Red Dead 2 - Blog Posts

The Hobo in Bayou

The Manager (Charlie, Hazbin hotel)

Outfit pieces

Rambler coat (red)

Stand Collar over shirt (white)

Opulent Vest (red)

Town pants (Red)

Leather suspenders (dark)

Dress tie (red)

Elk riding gloves

Button low shoes (Red/black)

The Seducer (Angel Dust, Hazbin hotel)

Outfit pieces

Iguana big valley hat

Legendary moose hunting jacket

Parisian vest (purple ovals)

Stand Collar over shirt (pink)

Saddle jeans (white)

Crossback suspenders (blue)

Boar fringed shotgun Chap

Legendary Boar and Bison fowler's

Stenger deluxe Spurs (Purple)

High neckerchief

Calvary gloves (Violet/black)

Explorer equipment

The Gentleman Host (Alastor, Hazbin hotel)

Outfit pieces

Classic Vest (red)

Everyday shirt (white)

Shotgun coat (red) (optional)

Crossback suspenders (Grey)

Fancy pants (black)

Wing tip gaiters (red black)

Elk riding gloves

The Husker (Inspired by Husk, Hazbin hotel)

Outfit pieces

Stovepipe hat (Black red)

Classic vest (white)

French dress shirt (black)

Fancy pants (Grey blue)

Leather suspenders (red)

Button low shoes (Red/black)

Puff tie (red)

Gambler weapons equipment

The Marshal

Outfit pieces

Cutter hat

Buckskin king vest

Everyday shirt (white)

Fine leather suspenders (brown)

Everyday pants (Black)

Multi tone half chaps (brown black)

Preacher's pride boots (tan)

Kneller rider spurs (brown)

Horseman gun belt

Horseman holster

Off hand holster (basic)

John's Satchel

The French Gunslinger

Outfit pieces

Strawboater hat

Shotgun coat (Blue/Brown)

Opulent vest (light blue)

French dress shirt (White)

Fancy pants (Black checkered)

Fine leather suspenders (Blue)

Wingtip gaiters (Black)

Dress tie (Red)

Elk riding gloves

Valuables Satchel

Gambler weapons equipment (no bandolier)

Old Herbert

Outfit pieces

Strawboater hat

Everyday shirt (Light blue)

Leather suspenders (Dark red)

Tornado boots (light brown/black)

Gerden Spurs (Brown)

Explorer gun belt

Explorer holster

Off hand holster (Basic)

The Master Horseman

Outfit pieces

Worn Gambler hat (white/grey)

Collar overshirt (Blue checkered)

Saddle work pants (brown)

Fine leather suspenders (brown)

Sleeked riding boots (brown)

Kneller rider spurs (brown)

Neckerchief

Horseman equipment (except bandolier)

John's satchel

The Master Survivalist

Outfit pieces

Goat flop hat

Trapper's cloak

No man's vest

Union suit (white)

Jeans (black)

Cotton suspenders (brown)

Legendary Bison batwing chaps

Two tones moccasins

Winter Cavalry gloves

Survivalist weapon equipment

The master weapons expert

Outfit pieces

Worn flat cap(brown)

Scout Jacket (brown)

Principal vest

Everyday overshirt (checkered)

Fancy pants (blue)

Fine leather suspenders (blue)

Plated Quickdraw boots (red and black)

Kneller Rider spurs (brown)

Pigskin rifleman gloves

Weapons expert equipment

Arthur's satchel

The Master Herbalist

Outfit pieces

Muskrat Carvery hat

Hunting Jacket (red)

Hinterland Vest

Collar overshirt (white)

Cuffed town pants (black)

Leather suspenders (grey)

Bill fringed Shotgun chaps

Hunting Fowler boots (black)

Stenger spurs (red)

Legendary buck and fox Range gloves

Tonics satchel

Herbalist equipment (except bandolier)

John Patricks aka The Shamrock Gunslinger

Outfit pieces

Stovepipe top hat (Green)

Shotgun coat (green)

Parsley vest (green/black)

Stand-collar overshirt (white)

Fancy pants (brown)

Fine leather suspenders (Green)

Multi tone half chaps (Black and brown)

Hunting fowler boots (orange brown)

Vaquero spurs (Grey gold)

Dress tie (Green)

Gambler weapon equipment

John's satchel

Guns: Lucky Charms

2 Cattleman Revolvers

Long barrel

Gold

Everything

Victorian

Silver

Hero pearl grips

The Master Hunter

Outfit pieces

Legendary Coyote Mountain hat

Ram Shotgun coat

Legendary cougar and wolf Vest

Union suit (white)

Town pants (brown)

Crossback suspenders

Bear batwing chaps

Legendary moose moccasins

Bandana

Snake skin Carvery Gloves

Master hunter equipment (except bandolier)

Materials satchel

Bear claw talisman

The Master Sharpshooter

Outfit pieces

Arthur's hat ( Judicious accessory)

Outdoorsmen vest

Stand-collar overshirt (grey)

Jeans (grey)

Fine leather suspenders (Brown)

Legendary bear roper boots

Stranger spurs (brown)

High neckerchief

Legendary Ram rifleman gloves

Sharpshooter weapon equipment

Kit satchel

The Master Explorer

Outfit pieces

Moonshine hat

Classic vest (green)

Stand-collar overshirt (white)

Work pants (brown)

Leather suspenders (green)

English preacher's boots (Black)

Dress tie (Red)

Explorer Equipment

Kit satchel

Raven claw talisman

The Master bandit

Outfit pieces

Stalker hat (Dirty brown)

Duster Coat (black)

Classic Vest (brown and gold)

Everyday overshirt (white)

Ranch pants (Black, Patched)

Cotton suspenders (brown)

Worn roper boots (brown and black)loot

Bandana

Bandit weapon equipment

Arthur's satchel

The Master Gambler

Outfit pieces

Stovepipe top hat (black and red)

Rambler Jacket (Red)

Opulent vest (black)

French dress shirt (red)

Fancy pants (black)

Fine leather suspenders (blue)

Burton low shoes (black and red)

Dress tie (white)

Elk riding gloves

Gambler Gun belt and holsters

Valuables satchel

The Deserter

Outfit pieces

Military forage camp

Buckskin King best

Everyday shirt (blue dirty)

Paddded Saddle work pants (black)

Cotton suspenders (white)

Workman's boots (grey black)

Neckerchief

Weathered gun belt

Weathered holster

Survivalist off hand

John's Satchel

The Corporal

Outfit pieces

Military Mountie hat

Shotgun coat (blue, 9/11)

Everyday overshirt (blue)

Fancy pants (black)

Crossback suspenders (white)

Carvery boots (black/navy)

Neckerchief

Legendary Elk Range Gloves

Explorer gun belt

Arthur's holster

John's satchel

Off-hand holster (basic one)

Raven claw talisman (optional)

The Desperado

Outfit pieces

Straw hat

Duster coat (red)

Buckskin vest

Everyday overshirt (white)

Jeans (orange/brown 6/10)

Crossback suspenders (green)

Old west boots(brown)

Vaquero Deluxe spurs

Weathered pistol belt

Weathered holster

Off-hand holster (the basic one

The Jack Trail

Outfit pieces

Elk Flop hat

Wolf coat

Legendary alligator vest

French dress shirt (White)

Fancy pants (brown)

Fine leather suspenders (6/12)

Tanned half chaps (11/11)

Carvery boots (navy)

Badger rifleman gloves

Gerden deluxe spurs (10/10)

Explorer off hand

Horseman holsters

Herbalist gun belt

Sharpshooter bandolier

Bear claw talism

Red Dead Evil 2

John Marston rocking the Kennedy Drip

Outfit pieces

Brown Scout Jacket

Black Union suit

Black fancy pants

Black sleeked riding boots (Under pants options)

Black Rifleman gloves

Wolves playing in RDR2 ♥ I've seen them play before, but I've never seen this animation. They're so damn cute when they aren't mauling me

𝙲𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚝𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝙷𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚜

Pairing ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ Arthur Morgan x fem!reader

Next Part - Hell Hath No Fury Series

A/N: my stupid poor-people photo editing app stopped working so now my cropping is all off and I'm sad. My aesthetic 😭

Summary: Something brews between you and Arthur, but as always, the camp comes first. Despite the growing tension, Arthur must leave to rescue one of the gang who'd been separated in Blackwater. Jealously brews as a loud-mouth Irishman returns to camp and sets his sights on you.

