me."

Dutch shot Hosea a look, but continued, his voice lower now, as if the admission pained him. "The O’Driscolls must’ve found Arthur while he was on uphill. Captured him."

Jo felt a cold dread settle in her stomach. "Captured?" she repeated, the word tasting bitter on her tongue.

Dutch nodded, the weight of the situation clear in his eyes. "He managed to come back on his own after a whole day. Barely said a word about it."

Hosea stepped in again, his voice softer this time, tinged with the worry that Jo had come to associate with the man who was often the group’s moral compass. "Arthur said it was all a setup. Colm wanted to lure Dutch out so he could hand him over to the Pinkertons." Dutch’s expression darkened at the thought, but he remained silent, letting the gravity of the situation sink in.

Jo felt a wave of nausea at the thought of what Arthur must have gone through, the guilt gnawing at her even more. "And where is he now?" she asked, her voice quieter than before.

Hosea sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "He’s resting, trying to recover. It’s going to take time."

Jo nodded, her jaw clenched as she absorbed the information. She felt an overwhelming urge to go to Arthur, to see for herself that he was alright. "I need to see him."

Dutch held up a hand, as if to stop her. "Give him some time, Jo. He’s been through hell. The last thing he needs is more questions."

Jo’s eyes flicked to Hosea, who gave her a sympathetic look. "You’ll see him soon enough," Hosea assured her. "But first, you need to take care of that arm. We can’t have you falling apart too."

She glanced down at her arm, realizing that the dried blood had started to crack. Reluctantly, she nodded. "Fine. But I ain’t waiting long."

Dutch gave her a nod of approval, while Micah watched with an amused glint in his eye, though he wisely kept his mouth shut. Jo turned on her heel, her thoughts still racing, but she knew she couldn’t face Arthur in this state. Before she headed anywhere near him, she needed to tend to her arm. The makeshift bandage had done little more than keep the wound from getting worse, and now it was time to deal with it properly.

Making her way over to Pearson’s wagon, she scanned the supplies until she found a half-full bottle of alcohol. She grabbed it and nodded in Pearson’s direction, though he seemed too busy with his usual camp duties to notice. Bottle in hand, Jo walked down towards the lake, her boots crunching softly on the path until she found an old tree trunk near the water’s edge.

Sitting down, she took a deep breath, feeling the tension still coursing through her body. The cool air from the lake did little to soothe her nerves. She carefully unwound the piece of fabric from around her arm, grimacing as the dried blood tugged at her skin. The wound wasn’t deep, but it was ugly—an angry red gash where the bullet had grazed her, surrounded by dried blood and dirt. It had scabbed over in some places, but the whole thing was inflamed, clearly in need of cleaning.

She gritted her teeth, gripping the bottle tightly as she tugged the cork off with her teeth. The smell of alcohol filled the air, sharp and biting. With one last steadying breath, Jo tipped the bottle over and poured the liquid directly onto the wound.

"Goddamn it," she hissed, her entire body tensing as the alcohol stung like fire. The pain shot up her arm, making her eyes water, but she kept going, watching as the liquid washed away the dirt and blood, leaving the wound clean but raw. The alcohol dripped down her skin, pooling at her elbow before soaking into the dirt below.

For a moment, she just sat there, her chest rising and falling heavily as she waited for the pain to subside. Slowly, it dulled to a throb, manageable now that the worst of it had passed.

She set the bottle down beside her and reached for a clean piece of cloth from her pocket. She tore a strip off with her teeth, wrapping it carefully around her arm, securing it tight enough to stop any more dirt from getting in. The fabric was rough against her skin, but it would hold.

Jo leaned back slightly, staring out over the water, feeling a strange sense of calm despite everything that had happened. The lake was still, the surface barely rippling, and for a moment, it felt like she was miles away from camp, from Dutch’s schemes, from Arthur and everything that had happened between them.

But the peace never lasted long.

A few hours later, Jo found herself standing outside Arthur's tent, the fading light of the late afternoon casting long shadows across the camp. She had no idea what to expect, only that she needed to see him, to make sure he was all right—or at least as all right as someone could be after what he had been through.

Taking a deep breath, she stepped inside the tent.

The sight that greeted her made her heart clench. Arthur was laying in his cot, his chest rising and falling with labored breaths. His face was bruised and swollen, one eye nearly shut, and his hair stuck to his forehead, damp with sweat. His left shoulder was heavily bandaged, the fabric stained with blood. He looked far worse than she had imagined.

Susan sat in the corner, quietly embroidering, her needlework steady despite the tension in the air. She glanced up when Jo entered but said nothing at first, her expression unreadable.

Jo took a hesitant step forward, her voice barely above a whisper. "How is he?"

Susan paused, her needle hovering over the fabric for a moment before she answered. "He’ll live." Her tone was calm, though there was an edge of concern in it. "Got shot in the shoulder. Damn fool cauterized the wound himself.” She scoffed, “Used a candle." 

Jo winced at the thought, imagining the pain Arthur must have endured. Her eyes flicked back to him, watching as his chest heaved with shallow breaths, his body utterly still except for the slight tremble that ran through him from time to time.

“He’s tough,” Susan continued, setting her embroidery down on her lap. "Always has been. But that doesn’t make him invincible." There was a hint of bitterness in her voice, as if she were frustrated with Arthur for always throwing himself into danger.

Jo stepped closer to the cot, feeling the weight of guilt settle in her chest. She shouldn’t have left him. If she’d been there, maybe things would’ve turned out differently.

"Does he... does he know what happened?" she asked, her voice tight.

Susan sighed softly. "He was half-conscious when he came back. Told us about Colm’s plan. After that, he’s been in and out. Mostly out. We gave him alcohol for the pain, but it’s the fever we’re watching now."

Jo nodded, feeling a cold dread creep up her spine. 

She moved closer to Arthur’s bedside, her hand reaching out as if to touch him but stopping short.

Hearing her voice, Arthur stirred in his feverish state, his brow furrowing as if he were trying to focus on something just beyond his reach. His lips moved slightly before a faint sound escaped. “Jo...” His voice was weak, hoarse, barely audible, but it made Jo’s breath hitch.

Susan glanced over, her eyebrows raised, but Jo quickly stepped forward. “I’ll watch him for a while,” she said quietly. “You should get some rest.”

She hesitated for a moment, her eyes flicking between Jo and Arthur, but eventually nodded. “If he gets worse, you let me know,” she said, gathering her things before heading out of the tent.

As soon as Miss Grimshaw was gone, Jo sat down beside the cot, her gaze fixed on Arthur’s face. His chest rose and fell unevenly, and his skin glistened with sweat. She couldn’t stand seeing him like this—so vulnerable, so unlike the strong, capable man she knew. Her heart ached with a mixture of guilt and something deeper, something she wasn’t ready to face.

She reached out and gently took his hand, her fingers curling around his, giving him a reassuring squeeze. “I’m here,” she whispered, her voice soft, soothing.

His eyes fluttered open, though they were unfocused, dazed with fever. He stared up at her, his lips parting slightly as if he were trying to say something but couldn’t quite form the words. Jo reached up, brushing his damp hair back from his forehead, her hand lingering for a moment. His skin was burning hot under her touch, far too hot.

“You’re burning up,” she muttered, glancing around the tent. She spotted a bucket of water beside the cot, a cloth draped over the edge. Without wasting a moment, she grabbed the cloth, soaking it in the cool water before wringing it out. Gently, she dabbed the cloth across Arthur’s forehead, trying to bring his fever down.

Arthur stirred again, his gaze drifting toward her, though it was clear he wasn’t fully present. His eyes were glassy, unfocused, but then he whispered, his voice barely more than a breath, “Yer... beautiful...”

Jo froze for a moment, her hand stilling as she looked at him in surprise. His words, spoken in the haze of fever, felt raw, unguarded. She swallowed hard, unsure of how to respond, but then she continued her task, gently wiping his brow with the wet cloth.

“You don’t know what you’re sayin’,” she murmured softly, more to herself than to him. But her heart ached at the vulnerability in his voice nonetheless, in the way he looked at her as if she were the only thing anchoring him to the world.

She kept her hand on his forehead, her fingers brushing through his damp hair again, her touch gentle, soothing. “Just rest,” she whispered. “You’ll be all right.”

Jo continued to dab Arthur's forehead, her movements slow and deliberate. His fever showed no sign of breaking, and the heat radiating off his body worried her. She glanced down at him again, watching the way his chest heaved with each labored breath, the furrow in his brow deepening as if he were fighting something in his fevered dreams.

“Oh, Arthur…” she whispered, her voice barely above a breath as she kept running the damp cloth along his skin, cooling his face and neck. The quiet of the tent wrapped around them, broken only by his heavy breathing and the occasional rustle of the canvas in the wind outside. She felt a weight settle in her chest as she thought about the man before her, the guilt of the night they had spent together gnawing at her, mixing with the concern she felt for his well-being.

His hand twitched, and his eyes fluttered open again, locking onto her with a glazed intensity. “Jo…” he muttered again, this time his voice weaker, as though he were trying to pull her back into his dreams. “Don’t... leave…”

“I ain’t going anywhere,” she reassured him, squeezing his hand gently, hoping her words could reach him through the fever. “’m right here. Just sleep.”

Her thumb traced over the back of his hand absentmindedly, her thoughts a million miles away. 

Arthur drifted in and out of consciousness, his body burning with fever, the wound in his shoulder pulsing like a distant drumbeat. The faces around him blurred—Jo’s voice was a murmur, and her gentle hands felt like they belonged to someone far away. He blinked, and suddenly, he wasn’t in Clemens Point anymore.

The world shifted.

He was standing in a field, golden under a soft afternoon sun. The wind was gentle, carrying the sound of laughter—small, joyous laughter that tugged at something deep inside him. Arthur’s breath caught as he turned toward the sound.

“ Isaac ?”

There, by the edge of the trees, was a boy—no older than four, with dark hair and eyes full of life. Isaac was chasing a butterfly, his little legs stumbling over the grass, his giggles echoing through the air. Arthur’s heart twisted painfully, a lump forming in his throat.

“Isaac!” he called out, his voice hoarse, but the boy didn’t seem to hear him.

Arthur tried to move, but his legs felt like lead. No matter how hard he pushed, he couldn’t get closer. He was stuck, rooted to the ground as he watched his son play, just out of reach.

Suddenly, the bright sun dimmed, and a cold shadow crept over the field. Isaac’s laughter faded, replaced by the distant, chilling sound of gunshots. The sky darkened, clouds rolling in like a storm ready to break.

“No…” Arthur whispered, his heart pounding. “Not again…”

The scene shifted, warped. Isaac was gone, replaced by something darker. The field turned to barren land, and in the distance, he saw the burned-out shell of the homestead where it all ended—the place where Isaac and his mother were killed.

Arthur's chest tightened, the weight of guilt suffocating him. He stumbled forward, desperate to reach the house, to undo what had already been done, but his body wouldn't cooperate. His legs buckled, and he fell to his knees, the ground cold beneath him.

Then, from the shadows, a figure emerged.

It was Isaac again, but this time, the boy wasn’t laughing. His face was pale, eyes wide with a silent question. " Why didn’t you save me, Pa? "

The words hit Arthur like a punch to the gut. His vision swam, tears mixing with sweat on his feverish brow. “I tried,” he croaked, voice breaking. “God, I tried…”

But the boy only stared, the question hanging in the air like a noose tightening around his heart. The world around them spun faster, the wind howling now, whipping through the air, dragging the memory deeper into the darkness.

Arthur felt himself slipping, the weight of everything pressing down on him, pulling him into the abyss. Isaac’s voice echoed in his mind, the question gnawing at his soul even as the vision began to fade, the real world pulling him back.

“ Arthur… Arthur!”

He blinked, gasping, and the golden field melted away. Jo’s face swam into focus, her hand resting gently on his forehead, her eyes filled with concern. He was back in Clemens Point, but the ache in his chest remained. The fever still held him in its grip, but the memory—Isaac’s memory—refused to leave.

Arthur’s eyes fluttered shut again, but this time, he welcomed the darkness. 

It was better than facing his ghosts.

Chapter Text

Two weeks had passed since Arthur stumbled back into camp, wounded and feverish. The fever had long since broken, but his recovery was slow. He was awake more often now, though still exhausted, and most of the time, his mind drifted in and out of focus. Miss Grimshaw and Josephine had taken turns caring for him, but he was barely aware of who was at his side, too tired to fully grasp his surroundings.

Every now and then, Arthur would get up to stretch his legs or catch some fresh air by the lake, though his walks were brief and labored. During those rare moments, Jo was never around. Perhaps she couldn’t bear seeing him like this, weakened and vulnerable, a far cry from the strong man she had always known?

But it never stopped her from being there for him through small gestures when he wasn’t awake—bringing a blanket, fetching a hot meal, changing sheets, washing his clothes. Like she was doing right now. The familiar sound of bubbling stew filled the air as Jo stood by the cauldron, pouring some into a bowl for Arthur. It had become her routine. She wasn’t sure why she kept at it, but it made her feel…useful.

“Hey there, Blondie,” came a drawling voice from behind.

Jo tensed slightly, not turning around immediately. She didn’t need to see him to know it was Micah. “Micah,” she greeted, her voice cool, dismissive even.

Micah, always persistent, sidled up next to her, watching as she ladled the stew. “Busy as ever, I see,” he smirked, leaning in a little too close for comfort. “What’s the deal? All this fussin’ over ol’ Arthur… Ya sweet on him or somethin’?”

Jo shot him a cold glance, her hands steady as she finished pouring the stew. “Ain’t your business. But no. Arthur’s my friend.”

Micah chuckled, clearly not satisfied with her answer. “Friend, huh? Well, you sure take care of him like he’s more than that.” His voice dipped lower, taunting. “Come on now, you look at Morgan like you’d lay down and die for him.”

Jo paused, gripping the bowl of stew a little tighter. She glanced up at Micah, her expression shifting to something colder, more pointed. “Maybe I would. What of it?”

Micah raised an eyebrow, caught off guard.

Jo stepped closer, her voice low but dripping with warning. “You lay a finger on him, Micah, and you'll be the one lyin' six feet under. Got it?”

She didn’t wait for a response. Instead, she turned on her heel, stew in hand, leaving him standing by the cauldron as she walked towards Arthur’s tent.

Jo pushed aside the flap of Arthur’s tent, letting a streak of sunlight filter through as she entered. The sight of him, still deeply asleep, brought a knot to her chest. He looked slightly better now—the fever had left him, but the exhaustion still clung to him like a heavy cloak. His face, though still slightly bruised and gaunt, was peaceful in sleep. She placed the bowl of stew carefully on a small crate beside his bed, making as little noise as possible, then straightened up and left the tent.

Stepping outside, she squinted in the bright early morning light. The air was thick with the smell of pine and wood smoke, mingling with the camp’s stew pot. She walked to the outskirts of camp, her boots crunching on the dry earth, until she found a familiar tree where she could lean back and let herself breathe. Lighting a cigarette, she took a deep drag, the sharp taste filling her lungs, and exhaled slowly, watching the smoke spiral upward into the branches above.

After a few minutes of silence, she heard footsteps. John emerged from the path leading out of camp, his casual swagger unmistakable. “Hey,” he greeted, with a grin. “Thought I’d find you out here.”

She smiled faintly and took another puff. “Just thinkin’.”

John leaned against the tree beside her, crossing his arms. "You’ve been doing a lot of that lately. Hell, I thought I was supposed to be the brooding one.”

She raised an eyebrow but didn’t respond right away. He wasn’t usually the observant type, but John had his moments. “Just tired, I guess.”

He nodded, though his eyes said he wasn’t buying it. “Sure. You been lookin’ after Arthur a lot.”

Jo shrugged, her gaze drifting away. “Someone has to.”

John took that in, crossing his arms. "Yeah, but... don’t let it wear you down. Ain’t much good to anyone if you’re runnin’ yourself ragged.”

She snorted softly, taking another drag from her cigarette. "That supposed to be advice?"

John grinned slightly. "Maybe."

Jo huffed a quiet laugh, but the tension still hung over her. John noticed, glancing at her with a curious squint. He had an annoying habit of picking up on things, even when she didn’t want him to. Despite his best efforts to play dumb, John wasn’t as oblivious as he let on. He gave her a sideways look.

“Somethin' you wanna talk about? Or you just gonna keep starin' holes in the sky?” he asked, his tone easy, but his gaze sharp.

Jo shifted uncomfortably, biting the inside of her cheek before sighing. “That night… after the robbery.” She looked down, flicking the ash from her cigarette. “Me and Arthur... we got drunk and things got... really outta hand.”

John raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything, letting her continue.

“I thought it was just... a mistake,” Jo muttered. “But now, I dunno. I kinda liked it, but now everything’s weird. And since I left him alone after that night, I can’t help but feel like this—what happened to him—is somehow my fault.”

John stayed quiet for a moment, his brow furrowing slightly as he listened, thinking through her words. When he finally spoke, his voice was softer, more reflective than usual. "You and Arthur always had somethin’ special. Hell, I remember when we were younger, the two of you always ran off together and left me behind.” He chuckled, though the sound was dry, laced with a touch of nostalgia.

“But look, Jo, Arthur’s a grown man. Ain’t no way this is all on you. What happened... well, that’s between the both of you. But I know one thing, you gotta stop thinkin’ it’s all your fault. That’s somethin’ you’re gonna have to figure out for yourself.”

Before Jo could say more, the soft crunch of gravel underfoot caught her attention. Strauss appeared, his familiar round glasses catching the glint of the fading afternoon light. He clutched his ledger tightly under his arm, the scent of ink and paper lingering as he approached.

"Miss Harper," Strauss greeted, his thick accent unmistakable, though formal as ever. He adjusted his glasses and peered over them, his face set in its usual calculating expression. “Sorry to intrude, but it’s about the Downes...”

Jo’s jaw tensed slightly at the mention, her previous conversation with John already taking a toll on her mood. “What about ‘em?” she asked, her voice edged with reluctance.

Strauss gave a curt nod, flipping open one of his ledgers. “The debt remains unpaid, and given the circumstances, I thought it prudent to remind you. As always, we must keep the books balanced.”

She sighed, she didn’t enjoy this part of camp life, going after debtors, especially ones like the Downes family. It always left a bitter taste. But it was a job, and one she’d take on, even if begrudgingly.

Jo stubbed out her cigarette against the tree bark and pushed off the trunk. “I’ll take care of it,” she muttered, her tone resigned. 

Strauss gave a curt nod and walked off, leaving her and John in an awkward silence. She took a deep breath, letting the cool forest air clear her head. “Thanks, John,” she said quietly before heading back toward camp. The conversation with Arthur would have to wait. 

It was a long way to the Downes’ Ranch, located near Valentine, and Jo knew it would likely take half a day to reach it and another half to come back. The thought of spending an entire day traveling, especially for a damn debt, didn’t sit well with her. She never understood why Dutch continued to lend money to desperate people who could never pay it back. All it left them with was nothing but bruises after an encounter with Arthur most of the time—or corpses if Micah was the one sent to collect. It was a cycle of violence that only bred resentment.

No, she didn’t feel like spending the day on the road. Instead, she had readied Daisy, saddling her up with the bare essentials and making her way to Rhodes. There, she bought a ticket at the train station, her heart heavy with the dread of what was to come. Loading Daisy into the wagon designated for animals, she settled in with the third-class travelers, their chatter and laughter seeming distant as her mind wandered.

Upon arriving in Valentine, Jo wasted no time unloading Daisy. She didn’t want to linger in that damn town, especially with the memories of the last time she was there fresh in her mind. 

Riding toward the ranch, the whole landscape was bathed in the warm glow of the sun. She could still see Arthur’s face as they searched for Mr. Downes and had found nothing but an empty house and a growing sense of unease. 

The wind whispered through the grass, a haunting reminder of the past. She hoped she would have better luck this time. As she approached the ranch, the familiar sight of the weathered farmhouse came into view, standing stubbornly against the rolling hills.

With a deep breath, she steeled herself for whatever awaited her. The feeling of unease settled in her stomach, but she pushed it aside. There was work to be done, and she wouldn’t shy away from it now.

As Jo entered the property, the air was thick with tension. The worn-down house, once a sign of hope and hard work, now looked frail and broken, just like the family that lived inside. She spotted a woman by the side of the house—most likely Mrs. Downes—loading a small cart with what little they had left. Jo kept riding toward them until she reached the path leading to the house and stopped Daisy before dismounting. The crunch of her boots on the dry earth seemed louder than usual, each step feeling heavier as she approached.

“My husband’s not even cold in the ground, and you’ve come back here,” Mrs. Downes said, her voice sharp as a blade, not even sparing a glance in Jo’s direction. She lifted a heavy bag into the cart with a strength that spoke more of grief than anger. “I nearly paid off what was owed.”

Jo froze for a moment, her expression unreadable. So, Mr. Downes was dead? Since when? The news hit her harder than she expected. She hadn’t known, but something in her heart twisted uncomfortably at the revelation. She felt sorry for the woman, for her son—now forced to leave their ranch because they most likely couldn’t afford it anymore. Not that they ever really could.

But she couldn’t let it show. She couldn’t afford to. As much as it stung to come here demanding money from people who clearly needed it to survive, the gang needed it too. Dutch always said they couldn’t allow debtors to think they could run off without paying. Not with the Pinkertons breathing down their necks and every bounty hunter in the territory looking for them.

So Jo put on the mask she had perfected over the years, locking away the ache in her chest. Her voice was cold, her face impassive as she played her part. “Your husband knew the rules when he took that money.” She stood tall, arms crossed, hiding any trace of sympathy she might’ve felt. “Now, I’m really sorry about the way things turned out, but he had a choice. Ain’t my fault about the way the world is.”

Mrs. Downes let out a bitter laugh, hollow and filled with grief, as she ascended the porch stairs, taking another bag from her son’s trembling hands. Her voice wavered, but her words cut deep. “He didn’t have a choice. He was good, and he did good. There wasn’t no choice in that. And you’ve as good as killed him yourself and don’t kid yourself.” Her gaze pierced right through Jo, full of disgust, eyes burning with unshed tears. “You had a choice.”

The accusation hung in the air like smoke, thick and suffocating. Jo would be lying if she said those words didn’t hurt her. Deep down, they struck a chord she had buried a long time ago. The truth of it was undeniable. She did have a choice, and yet here she was, collecting debts from widows and orphans. But she couldn’t afford to let that truth surface, not now. She forced herself to remain indifferent, her face a mask of stone as she stared down Mrs. Downes.

“You speak as if killing were something I cared about,” Jo replied, her voice low, almost a whisper, but with an edge that could cut.

Mrs. Downes shook her head, her voice barely more than a tremble. “You ever wonder about eternity? You should.”

The words hit Jo like a slap, but she didn’t flinch. She clenched her jaw and looked away, trying to ignore the guilt rising in her throat. Instead, she pushed it down with a bitter chuckle. “I hope it’s hot and terrible, Mrs. Downes,” she muttered, her voice full of dark humor. “Otherwise, I’ll feel I’ve been sold a false bill of goods.” She stepped closer, her presence looming, casting a shadow over the grieving woman and her son. “Now, please… get me that money.”

Jo watched as Mrs. Downes disappeared inside, leaving her son to step out onto the porch. He was tall for his age, but still a boy, his face twisted with disdain as he looked at her.

“Don’t look at me like that, kid,” Jo said, her voice firm but not without a hint of weariness. “Ain’t my fault your father made a bad choice.”

The boy’s expression didn’t soften. “He was trying to help his family. There’s no bad choice in that.”

Jo couldn’t help but let out a soft sigh, shaking her head slightly. “And I’m tryin’ to help mine.” She paused, studying his face for a moment, before speaking again, her voice a little softer. “Listen, be a good kid for your mother, alright? Help her, protect her, and try not to end up like me. You hear?”

The boy’s eyes flickered with something—maybe understanding, maybe defiance—but he didn’t say anything. Jo gave a small nod, as if that was answer enough.

A moment later, Mrs. Downes returned, her face as tight and drawn as before, but her hands clutching the money. She handed it over without a word, her gaze cold and distant.

Jo took it, slipping it into her coat pocket before giving them both a nod. “Good day,” she said quietly, before turning and walking back toward Daisy.

Mounting up, she cast one last glance at the house, the weight of the situation pressing on her, but she shook it off. There was no room for regret in this world. Not if you wanted to survive. With a nudge to Daisy’s sides, she rode off, leaving the Downes’ Ranch behind her.

Jo rode back to Valentine with a heaviness in her chest, the echo of the Downes’ words lingering in her mind. The closer she got to the town, the more she welcomed the sound of her horse’s hooves on the dirt, anything to drown out the uneasy feeling that gnawed at her. Once she arrived, she didn’t waste any time. Valentine was no place she wanted to linger, not after what had gone down there. She made her way straight to the train station, handing over the fare and watching as Daisy was loaded onto the train. Jo boarded with the third-class passengers, finding a seat by the window. The familiar jolt of the train pulling out of the station was a relief—a chance to leave behind the weight of that ranch, at least for now.

She kept her gaze on the passing landscape, the train gently rocking as it made its way toward Rhodes. The open fields and scattered trees blurred by, but her mind was elsewhere, still caught up in the harshness of the debt collection she had just handled for the Downes. Edith and her son’s faces lingered in her thoughts—how hollow their eyes looked. It never got any easier, not that she’d admit it to anyone. She shifted slightly in her seat, letting out a quiet sigh.

The quiet was suddenly broken by the sound of someone sitting across from her. Her eyes flicked to the side for a brief moment, catching sight of a man before turning back to the window. She felt the weight of his stare, though. Not in the way that made her bristle, not a threat—yet—but enough to pull her attention away from her thoughts.

She quirked an eyebrow and turned to meet his gaze. “Can I help you?”

The man blinked, almost like he hadn’t expected her to confront him so directly. “Um, no, but can I help you? You seem… shaken up.”

Jo shifted in her seat, her expression turning into a practiced mask of indifference. She wasn’t in the mood for small talk, especially not from strangers. “Reckon it’s pretty normal to get nervous when someone you don’t know’s chasing you down the road,” she said, her voice edged with forced casualness.

The man raised his hands in a mock surrender, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips. “Fair enough. I realize now how that must’ve looked. You just... keep runnin’ away from me.”

Jo narrowed her eyes, not fully amused by his attempt at lightening the mood. “Most people would take that as a hint.”

There was a pause, the silence hanging between them before the man let out a soft chuckle. His smile was sheepish, almost boyish. “Yeah, guess I deserved that.”

He chuckled softly, but there was something uneasy in the way he kept looking at her, as if searching for something beyond her hardened exterior. Jo shifted uncomfortably, her gaze flicking back to the landscape, silently willing him to lose interest.

But then, his next words sliced through the air, shattering her composure.

“ Sarah .”

It took a moment for it to register, but when it did, her breath hitched. A cold wave of panic washed over her, freezing her in place. Sarah. That name—it hadn’t touched her ears in years, not since she had been fourteen. No one here knew it. No one was supposed to know it.

Her heart pounded painfully in her chest as she snapped her gaze to the man, her pulse roaring in her ears. The landscape outside seemed to blur into nothingness as dread clawed at the back of her mind.

“Sarah,” the man repeated, softer this time, as if coaxing her back to a memory she’d long buried. His eyes bore into hers, and for the first time in years, she felt cornered. Exposed.

Her old life. Her past. Had it finally caught up with her?

No… It’s– This wasn’t happening.

Chapter Text

Arthur’s eyes fluttered open slowly, his senses gradually returning to him. The familiar smells of camp—wood smoke, leather, and stale coffee—greeted him as he blinked and took in his surroundings. The inside of his tent felt oddly foreign after being lost in a feverish haze for what felt like an eternity. His cot creaked as he shifted slightly, testing the stiffness in his limbs. He groaned softly, the ache in his body a reminder of just how far he had to go in his recovery.

As his vision cleared, he noticed Mrs. Grimshaw sitting in a corner, quietly embroidering, though her watchful gaze never strayed far from him. She glanced up, her stern expression softening ever so slightly when she saw him fully awake.

“Finally decided to join the living, have you?” she remarked, her voice as sharp as ever but laced with a hint of relief.

Arthur gave a weak grunt, attempting to push himself up on his elbows. “Reckon so… feels like I’ve been half-dead for a while.”

“You’ve been worse,” Grimshaw replied dryly, setting her embroidery down and standing up to inspect him closer. “Still look like hell, though.”

Arthur managed a half-smile. “Appreciate the honesty.”

She crossed her arms and regarded him for a moment, as if sizing him up to make sure he really was on the mend. “You should get yourself cleaned up, Morgan. A proper bath in Rhodes would do you good.”

Arthur’s brows furrowed. “Rhodes?”

Grimshaw nodded. “You’ve been laid up long enough. Might as well wash off the grime of your misery. Go on, it'll make you feel halfway human again.”

Mrs. Grimshaw gave Arthur a pointed look before turning to leave the tent, her skirts swishing as she moved. “I’ll leave you to it, but don’t dawdle. You’ve been smellin’ ripe for too long, son.”

As she exited, Arthur sat up fully, groaning as he swung his legs over the side of the cot. Every joint felt stiff, his muscles protesting the movement after so many days of disuse. Slowly, he dressed, the motions sluggish but familiar, each layer of clothing bringing him back to himself. He tugged on his boots last, giving them a hard stomp to make sure they still fit right.

When he finally stepped outside his tent, the golden hues of the late afternoon bathed the camp in a warm, mellow light. Arthur stretched, his limbs creaking in response, and let out a deep breath as he inhaled the crisp air. The fresh breeze was invigorating, a far cry from the stuffy confines of his tent. He glanced around, taking in the sight of the camp—people milling about, the clink of tools and pots, the low murmur of conversation.

As he stood there, his gaze met John’s from across the camp. John, who had been tending to his horse, raised a brow when he noticed Arthur was up and about. A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth as he approached.

“Well, well,” John said, his voice laced with sarcasm. “Look who decided to rise from the dead. You sure you ain’t a ghost?”

Arthur snorted. “Would’ve been quieter if I was.”

John chuckled, giving Arthur a once-over. “You look like hell, but better than you did last week. Feelin’ any better?”

Arthur rubbed the back of his neck, still working out the soreness. “Gettin’ there. Thought I was gonna rot in that damn cot.”

John crossed his arms, leaning slightly against a nearby post. “Well, at least you’re up now. We were startin’ to think you’d never get off your ass.”

Arthur gave him a tired smirk. “Thought you’d be enjoyin’ the peace and quiet.”

“Yeah, maybe. But Grimshaw’s been fillin’ the silence with her barkin’ orders, so it’s been more like a trade-off.”

Arthur chuckled, though the movement made his chest ache. "Reckon that’s a fair price."

John paused, his tone softening slightly as he shifted his stance. “You should take it easy for a while. Don’t need to be doin' anything stupid too soon.”

Arthur gave him a look, though the concern didn’t go unnoticed. “Don’t worry, Marston. Ain’t plannin’ on doin’ anything too stupid... yet.”

“Yeah, well, with you, it’s only a matter of time,” John quipped, though there was a touch of fondness beneath the teasing.

“So, you really gonna drag yourself all the way to Rhodes on your own?” John raised an eyebrow, a faint smirk playing on his lips.

Arthur shrugged, but the strain in his movements was evident. “Hell, I’ve done worse.”

“Yeah, but usually you ain’t just crawled out of bed after nearly dyin’,” John shot back. “Grimshaw’ll have your head if you collapse halfway there.”

Arthur snorted, though he knew John was right. Before he could argue, Mrs. Grimshaw herself reappeared, having likely overheard them from across the camp. She approached with the same no-nonsense expression she always wore.

“You ain’t going anywhere on your own, Mr. Morgan,” she said bluntly, folding her arms. “You can barely stand without wincing like an old man. You wanna go to Rhodes, fine, but you’re not goin’ by yourself.”

Arthur opened his mouth to protest, but before he could say anything, Mrs. Grimshaw continued, “Sadie’s headin’ there anyway. She’s got some errands to run. You two can go together.”

John snickered, earning a glare from Grimshaw. “What?” he said innocently. “Just sounds like you’ve got everything all figured out.”

Grimshaw turned back to Arthur, her eyes narrowing. “I don’t care what either of you think. If you want to go, you’re ridin’ with Mrs. Adler. She’s more capable than most of you lot when it comes to keepin’ someone out of trouble anyway.”

Arthur sighed, knowing it was pointless to argue. “Fine, I’ll go with her.”

Just as he spoke, Sadie appeared near the campfire, glancing their way as she poured herself some coffee. Arthur raised a hand to get her attention.

“Looks like we’re takin’ a trip to Rhodes,” Arthur called out, his voice tired but laced with humor.

Mrs. Adler raised an eyebrow as she approached, catching onto the conversation immediately. “Is that so?” she said, her tone teasing. “And who decided that?”

“Grimshaw, mostly,” Arthur replied with a shrug.

Sadie’s eyes flicked to Mrs. Grimshaw, who gave her a stern nod of approval. “Well, if you’re headin’ to Rhodes, I could use the company. Got some things to take care of anyway,” she said with a small smile. “You up for it?”

Arthur smirked, though it didn’t fully hide the exhaustion in his face. “Reckon I’ll manage.”

“Good,” Sadie said. “But don’t slow me down too much.”

Arthur gave her a look of mock offense, but deep down, he was glad he wouldn’t be making the trip alone.

Arthur entered the Rhodes hotel with a slow gait, his limbs still stiff and sore from his recent ordeal. The cool air of the evening followed him in, mixing with the warm light from the lobby’s lamps. The hotel clerk, a balding man with a graying mustache, looked up from his desk as Arthur approached, nodding in acknowledgment.

"Evenin’," Arthur greeted with a grunt, leaning on the counter. "Need a bath."

The clerk gave a thin smile. "Of course, sir. That'll be fifty cents for a regular bath. But, for a small supplement, we offer assistance from one of the girls."

Arthur hesitated, his blue eyes clouding for a moment. The idea of someone seeing him in this state—a man barely held together, wounded, exhausted—wasn’t appealing. Then again, the thought of not having to strain his battered body further had its own appeal. After a second of deliberation, he fished out a few coins from his satchel and slid them across the counter.

"Yeah, sure," he muttered. "Have someone help."

The clerk nodded and rang a small bell. A minute later, a young woman with dark hair tied back in a loose bun appeared from the hallway. She flashed a polite smile at Arthur and motioned for him to follow.

The bathhouse was simple—wooden walls lined with hooks for clothes, a tub already filled with steaming water. Arthur let out a breath, already feeling some relief at the sight of it. He began to undress, his movements slow and deliberate, wincing as he stretched his sore shoulder.

As he sank into the water, the warmth enveloping him, he couldn’t help but close his eyes for a moment, letting out a small groan as the heat worked on his muscles. The girl gently rolled up her sleeves, preparing to scrub his back, her movements careful but practiced.

“You just relax, sir,” she said, her voice soft. “I’ll take care of the rest.”

Arthur gave a noncommittal grunt, focusing on the feeling of the water and the gentle touch of the girl as she worked.

Arthur shifted slightly in the tub, the warm water swirling around him as the girl worked the cloth over his back. The steam rose in gentle curls, softening the stiffness in his body, but his mind remained restless. He tried to focus on the sensation of being bathed, the methodical rhythm of the girl's hands scrubbing his skin, but thoughts of the past few weeks refused to let go.

He couldn’t help but think of her .

That night had been a blur of laughter, whiskey, and fleeting touches. He remembered her, how the two of them, drunk and reckless, had staggered back from a successful robbery. It was supposed to be a celebration—a moment of triumph amid the chaos of their lives. But the way she’d looked at him, with those striking hazel eyes that cut through his defenses... it had stirred something deep inside. They had crossed a line, one he hadn’t even realized was there until it was too late.

He wasn’t sure how to feel about it now. He liked Jo—hell, he respected her. She was tough, resilient, not one to back down from anything. But what they’d done, what they’d shared that night—it wasn’t just drunken foolishness. At least, not entirely. There was something more, something that scared him as much as it intrigued him. He wasn’t good at this sort of thing. Hell, he wasn’t good at much when it came to people.

The girl gently dipped the cloth into the water, wringing it out before running it over his arms. He sighed, trying to ease back into the moment, but then his mind wandered further.

The O’Driscolls.

That damn ambush.

He'd been reckless. Taken the bait like a fool and paid for it with bullets and bruises. Colm O'Driscoll had nearly killed him—twice, if you counted what happened back in that snowy mountain. And for what? A truce? A lie wrapped up in promises that meant nothing.

His shoulder ached at the thought, the wound still tender despite the weeks of healing. If not for Mrs. Grimshaw and Jo... Jo had been there, hadn't she? Even when she couldn't bear to be around him while he was conscious, she’d helped in other ways. He tried to remember flashes of her presence—her voice in the distance, the soft rustle of blankets she’d left behind. Even now, in the warmth of the bath, he could feel her hand on his forehead, pushing his damp hair back.

He could almost feel it—her touch, more careful, a bit rough around the edges but familiar. The way she’d brushed his hair back from his forehead when he was fevered and broken. The sensation was vivid in his mind, the imagined weight of her hands tracing over his shoulders, down his arms. For a moment, he let himself believe it was her tending to him now, easing the soreness from his body, the gentle scrape of her calloused fingers against his skin.

He exhaled, his eyes closing completely as his mind betrayed him, pulling him deeper into the fantasy. What would it be like if she were here, washing away the grime and the guilt? He imagined her leaning over the tub, her face focused but soft in the candlelight, the warmth of her breath mixing with the steam as she silently worked. Jo was no stranger to hardship, no stranger to the things that weighed on a man’s soul, and somehow that made the thought of her being here with him feel...right.

But just as quickly, guilt crept in.

What the hell was he doing, thinking like that? She wasn’t here, she never would be. Jo didn’t belong in this part of his life—this vulnerable part, the one that needed care, needed comfort. She was better than that. Stronger. She’d never look at him like this, not after what happened between them. Not after the mess he’d made.

Arthur blinked and opened his eyes again, reality crashing back in. The girl washing him was just that—a girl, a stranger doing her job, not Jo. His mind had played a trick on him, and now he felt a strange, aching emptiness.

His body may have been on the mend, but his mind... it was far from it.

The girl paused, her hands still for a moment. "You alright, mister?" she asked quietly, her tone cautious.

Arthur blinked again, realizing he’d been gripping the edge of the tub. He exhaled slowly, easing his grip and shaking off the thoughts that weighed him down. "Yeah," he muttered, his voice gruff. "Just a lot on my mind, is all."

She nodded, offering a faint smile, then resumed her work, scrubbing at the dirt and grime of the trail.

Arthur stared at the water, now tinged brown from the dust of the past weeks. The bath was supposed to be a reprieve, a chance to relax, to recover. But the weight of everything pressed too hard against him—the mistakes, the regrets, the things unsaid. He closed his eyes again, willing himself to focus on the present, just for a little while longer.

"That should do it," the girl said softly, stepping back as she finished. "Water’s gettin’ cold anyway."

Arthur nodded, sitting up in the tub and reaching for the towel nearby. He thanked her with a low grunt, drying himself off and dressing slowly. As the steam faded and the cool air of the hotel room pressed against his skin, he couldn't help but feel like the bath had only scrubbed away the dirt, leaving everything else right where it was.

Arthur stepped out of the hotel as nightfall settled over Rhodes, the last remnants of sunlight fading into a dim glow on the horizon. The air was thick with the familiar scent of dirt and heat, mixed with the faint smell of wood smoke from the few chimneys still billowing into the sky. Rhodes had always felt quieter than Valentine, more orderly somehow, but no less suffocating. Where Valentine was all chaos and noise, Rhodes hid its trouble beneath a polite façade, the kind of place that smiled in your face while something darker simmered just beneath the surface.

He stood on the wooden planks of the hotel’s porch for a moment, taking it all in. The town wasn’t large, just a handful of buildings neatly arranged around a main street. The general store stood nearby, a couple of wagons parked out front, and across from it, the sheriff’s office—far too quiet for a place with so many secrets. Beyond that, the Rhodes Saloon, its windows open, letting out the sound of laughter and clinking glasses, though the noise seemed distant in the evening air. People milled about, but it wasn’t bustling like Valentine. It was a strange kind of calm, like the eye of a storm.

Arthur’s gaze wandered as he adjusted his hat, squinting through the fading light. That’s when he spotted her—Sadie, standing near the saloon, looking like she was either waiting on someone or spoiling for trouble, and with Sadie, it could be both. But it wasn’t just her that caught his eye. Behind her, tethered to the post outside the saloon, was a familiar sight—Daisy.

His heart skipped a beat.

Jo was here.

Of all places, she was in Rhodes. The image of her horse, standing tall and calm as ever, pulled at something deep inside him. His thoughts flashed back to their last moments together, the drunken night they’d shared, and everything that had come after. He hadn’t seen her since—at least, not really. She’d been avoiding him, or maybe he’d been avoiding her, he wasn’t sure anymore. But seeing her horse now, just there, stirred a rush of feelings that he hadn’t quite managed to bury.

Arthur's chest tightened with a mix of emotions he didn't know what to do with. Was she here for business, or had she come to Rhodes for something else? Was she thinking about him, about what happened between them, or had she moved on already, like nothing had changed? He wasn’t sure if he wanted to go in there and find out. Part of him was tempted to turn around and just head the other way. Let her be.

But another part of him—one he couldn’t quite ignore—was drawn to that saloon like it held the answers to all the things that had been weighing him down.

Arthur wandered over toward Sadie, catching her attention as she glanced up from inspecting her saddle.

"Cleaned up nice, I see," she remarked with a smirk.

"Somethin' like that," Arthur replied with a slight chuckle. They stood in comfortable silence for a beat before Sadie’s gaze shifted past him. Her brow furrowed in thought, and she gestured toward the saloon.

“Ain’t that Jo’s horse over there?”

Arthur followed her line of sight, his eyes landing on the familiar silhouette of Daisy, tethered outside the saloon. 

“Yeah... reckon it is,” he muttered, his gaze lingering a moment longer than necessary, then he turned back to Sadie.

“You reckon she’s here on some errand?” she asked, glancing between him and the saloon.

“Maybe,” Arthur replied, though a knot was forming in his gut. He couldn't shake the feeling that something was off.

Sadie narrowed her eyes at him. “You gonna check on her or what?”

Arthur let out a sigh, rubbing his neck. “Reckon I should.”

Sadie gave him a shrug. “Up to you. I’ll be here.”

With another glance toward Daisy, Arthur headed for the saloon. The evening crowd had already settled in, the dim light inside flickering against the worn wood as he pushed open the door. The thick scent of tobacco and alcohol clung to the air, a haze of smoke hanging over the dimly lit room. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, Arthur spotted the usual crowd—rough men nursing whiskey, a few card players huddled in a corner, and the piano man playing some ragged tune no one was paying attention to. He took a step toward the bar but stopped dead in his tracks.

She was seated at a small table, laughing at something a man across from her had said. Arthur’s boots slowed, the half-smile that had been creeping across his face fading in an instant.

He didn’t know who the fella was. Didn’t matter. The way he leaned in, a little too close, made Arthur’s gut twist. Jo looked comfortable, relaxed, her posture loose as she chuckled at something the man said. Her laugh—the one that usually brought a warmth to Arthur’s chest—felt like a slap now.

Arthur’s jaw tightened as he stood there, watching from across the room, his hand hovering just above his gun belt out of habit. The stranger was leaning forward, his eyes never leaving Jo, saying something that made her laugh again. The sound rang out across the saloon, but this time it grated against Arthur’s nerves.

What the hell was she doin’ here with him?

Jo wasn’t his. Hell, she could sit with whoever she wanted. But the sight of her with this stranger—it dug under his skin like a thorn he couldn’t pull out. His chest tightened, and that familiar, protective instinct flared up, the one that made him want to march over there and drag her out of the saloon himself. But he couldn’t. He shouldn’t .

His fingers flexed at his side, itching for something to do—anything to stop the burning sensation in his chest. It was ridiculous, this whole thing. She was her own woman, and he had no right to interfere. But God, seeing her with another man, the way she laughed at his words, like she didn’t have a care in the world, it stirred something deep in him he wasn’t ready to face.

The barkeep caught his eye, nodding toward him. “What’ll it be?”

Arthur’s mouth opened to respond, but no words came out. He glanced back at Jo one last time, her head tilted toward the man as if she were listening intently to whatever nonsense he was saying. Arthur’s stomach twisted painfully, and suddenly, the thought of a drink didn’t seem so appealing.

Without a word, Arthur turned on his heel and pushed his way back through the saloon doors. The cool night air hit his face as he stepped outside, but it did little to soothe the bitter edge of what he was feeling. He took a deep breath, forcing the knot in his chest to loosen as he stared down the dusty road ahead.

It was better this way. If he stayed, he knew his temper would get the better of him, and the last thing he needed was to make a fool of himself in front of her. Jo didn’t owe him anything, least of all an explanation. But damn if it didn’t hurt more than he cared to admit.

He muttered a curse under his breath and headed toward Atlas, trying to shake the image of her laughing with that stranger, knowing it would stick with him far longer than he wanted it to.

When he reached Sadie, she was still securing her things, glancing over at him with a questioning look.

“Let’s go,” Arthur muttered, his voice rough, almost as if he was trying to push the words through clenched teeth.

“Haven’t seen her?” Sadie asked, eyeing him closely.

Arthur looked away, tugging on the reins. “Seen plenty enough.”

With a final glance at the saloon, Arthur mounted his horse with a grunt. Sadie didn’t press him further, but there was a knowing look in her eyes. Without another word, they set off, the sounds of Rhodes fading behind them as they rode out into the gathering dusk, but the image of Jo’s laughter stayed with Arthur, gnawing at him all the way back to camp.

Chapter Text

The dawn was just breaking as Jo returned to camp, the early morning light casting a pale glow across the quiet camp. The faintest orange touched the tops of the trees, and only a few camp members stirred, slowly rising from their tents or beginning their morning chores. Jo made her way to the campfire, its embers still crackling as a welcoming warmth filled the early chill.

She poured herself a cup of coffee, taking a moment to savor the steam rising from the tin cup, feeling it ease the exhaustion that clung to her. As she settled on a nearby crate, Lenny appeared from behind the wagon, stifling a yawn and blinking against the early light.

“Jo, you back already?” he asked, sounding genuinely surprised.

“Couldn’t stand the idea of another minute in Rhodes,” she replied with a hint of a grin, taking a sip of the strong coffee.

Lenny chuckled, nodding as he poured his own cup. “You won’t hear any arguments from me on that one. Ain’t much more to that place than heat and headaches.”

Just as Lenny settled down with his coffee, Hosea strolled over, stretching his back and rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He offered a warm smile as he approached, looking from Jo to Lenny.

“Well, what do we have here? You two are up bright and early. Or maybe just up late?” he teased, his voice carrying that familiar, gentle humor.

Jo gave a small chuckle, holding her cup between her hands. “Early, surprisingly,” she replied. 

Late more like, if one considers not sleeping at all. But she wasn't about to reveal that. Jo took a steadying sip of her coffee, feeling the warmth settle into her. She forced a calm exterior, though her mind was still replaying yesterday's encounter. Seeing Ben—no, Benjamin —after all those years had been the last thing she’d expected. The boy who used to be a constant in her early life was now a man, his easy smile and familiar eyes layered with an unexpected charm that left her more rattled than she cared to admit.

"Figured it was about time I came home,” she said lightly, forcing a smile.

Jo downed the last of her coffee, letting the bitter taste linger before rising to her feet. She tucked the empty cup by her side and made her way to the camp funds chest, dropping in the bundle from the Downes' debt with a decisive clink. At least that part of the job was over.

As she turned, her gaze landed on Arthur, standing outside his tent, stretching his arms and rolling his shoulders. Relief flooded her; after everything he’d been through, seeing him back on his feet brought her a comfort she hadn’t realized she was holding her breath for. She made her way over, a small smile on her face, glad to catch him alone.

But as she neared, he turned, his usual easy expression replaced with something colder, distant.

“Mornin’, Arthur,” she greeted, hoping to shake him out of it. “Lookin’ better already.”

He nodded curtly. “Mornin’,” he replied, his tone stiff.

Jo paused, thrown by his unusual mood. She’d expected a quick smile, maybe a bit of small talk, but he was already looking off toward the horses, dismissing her as if she’d merely wandered by. A twinge of confusion settled in her chest, mingled with an unexpected sting.

“Somethin’ wrong?” she asked, keeping her tone light, though her mind drifted back to that night after the robbery. Maybe he was regretting it, she thought, or maybe it was the way she’d left him afterward. She shifted on her feet, trying not to let her concern show. “If I did somethin’, you could just—”

“Nah, just been busy,” he cut in, voice hardening, though he still didn’t look at her. “Ain’t no need for you to check up on me.”

Stung, she gave a short nod, retreating a step. “Alright then… if that’s what you want.”

Arthur finally glanced at her, but there was a shadow there she didn’t understand, something guarded and sharp. Without another word, she turned, feeling a strange ache as she walked away, wondering if it was the night they’d spent together or something else entirely that was keeping him so far from her now.

Arthur headed over to Atlas, giving the big horse a firm pat along the neck. He muttered a few calming words, his touch easing the tension in his hands if not in his mind. He noticed Kieran loitering nearby, keeping to his usual quiet corner by the horses, and gave him a quick nod. Kieran straightened, nodding back in his hesitant way, as if half afraid of interrupting Arthur’s brooding.

Arthur gave Atlas’s mane one final pat, mumbling reassurances to the horse. He noticed John’s approach by the horses, his usual laid-back posture undercut by the determined look in his eyes.

“Had a feeling you’d end up here, talkin' to him,” John said, nodding toward Atlas. “Didn’t peg you as someone to take things out on the folks lookin' after you, though. Hell of a way to thank her, Morgan.”

Arthur’s brow creased, and he shrugged dismissively. “If you got somethin’ to say, spit it out.”

John crossed his arms, giving Arthur a steady look. “I’m just saying, Jo’s been puttin’ in more time than anyone, lookin' after you. You wouldn’t know, though, would you?”

Arthur’s jaw tightened, glancing away. “Reckon I’ll thank her properly when I get around to it.”

“No, I reckon you won’t,” John shot back, voice firm. “You don’t see it, do you? She feels bad, Arthur. Feels like what happened to you is her fault. You think dismissing her like that’s fair, after what she’s been through?”

Arthur clenched his fists, his eyes hardening. “Whatever she told you... that’s between her and me. You mind your own, Marston. Ain’t none of your business.”

John let out a bitter laugh. “You think it’s not? She told me ‘cause she needed to talk to someone. And I reckon she told me because she thought you might feel somethin' too. So maybe you sort out whatever’s goin' on in that head of yours, before it ends up worse than it already is.”

Arthur gritted his teeth. “Maybe you oughta worry more ‘bout that family of yours, and less ‘bout somethin' you don’t understand.”

John’s mouth set in a hard line. “Fine,” he said shortly, voice simmering. “You’re right. I’ll stick to my own family. And you can keep breakin’ your own.”

Arthur shrugged off the comment, but a flicker of hurt crossed his face as John turned and strode away, leaving Arthur with a bristling sense of guilt and more to think about than he wanted.

Around the same time, the rhythmic clopping of hooves echoed from beyond the camp’s edge, accompanied by the unmistakable, theatrical flourish of Josiah Trelawny’s voice carrying over the morning.

“Ladies and gentlemen, you’ll never believe the misadventures I’ve endured to bring you fine folk a golden opportunity!”

Josiah rode into camp atop his appaloosa, Gwydion, his posture as proud as a stage performer’s, his slicked-back hair and carefully groomed mustache looking untouched by the journey. He doffed his hat in a grand gesture, sweeping it through the air as he looked around at his audience.

“Ah, Arthur! Just the man I hoped to see,” he exclaimed with the enthusiasm of someone greeting an old friend after years apart.

Sliding off his horse with effortless grace, he dusted off his coat and tucked his hat under one arm. Trelawny’s gaze then began darting around the camp, his expression one of focused determination. “Now, where is Miss Harper?” he inquired, tilting his head dramatically. “Surely she hasn’t wandered too far? I’ve got a proposition for the two of you that’s simply too good to ignore.”

Arthur, still brooding from the morning’s events, crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes. “Trelawny, if you’ve got some scheme, you might as well just spill it.”

Josiah smirked, undeterred by Arthur’s gruffness. “All in due time, my friend. But this particular venture requires a touch of subtlety, a pinch of charm, and—dare I say—an exquisite blend of skill and wit. I could hardly think of a better pair than you and Miss Harper for the task.”

Arthur’s jaw tightened at the mention of Jo. “She’s around,” he muttered, jerking his head in the general direction of the camp. “Don’t know if she’ll be keen on your ‘opportunity,’ though.”

“Ah, Arthur,” Trelawny said with a knowing grin, placing a hand over his chest in mock offense. “You wound me! I assure you, this is no run-of-the-mill errand. This is a job worthy of our talents.” He paused, raising a hand to his brow as if scanning the horizon. “Now, where is she? Shall we fetch her together? Or do you think she’ll respond better to my charm if I find her myself?”

Arthur sighed, clearly unamused, but gestured for Trelawny to follow. “C’mon, let’s get this over with. But if she throws you out, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

As Arthur and Trelawny strolled through camp, the latter adjusted his coat, his gait as jaunty as ever. He glanced sideways at Arthur, who walked with his usual deliberate pace, hands resting on his gun belt.

“How did things go with that little tip I sent your way a while back? The house, remember? Lovely place, tucked away in the woods?"

Arthur shot him a sidelong glance, his face a thundercloud of irritation. "Oh, you mean the house that was supposed to be empty? The one that wasn't ?"

Josiah winced theatrically, placing a hand over his heart. "Oh dear. Not the smooth sailing I anticipated, then?"

Arthur scoffed, shaking his head. "Yeah, smooth sailin'. Just me, Jo, and the damn owner coming back. Nearly turned into a shootout." His tone carried a sharp edge, and he kicked a small rock out of his path. "Would’ve been nice if your information was, y’know, accurate ."

Trelawny clucked his tongue, looking genuinely pained for a moment—though, with Trelawny, it was hard to tell where sincerity ended and dramatics began. "Arthur, you wound me. I only pass along the most reliable intelligence I can find! Unforeseen circumstances do occur from time to time."

Arthur let out a dry laugh, one entirely devoid of humor. "Unforeseen, huh? Maybe next time, foresee ‘em a little better."

They walked in silence for a few moments before Josiah attempted to recover. "Well," he said brightly, "the important thing is, you made it out alive. And from what I hear, you and Miss Harper make quite the formidable team."

Arthur’s jaw tightened, and he kept his gaze fixed ahead. "Yeah, a real blessin'," he muttered under his breath, though the tone suggested otherwise.

Josiah, sensing the sour mood lingering, opted not to push further.

As they approached the lake, Arthur spotted Jo standing near the shore, her boots set aside on the grass. Her bare feet were submerged in the shallow water, her posture relaxed as she let the morning sunlight warm her skin. The serene scene made Arthur pause for a moment, though he’d never admit to it.

Trelawny, however, had no hesitation. His face lit up in delight as if he'd stumbled upon a rare treasure. “Ah, Miss Harper!” he exclaimed, quickening his step. “Such a vision this fine morning! You brighten the very air around you.”

Jo turned her head at the sound of his voice, smiling faintly when she saw the two men approaching. “Josiah,” she greeted, her tone even, ignoring Arthur who stood next to Trelawny on purpose. “What brings you here so early?”

Trelawny strode up to her with his usual theatrical flair as she stepped out of the water. He took her hand before she could react, lifting it with a flourish. “Only my keen sense of opportunity, dear lady. I couldn’t resist gracing you with my presence.” He pressed a light kiss to her knuckles, his eyes twinkling with charm.

Jo chuckled softly, shaking her head but letting him have his moment. “You’re nothing if not consistent,” she replied, amused.

Arthur, standing a few steps back, clenched his jaw slightly. His gaze flickered between Jo’s laugh and the smug glint in Trelawny’s eye.

“Miss Harper, you do realize that laughter like yours could drive a man to poetry,” Trelawny added smoothly, stepping back with a mock bow. “I’d recite some now, but alas, I fear it’d pale next to your radiance.”

Jo rolled her eyes, though her smile lingered. “And to think I was just enjoying the peace and quiet.”

Arthur cleared his throat, stepping forward. “You done, Trelawny? Or are we waitin’ for the whole damn lake to swoon?”

Trelawny turned to Arthur with a sly grin. “Ah, Arthur. Always the realist. You’ll forgive me for bringing a bit of light-heartedness to the day.” He gestured grandly toward the lake. “But, alas, duty calls. I’ve come to enlist the help of two of the gang’s finest.”

Jo arched a brow, crossing her arms. “And what exactly are you roping us into?”

“A stagecoach robbery,” Trelawny began, his tone shifting into that of a storyteller. “A fine specimen of a coach, brimming with valuable goods. I’ve done my research, of course, and this time…” He glanced at Arthur with a playful smirk. “I assure you, there should be no complications.”

Arthur grunted, his irritation barely masked. “We’ll see about that.”

Trelawny, unperturbed, turned back to Jo. “Now, Miss Harper, I trust you’ll be the voice of reason. A duo like you and Arthur—why, it’s practically destiny.”