Micah’s cough echoes through the camp and you wince at the sound. “He needs to see a doctor before he gets the rest of us sick.”

Arthur shakes his head and sighs, “Caught somethin’ from the Downes fella in town.” He passes you some coffee which you take eagerly. It’s part of a strange morning ritual you’d begun with him a few weeks ago. Just after the hunting trip, you’d taken to having breakfast with him if he happened to be in camp that morning. It’s become your favorite way to start the day.

You smirk slightly and nudge his side. “You’re welcome.”

He laughs and shakes his head at you, “I’m sorry?”

“Well,” you start with a teasing tone. “If I hadn’t needed a gentlemanly escort into town for some shopping, it would have been you calling in on those loans.”

He opens his mouth to argue but it stays hanging as you see the cogs turning in his head. He snaps his jaw shut with a reluctant sigh, “Suppose you’re right.”

“I always am,” you tell him like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Arthur just laughs, passing you some bread. You hear a familiar set of footprints pacing outside the tent and roll your eyes, turning towards the entrance. 

Sure enough, Mrs. Grimshaw paces around the perimeter of Arthur’s tent like a cougar. She sniffs when she catches your eye and turns her nose to the air, wholly pretending she hasn’t been stalking you. 

“Shoo!” Arthur shouts, waving her off. 

You let out a bewildered laugh, smacking his arm. “Arthur, stop,” you hiss, but you don’t sound very stern as you giggle at Mrs. Grimshaw’s affronted look. 

“Go on,” he keeps going, pushing her further. “Get,” he snaps like he’s talking to a wild animal. Mrs. Grimshaw says something you can’t quite catch and stomps her foot once before running off. 

You press a hand over your mouth, fingers pinching your lips to try and stop yourself from laughing. Arthur looks at you for approval and you only shake your head. “Come on,” he tries, “she’s been botherin’ us all mornin’. What was I supposed to do?”

“She’s not a dog, Arthur.”

“You sure ‘bout that?” He teases and you swat at his arm again. 

You shake your head, letting out a heavy sigh. “I truly think she hates me,” you whisper, pouring yourself a little more coffee. 

“She don’t hate you,” he reassures. You tilt your head with a deadpan look and he chuckles. “Well, maybe just a little.”

You sigh and shake your head, “Just because I married rich doesn’t mean I had an easy life.”

“I know that,” he objects. 

You look up from your mug and furrow your brows. “Do you? You think I don’t see the way you look at me? You see the same softness they do. I just can’t figure out whether you like it or resent me for it.”

The playfulness of the morning is long gone. You seem to have a knack for ruining the moment. This question, though, has been haunting you for a while. Dutch is passive in his disdain for your upbringing—snide comments here and there but nothing quite so obvious. 

A few of the girls question you about the privileges of being a lady a little too long for comfort. Then, the conversation will end with one of them sniffing and saying, “Must have been a nice life. Too bad you’re stuck with us now.” 

There are always small moments like that to break the ridiculous idea you’ve got in your head, that you belong. No matter how hard you try to tell them, they don’t seem to understand that this freedom is better than anything money could have bought you. Your life hasn't been your own since the moment you were born. Sure, being on the run from the law and fighting for every penny wasn’t fun. But moments like these with Arthur would never happen if you were back at your estate. 

With the others, it’s easy enough to see their resentment. But Arthur’s better at keeping his cards close to his chest. It took a while for you both to settle into something easy like this. Most of the time you don’t spend more than half an hour together a day. You don’t have a good enough read on him to determine whether or not he holds your past against you. 

Sometimes, you think you might see just a hint of bitterness when he catches a glimpse of the smooth skin of your palms. But you never know if that’s real or something your paranoid mind has conjured up. 

Arthur swirls his mug in his hand, a bit of the coffee splashing over the edge as it does. You squirm uncomfortably in your spot beside him. The sun has begun to heat up the canvas tent, but you know that’s not why you’re sweating. 

He gives you a gentle smile that eases some of the dread building up in your chest. “I don’t care either way. And you shouldn't give a damn what the rest of these fools think. It’s what you’ve done with your life, with your money, that matters.”

You chuckle and shake your head, “You mean my father's money, and then my husband’s money. It was never mine. That’s why I care what they think. I’m dealing with their judgments every damn day and they know nothing about the truth of it all. I was a commodity, practically cattle to those men.”

Arthur’s brows furrow in that familiar way they do whenever you talk about the men of your old life. It doesn’t bother you to talk about them because you’re used to it and they’re gone. But you know it makes Arthur angry to think about it. 

You’ve grown comfortable with each other, but it’s still a cold shock when he casually touches you. You glance down, eyes wide, as you see his palm covering your own. You look back up with a soft smile. “You’re smart, Arthur. Smarter than half the people here give you credit for. And far kinder than anyone I’ve ever met. " Your heart kicks up a beat when you see the way he refuses to meet your eye. 

You’ll compliment him a million times a day if only to get him to start believing you. And maybe so you can keep watching that pink flush on his cheeks. 

“That’s enough of that,” his voice is gruff with something you can’t quite name. Having enough sense to know when to stop you hold your hands up in surrender. 

“Only saying the truth,” but you never can seem to stop yourself from pushing just a little bit further. Arthur shoots you a sharp look and you bite your lip to keep from laughing at him. You can see him start to wind up and prepare yourself for the brief scolding you’re about to receive. Once he’s done with that, maybe you’ll do what you’ve wanted for so long and ask him to accompany you to Strawberry. 

You’ve been trying to work up the nerve as your last two outings haven’t gone wonderfully. You’re hoping a redo might help the both of you grow just a little closer. Besides, being away from camp seems to be beneficial to you both. 

Approaching footsteps bring your conversation to an awkward halt. They’re not the heavy foot of Mrs. Grimshaw. This is someone else, someone much more welcome. You turn and smile at Charles as he hovers at the entrance of Arthur’s tent. Arthur scoffs and mutters something under his breath that you don’t quite make out, but it makes Charles grin. 

Charles gives you a brief nod but his intentions are meant for Arthur. “Whaddya want?” Arthur snaps impatiently. 

“Trelawney came back,” Charles answers shortly and your face pinches in confusion. Trelawney? You roll the name around in your mind but you don’t think you’ve ever heard anyone in camp mention him. 

Arthur’s head perks up, the frown on his face softening just ever so slightly, but it's replaced by something more bitter. Curiosity or nosiness, you’re not sure, but rather than give in to the rules of common decency you don’t leave them to finish their conversation alone.  

You try to lean back, pretending you’re not there so they’ll keep talking. “The hell did he want?” Arthur barks, tone still rudely short. You wonder what happened between him and Charles, they seemed to get along well enough a few weeks ago. 

Charles's gaze darts briefly to you but he continues, “He’s got news about Sean. Says he knows where to find him.” Now, that name you know, if only through vague mentions. You know Karen does her damndest to keep a mention of Sean out of everyone’s mouths. And that he made it out of Blackwater alive but got separated from the rest of the gang. Other than that, you don’t know much about him. 

Arthur gets to his feet and Charles backs away a few paces, leaving the two of you relatively alone again. Arthur looks down at you, something like disappointment on his face. “You need to go,” you assume before he can say anything. 

He nods and you give him an expectant smile, “Then you better get moving, cowboy. I’ll be here when you get back.” He lingers for a moment like there’s more he wants to say. But your mornings together have always been short, you can’t imagine why that would have changed today.

He sucks in a sharp breath before nodding and heading towards Charles. You watch him go, your plans for the day being tucked away. You’ll ask him to town another time. As long as it’s anywhere but Valentine. 

A prissy throat clears behind you and your head sinks between your shoulders with a heavy sigh. “Time to get movin’,” Mrs. Grimshaw commands, with far too much glee in her voice. 

You’re sitting on an overturned bucket, running someone’s pants across the washboard. You hate doing this, especially in the brisk of the early morning. Your fingers have already pruned up from the frigid water and you can barely feel them anymore. 

Your gaze drifts to your right, where the heaping pile of laundry lies, and you consider running off with Lady. You know whatever other chores Mrs. Grimshaw would come up with in retaliation would be a million times worse, but it almost seems worth it at this point. 

You dismiss the idea, deciding to honor the unspoken rule of ladies staying in camp, and continue scrubbing. You think this might be Arthur’s blue shirt. You notice a few fraying edges and holes and make a note to fix them up for him once it’s dry. You only hope you don’t stumble across Uncle’s clothes while you’re doing this. That man has got stains in places that make you want to throw them in the fire, rather than wash them. 

“Never gonna get used to a sight like this,” Sadie calls out as she walks up behind you. She kicks a crate over and throws herself down beside you. 

“You will soon enough,” you let out a bitter chuckle and shake your head, “Mrs. Grimshaw’s got some vendetta against me.”

Sadie shrugs and picks at some dirt under her nails. The sun seems to crest just perfectly over her head, almost making her blonde hair glow. She seems to be getting better. She’s put some space between her and the O’Driscolls and has found a place in camp just a little easier than you. 

Still, you know she’s struggling. She wants the freedom that your friendship with Arthur and Charles has granted you. You know she’s feeling cooped up here at camp. You’ll have to invite her for a ride sometime and see if that will help ease some of her anxiety. 

“Nah, it’s not just you. That old hag hates me too. She thinks I’ve got ideas above my station.” You and Sadie turn, glaring at the back of Mrs. Grimshaw who is fussing at Lenny. You shake your head with a huff of laughter and turn back to the laundry in hand. 

“I miss Jake,” Sadie suddenly blurts out. You freeze, hand still partially submerged in water as you debate how to approach this. Sadie’s always preferred the blunt way of going about life. You don’t think she wants simpering sympathy right now. 

“Which parts of him do you miss?” You ask, trying to keep your tone light as you toss the shirt into the basket beside you. 

“The non-controlling parts.” Sadie nudges your side with a laugh, “Relax, I’m not gonna start cryin’ on ya. I just miss runnin’ my own house, not being bossed around by a son of a bitch like that,” she says, motioning vaguely towards Mrs. Grimshaw. 

“She’s not much better than my husband was,” you grouse, trying to drown out the woman’s voice. 

“Ooh,” Sadie groans, tone laced with long-held resentment. “Forgive me for sayin’ it, but he was a real pain in my ass.”

You can’t help the grin that curls at your lips as you straighten up, momentarily abandoning the laundry. “You’re not my employee anymore, Sadie. Say whatever you want.”

“Right,” she shrugs, “He was a real bastard and I hope he became wolf meat.” Your lips pull back into something resembling a smile, but it's not fully there. You imagine the blood of your husband on your hands and it doesn’t fill you with the usually stifling nausea. Instead, it’s like a distant ache. You’re either growing numb to it or finally accepting that you’ve done the world a favor. 

You suck in a deep breath and nod, “I hope the same.” Sadie lingers for a little while longer, not helping with the clothes, but keeping you company. You don’t talk about anything of much substance. Mainly her irritations with everyone in camp and you echoing the sentiment. She doesn’t like Pearson always trying to force her to cook with him and you hate being his taste tester. It doesn’t matter how much seasoning he adds, he doesn’t know how to make even half-decent stew. 

When Sadie eventually leaves to finish her chores and you’re left all alone with your thoughts, you realize just how painfully slow the day passes by. You almost find yourself dragging the laundry out just to provide you some distraction from waiting for Arthur to come back. 

You’ve both been lingering on the edge of something. You need to see if it’s all in your head or if there might actually be hope for the both of you yet. 

You glare down at the basket of laundry at your feet and let out a heavy sigh. You reach for another shirt and begin scrubbing, keeping a careful eye on the camp’s entrance. 

It’s not until the sky is illuminated with glowing swirls of orange and pink that Arthur and the others come riding back into camp. You’d run out of chores a long while ago and had just been restlessly pacing since then. Every time you so much as approached Lady someone would come by and distract you with some meaningless task. 

You’d been sitting in the tent for the past hour, barely reading a book as you pray time moved faster. You stand now, hearing the cheers and whistles of the others. You move around the canvas, smiling when you see Arthur leading the men back into camp. 

There’s a man on the back of Diablo, a loud-mouthed redhead that you’ve never seen before. You can only assume this is the infamous Sean they’d been after. Judging by the look on Arthur’s face, you imagine he’s been running his mouth the entire time since they rescued him. 

He looks about ready to put a bullet in the young man as he drives him into camp. You see the others all taking notice of their return, Dutch being the loudest of them all. “Sean MacGuire!” He approaches Arthur’s horse, giving the boy a hand down and grinning widely. “Welcome back, son!”

His thick Irish accent catches you off guard, “Oh, ‘appy to be back, Dutch! ‘appy to be back,” he responds eagerly, a large smile on his face.  

You hesitate by the fire, waiting for Dutch to finish before you go darting off towards Arthur. “I do think a return like this requires a celebration!” Dutch calls out to the rest of the gang. They whistle and cheer for him, Bill already rushing off to break out the alcohol. The gleefulness of the moment catches up to you, it eases away some of the anxiety balling up in your gut and you find yourself cheering along with the others. 

Dutch keeps Sean tucked under his arm and begins to parade him through camp. You know this is a win for all of them. Even if someone here hadn’t liked Sean, getting one over on some bounty hunters is always a morale booster. Whatever your opinions on Dutch may be, you have to admit that he knows how to lead his people. 

Even if you happen to think manipulate is a better word for what he does. 

You watch Sean interact with everyone in camp, drawn into the boisterous energy he wraps himself in. It’s clear some of them are already beginning to find him a little annoying. But even his smart comments can’t seem to put a damper on the spirits of the night. 