Jo smirked faintly, tilting her head. “I’ll consider it,” she said, glancing at Arthur. “If he’s not going to keep sulking, that is.”

Arthur scowled but said nothing, his focus already shifting toward the lake as if it held all the answers. Trelawny chuckled to himself, clearly enjoying the interplay between the two. "Excellent," he declared. "I'll be waiting for your decision. But do let’s not take too long—opportunity, as they say, waits for no one."

It didn’t take long for Jo to make up her mind. The promise of action and distraction from her thoughts was too tempting to resist. Soon, she was mounting her horse alongside Arthur and Trelawny, ready to ride toward the river road through Siltwater Strand.

The morning sun filtered through the trees as they rode, casting golden light over the winding path. Jo found herself riding beside Trelawny, who, true to form, had already begun weaving his usual web of charming banter.

“So, Miss Harper,” he said with a grin, his voice rich and theatrical, “tell me—what draws a lady of your evident talents into such a peculiar life? Surely you’ve had more refined suitors than those you find among this lot.” He gestured vaguely toward Arthur, who rode a few paces ahead, silently brooding.

Jo chuckled, playing along. “Oh, countless suitors,” she replied dryly, her tone dripping with mock seriousness. “But I find there’s something irresistibly… thrilling about this peculiar life, as you call it.”

“Ah,” Trelawny said, nodding as if he’d uncovered some great truth. “A woman of daring and mystery. Truly a rare gem.” He tipped his hat dramatically.

Jo let out a light laugh, tossing a glance toward Arthur. His shoulders were stiff, his eyes fixed firmly on the road ahead. She couldn’t help but notice how his grip on the reins tightened whenever Trelawny’s voice carried over.

Leaning slightly toward Trelawny, she added, “Though I must admit, it’s not the life itself—it’s the company that keeps it interesting.”

Arthur’s horse shifted slightly beneath him as if sensing its rider’s tension. “Y’gonna talk the whole way, or do we get a moment of peace?” Arthur muttered over his shoulder, his voice low and curt.

Jo smirked, clearly enjoying his reaction. “Oh, lighten up, Arthur,” she called. “Not all of us enjoy riding in silence.”

Trelawny chuckled, clearly pleased with himself. “Arthur, my friend, you ought to appreciate such lively company. Life is dull without a bit of conversation, wouldn’t you agree?”

Arthur didn’t respond, keeping his gaze forward and his jaw set. Jo exchanged a knowing glance with Trelawny, who raised a brow as if to say he’s making this too easy.

The rest of the ride was filled with more of Trelawny’s stories—most of which were undoubtedly exaggerated—and Jo’s playful responses. She wasn’t oblivious to Arthur’s growing frustration. In fact, she leaned into it, testing just how far she could push.

By the time they reached the turnoff toward the river road, Arthur’s mood had soured even further. But Jo couldn’t help but feel a small flicker of satisfaction. If Arthur didn’t like other men talking to her, well, that was his problem, wasn’t it?

The plan was simple enough: Trelawny and Jo would play the distraction, stopping the stagecoach with one of Trelawny’s elaborate performances while Arthur stayed back, unseen, to pick the lock on the strongbox and collect the valuables inside. Simple plans, Arthur reminded himself, rarely stayed that way.

From the cover of some brush, Arthur watched as Josiah and Jo flagged down the coach. Trelawny's voice carried over the road, full of theatrical urgency. He gestured wildly, spinning a tale about a stranded wagon and a desperate need for assistance. Jo stood at his side, her expression a perfect blend of despair and concern. Her talents in all their glory.

The driver slowed the coach to a stop, and Arthur crept from his hiding spot, keeping low as he approached the back. His movements were quick and deliberate, the lock picks sliding into place as he worked on the strongbox. The faint sound of the coachman and guards chatting with Trelawny and Jo reached him, but his focus remained on the lock. With a soft click, the strongbox yielded.

Arthur began to grab the contents—a stack of bonds, some jewelry, and a pouch of coins—when he heard it. A sudden shift in tone from the guards, followed by a sharp command: “Hey! What’s he doing back there?”

Arthur swore under his breath, spinning around just as one of the guards came barreling toward him, rifle in hand. The man barely had time to raise it before Arthur's revolver barked, dropping him in the dirt.

Another guard jumped down from the coach, firing a shotgun blast that forced Arthur to dive behind the rear wheel for cover. The report of Jo’s pistol joined the fray, followed by Trelawny’s louder, more sporadic shots—likely aimed more to distract than to hit anything.

Arthur peeked out, squeezing off a shot that hit the guard in the shoulder, sending him sprawling. 

“Damn it,” Arthur muttered, his revolver cracking again as another man on horseback charged at him. The rider slumped from his saddle, but not before firing a wild shot that nearly grazed Arthur’s arm.

It was over in moments, the last shot ringing in Arthur’s ears as the dust settled around him, the smell of gunpowder still sharp in the air. His heart was pounding, his hands still firm on his revolver, scanning for any remaining threats. He holstered it with a sharp exhale, shaking off the adrenaline.

Then he saw her.

Jo was lying on the ground, unmoving, her hat a few feet away and a dark smear of dirt on her cheek. Arthur’s chest tightened as he rushed toward her, the loot, the coach, everything else forgotten in an instant.

“Jo!” His voice cracked, rough with panic as he dropped to his knees beside her. His hands hovered over her, not knowing where to start. “Shit, shit... You’re hit? Jo, dammit, talk to me!”

She stayed still for just a beat longer before cracking open one eye and smirking up at him. “Gotcha.”

Arthur froze, his wide-eyed worry twisting into something sharper. “Gotcha?” he repeated, his voice low and dangerous.

Jo pushed herself up to sit, brushing dirt off her sleeves. “Relax, Arthur. I’m fine.”

“Fine?” Arthur barked, his voice rising as his worry turned into fury. “You were layin’ there like you were done for! Jesus, woman, you don’t play around with somethin’ like that!”

She didn’t smile. “You’re yellin’,” she stated very calmly, eating up his reaction.

“Of course I’m yellin’! Was yellin’ at you when you were pretendin’ to be dead on the ground, takin’ ten years of my life,” he snapped, his face going red at the cheeks. “I thought—” He shot her a sharp look that almost alarmed her. “Don’t ever do that to me again, ya hear? I’m too old and could’ve died of a heart attack.”

Fuck, he’d really been worried. She loved it. She loved it so much she snorted. “I would say claiming you’re too old is a bit debatable, don’t you think?”

The outlaw tilted his head up and cursed something low. “You were brought to this planet to give me an ulcer, weren’t you?”

“It’s only fair after what you did this morning,” she said nonchalantly, crossing her arms.

Arthur stiffened, his frown deepening. “What I did this mornin’?”

Jo cocked a brow, tilting her head with exaggerated patience. “Don’t play dumb, Arthur. You all but barked at me when I tried to talk to you.”

His jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

“Cold shoulder, biting remarks... you’ve got quite the arsenal,” she added, her tone teasing, though her eyes betrayed a flicker of something more serious. “What’s your problem, anyway?”

Arthur sighed heavily, looking away as he adjusted his hat. “Ain’t got no problem.”

“Sure doesn’t seem that way,” Jo replied, her voice dropping a little. “One second, you’re knockin’ on death’s door, and I’m the one lookin’ after you. The next, you can barely stand to be near me.” She studied him for a moment, her arms still crossed. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were mad about somethin’. Did I do something wrong?”

“I ain’t mad,” Arthur muttered, a little too quickly.

“Hmm,” Jo hummed skeptically. “Could’ve fooled me.”

Arthur’s lips pressed into a thin line, his gaze flickering toward her before darting away again. “Ain’t nothin’ to talk about.”

Jo sighed, her earlier amusement dimming. “Fine, keep your secrets, Morgan. But don’t go actin’ like I’m the one causin’ trouble when you’re the one sulkin’ like a wet cat.”

She didn’t wait for his reply. Turning sharply on her heel, she let out a short whistle, and her horse trotted over obediently. Jo swung herself up into the saddle with ease, brushing off the dust on her pants before nudging her horse forward.

“See you back at camp,” she called over her shoulder, her tone light but distant. She didn’t glance back, didn’t care whether Arthur was following or not.

Arthur stayed where he was, watching her ride off, his jaw tight and his chest heavy. He reached up to adjust his hat, muttering something under his breath, but whatever words came to mind didn’t make it out.

“You’ve got quite the charm with the ladies, my friend,” came Josiah’s smooth voice from behind him, his tone dripping with theatrical amusement.

Arthur shot him a sharp look. “Not now, Trelawny.”

Josiah chuckled, unbothered. “Oh, come now, Arthur. Surely you don’t think I’d let that little exchange pass without comment.” He strolled closer, hands clasped behind his back, his grin as sly as ever. “It’s an art, you know—talking to women. One you’ve apparently yet to master.”

Arthur groaned, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Don’t you have somethin’ better to do?”

“Not at the moment, no,” Josiah replied cheerfully. “But don’t worry, Arthur. I’m sure Miss Harper will forgive your... unique approach. Eventually.”

Arthur didn’t respond, merely muttered something under his breath as he headed toward his horse, leaving Trelawny to chuckle to himself.

Chapter Text

The midday sun was high in the sky, its heat beating down on the dirt road winding through the woods. Jo had kept her pace steady, her horse plodding along as if sharing her mood—calm on the surface but restless underneath. She wasn’t in any hurry to get back to camp, dreading the usual buzz of voices and prying eyes.

The sound of hoofbeats rushing up behind her broke her reverie. Jo frowned, glancing over her shoulder just as Arthur’s horse pulled up alongside hers. Before she could react, he reined in sharply, his horse skidding into her path, forcing her to stop.

“Arthur, what the hell–” she started, tugging her reins to steady her horse, who huffed and shifted under her.

Arthur didn’t answer right away. His gaze locked on hers, his expression shadowed by something unreadable. “We need to talk,” he said, his voice low.

Jo raised an eyebrow, her irritation simmering. “ Oh , now you wanna talk? Could’ve fooled me with the way you’ve been actin’ all morning.”

He ignored her jab. “I saw you last night.”

Jo blinked, thrown off by the comment. “What about last night?”

“At the saloon,” Arthur clarified. “Saw you with that man.”

Her expression hardened slightly. “And? You were at the saloon too, so what’s your point?”

Arthur hesitated, his jaw tightening. “Who’s he anyway?”

Jo sighed, her fingers twitching on the reins. “No one.” She glanced away, her voice steady but distant. 

Arthur’s gaze didn’t waver. “Really?”

“Yeah,” she said firmly, meeting his eyes again. “He’s nobody.”

Arthur grunted, his tone stiff. “Seemed like you two had a lot to catch up on.”

Jo tilted her head, her eyes narrowing. “What’re you gettin’ at, Arthur? You think I owe you an explanation for havin’ a conversation?”

“Ain’t what I’m sayin’,” he muttered, though his voice carried an edge.

“Then what’re you sayin’?” she pressed irritatedly, leaning forward slightly in her saddle.

Arthur let out a sharp breath, looking away briefly before locking eyes with her again. “I don’t know, alright? Just didn’t sit right, seein’ you like that.”

Jo stared at him, a mix of irritation and disbelief flashing across her face. “You’re somethin’ else, Morgan,” she muttered, shaking her head. “If you’ve got somethin’ to say, just say it. Otherwise, don’t waste my time.”

Arthur opened his mouth, but the words seemed to catch in his throat. Finally, he shook his head. “Forget it.”

Jo’s frustration bubbled over before she could stop herself. “Why do you always have to be so goddamn stubborn, Arthur? Just say what you mean for once!”

Arthur’s brows furrowed, his face tightening at the jab. He’d been trying—hell, he’d been more open with her than with anyone else—but it never seemed enough. “Don’t know what you want me to say, Jo. Thought I was doin’ just that.”

“Well, you ain’t!” she snapped, her voice louder than she intended. “You’re just—ugh, forget it.” She looked away, anger and regret colliding in her chest.

Arthur’s lips pressed into a thin line, his jaw ticking. “Ain’t just me that’s stubborn,” he muttered.

The words stung more than they should have, not because they weren’t true, but because they hit the nerve she tried so hard to bury. Her defenses shot up. “You don’t know the first thing about me, Arthur.”

His eyes flashed with something unspoken, something deeper. “Maybe not. Maybe you ain’t letting anyone know.”

That did it. She recoiled, her earlier anger replaced by a pang of guilt so sharp it left her breathless. The words she spat at him moments ago seemed to echo back, mocking her.

Jo’s gaze dropped to her hands on the reins, her knuckles white from gripping too hard. She swallowed the lump in her throat and spoke before she could stop herself. “Sorry,” she murmured, so quiet it was almost lost in the breeze.

Arthur glanced at her, the single word ringing louder in his mind than anything else she could’ve said. Sorry . It looped endlessly in his head.

Jo was sorry for snapping at him, sorry for opening up, sorry for letting him see the cracks in the armor she worked so hard to keep intact. But all Arthur could see when he looked at her was a girl who wanted to be loved.

And he couldn’t love her.
He didn’t know how to love himself.

Jo felt the weight of his silence and hated herself for causing it. She’d spent so long building walls that even the thought of someone peeking over them sent her into defense mode. She was so determined to never let another man hurt her that she went and did the hurting instead.

She’d taken the excellent, top-notch, exceptionally fucking splendid boy and ruined him.

Her chest tightened, and she forced herself to meet his gaze again, the regret swimming in her hazel eyes as raw as the tension between them. “I didn’t mean it,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

Arthur gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, but he didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. His silence spoke volumes, both forgiving and condemning in equal measure.

They rode on in quiet, the distance between them feeling both immeasurable and impossibly small. For a moment, neither dared to speak again, both too lost in their own tangled emotions to find the right words.

The silence between them stretched like the plains they rode across, only the soft clop of hooves breaking the tension. Arthur’s gaze flicked toward Jo as she rode beside him, her posture stiff and unreadable. 

He cleared his throat, his voice gruff when he finally spoke. “’Bout that night… in Van Horn.”

Jo’s hands tightened on the reins, her stomach twisting at the mention of it. “What about it?” she asked, feigning nonchalance, though her heart was already pounding.

Arthur hesitated, his jaw working as he searched for the right words. “I… I been thinkin’ on it. On us, I guess.”

Jo’s pulse quickened at his admission, though she kept her face turned toward the horizon. “What’s there to think about? We were drunk. It happened. End of story.”

Her words were sharp, a defensive edge lacing her tone. But deep down, she felt the sting of her own dismissal. She wasn’t ready to admit how much it had been gnawing at her.

Arthur sighed, his shoulders sagging. He glanced at her again, the midday sun catching her just right—turning strands of her blonde hair into threads of gold, glowing like the halo of someone far too good for the life they led. Her silhouette, sharp against the bright horizon, might’ve looked hardened to anyone else—strong shoulders, chin held high, always carrying that stubborn fire in her stance. But Arthur knew better. Beneath that tough exterior was a softness few ever got to see, a woman who’d held herself together far too long, like porcelain forced to be steel. His gaze lingered, tracing the curve of her face down to her lips—soft and full, the kind that could hush a man’s anger with a single word or steal his breath with a smile. He looked away quickly, his chest tightening as the thought struck him.

Had that man in Rhodes seen this side of her? The one Arthur wasn’t sure he had a right to see? Did she smile for him, tell him things she wouldn’t dare say to Arthur? That idea bit at him like the cold wind rolling across the plains, stirring something raw in his chest—something that felt an awful lot like jealousy. He clenched his jaw, the bitter thought sticking to him like mud. He had no right to feel this way—no reason to.

And yet, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t shake it.

“If it’s the end of the story, why’ve we been actin’ like strangers since then?”

The question hit her like a blow to the chest. Jo bit her lip, her resolve cracking. “I don’t know,” she admitted softly, her voice barely audible over the sound of the horses.

Arthur slowed his horse slightly, forcing her to glance his way. His eyes were steady, searching hers for something—anything—that could explain the knot in his chest. “I don’t regret it,” he said, his voice low but earnest.

Jo’s breath caught. She hadn’t expected that. She didn’t know what she’d expected, but it wasn’t this. Her gaze darted to the ground, her chest tightening as a mix of relief and fear coursed through her.

“Well, maybe I do,” she said quietly, though her words lacked conviction.

Arthur’s brows furrowed, a flicker of hurt crossing his face. “Why?”

“Because it’s complicated,” Jo said, her voice rising slightly. “Because I can’t figure out what I feel, and I don’t want to ruin what we have. You’re… you’re my friend, Arthur. One of the only people I trust.”

Friend. The word hung in the air, sour and stifling. Arthur nodded slowly, though the knot in his chest only tightened. He wanted to say something, anything, to break through the wall she was building between them. But what could he say? That he wasn’t good enough for her, even if he wanted to be? That the idea of her trusting someone else made his blood boil?

Arthur looked away, his jaw clenching. “Same here. But that don’t mean I ain’t been wonderin’ what it all meant.”

Jo’s heart ached at the vulnerability in his tone. She hated how much she wanted to reach out to him, to smooth the lines of worry from his face. But instead, she crossed her arms over her chest, as if trying to shield herself from her own emotions. “It didn’t have to mean anything,” she said, though the words tasted bitter.

Arthur’s lips pressed into a thin line. He didn’t believe her, not entirely. “That what you really want? For it to mean nothin’?”

Jo’s gaze snapped to his, her eyes wide and conflicted. “I don’t know what I want, Arthur. I’ve spent my whole damn life not knowin’. But I know I don’t wanna lose you...”

Her voice cracked on the last word, and Arthur felt his chest tighten. He hadn’t realized how much he needed to hear her say that—how much he’d needed reassurance that this thing between them hadn’t destroyed their bond.

“You ain’t losin’ me,” he said softly, the words carrying more weight than he intended. “But… I dunno what I want either.”

Jo nodded, her throat tight. She didn’t trust herself to speak, afraid that whatever she said next might unravel everything they were trying so hard to hold together.

They rode on in silence for a while, the tension between them easing, though it didn’t disappear entirely. Arthur’s thoughts drifted back to Rhodes, to the man Jo had gone to see. He hated himself for wanting to ask more, for needing to know if that man had any claim on her heart. But the words caught in his throat, tangled up with his own insecurities.

Who was he? An old friend? A lover? That last thought made Arthur’s stomach twist uncomfortably. He hated himself for even thinking it, for feeling that familiar burn of jealousy. She didn’t owe him any explanations. Hell, she didn’t owe him anything. But the idea of her with someone else—it stuck like a thorn under his skin.

As the tension began to ease, Jo couldn’t tell if she felt reassured or more adrift than before. Arthur, for his part, didn’t dare dig deeper into his emotions—he wasn’t ready to face whatever was stirring beneath the surface.

For now, it was enough for both of them, even if neither truly believed it.

Jo’s horse clattered into camp, the familiar sights and sounds of Clemens Point greeting her like a reluctant embrace. Arthur had split off a ways back, muttering something about hunting near the tree line to keep the gang fed. The weight of the conversation with Arthur still clung to her like damp clothes, but she pushed it aside. She needed to keep busy, keep her hands occupied. Thinking too much had always been her undoing.

Sliding off Daisy, Jo felt her boots sink into the dry dirt. She reached for the small fox she’d tied to her saddle, its limp body still warm but already stiffening. “Sorry, little guy,” she muttered under her breath, running a thumb over the russet fur before she made her way toward Pearson’s station.

The cook was hunched over his makeshift workbench, humming something low and tuneless. The moment he saw her approaching with the fox, his brows rose in surprise.

“Well, look at you, bringin’ me a gift,” Pearson said, his voice tinged with sarcasm as he set down the knife he’d been sharpening. “What’s this, charity? Or did Daisy here have herself a little accident?”

Jo smirked faintly, the corners of her mouth barely lifting. “She stepped on it. Poor thing didn’t stand a chance. Figured you might be able to save some of the meat.”

Pearson examined the fox, turning it over in his hands. “Not much here, but beggars can’t be choosers. It’ll make a stew… if you don’t mind it lean.”

“Better than air,” Jo replied, leaning her weight against the workbench as Pearson set to work. She crossed her arms, the familiar smell of salt pork and grease mingling with the tang of earth.

“Thanks,” he muttered, not looking up as he began skinning the animal with practiced efficiency. “Went into town earlier, y’know, for groceries. Mail too.”

Pearson wiped his hands on a rag, glancing at Jo as if he’d suddenly remembered something. “Oh, almost forgot. Got a letter for you, too.”

Jo’s chest tightened. “A letter? For me?”

She hadn’t received anything in ages—not since the gang had moved south. Not that she expected to. Her old life had no reason to follow her here, not if she had anything to say about it.

“Yeah,” Pearson said, motioning vaguely toward camp. “Dropped it on your cot. Funny thing, though—the name on it ain’t Jo. Says Sarah. That one of your aliases or somethin’?”

Jo froze. The word hit her like a slap, reverberating through her chest. Sarah . It had been years since she’d heard it spoken aloud, years since anyone had associated it with her.

Her palms went clammy, and suddenly it felt like every pair of eyes in camp was drilling into her, even though Pearson was the only one there. “Oh,” she managed to stammer, her voice higher than she intended. “Y-Yeah. Yeah, that’s… that’s just a fake name I use sometimes.”

Pearson squinted at her, his knife pausing mid-slice. “Huh. Like Tacitus Kilgore, then? Guess it makes sense, always good to have a backup. Just surprised it’s somethin’ as normal as Sarah. I’d have guessed you’d pick somethin’ a little flashier. Like, I don’t know, Clementine or Scarlett.”

Jo let out a strained laugh, the sound sharp and hollow in her ears. “Yeah, well… can’t all be creative geniuses like you, Pearson.”

He chuckled, seemingly satisfied, and went back to his work. “Fair enough. Anyway, it’s on your bed. Probably nothin’, but you might want to check it before someone else gets nosy.”

“Right,” Jo said, the word barely audible. “Thanks.”

She turned away quickly, her boots crunching against the dirt as she walked toward her tent. Each step felt like dragging a weight behind her, her mind racing with a flood of panic and self-recrimination. You idiot, Sarah. You absolute idiot. How could you let this happen?

By the time she reached her tent, her hands were trembling. She ducked inside, letting the flap fall shut behind her, and spotted the envelope right away, sitting innocently on her bedroll. The name scrawled across the front— Sarah —might as well have been written in blood.

She sank onto the edge of the bed, staring at the letter as if it might bite her. The lies she’d built her life around felt more fragile than ever, like a house of cards teetering on collapse. Pearson’s casual observation had cracked something open inside her, a suffocating awareness of just how fake she had become.

Sarah .

It wasn’t just a name. It was everything she’d run from, everything she swore she’d never go back to. And now it was here, sitting in her lap, daring her to acknowledge it.

Jo pressed her palms against her knees, trying to steady her breathing. She told herself she’d done the right thing—she’d survived. But in this moment, with her real name staring back at her, she felt like the most dishonest person alive.

Her fingers trembled as she picked up the enveloppe, the paper crinkling faintly in her grip. She flipped it over and slipped her thumb under the seal, hesitating before tearing it open. The folded note inside was hastily written, the letters uneven and smudged in places.

Sarah,

I’m in Rhodes. Meet me at the train depot as soon as you can.

Please. It’s important.

-Ben

Jo stared at the words, her heart pounding in her chest. There wasn’t much to them—no explanation, no niceties, just a plea. But she could feel the urgency in the messy scrawl, the way his pen must’ve scraped across the paper in haste.

Her stomach twisted. What could he possibly want? What could be so important that he’d reach out like this, after all these years? And why now, of all times, when her life was already teetering on the edge?

For a moment, she considered crumpling the letter, pretending it never arrived. But she knew that wouldn’t stop him. Ben wasn’t the kind of man to let things go once he’d set his mind to them.

Jo sighed, folding the letter and tucking it into the pocket of her coat. She felt like she was being pulled in two directions, the part of her that wanted to run forward clashing with the part that wanted to run away.

She left her tent with her jaw tight and her steps purposeful, though her hands still betrayed her, twitching slightly as they reached for Daisy's reins. She mounted her horse without a word, nudging her forward into a steady trot that carried her away from the camp and toward the shadowy trails weaving through the trees.

The letter felt heavier in her pocket with every passing step of Daisy's hooves. Her mind was a blur of questions and doubts, but she pushed them aside, focusing instead on the path ahead.

The air was heavy with the midday sun, filtering through the trees, casting dappled shadows along the trail. She tightened her coat around herself, the letter in her pocket pressing against her side like a thorn.

Her mind swirled with unanswered questions, but the steady rhythm of Daisy’s hooves offered a brief reprieve. That reprieve was short-lived, however, as the sound of another horse cut through the quiet.

Chapter Text

Jo slowed Daisy as the rider came into view—Sean, perched on his horse with the familiar cocky tilt of his hat.

“Fancy seein’ ya out ‘ere, Jo!” Sean called out, his grin wide and mischievous. “Ya runnin’ away or jus’ takin’ the scenic route?”

Jo eased her horse closer, falling into step beside him. “Sean. Where’re you off to?”

“Rhodes,” he said, dragging out the name with a theatrical sigh. “Meetin’ up wi’ Bill an’ Micah. Bill has us on some security plan for the Grays.”

Jo snorted, the corner of her mouth quirking up despite the weight she carried. “Sure you up for it?”

“Up for it?” Sean’s eyes widened in mock offense. “Are ye questionin’ my abilities? I’ll ‘ave ye know I’m the finest bloody shot in this outfit!”

Jo raised an eyebrow. “Sure you are. I’m sure everyone says so.”

“They do!” Sean insisted, puffing his chest out. “Well, everyone who counts anyway. Arthur might say otherwise, but that’s ‘cause he’s a dour bastard and jealous o’ me natural charm.”

Jo laughed, shaking her head. “Jealous, huh? I’ll have to ask him about that.”

“Don’t bother. He’ll only sulk,” Sean replied, smirking. “But enough about me. What’re you doin’ ridin’ out ‘ere? Not like ye to be takin’ trips for the fun of it.”

Jo hesitated, gripping the reins a little tighter. “Business,” she said after a beat. “Figured I’d head to Rhodes too—Dutch mentioned something about supplies.”

Sean squinted at her for a moment, then shrugged. “Fair enough. Well, two’s better than one, eh? Let’s ride t’gether. I’ll keep ya entertained wi’ me wit and charm.”

Jo rolled her eyes, but she was grateful for the excuse to keep things casual. “If you can manage to keep your charm under control.”

“Oh, yer in for a treat, Blondie,” Sean teased, urging his horse to match pace with hers.

As they rode side by side, Sean’s chatter filled the air, his jokes and exaggerated stories a welcome distraction. 

Jo found herself relaxing despite the storm of emotions still lurking at the back of her mind. Sean was easy company, his constant banter and unapologetic enthusiasm a welcome distraction.

He had fallen into whistling some jaunty Irish tune, his carefree demeanor almost infectious. For a brief moment, Jo forgot about the weight of the letter tucked away in her pocket.

She glanced over at him, raising an eyebrow. “How come you never seem affected by what’s happenin’ round us?”

Sean turned to her, his expression momentarily thoughtful. “Ah, I dunno…” He shrugged, the movement loose and unbothered. “Guess I’m jus’ bein’ hopeful. They say nothin' lasts forever, not even the bad things. Tha's why I reckon it’s important to appreciate the good while we’ve got it. Ye know?”

Jo tilted her head, a teasing grin tugging at her lips. “Like you ‘nd Karen, for example?”

Sean’s face immediately brightened, his chest puffing up with pride. “Ah, now that’s different! Karen’s the best damn thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Jo smirked. “You’re practically a lovesick pup when she’s around. Surprised she hasn’t run you ragged yet.”

“She’s got me wrapped ‘round her finger, sure enough,” Sean admitted with a laugh, not the least bit ashamed. “But let me tell ye, Blondie, there’s nothin’ wrong with lettin’ someone like Karen have her way. She’s fierce, she’s brilliant, and she’s got a knack for makin’ a fella feel like a king.”

“Even when she’s throwin’ bottles at your head?” Jo quipped, recalling a particularly rowdy evening.

“Ah, ye don’t understand the passion, Jo.” Sean’s grin widened, his eyes alight. “That’s just Karen’s way of keepin’ me on my toes. Keeps things excitin’, ye know?”

Jo shook her head, her smirk softening. “I suppose you’re right,” she said, her gaze fixed on the trail ahead.

“’Course I’m right!” Sean grinned. “Life’s too short for all this broodin’ and second-guessin’. Ye find somethin’ good, ye hold on to it.”

His words struck a chord, leaving Jo momentarily quiet. She wanted to believe him, to let herself grab onto something good without the fear of losing it—or ruining it. But it wasn’t that simple, not for her.

“Thanks, Sean,” she murmured, her voice quieter now.

“Don’t mention it. Now, let’s pick up the pace—don’t want Micah whinin’ about me bein’ late,” he said, spurring his horse forward.

Jo followed, her heart a little lighter, even as her thoughts threatened to drag her back down.

The dusty streets of Rhodes came into view as they rode in, but the usual bustle seemed muted. A few townsfolk wandered about, their movements sluggish under the oppressive midday sun. Even the saloon, typically lively with laughter and shouts, had only a couple of horses tethered outside.

Sean tugged his horse to a stop, breaking the silence with his easy grin. “Yer more’n welcome t’join in, if ye fancy it. Me, Bill, and Micah—we’re just havin’ a chat at the saloon. Though fair warnin’, it’ll probably turn into Bill drinkin’ under the table.”

Jo smirked, shaking her head lightly. “Temptin’, Sean, but I’ve got somethin’ to take care of first.”

“Ah, whatever shady business ye’re up to, don’t let it take all day,” Sean teased, wagging a finger at her. “The drinks won’t last forever, Blondie.”

“Once I’m done, I’ll think about it,” she replied, her tone light but evasive.

Sean laughed, tipping his hat to her. “Fair enough. Try not t’get into too much trouble, eh?”

“No promises.”

With that, they parted ways, Sean heading toward the main street while Jo veered toward the train depot. The quietness of the town began to creep in, the absence of the usual noise settling like a suffocating shroud over the streets, as if the town itself was holding its breath.

The depot was nearly deserted, save for the clerk behind the counter and the faint sound of boots against the wooden platform. Even the hiss of the train engine in the distance felt subdued, adding to the eerie stillness. Jo dismounted her horse, tying it loosely to a post before stepping up onto the platform.

Her fingers instinctively reached for the necklace around her neck, the one that had belonged to her mother. The familiar weight of the pendant against her palm was grounding, a small act of comfort when her nerves threatened to take over. The hurried tone of Ben's letter replayed in her mind as she tried to steady herself.

Jo entered the train depot with a deep sight, her boots clicking softly against the wooden floorboards as her eyes scanned the small interior. Her breath hitched when she spotted him leaning casually against the counter, arms crossed over his chest. Ben. He looked just as she remembered him from the train, only less disheveled, his dark hair neatly combed back and his suit freshly pressed. Despite the years that had passed, there was a familiarity about him that sent her stomach into knots.

He noticed her immediately, his lips curving into an easy, boyish grin. “Sarah,” he greeted, the sound of her real name making her pulse quicken. No one here called her that, and it felt like a crack in the wall she had so carefully built around herself.

Jo’s jaw tightened, but she forced herself to keep her expression neutral. “It’s Jo,” she corrected firmly, stepping closer. “Why the letter, Ben?” She didn’t bother with pleasantries; she wasn’t in the mood for them. The anxiety that had been simmering since she read his message was now bubbling to the surface, threatening to spill over.

His grin faltered, and he shifted awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck. “You never were one for small talk,” he muttered with a faint chuckle. His eyes darted around the depot, and he leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. “Let’s take this outside. Too many ears here.”

Jo hesitated for a moment but eventually nodded, following him out of the depot and into the quiet street. He gestured toward a narrow alleyway tucked between two buildings. Jo raised a brow but didn’t argue, trailing behind him with her arms crossed tightly over her chest.

The alley was dim and secluded, away from the prying eyes of the townsfolk. Ben stopped and turned to face her, his expression suddenly serious. He shifted uncomfortably, his eyes flicking to the ground before meeting Jo’s. “I didn’t just happen to be on that train,” he started, his voice tinged with guilt. “I’ve been searching for you, Sarah— Jo , whatever you go by now. And the people you’ve fallen in with.”

Jo arched a brow, the corner of her mouth twitching upward in a sardonic smile. “Y’ain’t the first,” she said dryly, crossing her arms. “The Pinkertons’ve been on our tail for months. You’ll have to try harder’n that if you wanna scare me.”

Ben frowned, shaking his head. “I’m not with the Pinkertons,” he clarified, then hesitated. “But I do have an associate—someone who’s more determined than I’d like. He ain’t about to give up anytime soon.”

Jo didn’t flinch, didn’t let her expression falter. She’d learned long ago how to wear a mask of indifference, even when her stomach twisted with unease. “Alright,” she said coolly, “then why’d you come to me with this? You tryin’ to warn me, or are you the one I need to be worried ‘bout?”

“Neither,” Ben said quickly, stepping closer. His voice dropped to a near-whisper. “I don’t wanna hurt you, Jo. Hell, I’d never do that. But this... this is different. The man I’m workin’ with—he’s got a wanted poster of you and the rest of your gang. And Jo, it ain’t just the usual aliases. There’s one with your real name on it.”

Her blood turned to ice. “What?” The word came out sharper than she intended.

Ben nodded grimly. “Murder,” he said softly, watching her closely, “They’re sayin’ you killed your folks.”

Jo’s mask cracked, just for a moment. Her hands clenched into fists at her sides, and she felt her breath hitch. She tried to summon her usual bravado, but the sheer weight of what Ben had just said pressed down on her like a boulder. “That’s ridiculous,” she said, though her voice trembled slightly. “That ain’t true, an’ you know it.”

“I know that,” Ben said firmly, his voice laced with conviction. “I told you—I’m on your side. I’d never turn you in, not for all the money in the world. You’re my friend, Jo. Always have been.”

She wanted to believe him, wanted to trust that the boy she once knew still existed beneath the sharp suit and steady gaze. But trust didn’t come easy—not anymore. “So why tell me?” she demanded. “If y’ain’t here to collect a bounty, then why bother?”

Ben exhaled slowly, as though weighing his words. “Because you need to know how serious this is. If this poster’s made it to Rhodes, it’ll spread further, fast. And my associate? He’s like a bloodhound. If he can’t find you here, he’ll keep sniffin’ till he does. I can try to mislead him, buy you an’ your friends some time, but Jo...” He trailed off, his expression heavy. “It might be best if y’all leave. Head to another state—hell, another country, if you can.”

Jo swallowed hard, her hand instinctively moving to the necklace around her neck. The familiar touch grounded her, if only slightly. “An’ what about you?” she asked, her voice quieter now. “What happens if he figures out you’re leadin’ him astray?”

Ben smiled faintly, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Don’t worry ‘bout me. I’ve handled worse. Just... take care of yourself, alright? An’ think ‘bout what I said. You’ve got a good group there. Don’t let ‘em get caught ‘cause you’re too proud to run.”

Jo stared at him for a long moment, the weight of his words sinkin’ in. There was no easy answer, no simple solution. But one thing was clear: the life she’d fought so hard to rebuild was once again hanging by a thread.

Jo stood in the shadow of the alley, her grip tightening on her mother’s necklace as Ben’s words sank in. It was like her chest had caved in, leaving her struggling to breathe. A bounty poster with her real name. Murder. She felt sick.

Ben was still speaking, his voice low and urgent, but it was muffled in her ears, as though she were underwater. She had always known there was danger. The gang lived in the crosshairs of the law; that was their reality. But this? This was personal. This was her past, clawing its way out of the grave to destroy everything she’d built.

Ben’s hand rested lightly on her arm, snapping her back to the present. “Jo?”

She blinked at him, her pulse pounding in her ears. “I heard you,” she said, though her voice wavered. “It’s just… a lot to take in.”

He nodded, sympathy etched across his face. “I get it. Look, I’ll do what I can to throw my associate off the scent. But you’ve gotta be careful. If he catches even a whiff of your trail, it’s over. You and the gang need to move.”

Jo scoffed, a bitter sound escaping her lips. “You think it’s that easy? Tellin’ them we gotta pack up and leave without a damn good reason?” She shook her head. “They’ll wanna know why. And if I tell ‘em about you, they’ll think I’ve been leadin’ ‘em into a trap. They already look sideways at anyone they can’t pin down.”

Ben hesitated, then sighed. “You don’t have to tell ‘em about me,” he said carefully. “Say it’s the heat from the bounty posters. That’s reason enough, ain’t it?”

Jo hesitated, her hand reflexively rising to the necklace again. The gang already knew they were wanted. That was nothing new. But the idea of revealing that her real name was on one of those posters, alongside a crime she’d never committed? That was a different beast altogether. If they found out, questions would follow. Hard ones. Ones she wasn’t sure she could answer without the truth spilling out.

And the truth was a noose tightening around her throat.

“They’ll ask why my real name’s on it,” she muttered, more to herself than to Ben. “They’ll ask how I know about it. And if I’m not honest, they’ll think I’m hidin’ somethin’ worse.”

“So be honest,” Ben said, his tone cautious. “Tell them about the poster, not me. You found it somewhere—in town, maybe. Play dumb if you have to. Just don’t wait too long. The longer you sit on this, the more suspicious it’ll seem.”

Jo’s jaw tightened. She hated the idea of lying, but the truth felt like a death sentence. And what if Dutch—or worse, Micah—started poking holes in her story? Suspicion was a wildfire in the gang. It spread fast and burned everything in its path.

Ben’s eyes softened. “I’m not tryin’ to make this harder for you, Jo. But you’ve gotta think about what’s best for everyone. If you don’t act, it’ll cost you more than you can afford.”

She stared at him, her mind racing. He was right. If she didn’t move fast, the noose would tighten around all of them. But how could she ask them to trust her when she couldn’t even trust herself to hold it together?

“Alright,” she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’ll figure somethin’ out.”

Ben nodded, though his expression remained grim. “You’d better. I’ll keep my associate off your trail as long as I can, but don’t waste the chance.”

Jo watched him turn and walk away, his figure disappearing out of view. For a moment, she stayed frozen, her feet rooted to the spot. 

Jo leaned against the wall in the narrow alley, her hands gripping her knees as she willed her breathing to slow. She couldn’t afford to unravel now, not when so much was at stake.

After a moment, she straightened, rolling her shoulders back and setting her jaw. She adjusted her hat, gave her face a quick swipe with her hands, and stepped out into the main street.

The sun was lower in the sky now, casting long shadows across Rhodes. It wasn’t hard to spot them—Sean, Micah, and Bill, strutting toward the saloon with their usual swagger. But what caught her off guard was the fourth figure trailing slightly behind them.

Arthur.

Jo froze mid-step, her stomach twisting in a way she hated to admit. She hadn’t expected to see him, not here, not now. He looked better than the last time she’d seen him—still not his full self, but stronger. The sight brought a mix of emotions crashing over her: relief, guilt, and something softer she refused to name.

She shook her head sharply, forcing herself forward. She didn’t have time for this.

As she neared, Micah’s voice carried over the din of the street, sharp and smug as always.

“Dutch said we was to keep on dealin’ with them until we finds this gold,” Micah explained to Arthur, gesturing with his hand like he was some grand strategist.

Jo finally catched up to the group. “Mighty generous of Dutch, sendin’ y’all out t’ charm the fine folks of Rhodes,” she drawled, her Southern lilt smooth but edged.

Sean turned, his face lighting up. “There she is! We was wonderin’ if ye’d changed yer mind.”

“‘Course not,” she said, slipping into step beside him. Her eyes flicked to Arthur briefly, but she kept her expression neutral. “Figured I’d find y’all causin’ trouble before I got the chance.”

Arthur glanced her way, his blue eyes sharp but unreadable. “Didn’t think you’d be one t’ join up with this lot.”

Jo shrugged. “Guess there’s a first time for everythin’.”

Micah shot her a sidelong glance, his lips curling into a smirk. “Blondie’s always full’a surprises, ain’t she?”

Jo’s gaze snapped to him, her voice dropping an octave. “Don’t push it, Micah.”

“Alright, alright.” Micah raised his hands in mock surrender, though his grin only widened.

“Let’s get on with it, then,” Arthur muttered, clearly unimpressed with the exchange.

The group continued toward the saloon, Jo falling in step just beside Sean. Her mind churned, not with whatever scheme they were off to execute, but with Ben’s words still echoing in her head. The wanted poster, the bounty, the gang’s growing unease… and Arthur. Always Arthur, lingering at the edges of her thoughts, no matter how hard she tried to push him away.

This was going to be one hell of a day.

“They say there was some big misunderstanding about them horses,” Bill said, glancing over his shoulder at Arthur.

“And… what about burning their fields?” Sean added, a grin tugging at his lips, clearly enjoying the memory.

“They don’t know we had anything to do with that,” Micah said, his tone dripping with smug confidence.

“Oh, that so?” Arthur’s voice was steeped in sarcasm, his gaze fixed ahead as if he could see straight through Micah’s bravado.

“Yeah,” Bill replied, turning to Arthur as they walked. “They think it was the Braithwaites.”

Jo let out a short laugh, shaking her head as she adjusted her hat against the glaring afternoon sun. “Ain’t that convenient,” she drawled, her voice laced with mockery. “We set their place ablaze, and they’re pointin’ fingers at their neighbors. Guess ignorance really is bliss.”

Arthur glanced her way, a faint flicker of amusement in his eyes, but he said nothing, his expression guarded as always.

“Sure,” Sean said cheerfully, brushing dust from his shirt. “Long as they ain’t pointin’ fingers at us, I’d call it a win.”

“Sure,” Jo replied, though her tone was drier than the dust under their boots. “Until they ain’t as ignorant no more. Then what?”

Her words hung in the air, heavy as the heat pressing down on the streets of Rhodes. The group walked on, their boots scuffing against the dry earth, and for a brief moment, none of them said a word.

Arthur’s jaw tightened ever so slightly, his thoughts clearly running deeper than the surface conversation. Sean glanced her way, his grin faltering, though he quickly masked it with his usual devil-may-care expression. Micah just scoffed, as if her worries were beneath him, and Bill stayed silent, his shoulders stiffening as though her words carried more weight than he cared to admit.

Jo's eyes swept over the saloon ahead, its creaking sign swaying in the slight breeze. It felt like they were walking into yet another powder keg.

“Listen, I know these Gray boys a bit now. This is on the level,” Bill said, his voice carrying that familiar mix of assurance and stubbornness as he tried to defend their dealings.

Arthur, however, wasn’t buying it. His steps grew heavier, boots crunching against the dirt road with more force than necessary. “We’re stuck in the middle of some ancient feud,” he started, his voice tight with annoyance that quickly edged toward anger. “But instead of playing both sides, we’re being used by both of ‘em.” His words bit harder, his voice rising slightly as his frustration boiled over.

Bill turned his head slightly, defensive as ever, and muttered, “They were saying that Catherine Braithwaites—”

“Hey, hold up,” Arthur interrupted sharply, his hand moving instinctively toward the revolver at his hip.

The shift in his tone froze Jo mid-step. Her sharp eyes swept across the street, scanning the seemingly quiet town. A few townsfolk loitered near the general store, their movements casual but not enough to lower her guard. She noticed one man near the post office, standing too still to be just another local enjoying the day. He wasn’t watching them, not directly, but the way his head tilted slightly in their direction sent a prickle down her spine.

Without a word, Jo quickened her pace, drifting subtly toward Sean, who was already trailing slightly ahead.

“This don’t feel right,” Arthur muttered through gritted teeth, his voice low but firm as his gaze darted around the street, searching for the source of the unease prickling at his senses.

Sean, ever the contrarian, turned with his rifle slung lazily over his shoulder. “Now it don’t feel right?” he shot back, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “I could’a told you that—”

The sharp crack of a gunshot cut him off mid-sentence.

Jo’s world seemed to slow to a crawl as Sean’s head snapped back violently, blood spraying in a grotesque arc across her face and clothes. Her body locked up, her breath catching in her throat as warm droplets splattered her cheek, mingling with the dust on her skin.

Sean crumpled to the ground beside her, lifeless.

For a split second, Jo couldn’t move. Her hands trembled, hovering in the air as her mind struggled to process the sudden, brutal loss.

“Shit!” one of the boys shouted, though Jo couldn’t tell who.

The street erupted in chaos as more gunshots rang out, echoing off the wooden storefronts. Men emerged from the shadows, rifles and pistols aimed squarely at their group. Smoke and dust filled the air as bullets splintered wood and shattered glass, a cacophony of violence consuming the town.

Chapter Text

Arthur was fuming. 

Their supposed job in Rhodes had been a complete disaster—an ambush they never saw coming that cost them Sean. And now, all Arthur could see was red.

All of this could’ve been prevented if only he’d been more careful, more vigilant. He replayed the moment over and over in his mind: Sean turning to quip something smart, only for the bullet to take him before he could even finish the thought. It was a damn mess, and Arthur hated himself for not being able to stop it.

Sean was like an annoying little brother to him—a pain in the ass most days, sure, but he’d done his best to look out for him regardless. Now, all those times Arthur had barked at him, told him off, or knocked his antics down a peg felt like heavy stones in his gut. He should’ve said something kinder. He should’ve... He shoved the thought aside, but it stuck like a thorn in his mind.

By the time they got back to camp, the mood was suffocating. Karen was inconsolable, her cries loud and raw, echoing through the clearing like a mourning dove’s lament. The others had tried to comfort her, but there was no fixing this kind of grief. And Arthur? He couldn’t stand hearing it anymore.

He grabbed a bottle of whiskey from the stash and retreated to the outskirts of camp, his boots heavy on the path to the dock by the lake. The setting sun painted the sky in shades of blood and fire, but Arthur barely noticed. He sat down heavily at the edge of the dock, the wood creaking beneath him as he let his legs dangle over the water.

The lake was still, its surface like glass, reflecting the fiery sky and the dark silhouette of the trees. Arthur stared at it, bottle in hand, but he didn’t drink. Not yet. His mind churned too much for the alcohol to drown anything out just yet.

He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand over his face. The weight of his guilt felt unbearable, like it was pressing the air right out of his lungs. Arthur leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees as he stared out at the water. The lake was still, its surface unbroken except for the faint ripples where the dock’s posts met the water. He barely noticed the world around him, lost in his thoughts, anger, and guilt.

Further down the shoreline, Jo knelt by the water’s edge, hidden behind a stand of trees. She had come here as soon as they returned to camp, unwilling to let Karen—or anyone else—see the state she was in.

Sean’s blood was everywhere. It had soaked into her shirt, her arms, her face, even her hair. The metallic scent clung to her like a curse, sharp and suffocating. She dropped to her knees, her movements mechanical as she plunged her hands into the cold water, scrubbing at her forearms with a desperate urgency.

No matter how much she scrubbed, the sensation wouldn’t go away. It was as if her skin had absorbed the blood, staining her down to her soul. Her hands trembled as she worked, her mind numb to everything except the memory of Sean’s blood spraying across her when the bullet struck.

She paused, breath hitching, and ran her forearm across her brow to wipe away the sweat. The instant she did, she felt the sticky smear on her skin and froze.

Jo leaned forward, her breath shallow, and gazed at the water’s surface. Her reflection stared back, fragmented by ripples, but unmistakable. Blood streaked her face like war paint, dried in messy smears across her brow, her temple, her cheek. Her hair clumped in places where the red had dried and darkened.

For a moment, she didn’t recognize herself.

Jo sat back on her legs, her gaze fixed on the broken image in the water. Her reflection was a stranger, a ghost marked by blood. Her hands curled into fists, and her jaw tightened. She couldn’t stand the feeling any longer—the sticky, suffocating weight of it clinging to her skin.

Pushing herself to her feet, she turned toward her satchel lying a few steps away on the rocky shore. She dug into it with trembling hands and pulled out a small bar of soap, its edges worn smooth from use. It wasn’t much, but it would have to do.

Jo exhaled sharply and leaned down, tugging at her boots. She slipped each one off and set them neatly to the side, her movements were quiet but deliberate, as though she were trying to hold herself together with every small act. Next came her jeans. She unfastened the buttons with careful precision, letting the fabric slide down her legs and pooling at her feet. She stepped out of them, pausing briefly as if to steady herself, before folding them and setting them on top of her boots. Her shirt came last, her fingers working quickly to undo the buttons. She slipped it from her shoulders, revealing pale skin marked by streaks of dried blood and faint scars, memories of past fights and narrow escapes. Jo hesitated for a moment, her arms hanging at her sides, her body bared to the sunset and the stillness of the lake.

Arthur watched from the dock, unable to tear his eyes away. He shouldn’t have stayed—should’ve turned his back the moment he’d realized she was there. But something rooted him to the spot, his gaze drawn to her in spite of himself. He was entirely absorbed in contemplation of her. How pretty she seemed to him, lighted up by the rays of the setting sun. 

Her movements were graceful, even now, carrying an unspoken strength that Arthur couldn’t look away from. She was scarred, bloodied, and yet... there was something hauntingly captivating in the way she carried herself, as though the weight of everything hadn’t yet managed to crush her.

The sunset painted the lake in hues of gold and amber, the soft light glinting off the ripples as Jo stepped forward. The cold water lapped at her ankles, making her pause for a moment. She shivered but pressed on, the ripples widening with each step.

Arthur’s gaze followed her, drinking in every detail. Her bare skin caught the evening light, the curves of her body illuminated like a living sculpture. The gentle slope of her shoulders, the soft curve of her breasts, the dip of her waist, and the swell of her hips—all of it drew his attention in a way that felt almost reverent. Her body was marked by scars and streaks of dried blood, but it didn’t diminish her beauty; it only added to the depth of who she was.

This didn’t feel anything like the night they’d shared in Van Horn. That had been reckless and blurred by drink, a haze of passion and mistakes. But this? This felt intimate in a way that left him breathless. She wasn’t even aware of his presence, yet the moment felt more vulnerable than anything they’d shared before.

Needless to say that his pants were growing tighter the longer he watched her.

Jo reached up, her fingers finding the long braid over her shoulder. Slowly, she began to undo it, her fingers working through the twists until her hair spilled free. Blonde waves, streaked with dried crimson, cascaded down her back, catching the warm light of the setting sun.

Arthur’s chest tightened as he watched her run her fingers through the loosened strands, wincing as she hit tangles. She ducked her head then, letting the water take her hair, rinsing it clean. The sight of her standing there, her silhouette framed by the soft glow of the sunset, was almost too much.

She looked radiant and unbreakable, yet achingly human all at once. Watching her felt like witnessing something sacred—something he had no right to see but couldn’t bring himself to turn away from.

The water was cool, lapping just beneath her breasts, where her skin prickled in reaction to the chill. Her breath hitched, but she paid it no mind, focusing instead on rinsing the blood and grime from her hair. In one swift motion, Jo dipped beneath the water’s surface, letting the cool lake envelop her entirely. For a moment, the world above vanished into muted stillness. The tension in her shoulders eased as the lake cradled her, the weight of the day momentarily forgotten in the embrace of the water.

When she resurfaced, droplets cascaded down her face, clinging to her lashes and cheeks. Her chest rose sharply with the inhale that followed, her mouth slightly parted, catching her breath. Slowly, she lifted her hands, smoothing them along her skin to wipe away the water. Her palms swept from her jawline, over her cheeks, and up to her forehead, her fingertips catching stray strands of hair as she pushed them back.

Her wet hair slicked back against her scalp, revealing her sharp features and flushed skin. Water trickled in rivulets over her shoulders and down her chest, catching the fading light and shimmering like liquid gold. Jo’s breaths came in slow, deliberate rhythms now, the cool air mingling with the residual warmth of the sunset on her skin.

Arthur’s eyes stayed locked on her as she moved through the water, the ripples around her softening into stillness. He tried to convince himself that he wasn’t staring, that he wasn’t indulging in something he shouldn’t. But the truth gnawed at him, raw and persistent. He wondered whether this pull he felt toward her was merely carnal—a reaction to her bare skin gleaming in the sunset, the graceful curve of her back as she worked through her hair—or if it ran deeper.

The question had lingered in the back of his mind for some time now, growing louder with every passing day. Was it just her beauty that captivated him, or was it the way she carried herself, scarred but unbroken, that made her impossible to ignore? He didn’t know, and that uncertainty twisted his insides in ways he didn’t want to admit.

But one thing he couldn’t deny—even if it felt inappropriate, even if it stirred guilt deep in his chest—was that it was a damn pleasing sight to see her like this. Not just because of her body, though that alone was enough to make his pulse race. It was something else entirely. The way she moved, deliberate and unhurried, spoke of a quiet strength. She didn’t let the weight of the world crush her, even when it seemed hell-bent on trying.

Arthur’s gaze flicked down to the dock beneath his feet, his jaw clenching as he fought the urge to look again. The conflict within him was almost unbearable—this desire to keep her in his sight, to hold onto this fleeting moment, warring with the shame of it all.

He let out a slow breath, his hand rubbing at the back of his neck as he forced himself to think of anything else. Sean’s face flashed in his mind—his crooked grin, the way he’d light up a room with his mischief. And now Sean was gone, leaving an emptiness that couldn’t be filled. Arthur’s chest tightened, the weight of the day crashing down on him all at once.

What was he doing? Jo deserved better than to be ogled like this, even if she didn’t know he was there. She deserved better than a man like him, broken and hollow, full of guilt he couldn’t shake.

Arthur’s fists curled against his thighs, and with one last glance at her figure in the water, he made his decision. He stood, his boots making a soft creak against the planks, and turned away. The image of her stayed with him, though—burned into his mind like a brand.

As he straightened, a quiet grunt escaped him, and his hand dropped instinctively to adjust the tightening discomfort between his legs. He muttered a curse under his breath, his jaw tightening as he forced himself to focus on the path ahead. “Get a grip, Morgan,” he growled lowly, though the memory of her silhouette lingered stubbornly in his mind.

He walked back toward camp, his shoulders heavy, his thoughts a tangled mess. He wasn’t sure what to make of this pull she had on him, or whether he even had the right to feel it. All he knew was that it left him restless, chasing answers he didn’t think he’d ever find.

The air hung heavy, carrying with it an unspoken grief that seemed to settle over the camp like a suffocating blanket. Conversations were sparse and subdued, the usual camaraderie dulled to mere murmurs. The faint strumming of Javier’s guitar filled the silence, its mournful melody blending with the soft crackling of the campfire. Even the horses seemed restless, their occasional snorts punctuating the stillness.

Jo lingered for a moment by the dying fire, her arms crossed tightly over her chest as though to shield herself from more than just the chill. The atmosphere pressed on her, and after a few moments, she decided she’d had enough. Turning on her heel, she made her way to her tent, her boots crunching softly against the dirt.

Inside the canvas walls, the world seemed even smaller, quieter. She sank onto her cot, the weight of the day settling on her shoulders like lead. Her fingers brushed absentmindedly against the coarse fabric of the blanket as her thoughts spiraled into the murky depths of her mind.

Her gaze drifted to her hands, calloused and lined with faint scars, each mark a testament to choices made—some necessary, others reckless. If her younger self could see her now, Jo wondered, would she recoil in shame? Would the girl she’d been last year... two years ago... recognize the woman she’d become? The one who believed the world held possibilities, who hadn’t yet learned how heavy a revolver could feel when its weight carried the burden of survival.

Her chest tightened as her mind veered toward Sean. She didn’t cry. She couldn’t—not here, not now. Her grief was a quiet, stubborn thing, like the slow bleeding of an unstitched wound. No sobs or wails, just a suffocating ache that curled around her lungs, refusing to let go.

What had brought them to this point? The choices they’d made, the lies they’d spun to survive—were they all just steps leading to this tragedy? Sean was gone, and the blame felt like a stone in her gut, heavy and immovable.

Her life felt like a patchwork of remorse—wrong turns and mistakes stitched together into a map that only led backward. And yet, there was no going back, no undoing what had been done.

Jo exhaled shakily, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees, her hands clasped together tightly as though in silent prayer. Not for forgiveness—she doubted she deserved it—but for clarity. For something to make sense amidst the chaos.

Jo stretched out on her cot, pulling the blanket over herself with a sigh. She closed her eyes, willing for sleep to come, to take her far away from the day’s events. But the quiet was too loud—Javier’s guitar had faded, leaving only the occasional crackle of the fire and the faint rustle of the camp.

Her mind wouldn’t quiet, thoughts churning endlessly. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Sean—his carefree grin, the way he’d ribbed her just that morning, the sound of his voice echoing in her ears. And then the blood. So much blood.

She turned onto her side, then onto her back, and then back again, the cot creaking softly beneath her. The heaviness in her chest wouldn’t ease, and the blanket felt suffocating.

Finally, with an exasperated sigh, Jo tossed the blanket aside and swung her legs over the edge of the cot. Her bare feet touched the cool ground as she sat there for a moment, her head in her hands. She couldn’t stay in here. The tent felt too small, too stifling.

Pushing herself to her feet, she reached for her jacket and pulled it on over her clothes. The soft cotton of her breezy blouse shifted against her shoulders, its delicate straps barely keeping it in place. Her loose-fitting, knee-length trousers, still damp in places from her earlier wash in the lake, clung slightly to her legs as she moved. They weren’t much protection against the night air, but she hadn’t bothered to change into anything warmer. 