Your mouth ticks up slightly when you see Lenny slug him in the shoulder, yelling at him for letting himself get caught. You divert your attention away from the interaction, looking for Arthur. You feel a little bit of the giddiness give way to disappointment when you realize you’ve lost sight of him. 

He’s no longer by the horses, Diablo having been hitched long enough to already start grazing the grass. You peer around the women’s tent and then take a few steps towards Arthur’s but he’s nowhere to be found. 

Just as soon as you let yourself be disappointed by this, you also chastise yourself for becoming so infatuated. You’ve always had a bad habit of getting in your head and boosting your hopes up over something mundane. You’ve only just begun forming a friendship with the man and already you’re starting to fret over him. You’re not a schoolgirl anymore, you’ll have to grow out of this at some point. 

You rub a tired hand over your face and suck in a deep breath. The aromas of camp rush over you in a wave. You can still smell the remnants of burnt morning coffee amidst the ever-present scent of the campfire and the fragrance of laundry that lingers on your hands. You can no longer tell if the mingling of odors comforts or irritates you. 

You look up to the shining stars above and pray for a semblance of sense. Wrapping your shawl tighter around your shoulders you resolve to get over this infatuation with Arthur and just enjoy the night. If anything is meant to happen, it will do so naturally. 

Dutch walks towards you as you begin to head towards the domino table. You force yourself to stop when you see the expectant look on his face. Sean trails along behind him now, already seeming to have found his way into some of the liquor. 

 “Mrs. Rowe!” Dutch calls out loudly, you give him a polite smile and he motions towards Sean. “I don’t believe you’ve met my good friend, Sean MacGuire. Mouthiest gunman in the west,” he adds with a smarmy grin.

You shake your head and hold your hand out to the boy. “Can’t say I’ve had the pleasure. And please, no need to be so formal.” You give him your name, and he perks up. Stumbling forward and attempting to shake the drunkenness off, he turns your palm and kisses the back of your hand instead of shaking it. 

You can’t help but laugh a little at his performance. Molly suddenly calls for Dutch across camp and the three of you turn to face her. “Dutch, over here for a moment!” She waves him forward and Dutch lets out a long-suffering sigh with an easy smile. 

“Duty calls, I believe the two of you can entertain each other for a little while.” He turns towards Molly, arms wide as he calls out, “Now, Miss O’Shea, what ever can I do for you?”

Sean quickly snags your attention again and you realize that he’s yet to let go of your hand. “Not a missus, eh?” He asks, his eyebrows waggling with what his drunken mind must think is seductiveness. 

You stifle a giggle and shake your head no. “‘Fraid not. He’s not been gone long, but I’m happier for it.”

“Oh, and so am I, fair lady.” You shake your head with amusement. He’s nearly charming with all of his limitless swagger. “Now, I’ve just been cooped up in a camp with about fifty men with mugs nearly as ugly as these,” he motions towards the gang and you let out another unbidden laugh. “Would you care to dance with me?”

Your brows furrow, a disbelieving smile on your face. Leaning in, as though you’re sharing a secret, you tell him, “There’s no music.”

He pulls a little bit back from you, meeting your eyes as your breaths mingle with proximity. “Are you sure?” He asks, a mischievous look on his face. 

You find yourself frowning in confusion, and then, almost as though they had planned it, Dutch puts a record on. It’s scratchy on his worn player, but the music fills the camp as he leads Molly into a sway. 

Your lips part in astonishment and you forget for a moment just how close the two of you are. If anyone else saw, they’d think you were going to kiss. “How did you know he was going to do that?”

He waves you off and leans back. “Magician can’t reveal and all that,” he dismisses. “Now, a dance?”

You’re charmed by him, as much as you hate to admit it. Perhaps he doesn’t have quite the same effect on you as Arthur. But he’s handsome in his own way. Besides, who are you to deny a magic man a dance?

You let him lead you towards the fire and he draws you close. You’re surprised when his hand stays firmly on your waist and he keeps a nearly respectable distance between you both. You’re still what modern society would call a scandal, but this is nothing for a gang of outlaws. 

“I’m sure I’ve never met you before. Where did they find you?” Sean spins you out and then twirls you back into his arms with a flourish that makes you breathless. You almost ask him where he learned to dance before you remember to answer his question. 

“Up in the mountains. Some O’Driscolls came through, killed my friend’s husband, and kept us in a cellar.” You’re no longer surprised how easy it is for you to admit something like that. You’ve become desensitized to situations like your own the longer you’ve been in camp. 

“O’Driscolls,” Sean’s face twists up with distaste and he shakes his head. “Nasty business.”

You scoff, “You’re telling me.” Sean’s gaze drifts behind you and the little color on his pale skin drains. It makes the freckles speckling his cheeks stand out remarkably. “Are you feeling alright?”

“Cutting in, MacGuire,” a rough voice calls out from behind you. Your feet still from where they’d been following Sean’s lead and you risk a glance over your shoulder. Arthur paints a fearsome portrait against the night sky. Impassioned by the sight of him, with the brim of his hat tipped low and the fire casting shadows across him, you hastily drop Sean’s hands and step back from him.  “I’d go find your lady if I were you,” Arthur instructs Sean.

Confusion swirls through you before you spot a very angry, very drunk Karen walking past. “Rotten Irish bastard,” she mutters under her breath, shooting both you and Sean a nasty look. Sean chases, taking quick steps towards Karen without another word to you. 

“Karen, it meant nothing, sweetheart. I only wanted a dance!” You let out a loud laugh as you watch him scramble after her. 

“He’s a damn fool,” Arthur says through a chuckle, walking closer towards you. You smile, turning around and flicking the brim of his hat up so he doesn’t seem so imposing. 

“You stole my dance partner, Mr. Morgan.” You accuse lightly, pretending to be cross with him. 

He rolls his eyes with an attitude you rarely see from him. “I did you a favor. You don’t want to get involved with Sean.”

“No,” you tell him, “of course I don’t. I was only dancing. Can’t do that anymore now, can I?”

Arthur’s mouth opens and closes before he lets out a huff. “Well, you two seemed awful close. I thought that-” he cuts himself off and you frown. 

You were only teasing him. Had he actually thought you were interested in pursuing Sean? You’d barely known the boy an hour. You pause, taking a step back and really getting a good look at Arthur. His shoulders are tense, though, not as tense as they had been a moment ago. The anger on his face, when he approached, had been real and not just the fire playing tricks. 

The pieces connect one by one and you find yourself astonished. Arthur Morgan had been jealous over you. 

That had to mean something. You couldn’t be reading into something like this. You might be a little desperate, but you weren’t a fool. You feel a flutter in your stomach and swallow down nerves. “Dance with me?” You ask, in a breathy whisper, sounding much more confident than you are. 

His eyes widen and he grimaces, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t know, sweetheart. I’m no good at stuff like that.”

You bite down your smile and lean forward, taking his hand in your own. They’re rough against the smooth surface of your palms but you relish in the feeling. “Neither am I. It was the one class I never managed to get the hang of in finishing school.”

You coax him forward slowly, drawing him into you and guiding his hand a little lower on your waist than you should. He takes your other hand in his own and leads you into a slow dance. It’s barely anything more than a sway, but you still feel exhilarated. 

Even with the warning, it’s still a little surprising how awful you both are at dancing. “Even if you're stepping on my toes Arthur, I’m still much happier to be dancing with you,” you tell him, sincerity coating your throat like honey. 

He looks away from you and sighs. “Don’t have to say that.”

Your brows furrow and you tilt your head, catching his eye. “Why would I lie?” He doesn’t respond, caught off guard by the question. 

“Well,” he starts slowly, finally facing you again. He laughs a little at himself and shakes his head, “I don’t know why you would.”

“Because I wouldn’t,” you retort. “I don’t want to dance with anyone else, Arthur.” You know that sometimes he doesn’t always catch the hidden meaning, but you’re hoping he understands this time. You don't know if you could be any more brazen than you currently are.

His brows furrow and you can practically see the dots connecting when you begin to hear it. Low grunting noises, something almost like a whimper, slip out of the closed flap of John’s tent. You both pick up on it at the same time, movements slowing until you come to a complete stop. You stand, tucked into Arthur’s chest, and listen to what seems to be two people having a lot of fun. 

“Is that-”

You’re cut off by a very loud, “Sean!” You gasp, hand covering your mouth as your eyes widen. 

“Oh, Karen,” he sounds on the verge of tears and you practically have to bite your tongue to not laugh. You bury your face in Arthur’s chest, feeling it shake as he lets out a loud chuckle. “I’ve missed you so much!” You hear him begin to cry and force yourself to turn away before they hear you both laughing at them. 

“Oh,” Arthur’s face screws up with disgust but he’s still laughing. “That’s just awful. Come on,” he keeps your hand in his, tucking you under his arm as he leads you away from the tent. He snags a bottle of something off a nearby crate as he guides you toward the trees bordering the camp. 

“Where are we going?”

“Somewhere we don’t have to listen to that,” he mutters, nodding back toward the sinful tent. You clench your eyes shut, trying not to picture what the two of them are doing. 

You feel your feet sink a little, mud lifting around the edges of your boot. You reach to lift your skirts, out of instinct, before you remember you’ve got your new pants on. It makes you smile a little, living without the weight of your old clothes. 

“Arthur,” you stumble into his back as you trip over a branch and he quickly rights you. “Were you jealous?” You don't give much lead-up, hoping to shock the truth out of him. 

He pauses and turns back to look at you. You smile a little impishly at him and he lets out a long-suffering sigh. “This way, woman,” he grumbles, tugging you towards a thinner patch of trees. You find yourself squeezing his hand absentmindedly, liking the comfort of holding it.

The moon illuminates your path forward and you feel your heart jump up to your throat. He’s led you to a small cliff face, a spot just large enough for the both of you, that feels incredibly intimate. The moon almost creates a halo around the area, lighting it up more than anywhere else in the forest. 

Arthur lets go of you to tug off his coat. He places it on the ground and motions for you to sit. So used to fending for yourself and always being the last priority, something as simple as that has your heart skipping. “You didn’t answer my question,” you tell him as you take a seat. 

He sits beside you, knee brushing against your thigh as he pops open the bottle of whiskey he’d swiped. He twirls it around in his hand for a moment before he places it down beside himself. Your stomach dips when he turns towards you, eyes intensely meeting your eyes. 

You almost want to look away, the blue of them too intense to face. There’s honesty in his gaze and an intention you can’t recognize that forms a lump in your throat. “Yes. I was.”

Your lips twitch and you shake your head, slightly bewildered by how easily he admitted that. “I’m jealous every day I don’t get to call you mine,” he adds.

You used to be someone else’s. First, you were your father’s toy and then your husband's. When they called you theirs it was always with the intention of owning and using you. But it feels different with Arthur. It feels like handing him your bruised heart and knowing he’ll keep it safe. He says those words, and finally, you know that someone other than yourself is looking out for you. 

His hand comes up, gently brushing some hair off your cheek and drifting down to the nape of your neck. You lean forward, following his guidance, as his head dips down. Your lips meet, and the warmth emanating from him makes you realize this is truly happening. 

Cold from the stone below you seeps through his jacket and chills your legs. The feeling only further intensifies the startling realization that this is real. This isn’t one of your silly little fantasies. He’s kissing you and you aren’t doing anything.  

You sit before him, stiff as a stone, not kissing him back or showing him any sign you’re enjoying this. He picks up on that and you can already taste the apology on his lips as he begins to pull back from you. So you dart forward, clumsily pushing your lips up against his before you completely ruin your chance. 

He laughs against your eager lips, but you feel his relief in the way his shoulders slump and he relaxes back into you. One of his hands drifts down towards your waist, tugging you slightly closer, and you could melt into the feeling of him holding you. 

He tightens his hold around you, drawing you back ever so slightly, his forehead resting against yours. “You sure you want to get involved with me? It ain’t gonna be easy.”

Unwilling to part for so long, you close the distance between the both of you and finally, let yourself give in to the sensations of this moment. His palm drifts into your hair and he tilts his head to deepen the kiss. 

Perhaps due to his gruff outlaw exterior, you’d had the misguided notion that he wouldn’t be a good kisser. Men like himself seem like the type not to enjoy something as simple as a kiss. They’re used to just getting right to the point. You’re happy to discover just how wrong you were. 

Those romance books Mary-Beth devours always describe something fleeting. There’s always fireworks going off as the two people you’ve been reading about finally kiss. This isn’t like that, there isn’t a spark that reignites a cold heart. You feel safe and comforted, like you’re finally coming home. This feels real, not like some passionate moment shared between two people that will never last.

Arthur pulls back, reluctantly, and you both catch your breath. “We should probably head back soon,” he whispers, eyes trained on your lips.

You nod your head, “Probably.” Neither of you goes to move, instead you tighten your hold on one another, basking in the moment of finally having what you’ve been coveting for so long.

Next Part end. — I do not own the characters or the game Red Dead Redemption 1/2, but this writing is my own all rights reserved © not-neverland06 2025. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

Hell Hath No Fury Taglist: @buckysblondie @littlebirdgot @heloixe @summerdazed @committingcrimes-2047

@m1stea @pokiona

𝚆𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚂𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝙶𝚛𝚘𝚠𝚕

Pairing ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ Arthur Morgan x fem!reader

Next Part - Hell Hath No Fury Series

Summary: While the two of you might think whatever could have been is irreparable, one very meddling old man has other plans. Hosea sends Arthur and you on a hunting trip that ends with blood on your hands once more. Despite the mangled mess of it all, you still find yourself drawn to the hope of something more between you and Arthur.

Arthur stayed up most of the night, waiting for you and Charles to come stumbling back into camp. He expected drunken revelry, he thought he might have to corral you into bed. The same tedious tasks he went through with anyone who stayed out as late as you both did. He didn’t expect both of you to be stone-cold sober and in different clothes. He hadn’t paid too much attention to what Charles had been wearing, but he was certain that you had changed before you came back to camp. 

He can’t imagine what would have called for that or why you were both out so long. He’s not sure he likes the few explanations he can come up with. He’s got a nasty look on his face as he watches Charles lead you over to the ladies' tent. His hand hovers over your waist, nearly touching but not quite. His mouth is pressed to your ear, whispering a secret between the both of you. 

Arthur wasn’t jealous. That wouldn’t make any sense. The two of you barely knew each other. And he was still recovering from what was the entire mess with Mary. He didn’t think there was a part of him that was still capable of feeling like that. But he’s not comfortable with secrets in the camp, especially with newcomers. It just seems like bad luck. If you can’t trust the gang, who can you trust?