The jacket hung open as she stepped outside, the night air hitting her like a balm, cool and crisp against her flushed skin. Her hair, left untied, cascaded in fine blonde strands down her back, reaching just past her lower back, almost grazing the top of her hips with every step. She took a deep breath, her shoulders rising and falling as she let it out slowly.

The camp was still and quiet. Most had turned in for the night, their tents dark and silent. Only the faint embers of the campfire remained, casting a dim orange glow over the clearing. Jo crossed her arms, hugging herself against the chill, and wandered a few steps away from her tent.

Above her, the stars stretched endlessly, pinpricks of light scattered across the vast expanse of darkness. She tilted her head back, gazing up at them, their distant brilliance both comforting and overwhelming. It made her feel small, yet somehow grounded—part of something far greater than herself. The heaviness in her chest hadn’t eased, but at least out here, she could breathe.

Jo lowered her gaze from the stars, her arms still crossed against the chill, when a faint glow caught her attention near the lake’s shore. It was the smolder of a cigarette, the orange ember briefly brightening before dimming again. Someone else was awake, unable to sleep either, though she couldn’t make out who it was at first.

The figure sat with their back to the camp, facing the lake. They were sitting on a large fallen tree trunk, leaning slightly forward. Jo took a few tentative steps closer, her eyes adjusting to the dim light of the moon reflecting off the water. As she neared, recognition dawned—those sandy brown locks, untamed and falling loosely around his face, gave him away immediately.

Arthur .

His broad shoulders slumped, and even from behind, she could sense the weight he was carrying. The cigarette in his hand burned steadily, a thin trail of smoke curling upward and dissipating into the cool night air.

“Can’t sleep either?” Jo asked softly as she approached, her voice carrying just enough to reach him without startling him.

Arthur turned his head slightly, just enough to glance at her over his shoulder, his expression shadowed in the moonlight. He took a slow drag from his cigarette, exhaling a thin stream of smoke before speaking.

“Reckon it’s not the kinda night for sleep,” he replied, his voice low and gravelly, heavy with weariness.

Jo nodded, stepping closer to the tree trunk. Without a word, Arthur shifted to make space beside him. She hesitated for a moment, then sat down, folding her legs beneath her and pulling her jacket tighter around her shoulders.

She let out a soft sigh, her gaze drifting to the lake where the water lapped gently against the shore. “It’s been… a hell of a day,” she said quietly, more to herself than to him.

Arthur didn’t reply immediately. His eyes stayed on the water, the cigarette burning down between his fingers. After a long pause, he finally muttered, “Hell of a day don’t even cover it.”

Silence fell around them, thick and weighted, broken only by the soft crackle of Arthur’s cigarette and the faint ripple of the lake. Jo turned her head slowly, her gaze drifting to him. Her eyes caught on the faint smear of blood trailing down his forearm, stark against his skin in the moonlight.

“Did you clean that?” she asked, nodding toward Arthur’s forearm, where dried blood stained the fabric of his shirt.

Arthur glanced at the graze, then back at the lake. He shrugged, taking another drag from his cigarette.

Jo frowned, her lips pressing into a firm line. “Figures,” she muttered. Her tone left no room for debate. Standing abruptly, she dusted her hands against her trousers.

“What’re you doin’?” Arthur asked, though his voice lacked conviction.

“I’ll clean it,” she declared, already heading toward her tent.

“Jo, it’s nothin’. Ain’t worth—”

“Stay here,” she interrupted, her tone brooking no argument.

Arthur watched her retreating figure, the soft rustle of her bare feets the only sound accompanying the crackling fire in the distance. He shook his head and mumbled under his breath, “Damn stubborn woman.” Yet deep down, a quieter thought tugged at him—a thought he couldn’t quite ignore. It felt good. Warm, even. To be fussed over like that. To matter, even in such a small way.

She returned moments later, her arms full with a bottle of alcohol, a cloth, and some bandages. Jo didn’t waste time. She crouched beside him, pouring the alcohol onto the cloth as if by force of habit.

Arthur watched her, silent and still. She worked with a quiet determination, not even flinching at the pungent smell of the alcohol. When she pressed the cloth to his wound, the sharp sting made him tense, but he didn’t make a sound. His gaze stayed on her, studying the faint crease of concentration on her brow, the set of her jaw, the way her fingers moved with care but confidence.

“What you thinkin’ ’bout?” he asked after a long silence, his voice softer than before.

Jo didn’t pause in her work, her hands steady as she cleaned around the graze. "Sometimes I wonder how different life would've been if Dutch and Hosea hadn't found me," she replied, her tone almost too casual for the weight of the words.

Arthur’s brows furrowed, his gaze narrowing as he studied her face. He hadn’t expected something so candid. “Yeah?”

She nodded, her expression unreadable. “I wonder if… it’d have been better, or worse. If I’d have turned out the same. If I’d even still be around.”

Arthur blinked, surprised by her answer. “And… what d’ya reckon it would’ve been like?” he prompted, his voice low, almost hesitant. 

Jo dabbed at the wound one last time before setting the cloth aside. She didn’t look at him right away, her gaze fixed on the makeshift bandage in her hands. “Dunno,” she admitted after a moment, her voice quieter now. “Probably dead in some ditch somewhere. Or married off to some man twice my age who’d’ve worked me into the ground.”

Arthur’s jaw tightened at her words, a pang of anger flaring in his chest—not at her, but at the thought of her being trapped in such a life. “That ain’t no kinda life for anyone,” he said, his tone gruff.

Jo finally looked up at him, a small, tired smile tugging at her lips. “Yeah, well… that’s kinda what I was raised for, actually,” she said lightly, but her eyes betrayed the heaviness of her thoughts.

Arthur’s brows furrowed slightly as he flicked away the remnants of his cigarette. “Never talk much ’bout your parents, I reckon,” he said, his tone cautious, testing the waters.

Jo didn’t respond right away. She finished wrapping the bandage around his arm, tying it off with a neat knot before sitting back. Her posture shifted subtly, her shoulders curling inward as though she were trying to shield herself. “I don’t like talkin’ about ’em,” she said, her voice clipped but not unkind.

Arthur studied her for a moment, his blue eyes searching her face for something— anything —she might give him. “Why?” he asked softly, his curiosity unrelenting. For all the years he’d known her, she’d never once mentioned her family, not even in passing.

Jo’s jaw tightened, and she dropped her gaze to her hands, which fidgeted restlessly in her lap. The silence stretched between them, heavy and charged. 

After what felt like an eternity, she let out a slow breath. “’Cause there ain’t much to say,” she admitted quietly, her tone laced with bitterness. “My ma died when I was young, my father followed suit, and I found myself all alone…”

A small silence settled between them, broken only by the faint crackling of the campfire in the distance. Arthur waited, sensing there was more she hadn’t said.

Jo took a slow breath, her fingers fidgeting slightly in her lap. “My father wanted a boy. I was a girl. He tried to make me his son. Never worked.”

Arthur tilted his head, offering a small, sympathetic smile. “Your childhood must’ve been wild,” he said, trying to lighten the mood.

Jo coughed awkwardly, her expression hardening. Oh yeah, starvation, abusive father, and homelessness. So wild.

Her nose crinkled, a bitter edge creeping into her voice. “Still feel his fists on me. Still feel the impact of him slammin’ my head into a wall, or crunchin’ my fingers in a door, or just railin’ on me until I blacked out.”

Arthur’s faint smile vanished instantly. His hand froze mid-motion as he reached for his cigarette case again, his blue eyes wide with shock and anger.

He didn’t know what to say, and for a moment, the words he might’ve offered caught in his throat. Finally, he managed, “Jo… I—”

“Don’t,” she cut him off, shaking her head. “It’s over now. I survived, didn’t I?” Her tone was matter-of-fact, but there was a weight behind it, the kind of resignation born from years of burying the pain.

Arthur nodded slowly, his jaw tightening as he fought to swallow the mix of emotions surging inside him. Rage at the man who’d done this to her. Sadness for the girl she’d been. And admiration for the woman she’d become.

“You did more than survive,” he murmured finally, his voice barely above a whisper.

Jo glanced at him then, her lips twitching into the faintest of smiles. “Guess I did.”

The silence stretched between them again, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was the kind of silence that said all the things words couldn’t, the kind that spoke of shared understanding and unspoken respect.

She leaned back slightly, her gaze settling on Arthur as the quiet stretched on. Then, with a faint quirk of her lips, she broke the silence. “Since I’ve answered your question, it’s up to you to answer mine. A truth for a truth.”

Arthur glanced at her warily, his brows knitting together. “Reckon that’s fair,” he said, though his tone carried a touch of hesitation. “What do you wanna know?”

She took a breath, watching him closely. “Who’s Isaac ?”

Chapter Text

Arthur stiffened immediately, the name hitting him like a punch to the gut. His jaw clenched, and he shifted uncomfortably on the log, his gaze darting toward her briefly before fixing on the dark expanse of the lake.

She glanced at him from time to time, watching as he stared into the darkness, lost in thought. It had been weeks since his fever had broken, but the memory of those days still lingered in her mind. She had watched over him, listened to him mumble in his delirium, whispering things she couldn’t understand—until one name had stuck out. She hadn’t asked about it then. It wasn’t her place, and she wasn’t sure if he even remembered saying it. But curiosity had gnawed at her ever since, and now, after revealing something about her past, she thought it was only fair to ask something in return.

Jo noticed the change in him and softened her tone. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” she added quickly, her voice barely above a whisper.

He didn’t respond right away. Instead, he stared into the darkness, his fingers idly tracing the edge of his knee. After a long moment, he asked, his voice low and tinged with tension, “Where’d you hear that name?”

“You said it,” she answered softly, angling her head to get a better look at him. “When you had your fever after getting shot. I didn’t know if it was real or just something from a dream, but… you kept mumblin’ it.”

Arthur exhaled sharply, rubbing the back of his neck as if trying to ease some invisible weight pressing down on him. “I… didn’t know I’d said anythin’,” he muttered, almost to himself.

There was a long, heavy silence between them. Jo watched his profile, the way his face hardened, the subtle shift in his posture. She could see the walls going up—the same walls he always built around himself when something hurt too much. She waited, giving him space. She didn’t push, didn’t pry further. Arthur’s shoulders sagged slightly, and he let out a slow breath. He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, and stared down at the ground for a moment. The silence stretched on, and Jo started to wonder if she’d made a mistake bringing it up.

But then, in a voice quieter and rougher than usual, Arthur spoke.

“Isaac was… he was my son.”

Jo’s breath caught, her heart sinking as the words settled between them. “Arthur…” she started, her voice trembling slightly, but he shook his head.

“Don’t,” he interrupted, his tone firm but not harsh. “I don’t talk ’bout it much. Don’t… even think ’bout it if I can help it.”

He paused, his gaze still fixed on the lake. The muscles in his jaw worked as he wrestled with the pain that came with saying the words out loud. “I had him with a woman… Eliza. Didn’t live with ’em, but I’d visit when I could, bring ’em money. Tried to do right by ’em, even if it wasn’t much.”

Jo nodded faintly, her chest tightening at the vulnerability in his voice.

“One day, I rode out there, like I always did.” His voice cracked slightly, and he cleared his throat. “Found out they’d been killed. For a few dollars I left behind for ’em. Guess I thought I was helpin’. Thought I was protectin’ ’em by stayin’ away.”

The bitterness in his tone was unmistakable, and Jo could see the self-recrimination etched across his face.

“You couldn’t have known,” she said softly, her words gentle but firm. “You did what you thought was best.”

Arthur finally turned to look at her, his blue eyes shadowed with grief and regret. “Did I?” he asked, his voice barely audible.

Jo didn’t have an answer for that, and maybe he didn’t expect one. Instead, she reached out and rested a hand on his forearm, her touch light but grounding. “You loved him, Arthur. That counts for somethin’.”

He nodded faintly, his gaze dropping to the ground. “Sometimes I wonder if it’s all I got left. Just tryin’ to love the people I care about while I still can.”

Jo squeezed his arm gently, offering what little comfort she could. “That ain’t nothin’, Arthur,” she said quietly. Jo didn’t know what else to say, so she simply sat there with him, her hand still resting on his arm, offering the only comfort she could. She could feel the weight of his grief, the way it hung in the air between them, thick and suffocating. But she didn’t pull away. She stayed, offering him her silent support, knowing that sometimes, words weren’t enough.

The silence stretched on, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was heavy, yes, but there was a quiet understanding between them, a bond forged in the shared weight of their pasts. Arthur had opened up to her in a way she hadn’t expected, and in that moment, she saw a side of him that very few ever did—a man who had loved and lost, who carried his pain with him like a burden he couldn’t shake.

Jo’s thoughts began to drift, her mind circling back to the chaos of the day. The memory of Sean’s lifeless body falling to the ground replayed in her head, vivid and unrelenting. She shuddered, her breath hitching as she realized just how close she had been.

It could’ve been her.

She had been standing just a step away from him. If Sean hadn’t moved, if the timing had been even slightly different… She swallowed hard, the weight of it pressing against her chest. It could’ve been her lying there in the dirt, blood pooling beneath her.

The thought made her stomach twist.

If that had been her, what would she have left behind? What would she have missed? Her mind conjured images of the camp, of Lenny’s laugh, Hosea’s knowing smiles, Abigail’s sharp wit. Of the way Jack lit up when he caught a butterfly, of John and his begrudging attempts to get along with her.

And Arthur.

She would’ve missed this moment, sitting beside him, breathing in the cool night air, hearing the low murmur of his voice.

It made her regret some choices, wish for more time to change others. But there was one she knew she’d regret for the rest of her life if she didn’t do anything about it—no matter how much it troubled her.

Jo looked at Arthur again, only to find that he was already watching her.

Her heart thudded loudly in her chest, and she swore he could hear it. For a moment, she froze, the intensity of his gaze rooting her in place. His blue eyes seemed deeper than the lake before them, as if he were searching for something in her that he couldn’t quite name.

She opened her mouth to say something, but the words wouldn’t come. They caught in her throat, tangled up in everything she felt but didn’t understand.

Arthur didn’t know how long he’d been looking at her. Maybe it had been seconds, or maybe the better part of an eternity. It didn’t matter. What did matter was the unsettling, impossible realization that had crept into his mind. He’d lost track of time. He’d forgotten the day’s hardships, the sorrow, the anger. The only thing stuck in his head was her.

The way the late-afternoon sun had glinted off the water as she washed herself in the lake. The sight of her unguarded, wiping droplets from her arms. The damp strands of hair clinging to her behind.

And–

And–

Good God in heaven, he wanted to kiss Josephine Harper.

Josephine Harper!

He might as well have said he wanted to kiss his sister. If he had one, that was.

Except–

He stole another glance at her, the moonlight catching the delicate features of her face. Her loose cotton blouse clung to her frame in the breeze, the straps thin against her shoulders. The jacket she’d thrown on was open, barely concealing her form. Her trousers, just as loose-fitting, shifted with the faintest movements, brushing against her bare knees. Her hair, untied and catching the silvery light, tumbled down her back in fine, golden strands, swaying gently with each shift of her body. It fell so far down it nearly kissed the curve of her hips, a sight that made it impossible to look away.

She looked uncommonly fetching, and for the life of him, he couldn’t fathom how he hadn’t noticed it earlier.

She caught him looking, her brows raising slightly in question. Arthur cleared his throat and quickly turned his gaze back to the lake, heat creeping up his neck.

“Arthur?” His name was a mere whisper on her lips, her eyes were quite adorably blinking and befuddled, and how was it he’d never noticed what an intriguing shade of green they were? Almost gold near the pupil. He’d never seen anything like it, and yet it wasn’t as if he hadn’t seen her a hundred times before. How had he never noticed the way her gaze seemed to pull him in, like the first light of dawn cutting through the mist?

Arthur’s stomach twisted, and he stood abruptly, the movement more awkward than he intended. Best to put some distance between them—get a little air between their eyes. Things were simpler when they weren’t quite so close.

She stood, too.

Damn it.

“Arthur?” she asked again, her voice just loud enough to carry between them. “Can I ask ya a favor?”

Something deep in his gut churned uneasily, a primal warning telling him that whatever she wanted from him was bound to go sideways. But then again, he’d never been known for his sense of self-preservation.

“Of course,” he heard himself say, the words spilling out before he could stop them.

She hesitated, lips parting slightly. For the briefest of moments, he thought she was leaning toward him, and his pulse quickened in response. But she stopped short, her lips forming a word instead of a kiss.

“Would…”

His chest tightened. W always looked like a kiss.

“Would you kiss me?”

“What?” The word came out sharper than he meant, his voice cracking as if he hadn’t spoken in hours, aware that he was blinking rapidly. 

Her face turned a deeper shade of crimson than he’d thought humanly possible, and she turned away. “Never mind,” she mumbled. “Forget it.” 

And Arthur thought that was a very good idea. 

But then, just when he’d thought that his world might resume its normal course, or at least that he’d be able to pretend it had, she whirled back around, her eyes alight with a passionate fire that astonished him. “No, I ain’t gonna forget it,” she cried out. “I’ve spent my life forgetting things, not saying ‘em, never telling no one what I really want.” 

Arthur tried to say something, but it was clear to him that his throat had begun to close. Any minute now he’d be dead. He was sure of it. 

“It don’t need to mean nothing,” she said. “I promise you, it don’t need to mean nothing, and I’d never expect anything from you because of it, but I could’ve died, and–” 

“What?” he rasped, finally finding his voice.

She took another step, her eyes huge, pleading, and brimming with emotion that made his knees feel like they might give out. He could feel his resolve melting away. 

“‘M twenty-eight, Arthur,” she said, and there was something heartbreakingly raw in the way she said it. “We’re outlaws. Any of us could die any damn day, and I don’t wanna go without having kissed you one last time.”

Arthur felt like the world had shifted on its axis, like the stars above them had rearranged themselves into some strange and unfamiliar pattern.

He couldn’t move, couldn’t think, couldn’t even breathe properly.

Because the only thought rattling around in his head was that Josephine Harper had just asked him to kiss her.

And for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out why the hell he was still standing there, doing nothing.

He knew he knew how to speak; he was fairly certain he’d been perfectly articulate just minutes earlier. But now he didn’t seem able to form a word. 

And Jo kept talking.

Her cheeks were flushed, but it wasn’t just from the cold night air. There was something electric about her, her passion radiating through every word. Her lips moved quickly, forming sentences that hit him like punches to the gut, but all he could focus on was wondering what those lips might feel like on his skin. On his neck. His shoulder. And—damn it—other places he really shouldn’t be thinking about.

“We’re outlaws,” she said, her voice trembling with conviction. “And we don’t know where we’re gonna be in a year. Hell, in a week. I could die tomorrow, and–”

“You ain’t gonna die tomorrow!” he blurted out, the words tumbling from his mouth before he could think better of them.

“But I could! I could, and it would kill me, because–” 

“You’d already be dead,” he muttered, his voice sounding distant to his own ears, as if someone else were speaking for him.

“I don’t wanna die without having been kissed one last time,” she finished, her voice cracking on the last few words.

Arthur could think of a hundred reasons—maybe more—why kissing Josephine Harper was the worst idea he’d ever had. The biggest one, of course, being that he actually wanted to do it. Wanted it so badly it made his chest ache.

He opened his mouth, hoping to form some kind of protest, but nothing came out. Just a hollow exhale, as though the air itself was fleeing his lungs, leaving him stranded.

And then, Jo did the one thing that could break his resolve in an instant. She looked up at him, deeply into his eyes, and uttered one, simple word. 

“Please.”

And he had a bad, bad feeling that if this girl used the word please , he would give her anything she wanted. 

He was done for, lost to her in a way that no amount of self-control could save him from. There was something in her gaze that shattered his defenses, something raw and pleading and achingly vulnerable. It wasn’t heartbreak or embarrassment that fueled her words—it was need. A deep, soulful hunger that she was laying bare before him, trusting him to handle it gently.

And Arthur Morgan had never been trusted like this before.

It humbled him.

It terrified him.

It made him want her more than anything he’d ever wanted in his life.

His heart thundered in his chest as he stared at her, at this woman who had somehow become so much more than a companion or a friend. She glowed in the firelight, her loose cotton blouse slipping off one shoulder, her jacket hanging open, her bare feet dusted with dirt and grass.

How had he never noticed before? How had he looked at her so many times and never seen this?

She was a goddess. A siren.

And Arthur Morgan was hers to command.

“Arthur?” she whispered again, her voice barely more than a breath.

He didn’t answer her, at least not with words. Instead, he stepped forward—just enough so that when he reached out and tilted her chin up with his fingers, her lips were mere inches from his.

Their breaths mingled in the cool night air, but everything between them burned hot. His touch was featherlight, yet it made her tremble beneath him. Or was that him trembling? Arthur couldn’t tell, and it didn’t much matter.

He’d always fancied himself the type to have something clever to say, even in moments like this. A quip, a tease, some devil-may-care remark to lighten the mood. But as he leaned in, closing the tiny distance between them, he realized words wouldn’t come.

There were no words for this.

No words for the way the world seemed to tilt off its axis as he kissed her.

And so, standing under a blanket of stars in their camp at Clemens Point, Arthur Morgan kissed Josephine Harper.

It wasn’t what he expected. But it was glorious.

His lips touched hers softly at first, not because he was trying to be gentle, although if he’d had the presence of mind to think about such things, it probably would have occurred to him that this was their first real kiss, no booze involved, and it ought to be reverent and beautiful and all the things a girl dreams about as she’s lying in bed at night even if he doubted Jo was that kind of girl. 

But in all truth, none of that was on Arthur’s mind. In fact, he was thinking of quite little. His kiss was soft and gentle because he was still so surprised that he was kissing her. He’d known her for years, had never even thought about touching his lips to hers. And now he couldn’t have let her go if the fires of hell were licking his toes. He could barely believe what he was doing– or that he wanted to do it so damned much. 

It wasn’t rushed or desperate. It wasn’t a kiss born from anger or grief or some fleeting moment of passion. No, this kiss was something else entirely. It was deliberate. Measured. A slow unraveling.

And as his lips moved softly against hers, Arthur realized something else—he’d been wrong about every other kiss he’d ever had.

This was what a kiss was supposed to feel like.

Jo was still, her breath hitching against his as her hands hesitantly found his chest. He could feel the thrum of her pulse in the faint press of her fingertips, and it nearly undid him. His mouth grew more insistent, and his tongue darted forward, nudging her until her lips parted. His tongue brushed against hers, and the soft, startled sound she made was nearly his undoing. She was sweet and a little tart from the beer, and she was clearly as intoxicating as fine whisky, because Arthur was starting to doubt his ability to remain on his feet. 

He shifted, tilting his head just enough to explore more of her mouth. The soft scrape of his stubble against her skin sent a shiver racing through her, and he felt her fists tighten in the fabric of his shirt.

Arthur’s hands slid down her back, his fingers spreading wide against the thin cotton of her blouse. She was warm—so warm—and he wanted to memorize the shape of her beneath his palms. He pulled her closer, their bodies flush now, every point of contact igniting something primal in him.

He wanted her.

No, he needed her.

The realization hit him like a freight train, leaving him breathless and overwhelmed. But there was something tender in the way she responded, something that grounded him even as he felt like he was falling.

Her hands slid up to his shoulders, then into his hair, her fingers tangling in the thick, unruly strands. She kissed him back with a softness that nearly brought him to his knees.

For the first time in years, Arthur Morgan felt whole. He was growing hard, and he wanted her– dear God, how he wanted her. 

He moved his hand along the length of her–slowly, so as not to frighten her. She was wild, fierce, and untamed, just as he’d always thought a woman should be. Her lips flared, and her bottom was perfect, and her breast… good God, her breasts felt good pressing against his chest. His palms itched to cup them, but he forced his hands to remain where they were, rather enjoyably on her derriere, so it really wasn’t that much of a sacrifice. Beside the fact that he really shouldn’t be groping a lady’s breasts in the middle of the night, he had a rather painful suspicion that if he touched her in that way, he would lose himself completely. 

He broke the kiss just long enough to rest his forehead against hers, his breath coming in uneven pants. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips swollen, and the sight of her like this—beautiful and utterly undone—was enough to make him feel like the luckiest man alive.

“Jo…” His voice was hoarse, thick with emotion he couldn’t name. He hadn’t meant to say her name, but it fell from his lips like a prayer.

She looked up at him with wide eyes, her fingers still tangled in his hair. For a moment, she seemed just as stunned as he was, as if neither of them could quite believe what had just happened.

He wanted to kiss her again, to keep her in his arms for as long as she’d let him. But he forced himself to pause, to give her the chance to pull away if she wanted to.

Slowly, tentatively, she lifted one of her hands to his face. Her fingers trailed lightly over his cheek, skimming along the line of his jaw until they fell away. “Thank you,” she whispered. 

Thank you? 

He went still.

It was exactly the wrong thing to say. He didn’t want to be thanked for his kiss. 

It made him feel guilty. 

And shallow. 

As if it had been something done out of pity. And the worst part was he knew that if all this had come to pass only a few months earlier, it would have been out of pity. 

What the hell did that say about him?

“Don’t thank me,” he said gruffly, showing himself backward until they were no longer touching. 

“But–”

“I said don’t,” he repeated harshly, turning away as if he couldn’t bear the sight of her, when the truth was that he couldn’t quite bear himself. 

And the damndest thing was–he wasn’t sure why. This desperate, gnawing feeling– was it guilt? Because he shouldn’t have kissed her? Because he shouldn’t have liked it?

“Arthur,” she said, “don’t be angry at yourself.” 

“I ain’t,” he snapped.

“I asked you to kiss me. I practically forced you–” 

Now, there was a surefire way to make a man feel manly. “You ain’t forcin’ me,” he bit off. 

“No, but–” 

“Damn it, Jo, enough!” 

The words came out louder than he intended, and Jo flinched, her eyes widening. He saw the flicker of hurt before she masked it, her expression closing off.

Arthur swore under his breath. He looked down at her hands. They were shaking. He closed his eyes in agony. Why why why was he being such an ass?

“Jo…” he began, his voice softer now, almost pleading.

“No, it’s fine,” she said, her words rushed. “You don’t have to say nothing.” 

“No, I should.” 

“I really wish ya wouldn’t.”

And now she looked so quietly dignified. Which made him feel even worse. She was standing there, hugging herself, her eyes downward– not quite on the ground, but not on his face.

She thought he’d kissed her out of pity. 

And maybe—maybe some part of him wanted her to think that. Because if she believed it, then maybe he could, too. Maybe he could convince himself that this burning need inside him was something fleeting, something he could bury and forget, something that couldn’t possibly be more.

“I should go,” he said, the words quiet, and yet still too loud in the silent night. 

Jo didn’t stop him. She didn’t say a word.

He motioned to his tent. “I should go,” he said again, even as his feet refused to move. 

She nodded. 

“I didn’t—” he started, then faltered. His throat felt dry, his words clumsy. Instead, he settled on a quiet, “Thank you.”

For what, he wasn’t sure. For taking care of him, maybe. For trusting him, even when he didn’t deserve it. For this brief, bittersweet moment they’d shared.

Jo watched as he hesitated, his broad shoulders tense, his head slightly bowed. Arthur Morgan, a man so solid and unyielding in the face of chaos, now seemed to teeter on an invisible edge. Her heart ached at the sight.

“You don’t have to leave,” she said softly, her voice a fragile thread of hope.

Arthur froze. He didn’t turn around, didn’t answer her right away. The silence stretched taut between them, heavy with the weight of all the words left unsaid.

“Think I do,” he muttered, his voice low and gruff.

Jo’s lips parted, a protest poised on the tip of her tongue, but she stopped herself. Instead, she stepped forward, closing the space between them. Her footsteps were light, barely audible, yet Arthur flinched when he felt her presence so close behind him.

“Arthur,” she said, her tone firmer now. She reached out, her fingers brushing his arm. “Don’t walk away like this.”

He turned to her then, slowly, like a man bracing himself for a blow. His blue eyes met hers, and she could see the storm raging behind them. Regret. Longing. Fear .

“I don’t know what the hell I’m doin’, Jo,” he admitted, his voice breaking on her name. “I don’t know what you want from me.”

She swallowed hard, her throat tightening as his words struck a chord deep within her. “I don’t want nothing from you, Arthur. I just…” She hesitated, searching for the right words, something to ease the turmoil she could see etched into every line of his face. “I just don’t want you to think this was meaningless.”

He stared at her, his jaw tightening. “Maybe it was,” he said finally, though the words sounded hollow even to his own ears.

Her breath hitched, and for a moment, she felt as though the air had been stolen from her. But she didn’t flinch, didn’t shy away. Instead, she stepped closer, her hand rising to rest gently against his chest.

“Then why’re you still here?” she asked quietly, her gaze never wavering from his.

Arthur didn’t answer. He couldn’t. Because the truth—the truth that was clawing its way to the surface—was that he didn’t want to leave.

Jo’s fingers curled slightly against the fabric of his shirt, her touch grounding him in a way he hadn’t expected. “If you think this is a mistake, fine,” she said, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands. “But don’t walk away without tellin’ me why.”

Arthur’s shoulders slumped, the fight draining out of him. He lifted a hand, brushing a strand of hair from her face with surprising tenderness. “I ain’t good at this, Jo,” he confessed, his voice rough with emotion. “Never have been.”

“Neither am I,” she admitted, a small, bittersweet smile tugging at her lips. “But maybe… Maybe we can figure it out together.”

His thumb lingered on her cheek, tracing a path that sent a shiver down her spine. For a moment, he just looked at her, as if committing her face to memory.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said finally, the words so soft they were barely audible.

“You won’t,” she promised, though they both knew it wasn’t a promise she could keep.

Arthur let out a shaky breath, his hand falling away from her face. “I should still go,” he said, though his feet remained rooted to the ground.

Jo nodded, her eyes shining with unshed tears. “If that’s what you think is best,” she said, her voice trembling slightly.

He lingered for a moment longer, his heart warring with his head. And then, with a quiet, almost pained, “Goodnight, Jo,” he turned and walked away.

Jo stood there in the silence that followed, her arms wrapped around herself as if to hold the pieces of her heart together.

“Goodnight, Arthur,” she whispered to the empty night.

Jo stood near the lake, the stillness of the night wrapping around her like a shroud. She thought she was alone, her mind replaying the kiss, Arthur’s touch, and the way he’d walked away without a word.

Micah leaned against a tree, his grin as slimy as ever. “Where’s my kiss, Blondie?” he drawled with a snarl.

She stiffened, her shoulders squaring as she turned sharply, spotting Micah emerging from the darkness, his grin crooked and leering.

For a heartbeat, her breath caught—less from fear, more from sheer irritation at the sight of him. But Jo quickly recovered, her glare like a spark ready to ignite. She took a step forward, her hands loose but ready at her sides, her tone steady and biting. “Try that, Micah, and you’ll be kissing the dirt instead.”

Micah hesitated, the grin faltering just enough for her to know she’d struck a nerve.

Chapter Text

When Jo awoke the next morning, still groggy from the fitful sleep she'd managed after the events of the previous day, she already felt exhausted. Her body ached, though she wasn’t sure if it was from the physical toll of the failed job they’d done or the emotional weight of the night before.

She pushed through the lingering fatigue, swinging her legs over the side of her cot with a groan. The air in the tent was cool, and she shivered slightly as she reached for her clothes. She dressed quickly, opting for her usual dark jeans and a long-sleeve cotton shirt, rolling the sleeves up to her elbows. The familiar weight of her hat settled over her messy hair, providing a small comfort as she prepared herself for another day in camp.

Stepping out of the tent, she was greeted by the first rays of dawn creeping over the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink. The camp was still quiet, the usual hum of morning activity not yet in full swing. She made her way toward the coffee pot, craving the warmth and bitterness to shake off the lingering haze in her mind.

As she passed by the row of tethered horses, her eyes immediately caught the missing horse. Atlas wasn’t there.

Arthur must’ve left early for a job. The thought came easily enough, but it didn’t silence the small, nagging voice in her head. Or maybe he didn’t want to see her today after what happened last night. Her stomach churned at the possibility, and she couldn’t stop the wave of self-recrimination that followed. She felt so foolish for asking such a thing of him.

Why had she done it? Was it the emotion of the day, the exhaustion? She had no answers, only the persistent ache of regret that clung to her like a second skin. She couldn’t shake the thought that he must have kissed her out of pity. Maybe he even regretted it. Or both.

Yet, try as she might to cling to the shame, there was another truth that refused to be silenced. She’d loved it—every second of it. The memory of his lips on hers, the way he’d held her like she was something precious, was burned into her mind. But that only made it worse. Because now she knew what it felt like, and she was terrified it would never happen again.

Foolish. That’s what she was. Utterly foolish.

Jo carried on, pouring herself a much-needed cup of coffee. The steam wafted up, tickling her nose as she made her way to the poker table. She sat down with a weary sigh, taking her first sip. The bitterness didn’t bother her—it was almost comforting.

Her moment of solitude didn’t last long, though. She spotted Sadie Adler approaching.

Jo tilted her head slightly, curious. She could count on one hand the number of times they’d spoken. It wasn’t that they didn’t like each other, but their paths rarely crossed. When Sadie had first arrived at camp, she’d been withdrawn, consumed by grief after losing her husband to the O’Driscolls. And Jo, with her own responsibilities and distractions, hadn’t made much of an effort either.

Still, Sadie looked better now—her shoulders straighter, her eyes less haunted. Jo took it as a good sign.

"Mind if I sit?" Sadie asked, nodding toward the table.

"No, go ahead," Jo said, gesturing to the empty chair. Her voice softened, unusual for her, but Sadie seemed… different. Stronger, maybe.

Sadie eased into the seat, but her tension was hard to miss.

"What’s up?" Jo asked gently. It wasn’t like her to sugarcoat things, but there was something about Sadie’s expression that made her tread carefully.

“D’you know where Mr. Morgan is?” Sadie asked, her voice tinged with unease.

“Arthur?” Jo hesitated, her grip tightening on her mug. “Ehm, no. I don’t. Can I help you with anythin’?”

Sadie hesitated, her gaze shifting away before meeting Jo’s again. “Actually, yeah, you can.”

Jo leaned forward slightly, her curiosity piqued. “Alright. What’s goin’ on?”

Sadie took a breath, her tone sharpening. “I was in Rhodes a couple days ago. Heard some folks talkin’. Seems there’s some O’Driscolls not far from Dewberry Creek. Hangin’ around like they own the place.”

Jo frowned, her stomach twisting at the mention of the gang. The hatred between the Van der Linde’s and the O’Driscolls ran deep.

“They’re part of the ones that… that ruined my life,” Sadie continued, her voice tight with anger. “Killed my husband, burned my home. I can’t just sit here, Jo. I can’t. I need to do somethin’ about it.”

Jo nodded slowly, her mind racing. She knew Sadie’s pain, at least in part. That kind of loss changed a person.

“I’ll help you,” Jo said firmly.

Sadie blinked, her jaw tightening in gratitude. “You sure?”

Jo gave a quick shrug, standing up and downing the rest of her coffee. “Hell, why not? Could use the distraction.”

From the kiss. From Sean’s death. From everything that was clawing at her mind.

Sadie stood too, determination etched across her face. “Then let’s go.”

The morning sun was warm against their backs as Jo and Sadie rode side by side, their horses moving at an easy pace. The path to Dewberry Creek wound through quiet woods, with only the rustle of leaves and the occasional bird breaking the stillness.

Sadie broke the silence first. “You ever been out this way before?”

Jo nodded, her eyes scanning the trees. “Couple times. Not much out here but trouble, though.” She glanced over at Sadie. “Guess that’s what we’re lookin’ for today.”

Sadie smirked faintly. “Ain’t that the truth.”

They fell quiet for a moment, the clip-clop of their horses’ hooves filling the gap. Then Sadie turned her head slightly toward Jo, a curious glint in her eye. “Can I ask you somethin’?”

Jo arched an eyebrow. “Shoot.”

“It’s about you and Arthur,” Sadie said, her tone careful but direct. “What’s the deal there?”

Jo stiffened in her saddle, her grip on the reins tightening for just a second. “What d’you mean by that?”

Sadie shrugged, though her gaze remained sharp. “I mean, y’all are close. Anyone can see that. Just… hard to tell if it’s ‘cause you’re good friends or...”

Jo stared ahead, stunned by the question. Her thoughts tumbled over one another, searching for a clear answer. Finally, she sighed. “We’re friends. At least… that’s what I think.” It was really hard to know where she stood with Arthur, the impression of taking one step forward towards him and then three back. Especially after last night.

Sadie tilted her head, studying Jo’s profile. “That what you want? Just to be friends?”

Jo hesitated, her pulse quickening. She didn’t know how to answer that—not to Sadie, and not even to herself. “I don’t really know what I want,” she admitted, her voice quieter than usual. “But Arthur and I… it’s complicated. We’ve known each other for a long time. He’s… he’s important to me.”

Sadie nodded, seeming to accept that.

Jo was grateful for the shift in topic when she asked, “What about you? How you feelin’ these days?”

Sadie’s expression darkened, her jaw clenching as she looked straight ahead. “Empty,” she said flatly. “Full of rage. Hatred.” She paused, gripping the reins tighter. “I wake up every day and feel like there’s a hole inside me where my life used to be. And it’s all because of them O’Driscolls.”

Jo’s heart twisted at the raw pain in Sadie’s voice. “That ain’t easy to carry,” she said softly.

Sadie nodded, her lips pressing into a thin line. “It ain’t. But it’s all I got right now. The hate keeps me goin’. Gives me a reason to get up in the mornin’.”

Jo didn’t argue. Sometimes, revenge was all a person had to hold onto, and she wasn’t about to tell Sadie to let go of it.

The girls continued to ride at an easy pace, their horses' hooves crunching softly against the dirt path, when the stillness ahead made Jo’s stomach drop.

Four men, mounted and unmoving, blocked the road just ahead. Their horses pawed the ground restlessly, but the men themselves sat with eerie calm, their eyes trained on the women.

“Shit,” Jo muttered, her fingers instinctively tightening around Daisy’s reins.

Sadie looked over her shoulder, and her face hardened. “We got more behind us.”

Jo twisted in her saddle, spotting the glint of sunlight on rifle barrels in the distance. Three more riders had appeared, cutting off their retreat.

“Damn it,” Jo hissed, her heart pounding.

The man in front, his face weathered and scarred, tipped his hat in mockery. “Well, well. Look what we got here, boys. Couple of strays from Dutch’s little flock.”

Sadie’s hand drifted toward the pistol at her hip. “Think they’ll shut up if I put a bullet between their eyes?” she muttered under her breath.

Jo’s gaze darted to the side, the dense thicket of trees and brush offering the only way out. “We’re cut off. Gotta push through,” she said quietly, leaning toward Sadie. They had neither the element of surprise nor the upper hand, making retreat their only sensible option.

Sadie nodded, her expression grim. “Ready when you are.”

“Now!” Jo barked, jerking Daisy’s reins and spurring her into a sharp turn toward the treeline.

The O’Driscolls shouted in alarm as both women veered off the path, their horses tearing through the underbrush. Gunfire erupted, bullets slicing through the air around them. Jo fired blindly over her shoulder, hearing Sadie’s revolver bark in tandem.

“Keep riding!” Sadie shouted, her voice sharp over the chaos.

Jo gritted her teeth, urging Daisy to go faster. But the O’Driscolls weren’t giving up. Hoofbeats thundered behind them, closing the distance.

A shot rang out, louder than the rest, and Jo felt Daisy stumble beneath her.

“No!” she screamed as the mare let out a gut-wrenching, pained cry, her legs buckling and sending them both crashing to the ground. Jo had no time to react as the earth came up fast, the impact jarring every bone in her body. Daisy’s lifeless body slammed down on top of her, pinning her legs beneath its weight as she cried out in pain.

Jo’s breath left her in a ragged gasp, pain exploding through her limbs as she clawed at the dirt. Hot tears stung her eyes as she twisted and squirmed, trying to free herself. “Daisy!” she rasped, her voice cracking as the realization set in—her horse, her companion, was gone.

“Jo!” Sadie’s voice cut through the haze of panic. She had yanked Bob to a sharp stop, her wide eyes darting toward Jo’s struggling form beneath Daisy’s fallen body.

“Go!” Jo shouted, her voice raw with desperation. “Get out of here! Warn the others!”

Sadie hesitated, her jaw clenched in defiance, her eyes blazing with conflict. “I ain’t leavin’ you!”

“Sadie, goddammit!” Jo screamed, her voice breaking. “You’ve got to go! Now!”

Sadie’s face twisted in anguish, her lips trembling with the weight of the decision. Finally, she gave a sharp nod. “You better stay alive, Jo!” she yelled, spurring Bob forward and disappearing into the shadows of the trees.

“Leave her, we got one already,” one of the O’Driscolls barked, and the others didn’t bother chasing after Sadie.

Jo gritted her teeth, her fingers digging into the dirt as she pushed and squirmed, her hot tears mixing with the sweat and grime on her face. Her breaths came in shallow gasps, her voice trembling as she cursed under her breath. Daisy’s body was impossibly heavy, a dead weight crushing her legs and rendering her movements useless. She let out a guttural grunt of effort, her muscles straining and trembling, but it was no use. She couldn’t budge the horse.

“Well, ain’t this a sight,” a voice drawled, sharp and mocking.

Jo snapped her head up, her chest heaving as some of the O’Driscolls dismounted and closed in.

“Look at her squirm,” another one chuckled, his voice dripping with cruelty. “Bet Dutch don’t care half as much about you as you think he does.”

“Go to hell,” Jo spat, her voice trembling with fury even as her body betrayed her, pinned and helpless.

As the men closed in on her, Jo’s mind raced. She had no way out. But she wouldn’t go down without a fight.

From beneath the dead weight of Daisy, Jo managed to grab her gun, her fingers slick with sweat. Without hesitation, she fired twice, her aim unsteady but desperate. Both shots rang out, one hitting its mark, sending an O’Driscoll falling off his horse with a thud, lifeless before he hit the ground. The second went wide, but it didn’t matter. One less O’Driscoll, at least.

But her gun clicked empty.

She threw it toward them, the useless weapon landing in the dirt with a dull thud. Her chest heaved with rapid breaths, sweat stinging her eyes, the pain from her trapped position overwhelming her.

The tallest of the group, a broad-shouldered man with a cruel grin, crouched beside her, his shadow looming. “Cute, but ain’t gonna save ya.”

He reached down, his rough hand clamping onto her shoulder, hauling her out from under Daisy with a brutal yank. Jo screamed as the pain in her legs flared, sending fiery jolts up her spine.

Before she could catch her breath, the man raised the butt of his rifle and brought it down hard against her temple.

Jo’s world spun, her vision blurring into darkness. Then, everything went black.

Arthur rode into Emerald Station just as the morning mist began to burn off, the cool air still clinging to his skin. His thoughts wandered, no matter how hard he tried to push them aside.

The feel of her lips, the weight of her words, the strange tension that hung between them like a storm about to break—it gnawed at him. Damn it all, he thought. He needed a distraction, something to clear his head.

He found it in the form of a bounty poster pinned to the wall outside the stationmaster’s office. Some two-bit outlaw, nothing too exciting, but enough to keep his hands busy.

The job itself had been easy. The target—a wiry man with a forgettable face—hadn’t put up much of a fight. Arthur had tracked him to a run-down shack a few miles east of the station. A quick scuffle, a couple of bruises, and the man was tied up on the back of his horse before noon.

Now, standing at Emerald Station, Arthur handed the outlaw over to a government agent waiting by the platform. The agent, a stiff-looking man in a clean black coat, gave Arthur a polite nod as he passed over the bounty money.

“Good work,” the agent said. “Feller’s been wanted for a while. Figured he’d bolt clear out of the state by now.”

Arthur tucked the cash into his satchel with a grunt. “Didn’t seem smart enough for that. Barely put up a fight.”

The agent chuckled. “Guess not. We could use more folks like you out here. If you’re interested, we’ve got a few more posters over there. Take a look.”

Arthur nodded, tipping his hat as the agent hauled the bounty off toward the train platform.

Curiosity got the better of him, and he made his way around the building to where three posters were pinned to a weathered board. He scanned the first two—a cattle rustler and a gang member—before his eyes caught on the third.

Arthur blinked, his eyes narrowing as he leaned in closer. The drawing wasn’t much—old and faded, with lines that looked hastily sketched. But something about it tugged at the edge of his memory.

The sharp set of the jaw, the arch of the brows—it reminded him of someone, though the features were softer, younger. He frowned, staring harder at the name beneath the sketch.

"Sarah Wightman…"

The man wasted no time interrupting his thoughts. "Wanted for murder, if you can believe it. We hardly ever get bounties for womenfolk, but it seems like this one ain't from 'round here. Nobody seems to recognize her, and the fact that drawin' ain't too good ‘n old doesn't help much neither."

The agent continued, lowering his voice slightly. “They’ve got her pegged for murder—more than one, from what I hear. Some in these parts, some further south. No one’s got proof she did ’em all, but folks’ve been talking. Bounty’s up to a thousand dollars if you’re interested.”

Arthur let out a low whistle, keeping his tone casual. “Hell of a price.”

The agent shrugged. “Reckon she’s a slippery one. Could be long gone by now, but you never know. Every now and then, someone’ll catch wind of her. Figured it’s worth putting her face up, just in case.”

Arthur nodded slowly, his gaze drifting back to the poster. It didn’t make sense. The resemblance was faint, but the thought wouldn’t leave him alone. It reminded him of someone… or someone who might’ve been, years ago.

But Jo never talked about her past. Not much, anyway.

“Sarah Wightman,” he muttered under his breath, turning the name over in his mind. It wasn’t her. Couldn’t be.

Couldn’t it?

Arthur stared at the poster again, his eyes narrowing. The list of murders didn’t sit right with him—too many, too scattered. And the drawing? It looked like a girl barely out of her childhood, soft-faced and younger than Jo ever was when they met.

It didn’t make sense.

Sure, the resemblance was there—faint, but enough to tug at the back of his mind like a splinter he couldn’t ignore. And the name… Sarah Wightman. He couldn’t recall Jo ever mentioning anything like that, but then again, she never talked much about her past.

Arthur’s brow furrowed as he carefully ripped the poster from the board. Folding it neatly, he tucked it into his satchel, the weight of it settling alongside his growing unease.

He’d ask her about it. Later.

Right now, he needed to get back to camp. Maybe seeing Jo in person would clear his head, or at least help him figure out what the hell he was supposed to make of this as well as the little moment they shared last night.

Climbing into the saddle, he gave Atlas a quick pat on the neck and steered him toward the road. The sun was higher now, burning away the lingering haze of morning. Arthur adjusted his hat, casting a shadow over his face, and kicked Atlas into a steady trot.

Jo woke slowly, her head throbbing in time with the dull ache in her leg. The harsh afternoon sun beat down on her skin, making her feel like she was burning from the inside out. She squinted against the bright light, blinking rapidly as she tried to make sense of her surroundings.

Where the hell was she?

She could make out the thick trees and tangled bushes around her, the dense forest almost suffocating her. One thing was certain, this was not Dewberry Creek. Her senses crawled back sluggishly, like a drunk fumbling for balance. She tried to sit up, only to realize her wrists were bound high above her head, tied to a wooden post behind her back. The post pressed uncomfortably against her shoulders as she knelt on the hard ground, her legs folded beneath her. Her ankles were bound tightly to the post as well, the coarse rope digging into her skin. The position forced her to stay upright, her knees aching from the unyielding dirt beneath them.

The post itself was in the heart of the O’Driscolls’ camp, hidden among the shadows of the forest, but she could hear the crackling of a nearby fire. The heat from the flames stung against her skin, mixing with the intensity of the sun. The rough rope bit into her skin, each movement sending fresh jolts of pain up her arms. Her legs were stretched out in front of her, the left one still throbbing from Daisy’s fall.

Memory returned in sharp, unwelcome flashes: Daisy’s dying scream, the weight of her horse pinning her, Sadie’s frantic face, and then—the O’Driscolls.

Her stomach turned, but she bit down the panic. They’d knocked her out, clearly. She didn’t know how long she’d been unconscious—hours, maybe, judging by the angle of the sun. Not days, she hoped.

Jo took a moment to look around, trying to get her bearings, but the pain in her head made it hard to focus. Through the haze, she counted at least twenty O’Driscolls scattered around the camp. Some were sitting by the fire, sharpening knives or passing bottles between them. Others were walking in and out of makeshift tents, or lounging near the edges of the clearing. It looked like they were scattered across the camp, but there could be more hidden in the trees, waiting.

She grimaced, wishing she had the chance to make a break for it. Her eyes scanned further, catching glimpses of her belongings strewn about. Her guns were propped carelessly against a nearby tree, their holsters dangling loosely. Her belt, the one with her knife and other tools, was tossed onto the ground next to a couple of O'Driscolls who were arguing. Even her saddlebags—where she had stashed some cash, a few personal items, and extra ammunition—were visible, sitting casually beside a campfire, as if they hadn’t a care in the world.

Her gaze shifted again, noting their sloppy, disorganized nature—guns lying too close to the campfire, scattered bags of stolen goods, a few men gambling nearby. 

She tested her restraints again, twisting her wrists despite the burn. The ropes didn’t budge, the fibers scratching her skin raw. She let out a frustrated grunt, tugging harder until her breath came short from the exertion.

“Well, look who’s awake,” a gruff voice drawled.

Jo snapped her head toward the sound, grimacing as pain flared in her skull. Two O’Driscolls emerged from the shadows of the camp, their expressions a mixture of smug satisfaction and barely contained malice.

“Well, well,” the broader one sneered, crossing his arms. “Dutch’s little golden girl, all trussed up like a prize hog.”

“Not lookin’ so tough now, huh?” the other added, a wiry man with a cruel smile.

Jo’s lip curled. “Yeah? Tough enough to bite yer damn tongue off if you get any closer.”

The wiry man laughed, a sharp, grating sound. “Feisty. I like that.”

“Fuck off,” Jo snapped, baring her teeth.

The broader one stepped forward, grabbing a fistful of her hair and yanking her head back. Jo hissed through gritted teeth, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a scream.

“Keep talkin’, sweetheart,” he growled, his breath reeking of stale tobacco. “See where it gets ya.”

“Probably somewhere better than where you’re goin’ when this all turns around,” Jo spat, glaring up at him. “What, you think Dutch ain’t gonna come for me? You think Arthur won’t?”

The mention of Arthur’s name sparked a flicker of something in the man’s eyes—recognition, maybe annoyance.

“Arthur Morgan,” the wiry one mused. “Bet he’s cryin’ over his precious little girl right now.”

Jo smirked, despite the pounding in her head. “You’re scared of him, ain’t ya? You should.”

The broad man slapped her, hard, sending her head snapping to the side. Stars exploded in her vision, but she clenched her jaw and forced herself to look back at him, defiance burning in her eyes.

“You shut that mouth,” he snarled.

“You’re gonna need to do better than that if you want me to,” she shot back, her voice sharp despite the sting on her cheek.

The wiry man let out a low whistle. “This one’s got a death wish.”

“Nah,” the broad one replied with a smirk. “She’s just stallin’. Hopin’ Dutch or Morgan’ll come gallopin’ in to save her.”

Jo didn’t respond, but the flicker of doubt in her chest must have shown in her eyes.

“Colm’ll be here tomorrow,” the wiry one added, his grin widening. “Bet he’ll love hearin’ what we caught. Dutch’s girl. And Morgan’s little plaything, no less.”

Jo’s blood ran cold, but she forced a mocking smile. “Better hope he’s in a good mood then. Not sure I’d wanna be you if he ain’t.”

Her captors exchanged a look, their smirks faltering for a fraction of a second before hardening again.

“Enjoy your last few hours, sweetheart,” the broad one said, his voice dripping with menace. “Colm’s gonna make sure they’re memorable.” He sneered, shaking his head. “I don’t wanna hear no more from her. Shut her up.”

Without hesitation, the wiry man stepped forward, grabbed her chin, and tried to yank her face toward him. But Jo moved just in time, sinking her teeth into his hand, biting down hard.

He let out a noise of pain, falling back and clutching his hand to his chest, his face contorted with rage. “You little—”

Before she could do anything else, the broad one backhanded her across the face. Her head jerked to the side, the force of the blow making her see stars. The pain from that strike melded with the others, everything becoming a blur of pain and anger.

The wiry man hissed, but before Jo could recover, he stepped up again, now holding a cloth in his hands. He shoved it against her mouth, tying it tightly behind her head, so securely that she couldn’t move her jaw to get a word out. The cloth was dirty, rough against her skin, and it muffled the sound of her furious grunts as she glared at them.

“Quiet now, sweetheart,” the broad one sneered. “Wouldn’t want you to get yourself in more trouble.”

Jo clenched her jaw, her fists still trembling with anger as the men turned and walked away. Her body ached, her wrists raw from the ropes and the fabric pressing into her mouth.

For the first time since waking up, she felt fear creep in, cold and unrelenting. But she swallowed it down, lifting her head to glare after them.

She wasn’t done fighting. Not yet.

Chapter Text

Arthur arrived back at camp, his horse's hooves kicking up dust as he dismounted and tethered the reins to a post. The sun hung high in the sky, beating down relentlessly, the heat of the afternoon settling like a heavy blanket over the camp. Sweat clung to his skin, and even the breeze, when it came, carried a warm, dry edge. The familiar sight of the tents and campfire should have been a relief, a signal that he could finally rest, but something wasn’t right.

Even before he could glance around properly, the sound of raised voices near Dutch’s tent caught his attention. A crowd had gathered, and Sadie’s unmistakable, furious tone rose above the rest.

Arthur furrowed his brow. This wasn’t the usual camp squabble.

He adjusted his hat and grabbed the small pouch of bounty money from his saddlebag. His original plan had been to hand it over to the camp funds and spend the rest of the day avoiding Dutch’s sermons and Pearson’s gripes, but the tension in the air tugged him toward the commotion.

As he approached, the words became clearer, and they stopped him dead in his tracks.

“It’s the damn O’Driscolls! She told me it was dangerous—damn it, she warned me! But I didn’t listen…” Sadie’s voice cracked, a rare break in her usual composure.

Arthur froze, his grip tightening on the bag in his hand. His stomach twisted before he quickened his pace toward Dutch’s tent.

Sadie was pacing back and forth, her face flushed with anger and fear, while the others stood around her—Hosea, Charles, even John, all looking grim.

“Sadie,” Arthur said sharply, his voice cutting through the din. “What’s goin’ on?”

Sadie spun on her heel, her eyes wide and wild. “It’s Jo! She’s gone!”

Arthur’s heart stopped. “Gone? What do you mean, ‘gone’?”

“They took her, Arthur!” Sadie snapped, her hands clenched into fists. “Those bastards ambushed us—O’Driscolls! We were ridin’ to Dewberry Creek, and they just... they blocked the damn path. We tried to run, but they shot her horse, and—”

Arthur felt like the ground had shifted beneath him. “Daisy’s dead?” he asked numbly.

Sadie nodded, her voice cracking again. “Yeah. Jo was pinned under her. I—I wanted to help her, but she told me to go! Said I had to warn the rest of you!”

Arthur’s jaw tightened as a wave of emotions crashed over him. Jo. Taken by the O’Driscolls. Alone with those animals.

His mind raced with images—her defiance, her sharp wit, her stubborn streak. She could hold her own in a fight, no doubt, but against the likes of them?

He swallowed hard, shoving aside the image of her lying helpless and surrounded.

“Where?” he demanded, his voice low and dangerous.

“I don’t know,” Sadie admitted, her voice trembling. “I barely got outta there myself. They didn’t follow me—they just... they wanted her.”

Arthur’s chest tightened, a feeling he didn’t fully understand taking hold of him. It wasn’t just anger. It wasn’t just worry. It was something deeper, something that cut through his usual stoicism like a knife.

Jo.

The thought of her—fierce, unyielding Jo—at the mercy of the O’Driscolls made his blood run cold. She wasn’t just some member of the gang. She wasn’t just someone he rode alongside on jobs.

She was Jo.

He thought of the night before, of the moment they’d shared that he hadn’t been able to stop replaying in his head all day. He’d been so caught up in his own confusion, so unsure of what it meant or how to feel about it. But now, faced with the reality of losing her, it all seemed so damn clear.

He couldn’t lose her. Not her .

“I’m goin’ after her,” Arthur said, his voice firm.

“I’m comin’ with you,” Sadie declared immediately, stepping closer. Her voice wavered, but her resolve was clear. “I shouldn’t have left her. I know she told me to, but damn it, I can’t just sit here.”

Arthur hesitated, glancing at her. Sadie was clearly shaken, the guilt written all over her face. “Alright,” he muttered. “You can lead us to where it happened. That’s somethin’, at least.”

Before Sadie could respond, Dutch’s booming voice rang out from behind them.

“This is exactly what they want!” he said, striding toward them with his arms outstretched, his presence commanding as ever. “They’ve got her, Arthur. They know she’s with us. This ain’t about her. This is about us. About me. Colm’s got her sittin’ there, danglin’ like bait on a hook, just waitin’ for us to come runnin’.”

Arthur’s fists clenched. “So what? We just leave her with those bastards?” he snapped, his voice low and dangerous.

“Arthur—”

“No, Dutch.” Arthur stepped closer, his glare locking with Dutch’s. “She’s one of us. I’m not leavin’ her there to die just because Colm wants to play his damn games.”

Dutch’s jaw tightened, but before he could fire back, Hosea stepped in, his voice calm and measured.

“Dutch, he’s right,” Hosea said, his sharp gaze flicking between the two men. “But you’re also right. Colm’s expectin’ us to come stormin’ in. That’s why you can’t go. If you walk into this, you’ll be playin’ right into his hands, and Jo will pay the price for it.”

Dutch scowled, visibly wrestling with his pride and the truth in Hosea’s words.

“I’ll go,” Charles said, stepping forward. His quiet confidence was unshakable, as always. “If they’re nearby, I’ll find the trail. We’ll bring her back.”

Before Arthur could respond, another voice cut in.

“I’ll go too,” John said, stepping up. His face was set with determination, his eyes burning with the same protective fire Arthur had seen so many times before. “She’s family. You need another gun.”

Dutch turned to him sharply, his expression softening just enough to make his next words sting. “No, John. You stay here.”

“What?” John protested, his voice rising. “You’re just gonna send them off without—”

“We need to keep the camp safe,” Dutch interrupted, his tone firm but laced with a faint undertone of persuasion. “If Colm’s got her, he’s probably got more men out there. You think they won’t come sniffin’ around here while we’re distracted? You stay. We Guard the camp. That’s an order.”

John’s jaw tightened, his fists clenching at his sides. “Dutch, she’s—”

“She’s family to all of us,” Dutch cut in smoothly, placing a hand on John’s shoulder. “But we need you here. If Colm comes for the rest of us, we’ll need every gun ready.”

John’s shoulders slumped slightly, the conflict clear in his expression. Finally, with a reluctant nod, he stepped back. “Fine,” he muttered, though the word sounded more like a growl.

Arthur glanced at John, seeing the guilt and frustration in his eyes. “We’ll bring her back,” Arthur said firmly, as much a promise to John as it was to himself.

Dutch let out a frustrated sigh, running a hand through his hair. “Get her and get back. I won’t lose more people to Colm O’Driscoll and his damn vendetta.”

Arthur almost smirked at the irony, but his focus was elsewhere. He turned back to Sadie. “Get your horse. We’re leavin’ now.”

As Sadie hurried off, Dutch muttered bitterly, “Colm just keeps pushin’. He’ll get what’s comin’ to him soon enough.”

Arthur ignored the comment, his jaw set as he mounted his horse. Charles joined him, his expression grim but steady.

“You ready for this?” Arthur asked Charles.

“Always,” Charles replied.

Moments later, Sadie returned, already atop Bob. Her face was hardened with determination, though Arthur could still see the guilt lingering in her eyes.

“We’ll find her,” she said, almost as if reassuring herself.

Arthur nodded, gripping the reins tightly. “Let’s ride.”

As they set out, the tension in camp hung heavy behind them. Dutch stood near the campfire, his gaze distant, while John watched them leave, his hands clenched into fists.

They had to get her back. Whatever it took.

The heat was suffocating, pressing down on Jo like a weight she couldn’t shrug off. Her throat was raw, every shallow breath scraping like sandpaper, and her lips were split and dry, bleeding faintly from the relentless assault of the sun. The ropes around her wrists felt like firebrands, cutting deeper into her skin with every small, involuntary twitch. Her shoulders burned from being pulled back against the wooden post, the unnatural angle knotting her muscles and sending sharp jolts of pain through her arms.

Her knees throbbed from the unyielding ground beneath them, the dirt rough and unrelenting against her skin. The ropes around her ankles dug deeper with each slight shift, binding her firmly to the post and leaving her legs cramped and useless.

The gag made it all worse. The filthy cloth soaked up what little moisture she might have had left, leaving her mouth parched and her tongue feeling like a dry lump of lead. She tried to swallow, but her throat closed on the effort, the act more painful than it was worth.

Sweat dripped down her temple, stinging her eyes as she forced her eyes open against the blazing sun overhead. Time had blurred into an agonizing haze, each moment dragging endlessly into the next. Hours had passed—she knew that much. Days? She couldn’t be sure anymore.

The faint sound of boots crunching against the dirt caught her attention. Her heart thudded, not in fear, but in a weary, simmering defiance. One of the O’Driscolls strolled into view, his grin as filthy as his face. His sweat-streaked shirt clung to his chest, and the stench of unwashed skin wafted toward her, sour and vile. 

“Well, ain’t you a sight,” he said, crouching down just out of reach. His tone dripped with mockery, every word meant to dig under her skin. Tearing off a piece of jerky with his teeth, he chewed obnoxiously loud, the wet sound making her stomach churn.

Jo stared at him, her chest heaving with slow, labored breaths. Her glare was sharp, her eyes burning with hatred even as her body trembled from exhaustion.

“Bet you’re thirsty,” he said, smirking as he pulled a dented canteen from his belt. He shook it, the sound of water sloshing inside teasing her cruelly.

Her throat tightened reflexively, a pang of desperation shooting through her. She hated the instinctive reaction, but her body betrayed her.

“Want some?” he asked, dangling the canteen just out of reach. His grin widened when her glare intensified.

Her defiance only amused him. Laughing, he unscrewed the cap with a deliberate slowness, savoring her helplessness. “Here you go.”

But instead of offering her the water, he tipped the canteen downward, spilling its contents onto the parched earth at her feet. The liquid soaked into the dirt instantly, leaving only a dark stain behind.

Jo’s stomach clenched with rage and a bitter, gnawing desperation.

“Oops,” he said, mock innocence dripping from his voice. “Guess I’m clumsy.”

Her raw wrists jerked instinctively against the ropes, her muscles straining against the bonds as a muffled grunt escaped her gag. Tears of frustration pricked at her eyes, but she forced them down, turning the pain into smoldering anger.

He loomed closer, his grin as sharp as a blade. “Colm’ll be here soon,” he said, his voice low and menacing. “Bet he’s gonna have all kinds o’ fun with you.”

Jo didn’t flinch. She locked her gaze with his, her expression unyielding, though every word he spoke made her stomach churn.

He snorted at her silence, taking another bite of jerky before straightening and walking off, his laughter echoing in the still, sweltering air.

Jo’s body sagged against the post, her head pounding in time with the relentless sun above. Her skin burned, her wrists throbbed, and her dry, aching throat begged for relief. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block it all out, but it was no use.

Her thoughts drifted back to camp, to the faces she knew so well. Would they come for her?

She wasn’t sure if she had the strength to hope, but the stubborn fire in her chest refused to go out. If nothing else, she’d make sure the O’Driscolls didn’t forget her, no matter what it cost.

Arthur’s stomach churned as they rode, his grip on the reins tighter than usual. His mind was racing with possibilities—none of them good. Knowing Jo, she wouldn’t have gone quietly. She never did. That thought gave him a small flicker of hope but also terrified him. If she’d put up a fight, that might’ve only made things worse.

“She’s tough,” Sadie said, as if reading his thoughts. “Don’t you go thinkin’ otherwise.”

Arthur nodded, but the worry gnawed at him. “Tough don’t mean invincible,” he muttered.

Sadie led them through the trees, her eyes scanning the ground and surrounding area for familiar landmarks. Charles rode beside them, his expression calm but focused.

“This is where it started,” Sadie said, slowing Bob to a halt. She pointed toward a clearing. “Just there. That’s where they came at us.”

Arthur’s gaze followed her gesture, and his stomach twisted as they rode closer.

Daisy’s lifeless body lay on the ground, surrounded by a few scavenger birds. The poor mare was already starting to look worse for wear, her coat dull and her once-bright eyes glazed over.

Arthur dismounted first, shooing the birds away with a sharp wave of his hand. The sight of Daisy, still saddled, made his chest ache.

“Poor thing,” Sadie murmured, dismounting and kneeling beside the horse.

“She loved that horse,” Charles added, his voice low and somber as he dismounted as well.

Arthur crouched beside Daisy, his hand brushing over her lifeless flank. “Dammit,” he muttered under his breath. Charles stood a moment later, scanning the ground with sharp eyes. “Tracks are still fresh,” he said, stepping forward and crouching low to inspect the dirt.

Arthur straightened, his heart pounding. “What do ya see?”

Charles pointed to a set of hoofprints and boot marks. “They went west. Looks like… six, maybe seven of ’em. She was still alive when they left. Dragged her.”

Charles continued following the tracks, his sharp eyes scanning every detail on the ground. The sun was creeping higher, and the air felt heavier with each passing hour.

“They’re fresh but not too fresh,” Charles said after a moment, gesturing toward the hoofprints and marks of dragged boots. “Few hours ahead of us, maybe. Bet they ain’t moving anymore.”

Arthur frowned. “What makes you say that?”

Charles pointed to the tracks again. “The way they fan out here. They stopped riding together—spread out like they’re covering ground. And look at this.” He crouched, pointing at an indentation in the dirt. “More prints, all clustered. They must have a hideout nearby.”

Sadie exhaled sharply, her hand twitching toward her revolver. “Damn O’Driscolls. They’ve been crawlin’ all over the place lately. If they’re settin’ up shop somewhere, we’ve gotta root ’em out. And fast.”

Arthur nodded, his jaw tightening. “Jo’s in there. We’ll get her back, but we ain’t doin’ nothin’ stupid. If we go in guns blazin’, they’ll use her as a shield—or worse.”

Charles stood, brushing dirt off his hands. “We’ll need to be smart about this. If it’s a camp, there’ll be guards. And who knows how many are inside?”

Arthur adjusted his hat, his eyes narrowing. “We’ll figure it out when we get there. Just point the way, and we’ll find a way in without puttin’ her at risk.”

Charles gave him a look of approval but said nothing, mounting Taima. Sadie followed suit, her face set in grim determination.

Arthur mounted up as well, gripping the reins tightly.

The sun had dipped lower in the sky, its blazing heat fading as shadows stretched longer over the landscape. The coolness of the evening began to creep in, a stark contrast to the oppressive heat they had endured all day. Arthur, Charles, and Sadie rode in silence, the only sounds being the rhythmic thuds of hooves on dirt and the occasional rustle of leaves in the breeze.

“Getting close now,” Charles murmured as the tracks tightened, merging into a single trail that wound toward a patch of dense trees.

It wasn’t long before the faint mingling of voices reached their ears, carried on the wind. Arthur raised a hand, signaling the others to stop.

“Dismount here,” Charles said quietly, already slipping off Taima. They tethered their mounts to a tree in the shadows, careful not to make any noise.

Arthur adjusted his hat and followed Charles and Sadie toward a small hill overlooking the O’Driscolls’ camp. Crouching low, they crept up the slope until the camp came into view. 

Charles pulled out his binoculars and scanned the scene. After a moment, he passed them to Arthur, who snatched them quickly, his jaw tight. A few tents were scattered around a central fire, smoke curling lazily into the darkening sky. The O’Driscolls were gathered near the flames, some eating, some drinking, their laughter carrying in the stillness of the evening.

Arthur’s heart pounded as he looked through the binoculars, his only focus being Jo. He swept the scene frantically until his eyes landed on her. His breath hitched.

She was tied to a wooden post near the edge of the camp, her arms bound tightly above her head. She sat on her knees, forced upright by the way her ankles were tied to the post, one on each side. Her head hung low, her hair matted and disheveled, and though Arthur couldn’t see her face, the sag of her body told him enough.

“Damn it, Jo…” he muttered under his breath, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the binoculars.

Movement caught his eye. One of the O’Driscolls approached her, a cruel grin on his face as he crouched in front of her. He yanked the cloth from her mouth, tossing it aside before grabbing her jaw roughly and forcing her head up.

Arthur’s teeth clenched, and a growl rose in his throat.

“Arthur? Arthur—wait!” Charles whispered sharply, reaching for his arm. But it was too late.

Arthur was already moving, slipping silently down the hill, using the trees and shadows as cover. Sadie and Charles exchanged a quick look, then followed without hesitation, staying low and keeping their movements quiet.

In the camp, the O’Driscoll sneered at Jo, his grip tightening on her jaw.

“That’s for shooting one of my boys earlier,” he snarled before slapping her hard across the face. Jo’s head snapped to the side, her cheek stinging as blood pooled in her mouth.

Slowly, she turned back to him, a malicious smile curling her lips. “That all you got?” she rasped before spitting the blood at his face.

The man’s face twisted in fury, and he raised his hand to strike again.

But before he could, the swift whistle of a throwing blade cut through the air. The blade embedded itself in his skull with a sickening thud. His body crumpled lifelessly to the ground in front of Jo, his blood pooling at her knees.

Jo flinched, her breath hitching as she realized what was happening.

A split second later, all hell broke loose.

The O'Driscolls scrambled for their weapons, shouting in confusion as gunfire erupted from the trees. Arthur, Sadie, and Charles moved like predators, darting between the shadows and picking their shots with precision.

Arthur squeezed the trigger of his revolver, dropping the nearest O’Driscoll before he had a chance to shout a warning. Sadie, perched behind a tree for cover, let out a sharp yell as her rifle barked, the bullet catching another square in the chest and sending him crashing into the campfire. Sparks flew into the air as his body rolled, and the camp was thrown into chaos.

Charles shifted to higher ground, his bow in hand. He loosed an arrow with deadly precision, the shaft sinking into an O'Driscoll’s neck. The man clutched his throat, gurgling as he fell.

“They’re in the trees! Spread out!” one of the O’Driscolls bellowed, waving his hand toward the wooded area.

Arthur ducked as a bullet whizzed past his head, striking the tree behind him. He fired back, hitting his attacker in the shoulder before finishing him off with a second shot to the head.

“Keep the pressure on ‘em!” Sadie hollered, reloading her rifle with quick, practiced movements. She took aim at a man trying to flank their position and pulled the trigger, the shot ringing out loud in the fading light.

The O’Driscolls weren’t going down easy. Some of them had regrouped, moving with the kind of discipline that came from years of fighting dirty. Two of them charged straight for Charles’s position, revolvers blazing.

Charles dropped one with a perfectly aimed arrow to the gut, but the second was too close. The man tackled him, sending them both rolling down the slope.

Arthur caught sight of the scuffle and turned, firing at the O’Driscoll wrestling with Charles. The man’s head snapped back as the bullet found its mark, and Charles scrambled to his feet, breathing hard.

“Thanks,” Charles grunted, wiping dirt from his hands as he grabbed his dropped bow.

“Don’t mention it,” Arthur replied, already turning back to the fight.

A shout from Sadie drew Arthur’s attention. Two more O’Driscolls had broken through their line, charging toward her position with knives in hand. Sadie fired her rifle, but she missed the first shot, and they were closing fast.

“Sadie, behind ya!” Arthur barked, raising his revolver.

Sadie spun, but before she could react, the first man lunged at her. She ducked under his swing and slammed the butt of her rifle into his gut, sending him stumbling back. The second man was on her heels, but Arthur’s shot took him in the leg, dropping him to the ground. Sadie finished him off with a sharp kick to the head before shooting the first man in the chest.

“You alright?” Arthur called out, wiping sweat from his brow.

“Fine,” she snapped, reloading her rifle. “Keep shootin’, Morgan!”

The O'Driscolls were regrouping, firing wildly toward the trees as they yelled curses and threats. Arthur pressed forward, ducking and weaving between cover as bullets kicked up dirt around him.

Charles, now with his repeater, picked off another man trying to flee toward the horses. “They’re gettin’ desperate,” he called out.

Arthur didn’t reply, his focus razor-sharp as he spotted one O’Driscoll crouching behind a barrel, taking aim at Sadie. Arthur’s shot shattered the barrel, and the man fell back, clutching his bleeding side.

“Push ‘em!” Arthur growled, advancing further into the camp. The numbers were thinning now, but the fight was still far from over.

Suddenly, one of the O’Driscolls charged at him from the side, a knife glinting in the fading light. Arthur turned just in time, catching the man’s arm before the blade could find his chest. They struggled, the O’Driscoll snarling as he pushed harder.

“Come on, you bastard,” Arthur growled through gritted teeth before delivering a solid punch to the man’s jaw. The O’Driscoll staggered back, and Arthur shot him point-blank, sending him crumpling to the ground.

The fight raged on, gunfire echoing through the trees as the trio picked off the remaining O’Driscolls one by one. By the time the last shot rang out, the camp was eerily silent, save for the crackling fire and the labored breathing of Arthur, Sadie, and Charles.

Arthur stood amidst the chaos, his revolver still smoking. His eyes swept the camp, finally landing on Jo’s bound and battered form. His boots crunched against the dirt as he strode toward her. She was still slumped against the wooden post, her blouse torn and stained, revealing the bruises and cuts marking her skin. Arthur’s jaw clenched at the sight of her motionless form.

“Charles, check the bodies. Sadie, get the horses,” Arthur ordered gruffly, not even turning to see if they complied. His focus was entirely on Jo.

Crouching beside her, he pulled his knife and quickly began cutting through the ropes binding her. The coarse fibers had dug deep into her skin, leaving raw, angry marks. As soon as the ropes snapped free, her arms fell limply to her sides, and her body pitched forward.

“Whoa, easy there,” Arthur murmured, catching her just before she hit the ground. Her weight was light in his strong arms, and her skin felt cold to the touch. She was shivering, her lips pale and dry, and her breaths shallow.

Arthur shrugged off his jacket without hesitation, draping it over her trembling shoulders. It engulfed her, but it was warm. Jo stirred faintly, her head lolling weakly against him.

“Jo? Hey, you with me?” he asked, his voice low but insistent.

Her eyelids fluttered open, and she blinked up at him, her gaze glassy and unfocused. “Arthur…” she croaked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“You’re a damn fool,” he said, his tone rough but his grip gentle as he pulled her closer. “You and Sadie both, runnin’ off like that. What were you thinkin’?”

Jo tried to answer, but her throat was too dry. Her lips moved, but no sound came out.

Arthur sighed heavily, his expression softening as he took in her condition. “Trouble,” he muttered, using the nickname he always reserved for her. “You never do make things easy, do you?”

Jo’s lips twitched, almost forming a faint smile, but the effort seemed too much.

Arthur shifted his weight, glancing down at her legs. They were scraped and bruised, one noticeably swollen. He guessed it was from being pinned under her horse.

“Can you walk?” he asked, his voice softer now.

Jo hummed and tried to move, but as soon as she shifted, a sharp gasp escaped her lips. Her legs wobbled uselessly, and she slumped back against him.

“Didn’t think so,” Arthur muttered under his breath.

Without another word, he scooped her up into his arms, lifting her bridal style. She was light as a feather, and the way her head rested against his chest stirred something deep in his chest—something he didn’t have time to unpack right now. But it also felt like she belonged there, in his arms, as if she had been made for this.

Jo shivered again, curling instinctively into the warmth of his jacket as he carried her back toward the horses. Sadie was already there, leading Atlas and the other mounts toward the camp’s edge.

“Got the horses,” Sadie said quickly, her voice tinged with guilt. Her eyes darted to Jo, and her expression softened. “She alright?”

“She’ll be fine,” Arthur replied shortly, though his tone was clipped more from worry than anger.

Charles appeared, carrying a few weapons, a sack he’d looted from the O’Driscolls and Jo’s belongings that he found around. “Tracks’re clear for now,” he said. “We need to move before more show up.”

Arthur nodded, carefully maneuvering Jo toward Atlas. He set her sideways in front of the saddle, her legs dangling over one side. She clung weakly to his jacket draped around her, her fingers curling into the fabric.

“You just hang on,” Arthur said quietly, his tone gentler now. He climbed into the saddle behind her, wrapping one arm securely around her waist to keep her steady.

Sadie and Charles mounted their horses, and the group rode off into the night. The air was cooler now, the oppressive heat of the day replaced by a biting chill. Jo burrowed into Arthur’s jacket, her face half-hidden against his chest.

The steady rhythm of Atlas’s hooves against the dirt filled the silence as they rode through the darkened landscape. Arthur kept one arm firmly around Jo’s waist, his eyes scanning their surroundings for any signs of movement. The tension in his shoulders hadn’t eased since they’d left the O’Driscoll camp, his mind still reeling from the events of the evening.

Jo, nestled against his chest, stirred weakly. Her body ached, her wrists throbbed, and her head felt like it was stuffed with cotton. But despite the pain, she was painfully aware of Arthur’s arm around her and the way his jacket smelled faintly of leather, tobacco, and something distinctly him.

Summoning what little strength she had, Jo tilted her head upward. Her eyes took in his profile, illuminated faintly by the moonlight filtering through the trees. His face was set in a grim mask, lips pressed into a thin line, and his brows furrowed in a way that deepened the lines on his forehead. It wasn’t anger—it was something heavier, something raw.

For the first time, Jo saw it: Arthur had been worried. Not just worried—shaken.

Her throat tightened, though she wasn’t sure if it was from the dryness or the weight of the realization. His eyes darted down to her briefly before returning to the path ahead. She wanted to ask him why he looked at her like that—like she’d almost slipped away from him—but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, she let her head rest against his chest once more, her heart pounding faintly in her ears.

Arthur’s grip around her waist tightened ever so slightly, as if to remind himself that she was still there, still breathing.

Chapter Text

Jo stirred awake, her body sinking into the thin mattress beneath her. For a moment, she remained still, blinking sluggishly as her eyes adjusted to the daylight seeping through the canvas. Her muscles felt heavy, and the dull, persistent ache in her leg flared as she shifted slightly.

She groaned softly, bringing a hand to her forehead. The warmth of the midday sun filtered through the tent, heavy and almost stifling, leaving no doubt that it was much later than her usual waking hour. But after yesterday’s ordeal, indulging in a few extra hours of rest hardly felt like a luxury—it was a necessity.

The events of the day before began to creep into her mind—vivid flashes of the O’Driscolls’ sneers, the suffocating heat of the forest, and the sharp pain of Daisy’s weight pinning her to the ground.

She closed her eyes tightly, willing herself to remember more. The next thing she could recall was the feeling of being hoisted onto Atlas, Arthur’s voice a low murmur as he reassured her. The steady rhythm of the horse’s gait and the warmth of Arthur’s arm keeping her steady... and then, nothing. The rest was a blur. How she’d made it back to camp, how she ended up in her cot, who changed her—it was a mystery.

Jo sat up slowly, wincing as a sharp jolt of pain shot through her leg. She glanced down at the dark, angry bruise that sprawled across her thigh, its deep blue and purple tones stark against her skin. It was a brutal reminder of what had transpired, and she didn’t need to look further to feel the soreness that radiated through her entire body, but she was lucky nothing was broken to begin with. 

With a resolute breath, she swung her legs over the side of the cot, bracing herself as her feet touched the ground. The sharp twinge in her leg made her suck in a breath, but she forced herself upright, determined not to let it keep her down.

As she shuffled toward her small collection of clothes, she wondered again how she’d made it back to her tent. Had Arthur carried her? Or maybe Charles? She shook her head, dismissing the thoughts. It didn’t really matter now—she was alive, and that was enough.

Dressing proved to be a challenge, every movement tugging at sore muscles and raw skin, but she managed to tug on a simple blouse and trousers. By the time she had her boots on, a faint sheen of sweat had formed on her brow.

Stepping out of the tent, Jo squinted against the midday sun. The heat was oppressive, the air thick and still, carrying the faint scent of coffee and campfire smoke. Her eyes scanned the camp, taking in the familiar sights: Tilly and Mary-Beth chatting near the fire, Uncle snoring away on a crate, and Charles sharpening his knife nearby.

She leaned lightly against the wooden post near her tent, brushing her hands against her trousers as she steadied herself. The day stretched before her, long and sweltering. Today, she decided, would be a slow day. A quiet day.

She deserved it.

Charles glanced up from his spot by the fire, his knife pausing mid-sharpen as his sharp eyes caught sight of her. A faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips, his expression unreadable save for a slight tilt of his head.

"Look who’s up," he said evenly, his voice carrying a quiet warmth. "Was starting to think you’d sleep the whole day."

Jo chuckled lightly, though the effort made her wince. "Guess I needed it," she replied, her voice hoarse but steady. She pushed herself off the post and began to make her way toward him, her steps uneven, her limp pronounced. Each movement sent a dull ache through her leg, but she pressed on until she reached the empty chair across from him.

With a huff of exertion, Jo let her body fall into the chair, leaning back and exhaling heavily. The wooden frame creaked under her as she stretched her leg out slightly, trying to ease the strain on it.

"How’re you feeling?" Charles asked, resuming his work on the blade but keeping his gaze on her from time to time.

"Fine," she replied quickly, brushing the question off with a casual wave of her hand. "Just a little sore. Nothing I can’t handle."

Charles arched a skeptical brow. "The way you limp says otherwise."

Jo smirked faintly, shaking her head. "That’s the least of my worries, believe me."

Charles hummed, unconvinced but wise enough not to press further.

"Still," she added after a moment, her tone softening, "thank you. For yesterday. If it weren’t for you, Arthur, and Sadie…" She trailed off, the weight of her gratitude hanging in the air.

Charles paused, his knife still in his hand, and gave her a small, reassuring smile. "You don’t need to thank me, Jo. We weren’t about to leave you with them."

"I know," she replied, her voice quieter now. She glanced down at her hands, idly picking at the fabric of her trousers. "But still. You came for me. That means something."

"That’s right," he said firmly. Then, with a faint grin, he added, "So don’t go getting yourself into trouble again, alright? You’ve given Arthur enough to stress over."

Jo snorted at that, the sound breaking into a laugh that surprised even her. "Trouble’s my middle name, didn’t you know?"

Charles shook his head, chuckling softly. "You and him both."

Had Arthur been that worried? Jo’s thoughts lingered on the way his face had hardened last night, the way his arms had held her steady on the ride back. It was a rare side of him—one she wasn’t entirely sure how to process. She stared at the fire, her mind trailing off into the possibilities of what his worry might mean when another voice pulled her back to reality.

"Jo," Sadie called out, her tone gentler than usual.

Jo lifted her head to see Sadie approaching, her usual swagger slightly muted. Sadie didn’t sit, opting instead to stand a few feet away, her hands resting on her hips as she took in Jo’s disheveled but recovering state.

"How ya feelin’?" Sadie asked, her sharp eyes scanning Jo’s face and the faint discoloration on her cheek.

Jo sat up straighter, ignoring the twinge in her leg. "I’ve been worse," she replied with a faint smirk. "Still standin’, more or less."

Sadie let out a soft snort but didn’t smile, her expression shifting to something more serious. After a beat of hesitation, she spoke again. "I never really thanked ya for tryin’ to help me yesterday. And I’m sorry that you got hurt. That wasn’t supposed to happen."

The sincerity in her voice wasn’t something Jo often heard from Sadie. She could tell this wasn’t easy for the woman, but the effort didn’t go unnoticed. Jo reached out, placing a hand on Sadie’s arm reassuringly, her touch grounding.

"I’d do it again if it meant helping you get justice for your husband," Jo said, her voice steady, her gaze locking with Sadie’s.

Sadie blinked, clearly caught off guard by the conviction in Jo’s words. Her lips parted slightly as if to respond, but for a moment, no words came. Jo watched as something flickered in Sadie’s sharp eyes—a mix of gratitude, vulnerability, and resolve.

Finally, Sadie nodded, her voice quiet but firm. "Thank you, Jo."

Jo offered her a small smile, her hand giving Sadie’s arm a gentle squeeze before pulling back. "Don’t mention it. I’m just glad you’re alright."

Sadie glanced away for a moment, as if gathering herself, before straightening and flashing Jo a faint but genuine smile. "You take it easy today, alright? Ain’t nobody gonna blame ya for sittin’ out a bit."

Jo chuckled softly. "I’ll think about it."

With one last look, Sadie turned and strode off toward the horses, leaving Jo with a lingering warmth in her chest. For all the chaos they’d been through, it was moments like this—small but meaningful—that made it all worthwhile.

Jo’s eyes lingered on the horses, her gaze settling on their tethered forms. Her heart clenched painfully when the realization struck again—she’d never see Daisy again. The thought hit her like a physical blow. She’d had that horse for years, through countless miles and memories. The freedom she felt when riding Daisy, galloping so fast it felt like flying, her blonde hair whipping in the wind as she laughed without care—it was gone now.

She swallowed hard, her throat tightening as tears threatened to rise. Jo quickly averted her gaze, sucking in a large breath to steel herself. 

Pushing the ache in her chest aside, Jo stood, her leg protesting with a sharp throb as she rose to her feet. She clenched her jaw against the pain, steadying herself before glancing around camp. She needed to find Arthur. It was only fair to thank him, too.

Her eyes scanned the camp, but he was nowhere in sight. Still, he had to be here; Atlas was tethered with the other horses. That meant Arthur hadn’t gone far.

Turning her head toward Charles, who was finishing his work sharpening his knife, she called out, "You know where Arthur is?"

Charles glanced up from his blade, his expression as calm and measured as ever. He nodded toward Dutch’s tent. "Last time I saw him, he was near Dutch’s tent."

"Thanks," Jo replied, offering a faint smile of gratitude before straightening up. Her leg screamed in protest, but she ignored it, focusing on her next steps.

Jo began her slow trek toward Dutch’s tent, limping slightly but determined to get there. 

As she approached Dutch’s tent, the open flap revealed it was empty. Her brows furrowed in confusion, but the faint murmur of voices carried from behind it, drawing her attention. She moved around the side of the tent, her steps uneven, until her eyes landed on the trio near the shoreline. Dutch, Hosea, and Arthur stood in a loose circle, their conversation seemingly serious.

She continued toward them as best she could, gritting her teeth against the ache in her leg. Her approach didn’t go unnoticed; one by one, they turned toward her.

Hosea’s face softened with something akin to pity as his eyes dropped briefly to her limp, his expression gentle and understanding. Arthur, on the other hand, looked visibly relieved to see her up and about, though the faint furrow in his brow betrayed his lingering worry. Dutch’s expression, however, remained as enigmatic as ever. If she had to guess, he still hadn’t fully digested what the O’Driscolls had done—not just taking her but the sheer boldness of the act.

“Gentlemen,” she greeted, her voice steady despite the discomfort that radiated from her every step. She refused to let it show on her face.

Arthur shifted slightly, his gaze lingering on her for a moment longer than the others, as if assessing how well she was holding up. Hosea offered a kind smile in return, his hands clasping behind his back.

“Jo,” Dutch said, his tone unreadable as he inclined his head toward her. “You should be resting.”

“I’ll rest when I’ll be dead,” she replied lightly, though the effort it had taken to cross the camp still weighed on her. “Figured I’d thank Arthur properly while I had the chance.”

Arthur tilted his head slightly at her words, his lips parting as if to speak, but Dutch interjected. “What happened yesterday…” His voice trailed off as he glanced toward the horizon. “It’s a reminder. Of what we’re up against.”

Jo didn’t miss the flicker of something dark in Dutch’s eyes before he turned his attention back to her. She stood a little straighter, determined not to seem fragile despite the soreness in her body.

“Those damn O’Driscolls, always looking for ways to sink lower. Kidnapping one of ours? Torturing her? This isn’t just another skirmish—this is a declaration,” Dutch began, his voice heavy with indignation as his hands gestured animatedly.

Jo’s jaw tightened at his words, but she kept quiet. She didn’t need to hear this—she’d lived it.

“Dutch,” Hosea interrupted gently but firmly, his calm voice cutting through Dutch’s tirade. “Ranting won’t fix anything. What’s done is done.”

Dutch shot Hosea a look, his mouth opening as if to argue, but Hosea’s steady gaze didn’t waver. After a beat, Dutch sighed, letting his hands fall to his sides. He straightened his jacket, “But mark my words, this isn’t over.” He shot a glance at Jo, his expression a mix of unreadable emotions, before turning toward camp.

Hosea, however, lingered. With a subtle motion, he signaled Dutch to go on without him. Dutch hesitated, his eyes flicking briefly to Arthur and Jo, then nodded and walked off, leaving the two of them with Hosea.

Before Hosea followed, he stepped closer to Jo. His hand settled lightly on her shoulder, the warmth of his touch drawing her attention. She turned to face him, “I’m glad you’re alright,” he said softly, his voice carrying the weight of genuine care.

Jo’s throat tightened, and for a moment, she didn’t know what to say. Instead, she managed a small nod, offering him a faint but appreciative smile.

Hosea patted her shoulder once more before stepping back, giving Arthur a knowing look before he departed, leaving them alone by the shoreline.

The silence stretched between them as they stood by the shoreline, the gentle lapping of the water against the rocks filling the space. Neither spoke at first, as if waiting for the other to break the quiet.

When they finally did, it was in unison.

“Thank you for—”
“How you feelin’?”

Both stopped, their words colliding mid-sentence, and their eyes met. Jo’s lips quirked up in a faint smile, while Arthur let out a soft chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck.

Jo spoke first, her voice soft but steady. “‘M okay. Thank you for coming for me.”

Arthur's jaw tightened, and for a moment, he looked as though he wanted to say more, but he settled on the simplest truth. “I’ll always come for you, Jo.” His voice was rough, like the words clawed their way out. “Always.”

Her chest warmed at the raw sincerity in his tone, her gaze lingering on his face. Despite the stoic expression he tried to maintain, his eyes betrayed him, filled with concern and relief.

A question burned on Arthur’s lips, twisting inside him until it couldn’t be contained. He didn’t want to pry, didn’t want to make her relive it, but he also knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep until he asked. His hand shifted to the brim of his hat, tugging at it nervously as his eyes flicked to the ground.

“Did they—” His voice was cautious, barely more than a murmur.

“No, they didn’t.” Jo’s answer was firm, cutting through the tension like a knife.

Arthur exhaled a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding, his shoulders sagging with relief. His hand moved back to his side, curling into a loose fist as he glanced out at the water, unable to meet her eyes just yet. “I’m glad,” he said quietly, the words carrying the weight of a man who’d been tormented by every worst possibility.

The silence between them stretched for a moment, broken only by the soft lapping of water against the shoreline. Jo shifted uneasily, her fingers nervously fiddling with the frayed hem of her shirt. 

“’Bout the other night…” she began cautiously, her voice barely above a whisper.

Arthur’s gaze flicked to her, his brow furrowing slightly, but he didn’t interrupt.

Jo swallowed, her eyes fixed on the ground in front of her. “I wanted to say I’m sorry for askin’ such a thing out of you. I dunno what came over me…” Her voice wavered, and she still didn’t dare look at him, terrified of losing her resolve—or worse, losing herself in his eyes.

Arthur shifted his stance, the leather of his boots creaking softly as he crossed his arms. His voice, when it came, was low and measured. “You don’t gotta apologize for that, Jo.”

She shook her head, letting out a shaky breath. “I do. It wasn’t fair. I—I put you in a position you didn’t ask for. It was selfish of me.”

Arthur’s jaw worked for a moment, his thoughts churning. He unfolded his arms, letting one hand rest on his belt. “It ain’t selfish to wanna feel somethin’ good in a world like this,” he said finally, his tone softer now. “I ain’t mad about it, Jo. Just… surprised, I guess.”

Her head shot up at his words, her wide eyes meeting his for a brief second before she quickly looked away again, her cheeks warming. “Surprised?”

“Yeah.” He rubbed the back of his neck, his voice carrying a trace of vulnerability. “Didn’t think someone like you’d ever… y’know, look at me that way.”

Jo’s breath caught, her hands tightening on her shirt’s hem. “Arthur…” she started, but her words stuck in her throat.

Jo’s fingers stilled against her shirt as Arthur’s words hung in the air. She dared to glance at him again, her chest tightening when she noticed the genuine uncertainty in his eyes. It wasn’t like Arthur to let his guard down so easily, but here he stood, waiting for her response as though her opinion mattered more than she thought it did.

“You don’t see yourself the way others do,” she murmured, her voice steadying as she spoke.

Arthur’s brow furrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Jo hesitated, choosing her words carefully. “You carry this… weight. Like you think you’re only what this life made you, but you ain’t. You’re loyal, kind—even when you don’t wanna be.” She managed a faint smile, her eyes meeting his. “You care about people more than you’ll admit. And you’ve done more for me than I ever thought I deserved.”

Arthur looked away, his jaw tightening as if her words were something he didn’t know how to accept. He shifted his weight, staring at the rippling water, and when he spoke, his voice was quieter. “I’ve done things, Jo. Things I ain’t proud of. Reckon if you knew half of it, you wouldn’t…” He trailed off, unable to finish the thought.

Jo stepped closer, her hand hovering for a moment before she placed it lightly on his arm. “You think I haven’t done things too? Ain’t none of us are clean, Arthur. But that doesn’t mean we can’t… find something good in all this mess.”

Her words hit something deep within him, and he turned his gaze back to her. For a moment, they just stood there, the space between them charged with an unspoken understanding.

“Jo,” he started, his voice low and a little rough.

“Yes?”

Arthur hesitated again, as if weighing whether to say what he wanted. He opened his mouth, his expression conflicted.

“Arthur Morgan!”

Both of them turned to see Miss Grimshaw marching toward them, her hands on her hips, her expression as stern as ever.

Arthur sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly. “What now?”

“You’ve been loafing around long enough,” she barked. “There’s firewood that needs chopping, and I don’t see anyone else doin’ it.”

Jo pressed her lips together, trying to stifle a laugh as Arthur shot her a wry look.

“Guess duty calls,” he muttered, tipping his hat to Jo. “You take it easy, alright? No more wanderin’ off and gettin’ into trouble.”

“I make no promises,” she teased, her smile softening. “But thanks, Arthur.”

He gave her one last look before trudging off toward camp, his grumbling faintly audible as Grimshaw followed, her sharp tone scolding him all the way as if he was a teenage boy all over again. Jo watched him go, her chest feeling a little lighter despite the ache in her body. Whatever Arthur had been about to say would have to wait, but she couldn’t help the small smile that lingered on her lips.

Later in the afternoon, Jo decided to pull her own weight around camp. It was her way of shaking off the haze of yesterday, keeping herself busy so her mind wouldn’t wander where it didn’t need to go. She found herself sitting on a crate near Pearson’s wagon, a plate in front of her and a pile of corn to peel. Her hands worked methodically, the rhythmic motion of stripping the husks strangely soothing.

From where she sat, Jo had a clear view of Arthur on the outskirts of camp, chopping firewood. His strong, deliberate movements were mesmerizing, each swing precise, each log splitting cleanly. She didn’t even realize how long she’d been watching until a familiar voice broke her reverie.

“Hey, gal.”

Jo blinked, turning her head to see Abigail approaching with a soft smile. She carried Jack’s small knitted sweater, needle and thread in hand, and settled herself on another crate across from Jo.

“Feels like we haven’t talked in ages,” Jo said, a hint of warmth returning to her voice. “How’re you?”

Abigail scoffed lightly, threading her needle with ease. “I should be askin’ you that. But fine, besides Marston bein’ a pain in my ass.”

Jo chuckled softly, shaking her head. “What’s he done now?”

Abigail sighed, setting the needle to work on a tear in Jack’s sleeve. “It ain’t just one thing, you know? He’s always off somewhere. Ridin’ around, actin’ like Jack don’t need him to be here. I keep tryin’ to tell him—our boy looks up to him, whether he deserves it or not. He needs his pa around. Not just stories about what trouble he’s got himself into.”

Jo’s hands paused mid-peel, her brow furrowing. “Jack’s a good kid, Abigail. You’ve done an amazing job with him. But I get it—it ain’t fair for you to do it all on your own.”

“That’s what I’m sayin’,” Abigail replied, her voice taut with frustration. “I know this life ain’t easy, but he could try. Try harder, at least. Jack’s not gonna be a kid forever. One day, he’ll stop waitin’ for John to show him how to be a man.”

Jo looked at Abigail for a moment, seeing the pain and exhaustion in her eyes. “You ever tell him all that? Really tell him?”

Abigail huffed, looking up from her mending. “I’ve tried, but you know the man. Gets all defensive, says he’s doin’ the best he can. And maybe he is, but it sure as hell don’t feel like it.”

Jo reached across the space between them, her hand briefly brushing Abigail’s arm. “He’s lucky you stick by him, Abigail. And Jack is very lucky to have you. Just don’t let John get away with takin’ you for granted.”

Abigail’s lips quirked up, though her eyes shone with unspoken emotion. “Enough about me,” she said, waving a hand as if brushing her own problems aside. “What about you?”

Jo shrugged, her fingers deftly peeling another ear of corn. “Oh, you know. Been busy as usual.” She kept her tone light, downplaying the bruises that still ached and the lingering weight of everything that had happened lately—especially with Arthur.

Abigail arched a brow, clearly not buying it, but before she could press, the sound of footsteps approached.

“There you are!” Mary-Beth’s voice rang out, relief plain in her tone. Jo barely had time to look up before Mary-Beth wrapped her arms around her, holding her tight.

“Easy, Mary-Beth,” Jo said with a soft laugh, though the hug warmed her.

“You scared us, Jo,” Mary-Beth murmured, pulling back just enough to look at her. “I’m so glad you’re all right.”

“Me too,” Tilly chimed in, coming to stand beside Abigail. She gave Jo a warm smile before picking up a potato from the pile and a knife from her pocket. “Mind if we help?”

“Please do,” Jo replied, motioning to the food spread before them. “I could use all the help I can get.”

Mary-Beth sat beside Jo, taking a small pile of carrots to peel. “It feels like forever since we all got to sit like this.”

“Because it has been,” Abigail said, her hands still working on Jack’s sweater.

The group fell into easy conversation, their voices blending as they talked about everything from camp gossip to lighthearted memories. Tilly teased Abigail about something John had said earlier, which earned a laugh from Mary-Beth, and Jo added her own quips where she could.

But every so often, Jo’s focus shifted. Her eyes drifted toward the outskirts of camp, where Arthur was chopping firewood. His movements were precise, his shoulders broad under the weight of his work. She quickly turned her gaze back to the task in front of her, forcing herself to stay in the moment.

The conversation flowed easily among the group, laughter and light teasing mingling with the rhythmic sound of peeling and chopping. Jo found herself smiling as Tilly recounted a tale about Jack’s latest adventure near camp, and Mary-Beth added her thoughts on how boys always managed to find the most trouble.

Then, from the corner of her eye, Jo caught movement. Arthur stood a short distance away, setting the axe down for a moment. He reached behind his neck, tugging his shirt up and over his head in one fluid motion.

Her fingers stilled on the corn she was peeling.

There he was, bare-chested , his muscles flexing as he wiped a bead of sweat from his brow. The sun glinted off his skin, highlighting the scars and strength that marked him. His chest rose and fell steadily, and he picked up the axe again, rolling his shoulders before striking the next piece of wood.

“Jo?”

Tilly’s voice snapped her out of her daze. Jo blinked, realizing the group had gone silent, all three women now staring at her with various expressions of amusement and curiosity.

“What?” she asked, trying—and failing—to sound casual.

Mary-Beth’s lips curved into a sly smile. “Oh, nothing. Just noticin’ how quiet you got all of a sudden.”

Abigail smirked, leaning forward slightly. “You were starin’, sweetie. Don’t even try to deny it.”

Jo’s cheeks flushed a deep crimson. “I was not,” she protested, though the words lacked conviction.

“Sure you weren’t,” Tilly said, her tone dripping with playful sarcasm. “But if you were, well… who could blame you?” She glanced in Arthur’s direction and gave a low whistle. “Man’s built like a damn bear.”

Jo’s eyes widened as she processed Tilly’s comment, her lips parting in shock. “Tilly!” she exclaimed, scandalized, her voice sharp enough to draw a few chuckles from the others. “Can we not do this right now?”

But the teasing atmosphere was relentless. Mary-Beth, ever the romantic and unable to resist an opening, gasped dramatically, her excitement practically radiating. She leaned forward, her eyes sparkling. “Oh my God,” she said, her voice filled with delight. “You’re fallin’ for him, aren’t you?”

Jo’s head snapped up, her mouth falling open in utter disbelief. “What?” she sputtered, the denial tumbling from her lips before she could even process the accusation. “I ain’t ,” she insisted, her words coming out far too quickly and far too forcefully to be convincing. 

Her face flushed crimson, a warmth creeping up her neck and spreading to her cheeks. She tried desperately to keep a straight face, but the treacherous blush gave her away. “I ain’t,” she repeated, though it sounded weaker this time, less like a declaration and more like an attempt to convince herself.

The girls exchanged knowing glances, their smiles widening as if they’d uncovered the world’s greatest secret.

Abigail tilted her head, her grin teasing. “You can keep sayin’ that, but you ain’t foolin’ anyone here, hon.”

Jo’s mouth opened, then closed. She searched for something to say, something to deflect, but nothing came. The girls were watching her expectantly, and the harder she tried to deny it, the more ridiculous she felt. Deep down, she knew they were right. Maybe she had been thinking about him a little too much lately. Maybe her heart did skip a beat whenever she saw him around camp, even though she tried her best to ignore it.

But admitting it in front of them? Hell no.

Tilly chuckled, leaning back slightly. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with it, you know. Arthur’s a good man… plus, he’s always been kinda sweet on you.”

Jo felt her heart betray her with a little flutter at Tilly’s words. She shifted uncomfortably on the crate, trying to keep her composure. “He ain’t sweet on me,” she mumbled, though the warmth creeping into her cheeks told a different story.

Mary-Beth wasn’t about to let it slide. “Oh, come on,” she said, a dreamy look crossing her face. “You’ve seen the way he looks at you sometimes. Like you’re the only person in the whole camp.”

Jo’s eyes dropped to her hands, now nervously fiddling with the vegetable skin in front of her. She tried to focus, to keep herself grounded, but the smile threatening to break free betrayed her. She hated how easily they could pick her apart—hated even more how right they were. And yet, the thought of Arthur looking at her like that made her feel a warmth she hadn’t known she needed. Maybe it wasn’t so bad after all.

Abigail let out a soft, knowing laugh. “You might as well stop fightin’ it, Jo. The two of you’s are like a couple of magnets, always pullin’ toward each other whether you want to or not.”

Jo sighed dramatically, though the corners of her mouth betrayed her as they curled into a small, reluctant smile. “Y’all are impossible,” she muttered, shaking her head.

The girls erupted into laughter, their voices carrying across the camp. Jo rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t stop the grin that spread across her face. It was moments like this, surrounded by their easy banter and camaraderie, that made everything feel a little less heavy.

Her gaze wandered again, drawn almost unconsciously to Arthur’s form in the distance. As he worked, she couldn’t help but think—maybe she was falling for him. Hell, maybe she already had.

And somehow, that didn’t seem so terrifying after all.

Chapter Text

“Well, ain’t this cozy,” Micah drawled, his tone dripping with condescension as he swaggered toward them. His smirk was as unpleasant as ever, souring the mood in an instant.  “Y’all havin’ a little tea party while the rest of us are pullin’ our weight? Or is this just what womenfolk do—laugh and gossip instead of workin’?”

Abigail’s smile vanished. Rising abruptly, she brushed off her skirt, her posture tense. “I’ve got better things to do than listen to this,” she muttered, biting her tongue as she turned away. “I’m goin’ to check on Jack.”

Tilly and Mary-Beth exchanged glances, their irritation clear, but before either could speak, Jo set down the corn she’d been peeling and fixed Micah with a withering scowl.

“You know, Micah,” she began, her voice low but sharp, “if you spent half as much time actually workin’ as you do runnin’ your filthy mouth, this camp might actually run smooth for once.”

Micah chuckled, a dark sound that grated against her nerves. He leaned in slightly, his eyes narrowing with malicious amusement. “What’s it to you, Blondie? Think you’re some kinda saint around here?”

Jo didn’t flinch. Instead, she rose to her feet slowly, ignoring the dull ache in her leg, her jaw tight with defiance. “Think you’d better shut your mouth before you embarrass yourself even more,” she said, her voice cutting like ice.

From his spot by the woodpile, the rhythmic thud of Arthur’s axe against the logs faltered as he caught sight of the confrontation. Jo’s clenched fists, Micah’s smug grin—it was a powder keg ready to blow. Arthur’s gut churned with irritation. This situation was bound to escalate. And with the way Micah liked to stir trouble, it wasn’t going to end without someone losing their temper.

Tossing the axe aside, he strode toward them, his boots crunching against the dirt. His piercing blue eyes locked onto Micah, brimming with restrained fury. He didn’t have to say a word at first; the weight of his presence was enough to make Micah stiffen.

Micah’s sneer faltered as he turned to face Arthur fully. “What’s the matter, Morgan? Don’t trust your little friend to fight her own battles?” 

Micah shifted his weight, his lips curling in a sneer as he turned to face Arthur.

Arthur’s voice, calm and low, cut through the air with quiet authority. “You walk away, Micah. Now.” It was the kind of voice that didn’t need to raise in volume to command attention.

For a moment, Micah hesitated, his eyes darting between Jo’s glare and Arthur’s unyielding stance. Then, as if fueled by spite, he took a step forward, his posture daring.

Before the situation could explode, a sharp, frantic voice rang out across the camp, slicing through the tension like a knife.

“Jack!” Abigail’s voice trembled with fear, loud enough to turn heads. “Jack! Where’s my son?”

​​For a while, the camp was a flurry of frantic movement. People scrambled in all directions, calling Jack’s name, checking behind wagons and tents, their voices echoing through the trees. Abigail’s desperation cut through the chaos, her voice raw and cracking as she shouted for her son.

Near Dutch’s tent, a group began to gather—Kieran shifting awkwardly on his feet, Strauss muttering to himself, Jo standing off to the side, her expression a carefully controlled mask of worry, even Molly was there. Dutch, raised his hands, his voice commanding.

“Calm down. Everybody, just relax. We are doing all we can,” Dutch said, his tone smooth but edged with irritation.

Arthur arrived, his expression already grim, and Dutch turned to him, his voice sharpening. “Arthur, have you seen that boy, Jack?”

“No.” Arthur barely had time to get the word out before Abigail stormed forward, her face pale, her eyes blazing with fear.

“Where’s my goddamn son?” she demanded, her voice trembling but forceful. “Where is he? Where’s my son?”

She came to a halt in front of Dutch and Arthur, her chest heaving as tears welled in her eyes. “They took him, didn’t they? They took my son!”

Jo approached cautiously, placing a steadying hand on Abigail’s shoulder. “We’ll find him,” Jo murmured, her voice soft but firm. The gesture earned her a quick, grateful glance from Abigail, but it did little to ease the woman’s panic.

Arthur’s jaw tightened as he took a step closer, his voice calm but laced with concern. “Who took him?”

The question hung in the air for a moment before Hosea appeared on the outskirts of camp, his usually steady demeanor replaced by one of urgency. He was out of breath, his face drawn as he pointed toward the horizon.

“We think the Braithwaite woman took him,” Hosea said, his voice grave. He paused to catch his breath before adding, “Kieran saw a couple of fellers, said they sounded like Braithwaite boys.”

Dutch’s expression darkened, his charming façade slipping as the weight of the accusation settled over him. Arthur’s hands clenched into fists at his sides, his eyes flicking to Abigail, who was on the verge of breaking.

Jo, still at Abigail’s side, rubbed a hand gently across her back, trying to soothe her as best as she could. But Abigail was trembling, her composure cracking with each passing second.

“Where’s my son?” Abigail choked out, her voice rising in both anger and despair. Tears streamed down her face as a sob escaped her lips, her words stuttering. “If anything... Where is my son, Dutch van der Linde?”

“We will find him,” Dutch said sternly, his voice carrying the unshakable authority he so often wielded. “We will bring him back to you, and we will kill any fool that had the temerity to touch one hair on that boy’s head.”

John approached, his usual air of indifference replaced by something closer to dread. Though distant with Jack, even he seemed shaken by the boy’s disappearance.

“Abigail, you have my word,” Dutch promised, placing a firm hand on her shoulder.

“Just get me back my son,” Abigail pleaded, her voice breaking under the weight of her fear.

Dutch gave a sharp nod, his gaze flicking to Arthur and John before turning toward the tethered horses. “I will get that boy back, so help me God,” he swore, his tone almost a growl.

Jo stepped away from Abigail, her eyes narrowing as she followed the men’s determined strides. Her gaze flicked to the side, catching sight of Micah lounging at the table, utterly unconcerned. The sight made her stomach churn, but before she could dwell on it, Bill called out.

“Dutch! We just heard about Jack. You need some extra guns?”

Bill jogged toward them, Charles, Lenny, and Javier close behind.

“Yeah, why not?” Dutch replied, reaching for his horse.

Arthur mounted Atlas with ease, the tension in his shoulders evident as he secured his rifle. But then he paused, catching sight of Jo following after them.

He frowned deeply, his voice firm. “I hope you ain’t thinkin’ of coming along, ‘cause you ain’t.”

“What? Bu—” Jo started to protest, but Arthur cut her off sharply.

“No.” His tone brooked no argument, his piercing gaze locking onto hers.

Jo froze, her face flushing with a mix of frustration and embarrassment. She knew, deep down, that he was right—she wasn’t in any condition to handle herself in a fight, not after yesterday. But hearing him command her so sternly made her blood boil.

“You ain’t the boss of me, Arthur Morgan,” she shot back, her hands curling into fists.

Dutch turned to them, his patience clearly wearing thin. “No, but you’re not coming,” he said firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument. “End of the discussion.”

Jo opened her mouth to argue again but stopped when Dutch turned away, already dismissing her as he addressed the rest of the group.

“Micah! Kieran! Anyone strange turns up, you kill ’em!” Dutch barked, pointing toward them. “Rest of you, let’s ride!”

With that, the group mounted their horses, and without another word, they rode out in a cloud of dust—Dutch, Hosea, John, Bill, Charles, Javier, Lenny, and Arthur disappearing into the distance.

Jo stood frozen, her fists clenched at her sides as she watched them go. The fading sound of hoofbeats left her feeling hollow and helpless. She let out a frustrated sigh, casting one more glare at Micah, who still sat unmoved at the table, his smirk faint but present.

For a moment, she just stood there, her chest tight and her heart racing with worry for Jack and anger at being left behind. But deep down, she knew they were right. All she could do now was wait—and hope they’d bring the boy back safely.

Night had fallen, casting the camp in a muted gloom broken only by the flicker of the campfire. Abigail’s cries cut through the silence, raw and heart-wrenching. Jo sat by her, her hands loosely clasped in her lap, at a loss for words to offer any real comfort. Still, she chose to stay, her presence a silent reassurance.

“I can’t lose him,” Abigail choked out, her voice trembling. “I can’t—”

“You won’t,” Jo said softly, her voice steady despite the unease roiling in her chest. “They’ll bring him back. Arthur, Dutch… all of them. They’ll make sure of it.”

Abigail turned her tear-streaked face toward her, her eyes searching Jo’s for reassurance. Jo didn’t flinch, even though she wasn’t sure if her words were more for Abigail’s sake or her own.

Not far off, Sadie Adler sat in a chair, her rifle resting across her lap as she methodically cleaned the barrel. Her expression was grim, her lips pressed into a tight line. Every so often, her gaze flicked toward the darkness beyond the firelight, as if daring anyone to try their luck against her tonight.

By the fire, Tilly and Mary-Beth huddled close together, their faces etched with worry. Tilly occasionally glanced over at Abigail, her eyes soft with empathy, while Mary-Beth’s fingers worried the hem of her skirt, a nervous habit she couldn’t seem to shake.

Karen sat just a few feet away on a log, her figure slouched, a bottle of whiskey resting by her boots. She’d been quieter than usual, her usual biting humor replaced by a haunted look in her eyes. Though she hadn’t spoken much since Sean’s death, she still lingered near the others.

Further out, Susan Grimshaw moved with purpose, busying herself with chores that didn’t need doing. She scrubbed a washboard with unnecessary force, muttering under her breath every so often, as though she were trying to drown out her own thoughts.

Jo reached over, gently placing her hand on Abigail’s trembling one. “He’s tough, you know,” Jo murmured. “Jack’s a smart kid. He’ll hold on till they get to him.”

Abigail nodded faintly, though her tears didn’t stop. “It’s just… he’s just a boy,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “He shouldn’t have to go through this.”

Jo’s throat tightened. “None of us should,” she said quietly, her gaze drifting toward the fire where the others sat. She caught Sadie’s eyes for a brief moment, a silent exchange passing between them.

Sadie nodded slightly, her hands still moving over her rifle. “They’ll pay for what they’ve done,” she said aloud, her voice steady and sharp as steel.

Karen raised her bottle in a half-hearted toast. “Damn right they will,” she muttered before taking a swig.

The hours dragged on painfully, each second stretching like an eternity. The fire had burned lower, its warmth flickering faintly against the night as the girls huddled closer together. Jo brought a blanket and carefully draped it over Abigail’s trembling shoulders. Abigail didn’t say anything—just clutched the blanket tightly, her eyes fixed on the darkness beyond the camp, waiting, hoping.

When the echo of hooves broke through the stillness, all their heads snapped toward the path. Abigail shot to her feet instantly, her blanket falling forgotten to the ground. Jo followed behind her, her heart pounding as she scanned the returning riders. The sight of them—Dutch, Arthur, John, Hosea, and the others—was both a relief and a gut-wrenching blow.