Charles nods his head in a farewell and heads back to his own tent. Arthur watches as you rub your tired eyes. Your shoulders go up to your ears, back hunching over itself, and you have the countenance of a woman worn down. He frowns, eyes narrowed in suspicion as you collapse onto the bedroll beside Mary-Beth. John clears his throat as he walks past Arthur, giving him an odd look when he sees how intensely he’s glaring at your sleeping form. Arthur frowns at Marston, shooing him off and closing the flaps of his tent. He hadn’t realized just how focused on you he had been. 

The others don’t share his suspicions. They only saw him making you cry earlier. In their minds, he’s probably no better than Micah. He hates that thought but he’s sure it’s not too far from the truth. Neither of them are good men, but Arthur would never hurt you. He would never willingly hurt any of the women. He’s only worried about you. 

He takes his hat off, tossing it beside the picture of Mary on his table. It knocks into the edge of the frame, sending it tumbling into the dirt. “Dammit,” Arthur mutters. He bends, scooping it off the grass and checking for any cracks in the glass. He lets out a heavy sigh and brushes the dirt off the grooves of the frame. 

Arthur pulls the picture back and stares down at it. Mary wasn’t smiling in this one. He’s sure he has another one of the two of them around somewhere. He knows they’re smiling in that one. But after a while, he stopped liking to see himself in pictures and she stopped looking so happy. Arthur slumps down onto his cot and rubs a weary hand over his face. Mary’s stern eyes glare at him from the worn photo. 

He can’t do this again. He can’t watch another bright woman lose their flame because they chose to love him. Loving him is always a mistake. First, it was his son and his mother, then it was Mary. He can’t ruin you too. He won’t be able to live with himself if it’s your life in his hands. 

Arthur places the picture back on the table. He flips the frame face-down so he doesn’t have to sleep feeling eyes on his back. He rolls over and stares up at the canvas roof of his home. He wishes he could see the stars through the fabric. His fingers itch to draw the night sky, just from memory. But he forces himself still, makes himself sleep. 

Arthur’s up before most of the camp, as he normally is. Dutch sits by his tent, reading, and just barely lifts his head in greeting before going back to his book. Pearson never seems to stop making that damn stew and Arthur doesn’t think it’s ever improved in taste. Mrs. Grimshaw isn’t even awake as he goes around camp. He can’t imagine why he’s surprised that you’re still sound asleep. 

He resents the little ache that festers in his stomach. It feels too much like disappointment. He can’t imagine what he would say to you were you awake. There’s no apologizing for yesterday. You’d made it clear how you feel about him and he should honor that. 

Besides, he knows he needs to keep away from you. He’d done both of you a favor by making it clear how much of a bastard he was so early on. He lets out a rough sigh and forces himself away from your tent. He’s sure he’s got something he can find to occupy his time with. 

Arthur’s cleaning his rifle when he hears her start huffing and puffing. Mrs. Grimshaw lingers by the edge of his tent, arms crossed and foot tapping faster than he can keep up with. “Thinks she’s so much better than the rest of us,” she grumbles under her breath. “Just because she married into money-”

“What are you talkin’ about?” Arthur demands, trying to suppress the amused smile on his face. He’s sure he doesn’t need her to see it, she’s already in a mood, might as well not have it turn on him. 

Mrs. Grimshaw throws her hands up in the air, whipping around and glaring at him like she’s been waiting for him to ask the entire time. “That,” she sucks in a sharp breath, clearly struggling to bite her tongue, “woman,” she finally spits out. “Mrs. Rowe,” Arthur straightens up at the mention of your name, eyeing her suspiciously. 

Mrs. Grimshaw ignores him and turns back towards you. He gets up as she starts walking towards the barrel of water by Charles's tent. “She thinks just because she’s a lady, she can laze around and let the rest of us work for her?” She grabs a bucket and drops it in the barrel. Arthur’s sure the only reason she manages to heft it back out is because the woman runs off pure spite. 

“We’ll see about that,” she snaps, marching towards you, arms poised to give you a cold awakening. Arthur chuckles a little, he follows behind her, prepared to stop her. But Charles steps out of his tent and catches on quickly to her plan. Before Arthur can intervene Charles is taking hold of Mrs. Grimshaw’s wrist and tugging her back. 

“Leave her alone,” he commands. 

“Excuse me? This is my camp-”

“I won’t repeat myself,” he tells her, taking the bucket out of her hand. “Let her rest.” Mrs. Grimshaw wants to say more, they can both see it written plainly on her face. But she also won’t argue with one of the men in camp. She just throws her arms in the air in defeat and storms off, still grumbling under her breath as she goes. 

Charles looks back at you and Arthur narrows his eyes at him. Something is tickling in the back of his mind, a thought that’s taking too long to form. The answer for this odd kinship between the two of you is somewhere inside his head but he’s too stupid to work it out. 

“What’s goin’ on?” Charles turns back towards Arthur with a questioning look and he nods towards you. “You got a thing for her or somethin’?” Arthur laughs but he knows Charles sees right through it. That insufferable look of his gives it away. 

“Do you?” Charles asks, crossing his arms and smirking at Arthur. Arthur glares at him and rolls his eyes. 

“‘Course not.” Charles doesn’t say anything. Something lurks between the two men, a tension only shared by Arthur. After a moment of silence, neither of them willing to give in, Charles surrenders. 

“You’re an idiot, Morgan,” he walks past him, patting his shoulder and laughing under his breath. Arthur wasn’t even sure the man was capable of smiling. But here he is, managing a laugh at Arthur’s expense. 

It feels like the day is passing by incredibly slow. He feels like he’s been in camp for hours and it’s not even noon yet. Everyone seems to be avoiding him, either for how he acted last night or because of the way he’s pacing like he’s a caged lion. 

He’s not sure what he’s been waiting for all day until he hears it, “Sorry, I hadn’t meant to sleep so long.” Arthur damn nearly takes out Pearson and that god-awful stew with how fast he whips around. 

You’re sitting up, rubbing at your face and trying to shield your eyes from the sun as Sadie stands over you. “Just don’t go botherin’ Mrs. Grimshaw, she’s after you.” Your face screws up and you let out a heavy sigh. 

“Dammit, why didn’t anyone wake me up?”

Sadie rolls her eyes with a huff and Arthur takes a step closer. “You’ve got a goddamn guard dog.” Arthur tenses up, thinking she’s talking about him for a moment. He’s gotten used to that comparison, especially when it comes to you. You had been pretty reliant on him for a while. Instead, she points to Charles. 

He’s trying not to hate the man but it’s getting hard. 

Charles sits on a nearby boulder, fastening together some arrows and watching everyone out of the sides of his eyes. Arthur looks back at you and sees you smiling at your guard dog. “Sorry, Sadie. I’ll do laundry tomorrow, how’s that?”

“Damn right,” she sniffs, nose pointed to the air and walks away. Shaking your head and closing the tent flaps, you come out a minute later in one of the outfits you must have bought last night. Arthur tries not to stare but it is odd to see one of the women in camp wearing pants. 

Arthur runs through everything he’s wanted to say to you as you move closer to him. He goes through every shitty apology and winces when he realizes what a fool he's going to sound like. It’s a stupid idea, to even try, but he just feels awful that you’d had to be on your own all day yesterday. You at the very least deserve a real explanation. 

He half expects you to pivot at the last minute, to head towards Charles and ignore him the rest of the time you’re with the gang. But you keep coming towards him, something clutched in your hand that he can’t quite see. 