Jack wasn’t with them.

Jo’s eyes darted to Arthur, searching his face for any sign of hope. He met her gaze, but the shake of his head and the grim set of his features said everything she needed to know. 

Abigail didn’t wait. She ran straight for Dutch, her voice trembling with desperation. “Did you find him? Please, tell me you found him.”

Dutch slid off The Count, his movements unnervingly calm. He landed gracefully, stepping toward Abigail with an unreadable expression. His hands came to her shoulders, steady and firm, as he gently led her a few steps away from the group. Jo strained to hear, but Dutch’s voice was low, his words meant only for Abigail.

The soft, choked sound of Abigail’s cry broke through the night, and Jo’s stomach twisted. Dutch immediately wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into a fatherly embrace. He murmured something else, his hand smoothing over her hair as she clung to him, her sobs muffled against his chest.

John slipped in then, his face tight with guilt and worry. He hesitated for a moment before reaching for Abigail, carefully taking her away from Dutch. She leaned into him at first, her fingers clutching his shirt.

But it didn’t last.

Abigail suddenly pulled away, her hands balled into fists as she shouted something unintelligible in John’s direction, her voice cracking with anger and anguish. Her words tumbled over each other, too frantic and broken to make sense. John stood frozen, his hands half-raised as if to stop her, but he didn’t know how.

When Abigail turned and stormed off into the shadows, John stayed rooted to the spot, rubbing a hand across his forehead. For a moment, he looked utterly lost, his shoulders sagging under the weight of her fury and his own regret.

Finally, with a deep sigh, he turned and reluctantly followed after her, his boots dragging slightly against the dirt as he disappeared into the night.

Jo lingered where she stood, her hands clenched at her sides as she watched the scene unfold. Her chest felt heavy, a sinking feeling settling deep in her gut.

Arthur dismounted Atlas with a quiet grunt, his rifle slung over his shoulder. Jo glanced at him, but he didn’t meet her eyes this time.

He took a deep breath, his shoulders heavy as he broke the silence. “He wasn’t with ’em,” Arthur said, his voice low and laced with something akin to sadness—or maybe it was guilt.

Jo’s chest tightened at his words, her heart sinking further. She didn’t say anything, waiting for him to continue.

“Some men came,” Arthur went on, his tone darkening with restrained anger. “Took the kid to some feller named Bronte. Apparently, he holed up in Saint Denis.”

Jo nodded stiffly, her arms crossing over her chest. “Figures,” she muttered, her voice clipped.

Arthur’s eyes flicked to her at that, catching the bitterness in her tone. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Jo shrugged, her gaze darting to the side. “Nothin’.” Her voice was calm, but the tight set of her jaw betrayed her.

Arthur sighed, shifting his weight. “Jo, if you got somethin’ to say, just say it.”

She let out a dry laugh, shaking her head. “It’s nothin’, Arthur. You were clear enough earlier.” Her eyes finally met his, and though her tone was measured, there was no mistaking the frustration simmering beneath her words.

Arthur frowned, his brows knitting together. “Clear enough ‘bout what?”

“About where I stand,” Jo said simply, her voice low but firm. “You didn’t want me there. I got the message loud and clear.”

His face softened, his shoulders sagging slightly. “It wasn’t about you, Jo. I needed to make sure—”

“Yeah, I know. Needed to make sure I didn’t get in the way, or maybe it’s just ‘cause I’m a woman,” she interrupted, her lips curling into a bitter smile. “Don’t worry, Arthur. I know my place.”

Arthur’s frown deepened as he took a step closer, his voice quieter now. “That ain’t what I meant, and you know it,” but Jo held her ground, her gaze unwavering as she stood tall in front of him. “I don’t need your pity, and I don’t need your protection,” she added, her voice low and cold.

She held his gaze for a moment longer, then exhaled sharply, shaking her head. “Doesn’t matter now.” Her voice cracked slightly at the end, and she quickly looked away. “The kid’s still out there, and that’s what matters. Not this.”

Without giving him a chance to respond, she turned on her heel and strode toward her tent, her mood sour. Arthur watched her go, the weight of her words settling heavily in his chest as he rubbed a hand over his face, muttering a curse under his breath.

Once inside, she yanked the curtain shut, muttering under her breath as she began to unbutton her shirt, eager to get out of her day’s clothes and into something more comfortable.

The sound of heavy boots crunching the dirt outside made her pause, and before she could say anything, Arthur ducked inside without so much as a knock.

“Now that ain’t fair,” he started, his tone gruff but not unkind. “I was—”

“Arthur!” Jo snapped, spinning around and clutching her half-buttoned shirt to her chest. “I’m changin’!”

Arthur raised a brow, clearly unbothered, and leaned casually against the entrance with his arms crossed. A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Nothin’ I haven’t seen before,” he drawled, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

Jo froze, her face heating as her mind leapt to that night in Van Horn. “Really?” she hissed, her glare sharp enough to cut. “You just had to bring that up?”

Arthur’s smirk deepened, but he said nothing. He let her draw her own conclusion, though in truth, another memory flickered in his mind—one she had no idea about. The image of her in the lake, sunlight glinting off the water and her naked form, had been impossible to forget. If she only knew…

Jo huffed, snapping him out of his thoughts as she planted a hand on her hip, glaring at him “Real mature, Mr. Morgan. Really.”

He shrugged, not bothering to hide the amusement in his eyes before he let out a quiet huff, but his smile faded quickly as he straightened up. “Look,” he began, his voice softer now, “I didn’t mean to make you feel like you didn’t belong. I know you can hold your own, Jo. Hell, better than half the men in this camp.”

“Then what was it, huh?” she shot back, her grip on her shirt loosening slightly. “You just didn’t want me there?”

Arthur’s eyes softened as he shook his head. “I didn’t want you hurtin’ yourself worse. You’re still healin’, and you know it. Ain’t no shame in that.”

Jo hesitated, her expression wavering as she searched his face. “You could’ve said that instead of barkin’ orders at me like I’m some damn child.”

Arthur rubbed the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable. “I ain’t always good with words, Jo. You know that. T’was about keepin’ you safe and if that means pissin’ you off, then so be it.”

She sighed, finally pulling her shirt back on properly and turning away to adjust the buttons. “You’ve got a funny way of showin’ you care, Arthur Morgan. Feels more like you’re bossin’ me around than anything else.”

Arthur frowned, the weight of her words clear on his face. “Maybe I am bossin’ you around,” he admitted. “But only ‘cause I can’t stand the thought of somethin’ happenin’ to you, alright? We both know you’ve been through enough already.”

Jo stilled for a moment, her fingers pausing mid-button. When she finally turned to look at him, her expression had softened, though there was still a hint of stubbornness in her eyes. “You don’t need to protect me, Arthur. I ain’t some damsel in distress.”

Arthur nodded slightly, his voice quieter now. “I know you ain’t. But that don’t mean I’m gonna stop tryin’.”

“Yeah, I know.”

They stood there in silence for a moment before Jo turned fully to face him, her hand still resting on her hip. “But next time, maybe don’t barge in when I’m half-dressed.”

Arthur gave her a faint, almost boyish grin, tipping his hat as he stepped back toward the entrance. “I’ll keep that in mind, Trouble.”

As he disappeared outside, Jo couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at her lips, though she quickly shook her head, muttering, “That man’s gonna be the death of me.”

The next day took a rather interesting turn when a pair of Pinkerton agents showed up at camp, their sharp suits and smug expressions a stark contrast to the rugged group of outlaws they were confronting. They came with threats, offering Dutch a deal: his freedom in exchange for the rest of the gang.

Naturally, the offer wasn’t met with civility. Every member of the camp stood their ground, bristling with defiance. Guns were visible, hands rested on holsters, and the tension crackled like a dry branch underfoot. It became clear to the Pinkertons that they wouldn’t get what they wanted without bloodshed—not today, anyway. So, with a few scathing remarks, they left, their retreat more a promise than a surrender.

But the visit rattled the gang. Would they come back with more men? Would they strike when the gang was least prepared? The questions loomed, and Dutch made the call to leave Clemens Point behind.

They packed up their lives once more, loading wagons with supplies and belongings, and headed farther south than they’d planned. Their destination: Shady Belle, an old, dilapidated plantation house deep in the swamps of Bayou Nwa. It wasn’t exactly a paradise, nestled between the Kamassa River and where it fed into the Lannahechee River, but it was secluded enough to serve as a refuge for a while.

Lenny and Arthur had dealt with the place before, having driven off the previous occupants during a dispute not too long ago. Whether those occupants had returned or not, Dutch wasn’t taking any chances. He sent Arthur and John ahead to clear the place out while the rest of the gang packed up camp.

The ride to Shady Belle was quiet at first, save for the rhythmic clop of hooves on dirt. But it wasn’t long before John spoke up, his voice laced with frustration and doubt. “Feels like all we’ve been doin’ lately is killin’ folk. For what, Arthur? Jack’s still missin’, and Dutch... he’s just leadin’ us deeper into the mud.”

Arthur didn’t argue. John’s words had weight—truth he didn’t feel like denying. “It’s a goddamn mess, I won’t lie,” Arthur admitted, adjusting the rifle on his saddle. “But what choice do we got? We move on, try to make the best of it, and hope it’s enough.”

John shook his head, a grimace pulling at his features. He didn’t reply, but the silence that followed was heavy with unspoken doubts.

By the time they reached Shady Belle, it was clear their troubles weren’t over. A few of the old tenants had decided to come back, and they weren’t keen on sharing the place. Arthur and John handled it quickly, sending bodies to the gators in the murky waters nearby—a grim but practical solution.

Jo didn’t have a choice but to ride on one of the wagons, wedged between crates and supplies, her mood souring with every bump along the trail. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been forced off her horse like this. The separation wasn’t just inconvenient—it was unsettling. Her horse was more than transportation; it was her freedom, her escape when camp life got too stifling. Now, stuck on this slow-moving wagon, she felt like a bird whose wings had been clipped.

As the wagon jostled over uneven terrain, Jo’s hands tightened on the edge of the seat. She could see the other riders ahead—Javier, Lenny, Charles, and the rest—all moving easily on horseback, and it only deepened the ache of being grounded like this. She muttered under her breath, cursing her leg for its betrayal and the gods above for making the world so damn cruel.

Some rode near the front, glancing back at her now and then. She caught them a few times, but she didn’t return their looks. The last thing she wanted was their pity—or worse, to offer her some well-meaning reassurance she didn’t ask for.

When they arrived, it was hard not to feel a small sense of relief. Shady Belle wasn’t much, but it was better than the tents they’d grown accustomed to. The two-story house, though weathered and crumbling in places, offered a roof and a semblance of shelter. Dutch claimed the largest bedroom upstairs for himself and Molly, while other rooms were divvied up—John took one, and Arthur another that led out onto a balcony overlooking the rest of the camp.

The rest of the gang set up their tents along one side of the house, the swampy air thick with humidity and the constant hum of insects. It wasn’t ideal—far from it—but it was an upgrade. For now, at least, they had a roof over their heads.

Meanwhile, Dutch and Arthur had already disappeared together, heading to Saint Denis. The city loomed close by, its distant lights visible through the murky haze of the swamp as night approached. They didn’t tell anyone much, just that they needed to get information about Bronte and secure a foothold in the city. Typical Dutch—always on the move, always with a plan.

Jo helped Mary-Beth with her tent, her hands working mechanically as her thoughts strayed. She couldn’t help but think back to Clemens Point, to the conversation by the shoreline. Arthur had been about to say something, hadn’t he? Something important, maybe even something about… them. But then everything went to hell with Jack, and whatever it was, it was left unsaid.

Would they ever get the chance to finish that conversation? Or had the moment passed them by, like so many others in this life they led? Jo shook her head, trying to focus, but the question lingered, a stubborn weight in the back of her mind.

Even so, the swamp had a way of seeping into the soul. The air was stifling, the nights unnervingly quiet save for the distant croak of frogs and the splash of something larger moving in the water. As Jo wandered through the camp that first night, she couldn’t shake the feeling that they’d traded one hell for another.

Chapter Text

Arthur was unsettled.

Dutch’s latest notion of potentially leaving the country weighed heavily on his mind. Crossing the ocean, starting fresh somewhere foreign—it wasn’t in their usual plan. Hell, it wasn’t in any plan Dutch had talked about before. And yet, Dutch made it sound like the only way forward, like the gang’s survival depended on it.

Still, Arthur trusted him. Always had. Even when the cracks started showing, even when Dutch’s schemes grew riskier and his charm thinner, Arthur had remained loyal. He questioned him, sure—he wasn’t blind—but he’d follow Dutch anywhere, even if it meant leaving the United States behind.

But before they could dream of faraway shores, they needed money. More money than ever before, Dutch had said. And that much Arthur could agree with. They couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe without it. And if earning that meant putting his own wants and needs aside? Well, that wasn’t anything new. That was how deep his loyalty ran.

Saint Denis was a world away from the swamps of Shady Belle or the rolling hills of Lemoyne. A repellent place, Arthur thought. Chimneys belched thick black smoke into the already polluted sky, while the air seemed to hum with the constant grind of machinery and the chatter of city life. It was too loud, too crowded, and too unnatural for his liking.

But it was also where Jack was. Somewhere in this sprawling, suffocating maze of brick and stone, Bronte had the boy.

Arthur and Dutch moved through the city’s streets like shadows, careful and quiet. The name "Bronte" came with a certain weight, as they quickly learned. Those who heard it stiffened, some shaking their heads, others outright refusing to answer their questions. No one seemed eager to talk about him, and that only made the task more difficult.

“He’s got this whole damn city under his thumb,” Arthur muttered after yet another dead end.

Dutch, ever the optimist, clapped him on the shoulder. “That just means we need to tread carefully, Arthur. But we’ll get him. Mark my words, we’ll get Jack back.”

Arthur nodded, but unease churned in his gut. The city felt like a trap, every corner hiding another potential danger. He glanced up at the towering buildings around them, the iron balconies and flickering street lamps. How could anyone live here? Let alone keep a child safe?

Still, he pushed those thoughts aside. He had to focus. They couldn’t afford to mess this up—not with Jack’s life at stake.

One thing was clear to Jo—even if it pained her to admit it—without a horse, she was stuck in camp, reduced to chores and menial tasks. The freedom she was used to, the independence her horse had always given her, was gone, and it was starting to gnaw at her. Being tied to one place like this didn’t sit right with her, and the fact that she couldn’t just go where she pleased wasn’t something she could tolerate for long.

So, she’d made up her mind that morning: it was going to change.

Saint Denis wasn’t far, and she could make the trip on foot. She’d find the stables, look over what they had, and buy herself a new horse. It wouldn’t be Daisy, not even close—but a decent horse, something to get her moving again, would have to do. She’d saved enough to afford something practical, even if she wasn’t expecting anything special.

She could’ve asked someone else to give her a ride into the city—Lenny, maybe, or Charles—but she didn’t want to. Walking there would give her time to think, and more importantly, it would strengthen her leg. The bruise on her thigh still lingered, a stubborn thing, dark purple fading into mottled greens and yellows beneath the fabric of her pants. It ached when she moved too quickly or put too much weight on it, but she refused to let it slow her down. Not anymore.

Jo wasn’t one for pity, least of all from herself. She tugged on her boots, grabbed her satchel, and threw one last glance at the camp behind her before heading out.

As she followed the road to Saint Denis, the heat of the day was starting to rise, the sun beating down mercilessly. She passed by Caliga Hall, its sprawling fields stretching out in either direction, the estate’s grand house just visible beyond the distant tree line. She didn’t linger on the sight—her mind was set on her destination—until a commotion near the fence line drew her attention.

A man stood near the road, grappling with a horse that seemed determined to fight him every step of the way. The mare was breathtaking—a sleek black Arabian, her coat shimmering like polished obsidian in the sunlight. She moved with a feral grace, her hooves digging into the dirt as she reared and tossed her head, her long, flowing mane whipping through the air like storm clouds in motion.

What struck Jo most, though, were the mare’s eyes. They were dark and bright all at once, like the still surface of a deep lake catching the first rays of dawn, full of untamed fire and defiance. Between her flared nostrils, a small patch of pinkish skin stood out against the inky black of her muzzle, softening her fierce appearance just slightly. The contrast was striking, giving her a uniquely regal yet rebellious look.

She was stunning, a picture of power and defiance, but it was clear that neither her beauty nor her spirit was appreciated by the man holding her reins.

“Damn animal!” he shouted, his frustration boiling over as the mare yanked her head back, nearly dragging him off his feet.

Jo paused, watching the scene unfold. She could see the problem plain as day—the man was all fear and anger, his grip too tight and his movements too aggressive. The mare wasn’t misbehaving for no reason; she was scared, confused, and reacting to the tension in her handler.

“Need a hand?” Jo called, her voice cutting through the chaos.

The man snapped his head up, blinking at her as though he hadn’t realized he had an audience. “You any good with horses?” he asked gruffly, straightening his hat.

Jo didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she approached slowly, her movements deliberate and her voice soft as she murmured to the mare. The horse’s ears flicked toward her, still agitated but curious.

“She’s nervous,” Jo said, keeping her tone even. “You’re yankin’ on her like that, and she thinks she’s got somethin’ to be afraid of. Loosen your grip and let her breathe.”

The man huffed, his expression skeptical, but he loosened his hold as she suggested. Jo stepped closer, reaching out carefully to touch the mare’s neck. The horse shied at first, but Jo didn’t pull back. She kept her hand steady, her touch light but firm, and after a few moments, the mare began to calm.

“She’s got fire in her,” Jo said quietly, running her hand along the horse’s sleek coat. The mare’s muscles quivered beneath her touch, every inch of her radiating energy and potential. “This one doesn’t take kindly to fear. You show her you’re afraid, and she’ll make sure you regret it.”

“You good with ’em, ma’am,” the man admitted grudgingly, tipping his hat back to wipe the sweat from his brow. The man let out a long sigh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Bought her for my wife,” he admitted, his voice weary. “Figured she’d want somethin’ fancy, y’know? But turns out my wife don’t want nothin’ to do with her. Says she’s too wild, and now she’s my problem.”

Jo raised an eyebrow, her hand never leaving the mare’s neck. “She ain’t a problem,” she said. “She’s just... particular.”

The man laughed bitterly. “Particular, huh? I’ve tried everything I can think of, and she won’t listen to a damn thing I say. Hell, I was just on my way to the stables in Saint Denis to sell her off. But... I’ll tell you what. You seem to know what you’re doin’, and she seems to like you. If you want her, she’s yours. No charge. Just take her off my hands before she kills me.”

Jo blinked, surprised by the offer. She looked at the mare, whose fiery eyes had softened slightly under her care, and then back at the man. “You sure?”

“Ma’am, I’ve never been more sure of anything,” he said, tossing her the reins.

Jo caught them easily, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips. She turned back to the mare, who snorted and stamped her hoof but didn’t pull away.

“Alright then,” Jo murmured. “Looks like it’s you and me now, girl.”

She led the mare away from the man, her heart lighter than it had been in days. This horse wasn’t Daisy—no horse ever could be—but she was magnificent, and Jo could already feel the beginnings of a bond forming between them.

As Jo led the mare away from Caliga Hall, she couldn’t help but admire her new companion’s striking features. The sleek black coat gleamed under the midday sun, and a small white patch shaped like a delicate diamond adorned her forehead, standing out vividly against her dark coloring.

The mare walked beside her with a restless energy, ears swiveling in every direction and tail swishing sharply. She was alert, a creature of pure spirit, and Jo felt a strange mix of pride and apprehension as she glanced at the reins in her hand.

This horse wasn’t Daisy. That much was clear. Daisy had been steady, dependable, and comforting in her simplicity. This one was... unpredictable. Fierce. She radiated the kind of power that demanded respect. Jo could already tell that this new mare wasn’t the type to forgive a misstep easily.

Her grip tightened slightly on the reins as her thoughts drifted to Daisy. The saddle she’d brought with her to camp was Daisy’s, but the idea of using it on this horse felt wrong. It wasn’t just the size—this mare was slimmer, her frame more delicate than Daisy’s sturdy build—but something about it didn’t sit right in her chest. That saddle had been a piece of her old friend, and the thought of seeing it on another horse made her stomach twist.

No, this one needed her own gear, something that matched her unique temperament and frame.

Jo adjusted the reins and continued toward Saint Denis, the mare’s hooves clicking steadily against the dirt road. She wasn’t about to ride her bareback—who knew how the mare might react? It was better to lead her for now, get her used to walking together, and take it one step at a time.

The sprawling city loomed closer, its smoke-stained skyline a sharp contrast to the rolling green fields of the countryside. Jo wasn’t fond of cities, and Saint Denis was no exception. The crowds, the noise, the grime—it all set her teeth on edge. But it was the closest place to find what she needed.

Once they entered the city limits, the mare grew agitated, tossing her head and snorting at the unfamiliar sights and sounds. Jo murmured soft reassurances, her hand brushing the horse’s neck to keep her calm.

The stables were bustling with activity when they arrived, the smell of hay and leather mixing with the less pleasant stench of manure and sweat. Jo approached the counter, the mare standing restlessly at her side, her dark eyes watching everything around her.

“I need a saddle,” Jo said to the stable hand, her tone firm. “Somethin’ light but strong, and a bridle to match.”

The stable hand gave a low whistle as he looked the mare over. “That’s a fine Arabian you’ve got there, ma’am. She’s got fire in her, don’t she?”

Jo smirked faintly. “She does. Which is why I need gear that won’t let me down.”

The stable hand nodded and disappeared into the back, returning moments later with a few options. Jo took her time inspecting each piece, running her fingers over the leather to test its quality. She eventually settled on a sleek black saddle with intricate stitching, light enough not to weigh the mare down but sturdy enough for long rides.

The bridle was simple but elegant, a perfect match for the saddle, and Jo made sure to add a saddle blanket that would provide some comfort for the mare’s sensitive back. She also picked up a set of brushes, hoof picks, and a few other necessities.

By the time they left the stables, the mare was outfitted in her new gear, the black leather and silver accents complementing her striking appearance. Jo couldn’t help but feel a small swell of satisfaction as she adjusted the stirrups and checked the straps. The mare tossed her head as though approving of the choice.

The return to Shady Belle turned into an eventful ride. What had started as a peaceful walk turned into something else entirely the moment Jo swung herself into the saddle.

The mare had seemed calm while being led, but as soon as Jo’s weight settled on her back, the storm brewing inside the horse broke loose. The Arabian reared, hooves pawing at the air, and let out a piercing whinny that echoed through the trees. Jo gripped the reins tightly, her knees pressing against the horse’s sides as she tried to keep her balance.

“Easy, girl! Easy!” she shouted, her voice firm but calm.

The mare didn’t listen. She bucked and twisted, as if trying to throw Jo off, her wild spirit refusing to be tamed. Jo’s heart raced, but she didn’t let go, her hands steady as she pulled the reins just enough to guide the horse without forcing her.

“C’mon now,” Jo muttered, her voice softening. “I know you’re better than this. Let’s figure it out, huh?”

For what felt like an eternity, the mare continued her defiant dance, but slowly, ever so slowly, she began to settle. Her snorts grew quieter, her movements less frantic, and eventually, she stood still, her dark eyes watching Jo intently.

“That’s it,” Jo said, a small smile breaking across her face as she leaned forward to pat the horse’s neck. “You’re a little devil, ain’t you?”

The rest of the ride wasn’t exactly smooth, but Jo could feel a change in the mare’s demeanor. The horse was still spirited, but there was a mutual understanding forming between them—a bond built on respect. By the time they approached Shady Belle, Jo felt more connected to her new companion than she had expected.

As they trotted into camp, Lenny was the first to notice them. He straightened from where he had been sitting on a crate near the gate, his mouth falling open.

“Well, damn!” he whistled, a grin spreading across his face. “Jo, where in the hell did you find a horse like that?”

Jo smirked as she dismounted, her legs a little shaky from the ride but her confidence intact. She gave the mare a quick pat before turning to Lenny. “Caliga Hall. Let’s just say she wasn’t exactly loved there. Figured I’d give her a chance.”

Javier wandered over, his arms crossed as he eyed the horse with a critical gaze. He tilted his head slightly, his thick accent adding an extra flair to his words.

“Jo, that’s not a horse,” he said, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “That’s a demon, no? She looks like she could kill a man just by lookin’ at him.”

The mare's ears flattened sharply against her head as if she’d understood Javier’s comment and didn’t take kindly to it. Her dark eyes, already intense, seemed to narrow with something close to indignation.

Jo chuckled softly, placing a reassuring hand on the horse’s neck. “Now, now, girl,” she murmured, her voice calm but with a knowing edge. “Don’t let him get to you.”

With that gentle pat, her ears lifted slightly, though they didn’t fully settle. Her expressive eyes shifted toward Jo, as if waiting for further reassurance.

Javier’s gaze lingered on the mare. “She’s got fire, I’ll give you that. Be careful, amiga. A horse like that, she’ll test you every step of the way.”

“She already has,” Jo said with a smirk, leading the mare toward a shaded spot to tie her up. “But I think we’ll be just fine.”

Lenny, still marveling at the horse, followed after Jo as she began tethering her. “You named her, or what?” he asked, his tone full of curiosity.

Jo paused, glancing back at the mare. The horse’s dark eyes met hers, full of spirit and a quiet strength that reminded her of something—of a place, a moment in her past.

“Laramie,” Jo said after a moment.

Lenny tilted his head. “Laramie? What’s that?”

“It’s a place,” Jo replied simply, turning her attention back to the mare.

“A place? Where?”

“Wyoming,” she answered, her tone firm, discouraging further questions.

Lenny frowned, clearly unsatisfied. “Why name her after that?”

Jo shook her head, her expression hardening slightly. “Does it matter? That’s her name.”

Lenny opened his mouth as if to press her further but thought better of it. Instead, he let out a soft chuckle and nodded. “Alright, alright. Laramie it is. It suits her.”

Javier, leaning casually against a nearby post, smirked. “Maybe the name suits her, but that attitude? That’s all you, Jo. Stubborn as hell.”

Jo rolled her eyes, brushing off the comment as she began untacking the mare and brushing her down. The day had been long, but as she worked, she couldn’t help but feel a strange comfort in the presence of her new companion. Laramie may have been a wild spirit, but in her, Jo saw a reflection of herself—a survivor, full of fire and grit, ready to face whatever came next.

For the rest of the day, Jo helped around as did everyone else, ensuring Shady Belle became as close to a proper camp as it could be. The creaky floors of the old mansion were swept out, lanterns were hung, and wagons were positioned strategically to form a barrier against unwelcome visitors. Even so, Jo’s attention frequently drifted to the camp’s entrance. Every now and then, she’d glance up from whatever task she was handling, her eyes narrowing as she watched for any sign of Dutch, Arthur, and John’s return.

At some point earlier in the late afternoon, Dutch had come back. He hadn’t stayed long—just enough time to gather John and leave again as quickly as he’d arrived. The way he’d moved, sharp and urgent, left an unsettling buzz in the air. Jo hadn’t asked where they were headed. She knew better than to question Dutch, but the pit in her stomach tightened regardless. Whatever it was, it was important enough to pull John away, and that wasn’t something that happened lightly.

“Hey, they’re back! I think I see Jack!” Bill’s voice rang out from where he stood guard, breaking the too-loud quietness that had fallen over camp.

At the same time, Dutch called out for Abigail from atop his horse, his booming voice carrying across the night air. Everyone stopped what they were doing. Javier’s guitar went silent, the melancholic strum of strings halting mid-note. Abigail stood up so quickly her chair toppled over, and she bolted toward the approaching riders, paying no mind to the horses still moving in.

“Jack!” Abigail’s voice cracked, trembling with relief.

Abigail sank to her knees, pulling Jack into her arms and holding him as if she’d never let him go again. The sight brought warmth to Jo’s chest. It was bittersweet, though, watching Abigail’s tears of joy while John hovered in the background, hesitant and unsure. He kept his distance, his boots planted like he wasn’t sure if he was welcome. It wasn’t until a long moment passed—and perhaps a nudge from Hosea—that John finally stepped forward to join his family.

The camp came alive with celebration. People gathered around the fire, Javier’s guitar picking up again, this time in a lively, cheerful rhythm. He began to sing in his deep, lilting tone, and the sound of laughter followed.

Jo stood near the crate of beer bottles, a smile tugging at her lips as she watched the group finally relax and revel in the reunion. But her smile faltered when her gaze drifted past the flames to a figure standing away from it all.

Arthur.

He lingered near the broken dock on the other side of camp, the faint glow of a cigarette illuminating his silhouette. His broad shoulders were hunched slightly, his head low, as if he were weighed down by something only he could carry.

Jo pulled two bottles of beer from the crate and started toward him. Each step was deliberate, her boots crunching softly against the dirt, but Arthur didn’t turn. He stayed fixed in his place, staring out toward the murky waters of the swamp.

Arthur turned at the sound of approaching boots, his shoulders stiff at first but easing the moment he saw Jo in the faint light of the moon. She held out one of the bottles of beer, and he took it without a word, his fingers brushing against hers briefly.

“Figured you could use one,” she said quietly, her tone cutting through the distant hum of the camp’s celebrations.

Arthur glanced at the beer, then back at her before taking the bottle from her. “Thanks,” he muttered, his voice low and rough, like gravel underfoot. He flicked the cigarette into the dirt and took a long swig from the bottle.

She leaned against the rickety railing of the dock, the wood creaking under her weight. “You ain’t much for celebratin’, huh?”

Jo took a seat on the edge of the dock, her legs dangling over the water, the wood creaking faintly under her weight. She tipped the bottle to her lips, taking a long sip before glancing back at Arthur, who remained standing, his gaze fixed on the ground.

“You just gonna stand there, or you gonna sit?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

Arthur exhaled a faint chuckle and finally lowered himself beside her, his long legs stretching out in front of him. For a while, they drank in silence, the occasional ripple of water breaking the stillness between them.

It was Jo who broke it first. “You alright?” she asked, her voice softer now, more careful.

Arthur turned the bottle in his hands, staring at it as if it held answers. “Reckon I should be,” he said after a moment. “Boy’s back, Abigail’s happy, John’s… tryin’. It’s what matters, right?”

“Doesn’t answer my question,” Jo pointed out, her head tilting slightly.

Arthur sighed, leaning forward to rest his forearms on his knees. “Ain’t much to say. Just been thinkin’… about things.” His words trailed off, and he glanced at her, his blue eyes catching the faint glow of the lanterns in camp.

Jo raised an eyebrow, waiting. “Things like?”

“Like you,” he said finally, though the words came out hesitant, almost unsure. He looked away quickly, as though afraid of her reaction.

Jo blinked, caught off guard by the bluntness of it. “Me?”

Arthur gave a faint nod, scratching the back of his neck. “I just… you been on my mind, is all. I reckon I owe you a proper answer to what you asked the other day. Miss Grimshaw, she… well, she interrupted, and I didn’t get the chance.”

Jo’s grip on the bottle tightened slightly. “And what were you gonna say?”

Arthur hesitated, clearly trying to find the right words. “I care about you, Jo,” he admitted, his voice quieter now, almost as if he didn’t want to be overheard, even out here. “More than I probably should. And I… I just wanted you to know that. Didn’t wanna leave it unsaid.”

Jo’s chest tightened at his words. She turned her gaze to the water, her throat suddenly dry despite the beer. “Arthur…”

“Now, I ain’t expectin’ anything from you,” he added quickly, as if to shield himself. “Just… needed you to know. That’s all.”

For a moment, the only sound was the soft lapping of the water against the dock. Jo swallowed hard, her mind racing, but when she finally looked back at him, there was a softness in her expression.

“You’re a damn fool, Arthur Morgan,” she said quietly, a faint smile tugging at her lips.

Arthur blinked, his brow furrowing. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Jo leaned back, tipping the bottle to her lips again. “It means… I don’t know what to do with you,” she admitted. “But I guess I care too.”

Arthur’s lips twitched into a faint, lopsided smile, and he raised his bottle slightly. “Guess that’s somethin’, then.”

Jo clinked her bottle against his, a soft laugh escaping her. “Yeah, I guess it is.”

The tension between them eased, replaced by a quiet understanding. They sat there for a while longer, the camp’s laughter and music fading into the background, their silence companionable this time.

Chapter Text

The air was heavy with summer heat, the kind that clung to your skin and made everything feel slow and unbearable. But she wasn’t thinking about the heat. She wasn’t thinking about anything, really, except the burning sting of fresh tears on her cheeks and the ache in her chest that wouldn’t go away.

She curled herself tighter in the small hollow beneath the crooked willow tree, her knees pulled to her chest. It wasn’t much of a hiding spot, but it was far enough from the house to feel safe. Far enough to block out the shouting, the crashing, the sound of her mother crying… and worse, the sound of her father’s voice.

She pressed her hands over her ears, trying to block out the echoes of his words, the cruel sneer in them that made her stomach twist. But it was no use. The sounds lived in her head now, taunting her no matter how far she ran.

“Sarah?”

The voice startled her, soft but familiar, and she dropped her hands, blinking through her tears. Ben stood a few feet away, his brow furrowed with concern. He was barefoot, his pants rolled up to his knees, and there was a smudge of dirt on his cheek like he’d been playing outside before he found her.

“Go away, Ben,” she said, her voice trembling as she quickly wiped at her face. She didn’t want him to see her like this, weak and broken.

But Ben didn’t move. Instead, he crouched down, his hands resting on his knees as he studied her like he always did, like she was a puzzle he wanted to solve. “You’ve been cryin’,” he said simply.

“No, I haven’t.”

“You’re a bad liar,” he said with a small, knowing smile. Then his expression softened. “What happened?”

She looked away, shaking her head. “Nothing. Just go home, Ben. I don’t need you here.”

Ben didn’t leave, of course. He never did. Instead, he sat down beside her, close enough that their shoulders almost touched, but not quite. “You don’t have to tell me,” he said quietly, staring out at the field in front of them. “But I’m not leavin’. Not until you stop lookin’ like the sky’s fallin’.”

For a long moment, she didn’t say anything. She just stared at the ground, her fingers tugging at the loose threads on the hem of her dress. But eventually, the weight of it all became too much, and the words spilled out before she could stop them.

“He… he hurt her again,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “And it’s my fault.”

Ben’s head whipped toward her, his brown eyes narrowing. “Your fault? How’s it your fault, Sarah?”

“I didn’t do what he said,” she admitted, her voice barely audible. “And now she’s payin’ for it.”

Ben shook his head, his expression fierce. “It ain’t your fault. None of it. You hear me?”

She didn’t answer, her tears falling silently now. She felt Ben’s hand on hers, warm and steady, and she looked up to see him watching her with a determination that seemed far too strong for someone their age.

“You’re gonna get out of here someday,” he said firmly. “And so’s your ma. You’re not gonna let him keep hurtin’ you. I know it.”

She wanted to believe him. God, she wanted to. But all she could do was nod, letting him hold her hand as the sun dipped lower in the sky, painting the fields in gold.

Ben always had a way of making her believe, even when everything seemed hopeless.

But he couldn't have known he was wrong .

The mid-morning sun filtered through the trees, casting soft shadows across the camp. Jo stood near the makeshift hitching post, brushing down Laramie’s sleek coat. The mare shifted occasionally, her ears flicking forward and back as if listening to the quiet sounds of camp life. Jo hummed under her breath, a calming tune she wasn’t even aware she was singing as she worked, the rhythm of the brush against Laramie’s coat steady and soothing.

“Didn’t get a good look at her last night,” came Arthur’s low drawl from behind her.

Jo glanced over her shoulder to see him walking toward her, his hands stuffed in his pockets. He looked better than he had weeks ago—more color to his face, less of that weariness that had seemed to weigh on him. He carried a quiet curiosity as he approached, his gaze fixed on the mare.

“She’s a fine one,” he said, sitting down on a nearby crate with a grunt, resting his forearms on his knees.

“Yeah, she is,” Jo said, turning back to Laramie. “Though she’s got the temperament of a devil.”

Arthur chuckled softly, pulling a cigarette from his pocket. “Seems to suit you just fine then.”

Jo smirked but didn’t respond, focusing on untangling a stubborn knot in Laramie’s mane.

“How’d you end up with her?” Arthur asked, lighting the cigarette and watching the way Jo moved, steady and sure.

Jo paused for a moment, her hand resting on Laramie’s neck. “Someone thought I needed a new horse,” she said simply, her tone unreadable.

Arthur raised an eyebrow, exhaling a stream of smoke. “Someone, huh? Must’ve thought highly of you to give ya a horse like this.”

“Or they just wanted to get rid of her before she killed ‘em,” Jo said dryly, though there was a hint of amusement in her voice.

Arthur chuckled again, shaking his head. “What’s her name?”

Jo hesitated for a moment, glancing at Laramie as if the mare might answer for herself. “Laramie,” she said finally.

Arthur froze mid-drag, his brow furrowing slightly. “Laramie?” he repeated, a thoughtful look crossing his face. “Ain’t that where…” He trailed off, his voice softening as he pieced it together.

Jo nodded, her movements slowing as she brushed Laramie’s flank. “Yeah,” she said quietly. “That’s where I met Dutch and Hosea. And you.”

Arthur didn’t say anything for a moment, his gaze distant as if he was remembering that time too. Finally, he shook his head, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Hell of a place to meet, huh?”

Jo shrugged. “It was… somethin’, that’s for sure.”

Arthur studied her for a moment, his cigarette burning between his fingers. “Why’d you name her after Laramie?”

Jo’s hand stilled for just a moment before she resumed brushing. “It just felt right,” she said simply, her voice steady but guarded.

Arthur seemed to understand that was all he was going to get, so he didn’t press further. Instead, he leaned back slightly on the crate, watching as Jo continued her work. The sunlight filtered through the trees, catching the highlights in her hair and the sleek shine of Laramie’s coat. For a moment, it was quiet, save for the sound of the brush running through the mare’s mane and the occasional creak of the camp settling around them.

But then, Arthur stood up, taking a step closer. Jo noticed the movement but didn’t turn, her focus still on Laramie. He lingered at her side, his presence warm and steady.

“We’ve come a long way since Laramie,” he said softly, his voice barely above a murmur.

Jo finally glanced at him, her lips parting as if to respond, but no words came. Instead, Arthur reached out, his rough hand brushing against hers as she held the brush. His touch was hesitant, as if unsure whether to follow through, but he left his hand there, lightly resting against hers.

Jo’s heart thudded in her chest, the quiet moment between them stretching just a little too long. She glanced down at their hands and then back up at him, her expression unreadable but her cheeks just the faintest shade warmer.

Whatever might have been said or done next was cut short by the sound of sharp, purposeful footsteps heading their way.

“Mr. Morgan!” Miss Grimshaw’s voice rang out, cutting through the quiet like a blade.

Arthur sighed heavily, his hand retreating as quickly as it had come. Jo straightened, her lips pressing into a thin line as she turned back to Laramie, her movements a little tenser than before.

Not again , they both thought at the same time, their expressions almost mirroring each other’s annoyance. It was as if Susan Grimshaw had a sixth sense for interrupting them at the worst possible moments.

“Mr. Morgan, we have a problem, a real problem,” Miss Grimshaw’s voice cut through the quiet, her tone as sharp as ever. She looked fuming, her hands on her hips, but the tension in her expression told Jo this wasn’t just a complaint about chores.

Arthur turned to her, already exasperated. “What now?”

“It’s Tilly,” Grimshaw said, checking her revolver as she spoke.

“What?” Arthur’s tone shifted immediately, his shoulders stiffening.

“She’s been taken by them Foreman brothers she used to run with.” Susan’s eyes flicked between them. “Come along!”

“The Foreman brothers?” Jo asked, stepping closer, her voice laced with both confusion and concern.

“What the hell are they doin’ here?” Arthur added as he followed Susan.

“Well, I don’t know what they’ve been doing here,” Susan snapped, “but I can tell you what they’re going to be doing here. Dying.”

Arthur hesitated, his gaze lingering on Jo as he readied himself to follow Susan.

“Need me?” she asked, tilting her head slightly.

Arthur blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

She smirked, folding her arms. “I mean, d’you need me to come with you?”

For a moment, he looked like he was considering it, but then he shook his head. “Nah, you ain’t gotta. Me and Grimshaw’ll handle it.”

Jo nodded, but something in her expression made him pause. He shifted on his feet, running a hand over his beard as if debating something.

Then, as if mustering every ounce of courage he had, Arthur took a step closer and leaned down, pressing a firm but brief kiss against her cheek.

Jo froze.

The warmth of his lips lingered on her skin, and before she could even process it, Arthur was already pulling away, clearing his throat as if nothing had happened.

“Right,” he said, voice a little rougher than before. “I’ll see you later.”

And with that, he turned, heading toward his tent to gather his things.

Jo stood there, feeling the heat creep up her neck and into her face. Slowly, almost instinctively, she raised a hand to her cheek, fingertips brushing the spot where he’d kissed her. Her skin burned, and her heart was hammering against her ribs.

Cheeky bastard. Doing that just before leaving.

She quickly glanced around, making sure no one had seen, before exhaling sharply and dropping her hand.

By the time Arthur was saddling up with Susan, Jo was composed again—mostly.

“Be careful,” she said, her voice casual, as if the past few minutes hadn’t happened.

Arthur paused, looking at her over his shoulder. A slow smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Careful, darlin’,” he drawled, eyes twinkling with mischief. “You almost look as if you care.”

Then, the bastard had the audacity to wink before kicking the reins forward, the cart leaving with Susan before Jo could come up with a good retort.

She huffed, shaking her head as she turned back toward camp, but she couldn’t stop the small, stupid smile that pulled at her lips.

With Arthur and Susan gone, camp slowly returned to a sense of normalcy. Well, as normal as things could be. People were still in good spirits after Jack’s return, the air lighter than it had been in days.

It was almost midday, the sun hanging high above the trees, casting dappled light over Shady Belle. Jo had just finished brushing Laramie and was about to find something to occupy herself with when she spotted Jack sitting alone near the steps of the house.

Abigail was off speaking with John—something that, given their history, was rare enough to make Jo pause. She figured it was best to leave them to it.

Jack sat on the concrete steps, idly tracing patterns in the dust with a stick, his small brows furrowed in concentration. He looked deep in thought, the kind of serious look only a child could wear, as if the weight of the world rested on his little shoulders.

Jo hesitated. She wasn’t always the best with kids, never quite knowing what to say or do. But Jack was different. He wasn’t just some kid—he was family, in a way.

She sighed and walked over, stepping lightly so as not to startle him. “What’s got you thinkin’ so hard, huh?”

Jack looked up, his face brightening when he saw her. “Auntie Jo!”

That alone made her heart soften. She sat down beside him, resting her arms on her knees. “So? What’s on your mind, kiddo?”

Jack hesitated, glancing down at the dusty lines he’d drawn. “Do you think Uncle Arthur will be okay?”

Jo wasn’t surprised by the question, but it still tugged at something deep inside her. Jack adored Arthur—looked up to him like a hero, like a father should be. And she knew what it felt like to be a child, scared of losing someone.

She reached out, ruffling his unruly hair. “’Course he will,” she said, keeping her voice steady. “Ain’t no one better in a fight than your Uncle Arthur. And Miss Grimshaw’s with him. You think anyone’s stupid enough to cross her?”

Jack giggled, shaking his head. “No way.”

“Exactly.” She smiled, nudging his shoulder. “They’ll be back before you know it.”

Jack seemed to accept that, but after a moment, his small fingers fidgeted with the hem of his shirt. “Mama was real scared when I was gone,” he admitted quietly.

Jo exhaled, her chest tightening at the memory of Abigail’s desperate, tear-streaked face. “Yeah… we all were.”

Jack looked at her then, eyes wide and sincere. “Were you scared too?”

Jo wasn’t one to talk about her feelings—least of all with a child. But lying to Jack felt wrong.

“Yeah, kid,” she admitted, keeping her voice gentle. “I was scared. We all love you, y’know? You’re part of this family.”

Jack beamed at that, the kind of pure, unfiltered joy only a child could have. He shifted closer and, without warning, threw his little arms around Jo in a tight hug.

She stiffened for just a second—affection wasn’t something she was used to—but slowly, she let herself relax, wrapping an arm around him in return.

“Love you, Auntie Jo,” he mumbled against her shoulder.

Something warm and unfamiliar bloomed in her chest, and before she could overthink it, she pressed a light kiss to the top of his head.

“Love ya too, kid.”

They stayed like that for a moment before Jack pulled back, smiling up at her. 

“You eaten yet?” she asked, tilting her head.

Jack hesitated, then shook his head.

Jo sighed, standing up and offering him her hand. “Come on, let’s fix that.”

Jack grinned, taking her hand without hesitation as they walked toward Pearson’s wagon.

As they passed through camp, Jo’s eyes flicked toward Abigail and John. They were still talking, voices low, and for once, there wasn’t any yelling. That had to be a good sign.

Maybe, just maybe, things were starting to look up.

Jo had stayed with Jack while he ate, keeping him company until Abigail came back to take over. With one last ruffle of Jack’s hair, she left them to it and headed toward the horses, figuring she might as well make herself useful.

As she went about feeding them, she realized she hadn’t seen Kieran since Jack’s party. That was odd—he rarely left camp, and when he did, it was never for long. She frowned, briefly considering asking someone if they’d seen him, but ultimately shrugged it off. Maybe he’d just been keeping to himself.

She didn’t dwell on it much longer, because the distant sound of wagon wheels crunching against the dirt caught her attention. Jo turned her head just as Arthur and Susan rolled back into camp, a familiar figure sitting behind them in the wagon.

Tilly.

Safe.

Jo let out a quiet breath of relief, watching as camp stirred to life around them, people rushing over to meet the returning party. She moved to join them, her eyes flicking first to Arthur, then to Tilly, trying to gauge how bad things had gotten.

As the wagon rolled to a stop, Susan climbed out first, muttering something under her breath about “damn sons of bitches” while Arthur stayed up front, watching as Tilly hopped down on her own.

The moment her boots hit the ground, she was met with an embrace from Mary-Beth, who had rushed over, eyes wide with worry.

“Tilly, are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Tilly assured her, but there was a tightness in her voice, a flicker of something unsettled in her eyes. “Really, I am.”

Jo crossed her arms as she approached, glancing toward Arthur, who finally swung down from the wagon, rolling out his shoulders. His hat was pulled low, shadowing his face, but she still caught the way his jaw was set tight.

“Was it bad?” she asked, keeping her voice low.

Arthur exhaled through his nose. “They got what they deserved.”

Jo didn’t press further. That meant it had been bad. But Tilly was back, and that’s what mattered.

Behind them, Susan was still fuming, pacing near the wagon with her arms crossed. “I swear to God, if another damn rat from our past crawls outta the gutter lookin’ to cause trouble—”

“I can handle myself, Miss Grimshaw,” Tilly interrupted, straightening her back. “I’m not scared of them.”

Susan sighed heavily but didn’t argue. She just muttered something about keeping their eyes open before striding off, no doubt looking for something—or someone—to bark orders at.

Jo watched her go before shifting her focus back to Tilly. The younger woman’s usual fire was still there, but there was an edge to it now, something sharpened by whatever had happened out there.

Mary-Beth quickly led Tilly away, murmuring something about getting her cleaned up, leaving the rest of the camp to settle back into its usual rhythm. Jo turned back toward Arthur, arms still crossed, as he leaned lazily against the wagon, rolling himself a cigarette. His eyes flicked to hers, and there it was—that damn smirk of his.

“Don’t suppose you missed me, huh?” he teased.

Jo scoffed. “You was only gone half the damn day, cowboy.”

Arthur chuckled, shaking his head as he sealed his cigarette. “So that’s a no, then.”

Jo scoffed but didn't take the bait. Instead, she took a step closer, eyeing him up and down. He looked tired, a little rougher than when he left, but still standing. That was enough.

Arthur exhaled a slow stream of smoke, watching her through half-lidded eyes. "You keep lookin’ at me like that, Trouble, I'm gonna start thinkin’ you actually care."

Jo huffed, tilting her chin up. "Careful, Morgan, you almost sound like you want me to."

Arthur smirked, the cigarette hanging loosely from his lips. "Maybe I do."

That caught her off guard for half a second—just long enough for him to notice. And damn it all, he looked real pleased with himself about it.

Arthur shifted slightly, like he was debating something, then took a small step closer. His hand twitched at his side, as if he might reach for her—but before he could, a voice cut through the moment like a dull knife.

"How've you been, Arthur?"

Arthur's jaw clenched, and Jo nearly groaned out loud.

Had everyone made it their goddamn mission to interrupt them?

Arthur exhaled sharply, tilting his head back in exasperation before turning to face Reverend Swanson, who stood a few paces away, looking more sober than usual.

"Been fine," Arthur grumbled, rubbing a hand over his face. He shot Jo a glance, as if to say, Of course, right?

Jo just smirked, crossing her arms as she whispered. "Reckon you ain't got a moment's peace today."

Arthur sighed. "Ain't that the damn truth."

He took a reluctant step back, his fingers brushing against Jo’s for half a second before the moment slipped away entirely.

She felt the loss more than she cared to admit.

Jo turned away, deciding she’d leave Arthur to whatever conversation Swanson was about to drag him into. She had enough of people cutting in on whatever the hell this thing between her and Arthur was supposed to be. If she couldn’t get a moment alone with him, she might as well get back to doing something useful.

Arthur, however, didn’t seem quite as ready to move on.

As Swanson started rambling about whatever it was he needed to say, Arthur’s gaze trailed after Jo, watching the sway of her hips as she walked away. Not that he meant to stare—well, maybe a little. Damn woman had a way of making it real difficult not to.

"Arthur?" Swanson’s voice cut through his thoughts, and Arthur blinked, reluctantly dragging his eyes away from Jo and back to the Reverend.

"Huh? Yeah, yeah, I’m listenin’," Arthur muttered, though he sure as hell wasn’t.

Swanson squinted at him like he wasn’t convinced, but Arthur just sighed, rubbing his chin.

"I was sayin'," Reverend started over, "met a monk in Saint Denis the other day... kindly fellow took me back to my days in college."

"Is there any purpose to this conversation, Reverend?" Arthur asked, already eager to end it so he could do something else. Or rather, see someone else. A certain someone, perhaps, who happened to have long blonde hair, soft full lips and—oh, hell, he really shouldn't be thinkin’ about that now.

"Not really, but... he said the strangest things about all manner of bad things happening in town."

"Bad things happening in a city... who would have thought it possible?" Arthur said dryly.

"Yes. Well, maybe if you're there, you could have a chat with him. He's hanging outside about the marketplace, collecting alms for the poor."

"Sounds thrillin’," Arthur muttered with a sigh.

Now, where the hell had she gone to?

It didn't take long to spot her, already busy with something—as usual. She was by the hitching posts, checking over Laramie’s tack. The mare shifted beneath her hands but settled as Jo murmured something under her breath, running a palm down her sleek neck. Arthur took a moment, just watching her, the way the light caught in her hair, the way she bit her lip in concentration.

Swanson was still droning on about something, but Arthur had already stopped listening. With a dismissive grunt, he clapped the reverend on the shoulder—enough to make the man stumble slightly—and strode away before he could get roped into more pointless conversation.

Jo glanced up as he approached, her expression unreadable at first, but when she noticed it was him, her lips twitched, as if she were already preparing some sharp remark.

“Busy?” Arthur asked, leaning a little against one of the wooden posts, arms folded.

“Depends,” Jo answered, finishing up with Laramie’s saddle and stepping back to give the horse a once-over. “You here to distract me, or you actually got something useful to say?”

Arthur huffed a small laugh, shaking his head. “Depends on what you count as useful.” He let the words settle between them for a second, watching her reaction before continuing. “Was thinkin’ of headin’ into Saint Denis. Reverend says there’s some monk collectin’ alms in the market, talkin’ about bad things happenin’.”

Jo raised an eyebrow at him. “And you care about what some monk’s sayin’ because…?”

“I don’t,” Arthur admitted with a smirk. “But I figured if I gotta go listen to some preachin’, might as well have some decent company.”

Jo exhaled through her nose, a breath of something like amusement passing over her lips. “And you reckon I’m decent company?”

Arthur tilted his head, giving her a look. “I reckon you’re tolerable at best.”

Jo scoffed, shaking her head, but he caught the hint of a smile she was trying to hide. She turned slightly, adjusting her belt, like she was considering it.

“Fine,” she said eventually, feigning reluctance. “But if this monk starts tryin’ to convert me, I’m blaming you.” As she spoke, she reached out and tapped a finger against his chest for emphasis. But before she could pull away, Arthur caught her hand in his, his grip warm and steady.

“Wouldn’t have it any other way, Trouble,” he murmured, bringing her hand up to his lips and pressing a slow, teasing kiss to her knuckles.

Jo felt a sudden heat rush up her neck, but she scoffed, yanking her hand back with an exaggerated roll of her eyes—more to hide the way her heart had just skipped a damn beat than anything else.

That cheeky bastard.

Arthur grinned, stepping back as she grabbed her hat and settled it on her head.

And with that, they saddled up, riding off toward Saint Denis, finally alone—or at least, as alone as two outlaws could be in a city teeming with trouble.

Chapter Text

Saint Denis unfolded before them like a living, breathing thing—loud, busy, and stifling with the heat rising off the cobblestone streets. The rhythmic clatter of carriage wheels mixed with the distant shrill of a steamboat horn, while street vendors hollered their wares to passersby. The city had its own pulse, one that neither Jo nor Arthur particularly cared for, but they had business here, so they pressed on.

Brother Dorkins wasn’t hard to find. The monk was standing near the marketplace, speaking to a small gathering of people, his voice calm and even despite the chaos of the city around him. He recognized them before they even had the chance to speak, smiling warmly as they approached.

"Ah, you must be Arthur," he said. "And you, Miss…?"

"Jo’s fine," she replied, glancing briefly at Arthur. He was already shifting impatiently beside her, clearly not interested in pleasantries.

Brother Dorkins didn’t seem to mind. "I appreciate you both coming. There is… a troubling matter I was hoping you could look into."

He explained, in that same gentle but insistent tone, that there was a French pawnbroker running a shop in town. The man had a reputation for shady dealings, but more concerning were the whispers of something far worse—human trafficking. Slavery.

Arthur had scoffed at that, shaking his head. "Slavery? It’s 1899, brother."

"Indeed," Brother Dorkins said, "which makes it all the more disgraceful that it still lingers in the shadows."

Neither Jo nor Arthur had put much stock in the claim at first. It sounded like nonsense, the kind of thing that belonged to an uglier past, not the present day. But the monk seemed convinced, and that was enough to get them moving.

The pawnbroker’s shop was nestled between two other businesses, its windows dirty, its wooden sign barely legible from years of wear. Inside, the air was thick with dust and the stale scent of old things—books, trinkets, stolen jewelry, all piled onto shelves in careless disarray. The pawnbroker himself was a wiry man with slicked-back hair and sharp, watchful eyes. He put on a smile when they walked in, but it never quite reached his face.

Arthur played it cool, asking about a valuable watch, but Jo could see the tension in his shoulders, the way he was already itching to be done with this. She took the chance to slip toward the back of the shop, past a curtain that separated the storefront from whatever was hidden behind.

It didn’t take long to find it.

A locked door behind a bookshelf. A few harsh words and a quick threat from Arthur, and the pawnbroker caved, stammering excuses as he fumbled for the key. When they descended into the basement, the stench of mildew hit them first. Then they saw the chains.

Two men, bound and shackled, barely more than skin and bone. Their eyes were wide with fear as Jo and Arthur stepped closer, the reality of it settling like a heavy stone in Jo’s stomach.

She’d seen a lot of things in her life, but this… this was something else.

Arthur crouched down, voice low as he spoke to them. "We’re gettin’ you out of here."

And they did. The pawnbroker could shout all the excuses he wanted—claim he wasn’t responsible, that he was just doing what he was paid to do—but Arthur had made sure the bastard wouldn’t be running his business anymore.

When they emerged from the basement, Brother Dorkins was waiting outside. He looked heartbroken at the sight of the two men, murmuring soft reassurances as he led them away. Before he left, he turned back to Arthur and Jo.

"You have done a great kindness today," he said. "If ever you find yourself in need of peace, our church is always open to you. The old church on Gaspar Street in St. Frances."

Arthur gave a noncommittal nod, and Jo just let out a breath.

Neither of them had much interest in religion, but they had done what they came to do. And after that?

They walked in silence for a while, the weight of what they’d just seen clinging to them. It was strange—Jo had seen plenty of cruelty in her life, had done her fair share of wrong, but there was something about seeing men locked in chains like that… it made her stomach churn.

Maybe that was why, when they passed by a saloon, she suddenly veered toward the door.

Arthur raised an eyebrow. "What, you thirsty?"

Jo shot him a look. "After all that? You’re damn right I am."

Arthur huffed a laugh, shaking his head as he followed her inside.

The saloon was dimly lit, filled with the hum of conversation and the clinking of glasses. The bartender gave them a once-over as they approached the counter, but said nothing as Arthur tossed a few coins down.

"Two beers," he said, voice gruff.

A minute later, Jo was wrapping her fingers around a cold bottle, tipping it back for a long drink. The bitterness was welcome, grounding her in a way that words couldn’t.

Arthur leaned against the counter beside her, his own bottle half-raised, but he was watching her instead of drinking. "Y’know," he mused, "for someone who don’t like sittin’ around saloons, you sure do know when to pick a drink."

Jo snorted. "Just means I got good instincts."

Arthur smirked, finally taking a sip of his beer. They stood there for a while, the silence between them no longer heavy, just… easy. It was always like that with him. She never felt like she had to fill the quiet, never had to pretend to be anything she wasn’t.

After a while, she tilted her head toward him. "So, you still wanna check out that church? See what the fuss is all about?"

Arthur glanced at her, then sighed. "Guess we might as well. Ain’t got much else planned."

Jo smirked. "Look at you, all eager for a spiritual awakening."

Arthur scoffed. "Don’t push your luck."

She laughed, tossing back the rest of her beer before setting the empty bottle down on the counter. "Come on then, let’s go find our holy enlightenment or whatever."

Arthur chuckled, finishing his drink and tossing the bartender another coin before following her out the door.

The old church sat at the far end of the street, tucked away behind a few crumbling brick buildings. The structure itself had seen better days—the white paint that once covered the wooden walls was peeling, faded to a dull gray in places where the elements had worn it down. The steeple leaned slightly to one side, and the bell hanging in the tower looked rusted, as if it hadn’t been rung in years. The place had a quiet, humble charm, but it was clear money was tight.

As Arthur and Jo approached, they spotted Brother Dorkins seated on a weathered bench near the front steps, a book open in his lap. A few feet away, a nun knelt beside three young boys, guiding them through the words in a small, tattered book. One of the boys—scrawny, with a mess of dark curls—seemed to struggle, his finger trailing over the page slowly, his lips moving as he tried to sound out each word. The other two boys sat quietly, waiting their turn, while the nun offered patient encouragement.

Brother Dorkins must have caught sight of them first, as he suddenly shut his book and stood, calling out toward the nun.

“Sister! My friends, Mr. Morgan and Jo,” he announced with enthusiasm.

The nun looked up, her eyes lighting up as she stood and dusted off her habit. She approached them quickly, a warm smile spreading across her face.

“Oh, sir, miss,” she greeted, shaking Arthur’s hand first, then Jo’s. “Brother Dorkins told me about the wonderful things you did.”

Arthur huffed, shifting his weight as he muttered, “Oh, he talks a lot of nonsense.”

Jo couldn’t quite tell if he was being sarcastic or if he genuinely meant it, but either way, she reached out and gave his arm a light tap in chastisement. He shot her a sidelong look, half amused, half exasperated, before adding, “No offense.”

“None taken. None taken at all,” Brother Dorkins reassured, his smile unwavering.

As they exchanged pleasantries, Jo caught a flicker of movement out of the corner of her eye. One of the boys, the same one who had been struggling with his reading, had edged away from the group. His eyes darted between the adults, his fingers twitching at his sides, as if debating something. That was when Jo noticed the small wooden crucifix lying on the steps beside the nun’s book.

Before she could say anything, the boy snatched it up and took off down the street.

Brother Dorkins reacted instantly, raising a hand as he called after him. “Hey, stop!”

The boy didn’t even hesitate. Barefoot and nimble, he dashed through the street, weaving between passersby with practiced ease.

“These kids,” Arthur muttered under his breath, already moving. “They’re the worst.”

Jo was already a step ahead of him, her boots kicking up dust as she took off after the boy.

From behind, they heard the Sister’s panicked voice. “Don’t hurt him, please!”

Jo barely registered it as she ran. The kid was fast—too fast for his size—but she wasn’t about to let him slip away.

Arthur, a few paces behind her, let out a grunt as he picked up the pace. “We go to help the church, and now we’re chasin’ down thieves? What kinda twisted sense does that make?”

Jo only smirked, dodging around a startled pedestrian as they pursued their target. “Guess you’ll have to take it up with the Lord, cowboy.”

Arthur huffed, shaking his head as they kept running, weaving through the bustling streets of Saint Denis in pursuit of the runaway thief.

They rounded a corner sharply, their boots skidding slightly on the uneven stone street as they caught sight of a commotion just ahead.

"You little bastards—!"

A man had the boy by the collar of his shirt, shaking him roughly. The kid thrashed, trying to wriggle free, but the man's grip was firm. He looked to be in his forties, with a thick mustache and the kind of sun-weathered face that spoke of years working outdoors. His brown coat was a little too nice for a common laborer, but not fine enough for a wealthy gentleman—someone caught in the middle, probably a merchant or a foreman.

"Get off me!" the boy yelped, kicking at the man’s shin.

"Where's my watch, you little weasel?" the man barked, his fingers tightening around the boy’s collar.

Jo slowed from a run to a brisk walk, her breath steadying as she closed the distance between them. The boy struggled, his arms flailing as he protested.

"I don’t know nothin’ about no damn watch!"

"Last Saturday, I saw you steal—"

"Hey!" Jo’s sharp voice cut through the air, drawing the man’s attention as she stepped closer. "Leave the boy alone."

The man barely spared her a glance before sneering. "Stay out of this, woman."

Arthur was beside her in an instant, his imposing frame casting a long shadow over the man. His blue eyes flicked over him with a lazy sort of menace, one that promised trouble if pushed.

"Careful," Arthur warned, his voice calm but edged with steel.

The man scoffed but loosened his grip slightly. "What’s it to do with you?"

As he spoke, the boy twisted just enough for the crucifix to slip from his grip, the small wooden piece clattering to the ground between them.

Arthur barely spared it a glance, keeping his gaze locked on the man. His voice dropped lower, quieter, but no less threatening.

"I can hit a lot harder than you. I promise you that."

The man hesitated, swallowing hard as he finally seemed to reconsider his options. He wasn’t small, but he was no fool either—Arthur looked like the kind of man who had been in his fair share of fights and walked away from all of them.

"Alright, forget it," the man muttered, releasing the kid’s collar with a shove. "Little shit ain’t even worth my time."

With that, he turned and stomped off, muttering curses under his breath.

The boy, freed from the man’s grasp, wasted no time. He shot Arthur and Jo a quick, breathless "Thanks!" before scrambling away, disappearing into the winding streets of Saint Denis.

Jo sighed, watching him go before crouching down to pick up the fallen crucifix. She dusted it off gently with her fingers before handing it to Arthur.

"Here," she said, placing it in his palm.

Arthur barely noticed as their fingers brushed when Jo placed the crucifix in his palm—or at least, that’s what he told himself. In truth, it was like a spark shot straight through him, quick and unexpected. It was barely anything—just a light, fleeting touch—but for a second, he was aware of the warmth of her skin, the softness of her fingers against his rough, calloused ones.

He shouldn’t be thinking about it.

Shouldn’t be noticing.

And yet, he lingered, just for a second too long, before slipping the small wooden cross into his satchel. He cleared his throat, hoping Jo hadn’t caught on to the momentary lapse in his composure.

"We should bring it back to ‘em," Jo said, exhaling as she glanced at him.

Arthur gave a small nod, keeping his response short. "Yeah."

He set off at an easy stride, hoping that walking would clear his damn head. Jo fell into step beside him, unaware of the effect she had on him—or if she was, she didn’t let it show. Arthur kept his gaze ahead, trying to focus on the streets of Saint Denis instead of the lingering warmth in his palm. The city was still lively despite the late afternoon sun dipping lower, the streets humming with the chatter of people, the clatter of carriages, and the occasional shouts of vendors.

Then, a voice called out from the side of the road.

"Hey, you want some company, mister?"

The sultry tone was unmistakably directed at Arthur. He didn’t even slow down, let alone turn his head. His answer was immediate, gruff, and dismissive.

"No."

Jo smirked a little, amused at how little effort he put into rejection.

But the woman was persistent. "You sure?"

Jo suddenly had the distinct and unpleasant impression of being invisible, as if she weren’t standing right beside Arthur. She had half a mind to make herself known, stepping slightly away from Arthur with a pointed look.

"Hey," she started, a sharp edge creeping into her voice, but then—she got a good look at the woman.

The familiarity hit her all at once.

She knew this woman.

The cheap dress, the tired eyes, the face too worn for someone her age—it all clicked together in an instant.

"I know you…" Jo muttered, eyes narrowing. She had seen this woman before, not in the city, but somewhere else entirely.

Then it hit her like a brick to the chest.

"Mrs. Downes?"

The name left her lips before she could even think, her voice betraying her shock.

Arthur, who had been only half-paying attention, came to an abrupt halt. He turned his head slightly, looking from Jo to the woman with vague curiosity. He didn’t recognize her. Not in the slightest.

But Mrs. Downes?

The moment she heard her name, she paled.

"Oh, no," she whispered, her eyes darting around like a trapped animal. "Not you."

She took a shaky step backward, panic settling over her features. "Get away."

"How—? I mean—" Jo started, just as lost as Mrs. Downes was. Her mind scrambled to make sense of what she was seeing.

What the hell was she doing here?

Why was she—?

Before Jo could say another word, Mrs. Downes turned sharply and raised her voice.

"Help! They’re bothering me!"

Jo barely had time to react before the woman’s panicked cries cut through the busy street. A policeman passing nearby turned his head at once.

"Someone help me!"

Arthur saw where this was heading immediately, and he didn’t wait for the law to start asking questions.

"Shit," he muttered, then grabbed Jo’s hand without hesitation.

She barely had time to react before he was pulling her forward, leading her straight into an alleyway. They moved fast, Arthur weaving through crates and barrels, Jo keeping up with quick, practiced steps.

Behind them, the policeman shouted. "Hey! Stop right there!"

Neither of them had any intention of stopping.

They scrambled through the narrow passage, emerging into the bustling marketplace. People barely had time to react as the two of them pushed past carts and vendors, dodging through the crowd. A man yelled as Arthur knocked over a basket of fruit, oranges rolling across the cobblestone.

Jo risked a glance over her shoulder.

The lawman was still on their tail, pushing through the crowded street after them.

"Come on," Arthur urged, leading her across the road, narrowly avoiding a horse-drawn carriage. The driver shouted something colorful after them, but neither Jo nor Arthur paid it any mind as they ducked into another alleyway.

Jo huffed, a mix of breathless adrenaline and exasperation. "You got a plan, cowboy?"

"Workin’ on it," Arthur gritted out, his grip on her hand firm as they kept running.

The narrow alleyways of Saint Denis twisted around them like a labyrinth. Every turn they took seemed to lead them back to where they started, the gas lamps flickering against the brick walls, the sound of boots echoing against the cobblestones. The law was still searching for them, but running in circles wouldn’t do them any good. They had to stop, to lay low.

Arthur came to a sharp halt in the shadow of a darkened alleyway, his grip tightening around Jo’s wrist as he pulled her with him.

She barely had time to register what was happening before her back hit the wall, the cold stone seeping through her shirt. Arthur was right in front of her, his body shielding hers, arms braced against the wall on either side of her head.

They were both panting from all that running, their breath mingling in the narrow space between them.

Jo looked up at him, her chest rising and falling, and realized just how close he was.

Arthur’s gaze flickered across her face, taking in every detail—the flushed heat on her cheeks, the wild strands of hair escaping from beneath her hat, the way her lips were slightly parted as she caught her breath. His eyes lingered there for just a second too long before meeting hers again.

And Jo?

She stared into his eyes, those impossibly deep blues she could get lost in for hours.

Her heart pounded, but she wasn’t sure if it was from the chase or from the way he was looking at her now, as if she were the only thing in the world worth looking at.

Then, a smirk tugged at the corner of her lips.

“Feels like a déjà vu.”

Arthur blinked, then let out a low, breathy chuckle, a little rough, a little embarrassed—but there was something else there too. Amusement. Maybe even something dangerously close to fondness.

He shook his head slightly, a smirk of his own forming, as he recalled that night near Van Horn—their little scuffle, how he had cornered her against a wall to keep them hidden from prying eyes.

“You ain’t wrong,” he muttered, voice dipping into something warm and teasing.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

But then, the sound of voices nearby reminded them why they were there.

Arthur finally stepped back, clearing his throat, rubbing the back of his neck as if shaking off whatever had just passed between them. He almost looked sorry for it. Almost.

Jo didn’t say anything, just gave him that knowing little smirk before pushing off the wall.

The moment had passed, but it still lingered between them as they started making their way back toward the church.

The streets of Saint Denis were still alive with people despite the approaching evening. The scent of tobacco and liquor mixed with the distant hum of music from saloons. As they walked, Jo suddenly reached out, her fingers brushing against Arthur’s before curling around his hand.

Arthur glanced down at their joined hands, surprised by the sudden contact, then turned his head toward her.

Jo said nothing.

She wasn’t even looking at him. Her eyes stayed fixed on the street ahead, as if she hadn’t just done something so bold.

But there was a small smile on her lips.

Arthur didn’t let go.

He relished in the feeling of her hand in his—small but strong, warm against his calloused palm. He held onto it, not gripping, just… holding. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

They walked like that for a while, the silence between them comfortable.

Then, Arthur broke it.

“How’d you know that woman?”

Jo’s smile faded slightly, replaced by something more solemn. She sighed through her nose, her grip on his hand tightening ever so slightly.

“Strauss sent me after her husband a while ago,” she admitted, voice quieter than before. “To collect a debt.”

Arthur didn’t say anything, just listened.

“He was already dead by the time I got there,” she continued. “Found her and her boy instead.”

Arthur frowned. He didn’t remember much about the Downes family, just that they had both been sent to their ranch, after the bank robbery in Valentine, and it had turned sour with the bounty hunters chasing after them. He was usually too busy with other jobs to pay attention to who Strauss was sending where.

“I hated every second of it,” Jo muttered, and Arthur felt her fingers tense slightly in his. “Threatenin’ people who got nothin’. Takin’ from folks who barely got scraps to eat… It’s horrible.”

Arthur looked at her then, really looked at her.

She wasn’t just saying that to sound good.

She meant it.

The weight of it settled in his chest.

After a long moment, he gave her hand a gentle squeeze.

Jo finally glanced at him, her expression softer now, something unspoken passing between them.

Arthur didn’t have to say anything.

She already knew he understood.

Jo felt the warmth of Arthur’s hand still lingering in hers even as they walked in silence. It was a simple thing, really, holding hands. But it was the kind of thing they didn’t do. Not normally. Not when they spent so much time pretending things were simple between them when they weren’t.

Arthur had never been the type for small affections, and neither had Jo. Not in front of people. Not even in private, really.

But right now?

She liked it. Liked the way his thumb rested against the side of her palm, liked the way his grip wasn’t too tight or too loose, just steady. Just there.

Arthur’s fingers curled slightly, like he was debating something in his head.

Jo hummed, amused, squeezing his hand just briefly before relaxing her grip again.

Arthur didn’t let go.

She should’ve pulled away. She knew that.

Instead, she let her fingers rest against his palm a little longer, let herself enjoy this small moment—one of the few they had where it didn’t feel like the weight of everything around them was pressing down on their shoulders.

But eventually, as the church came into view, she let go.

Arthur hesitated for half a second before his hand fell away too.

They both straightened up, suddenly all business again, but Jo didn’t miss the flicker of something across Arthur’s face—a slight reluctance, maybe. Or maybe she was just imagining things.

Ahead of them, Sister Calderón was deep in conversation with a priest when she noticed them approaching. Her face immediately brightened.

“Mr. Morgan! Miss Jo!”

Both Arthur and Jo tensed slightly, still standing just a little too close together after having let go of each other’s hand.

Jo tucked her hands behind her back as Arthur cleared his throat, both of them a little embarrassed, though they wouldn’t admit it.

Sister Calderón’s smile deepened with something knowing.

Arthur reached into his satchel, pulling out the crucifix. “Sister, we got your cross.”

The old woman gasped, touching her hand to her chest before gently taking it from him.

“You didn’t!”

Arthur gave a dismissive shake of his head. “No, we did.”

The sister held the cross delicately in her wrinkled hand, looking at it like it was the most precious thing in the world.

“I hope the boy…” she began, voice laced with concern.

“The boy’s fine,” Jo reassured her with a soft smile.

Arthur, never one to leave things too sentimental, shrugged. “Physically, yeah. But mentally? He’s a piece of work. But hell, who am I to say?”

Jo chuckled beside him, shaking her head.

Sister Calderón looked between the two of them, the fondness in her eyes unmistakable.

“Brother Dorkins was right about you both,” she said, smiling warmly. “You are the most wonderful couple.”

Jo stiffened. Arthur’s entire frame went rigid beside her.

At the same time, they both blurted out, “No, we ain’t—”

Jo’s face burned with embarrassment, and Arthur looked downright uncomfortable, shifting on his feet like he wanted to escape.

Which was true. They weren’t a couple. Not really.

Sister Calderón merely chuckled, undeterred by their protests, and pulled Jo into a warm hug. Jo, still flustered, hesitated before returning it.

Then the sister turned to Arthur.

Arthur Morgan was not a man accustomed to being hugged, especially not by nuns.

He stood stiffly as Sister Calderón wrapped her arms around him, his arms hovering awkwardly at his sides, clearly unsure of what to do.

She pulled back, smiling knowingly as she winked at them both. “I see good things in your future.”

Arthur looked like he had no idea how to respond to that, so he simply muttered, “Uh… right. Thanks, Sister.”

The old nun laughed before gently running her fingers over the crucifix again.

“My mother gave this to me, just before she passed,” she explained, her voice softer now. “It means the world to me.”

Arthur and Jo both nodded in understanding.

“Thank you, truly,” she added, sincerity thick in her voice.

They wished her well before stepping away from the church, heading back toward the streets of Saint Denis.

The moment they were out of earshot, Jo glanced at Arthur, teasing glint in her eyes.

“The most wonderful couple, huh?”

Arthur groaned. “Don’t start.”

Jo just laughed, her hand brushing against his again—just for a moment.

As they stepped out into the street, Jo let out a sharp whistle, followed by Arthur’s lower, drawn-out call. Within moments, the familiar sound of hooves against cobblestone reached them.

Laramie arrived first, the sleek Arabian mare weaving through the crowd with an air of practiced ease, ears flicking forward the moment she spotted Jo. Not far behind, Altas emerged from between two carriages, his heavier steps distinct against the city’s din.

Jo ran a hand along Laramie’s neck, murmuring something under her breath as she prepared to mount up. But just as she reached for the saddle, she felt Arthur’s hands on her waist. His hands were warm and steady as they found her waist, his grip firm but careful.

Before Jo could react, he lifted her effortlessly onto Laramie’s back, his touch lingering for just a second longer than necessary before he stepped back.

The gesture took her by surprise—not because it was gallant, but because it was him. Arthur, who was so often gruff and unbothered, who rarely extended himself in ways that could be seen as soft, was now standing there rubbing the back of his neck, his face half-hidden by the brim of his hat.

If she hadn’t known better, she’d swear he was blushing.

Jo blinked down at him, her fingers grazing the saddle horn as she processed what had just happened. Then, slowly, a smile pulled at her lips.

Laramie shifted beneath her, tossing her head as if amused by the pause.

Jo didn’t let the moment pass.

Leaning slightly in the saddle, she reached down, hooking two fingers under the brim of his hat and tilting it up just enough to see him clearly.

Arthur’s blue eyes flickered up to meet hers, wary but undeniably soft.

For a moment, they just stared at each other.

Then, before she could talk herself out of it, Jo leaned forward, closing the space between them.

The kiss was barely a breath—a fleeting press of her lips against his cheek, warm and deliberate. His stubble was rough against her skin, the scent of tobacco and leather filling her senses.

She felt him still beneath her touch.

And for a split second, she almost thought he might turn his head—

But she didn’t wait to find out.

Before anything else could happen, Jo straightened, nudging Laramie forward into a slow trot. The mare moved as if smug, her ears flicking back as though she, too, understood exactly what her rider had done.

Arthur didn’t move at first.

He stood there, rooted to the spot, blinking after her with a look of almost-boyish bewilderment, his fingers flexing slightly at his sides.

Then, shaking his head to himself, he mounted Altas in one smooth motion, catching up to ride alongside her.

As he caught up, falling into stride beside her, Jo didn’t look at him—not directly. But there was something unmistakable in the way her lips stayed slightly curled, in the way she sat a little taller in the saddle.

Neither of them spoke.

But something hung in the air between them—something unspoken, something that had always been there, lurking beneath their teasing and bickering and stolen glances.

Jo kept her eyes on the road ahead, but the small smile on her lips never faded.

Arthur exhaled through his nose, adjusting his hat even though she’d already set it right.

This wasn’t the first time they’d toed this line.

And somehow, he had a feeling it wouldn’t be the last.

Chapter Text

The morning had settled into a slow, sticky rhythm, the kind that only the swamps of Lemoyne could provide. Even in the early hours, the air was thick, clinging to the skin with a damp warmth that promised another sweltering day ahead. A thin mist still curled along the edges of the trees, lingering over the murky waters beyond camp, but the sun had already begun its steady ascent, burning it away inch by inch.

Jo was minding her own business, sitting near the dying embers of last night’s fire, a tin cup of coffee cradled in her hands. It wasn’t the best brew she’d ever had—probably had been sitting over the flames too long—but it was coffee, and that was enough.

Earlier, she had caught sight of Arthur and Hosea talking a little ways off, their conversation low but weighted. Dutch had joined them a few minutes later, his usual air of importance surrounding him like an invisible mantle. Whatever they were discussing, it hadn’t been anything thrilling—at least, not for Arthur. The look on his face when Dutch spoke had been one of reluctant understanding, maybe even quiet frustration. But who was she to judge?

She didn’t dwell on it too long, returning her focus to her coffee, swirling the last bit at the bottom of the cup when a shadow fell over her.

Jo lifted her gaze, arching a brow as Arthur stood before her, arms crossed, looking like he was about to ask her for a kidney.

“I need to ask ya a favor,” he said, his voice that familiar gravelly drawl.

Jo took a slow sip, dragging it out before finally answering, “Well, now. Ain’t that somethin’.” She set her cup down and placed a hand over her heart, dramatically batting her lashes. Then, in a gruff, exaggerated impression of him, she said, “Mornin’, Jo. How are ya this fine day, Jo? Hope ya slept well, Jo.”

Arthur rolled his eyes, though the corner of his mouth twitched in amusement. “Alright, alright. Mornin’, Jo,” he said, voice dripping with exaggerated politeness. “How are ya this fine day, Jo? Hope ya slept well, Jo.”

Jo smirked, satisfied, and leaned back in her chair. “See? Wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Arthur let out a soft huff, shaking his head before getting back to business. “Look, there’s some fancy party in Saint Denis tonight. At the mayor’s house.”

Jo narrowed her eyes, already feeling where this was going.

“Bronte’s gonna be there,” he continued, “and Dutch wants me there. And…” He shifted his weight slightly, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I want ya there with me.”

Jo snorted, shaking her head before he could even finish. “Me? In a dress?” She chuckled, setting her cup down beside her. “Ain’t happenin’.”

Arthur pressed his lips together, like he expected that answer but wasn’t gonna accept it.

“C’mon,” he drawled, leaning his weight against the back of the chair beside her. “I ain’t sure I can survive this night without ya by my side, Trouble.”

Jo gave him a look, unconvinced. “You? Not survivin’ a party? What, too many folks with manners? Too much polite conversation?”

Arthur sighed, tilting his head slightly. “Somethin’ like that.”

Jo shook her head, amused. She could tell he was trying to make this sound casual, but there was something else there—something in the way he asked her, in the way his eyes lingered just a little longer than usual.

She exhaled, rubbing at her jaw in thought. “I ain’t promisin’ I won’t start some trouble,” she warned, giving him a side glance.

Arthur smirked. “Wouldn’t have asked ya if I thought otherwise.”

Jo huffed a soft laugh, tilting her head back toward the sky as if already regretting her decision. “Alright, fine,” she muttered. “But you owe me for this.”

Arthur chuckled, pushing off the chair and stretching his arms behind his head. “Guess I better find a way to repay ya then.”

Jo scoffed, shaking her head, knowing full well this was gonna be a night to remember.

The afternoon in Saint Denis was a restless one, the city alive with its usual bustle, but for once, the Van der Linde men weren’t moving through it like outlaws. No, today they were playing the part of high society—or at least trying to.

Dutch, Hosea, Bill and Arthur had spent the better part of the day preparing for the mayor’s gala, their usual rugged appearances exchanged for something far more polished. The tailors in town had their hands full, fitting tuxedos, adjusting lapels, and ensuring their clients looked presentable enough to mingle among the wealthy. Afterward came haircuts, beards trimmed or shaved entirely, followed by long-overdue baths.

Arthur, against his usual preference for a bit of scruff, had shaved, leaving only a faint shadow of stubble. He hadn't been clean-shaven in a long while, and it felt strange, but if he had to wear a damn tuxedo, he might as well go all the way.

Meanwhile, Jo was privately regretting ever agreeing to Arthur’s request. She wasn’t one for fancy parties, much less dressing up for them. But she had given her word, and so, she found herself standing in front of a mirror, slipping into a dress that felt entirely too elegant for someone like her. She had washed up, her skin free of the usual dust and sweat of camp life, and her hair was carefully done—more effort than she had put into it in years.

By the time the sun had begun to set, casting golden light over the city, they were all ready. One by one, they arrived in front of the mayor’s grand estate, where the evening’s festivities would soon begin. The air was thick with the scent of expensive perfume, cigar smoke, and freshly cut grass, the sounds of music and conversation already drifting from within.

The rhythmic click of Jo’s heels against the concrete signaled her arrival before she even spoke. The men—Dutch, Hosea, Bill, and Arthur—stood in front of the mayor’s grand estate, their conversation halting as they turned one by one. First Dutch, his sharp eyes widening ever so slightly in pleasant surprise. Then Hosea, who raised his brows and let out an approving chuckle. Bill, for once, was at a loss for words, blinking as if he wasn’t sure this was the same Jo he was used to seeing in trousers and a gun belt.

And then, finally, Arthur turned.

The moment he laid eyes on her, he forgot how to breathe.

Jo was radiant. Resplendent. She moved with an elegance he’d never quite seen before, wrapped in a soft blue gown that fit her like a second skin, hugging her curves in all the right places. The neckline, cut just low enough to tease, offered the barest hint of her chest, enough to steal his thoughts clean away. Her golden hair was pinned atop her head, a few loose curls framing her face, accentuating the delicate slope of her neck and shoulders. Dangling earrings shimmered under the streetlamps, drawing his gaze as she approached with a soft smile.

Her eyes immediately found Arthur, dressed impeccably in a suit that hugged his broad shoulders and lean physique. The dark fabric of the tuxedo contrasted sharply against his sun-kissed skin, highlighting the powerful lines of his frame. It was a striking departure from his usual worn cowboy attire, but it suited him in a way she hadn’t anticipated. The usual roughness that defined his look—the rugged hat, the boots caked in dust, the well-worn leather—was absent, and in their place, a polished yet still undeniably masculine presence stood before her.

She swallowed, her heart giving a strange, unexpected jolt as she took in how handsome he looked. His jaw was sharp and strong, his eyes just as intense as ever, but there was something about the suit that made him appear... different. He wasn’t just Arthur anymore, the wild cowboy she knew. No, in that moment, he had an almost magnetic allure, a quiet confidence she hadn’t seen before.

“Gentlemen,” she greeted smoothly, her voice carrying a warmth that made them all stand a little straighter.

Dutch was the first to recover, letting out a low whistle. “Well, now, I do believe Saint Denis has gained itself a true diamond this evening.”

Hosea, ever the gentleman, dipped his head. “I’d say we should be honored to have such fine company tonight.”

Even Bill, still looking dumbstruck, muttered, “Damn,” under his breath, though he quickly cleared his throat and looked away as if embarrassed.

The men turned toward the gate, moving ahead toward the entrance, leaving Arthur standing in front of Jo. He was still at a loss for words, his throat suddenly dry, his hands twitching at his sides as if unsure what to do with them.

She tilted her head slightly, amusement dancing in her eyes.

“Arthur?”

He blinked, finally snapping out of it. Clearing his throat, he shifted on his feet before managing, “Uh—You look... You’re beautiful, Jo.” His voice came out quieter than he intended, rough around the edges.

A smirk tugged at the corner of her lips. “You ain’t so bad yourself,” she replied, eyes sweeping over him in his tuxedo before reaching out, her fingers brushing along his clean-shaven jaw. “Miss the stubble, though.”

Arthur barely had time to react before she was stepping past him, joining the others.

He exhaled sharply, as if releasing the breath he’d been holding since the moment he saw her, and ran a hand over his face before trailing after her, suddenly grateful for the cool night air.

Dutch stepped forward, ever the picture of charm, and handed over the invitation with a smooth smile. The man at the gate examined it briefly before nodding in approval.

Dutch took a step forward, but the doorman lifted a hand to stop them.

"I'm afraid the mayor does not allow guns at official functions after last year's incident," the man explained, his tone polite but firm.

Dutch let out a short chuckle, shaking his head as if the very idea amused him. He reached into his coat and pulled out his sidearm, placing it into the offered chest.

Hosea followed suit, slipping his gun from its holster and setting it down with a small sigh. Bill grumbled under his breath but did as he was told.

Arthur, however, hesitated. His fingers tightened around his gun for a moment before finally—reluctantly—placing it in the chest with a heavy thud.

They all stepped forward, only for the doorman to halt them again.

"You too, miss," he said, turning his expectant gaze on Jo.

The men, already a few steps ahead, turned back around at once. Dutch raised an eyebrow, Bill smirked slightly, and Arthur narrowed his eyes at the doorman.

Jo stared at the man with a look that could’ve burned a hole straight through his skull.

But she conceded, bending slightly and hiking the skirt of her dress up to her knee, revealing the revolver strapped to her calf.

The moment the hem of her dress lifted, the men promptly averted their eyes, looking anywhere but at her exposed leg. Even Bill had the decency to clear his throat and glance away.

The doorman, however, didn’t even blink.

Jo pulled the revolver from the strap and dropped it loudly into the chest, stepping forward once again.

But just as she did, the man lifted a hand to stop her once more.

Arthur took an instinctive step forward, his jaw tightening, ready to put an end to this nonsense. But before he could do anything, he felt a firm grip on his arm.

Hosea.

Arthur glanced at him, but the older man merely gave him a small, knowing shake of the head. He’d known Arthur long enough to predict exactly how he was going to react.

Meanwhile, the doorman raised an eyebrow at Jo, clearly unconvinced.

Jo’s deadpan expression only deepened.

She huffed a sharp breath through her nose, clearly fed up, before bending once again—this time with zero care for modesty—and hiking up her skirt higher to retrieve yet another revolver from her other calf, followed by a large knife.

The doorman let out a low whistle but said nothing as she deposited them into the chest with a loud clatter.

Only when she was finally unarmed did he grin and gesture them forward.

"Luca here will take you to Mr. Bronte," he announced, stepping aside. “I believe he is expecting you.”

Jo shot him one last glare before stepping past him, her irritation still simmering beneath her composed exterior.

Arthur trailed behind, shaking his head slightly, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips despite himself.

As they stepped forward, Luca fell into idle chatter with Dutch, who walked ahead with an air of ease, engaging in the conversation with his usual charm. Hosea and Bill followed closely behind, their expressions more guarded but not unwelcoming.

Jo and Arthur, however, lingered a little behind, their pace slower as they ascended the stone steps leading up to the grand entrance.

Arthur, glancing sideways at Jo, smirked. "Jesus, woman. Just how many weapons do you usually carry?"

Jo chuckled softly, shrugging one shoulder. "Still got one left," she admitted. "But if that bastard had found it, I would've punched him in the face."

Arthur nearly choked on air.

His smirk faltered for just a second as his mind—against his better judgment—tried to figure out exactly where she could've hidden that last weapon. Heat crept up his neck at the thought, and he quickly shook it from his head, clearing his throat. Jesus, Morgan, get a hold of yourself.

Instead, he offered his arm.

Jo hesitated, blinking in slight surprise, before her lips curled in a small, almost shy smile. A hint of pink dusted her cheeks as she looped her arm through his, letting their bodies inch closer as they stepped inside.

The warmth of her pressed against him, the soft rustling of her dress, the faint scent of her perfume—it was enough to make Arthur momentarily forget where they were.

But only for a moment.

As they were led through the grand entrance hall and up a sweeping staircase, Arthur’s focus hardened. He didn’t trust Bronte, not one damn bit.

He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice just for Jo to hear.

"Stay close," he murmured, his tone edged with quiet warning. "I don’t trust this Bronte."

Jo cast him a side glance, her amusement from before fading into something more serious.

"Wasn't plannin’ on wanderin’ off," she replied just as quietly, her fingers subconsciously tightening around his arm.

Arthur gave her a small nod, eyes scanning the lavish surroundings as they continued forward, stepping deeper into the lion’s den.

"Hosea, Bill, you join the party. We'll meet you out back after we pay our respect to signor Bronte." 

Hosea and Bill parted ways without much fuss, Hosea throwing one last glance over his shoulder as he said, "We’ll meet you back on the balcony when you're done."

Jo, still clinging to Arthur’s arm, looked up at him, waiting for some indication of where she was supposed to go. Hosea and Bill had been given their instructions, but no one had said a word about her.

Arthur met her gaze and, with the smallest shake of his head, wordlessly told her what she needed to know—she was staying with him.

She gave a short nod, understanding without argument. If he wasn’t about to let her out of his sight, well, she wasn’t about to leave it either.

Luca led them up another staircase, this one smaller than the grand one they’d taken before. They moved through a mezzanine, the sound of the party below echoing up through the open space. Then, Luca reached a set of polished double doors, pushing them open to reveal a grand balcony.

It overlooked the entire garden below, where well-dressed guests mingled, glasses of champagne glittering in the light of the chandeliers hanging from the trees. Music played from an ensemble tucked away in the corner, the sound of violins floating into the warm, humid air of the Saint Denis night.

And standing in the middle of it all, like a spider at the center of his web, was Angelo Bronte.

"Ah, the angry cowboys, you've arrived..."

Bronte’s voice carried an air of mockery, his words dripping with amusement. He stepped forward, dressed sharply, his every movement oozing with self-importance.

Jo felt her stomach tighten. She hadn’t even properly met the man, and already, she could tell Arthur was right not to trust him.

He was a sinister thing, cruel and calculating, his polished exterior concealing something far uglier beneath. The way he looked at them—at her—sent a shiver down her spine.

Her fingers instinctively curled tighter around Arthur’s arm.

Bronte, of course, seemed unbothered, too busy speaking in what Jo guessed was Italian, a language neither she nor the others understood. His tone was casual, but there was something pointed in his words, something knowing.

She didn’t like it.

She didn’t like him.

Arthur didn’t either. She could feel it in the way his body tensed next to her.

Dutch, however, remained as cool as ever, a pleasant smile fixed on his lips as he greeted the man, slipping effortlessly into his silver-tongued ways.

But Jo wasn’t fooled.

And neither was Arthur.

"This is quite a party you've invited us to," Dutch said smoothly, shaking Bronte’s hand with that ever-present, charismatic ease.

"Yes, quite something," Bronte replied, though his interest in Dutch was fleeting. His gaze drifted, dark eyes settling instead on Jo as she approached, still arm-in-arm with Arthur. A slow, knowing smile stretched across his lips.

"Although, I must say… it just got much more interesting."

Jo barely concealed her discomfort, keeping her expression composed even as her stomach twisted.

Arthur, on the other hand, was far less composed. His body stiffened beside her, and though he said nothing, the look in his eyes—sharp, narrowed, brimming with warning—spoke volumes.

Bronte, entirely unbothered, took a step closer.

"And who might you be, bella ?" he asked, voice rich with an accent that turned the words velvety and smooth.

Jo hesitated, glancing toward Arthur briefly before forcing a polite smile onto her lips. "Josephine."

"Josephine," Bronte repeated, as if tasting the name on his tongue, savoring it. Then, before she could react, he reached for her hand, lifting it to his lips and pressing a kiss to the back of it.

Arthur had to let go of her arm then, though he did so with obvious reluctance, his fingers twitching at his side as he glared silently at the man.

Bronte chuckled, as if Arthur’s glare amused him rather than unsettled him.

"A woman as stunning as you, in the company of such men…" he tutted, shaking his head as if it were a shameful thing. "It hardly seems fitting."

Arthur exhaled harshly through his nose, and Jo knew if Bronte kept running his mouth, it wouldn’t be long before Arthur lost whatever remained of his patience.

"Well," Jo said, forcing a small laugh, "I suppose I enjoy the company of the unfitting."

Bronte smirked. "A shame, truly."

Then, before either she or Arthur could react, Bronte slid his arm around her waist and gently guided her toward the balcony railing.

Arthur shifted on his feet as if he might step forward, but Dutch subtly placed a hand on his shoulder, keeping him in place.

"Let her," Dutch murmured under his breath, his tone deceptively calm. "She can handle herself."

Arthur clenched his jaw, but didn’t argue.

Jo, meanwhile, was doing everything in her power not to recoil from Bronte’s touch. His hand rested firmly at her waist, fingers pressing lightly into the fabric of her dress. It wasn’t necessarily inappropriate, but it was too familiar—too bold.

She allowed him to lead her, standing beside him at the railing, looking out over the garden.

"You see, bella," Bronte began, voice smooth, "I host these gatherings for men of great power, influence, and wealth. The kind of men who shape the world while others simply live in it."

He waved a hand toward the crowd below, as if every guest was of the utmost importance.

"These men," he continued, "they do not take kindly to your kind. Cowboys, outlaws…" He clicked his tongue. "It is a world that no longer belongs to you. And yet, here you all are, pretending you still matter."

Jo’s smile remained, but inside, she bristled.

She knew what he was doing.

Every word was meant to undermine them, to remind them of their place, of how small and insignificant they were compared to men like him.

So she simply hummed, tilting her head as if considering his words. "And yet," she mused, "we’re the ones you invited."

Bronte chuckled at that, dark and amused. "That, bella, is because even dead men deserve a last supper."

Jo turned her head toward Bronte then, finally giving him her full attention.

He was so damn smug. Smug and powerful, and worst of all, he knew it. That infuriating smirk, the way he spoke as if they were already beaten, as if they were nothing more than dirt beneath his polished shoes.

But Jo?

She’d dealt with men like him before. Men who thought wealth made them untouchable, who mistook cruelty for strength.

She smiled—a slow, amused smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

"Dead men deserve a last supper, huh?" she echoed, swirling the wine in her glass. "Funny."

Bronte arched a brow.

"See, where I come from," she continued, her tone light, easy, "a man with your kind of money would know better than to run his mouth to the ones servin’ the damn meal."

His smirk faltered ever so slightly.

Jo took a casual step away from him, just enough to remove his arm from her waist, and turned to face him fully. Her expression was unreadable, her eyes gleaming with something dangerously close to amusement.

"Because the way I see it, Signor Bronte," she continued, voice still as smooth as silk, "you didn’t invite us here out of the kindness of your heart. No, see, you need somethin’ from us." She gestured vaguely between herself, Dutch, and Arthur. "And for a man who claims our kind don’t belong in this world no more, you sure are awful keen on keepin’ us close."

Bronte’s lips parted slightly, but Jo didn’t give him a chance to speak.

"Now, I could stand here, act all flattered by your little speech, pretend I don’t know exactly what you’re tryin’ to do. But let’s not waste each other’s time." She tilted her head, voice dropping just enough to turn her next words into a sharpened blade.

"You need us more than we need you."

Silence.

Bronte’s expression remained carefully composed, but the glint of amusement in his eyes had cooled into something else—something more calculating.

Jo smiled sweetly.

Then she turned on her heel, stepping away from the balcony, brushing past Arthur as she did.

"You comin’?" she murmured to him, as if the entire conversation had been nothing more than idle chatter.

Arthur was staring at her. Not at Bronte, not at Dutch— her .

And hell, if she didn’t just knock the damn breath out of his lungs.

He blinked, barely registering the way Dutch was grinning with pride, or the way Bronte exhaled sharply through his nose, unimpressed but clearly caught off guard.

Arthur didn’t give a damn about either of them.

Instead, he fell into step beside Jo, shaking his head with a quiet chuckle.

"Damn, Darlin’," he muttered under his breath, just for her. " Remind me never to piss you off. "

As Arthur made his way down the staircase, Jo followed closely behind, her hand gliding lightly along the banister. Dutch stayed behind with Bronte, no doubt to smooth over whatever ruffled feathers she’d left in her wake. Not that she regretted a damn thing she’d said.

They stepped through a set of open doors leading to a balcony overlooking the garden. The air was thick with the scent of cigars, expensive perfume, and whatever flowery nonsense the mayor had planted down below. Laughter and conversation drifted from clusters of guests dressed in their finest, sipping champagne and indulging in polite gossip.

Hosea and Bill were already there, waiting. Bill looked like he’d rather be anywhere else, while Hosea, ever the social man, had a glass of champagne in hand and a knowing gleam in his eye as he took them both in.

“Enjoying the party, you two?” he asked with a smirk.

Arthur rolled his shoulders. “Somethin’ like that.”

Before Jo could say anything, Dutch appeared behind them.

“Gentlemen…” He clapped his hands together, smiling as if they were all just another group of esteemed guests rather than a band of outlaws looking to take advantage of the city’s elite. “Let’s go ingratiate ourselves.”

He turned to Arthur first.

“Go find the mayor if you can, and stay outta trouble. And steal nothing —unless it’s information.”

Arthur huffed but nodded.

Dutch’s attention shifted to Hosea. “Hosea, you go find us a place to rob.”

Hosea grinned, lifting his glass slightly before heading off into the crowd.

Dutch then turned to Bill. “Bill, go make us some new friends.”

Bill grumbled something under his breath but stalked off regardless, likely toward the nearest group of men who looked like they could be won over with talk of guns and drinking.

Jo adjusted the bracelet on her wrist, already prepared to follow Arthur when—

“Miss Harper, a word, please.”

She froze, blinking up at Dutch as he stepped closer.

Arthur had taken no more than two steps forward when he hesitated, glancing back at her. Their eyes met, a silent question passing between them.

Jo gave him the smallest nod.

Arthur exhaled through his nose and muttered, “Won’t be far,” before finally disappearing into the crowd.

Jo turned back to Dutch, swallowing lightly. His expression was unreadable, though there was something almost amused in the way he regarded her.

“This about what I said to Bronte?” she asked, voice quieter now that it was just the two of them. “’M really sorry, Dutch, but that man—”

Jo swallowed her words as Dutch placed a firm but reassuring hand on her shoulder. His expression was unreadable for a moment, his sharp blue eyes studying her closely, as if weighing whether or not to scold her. She held her breath, waiting for the inevitable.

And then—Dutch chuckled.

Not the amused kind of chuckle like Hosea’s, or even the quiet, entertained one Arthur sometimes let slip when she teased him. No, this was something different—something calculating, intrigued.

"Now, now, Miss Harper," Dutch said smoothly, tilting his head. "No need to apologize. In fact…" He squeezed her shoulder lightly. "I do believe our dear Signor Bronte rather enjoyed your little display."

Jo blinked, caught off guard. That hadn’t been the response she was expecting.

Dutch let go of her shoulder, clasping his hands together as he glanced toward the crowd beyond the balcony. "If there’s one thing men like him respect, it’s confidence. Strength. A woman who doesn’t cower or simper at his words? Oh, that’s fascinating to a man like Bronte." He shot her a smirk. "And I daresay, my dear, you’ve just made yourself very interesting in his eyes."

Jo frowned. "That ain't exactly comforting."

Dutch chuckled again. "It ain’t meant to be, darling. Just means we have something to work with. See, Bronte thinks himself above us. But now?" His smirk widened. "Now, he knows we’re not so easily swayed. That you are not so easily swayed.”

Jo shifted on her heels, arms crossing over her chest as she eyed Dutch warily. “So what, you expect me to play along now? Keep Bronte entertained just ‘cause he finds me ‘fascinating’?”

Dutch exhaled a quiet laugh through his nose, his smirk never faltering. “Oh, Miss Harper, don’t sell yourself short. You think you’re just entertainment to a man like that? No, no…” He leaned in slightly, voice lowering just for her. “You’re leverage.”

Jo’s stomach twisted at that. She didn’t like being called that—being seen as that.

Dutch straightened, smoothing his jacket. “Now, I ain’t sayin’ you gotta go flirtin’ with the bastard. But a woman who can hold her own, keep him on his toes? That’s valuable to us. And if he’s paying attention to you…” He spread his hands out in a knowing gesture. “Well, then he ain’t paying attention to what we’re really here for, is he?”

Jo narrowed her eyes. “And what are we really here for?”

Dutch only smiled. “Why, to make new friends, of course.”

She scoffed, shaking her head. “Yeah. Friends.”

Dutch reached out again, this time tapping a light finger under her chin, like she was some prized chess piece he had just placed on the board. “Just be your usual, sharp-tongued self, Miss Harper. That alone seems to be enough to rattle men like Bronte.”

She swallowed, unsure if that was a compliment or a warning. Maybe both.

“So what? You want me to go back up there, bat my lashes and let him talk down to me some more?”

Dutch chuckled, shaking his head. “No, no. If I sent you back, he’d know I was using you. Bronte ain’t a fool, sweetheart. No, I need you down here, makin’ your presence known, letting him want to keep an eye on you.”

Jo exhaled slowly, glancing around the glittering party. The idea of being some pawn in Dutch’s game made her stomach turn, but she also knew better than to argue. He was playing Bronte just as much as Bronte was playing them , and she was just another piece on the board.

Dutch gave her shoulder a pat before letting go, his expression warm but firm. “Now, why don’t you go find Arthur? Make sure he don’t embarrass himself in front of the mayor.”

Jo clenched her jaw but nodded, stepping away from Dutch with a tight smile. She turned on her heel, scanning the crowd for Arthur, her mind still turning over Dutch’s words.

Jo let out a soft breath as she weaved through the glittering crowd, her gaze locked onto Arthur. He was guiding a man—likely a drunkard—to the far end of the backyard, his grip firm but not forceful. She smirked slightly. Even at a high-class gathering, Arthur still found himself wrangling troublemakers.

She slowed her steps, waiting as Arthur turned back. His sharp eyes scanned the party before settling on her. For a moment, he simply looked, his expression unreadable. Then, with the subtlest motion—a small nod—he beckoned her forward before rejoining the group of men he had been conversing with earlier.

By the time she reached them, Arthur was shaking hands with someone, his posture straighter than usual, his manner almost… polite. It took Jo a second to recognize the well-dressed man before him.

“Ah, thank you Monsieur” the man spoke with a thick French accent, his tone carrying the confidence of someone who was used to being the most important man in any room.

Jo nearly stopped in her tracks. Henri Lemieux. The Mayor of Saint Denis.

Arthur, catching her approach from the corner of his eye, turned slightly and offered his arm. Without missing a beat, Jo stepped into place beside him, resting her hand lightly on his forearm as she smiled at the men before her.

The Mayor’s gaze flickered to her, his curiosity piqued. “And who is this lovely lady?”

Jo answered by leaning in and pressing a lingering kiss to Arthur’s cheek. She felt the briefest stiffening of his shoulders before he relaxed, playing along.

“Oh, just someone keeping this one in check,” she teased, letting her fingers skim down his arm before meeting the Mayor’s eyes with a perfectly poised smile.

Arthur gave her a sidelong glance but said nothing.

Henri Lemieux chuckled, seemingly amused. “I hope you’re both enjoying my party.” His arms spread slightly as he took in the grand display before them. “The city is horribly in debt, but we can still put on a good show.”

Henri Lemieux let out a satisfied sigh, glancing over his shoulder as his attention was drawn elsewhere. “Well, I must attend to my guests,” he said smoothly, offering a small bow of his head. The men with him murmured their polite goodbyes before slipping away, leaving Jo and Arthur alone on the edge of the party.

Arthur exhaled through his nose, shifting his weight. His eyes flickered toward her before he smirked.

“So,” he drawled, tilting his head slightly. “Didn’t take you for the affectionate type.”

Jo arched a brow, feigning innocence. “What, can’t a girl show a little appreciation for her date?”

Arthur scoffed, shaking his head. “Right. ‘Appreciation.’” His tone was amused, but there was something else in it too—something unreadable. He rubbed his jaw absently before his expression turned more serious. “What did Dutch want?”

Jo hesitated. She could still hear Dutch’s voice in her head, that knowing tone of his. Bronte likes you. Keep him entertained. Keep him talking.

The truth curled at the edge of her tongue, but she bit it back.

She wasn’t about to tell Arthur what Dutch really wanted. It wasn’t his problem to fix, and she sure as hell didn’t need him fretting over her like she was some delicate thing. She was a big girl—had been for a long time. She could handle herself.

So instead, she gave a casual shrug. “Nothin’ important,” she said simply, forcing a smile. “Don’t worry.”

Arthur frowned. He clearly didn’t buy it, but after a moment, he let it go. “Alright,” he muttered, though the doubt remained in his eyes.

Before either of them could say anything more, a sharp whistle cut through the air, followed by the crackling boom of fireworks erupting above them. The night sky burst into brilliant colors—gold, crimson, sapphire—painting the garden in a dazzling glow. The crowd gasped in delight, some clapping, others raising their glasses in appreciation of the spectacle.

Jo, however, flinched at the sudden noise. It wasn’t much—just a slight jolt, her breath catching for half a second—but Arthur noticed. His eyes flicked toward her, his expression softening. Without thinking, he placed a steadying hand at the small of her back, the warmth of his palm grounding her.

She didn’t pull away.

For a moment, neither of them spoke, watching the sky in silence. Arthur’s hand remained where it was, solid and reassuring. Jo let herself lean into it—just a little.

The fireworks painted the night sky in bursts of color, gold and crimson flickering against the deep blue. The sound of the explosions echoed across the garden, but Jo hardly noticed now. She had startled at first, but with Arthur’s hand still resting against the small of her back, she found herself grounded—secure.

For a rare moment, she allowed herself to just be. No gang business, no Bronte, no scheming. Just the fireworks, the warmth of Arthur beside her, and the way the night air felt softer than usual.

Arthur hadn’t moved his hand, and she hadn’t made him. If anything, she let herself lean into him, pressing her side lightly against his. It was natural—effortless, like she belonged there. He was solid, warm, the scent of his cologne mixing with the night breeze.

Arthur didn’t pull away. Instead, he shifted just slightly, enough to close the space between them. His fingers flexed once at her back, like he had noticed the closeness but wasn’t quite sure what to do with it.

They stood like that for a while, both watching the fireworks in rare, unspoken understanding. It wasn’t often they got moments like this—where the world around them slowed down, where they weren’t just outlaws trying to survive another day.

A particularly bright firework bloomed above them, casting a golden light over their faces. Jo glanced up at Arthur then, catching the way his gaze lingered on the sky. His expression was softer than usual, a quiet appreciation in his features that she didn’t often get to see.

The moment shattered like glass beneath a boot as a servant brushed past Jo, startling her just enough to pull her from the warmth of Arthur’s side. He moved swiftly, head low, but not low enough to escape their notice. The way he walked—purposeful, almost nervous—sent a ripple of tension through the air.

Arthur’s eyes followed the man as he weaved toward the mayor, catching only a sliver of the exchange. Cornwall. That was all it took to put him back on edge.

Jo had caught it too, her body straightening beside him. Any remnants of the peaceful moment they had shared evaporated, replaced by something sharper.

Then came Dutch, appearing behind them like a ghost, his voice a hushed demand. "Did he just say something about Cornwall?"

"Yes," Arthur muttered, jaw tight.

Dutch barely hesitated before pressing them further. "Find out what."

And just like that, the weight of reality came crashing back down. The fireworks still burst above them, the guests still laughed and drank and celebrated, but for Arthur and Jo, the night had taken a different turn.

They moved without a word, slipping through the crowd with ease, their steps light and deliberate. Arthur took the lead, his posture shifting into something familiar—watchful, predatory. Jo followed suit, her fingers brushing lightly at the fabric of her dress, adjusting it as if that would make her feel more prepared.

They trailed the servant through the garden, past clusters of guests too deep in their own conversations to notice them. The man disappeared through a side door of the manor, and without hesitation, they quickened their pace, blending into the shadows cast by the grand estate.

The house was alive with muffled voices and the clinking of glasses from the party outside, but Jo and Arthur moved through it like ghosts, their footsteps silent against the polished floors. The servant they trailed carried himself with authority, his sharp tone cutting through the air as he barked orders at others in passing. He wasn’t just another worker—he was someone in charge. A head servant, most likely. Someone entrusted with more than just pouring drinks and clearing plates.

They followed him up the same narrow staircase they had taken earlier when they had met Bronte. The climb was careful, measured, their ears tuned to every creak of the wood beneath their steps.

At the top of the stairs, they stopped just short of the corner, pressing themselves into the shadows. From their vantage point, they had a clear view of what was likely the mayor’s office.

The servant stepped inside, leaving the door open behind him. Jo and Arthur peered through the crack between the door and the frame, watching as he crossed the room with purpose. He reached the mayor’s desk, pulled a key from his coat, and unlocked the bottom drawer. A paper—something important, no doubt—was slipped inside before the drawer was locked once again.

Then, without hesitation, the servant exited through a side door, disappearing into another part of the house.

They waited for the sound of his footsteps to fade before slipping inside.

Arthur stayed by the door, keeping watch, while Jo went straight for the desk. The locked drawer wasn’t about to open on its own, and she wasn’t about to waste time looking for another way.

With ease, she lifted one leg onto the desk, hiking her skirt up high enough to reveal the sheath strapped to the top of her thigh. Arthur caught a glimpse of smooth skin before he realized just how much she was revealing.

His face burned instantly, and he immediately turned his head, clearing his throat sharply. " Jesus , woman." His voice was gruff, edged with something he wasn’t about to acknowledge.

Jo smirked, her fingers deftly unfastening the knife from its strap. "Thought it was nothin’ you hadn’t seen before?" she teased, throwing his own words right back at him.

Arthur exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. "T’was different," he muttered, still stubbornly keeping his gaze elsewhere.

Her quiet, smug laughter filled the space between them before she got back to work, slipping the blade beneath the drawer’s latch and using it as a lever. A little pressure, a soft snap, and the lock gave way.

Inside, the paper sat right where the servant had left it, the words Top Secret standing out in bold print.

Jo pulled it free, rolling it carefully before strapping her knife back into place and smoothing down her dress. She handed the document over to Arthur, who took it quickly, his eyes scanning the page.

They had what they needed. Now, they just had to get out of there.

They acted like lost guests as they wandered back downstairs, their steps measured and unhurried, blending in seamlessly with the lingering crowd. By the time they reached the lower balcony, Dutch was already there, leaning against the railing, his eyes scanning the party below.

"Find anything?" he inquired the moment Arthur and Jo approached.

Arthur didn’t answer, just tapped the breast pocket of his jacket where the folded paper sat.

Dutch’s expression barely shifted, but the flicker of satisfaction in his eyes told them he was pleased enough.

Nearly a second later, Bill stomped onto the balcony, grumbling under his breath. "Nothin'… this town is a damn waste of time."

"Maybe not." Hosea, who followed right behind, placed a hand on Bill’s shoulder to halt him. He nodded toward Arthur and Jo, who both shared a knowing, almost malicious smile.

"Gentlemen, lady, I think we're done here," Hosea announced. He turned on his heel and strode back into the house, Dutch and Bill following behind. Arthur and Jo trailed just behind them.

As they walked toward the entrance, Dutch shot a glance back at Hosea. "What did you find out?"

Hosea barely broke stride. "There's plenty of money movin’ through here, of course, and I think I found out how we can grab some of it. A big bank. A real one, I mean—but not yet."

Dutch’s interest sharpened. "A city bank?"

"Maybe," Hosea admitted, adjusting his coat. "And a stuffed one. If we're gonna leave, that could be the one thing we need."

Dutch hummed in consideration before shifting topics. "Bronte mentioned a Trolley Station… apparently, there's some high-stakes poker game too. Could be worth looking into."

By the time they reached the entrance, the servants had their weapons ready for them, handing each of them back their holsters and belts. As the others moved toward their horses, Jo suddenly reached out, catching Arthur’s arm.

He stopped, turning toward her. The look in her eyes was clear, pleading almost—she wanted to talk. Privately.

Arthur exhaled, glancing at the others before calling out, "Go on ahead, we'll follow."

Dutch gave him a brief look but didn’t question it. He simply nodded, mounting his horse alongside Hosea and Bill. Within moments, they were riding off into the dark, leaving Jo and Arthur behind in the glow of the party lights.

They strolled side by side through the dimly lit streets of Saint Denis, their boots tapping softly against the cobblestone. The distant hum of conversation and laughter from the mayor’s party faded behind them, replaced by the occasional clatter of carriage wheels and the muffled voices of late-night wanderers. Gas lamps cast a warm, flickering glow on the damp streets, their golden light reflecting off puddles left behind by the evening’s humidity. In the distance, the faint strains of music drifted from a saloon, blending with the rhythmic creak of a passing trolley.

Arthur cast a sidelong glance at Jo, his brow furrowed. "So? Somethin’ wrong?"

Jo hesitated, her steps slowing until she finally halted. Arthur took another step before realizing she had stopped, then turned to face her.

He studied her for a moment, searching her expression. "Well?"