You stop a few feet away from him, arms tucked behind your back and lips pressed into a thin line.  Arthur has an odd urge to close the distance. “Arthur,” you say his name tersely and he tries not to let his disappointment show. 

He might not want to be involved with you, but he likes you. You’re smart, smarter than him, and you’re funny. He wouldn’t hate being friendly with you. But he can tell, just from how you’re standing, that you’re not interested. “Yes, Mrs. Rowe?”

“Here,” you hold something out to him but he’s more focused on the fact that you didn’t even correct him on your name. He’s got no chance with you now, that’s for sure. You shake your hand impatiently and he finally bothers to look at what it is. 

It’s a bunch of crumpled bills, the same ones he gave you yesterday. Though, after your day of interrupted purchases it’s quite a bit lighter than it had been. “Dont-”

“Please,” you stop him before he tries to convince you to keep the money. You take a step forward and he matches you. You don’t look too concerned by the proximity so he risks another step. You lean forward, take his hand and gently coax his fingers open. Your hands are warmer, softer than his own. A life of having servants and maids has kept you away from the harshness of work like his. 

He doesn’t know if he appreciates the softness you provide or resents you for it. “I feel guilty. I shouldn’t have spent it so freely. Buying the horse was a foolish, impulsive purchase.” Your hand lingers on his a moment longer before you slowly pull away. 

Arthur shakes his head but he puts the money back in his satchel. He knows, from the way you’re looking at him, he’s got no chance of getting you to keep this. “Wasn’t impulsive,” he argues. “Those damn O’Driscolls,” the mention of their name causes you to wince and he sighs. “Those men,” he corrects, “took everything from you. And you needed the horse.”

“I suppose I did,” you concede but you don’t sound sure of yourself. Still, Arthur will consider it a win. You look like you’re ready for the conversation to end but Arthur isn’t sure he is. 

“You give her a name yet?”

Your brows furrow and you shake your head. “What do you mean?”

He laughs a little and nods towards the mare standing beside Diablo. She’s pretty big, not nearly as tall as his horse, but larger than some of the others in camp. “She’s gotta have a name. Can’t just go round callin’ her horse.”

You roll your eyes in indignation and Arthur shakes his head. He truly does not know why you hate horses so much. But considering it’s the only form of travel for a couple of hundred miles, he thinks it’s pretty ridiculous. “Can’t I?” You sound so much like a petulant child, he has to bite his tongue not to laugh. 

“Really don’t like ‘em huh?”

The hardened look on your face softens slightly and you smile. “That obvious?”

“Little bit,” you chuckle and Arthur grins. “Doesn’t have to be anything fancy,” he concedes. 

“Oh,” you toss your hands in the air, glancing around like someone might be holding up a sign with a name. “Fine,” you sigh, “how about Lady?”

“Lady?”

“Lady,” you growl the name out, glaring at him. “I’m not gonna come up with anything better than that.”

Arthur looks over at your mare and huffs out a laugh. She did look a little uppity. Nose in the air, looking away from the other horses hitched by her. She didn’t even seem to want to eat the same grass as the others. “Yeah, Lady works,” he chuckles, looking back over at you and trying to spot the similarities. 

It’s no secret you were used to a life of luxury. Sadie wasn’t a friend, she was a former employee. You’re used to wearing fine jewelry and finer clothes. This life, sleeping on the ground, shooting off bullets at anyone that pisses you off, isn’t made for you. You don’t seem like you should fit into this mold. 

But he’s never seen you complain about your chores around camp. And you might not be happy about it, but you’ve never tried to get anyone in the gang to turn away from their violent tendencies. You don’t stick out like a Lady forced into rags, you could well have been born into this life if it weren’t for that smooth skin of yours. He wonders why you seem to fit so well when so many others in your place have failed. 

“Right,” the easy banter fades into a tense silence. You cross your arms behind your back, taking a step away from him and refusing to meet his eye. “I’ve, um,” you trail off and Arthur takes a step towards you as you stumble away. “Thank you, again.” You turn, refusing to let him speak as you rush towards Mrs. Grimshaw. 

Arthur grimaces as she begins to lay into you, her voice carrying throughout the camp about not letting your former status get so far into your head. You’d rather take a whooping from her than have to talk to him any longer. 

Arthur takes his hat off, running a hand through his hair and glaring down at the mud under his boots. He’s never going to be able to bridge this distance. And he shouldn’t be trying to. You both know that nothing good can ever happen between you. There’s no point in torturing himself with something impossible. 

He shoves his hat back on and storms towards the horses. A few people glance his way, but for the most part, they know to ignore him when he gets like this. He takes Diablo’s reins and leads him toward the forest. He doesn’t have a destination in mind but he needs to see the stars tonight. He can’t be stuck in the canvas tent anymore, he’s been cooped up for too long. 

It’s been a week since you’ve killed your husband. A week since you fed his body to the hogs. And a week since you’ve talked to Arthur. You can’t meet his eye, too ashamed of what you’ve done. 

You’re sure the man has killed more men than you can count on both your hands. Yet, you’re still worried he’ll think less of you for what happened. Maybe it’s because you know how the others see you. Everyone else in camp thinks you’re soft. At least Sadie was a working woman before all this happened, she helped her husband keep up some rich employer's estate. And you were the rich employer. 

They think that you’re soft, and better off than they are. They also seem to think that you’re constantly looking down your nose at them. Every time Dutch says, “I know you’re not used to having to live like this, Mrs. Rowe,” you feel like the entire camp turns and glares. Or anytime Mrs. Grimshaw yells at you not to let your former status get to your head, she has to remind you you’re just as bad as the rest of them now. 

You don’t judge them for how they live. You know they do it out of necessity, some for pleasure. You don’t care. Outlaws have always been a part of this country and you’re not looking to fix that, but they don’t seem to understand you. All they see when they look at you is the same type of person who’s kept them down all their life.

You know that the second the rest of them find out what you’ve done, you’ll never hear the end of it. It’ll be held over your head for the rest of your time with the gang. And Arthur, you know he’ll stop looking at you like you’re something to be protected. 

You don’t know if you’d love it or hate it. You’d no longer be soft to him, wouldn’t be this pretty new thing to play with. You’d be like every other woman he’s surrounded by. And what does it matter? He’s already got a proper lady. 

You don’t know how you missed it before. You’ve seen the pictures he keeps at his bedside. But part of you had always hoped it was a sister, or as wicked as it sounds, a dead lover. You feel like a proper fool. There was never any way this infatuation of yours was going to go that would be healthy for either of you. 

You place your book to the side, something Mary-Beth had lent you that only makes your heart ache something fierce. You wished she had something other than romance. You hate reading about how happy they are at the end. It feels like a slap in the face to what your marriage had been and the thought of what you and Arthur might have been. 

You need something to keep your mind busy. You’re not confident enough to go on horseback alone. And no one in camp, except, of course, Arthur, is willing to take a woman out for a ride. They seem to think you’re all better off being cooped up here in camp. You don’t have any chores left. Much to Mrs. Grimshaw’s chagrin, she has nothing to hound you about today. 

Your eyes dart back to the book but the thought of suffering through another sappy scene makes you leap to your feet. You pace around camp for a few minutes, trying to find anyone who looks like they could entertain you. 

Tilly and Lenny are both playing Dominoes, but you’ve never been a fan of the game. It wouldn’t do anything but drive your mind further towards the outlaw you’re avoiding. You skirt around Dutch’s tent, not even wanting to attempt to speak with him. He’s been growing bored of Molly, and you’ve felt a little of his gaze drift towards you. You’d rather not tempt him further. 