Jo exhaled sharply, looking away for a second before forcing herself to meet his gaze. "I just—" She cut herself off, shaking her head as if frustrated with herself. "I can't keep goin’ like this."

Arthur’s frown deepened. "Like what?"

She sighed, crossing her arms over her chest. "Like… this," she gestured vaguely between them. "The teasin’, the flirtin’—" She trailed off, her voice quieter now. "I just don't know where we stand. What are we?"

Arthur’s lips parted slightly, but no words came out right away. His expression shifted, guarded, as if he hadn't expected her to say it out loud.

A sudden night breeze swept through, cool against her bare arms. She shivered and instinctively hugged herself, rubbing at the skin. Arthur noticed immediately. Without a word, he shrugged off his tuxedo jacket and draped it over her shoulders.

The warmth of it was instant, chased by the familiar scent of him—tobacco, a hint of whiskey, and whatever soap he had used. Jo froze for a second, feeling the weight of the fabric settle around her, before her fingers clutched at the lapels.

Arthur cleared his throat, looking off into the distance. "That better?"

Jo glanced up at him, something unreadable in her eyes. "Yeah," she murmured. "Thanks."

The air between them was thick with unspoken words, tension coiling tight like a spring waiting to snap. Jo still clutched his jacket around her, grounding herself in its warmth, in his warmth. Arthur was watching her, waiting, his jaw tight as if bracing for whatever came next. She could feel the weight of his gaze, searching hers, as if trying to find something—an answer, permission, or maybe just the courage to do what neither of them had been brave enough to admit until now.

Jo swallowed hard, her fingers fidgeting with the lapel. "Arthur…" she hesitated, but she knew she had to say it. If not now, then when? "This… this thing between us—" she gestured between them, her voice raw with frustration, maybe even desperation. 

"Jo," he murmured, almost like a confession.

She swallowed her previous words, her fingers still curled into the fabric of his jacket around her shoulders. "Yeah?"

Arthur didn’t answer right away. Instead, he stepped closer. It was subtle, just a shift in the space between them, but it was enough to make Jo’s breath catch. His hand came up, rough fingers brushing a stray lock of hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear. It lingered there, his thumb grazing her cheek, slow and deliberate.

Jo leaned into the touch before she even realized she had moved.

Her breath caught when he tilted her chin up, leveling her gaze with his. The warmth in his blue eyes made her chest tighten.

"This ain't just in my head, is it?" he asked, voice low, careful.

Jo’s lips parted, a denial on the tip of her tongue—but she couldn’t say it. Not when he was looking at her like that. Not when she knew damn well she felt the same way.

"No," she admitted, just as quiet. "It ain't."

Arthur exhaled sharply, his fingers still hovering at Jo’s chin, like he was trying to stop himself from crossing a line they couldn’t take back. His gaze flickered to her lips, then back to her eyes, and for a moment, he just stared at her, his expression torn between restraint and something deeper.

"You got no idea how bad I wanna kiss you right now," he admitted, voice low and rough.

Jo’s breath hitched. His eyes were dark with want—hungry, but hesitant, like he was giving her a chance to walk away before he did something reckless.

She didn’t want to walk away.

"Then what the hell are you waitin’ for, cowboy?"

Arthur’s grip on her tightened, but just as he started to pull her in, something flickered across his face—doubt, hesitation, that damn self-loathing he carried like a weight on his shoulders. His jaw tensed, and his fingers twitched slightly against her skin.

"I ain’t worth it, darlin’," he murmured, his voice quieter now, almost regretful.

Jo stilled, staring at him for a beat. And then, without a moment’s hesitation, she reached up, fingers grazing his jaw before settling against his cheek, grounding him. Her voice was steady, unwavering.

"That’s for me to decide."

Whatever restraint Arthur had left shattered in that instant.

He pulled her toward him, closing the distance in one smooth motion.

The first touch of his lips was firm but careful, like he was testing the waters, making sure she wouldn’t push him away. But Jo didn’t pull back—she leaned in, pressing herself against him, hands curling into the fabric of his shirt.

Arthur groaned softly, the sound rumbling deep in his chest, and then his grip tightened, his other hand finding her waist as he kissed her again, slower this time—like he was savoring the moment, memorizing the way she felt against him.

Weeks, maybe months, of tension had built up to this. The teasing, the stolen glances, the times they came close but never crossed the line. Half of him still wanted to hold back, to guard himself, to not let her in too deep. But the other half—the half that ached for her every time she walked away—was falling willingly.

And for once, Arthur didn’t fight it.

When they finally broke apart, Jo barely had time to catch her breath before Arthur rested his forehead against hers, his fingers still curled at her waist like he wasn’t ready to let go.

She smirked, her lips still tingling. "That answer your question?"

Arthur chuckled, low and warm. "Yeah," he murmured, his thumb grazing her chin. "Think it does."

Chapter Text

Arthur returned to Shady Belle under the cover of night, his horse’s hooves muffled by the damp earth. The faint glow of the oil lamps inside the house flickered against the broken windows, casting eerie shadows along the warped wood of the walls. He was bone-tired, his body aching from the day’s troubles—helping Eagle Flies steal those damn papers had been more of a mess than he’d anticipated. The boy had fire in him, but fire alone wouldn’t win a war.

Arthur dismounted, exhaling a breath that fogged in the cool night air. He’d meant to go straight to bed, but his boots felt heavier with each step toward the house, his mind clouded with thoughts he didn’t have the strength to untangle tonight. And as he passed through the darkened halls of Shady Belle, another thought weighed on him—he hadn’t seen Jo all day. Hadn’t had the chance since the Mayor’s party. 

It hadn’t been intentional, just bad timing. He had left early, gone before she had even woken up, and by the time he was back, the house was silent. Maybe she was already asleep, maybe she had waited up for him. Either way, he'd missed her, and the realization left a hollow feeling in his chest.

The gang slept soundly, unaware of the weight pressing against him.

Tomorrow would bring more trouble—it always did.

Morning crept in slow over Shady Belle, sunlight filtering through the tangle of trees, casting long golden streaks across the damp earth. A breeze rolled in off the river, cool and carrying the scent of water and fresh grass. The gang was just starting to stir, voices low and movements lazy as another day began.

Jo stood near the chuck wagon, her brow furrowed in frustration as she wrestled with a stubborn jar. Her fingers strained against the lid, knuckles white with effort. The more she twisted, the more the damn thing refused to budge.

Arthur, leaning against the crumbling wall of the house, watched the scene unfold with quiet amusement. He didn’t say anything. Just waited.

Jo huffed, adjusting her grip and trying again. “Damn thing…” she muttered under her breath. “Would you open for— fucks —” She twisted harder, her face scrunching up in concentration. The lid didn’t give—not even a little.

Arthur exhaled a slow breath, shaking his head.

Jo muttered another string of curses under her breath before stomping across the yard, jar in hand. She stopped in front of Arthur, her expression an adorable mix of irritation and reluctant defeat. Wordlessly, she shoved the jar toward him, her narrowed eyes daring him to say something about it.

Arthur smirked but kept his mouth shut. He took the jar, gave it one firm twist, and—pop—the lid came off without a fight.

Jo stared at it for a second, then at him. Her lips pursed.

Arthur handed the jar back, his expression unreadable, though Jo could sense the smugness beneath the surface.

“I loosened it,” she declared, crossing her arms.

Arthur’s mouth twitched. “’Course ya did.”

Jo narrowed her eyes, tilting her chin up slightly. “You wouldn’t’ve been able to open it without my help.”

Arthur tilted his head slightly, watching her with that slow, knowing grin of his. “Didn’t think otherwise.”

Satisfied, Jo snatched the jar back with maybe a little more force than necessary, turning on her heel to walk away. Arthur chuckled, shaking his head, but his eyes lingered.

Damn.

The sway of her hips, the way those worn-out jeans clung to her—it was enough to make a man lose his train of thought. And that hair, long and golden, catching the morning light just right. Christ. He knew exactly how soft it would feel tangled in his fingers.

Arthur swallowed, rolling his shoulders and clearing his throat like it would somehow shake the thought loose.

Jo glanced back at him then, a half-smile playing at her lips, as if she knew exactly where his mind had wandered.

Arthur straightened, rubbing the back of his neck, suddenly feeling a little too warm for the cool morning air.

Yeah. He wasn’t fooling anyone. Least of all himself.

Jo had just reached the supply crates when she heard the familiar sound of boots crunching on dirt behind her. She knew exactly who it was, but she kept her back to him, focused on prying open the crate with the tip of her knife.

“Y’know,” Arthur drawled, stepping up beside her, “seems like a man oughta get some kinda reward for savin’ a lady in distress.”

Jo let out a breath through her nose, unimpressed. “Oh? And what exactly d’you think you deserve?”

Arthur smirked. “Dunno. Somethin’ sweet, maybe.”

She scoffed, finally looking at him with a raised brow. “Sweet? You want me to bake you a pie, Mr. Morgan?”

He chuckled, tilting his head slightly. “Weren’t thinkin’ of pie.”

Jo rolled her eyes, but before she could fire off another remark, Arthur took a step closer. One of his hands found her waist, fingers curling just enough to make her breath hitch. Then, with the ease of a man who had spent far too long wanting to touch her, he turned her so she faced him.

Their eyes met, the teasing edge between them softening into something quieter. Arthur dipped his head slightly, his grip firm but not demanding, giving her the chance to pull away if she wanted. She didn’t.

Jo’s hands landed lightly on his chest, fingertips brushing the fabric of his shirt. A smirk tugged at her lips. “So, this is what you were after?”

Arthur huffed a quiet laugh. “Maybe.” His gaze flicked down to her mouth. “Somethin’ wrong with that?”

Jo tilted her chin up, just enough to challenge him. “Guess that depends,” she murmured, her breath warm against his.

Arthur had every intention of kissing her right then and there. But—

“Ahem.”

Arthur tensed slightly, his grip loosening as he turned his head.

Hosea stood a few steps away, hands clasped neatly behind his back, his expression one of amusement—eyes twinkling, lips curled into a knowing smile.

“Hope I’m not interrupting anything,” Hosea said, the faintest trace of a smirk on his face.

Jo exhaled sharply, stepping back from Arthur with an exasperated huff. “Would it matter if you were?”

Hosea chuckled. “Not really.” Then, shifting his gaze to Arthur, he added, “But I do have a little job you two might want to hear about.”

Arthur rubbed the back of his neck, clearing his throat. “We talkin’ work or trouble?”

Hosea’s grin widened. “Bit of both, I imagine.” His smirk didn’t fade as he stepped closer, hands still tucked behind his back like a man about to deal out some fine wisdom.

“There’s a high-stakes poker game happening tonight,” he began, his voice smooth and easy. “One of the riverboats. Rich men, lots of money, lots of drinks. And thanks to some careful planning between Strauss, Trelawny, and myself, we’ve got a way in.”

Arthur shifted, rubbing his jaw. “Lemme guess—I gotta meet Trelawny first.”

“Smart man,” Hosea dipped his chin in approval. “He’ll be in Saint Denis. You’ll meet him before the game to get the finer details.”

Arthur grunted in acknowledgment, but Jo wasn’t satisfied. She tilted her head slightly, brow raised. “And me?”

Hosea smiled like he had been waiting for the question. “Well, when it comes to cards, everyone knows who the best is.”

Arthur snorted. “Ain’t me, that’s for damn sure.”

Jo shot him a look, then turned back to Hosea, interest piqued.

“Counting cards, swapping out jacks for aces, reading a man’s tell—you’ve got a gift, Jo,” Hosea continued, his tone as warm as it was persuasive. “And we’d be damn fools not to use it.”

Jo smirked slightly, the barest flicker of pride creeping in. “So I get a seat at the table, then?”

Hosea exhaled through his nose, and before he even spoke, Jo’s stomach twisted.

“…No women allowed, huh?”

“Not to play ,” Hosea admitted. And then, with that familiar, infuriating twinkle in his eye, he added, “But they do encourage working girls to cozy up to the men at the table.”

The moment stretched thin. A lone bird called from the trees, the wind catching the branches above, making them sway with a slow creak.

Jo stared at him, her face unreadable. Arthur made a noise in his throat, shifting beside her.

Hosea, unfazed, carried on. “You know how it is—drunk men like to show off, talk too much. A pretty girl at their side, whispering the right words, could do a lot to sway a game in our favor.”

Jo inhaled deeply, resisting the urge to pinch the bridge of her nose.

“Oh, hell no,” she said flatly. “I am not dressing up like some poor sap’s distraction while he pisses away his inheritance.”

Hosea remained infuriatingly calm. “It’s just an act. You sit beside the right man, feed him a little charm, watch his hand—”

“No.”

Hosea raised a brow. “Not even if the man you’re cozying up to is Arthur ?”

Jo opened her mouth—stopped.

Arthur, who had been silent up until now, straightened slightly. “…Wait, what?”

Hosea’s smirk widened. “Oh, come now. You two can play a part, can’t you? Arthur will be sitting at the table. You’ll be right there with him, keeping his spirits up, helping him win.” He made a vague gesture at Arthur. “Just pretend to be sweet on him. Shouldn’t be too hard.”

Arthur let out a short, amused breath, glancing at Jo. “Yeah, sweetheart. Shouldn’t be too hard.”

Jo turned toward him, slow as a brewing storm, her eyes narrowing to slits.

“Don’t push it, Morgan. ”

Arthur grinned, tipping his head slightly, as if challenging her to stay mad.

Hosea, clearly pleased with himself, clapped his hands together once. “Wonderful. Now, we’ll be needing something appropriate for you to wear, Jo. Something eye-catching.”

Jo groaned, dragging a hand down her face. “I hate this already.”

Arthur smirked, arms folding across his broad chest. “Yeah, but you’re gonna look real nice doin’ it.”

She shot him a glare. Arthur just kept grinning.

Jo pinched the bridge of her nose, exhaling sharply. “You owe me for this, Hosea.”

Hosea chuckled, utterly unbothered by her irritation. “Oh, you’ll be thanking me by the time we walk away from that table with our pockets full.”

Arthur scoffed, adjusting his hat. “Our pockets? Thought you were sittin’ this one out.”

Hosea merely grinned, offering Jo a parting wink before strolling off, leaving her standing there with a sinking feeling in her gut.

She muttered a curse under her breath, rolling her shoulders before turning on Arthur.

“If you laugh, I will gut you.”

Arthur, who was grinning, wiped the smirk off his face and held up his hands in surrender. “Ain’t laughin’.”

Jo narrowed her eyes. “You’re thinking about it.”

“Thinkin’ about how I get to watch you get all dolled up for once? Yeah, maybe.”

Jo groaned, throwing her head back dramatically. “Oh, for God’s sake.”

Arthur chuckled, stepping closer, lowering his voice just enough that it sent a shiver down her spine. “C’mon, Trouble. Admit it—you like a little attention.”

She turned to him, jabbing a finger at his chest. “I like attention when I earn it. Not when I gotta bat my lashes and giggle at some bastard’s full house .”

Arthur caught her wrist before she could pull away, his grip firm but easy. “Guess I’ll just have to make it worth your while, then.”

Jo arched a brow. “You plannin’ to bribe me, Mr. Morgan?”

Arthur leaned in slightly, his voice dipping into something slower, rougher. “Somethin’ like that.”

Jo hated that her pulse kicked up a notch. She hated that he knew it, too.

Before she could come up with a retort, Hosea’s voice rang from across camp. “Karen! See if you’ve got anything in your trunk that’d fit Jo, will you?”

Karen, seated on a crate and halfway through a drink, smirked. “Something scandalous, I take it?”

“Something proper ,” Jo snapped before Hosea could answer.

Karen just grinned wider. “Oh, sweetheart, if you’re tryin’ to play the part of a high-class riverboat darling, you better hope I have something scandalous .”

Jo let out a slow, suffering exhale, already regretting everything .

Arthur, of course, was still grinning.

“You keep smiling like that, I will trip you on your way to that poker table,” Jo muttered, spinning on her heel and marching off toward Karen’s wagon.

Arthur let out a low chuckle, watching her go.

“This is gonna be fun.”

The moment their horses reached the city, Jo veered off without much of a word. “I got some things to take care of,” she said simply, already shifting in her saddle. “I’ll meet you later.”

Arthur gave a small nod, not pressing for details. If she needed his help, she’d say so—or maybe not, since this was Jo. Either way, he let her go, watching as she guided Laramie through the crowded streets before disappearing into the flow of people and carriages.

Trelawny was waiting at their usual spot, perched against a lamppost with an easy smile, looking every bit as comfortable in the grand city as a man of his supposed stature ought to. He greeted Arthur warmly, leading him down the streets toward a tailor’s shop. As they walked, he explained the finer details of the job.

The plan was simple. Arthur would play the role of a wealthy new-money fool—some oil and cattle baron’s son, rolling into Saint Denis with pockets full and a taste for expensive whiskey. His only task was to play cards and win, a feat made considerably easier with a certain advantage at the table. A bit of showmanship, a bit of indulgence, and an eventual, graceful exit with the winnings.

Trelawny assured him it was nothing he hadn’t done before. A gentleman’s con, hardly the rough-and-tumble affairs Arthur was used to. There were guards, of course—men hired to ensure the rich stayed rich—but nothing Javier couldn’t handle, should things take a turn. He’d be on the boat, too, playing his own role in the scheme.

Arthur let Trelawny do the talking as they arrived at the tailor’s. The place smelled of fine leather and fresh linens, a world away from the dust and sweat of camp. A suited man with a waxed mustache and an ever-present measuring tape set to work at once, sizing him up, picking out an outfit befitting a man of wealth. Arthur had little say in the matter, nor did he much care, as long as it fit and wasn’t too ridiculous.

Next was the barber. Trelawny insisted—said no self-respecting man of high status would show up looking like a cattle rustler. Arthur relented, sitting through the trim with an air of mild irritation, watching as strands of his hair fell away under the barber’s careful work.

By the time they were through, the sun had dipped lower, casting Saint Denis in warm gold. Arthur adjusted his cuffs, rolling his shoulders, the tailored suit sitting stiff against his frame. He still looked like himself, albeit shinier, cleaner, a version of Arthur Morgan built for high society rather than the open trail.

Trelawny appraised him with a smirk. “Now that is a man who looks ready to take the city for all it’s worth.”

Arthur grunted, checking his reflection in the mirror one last time before stepping outside. The streets bustled, the city alive with the hum of evening business. The riverboat wasn’t far now, and somewhere in the crowd, Jo was handling her own affairs.

Arthur knew where to find her. She’d mentioned Doyle’s Tavern before they split ways, and sure enough, when he reached the saloon, her horse was still tied out front. He lingered for a second, giving Laramie a glance before stepping up onto the wooden porch, the noise from inside spilling out into the streets.

It was late enough that the place was lively, filled with the usual drunks, gamblers, and city folk drowning their troubles in alcohol. Arthur scanned the crowd, eyes moving past the clusters of men hunched over their drinks, past the servers weaving through tables, past the idle smoke curling up to the ceiling—until he found her.

Jo was near the bar, leaning against it in casual conversation. But it wasn’t just her that caught his eye. It was the man standing across from her.

Arthur’s stomach twisted with a familiar unease. Him.

It struck him like a cold slap—the same bastard from Rhodes. Ben.

The one Jo had dismissed as no one.

He felt something ugly curl in his chest, a slow, burning thing that he wasn’t proud of but couldn’t quite shake. A feeling he hadn’t let himself name last time, but now it settled in, heavy and bitter.

He glanced down at himself, taking in the worn leather jacket, the boots scuffed from miles on the road, the dust clinging to the folds of his clothes. Even cleaned up from earlier, even with a suit waiting for him, he still looked like he’d just crawled out of the mud.

And compared to the man Jo was speaking to—the well-dressed, smooth-talking stranger—Arthur felt every inch of the outlaw he was.

He wasn’t the kind of man a woman like her should want.

And maybe she’d finally realized it.

Hell, she should realize it.

He clenched his jaw, shifting his weight as a bitter thought took root. He had no right to be angry. No right to expect anything from her. He’d spent most of his life keeping people at arm’s length, convincing himself he didn’t deserve softness, that love—real, honest love—wasn’t meant for a man like him.

And yet, standing there, watching her with someone else, all he could think was that maybe he’d been right all along.

Arthur didn’t mean to stare, but he couldn’t help himself. He told himself it was nothing—just a damn conversation, just two people talking. But then Ben touched her.

A casual thing, really. A hand on her shoulder, a slight lean-in, the kind of gesture that didn’t mean much to most. But to Arthur?

Oh, it burned.

It burned so deep in his gut it felt like it might consume him whole, leaving nothing behind but embers and the ugly truth of his own feelings. He was sure it could set him ablaze the longer he stood there, watching.

The hushed whispers. The soft look in Jo’s eyes.

It was enough to make his stomach turn.

“Sneaky little rat,” Arthur grumbled under his breath, shifting his weight, jaw tightening. He knew the type. Knew what men did when they wanted a woman’s attention. Playing off nostalgia, reeling her in with sweet words and old memories, hoping she’d take the bait.

It made Arthur sick.

Because he knew Jo. Knew the way she softened when she let someone in, the way her guard slipped just enough to let them close.

And that bastard was sitting right in front of her, soaking up that warmth while Arthur stood out here, gnawing on his own jealousy like a damn fool.

He scuffed his boot against the ground, jaw clenched so tight it ached. He should leave. Turn around, walk back to docks, focus on the job.

He should.

But then Jo laughed.

Soft, genuine. A sound he hadn’t heard in days.

And that was it.

Arthur turned, shoving through the saloon doors without thinking. The scent of liquor and tobacco curled thick in the air as he cut through the crowd, his steps heavy, purposeful. He didn’t stop at the bar, didn’t hesitate. He walked straight up to where they sat, eyes locked on Ben.

Ben barely had time to register him before Arthur grabbed him by the collar and yanked him up from his seat.

The scrape of the chair against the floor was drowned out by the collective gasp from nearby patrons.

Ben staggered back, blinking in shock. But Arthur wasn’t done. He shoved him toward the exit, pushing him through the doors and out onto the wooden porch.

Jo’s voice rang behind him— Arthur, stop! —but it barely registered.

Ben caught himself, straightening, his expression shifting from confusion to something sharper. “The hell’s wrong with you?”

Arthur didn’t answer. He just looked at him.

And whatever Ben saw in his eyes made him set his jaw.

“You got a problem, friend?” Ben asked, squaring his shoulders.

Arthur scoffed. “Ain’t your friend.”

Ben’s lips pressed together, his gaze flicking to Jo before settling back on Arthur. “Right. Should’ve figured.”

Arthur stepped forward, slow and deliberate, his voice low and steady. “Touch her again, and I’ll cut your goddamn hand off.”

Jo stormed through the doors, eyes flashing with fury. “Arthur, what the hell is wrong with you?! ”

Arthur didn’t look at her.

Ben exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “Arthur?” He repeated the name like he knew it, like it meant something. Why was Ben saying Arthur’s name like that? Like he’s heard her say it before? She never told him about Arthur. 

And then—

It clicked.

That night in Rhodes. It had been one of her naked truths. 

His eyes darted to Jo. 

“ This is Arthur?” A pause. A knowing, disbelieving laugh. “The one you drunk -fucked?”

Arthur barely registered Jo’s sharp inhale.

Red.

All he saw was red.

The world blurred into motion before his mind could catch up. His fist connected with Ben’s jaw, the satisfying crack of knuckle against bone barely making a dent in the wildfire rage roaring through him.

Ben didn’t just take the hit—he fought back. Hard.

He slammed Arthur against the wall, but Arthur retaliated instantly, shoving his forearm into Ben’s throat, pinning him there with sheer force.

The only thing that stopped him from beating him into the ground was Jo’s voice—panicked, desperate.

“ STOP! ”

The saloon doors burst open, two men rushing in to separate them. Arthur felt himself being yanked back, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths, fists still clenched at his sides.

Ben wiped blood from his mouth, still looking at Jo.

And the weight of his words still hung thick in the air.

Arthur didn’t dare look at her.

Because if he did, he wasn’t sure what he’d see.

And he wasn’t sure he could take it.

Ben wiped at the blood trickling from his lip, rolling his jaw experimentally. Jo’s blood burned as she crouched beside Ben, checking for injuries, though she already knew Arthur had pulled his punches—if he hadn't, Ben wouldn’t still be smirking.

“You alright?” she asked, her voice clipped.

Ben winced, rolling his jaw. “Yeah, yeah. Didn’t know you kept such charming company.”

Jo shot him a warning look before inspecting his collar, where Arthur had grabbed him. The fabric was wrinkled, but his throat didn’t look bruised. That was a small relief.

Arthur, however, was fuming .

His breaths were heavy, his hands still clenched at his sides, the veins in his forearms pulsing beneath his rolled-up sleeves. But more than that—more than the anger still curling in his gut—was the way Jo went to Ben first .

Not him.

Not even a damn glance in his direction.

She was mad .

Not worried about him , but mad at him.

And that did something even worse to Arthur than the jealousy already eating him alive.

Ben, still seated on the wooden planks, tilted his head slightly to look past Jo, locking eyes with Arthur. And then—

That smirk .

That smug, cocky little upturn of his lips that made Arthur want to slam him into the ground all over again.

“Bastard’s got a hell of a right hook.” Ben smirked, shaking his head.

Jo pressed her lips together, anger tightening her chest. She didn’t even spare Arthur a glance—not yet. Not when she was too furious to trust herself.

Ben’s smirk widened. “Didn’t know you cared that much, sweetheart.”

That did it.

Jo’s hand shot out, gripping his jaw hard enough to make him flinch. “And you ,” she snapped, voice low, “oughta know when to keep your damn mouth shut.”

Ben raised his hands in surrender, still grinning, but it didn’t reach his eyes this time. Jo let go, rising to her feet, her fury now set on the man standing a few feet away.

Arthur was watching her, shoulders squared, fists still clenched. He looked… well, she wasn’t sure. Angry? Jealous? Hurt?

Not her problem.

Jo stormed toward him, her boots hitting the wooden planks hard. “What the hell was that?”

Arthur didn’t answer, just held her gaze with that same infuriating calm.

Her hands curled into fists. “You had no right, Arthur. None.”

He scoffed, shaking his head. “Didn’t seem like you were doin’ much about it.”

Jo’s breath caught. She knew what he was implying. Knew he thought he was stepping in for her. And that? That pissed her off even more.

Her voice dropped, low and sharp. “You think I needed you to handle it?”

Arthur exhaled, slow. “No,” he muttered, “but you weren’t gonna.”

Jo let out a bitter laugh. “Oh, so you know what I’m gonna do now?” She stepped closer, fury burning in her chest. “You think you got some say in my business?”

Arthur’s jaw tensed, his fingers flexing. “I didn’t like the way he was talkin’.”

“You don’t have to like it,” she snapped. “You don’t get to decide what I put up with.”

Arthur finally looked away, exhaling through his nose. “Fine,” he muttered, “do whatever the hell you want.”

Jo’s anger flared hotter. He always did this—walled himself off, acted like nothing mattered when they both damn well knew it did.

She huffed, shaking her head. “Unbelievable,” she muttered, turning away—

“Yeah?” Arthur called after her, voice sharp. “You runnin’ off back to him, then?”

Jo froze.

Her fists clenched at her sides, and for a second, she saw red.

Ben, still behind them, chuckled.

Jo whirled around, eyes burning. “ You ,” she snapped, pointing at Ben, “shut your damn mouth before I shut it for you.”

Ben held up his hands again, grin faltering. “Alright, alright.”

Arthur just stared at her, unreadable.

Jo took a breath, steadying herself. “I don’t need you to fight for me, Arthur,” she said, voice firm. “And I sure as hell don’t need your permission to talk to whoever I damn well please.”

Arthur didn’t answer. Just held her gaze like he was searching for something in it.

Jo scoffed, shaking her head, and turned on her heel.

This time, Arthur didn’t stop her.

Ben leaned back, rubbing his jaw with a lopsided grin. “You sure got him all wound up, didn’t you?” he mused.

Jo crossed her arms, staring him down. “I don’t know what the hell you were tryin’ to do, but don’t ever start something like that again.”

Ben raised an eyebrow. “Oh, c’mon, sweetheart—”

Jo stepped closer, her voice dropping. “I mean it, Ben. I don’t need you poking at him, and I sure as hell don’t need either of you makin’ a damn mess before I got a job to do.” She exhaled sharply, shaking her head. “And stop callin’ me sweetheart.”

He chuckled, but it faded when she didn’t look amused. Jo let out a sharp breath and stepped back, straightening her coat. “I didn’t come here for this. I had business with you, and now it’s done.”

Jo turned on her heel and left, her frustration barely contained.

As she reached the meeting point, Arthur was already there, adjusting his coat. He had changed his clothes. He didn’t look at her. Didn’t say a word.

Fine. That was fine.

They had a job to do.

Whatever mess was between them would have to wait.

Jo approached the docks with a steady stride, her jaw still tight from the confrontation with Arthur. The anger simmered beneath her skin, but she wasn’t about to let it get in the way of the job. She had agreed to this, after all. Now she had to deal with it.

Arthur stood near the water with Javier, Strauss, and Trelawny, all of them waiting in the cool night air. Jo barely spared them a glance, her focus on the looming riverboat.

“Well, there she is,” Trelawny greeted, ever the showman. “I was beginning to think you’d gotten lost.”

Jo wasn’t in the mood. She adjusted the strap of her bag and fixed him with a look. “You got my way in or not?”

Trelawny smirked, but Javier spoke up instead. “Yeah. Just follow the working girls on board, get changed, and blend in. We’ll be inside soon enough.”

Jo nodded, then—reluctantly—glanced at Arthur. He wasn’t looking at her, instead focusing on the boat as he adjusted his coat. Fine. That was fine.

Without another word, Jo turned and walked toward the group of women waiting to board, slipping into their midst. She kept her head down, blending in as best she could. The last thing she needed was someone noticing she didn’t belong.

Jo found a quiet corner, away from prying eyes, and yanked open her bag. She pulled out the dress Karen had secured for her—if you could even call it that.

The deep red fabric was soft but thin, clinging in all the wrong places. The bodice was structured with a tight corset, the kind that forced her ribs in and stole her breath. She scowled at it. Damn thing looked like it was designed to break a woman rather than dress her.

Muttering a curse, she loosened the laces as much as she dared before forcing it over her head. The moment it settled around her torso, she felt the restriction—like a snake coiling around her ribs. She inhaled carefully, already regretting this.

The skirt, if you could even call it that, was cut high on one side, revealing most of her thigh. One wrong step, and she’d be showing more than she’d like. She pulled at the fabric, trying to adjust it, but there was nothing to be done. The slit was intentional, meant to entice.

And the shoes—hell, they were worse than the dress. Little heeled things, strappy and delicate, meant for walking in smooth ballrooms, not sneaking onto a damn riverboat to rob the place.

Jo rolled her shoulders, trying to ignore the way she felt half-exposed.

This wasn’t the first time she’d dressed up for a job, but it sure as hell didn’t make it any easier. She wasn’t like the other girls boarding tonight. She didn’t know how to sway her hips just right, how to bat her lashes to draw a man in. At least, that’s what she thought.

She exhaled sharply, shoving her usual clothes back into her bag and tucking it somewhere safe.

She had a job to do.

Still, she couldn’t help but scowl as she adjusted the corset again. If Arthur saw her like this, he’d have something smart to say.

Not that she cared.

Not at all.

She forced the thought from her mind, took one last steadying breath, and stepped out to blend in with the other women. The lights from the chandeliers cast a golden glow over everything—elegant, refined, the kind of place she never belonged in.

The air smelled of expensive cigars, perfume, and whiskey. Laughter and conversation swirled around her as men in fine suits and women in silk dresses moved through the space.

She adjusted the bodice of her dress for what felt like the hundredth time, scowling when the corset refused to give her even an inch of comfort.

Then, she saw him.

Arthur was already at the poker table, seated with a handful of well-dressed men. His hat was gone, and his usual rugged look had been cleaned up just enough to make him look like he belonged here. His expression was unreadable—calm, collected, like he wasn’t fuming at her just moments ago.

But when his gaze lifted and found her, that calm cracked.

Jo saw it in the way his fingers twitched slightly against his cards. The way his jaw tensed.

She held his stare, lifting a brow like she dared him to say something.

Arthur didn’t, but the way his eyes raked over her—over the damn dress—spoke loud enough.

Jo squared her shoulders and moved closer, settling herself near his side as if she had every right to be there.

One of the men at the table glanced at her, then at Arthur. “That your girl for the evening, Callahan?” he asked with a smirk.

Jo forced a sweet, practiced smile and leaned in just slightly, like any good working girl would. “That depends,” she said smoothly, “is he winnin’?”

The men laughed, and Arthur, to his credit, didn’t react. But Jo saw the flicker of something in his eyes—annoyance? Jealousy? She didn’t care.

She wasn’t here for him.

She was here for the job.

Still, when she leaned against his chair, letting her fingers trail lightly over the back, she knew damn well what she was doing.

Arthur exhaled sharply through his nose, adjusting his grip on his cards.

“Hope you’re a lucky man, Callahan,” one of the players said, tossing his chips in.

Arthur didn’t take his eyes off his hand. “Yeah,” he muttered, voice low. “Hope so.”

Jo smirked, but only for a second.

Arthur wasn’t a stranger to poker, but this wasn’t the kind of game played in backwater saloons with half-drunk ranchers. These men were seasoned gamblers, the kind who knew how to bluff without breaking a sweat, who could read a man’s tell in the twitch of a finger.

Jo leaned in closer, her lips just brushing the shell of his ear, a ghost of a touch that sent a shiver down his spine. To anyone watching, it looked as though she was whispering something flirtatious, a little teasing to keep her gentleman entertained.

But in reality, her voice was sharp, precise. “The one on your left, he’s got a weak hand, but he’s tryin’ to bluff his way through.”

Arthur didn’t so much as glance at her, his expression remaining impassive as he considered his cards.

The dealer burned a card and flipped the turn—a seven of hearts. Arthur already had a pair of tens in his hand, and with the king and five of spades, along with a jack of hearts on the table, his chances were getting better.

Jo let her fingers ghost over his forearm, her voice dropping to a low, honeyed murmur. “Check. Make him think you’re unsure.”

Arthur exhaled slowly, tapping his knuckles against the table. The player across from him—a wiry man with slicked-back hair and too many rings on his fingers—narrowed his eyes before tossing in a few more chips.

Jo giggled softly, letting her fingers trace the edge of Arthur’s sleeve as though she were simply toying with him. Her smile was all charm, her eyes heavy-lidded, but beneath the act, her gaze flickered to the table, assessing the game like a hunter sizing up prey.

The river card came—a ten of hearts.

Arthur had three of a kind now. A solid hand, but not unbeatable.

Jo shifted slightly, her thigh brushing against his. She could feel the tension in him, the way his muscles coiled tight under his coat, the way his fingers flexed just slightly before settling again.

She tilted her head, pressing closer, her lips barely moving as she spoke. “Raise. Not too much, but enough to make ‘em nervous.”

Arthur did just that, sliding a neat stack of chips forward. The others hesitated. The man with the rings drummed his fingers against the felt, his gaze flicking between Arthur and the pot.

One by one, the players folded, until only one remained. The man across from Arthur called, tossing in the matching amount.

The final reveal.

Arthur laid his cards down—three tens.

His opponent’s eye twitched just slightly as he flipped his cards—a pair of jacks.

Arthur won.

Jo leaned in again, a slow, delighted laugh spilling from her lips as she let her fingers trail up his arm. “Well, look at that,” she purred for show, her voice dipped in syrupy sweetness. “My lucky man.”

Arthur didn’t look at her, but she could feel the heat of his gaze, the way his jaw ticked.

He knew what she was doing.

And she knew damn well that it was working.

The poker table was thinning out. Some men left with tight jaws and empty pockets, while others, having lost gracefully, tipped their hats and stepped away with forced smiles. But one remained. A man in a finely pressed suit, his mustache well-groomed, his eyes sharp as a blade. He was older, but not frail—he had the look of a man who was used to winning.

Arthur studied him quietly, his fingers drumming against the felt. The man had lost a good chunk of his money already, but he wasn’t done. Not yet. There was something about him—the way he leaned back, assessing, the way his fingers tapped against the table in a rhythm that suggested he was thinking—plotting.

Then the man smirked, betting on a valuable object. Stating it was in a safe upstairs.

A Reutlinger pocket watch. A damn fine one, too. 

Arthur barely twitched. But Jo, who had been watching everything from her place beside him, knew better. She saw the way his fingers flexed slightly, the way his body shifted just a fraction forward. He wanted it.

“Too good to pass up, huh?” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

Arthur didn’t answer. He just nodded once, pushing forward a matching bet.

The cards were dealt.

Arthur’s fingers brushed against his, flipping them up slightly so only he and Jo could see. A pair of kings. A strong start.

The flop came—a nine of diamonds, a six of spades, and another king. Three of a kind.

Jo’s fingers traced along the edge of his sleeve, her touch featherlight. “Play it cool,” she whispered, her lips barely moving. “He’s the type that don’t like to lose. And he sure as hell don’t like to be played.”

Then, in a move that surprised even her, Arthur’s arm wrapped around her waist—not rough, not demanding, but firm. Before she could react, he was pulling her onto his lap.

Jo nearly stiffened. Nearly. But she caught herself.

There was no force behind it, no expectation. Just part of the act. She knew that. Still, it didn’t stop the way her pulse jumped.

She felt the warmth of his body through the layers of fabric, the solid weight of his arm resting against her hip.

For a moment, she wondered if this was him pushing the act further, making it believable—or if he just wanted her closer.

Two could play at that game.

Jo let out a soft, teasing hum, tilting her head as she ran her fingers through his hair. It was still damp from earlier, combed back neatly, but under her touch, some strands fell loose, framing his face in a way that made him look less like the gunslinger she knew and more like—

No.

She pushed that thought aside, focusing instead on the game.

The turn was dealt—queen of diamonds.

The man across from them barely moved. He didn’t smile. He didn’t frown. But Jo saw the way his knuckles tightened just slightly around his cards.

Arthur had a flush draw now. But he needed that final diamond.

Jo traced the back of his neck lightly, keeping up the act, but lowered her voice just enough for him to hear. “Call. He’s waiting for you to raise.”

Arthur grunted softly, barely a sound, before flicking a few more chips forward, meeting the bet.

The final card—the river—was an ace of diamonds.

A flush. A damn good one.

Jo’s fingers, which had been absentmindedly tracing patterns on his shoulder, stilled for half a second. Then, she recovered, letting out a slow, sultry laugh, playing her part.

Arthur had won.

His thumb, which had been resting against her thigh, moved slightly. Not enough to be noticed by anyone watching, but enough for her to feel it.

It was a touch of acknowledgment. Of understanding.

She felt her stomach tighten.

They had argued before the job, and it hadn’t been small. She was still mad. And maybe he was, too.

But right now, in this moment, she couldn’t tell where the act ended and where something else—something unspoken—began.

Across the table, the man exhaled slowly, setting his cards down with a tight jaw. A queen and an ace. A weaker two pair.

Arthur laid his own cards down with quiet finality.

A king-high flush.

Jo let out a delighted laugh, playing her role, her fingers grazing down Arthur’s chest as she pressed closer, her lips just brushing his ear.

“My Mr. Callahan,” she purred, “You sure do have a way with the cards.”

Arthur didn’t say anything. But she could feel his heartbeat, steady and strong, beneath her palm.

And for the first time since they last spoke, she wondered if she’d really convinced herself this was all just an act.

The game was over. Arthur collected his winnings, pocketing what remained of the chips with a calm indifference that made it seem as if he hadn’t just walked away with a small fortune. He leaned back, exhaling through his nose, like he’d had his fun for the night.

Then, as if on cue, a well-dressed butler approached. “Sir, if you’d like to secure your winnings for the night, we have a private safe upstairs for our esteemed guests.”

Arthur barely flicked his gaze upward, playing his part. He took one last sip of his drink, then, with a lazy smirk, pushed himself to his feet. Jo, still perched on his lap, slid off smoothly, and he caught the briefest flicker of relief in her eyes.

She wanted space.

He gave it to her.

As he stood, an armed guard stepped forward for security—a man with slicked-back hair and a well-groomed mustache. Only, Arthur recognized him immediately. Javier, dressed in a polished uniform, with a rifle strapped to his back, looking every bit the hired muscle.

The act was flawless.

Arthur stretched his arms, rolling his shoulders like he was settling in for a stroll. Then, as he adjusted his coat, he cast one last look at Jo.

“Don’t have too much fun without me, sweetheart,” he drawled, his voice thick with amusement—though whether it was entirely an act, he wasn’t sure.

Jo shot him a look, her lips curving into a smirk that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Then, just like that, Arthur was led away, disappearing up the grand staircase with the butler and Javier trailing behind him.

Jo exhaled slowly.

The moment Arthur was out of sight, she turned toward the bar, weaving through the room, ignoring the lingering eyes of a few players who had watched her all night.

She needed a drink.

She slid onto a stool, the rich scent of liquor heavy in the air, and tapped her fingers against the bar top.

“Whiskey,” she said. “Neat.”

The bartender, a gruff-looking man with tired eyes, poured her a glass without question. She took it, sipping slowly, letting the burn settle in her throat.

Now, all she had to do was blend in. Mingle.

And endure.

Upstairs, Arthur played along as the butler led him to a lavishly decorated office, where the safe was kept. The room smelled of cigar smoke and expensive cologne, the walls lined with ornate bookshelves.

The butler, oblivious, gestured toward the safe. “If you’d like to—”

Arthur didn’t give him the chance to finish.

A sharp, brutal swing of his pistol’s handle struck the man at the base of his skull. He crumpled without a sound.

Javier let out a low whistle. “Damn. You don’t waste time.”

“Shut up and help me,” Arthur muttered, crouching in front of the safe.

He made quick work of it, cracking the lock with skilled fingers. Inside, stacks of cash, bonds, and loose valuables gleamed under the low light. And the pocket watch. 

He took everything.

With a practiced ease, Arthur shoved the contents into a satchel, slung it over his shoulder, and wiped his hands on his coat. Then, without so much as a glance at the unconscious butler, he turned to Javier.

“Let’s get the hell outta here.”

As Arthur descended the grand staircase, his pockets considerably heavier, he scanned the floor for Trelawny. The conman was supposed to be in position by the bar, waiting for the right moment to slip away unnoticed. But before Arthur spotted him, his gaze landed on Jo.

She wasn’t at the bar.

She was still at one of the poker tables, sitting close beside an older gentleman—one of the wealthier players from earlier. He had thinning white hair, deep wrinkles, and a fine silk vest stretched over his rounded belly. The way he leaned toward Jo, his bony fingers grazing her back as he chuckled at something she’d said, made Arthur’s stomach twist.

Jo, for her part, played along.

She had a coy smile on her lips, fingers tapping idly against the poker chips in front of her. But Arthur could see the way she held herself—poised, yet stiff. The slight tension in her shoulders, the careful control in her laughter. She hated this.

Arthur moved before he thought better of it.

“To the bar, señor!” he declared, his voice carrying over the noise of the room.

Javier, ever the performer, straightened beside him, nodding in agreement. “I hope you had fun, sir.”

Arthur made his way toward the bar, forcing himself not to look back at Jo. He’d seen enough—her sitting at the poker table, that old bastard’s hand lingering a little too long on her waist. It made his blood heat in a way he didn’t care to acknowledge, but he couldn’t do a damn thing about it. This was the job, and he couldn’t afford to break character.

So he went to the bar, where Trelawny was already engaged in what seemed to be a lively discussion with the wealthy man Arthur had beaten out of his pocket watch.

“There he is!” the man barked the moment Arthur stepped up. His face was flushed with drink and bruised ego, and he jabbed a finger in Arthur’s direction. “This son of a bitch right here—”

Arthur raised his hands, smirking. “Now, don’t be a sore loser, friend.”

The man sneered. “There’s somethin’ I don’t like about the pair of you.”

Trelawny, seated between them, merely sighed and stood, adjusting his cuffs with theatrical annoyance. “There’s plenty I don’t like about you,” he quipped, “but I have the good manners to keep my mouth shut.”

Arthur huffed out a quiet laugh, but the moment was short-lived.

Because that’s when the trouble started.

A man stumbled in from one of the side rooms—barefoot, still in his union suit, clutching at a bleeding head wound. His wild eyes darted around before locking onto Arthur and Trelawny.

“There he is!” the man shouted. “Shoot that man!”

For a split second, everything was still.

Then—

A gunshot rang out.

Javier, quick as ever, turned and fired on the nearest guard before they could even reach for their weapon. Then, without missing a beat, he grabbed the fallen guard’s rifle and tossed it toward Arthur.

Arthur caught it, barely ducking behind the bar as bullets started flying.

Patrons screamed, tables overturned, and chaos erupted in the saloon. Arthur fired over the bar, dropping another guard before taking cover again.

“Come on, Arthur! We gotta get out of here!” Javier shouted as he fired another shot, keeping the guards at bay.

Across the room, Jo had already moved.

The second the first shot rang out, she acted on instinct. She tipped over the poker table in front of her, using it as cover while reaching under her skirt, where a small revolver was strapped tightly to her thigh.

Of course she had a weapon.

She’d never go anywhere unarmed, especially not a place like this.

Unstrapping the revolver in a practiced motion, she cocked it, peering over the edge of the table.

A guard rushed toward the stairs, likely to call for reinforcements. Jo took him out with a single shot to the back. The force of it sent him tumbling down the steps, crashing onto the marble floor with a sickening thud.

Another guard, having spotted her, turned his gun in her direction.

She was faster.

A sharp crack echoed as her bullet hit him in the chest, sending him staggering backward before collapsing onto one of the poker tables.

Arthur, reloading behind the bar, caught sight of her through the fray. She was in her element, crouched low, her revolver steady as she picked her shots carefully. Even in the chaos, there was something fiercely controlled about her—Jo was never reckless, only efficient.

He cursed under his breath.

They needed to get out of here before the whole damn boat turned against them.

Gunfire echoed through the riverboat, mixing with the frantic screams of patrons scrambling for cover. Arthur ducked behind the bar, reloading with practiced speed before popping up to fire again. Another guard dropped.

“We gotta move!” Javier barked, already clearing a path toward the exit.

Arthur fired one last shot before turning, his eyes immediately searching the room. His instincts were sharp, honed by years of surviving in chaos like this—and those instincts told him to make damn sure Jo was following before he so much as thought about running.

His gaze locked onto her. She was still crouched behind the overturned poker table, her revolver clutched tight. Smoke curled from the barrel as she reloaded. Another body lay slumped nearby, another guard she had taken down.

“Jo!” Arthur barked.

She glanced up, eyes meeting his, and in that moment, he saw what she already knew—there were too many of them. More guards were storming in from the far end of the saloon, and their window for escape was shrinking fast.

No more time to fight.

Only time to run.

Jo bolted toward him, her heels skidding against the polished floor. Arthur grabbed her wrist as she reached him, his grip firm but not forceful, like he needed to feel her solid and real for just a second before moving forward. Then they ran.

Javier led the way, shoving past terrified guests who cowered in the hallway. Arthur kept his rifle raised, covering their backs as they barreled toward the boat’s rear deck. The doors burst open, revealing the open air, the dark expanse of the Lannahechee River stretching beneath them. The distant glow of Saint Denis flickered on the horizon, but between them and the shore was nothing but deep, black water.

“Only one way out,” Javier said, already swinging himself over the railing. He flashed them a grin. “See you in hell, amigos.”

And then he was gone.

Arthur turned back just in time to see Jo grip the railing, hesitating for the briefest second.

"Go!" he urged.

She inhaled sharply, then pushed off.

Arthur followed.

The wind roared in his ears during the fall, and then—

Cold.

The river swallowed him whole.

Arthur kicked hard, forcing himself back up, breaking through the surface with a sharp gasp. He wiped the water from his face, shaking off the sting of the impact before glancing around, searching the dark waves.

Javier surfaced a few feet away, coughing and grinning. “Well, that was refreshing.”

Arthur ignored him. His chest tightened as his gaze darted across the river, scanning for Jo.

Nothing.

The water was shifting, moving, endless in every direction—

But she wasn’t there.

A sharp, cold panic clawed up his throat. Jo knew how to swim, she was a good swimmer.

“Jo?” he shouted, turning in the water, his heart hammering.

No answer.

His pulse spiked.

She had jumped right before him. He should’ve seen her by now. She was a good swimmer. But the river was dark, the current strong, and she—

Arthur took a breath and dove.

The world turned silent, nothing but black water surrounding him. His eyes burned as he forced them open, scanning desperately. Then—movement. A shape beneath him, limbs tangled in heavy fabric, struggling but sinking fast.

Jo.

Arthur surged downward, closing the distance in a few powerful strokes. Her skirt had wrapped around her legs, dragging her down, and her corset—damn thing must’ve been squeezing the air right out of her lungs, restraining her. He grabbed her, locking an arm around her waist, and kicked upward with everything he had.

They broke the surface hard.

Jo gasped violently, choking on a mouthful of water.

“I got you,” Arthur said, his grip unyielding as she coughed, sucking in sharp, frantic breaths. Her fingers clutched at his arm, her panic clear even through the haze of exhaustion.

Her corset. It was still too tight.

Arthur wasted no time. “Hold still.”

She barely had the energy to respond before she felt his knife slip between the laces at her back. A single, swift movement—then relief. The corset loosened, and Jo inhaled a ragged, desperate breath, the restriction finally gone and leaving it floating behind.

“Kick, Jo,” Arthur urged, his voice rough but firm. “I ain’t draggin’ your ass all the way to shore.”

She did. Weakly at first, but then stronger, pushing through the exhaustion, the weight, the cold.

The shore loomed closer. Her boots scraped against solid ground.

Javier was already there, standing at the river’s edge, shaking water from his clothes. “You two took your sweet time.”

Arthur ignored him, hauling Jo onto the riverbank. The moment they were out of the water, she collapsed onto the grass, coughing hard, her chest rising and falling with deep, shuddering breaths.

Arthur knelt beside her, dripping wet, his breathing heavy. He dragged a hand down his face, shaking off some of the water before glancing at her.

“You alright?”

Jo rolled onto her back, staring up at the stars, her body still trembling from exertion.

“I think,” she rasped, “I’m gonna kill whoever invented corsets.”

Arthur let out a short, breathless laugh, shaking his head. “Fair enough.”

Javier smirked. “Well, señorita, if it makes you feel better, you look—”

Arthur shot him a look.

Javier held up his hands. “Never mind.”

Jo groaned, rolling onto her side. “Let’s just get the hell out of here.”

Arthur stood, offering her a hand. She took it, her grip firm despite the exhaustion.

The night was quiet. Too quiet after everything that had happened.

The five of them—Arthur, Jo, Javier, Strauss and Trelawny—had trudged through the outskirts of Saint Denis, soaked to the bone, avoiding the main roads until they reached a safe enough distance from the chaos they’d left behind.

Trelawny, ever the gentleman, bid them farewell with his usual flair, tipping a nonexistent hat as he disappeared into the shadows. Javier and Strauss had already split off earlier, leaving just the two of them.

Now, Arthur and Jo walked in silence.

The streets were mostly empty at this hour, save for the occasional lamplight spilling from windows and the distant sounds of revelry deeper in the city. Their boots left wet prints on the cobblestones, water dripping from their clothes, their skin still chilled from the river.

Arthur had been quiet the entire way. Too quiet.

Jo wasn’t sure what to say. She wasn’t even sure if she wanted to say anything. They were both exhausted, still rattled from the fight, from the escape—

From each other.

But then, as they rounded a corner into a quieter street, Arthur finally spoke.

“Well, that went smooth.”

His tone was dry, flat.

Jo sighed, shaking her head. “You call that smooth?”

“Well, we didn’t die, did we?” He glanced at her, his expression unreadable. “Though, you sure tried your damndest.”

She stopped walking. “Arthur—”

“You weren’t comin’ back up.” His voice was quieter this time, rougher. He wasn’t looking at her now, just staring off down the street. “For a second, I thought—”

He shook his head, exhaling sharply. “Never mind.”

Jo swallowed, guilt curling in her stomach. She had scared him. And Arthur Morgan wasn’t an easy man to scare.

She could’ve left it at that, let the silence settle again.

But then Arthur, stubborn as always, pushed further.

“So, that fella,” he said, too casually. “Ben.”

Jo stiffened.

Arthur let out a short, humorless chuckle. “Y’know, just a couple weeks ago, you told me he was ‘no one.’ And yet, there he was. With you.” He glanced at her then, sharp blue eyes pinning her in place. “So tell me, Jo. Who the hell is he?”

She hesitated, knowing this was less about Ben and more about everything between them.

Finally, she sighed. “He was my friend. From… before .”

Arthur didn’t say anything, but she could feel the weight of his gaze, waiting for more.

So she gave it to him.

“I met him when I was young. He was one of the only good things I had back then,” she admitted. “When things were bad, he was there. When I had no one else, he was there.”

Arthur’s jaw tightened. “And now he’s here again.”

“He’s not—” Jo sighed, running a hand through her damp hair. “It’s not what you think, Arthur.”

He let out a breath, shaking his head. “Ain’t it?”

The silence stretched between them, heavy, thick with things unsaid. Then, after a moment, Arthur scoffed, rubbing a hand over his face.

“Look,” he muttered, “I got no right to be mad. Maybe I shouldn’t’ve said a damn thing back there.”

Jo frowned. “Arthur—”

“But,” he went on, voice rough, “if you’ve changed your mind—about any of this, about me—then just say so.”

Jo’s breath hitched.

Arthur let out a dry, bitter chuckle. “I’d understand. Hell, I’d probably be relieved. ‘Cause I—” He exhaled sharply, finally looking at her. “I ain’t worth it, Jo. You know that. I ain’t deserving of—”

“Arthur.”

She stepped closer. He tensed but didn’t move away.

“Stop,” she said softly.

And then, before he could argue, she reached up and cupped his face, her hands gentle, fingers brushing against the rough stubble of his jaw.

Arthur stilled.

His breath caught, blue eyes flickering with something raw, something vulnerable.

Jo tilted his face slightly, forcing him to meet her gaze.

“You don’t get to decide what I think you deserve,” she murmured.

Arthur swallowed hard, his hands clenching into fists at his sides.

Jo offered a small, tired smile. “And for the record, I haven’t changed my mind.”

Arthur didn’t say anything at first, just stared at her, as if trying to figure out if she really meant it.

Then, slowly, something in his expression softened.

“…Alright,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper.

Jo let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

But then she straightened, her hands slipping away as her expression hardened just slightly.

“But you listen to me, Arthur Morgan,” she said, voice quieter now, but firm. “I can handle my own business. I don’t need you interfering. Not with this.”

Arthur’s brows furrowed, and for a second, she thought he might argue.

Instead, he sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, I figured you’d say somethin’ like that.”

Jo smirked. “Then you should’ve kept your mouth shut.”

Arthur scoffed, shaking his head. “Yeah, well. Ain’t my strong suit.”

She let out a soft chuckle, and for a moment, the air between them shifted. The tension from before—sharp and crackling—melted into something quieter, something heavier.

Neither of them moved.

Neither of them spoke.

Jo could still feel the warmth of Arthur’s skin beneath her fingertips, the roughness of his stubble where she had touched his face. And even though her hands had fallen away, the space between them still felt impossibly small.

Arthur’s gaze flickered to her lips. Just for a second.

Jo noticed.

Her breath hitched, her pulse quickening, but she didn’t pull away. She didn’t say a damn thing.

Neither did Arthur.

Jo’s breath was still uneven, the night’s events weighing on her, soaking into her bones. The cold air bit at her damp skin, and her thin, clinging shirt did nothing to shield her from it. She folded her arms over her chest, trying to shake the lingering chill, but Arthur had already noticed.

His gaze flickered downward.

Just for a second.

But it was long enough.

The dim moonlight wasn’t kind enough to hide the way her soaked shirt clung to every curve, the fabric stretched thin, translucent in places. And her skin—flushed from the cold, from the adrenaline, from the way he had just touched her—only made matters worse.

Arthur swallowed hard.

Shit.

He dragged his gaze back to her face, jaw tightening, but the damage was already done. His blood ran hotter, his pulse pounding in his ears. It was damn near impossible not to notice, not to think about how soft she must be beneath the wet fabric, how easy it would be to reach out and—

No.

He clenched his fists at his sides, as if that would stop the thoughts clawing at the edges of his mind.

Jo must have caught the flicker of something in his expression, because she smirked, tilting her head slightly.

Arthur exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head. “You’re gonna be the death of me, woman.”

Her smirk widened, but she didn’t tease him further. She just stood there, staring up at him, waiting.

And Arthur… well, Arthur was a damn fool to think he could keep resisting her.

So he gave in.

And without warning, he stepped forward.

The movement was sudden, almost rough, like he had finally reached his limit, like something inside him had snapped.

Jo barely had time to react before his hands were on her—one curling around the back of her neck, the other gripping her waist, pulling her in. His fingers dug into the damp fabric of her shirt, like he was grounding himself, making sure she was really there.

And then he kissed her.

It wasn’t gentle.

It wasn’t hesitant.

It was hungry.

His lips crashed against hers, desperate and demanding, like he had been holding himself back for too damn long and couldn’t do it a second more. Jo gasped against his mouth, her fingers instinctively gripping the front of his soaked shirt, curling into the fabric to keep herself steady.

Arthur tasted like whiskey and river water, like smoke and something distinctly him.

She let him take what he wanted.

And then she kissed him back just as fiercely.

A soft groan rumbled from his chest when she pushed up on her toes, pressing closer, her body molding against his. Arthur responded instantly, his grip tightening, his fingers tangling in her wet hair, tugging just enough to make her gasp again.

The kiss deepened.

God, it was messy, breathless, more raw emotion than anything else. A battle neither of them wanted to win.

Arthur pulled back just enough to breathe, resting his forehead against hers. His breath was ragged, hot against her lips. “Damn it, Jo…”

She swallowed hard, her heart pounding, her own breathing just as uneven.

He didn’t finish whatever he was about to say.

And she didn’t make him.

Instead, she brushed her thumb over the rough line of his jaw, tilting his face slightly so he had no choice but to look at her.

“Shut up, Arthur,” she whispered.

Then she kissed him again.

Chapter Text

They stumbled into Arthur’s bedroom at Shady Belle, dripping wet, their breaths uneven, their hands refusing to let go of each other. The old floorboards creaked beneath their hurried steps, but neither paid any mind to the state of the house or the damp trail they left behind. They had barely made it through the door before Arthur kicked it shut, his mouth already crashing against hers, swallowing whatever sharp remark she had left for him.

Jo barely had time to process it before she was pressed against the wooden wall, Arthur’s body flush against hers, his weight grounding her. His hands were rough, calloused from years of holding the reins and pulling triggers, but they were surprisingly gentle as they cradled her face, his thumbs brushing against her cheekbones. She could taste the river on his lips, mixed with whiskey and something undeniably Arthur. It was intoxicating. He was intoxicating. 

Fear had a taste. Acidic, burnt metal. It numbed her tongue. Not just her tongue, but her entire being. 

She was so, so scared. 

But yet, so… consumed by him. 

Their clothes clung to them, soaked through, heavy and cold—but the heat between them burned hotter than anything else. Jo gasped as Arthur's hands moved, one sliding down her waist, fingers finding the ties of the shirt under the corset he had cut open earlier. The fabric was sheer, clinging to her skin, exposing every curve, every shiver. He hesitated for just a breath, his eyes dark as they flickered down her body, taking in how the damp fabric outlined her breasts.

His jaw clenched, nostrils flaring as he fought against whatever restraint he had left. “Damn it, Jo…”

She swallowed hard, her chest rising and falling against his. “Don’t stop.”

That was all it took. His lips found hers again, hungrier this time, his hands gripping her hips as he pushed her toward the bed. They barely made it before she tugged at his shirt, her fingers fumbling with the buttons in frustration before she simply gave up and pulled it open, sending buttons scattering to the floor. He huffed a rough laugh against her mouth before shrugging it off entirely, and she let her hands roam—over his shoulders, across his chest, feeling every ridge of muscle, every scar.

Arthur wasn’t gentle when he pulled her onto his lap, sitting at the edge of the bed. His hands skimmed up her thighs, pushing her soaked skirt up as he did, until his fingers met bare skin. He groaned against her mouth, and she took the opportunity to bite his bottom lip, tugging just enough to make him growl low in his throat. His fingers dug into her, a silent warning, and she smirked against his lips.

“You tryin’ to tease me, woman?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” she murmured, but the way her hands traced the lines of his stomach said otherwise.

Arthur didn’t give her a chance to play coy. In one swift motion, he flipped her onto her back, pressing her into the mattress as he hovered above her, his weight supported by his forearms. He took in the sight of her, damp hair splayed out, lips swollen from his kisses, chest rising and falling beneath the sheer fabric that did little to conceal the effect he had on her.

His hand found her jaw, thumb grazing over her lower lip as his eyes searched hers. “Tell me to stop, and I will.”

Jo swallowed hard, her fingers threading through his hair as she pulled him closer. “Arthur,” she whispered, her breath warm against his lips, “I ain’t tellin’ you to stop.”

That was all he needed.

Their lips met again, and this time, there was no hesitation, no second-guessing. They had fought, they had argued, but in this moment, there was only them—raw, desperate, and completely lost in each other. They had spent too long dancing around whatever was between them, denying what they wanted. But not tonight. Tonight, they were all in.

Arthur’s breath was heavy against her skin, warm despite the chill still clinging to their soaked clothes. His fingers, rough and sure, trailed down her side, grasping the hem of her damp shirt. He peeled the fabric away, slow enough to make her shiver, but he wasn’t teasing—not this time. His hands trembled slightly as he bared her inch by inch, exposing slick, goose-pimpled skin to the air between them. 

Jo felt his gaze rake over her, the heat in his eyes making her skin burn hotter than any fire ever could. The thin, soaked material had left nothing to the imagination, but now, with nothing between them, the weight of his stare made her breath hitch. 

His jaw tensed, his throat bobbing as he swallowed thickly.

She reached for him, fingers curling around the waistband of his soaked pants. “Ain’t fair if I’m the only one losin’ layers,” she murmured, her voice lower, huskier. 

Arthur exhaled a sharp breath, a chuckle laced with something darker. “Reckon you’re right.”

He pushed himself up just enough to yank at the buckle, the leather slick beneath his fingers as he unfastened it. Jo helped, their hands tangling together in a rush to rid him of the last barrier between them. When the pants hit the floor with a heavy thud, she ran her hands along his hips, pulling him back toward her.

The feel of him—solid, warm, undeniably Arthur—sent a new kind of heat coursing through her veins. He kissed her again, slower this time, as if memorizing every curve, every gasp. Jo melted into it, into him, letting the fire between them consume everything else. 

Tonight, nothing else mattered. Only this. Only them .

Arthur wasn’t the only one enjoying himself either – gentle, breathy gasps and low stifled whines that were unable to be contained, started to fall from Jo’s lips. It was music to Arthur’s ears, and a feast for his eyes as he examined her expression. The way her eyes were closed, lashes casting a gentle shadow over her cheek, her head angled back ever so slightly, yet still not being quite enough to hide the deep shade of crimson that plagued her features. His eyes darkened with a mixture of cockiness and lust. This was going to be good. He thought, already envisioning the sweet expressions and sounds the blonde would be struggling to withhold from him.

“I really hope you can keep quiet, Trouble…” He smirked against her ear, nipping it ever so lightly before returning to his quiet, prickly kisses.

Jo scoffed. “Course I can.. You’s the one who’s been groanin’ in my ear.” Her words were quiet and firm, but held no real venom. Of course, she did have one thing on her mind preoccupying her – keeping quiet. She didn’t want to alert the others that were sleeping so soundly only a door away from the pair of them. Saying that their crew was tight-knit was an understatement; Right now, the meaning was literal… though, despite her anxieties, something about it was exhilarating…The thought of being caught at any moment, having to keep it down… It turned Jo on more than she’d like to admit.

But she didn’t need to admit it.

Not when she felt the hand occupying her thigh, now inching towards her dampened folds.

Her breath hitched and her teeth clamped down on her tongue, trying to stifle any noise that threatened to spill out as Arthur’s fingers found themselves gently caressing over her slit. Jo held her breath, then shakily exhaled, body arching against his hand ever so slightly. Her flushed cheeks only seemed to deepen impossibly. 

Arthur seemed to take great enjoyment over how flustered Josephine was getting from what he could see, albeit the dim lighting was obscuring his vision slightly. Seeing how she was trying so hard to keep herself composed, even as his fingers traced along the delicate outlines of her pussy, was invigorating. He wanted to really challenge her composure now.

Continuing from where he left off, his lips continued their quiet assault against her neck, the soft flesh there already reddening – love bites and bruises forming in his wake. He may have gone overboard, he thought… but the thought evaporated as she let out a quiet moan.

While his lips busied themself, Arthur’s right hand remained splayed across Jo’s chest, keeping her close and keeping her warm as he explored the flesh there, his other hand cupping her growingly needy sex, eager fingers parting dampened folds and trying to pry sweet sounds from her lips. He knew he had to be careful. The last thing they needed were some of the others waking up - Dutch… Abigail... John..? Any of them, they’d never hear the end of it, and as the proclaimed ‘golden son', Arthur wasn’t particularly interested in getting tangled up with any drama within the group, let alone making it – especially if John found out, he knew he would never hear the end of it. 

With a gentle flick of his ring and forefinger, Arthur parted her lower lips once more – his middle finger sliding down between her folds and letting her slick – warm and wet – coat his fingertips. Another low groan emanated from him, smirking against the outer shell of her ear and teasingly curling a single digit inwards as if he were about to slip it inside. Though, just as his finger inched in towards her aching heat, he drew back with a low murmur into her ear while his finger came back up to encircle her swollen bundle of nerves, applying a gentle, but pleasant pressure. He was testing the waters until he found a pressure that made the woman under him squirm.

The stubble of his beard gently scraped down along her neck once more as he planted a wet kiss just below her earlobe, where he had left several scattered bite marks.

Arthur’s right hand, still greedily splayed over her chest, tightened. He smirked a little, his breath hot against Jo’s ear, sticking close to her so he could hear every little sound that dared spill from those full lips of hers. She was squirming – writhing. And Arthur was drinking it all in, his other hand still teasing her clit in gentle, slow circles. He could feel the subtle movements of her legs under him, the incessant shifting and subtle rocking of her hips as they ground up to meet his fingers. She was getting impatient. And luckily for Jo, Arthur was equally as impatient.

His movements were gentle– languid, taking his time to warm Jo up to the sensation. Then he added another, Jo’s aching depths greedily taking his fingers up to the first knuckle. Of course, Arthur couldn’t help but curl his fingers upwards, eager to find Jo’s sweet spot, and determined to make her lose herself. He wanted nothing more than to assuage the burning desire within her. He was definitely the right man for the job. It was just a matter of finding what made her tick.

Jo’s lower abdomen tensed, her hips jolting upwards once more, then quivering back down to the covers of Arthur’s cot. He didn’t miss the way her warm, velvety walls clenched around his thick, calloused fingers, drawing him deeper and deeper as if wordlessly pleading for him to continue. She was quiet. Arthur admired that, though his desire to see her sing out so sweetly for him was slowly overcoming his already less than appropriate thoughts. He could tell she was struggling, just a little, but she was going well, he thought.

Or, at least she was. 

Until Arthur’s fingers inched just that little bit higher.

Jo cried out, her knees buckling, back arching beneath fabric. Arthur could’ve sworn he had seen her eyes fluttering and rolling back in delight. As beautiful and as satisfying as it was to see the blonde no longer able to contain herself, the last thing the pair needed was to get caught. She deserved better than that.

“You’re going to get us caught, crying out like that, Trouble… You make it hard to keep my hands to myself...” He murmured, his voice barely audible, though filled with ardour. “Save those pretty screams for another time, yeah?”

Under normal circumstances, Jo would have defensively quipped back at him, but she couldn’t find the words even if she wanted to – not with the pleasure she was feeling in that moment. The woman was seeing stars. She didn’t have the inclination, nor coherent thought to retaliate. All she could muster was a weak and wanton whine.

Arthur was only teasing of course, wanting to rile up this easily-flustered woman, though there was some genuine hope that perhaps she would indulge him again and take him up on the offer. He had an undeniable hunger towards the idea – a yearning that wouldn’t go away so easily. He wouldn’t overstep, of course. Though, something in her whine told him that he wouldn’t be.

His thumb tenderly rubbed against the contours of her breast, an attempt to ease her back into a state of quiet pleasure. Though, he definitely was enjoying Jo’s unbridled delectation. Her sweet cries continued to spill divinely from her lips while his other hand was still busying itself, the languid movements of his fingers curling up into that spot that had driven Jo crazy just moments ago. Her walls were velvety – soft, wet and welcoming – and Arthur couldn’t get enough. He wasn’t going to stop until his hand was utterly drenched in this sweet woman’s essence. Just the thought of watching her come undone was enough to stir the arousal already building within his loins.

He needed to see her squirm.

And that’s exactly what he got.

With a swift flick of his fingers, he drove them upwards into her silky depths, a renewed fervor overcoming his movements. It was risky, but he needed this – knew she wanted this too. His fingers curled and plunged deep. His pace had quickened and his fingertips drove directly into the woman’s sweet spot, repeatedly.

Jo bristled, her abdomen feeling impossibly tight. Her throat bobbed, her head angled back leaning against the bed– face slick with sweat. A shaky breath left her lips, then a drawn-out groan through her teeth quickly followed. This man was going to be the death of her. The knot tightened, the pressure within her burgeoning to an unbearable tension yearning to be released. Her thighs tremored, knees buckling inwards as an instinct to try and close her legs to receive just a little extra friction between her and his fingers.

The padding of his thumb, rough and calloused, prodded against her clit, his movements slow but unyielding, while the two fingers eagerly exploring her channel scissored in and out, curled adroit and upwards. Arthur, now whispering incoherent words of encouragement to the woman currently melting in his hands like putty, kept her on the edge for just a little while longer, articulating his fingers in practised bursts until he was ready to give her what she wanted.

Grunting into her ear, Arthur muttered something that made Jo writhe. Her mind was so hazy with her own pleasure that she almost missed it, the way his voice dropped lower into her ear, accent thick and husky, sent her into a frenzy. Those words were all Jo needed to be sent over the edge. She was going to explode.

And explode she did.

With a sudden jut of her hips upwards, Jo’s orgasm washed over her in intensive waves, crashing against her again and again— making her entire body tremble from head to toe. The woman arched, writhed, walls clamping down onto Arthur’s already dampened fingers as if trying to draw him in deeper like an unyielding vice. She was coming undone. She was unravelling before his eyes.

Her moans fell into the man’s ear while he cradled her body close to his, easing her through her earth-shattering climax. Her eyes fluttered, rolling back in carnal bliss, then squeezing shut as the shockwaves jolted her body in sporadic bursts. She felt pure, deepening whirlpools of pleasure, swirling through her consciousness.

She felt as though she were losing her mind, swearing it had gone blank for a moment as a flash of white crossed her vision. The woman’s chest heaved, her body heated, ruffled and glistening with the sweat of their combined fervour.

Arthur couldn’t help the grin beginning to form on his face as he moved her further on the bed. She didn’t care that her legs fell open for him, only cared that he was here, above her.

He lowered himself to the cradle of her thighs, and his eyes were so wide she could see the whites around them. He opened his mouth, but she didn’t want to hear the words, didn’t want to hear if she was sure about this or whatever he’d been about to say. 

She wanted this. 

She framed his face in her hands and kissed him savagely, her tongue scraping over his teeth as she ground their mouths together. 

The tip of his cock nudged at her entrance, slipping in the slickness there, and he reached down to guide himself in. 

At Arthur’s first prod into her body, fire erupted within her. She panted into his mouth, nipping at his bottom lip as he eased himself in. Just an inch.

He halted. He was large enough that the stretching was edged in the sweetest pain. 

Arthur’s gaze flickered between her eyes, back and forth, searching. Like he was looking for something—doubt, regret, a reason to pull away. His breath was steady but uneven, his fingers still ghosting over her skin as if bracing for her to change her mind.

But Jo didn’t.

She held his gaze, unwavering, letting him see whatever it was he needed to find. And when his eyes softened—when the tension in his jaw eased just slightly, like he had found his answer—Jo knew he wasn’t just looking anymore.

He was letting himself believe it.

His hips flexed, and he slid another inch—then retreated nearly to her edge.

Their breathing synced, and Jo stilled beneath him, a feeling of utter calm, utter fullness spreading through her as his hips moved again, and he pushed back in, farther this time. Arthur held her gaze through each thrust, each retreat. They said nothing, only shared breaths and kisses from time to time.

He pulled outward again, the movement long enough this time that she knew he was nearly all the way in. He halted, his cock barely inside her and studied her face. 

Arthur’s gaze darkened, heavy-lidded, tracing over her face like he was drinking her in. Jo’s eyes mirrored the heat in his, her breath coming slower, shallower, as if caught in the pull between them. 

There was fire between them, slow-burning and all-consuming. 

Arthur leaned down to kiss her. And as his tongue slid into her mouth, he thrust home in a final push. 

Jo moaned as he slammed to the hilt, and the impact of him hit her, stretched her, and she couldn’t breathe fast enough. Arthur withdrew again, and slammed back into her. 

He groaned this time, and the sound was her undoing. She wrapped her legs around his back and lifted her hips to meet his. He sank even deeper, and she dug her nails into his shoulders. 

Gods—nothing had ever felt so good, so full, so burning with pleasure. Nothing had ever felt like this. 

For a moment, she looked between their bodies to where his cock plunged into her, gleaming with her that she tightened around him, her release already building.

He felt her inner muscles squeeze him harder and growled, “Fuck, Jo.”

And she liked seeing him undone enough that she did it again, clenching on him just as he seated himself fully. He arched into it, fingers digging into the bed.

His restraint shattered. Arthur pounded into her, a hand moving from her hip to her hair, his other hand drifted between her legs. 

The silken touch had her erupting.

Her end came even stronger than the last, leaving her vision white and her back arching.

Arthur’s head tilted down close to her ear, moaning and groaning quietly.

Just for her. Only for her.

Each push and pull of his hips dragged Jo deeper through her orgasm until she was left shaking and gasping. His thrusts grew erratic and she could feel how tightly his muscles had coiled. With a deep groan, Arthur pulled out of her and rutted into his hand until his orgasm hit him and he came, painting her belly with thick ropes and drops of white.

He collapsed then, body layering over hers comfortably. Jo’s hands found his back and she pulled him close, turning her head to kiss him. Arthur’s hands curled around her and Josephine felt so safe suddenly. Safe and comfortable and floaty.

A soft, content sigh left her lips at the warmth that coursed through her and she dropped her head against the pillow, closing her eyes and savoring the afterglow.

“You okay?” Arthur asked, concerned, his voice a bit husky with a breathy lilt to it. “Was it…”

“No, Arthur. It was perfect,” Jo laughed, opening her eyes and gazing up at him. A smirk curled over her lips and she pecked his lips. “For such an old man, you still got it.”

Arthur shook his head and chuckled. He looked as if he was going to say something, but the words fizzled on his lips and she watched him gaze down at her, his expression changing into something soft. Something deeply admiring and open. He looked deep in thought, and she felt his fingers come up, stroking and cradling her cheek tenderly.

Jo stayed the night. He didn’t have to ask her to, and she didn’t need to reassure him she was. She simply curled up with him under the covers, their bare skin touching, his arms wrapped tightly around her, his hands tracing delicate patterns along her spine, as if handling fragile glass.

She wasn’t. Jo was anything but fragile. And yet, in this moment, Arthur treated her like she was something precious, something worth holding onto.

He murmured soft words against her ear, half-whispered confessions between lazy kisses to her shoulder. His voice was low, rough with exhaustion, but still carrying a tenderness that made her breath hitch. She laughed at something he said, the sound light and breathless, and he swore right then and there he’d do anything to make her laugh like that again.

The moonlight streamed in through the thin curtains, its pale glow catching the strong lines of his face, the tired yet contented curve of his mouth. Jo found herself memorizing every detail—how the light softened the sharp angles of his jaw, how his hair was still slightly damp, curling at the ends against the pillow.

Arthur let out a slow breath, his fingers trailing lazily along the bare skin of her back. He felt warm, solid beneath her touch, his body relaxed in a way she wasn’t sure she’d ever seen before.

Jo traced the ridges of an old scar across his ribs, following the shape of it absentmindedly. “Never figured you’d be this soft,” she muttered, her voice laced with quiet amusement.

Arthur huffed a tired chuckle. “Don’t go spreadin’ that ‘round.”

She smirked, but the warmth in his tone made her chest tighten. There was something else behind it, something unsaid. She knew it, could feel it in the way his hand lingered at the small of her back, how his thumb brushed slow circles against her skin.

After a beat of silence, he sighed, his voice dropping low. “Damn near drove me crazy, y’know.”

She tilted her head, brows furrowing. “What did?”

His fingers trailed up, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “Wantin’ you. Tryin’ to act like I didn’t.”

Jo stilled, her breath catching for just a second. She kept her voice steady when she replied, though. “You did a piss-poor job of it.”

Arthur chuckled, shaking his head. “That obvious?”

“Painfully.”

She felt him smile against her temple, the warmth of it bleeding into her skin. A silence stretched between them, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Just heavy. Settling.

Arthur shifted slightly, his grip tightening as if afraid to let go, even in sleep. “Ain’t had somethin’ like this before,” he admitted gruffly.

She swallowed, her fingers stilling for a moment against his skin before she pressed her palm flat over his heart. She didn’t know what to say, didn’t know how to put into words what hearing that did to her. So she didn’t. Instead, she pressed a lingering kiss to his chest, right where she felt the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

Her eyes traced over his face, counting the freckles dusting his nose and cheeks. She had no idea why she did that, only that she wanted to commit them to memory.

Arthur hummed sleepily, his hand sliding up to cradle the back of her neck. “You okay?”

Jo only nodded, nestling closer until her forehead rested against his. “I like this.”

His lips curved. “Yeah?”

She breathed out a soft sigh. “Yeah.”

And that was all either of them needed.

As the hours passed, they drifted between quiet conversation and long stretches of silence, where only the sound of their breaths filled the space between them. His fingers were always moving, grazing her bare shoulder, smoothing over her hip, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. Every so often, he would press a slow, lingering kiss to her forehead, her temple, the corner of her mouth—each one a silent promise.

Eventually, the pull of sleep grew heavier, and Arthur’s arms tightened around her. He tucked her beneath his chin, his breath warm against her hair, and for the first time in a long while, Jo let herself rest without fear.

No nightmares. No ghosts of the past clawing at her. Just warmth. Just Arthur.

Jo stirred, warmth pressing against her back, the golden light of morning filtering through the thin curtains. The air smelled like him—smoke and leather and something faintly sweet beneath it.

She turned her head, her cheek brushing against his shoulder, and found Arthur already looking at her. His hair was a mess, his face soft with sleep, and for the first time, he looked… peaceful. His arm was still draped around her, like he hadn’t let go all night.

He smiled.

A slow, lazy thing.

Jo felt something tighten in her chest.

She’d never woken up beside him before. Never seen him like this—unguarded, quiet. She was used to him sharp and restless, always on edge, always carrying the weight of something. But right now?

Right now, he looked just about perfect.

Arthur stretched, one arm reaching for her, his voice rough with sleep. “Com’here.”

She didn’t hesitate. Crawled into his arms and pressed herself close, tucking her head beneath his chin. His grip was firm, grounding, like he had no intention of letting her go. He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, murmuring, “Mornin’ , sweetheart .”

Jo let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. She smiled into his skin. “I like that,” she admitted softly. “I like it when ya call me sweetheart.”

Arthur chuckled, a deep, quiet sound in his chest. She could feel it vibrate through her. He rolled onto his back, stretching both arms out at his sides with a satisfied groan.

“Damn,” he muttered, eyes still closed, a lopsided grin tugging at his lips. “Ain’t slept that good in my whole damn life.”

Jo propped herself up on one elbow, watching him. The way the light caught on the faint scruff along his jaw. The dimples in his cheeks when he smiled. The broad stretch of his chest, bare and solid beneath her fingers.

God, he looked good like this.

“You slept a long time.”

She furrowed her brows. “Why didn’t you wake me?”

He shrugged. “Didn’t want to. You looked peaceful.” His fingers brushed over her cheek, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “Figure we don’t get nights like that too often.”

Jo exhaled, pressing her face into the pillow for a second before turning back to him. “How long?”

Arthur smirked. “It’s late. Already ten-thirty.”

She blinked. “What?”

Arthur chuckled, his fingers tracing idle circles along her shoulder. “Slept straight through. Didn’t even twitch.”

Jo groaned, rubbing her face. “I don’t sleep that long.”

“You did.”

“Shit.”

Arthur let out a slow whistle, teasing. “You gonna be alright, sleepin’ past dawn for once?”

She smirked, reaching over to swat at his chest. “Shut up.”

Arthur caught her hand before she could pull it back, lacing his fingers with hers. He brought it to his lips, pressing a slow kiss against her knuckles.

She laughed, shaking her head. For once, neither of them was in a hurry to be anywhere.

His gaze softened as he studied her, his voice quieter this time. “No nightmares.”

Jo hesitated. That realization hadn’t hit her yet. She exhaled slowly, her fingers still curled where they had landed against him. “Can’t remember the last time that happened.”

Arthur hummed, thoughtful. Her fingers moved again, this time tracing the slope of his nose, slightly crooked from years of being broken and reset by hand.

“Maybe you should sleep on me more often,” he murmured.

She scoffed, rolling her eyes even as her lips twitched. “I’m sure you want the bed back to yourself.”

Arthur didn’t smile this time. His eyes darkened, something unreadable flickering beneath the surface—something raw. It was the same look he got before a fight, when he was at his most dangerous, when something inside him pulled tight and restless. A wild thing barely kept in check.

“Not even close,” he murmured, voice rough at the edges. His fingers trailed down her arm, his grip tightening just slightly. “Ain’t never let anyone sleep in this bed before.”

Jo stirred against the sheets, stretching with a quiet hum as sleep slowly loosened its hold on her. The sunlight was warmer now, streaming through the curtains in soft golden slants. She blinked the haze from her eyes, only to find Arthur already watching her.

His head rested on his hand, elbow propped against the mattress. He looked impossibly comfortable, like he’d been there for a while. His other hand was tracing slow patterns along her shoulder, his touch light and absentminded.

She gave him a sleepy smirk. “What?”

Arthur grinned. “Ain’t every day I wake up to you lookin’ that peaceful.”

Jo huffed a quiet laugh, burying her face against the pillow. “Guess I should sleep in more.”

“Wouldn’t complain.” His fingers lingered against her skin, thoughtful. “Hold still a minute.”

She raised a brow at him. “Why?”

Arthur pushed himself up, leaning over to the side of the bed where his satchel sat on the floor. “Think I wanna draw you.”

Jo blinked, still a little foggy with sleep. “Draw me?”

He just nodded, rubbing the sleep from his own eyes as he reached for his journal. “Been meanin’ to for a while.”

The admission made her stomach flip in a way she didn’t quite expect. She hesitated, lips parting slightly, but Arthur had already moved on, digging through his bag with a small frown.

“Damn pen’s buried in here somewhere,” he muttered.

Jo sighed, stretching before rolling onto her side. “I’ll find it.”

Arthur didn’t argue, just settled back against the pillows while she reached for his satchel, pulling it onto the bed. She found his journal first—leather-bound, edges worn from years of use. She placed it beside him before returning her hand to the bag, fingers brushing past spare bullets, a stray cigarette—

She didn’t mean to pull it out. Didn’t even know she’d grabbed it until her eyes landed on the large, rough-edged paper.

Her breath caught.

A wanted poster.

Her wanted poster.

It was old, yellowed from time, but the face staring back at her was unmistakable. A younger version of herself, sharper, wilder.

Her blood ran cold.

“Find it?” Arthur’s voice was lazy, unaware, as he flipped open his journal.

Jo swallowed, fingers tightening around the paper before she shoved it back into the bag. She forced her voice to stay level. “Not yet.”

She rummaged a little longer, finally grasping the pen and pulling it free. When she turned back, Arthur was watching her, brows raised.

“You alright?”

Jo hesitated for only a breath. Then she gave him a smirk, twirling the pen between her fingers. “Yeah. Here.”

Arthur took it without question, flipping to a blank page. But his gaze flickered back to the satchel.

“What else was in there?” he asked absently.

She almost told him nothing. Almost let it go.

But that would make him suspicious.

So, instead, she reached back in and pulled the poster out with a casual shrug, unfolding it as if she was just now taking a good look. “This,” she said, holding it up. “Found it buried under all your junk.”

Arthur’s eyes landed on the poster, and something in his expression softened.

“Ah. That thing.” He exhaled a small laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Picked it up a while back. Saw it in Emerald Station. Thought she looked a hell of a lot like you.”

Jo forced a chuckle. “You serious?”

“Swear it.” Arthur smirked. “Damn near spooked me.”

Jo shook her head, pretending to study the poster. The name on it—Sarah—burned in her vision. She let out a low whistle. “Well, ain’t me. Never been to New Mexico in my life.”

Arthur nodded, already flipping a page in his journal. “Figured it wasn’t. Just thought it was funny.”

And just like that, it was gone. He believed her.

Jo folded the poster back up, setting it aside as if it was nothing. As if her heart wasn’t still hammering against her ribs.

Arthur’s hand brushed against her arm. “You gonna let me draw you or what?”

She exhaled, forcing herself to relax. “You sure you’re up for the challenge?”

Arthur grinned. “Always.”

So she let him.

Let him sketch her like she was something soft and untouchable. Let him look at her with that same quiet trust that had always been there, that steady, unshaken faith in her.

And it made her stomach twist.

Because the lie had slipped out too easily.

Because Arthur had believed her without hesitation.

Because she knew— God, she knew —when the truth finally came to light, it would gut him.

And she would have no one to blame but herself.

Chapter Text

Some might say that chopping firewood for the past twenty minutes would be exhausting. Unfortunately for Jo, Arthur didn’t seem tired at all. And worse—he still had plenty of energy left to be a pain in the ass.

She had been staring, and she knew it. So when he set the axe down and turned, she snatched up the nearest thing she could find—a book—before he caught her.

“How’s the read?” he drawled, his voice thick with amusement.

Jo forced herself to keep her eyes on the page, angling the book just enough to block her view of him. “It’s... real interestin’,” she muttered, hoping he wouldn’t notice the slight delay in her response.

Hard to focus, though, when his shirt was damp and clinging to him in a way that made it painfully obvious just how solid he was.

Not that she was looking.

Arthur didn’t buy it for a second. He lingered a moment, gaze steady, before heading toward the washing area. “Sure seems that way,” he mused. Then, just as he rolled up his sleeves and reached for the water bucket, he added, real casual, “By the way, sweetheart , book’s upside down.”

Jo froze.

Her stomach dropped. Heat crept up her neck.

She slammed the hardcover shut with more force than necessary, glaring at his back as he chuckled under his breath.

Arthur made his way toward the house, his boots kicking up dust along the worn path. The late morning heat was already settling in, making the air thick and sluggish. A change of shirt sounded like a damn good idea.

As he approached the house, he spotted Sadie Adler sitting on a bench near the entrance, her posture relaxed but her hands busy. A whetstone scraped against steel in rhythmic strokes as she sharpened her knife, the blade catching the sunlight with each pass. Her sleeves were rolled up, exposing lean, tanned arms that spoke of hard work and a readiness for trouble.

Arthur slowed his steps. “How you doin’, Mrs. Adler?”

Sadie glanced up, her eyes sharp but not unkind. “How’re you?”

Arthur shifted, then lowered himself onto the bench beside her. The wood creaked under his weight as he leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees.

“Been quite a journey since I… well, since I joined you fellers,” she mused, inspecting the edge of her knife before giving it another scrape with the whetstone.

Arthur let out a breath, watching dust swirl in the air where the sun hit the ground. “Yeah…” he exhaled.

Sadie’s lips quirked. “And now you and Dutch have joined high society? My lord above.” Her chuckle was dry, laced with amusement and disbelief.

Arthur huffed, shaking his head. “Yeah, it seems so…” He ran a hand through his hair, the strands still damp with sweat.

Sadie tilted her head, turning the blade in her hands to examine her work. “I think my days in polite society are over.”

Arthur glanced at her, then straightened up a little. “Well, I just saw Bill Williamson at a party at the Saint Denis’ mayor’s house.”

Sadie blinked, then barked out a laugh, the sound loud and unapologetic.

Arthur smirked. “If he can do it, anyone can.”

Sadie shook her head, still grinning, but her expression sobered as she leaned in slightly. “You get any leads?”

Arthur nodded, the easy humor slipping from his face. “Yeah, I think so—”

Before he could say more, Dutch’s voice cut through the moment, smooth and commanding.

“You know so, Arthur Morgan.”

Arthur looked up just as Dutch strode toward the house, his pace steady, his presence demanding attention.

“Come on, we need to talk,” Dutch added, barely slowing as he reached the door.

Arthur sighed and pushed himself to his feet. He had half a mind to tell Dutch to slow the hell down, but that wasn’t how things worked.

Dutch turned slightly, pausing at the threshold as he looked past Arthur to Sadie. “Mrs. Adler, will you excuse us?”

Sadie didn’t move right away. Instead, she leaned back against the bench, tilting her chin up slightly. “When you gonna let me come robbin’ with you, Dutch?”

Arthur glanced at her, half-expecting Dutch to brush her off.

Dutch, however, grinned. “My Lord, few more like her, we could take over the whole world.”

And with that, he disappeared inside.

Arthur shot Sadie a look—part amused, part exasperated—but she only smirked, twirling her knife once before going back to sharpening.

With a shake of his head, Arthur followed Dutch inside, already bracing himself for whatever came next.

Jo remained near the gazebo, her book still in hand, though she hadn’t turned a page in quite some time. Her fingers traced absent patterns over the worn cover, her mind far from the words printed inside. Instead, it was consumed by the memory of last night—the way Arthur’s hands had felt on her skin, the way he had whispered her name like it was something sacred, the way she had melted beneath him without hesitation.

It had been good. More than good. But despite the lingering warmth, the pleasure that still clung to her bones, it wasn’t just the night itself that haunted her.

It was the wanted poster.

The sight of her own face, her name—her real name—staring back at her from the folds of Arthur’s satchel had made her blood run cold. It had stolen the breath from her lungs faster than any gun pressed to her ribs ever could.

She should have been relieved. He had believed her lie without question, hadn’t he? Arthur, the man who could smell deceit from a mile away, who could read people as easily as the back of his hand—he hadn’t suspected a damn thing. She had brushed past it, smiled, laughed even, and Arthur had smiled back.

So why did she feel like she was drowning?

She rubbed at her temple, exhaling sharply. It wasn’t guilt, was it? She had been lying for years; it had become second nature, a necessity for survival. And yet, something about this—about lying to him—felt heavier. More suffocating. Maybe because, for the first time in a long time, she had wanted someone to know her.

Maybe she should confess.

The thought sent a jolt of unease down her spine. Would it make a difference? Would saying it out loud lessen the weight pressing against her chest, stop the endless cycle of thoughts that refused to let her be?

Maybe.

But to whom?

Certainly not Arthur. She wouldn’t be able to stand the look in his eyes, the shift in his voice, the crack in whatever trust they had built. No, she wouldn’t risk that.

Not Ben, either. She had already lied to him once, and the idea of doing it again, of twisting the truth further, felt wrong.

Dutch? The thought alone made her stomach churn. She had no idea how he would react, and that terrified her more than anything.

That left Hosea.

Hosea, who had been the closest thing to a father since the gang had taken her in. Who had always offered wisdom without judgment, guidance without force. If anyone would understand, it would be him.

But even then, the idea of confessing felt like stepping off a ledge, unsure if there would be ground beneath her feet or a drop into nothingness.

Lost in thought, she didn’t notice the approaching footsteps until a familiar voice broke through the haze.

“Well, mornin’, Jo.”

Jo’s head snapped up, her heart lurching in her chest as she turned toward the sound. Abigail stood a few feet away, Jack in tow, holding his hand as he rubbed at his eyes.

Jo cleared her throat, forcing herself to sit up straighter. “Abigail,” she greeted, ignoring the way her voice came out a little too high.

The woman eyed her with a knowing smirk, arms crossing over her chest. “Didn’t mean to interrupt ya, but I was just wonderin’—” she glanced down at Jack for a brief moment before continuing, “—what in the hell was all that noise last night?”

Jo felt the blood drain from her face. Then, just as quickly, it rushed back tenfold, setting her skin on fire.

Abigail smirked wider, leaning in just a fraction. “Sounded like someone was havin’ themselves a real good time.”

Jo’s mouth opened, but no words came out—just an unintelligible noise caught between a gasp and a strangled cough. She shot a quick, horrified glance at Jack, who was too busy rubbing sleep from his eyes to be paying attention.

Her hands flew to her lap, gripping her book as if it could somehow shield her from the moment. “I—I don’t—”

“Oh, no need to explain,” Abigail drawled, thoroughly enjoying herself. “Just thought I’d check, seein’ as you were makin’ quite the racket.”

Jo had never blushed this hard in her life.

Abigail let out a laugh at Jo’s expression, reaching out to give her a light tap on the shoulder. “Oh, I’m just messin’ with you, hon,” she said, still grinning. “Ain’t none of my business what you get up to.”

Jo exhaled sharply, trying to shake off the mortification burning through her. “You nearly killed me, Abigail.”

“That so?” Abigail chuckled, settling onto the bench beside her. “I swear, you look just about ready to pass out.”

Jo ran a hand over her face, still too flustered to meet Abigail’s gaze. “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” she muttered.

Before Abigail could reply, Jack tugged at Jo’s sleeve, his small voice cutting through the conversation. “Can I sit with you, Auntie Jo?”

Jo blinked, still recovering from her embarrassment, but when she looked down at him—those big, expectant eyes staring up at her—she felt her heart soften.

“‘Course you can, kid,” she murmured, setting her book aside and opening her arms.

Jack wasted no time clambering onto her lap, nestling against her with the easy trust only a child could have. Jo instinctively wrapped an arm around him, holding him close as he rested his head against her shoulder.

Abigail watched the interaction with a small smile, her teasing momentarily forgotten. “He’s taken quite a liking to you, y’know.”

Jo glanced down at Jack, brushing a hand over his unruly curls. “He’s a good boy,” she said softly. 

“Well, if you ever get tired of ridin’ around with these fools, you’d make a fine nanny.”

Jo scoffed at Abigail’s remark, shaking her head. “Oh, don’t even joke about that. Ain’t no way I’d be good at that.”

Abigail smirked. “You do just fine with Jack.”

“That’s different,” Jo muttered, looking down at the boy in her lap. He was easy. Sweet. But most kids? She never knew what to do with them. Never had the patience.

Before Abigail could tease her further, the sound of approaching hooves reached their ears. A slow, deliberate gait, like whoever was riding in had no reason to rush. Jo’s brows furrowed as she turned toward the entrance of camp, a strange unease settling in her chest.

Then she saw it.

The blood drained from her face.

At the same time, on the other side of the house, a scream of horror cut through the morning air.

Mary-Beth.

"It's Kieran!" she shrieked.

Jo’s body locked up. Her breath hitched, her stomach turned ice cold.

Not far from Mary-Beth, Strauss stood frozen, his face drained of all color, eyes wide with pure dread.

And he had a very good reason to.

Because what was left of Kieran Duffy sat atop a horse—his headless body propped stiffly in the saddle, and in his lap, his own severed head, hands still gripping it as if cradling something precious. Ropes kept his body upright, holding together the grotesque display.

For a long, awful moment, no one moved. No one breathed.

Then—

"Everybody take cover!" Dutch’s roar shattered the silence.

The world erupted into chaos.

Gunfire exploded from the tree line. Horses shrieked. People screamed. The air filled with the sickening sounds of bullets ripping through canvas, shattering crates, splintering wood.

Gunfire erupted from every direction. The sharp cracks of rifles, the deafening blasts of revolvers, the screams of gang members and O’Driscolls alike—all of it blurred into a single, chaotic storm.

Jo’s first instinct wasn’t to fight. It was to protect.

Jack. Abigail.

The nearest cover was a stack of grain sacks, hastily piled up and reinforced with wooden planks. Not perfect, but it would have to do.

“Come on!” Jo shouted, already moving, yanking Abigail’s arm with one hand while clutching Jack tightly to her chest with the other.

Bullets tore through the air around them, kicking up dirt, punching through canvas tents, splintering wood. Jack was trembling in her arms, small fingers clutching desperately at her shirt. Jo ran, heart hammering, instincts screaming. A sharp whistle of a bullet barely missed her ear.

They reached the sacks, and Jo practically threw herself behind them, crouching low as she handed Jack off to Abigail. Abigail pulled him close, arms wrapped protectively around his small frame.

Jo turned back, drawing her revolvers in one smooth motion. It was all she had on her, and it would have to be enough.

Gunfire erupted from the house, and she risked a glance up.

Dutch and Arthur were on the first-floor balcony, rifles raised, firing down at the O’Driscolls pouring into camp. Arthur’s expression was cold, focused, the set of his jaw rigid as he reloaded with practiced ease before firing again.

Jo snapped her attention back to the tree line. More men were charging in, some on horseback, others on foot.

The gang’s horses, panicked by the noise and bloodshed, were breaking loose, bolting in every direction.

Jo grit her teeth, lifting both revolvers, firing off quick, precise shots. One man fell from his saddle. Another collapsed mid-charge.

Then—

“Jack, no!”

Abigail’s scream cut through the chaos.

Jo’s head snapped around, breath catching in her throat.

Jack was running.

Out in the open, small legs moving as fast as they could toward the house.

A single bullet, and he’d be gone.

Jo barely had time to react before she saw a figure sprinting toward him.

John.

He came barreling out of the house, moving faster than she’d ever seen him, arms pumping, boots kicking up dirt.

A gunshot rang out, missing him by inches.

Arthur fired from above, covering him.

John didn’t stop. He reached Jack, grabbed him up in his arms, and continued charging toward where Jo and Abigail were.

Jo fired wildly at the tree line, desperation tightening her chest.

John slid behind the sacks, panting hard, Jack clutched against him.

Abigail was already reaching for her son, sobs of relief breaking through her ragged breathing.

John took up position beside Jo, reloading his revolver with practiced efficiency. The air was thick with the acrid scent of gunpowder, the deafening cracks of gunfire mingling with shouts and cries of pain. Jo barely registered John’s presence, her focus trained on the O’Driscolls emerging from the tree line, their figures shifting in and out of the smoke curling around camp.

“Women and children, inside! Rest of you, hold your ground!”

Dutch’s voice cut through the fray, sharp and commanding.

From above, Arthur continued firing, but as soon as Dutch gave the order, he fell back, ducking inside to ensure everyone got to safety. He muttered under his breath as he descended the stairs, anger vibrating through every word.

“Goddamn crap… Colm O’Damn Driscoll.”

The name alone sent a fresh surge of hatred boiling in his chest.

Colm had taken so much from them.

Annabelle had died because of them.

They got him.

They had tried to take Jo away from them, from him .

And now Kieran.

Arthur clenched his jaw, fury bleeding into every step as he moved through the house. He wouldn’t let this stand. They had to pay.

Simon Pearson and Molly O’Shea stumbled in from the back door, their faces pale, shock making them slow and unsteady. Pearson slammed the door shut behind them.

“Hold in here,” Arthur ordered. “And stay away from the windows.”

He didn’t wait to see if they listened. He was already moving.

The sound of gunfire outside was relentless.

Arthur ran down the hallway, boots thudding heavily against the wooden floor, shouldering through the double doors at the entrance. He barely slowed as he barked orders, his voice carrying over the chaos.

“Get inside, fast!”

People scrambled past him, fear etched into their faces. Strauss rushed through first, his usual composure shattered. Mary-Beth followed, eyes wide with horror.

“Come on, quick!” Arthur urged, voice sharp with urgency.

Abigail hauled Jack inside, holding him tight, her expression fierce and protective. Behind her, Mrs. Grimshaw followed, her usual steel shaken but intact.

As the last of them crossed the threshold, Arthur planted his feet at the entrance, scanning the camp for any stragglers. He wasn’t leaving anyone behind.

“Don’t let anyone back through that door!” he barked before turning and sprinting back toward the fight.

Jo and John were still holding the line, Charles on the other side, firing with steady precision.

Arthur slid into position next to Charles, raising his rifle, eyes burning with purpose.

Gunfire rang out in every direction, bullets whizzing past them as Arthur took down an O’Driscoll mid-charge, the man’s body toppling from his horse with a sickening thud. Another quick shot—another body hitting the dirt.

He barely had time to reload before John shouted, urgency sharp in his voice, “We’re getting overwhelmed! Fall back to the house!”

A large wagon rolled into view, packed with O’Driscoll men, their guns already blazing.

“Shit,” Arthur hissed under his breath.

John broke into a sprint, and Arthur fired off rounds to cover him, hitting one man in the chest, another in the shoulder. The gunman tumbled backward off the wagon, but more took his place.

Charles ran after John, and Arthur followed, firing one last shot before ducking into the house. The moment they were inside, Arthur threw his weight against the double doors, pushing them shut. The thundering of hooves and hollering voices outside sent a spike of urgency through him.

“Help me with this!” he grunted, shoving a large wooden cabinet across the doors. John and Charles joined him, straining against the weight.

The heavy piece of furniture scraped against the floor, finally blocking the entrance. It wouldn’t hold forever, but it would slow them down.

Dutch strode toward them, ever the commander even in chaos.

“Get these windows covered quickly,” he ordered. “John, you take the windows over there.” He motioned toward what had once been the dining room.

“Charles, you take the side door there.” Dutch pointed toward the entrance Pearson and Molly had stumbled through earlier.

Arthur was already moving, knowing what needed to be done, but Dutch turned to him regardless.

“Arthur, you take the windows in the back… go.”

Arthur didn’t hesitate, striding toward the rear of the house. The dimly lit room had once been a kitchen, though now it was barren, stripped of any signs of comfort or use. The only thing it offered was a clear view of the back of the house.

Arthur raised the butt of his revolver and smashed the nearest window, shards of glass falling onto the wooden floor. It gave him a better angle, a clean line of sight.

More O’Driscolls were circling around the house, looking for another way in.

Arthur exhaled sharply, steadying his grip on his gun.

If they wanted inside, they were going to have to fight their way through him first.

As Arthur continued to fire out the broken window, he called out over the deafening gunfire, “Is everyone accounted for?”

From the next room, John answered, though hesitation weighed in his voice. “I think…”

Arthur’s jaw clenched. That wasn’t good enough. “Hey! I said, ‘is everyone accounted for?’” he barked, sharp and demanding. This wasn’t the time for uncertainty. He wasn’t about to lose another member of his family to those dogs.

John let out a frustrated huff, still firing. “I don’t know! I think!”

That answer did little to settle Arthur’s nerves. His eyes darted around the house, catching glimpses of the others taking cover, returning fire, shouting orders. Dutch was near the front, hollering commands. Charles was holding the side door. John was still at his post. Abigail, Jack, and the others were safe inside.

But then it hit him. A blonde haired woman was missing. 

Jo.

She wasn’t inside.

She wasn’t with him, with John, or Charles. She wasn’t in front of the house either, not where the gang had made their retreat.

His heart kicked against his ribs. He trusted her skills, but this fight wasn’t just against one or two men—it was an ambush. The O’Driscolls came prepared, outnumbering them, surrounding them.

Where the hell was she?

Before he could demand an answer from anyone, a scream tore through the chaos.

A woman’s scream.

Sadie’s.

Arthur’s blood ran cold.

He didn’t wait. Didn’t think. He jumped from the window and bolted toward the rear of the house, gun in hand, ready to kill whoever was hurting her—or anyone else.

Jo was positioned on the side of the house, where the land sloped toward the swamp, shrouded in thick mist and tangled roots. The humid air clung to her skin, mixing with the sweat beading at her temple, but she barely noticed. She was crouched low behind a crate, her revolvers barking fire as she cut down the O’Driscolls one after another, her face set in a mask of cold, merciless fury.

The bastards had the audacity to come here, after slaughtering Kieran, to storm their home—her home.

Her hands were steady, her aim precise. A man charged through the murky water, gun raised, but before he could take a shot, she put a bullet right between his eyes. His body crumpled into the swamp with a wet splash, swallowed by the reeds.

Another one came up behind him—this one on horseback. He barely had time to register her presence before she fired again, striking him in the chest. He toppled backward, boots slipping from the stirrups, hitting the ground with a lifeless thud. The horse, now riderless, whinnied and galloped off into the trees.

Jo exhaled sharply, eyes darting for the next target. The fight around her raged on, bullets whizzing through the air, distant shouts and pained cries echoing from both sides. Somewhere outside the house, she could hear Arthur yelling, but she had no time to listen. Another man was coming, moving along the tree line, trying to get a shot on her.

She fired. Missed.

Fired again. He dropped.

She barely had a moment to breathe before she turned, snapping her gun up to another approaching figure—click.

No shot.

Her brow furrowed. She flicked her wrist, shaking the gun as if that would make a bullet appear—click, click.

Nothing.

Empty.

Jo glanced down, her chest rising and falling with exertion. She holstered the useless revolvers and reached to her belt for more bullets—only to find none.

Shit.

She patted her pockets, her coat—nothing.

Her ammunition was gone.

Her other weapons? In Arthur’s bedroom. In her tent. Both completely out of reach.

Fucking great.

Her teeth clenched as she looked up. O’Driscolls were still coming, and she was too far from the house to make a run for it without getting cut down.

All she had left was her knife.

She exhaled, slow and controlled, before drawing it from its sheath. The blade gleamed under the sunlight, sharp as a viper’s fang.

If they wanted a fight, she’d give them one.

Jo scrambled to her feet, abandoning the crate and darting toward the nearest tree. She had to move. Had to think. Had to—

A body slammed into her from the side, knocking the air from her lungs. She hit the ground hard, the damp earth pressing into her back. Her knife was still clutched tightly in her hand, but her grip faltered for a split second as she took in the man above her.

An O’Driscoll.

A broad-shouldered bastard with a wild grin and blood-streaked knuckles. His breath reeked of whiskey, and his eyes gleamed with malice as he took in her face, leering like he'd just struck gold.

“Well, well… what do we got here?”

Jo didn’t waste time with words. She swung.

Her knife sliced through the air, forcing the bastard to rear back with a curse. It gave her just enough time to roll out from under him and lurch to her feet.

He was fast—too fast.

He came at her again, throwing a wild punch. She ducked, countering with a sharp slash toward his ribs, but he twisted at the last second, avoiding the blade. They circled each other, breathing hard, the gunfire around them fading into background noise.

He lunged.

She sidestepped, slashing out again, aiming for his throat—but he caught her wrist in a vice grip.

"Not so fast, sweetheart," he sneered.

Jo snarled, trying to rip free, but he was strong. Too strong. He yanked her arm, pulling her forward, and drove his fist into her face.

Pain exploded across her cheekbone as her head snapped to the side. The taste of copper filled her mouth.

Before she could recover, he wrenched the knife from her hand and shoved her back, sending her crashing to the ground.

Grunting, she tried to scramble up, but he was on her again, pinning her with his weight. His knee pressed into her stomach, knocking the wind out of her. He leaned in close, breath hot against her face, and with a sick grin, he dragged the tip of her own knife along her cheek.

She hissed as the blade bit into her skin, leaving a stinging, shallow cut. Warm blood trickled down her face.

“Got one!” the bastard hollered, turning his head slightly toward the trees.

Heavy boots thundered toward them. More O’Driscolls.

Three men dropped to their knees beside her, one grabbing her arms and pinning them down, the others seizing her kicking legs. Jo bucked, snarling, fighting tooth and nail, but the weight of four men was too much.

“Lemme go, you sons of bitches!” she spat, thrashing against them, but they only laughed.

“She’s a feisty one,” one of them sneered. “Ain’t she, Sam?”

The one holding the knife—Sam, apparently—chuckled darkly. “Yeah, she is.” He pressed the cold steel just beneath her chin, tilting her head up slightly. “Might just have to break that spirit o’ yours.”

Jo’s blood ran cold, but she didn’t stop struggling.

Jo thrashed, but the bastards held firm. The one on her legs dug his knee into her thigh, grinding it in hard enough to bruise. The other wrenched her arms back at an unnatural angle, straining her shoulders until pain flared white-hot through her body.

Sam, the bastard with the knife, tilted his head, amusement flickering in his eyes as he watched her struggle.

“Damn, she’s a wildcat,” he mused. “Y’know, I always heard Van der Linde had some pretty little things in his gang.” He pressed the flat of the blade against her throat, not cutting, but enough to make her pulse hammer against the steel. “Didn’t expect one to put up this much of a fight, though you escaped our brothers last time.”

Jo bared her teeth, breathing hard through her nose. “Let me go,” she growled, voice laced with venom.

Sam only chuckled. “What d’you boys think?” he asked over his shoulder. “Should we keep her for a bit, or just put her down like the dog she is?”

The men holding her laughed.

“Ah, but she’s a looker, Sam,” one said. “Ain’t no harm in havin’ a little fun first—”

Jo didn’t let him finish.

With all the strength she had left, she wrenched one of her legs free and kicked up—hard. Her boot connected with his ribs, knocking the air from his lungs. He grunted, loosening his hold just enough.

Jo took her chance.

She bucked her hips violently, twisting her body to throw off the bastard pinning her arms. She almost got free—almost—

Until Sam grabbed her by the throat and slammed her head back into the ground.

A sharp crack rang out as her skull struck a root beneath the dirt.

White-hot pain exploded behind her eyes. Her vision blurred, black spots clouding the edges. A faint ringing filled her ears, drowning out the gunfire, the laughter, the sick amusement in Sam’s voice as he clicked his tongue.

“See, now you just pissed me off,” he muttered.

Chapter Text

Gunfire still erupted all around, the chaos of battle drowning out everything but instinct. Arthur fired beside Sadie, the two of them holding their ground near the rear of the house. He barely had a second to glance sideways before he caught sight of Charles hurling himself out of a window, landing directly onto an O’Driscoll with a forceful war cry.

And then—

A scream.

Not just any scream.

A voice he knew too well, one that had kept him awake at night, lingering in his thoughts like a damn ghost. The voice of the woman who drove him crazy in more ways than one. The woman whose touch still burned on his skin, whose eyes—hell, those damn eyes—had him wondering if maybe, just maybe, there was something more for him out there.

Jo.

Arthur’s head snapped toward the sound, eyes scanning frantically. In the distance, past the tree line, he saw them—three, no, four O’Driscolls, clustered together, struggling with something. With someone.

His stomach dropped.

And then he saw her.

Jo, pinned to the dirt, thrashing, fighting like hell—but outnumbered. A broad-shouldered bastard loomed over her, belt unfastened, his filthy hands reaching—

Arthur didn’t think. He didn’t hesitate.

A blinding fury unlike anything he’d ever felt before surged through him, hotter than any rage, any hatred he’d held for the O’Driscolls before. It wasn’t just anger—it was something primal, something deeper, something personal .

How dare they?

How dare they touch her?

His Jo. His woman .

His gun was already up before the thought even finished.

BANG .

The man above her crumpled instantly, a clean shot between the eyes.

BANG .

The bastard pinning her arms took a bullet straight to the skull, dropping lifelessly onto the dirt.

Arthur was already running.

The moment Jo’s arms were free, she reacted—fast as lightning, her fist flying upward and crack —she decked the bastard on her leg, sending him reeling.

Arthur slammed full-speed into the last one, tackling him like a damn bull and sending them both crashing into the dirt with bone-jarring force.

The fight wasn’t over yet.

But hell if Arthur was gonna let a single one of those bastards live after what they’d tried to do.

Arthur barely registered the weight of the O’Driscoll beneath him as his fist slammed into the bastard’s jaw, the sickening crack of bone beneath his knuckles only fueling the fire burning inside him. The man grunted, dazed, but Arthur didn’t let up. He grabbed a fistful of the bastard’s collar and landed another devastating blow, sending blood splattering onto the dirt.

“Piece of shit,” Arthur growled, seething, before he drove his fist one last time into the man’s face, knocking him out cold.

He stood, breathing hard, eyes already searching for the last one—the one Jo had punched.

He was ready.

But then—he didn’t need to be.

Jo was already standing over the man.

Her knife—bloodied.

The man—dead.

Arthur exhaled sharply, his chest rising and falling as he took her in. Her stance was unwavering, her fingers still clutching the handle of her knife in a vice grip. But her body heaved with each breath, and as his eyes flickered to her face, he saw them—hot, burning tears, trickling down her cheeks, cutting through the dirt and blood smeared across her skin.

Jo wasn’t crying from fear.

She was crying from rage.

From fury. From hate. From the sheer exhaustion of it all.

Arthur knew that feeling too damn well.

Their eyes met.

For a moment, the battlefield around them faded into nothing—just the two of them, locked in that shared storm of emotions, both still lost in the adrenaline, the fury, the relief that they were still standing. That they had survived.

Arthur’s gaze flickered down just slightly—to her cheek.

A cut. Fresh. Blood trickling from it.

A sharp, burning anger shot through him once more, fiercer than before.

The gunfire had begun to subside, but it didn’t matter. Nothing did.

Before he even knew what he was doing, Arthur crossed the space between them in a heartbeat, his calloused hands cupping her face, his thumbs brushing over her skin with a gentleness that contradicted the wild fury still burning inside him. His eyes darted between hers, searching, desperate—making sure she was really here, really with him.

Jo barely gave him a chance to say a word before she moved.

She closed the distance between them, her arms swinging up around his neck, her body pressing against his, needing— needing —his warmth, his presence, him .

Arthur barely had time to register it before his arms wrapped tightly around her, pulling her close, holding her like he never wanted to let go.

She had to stand on her toes to fully reach him, and even then, she was still smaller, still felt like she could disappear in his grasp—but Arthur wasn’t about to let that happen.

He held her.

Grounded her.

Kept her here.