You’re considering just attempting a ride on your own when you spot Charles moving away from Pearson’s table. He has new arrows in his hand and his bow is on his back. He’s moving towards his horse like a man on a mission and you finally see your opening. 

“Charles!” You shout, trying to catch him before he leaves. You draw a few eyes towards you but manage to ignore them for the most part. One pair feels particularly intense but you do your best not to meet it. 

He’s got one hand on Taima, slightly turned towards you as he waits for you to catch up. You slide to a stop in front of him, the sun glaring into your eyes over his shoulder. “What are you doing?”

“Going hunting,” he answers bluntly, shifting slightly so you’re less blinded by the bright light of the early morning. Well, that had been obvious. But you’d been hoping for something more inviting. 

“Mind if I come?” You ask, rocking on the heels of your feet impatiently. 

Charles doesn’t usually mind you hanging around him. You’re not sure if he likes it, but he certainly doesn’t object. He seems less sure now, though. His face pinches and he tilts his head, already preparing to say no. You feel whatever hope you’d had sink to your feet. It’s going to be another day of staring at a tree and hoping something interesting happens. 

“Charles!” Hosea calls his name before he can tell you no. You both turn towards the old man, furrowed brows on your faces. “Need your help with something today.” Charles sighs and shoots you a bothered look. You wince, mouthing an apology as he brushes past you. You’re sure if he hadn’t been held up by you he would already have been on his way. 

“I was going hunting. Pearson needs more meat for camp.” Charles argues as he comes up to the fire. Hosea shakes his head, taking a long sip of his coffee. Something curls at the edge of his lips that feels remarkably familiar to you. 

“Don’t bother. Arthur will go.” Arthur looks up from his journal, flipping it closed and frowning as Hosea volunteers him. “And he’ll take the lady with him.”

“No-”

“Why-”

You and Arthur both shoot each other sheepish looks, cutting each other’s objections off. You know why you’re saying no, but it doesn’t make his rejection sting any less. He wasn’t exactly slow to protest against time alone with you. 

Hosea holds his hands up, shooting both of you sharp glares. “I need Charles's help with some herbs,” Charles lets out a little huff but Hosea continues on. “Arthur’s our next best hunter and I do believe Mrs. Rowe needs to learn how to hunt. Are you saying that you don’t think she should know how to take care of herself, Arthur?”

Arthur’s jaw hinges and closes like a fish as he sets Hosea with a narrowed-eyed look. “Now, you know I ain’t sayin’ that. I’m just thinkin’ someone else can take her.”

You try not to let that hurt but it does. He has every reason to avoid you, you haven't exactly been welcoming. But it hurts to see how much you’ve messed this all up. “I don’t see any volunteers, Arthur.” Hosea pretends to search around camp but he just shakes his head and shrugs. “Going to have to be you. I think you both can handle some time alone. You’re adults aren’t you?”

You and Arthur share a look over Hosea’s head. One of shared suspicion that the old man has more than just simple hunting up his sleeve. You both grit out a reluctant, “Fine.”

Hosea smiles and takes Arthur’s map. “Wonderful, here, I’ve marked a spot on here for where you should go hunting.”

Arthur snatches it back and lets out a loud sigh. “Hosea, this is gonna take us two damn days.”

“Well then, I guess you best get riding.”

You know Arthur wants to laugh at you. You don’t blame him, you’re sure you look like a clown on top of Lady. She’s not working with you and you’re slipping and sliding along the saddle. You can’t get comfortable, constantly fidgeting and lifting yourself up and down. It’s making her twitchy.

You can see her flicking her tail in irritation every time you fidget. “Comfortable?” Arthur calls out. 

You look over at him and glare. He’s so wonderfully content on top of his perfect Diablo. “Just fine,” you grit out, trying not to be jealous of how much more his horse likes him than yours likes you. 

Lady seems to have been appropriately named. She’s got all the stuck-up makings of one. You shift again and she flicks her head, whinnying and nearly scaring you off her damn back. “You need to calm down,” Arthur instructs, riding a little closer. 

“I’m trying to get her to,” you argue, tone broaching the line between sharp and petulant. 

“Not the horse,” he chuckles and reaches over, covering your hands with one of his own. He forces you to look up at him and you’re caught wholly off guard by how close he is. You’re practically sharing breaths as he keeps up stride with you. 

“You need to calm down,” his voice is low in your ear, you can feel the rumble of it down your spine. “She can tell you don’t trust her,” he slowly releases your hands in favor of placing them on your back. “Just take a deep breath,” you have to fight the urge to close your eyes and lean into the warmth of his voice. “There you go, good girl,” your eyes shoot open but he’s talking to the horse now. 

You’re ashamed to say you’re jealous of the damn horse. 

He pulls Diablo back and nods towards Lady, “She won’t trust you if you don’t trust her.”

“How am I meant to?” You grouse, but she’s already calmed down a bit just from Arthur pacifying you. 

“Sometimes you just gotta open yourself up to something, even if it might hurt.”

You want to point out the irony of him telling you that but it doesn’t feel appropriate. “Thank you,” you mutter. You risk leaning forward slightly, running your hand through Lady’s soft mane. You think she makes something of an appreciative noise but you can’t be sure. 

He nods his head, humming an affirmative and keeping his eyes strictly on the scenery around you. You try to think of something else to say to him, but every train of thought leads to confessing your guilt about your husband. Forced to keep your mouth shut, you train your eyes forward and keep your attention on calming Lady. 

Above you, the sun peeks through the canopy of leaves, its golden light reflecting off the early morning dew. When you suck in a deep breath, you can still smell the rain in the air, remnants of the night before. Through columns and rows of light, the warmth of the sun manages to reach you. 

Ignoring the tension between you and Arthur, this is possibly one of the most peaceful mornings you’ve had since your home was turned over to the O’Driscolls. You can’t help but appreciate the beauty and the freedom of the world around you.

You're on your own horse, wearing pants, without a chaperone as you ride beside a man. You don’t have to sit here and fret over whether or not he’ll still want you if you speak out of turn. There’s no society to be shunned from here. It’s just you and nature. If you listen close enough you can hear mourning doves and the rustle of creatures in the underbrush beyond you. 

Lady keeps her steady trot, letting you leisurely take in all you can. You’re not sure how long you’ll stay with the gang. You don’t know how long before Dutch will decide you’re dead weight. But you know that life will never get any simpler than this. Anything you manage to find outside the gang will just be the same suffocating, dull monotony of your past life. 

You have to appreciate the beauty of moments like these while you still have them. 

“How are you likin’ it?” Arthur’s rough voice breaks the tranquility of the moment. You open your eyes from where you’d been absorbing the warmth of the sun and turn towards him. Your brows furrow in question and he smiles slightly, though it seems strained. “The life of an outlaw,” he clarifies, arms out as he gestures to the world around you. 

You laugh a little and shrug. “I don’t know. It’s a little more boring than I had expected,” except of course for you murdering your husband. 

He barks out a laugh and it makes a smile spread over your cheeks. He’s got a contagious laugh, you’ve discovered. It fills your stomach with a warmth that makes your legs tingle. “Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah, I mean, for the most part, all you’re doing is sitting around camp. You just wait for something to happen.” You stretch your truth, teasing him a little to try and get another loud laugh out of him. 

Sadly, he only shakes his head with a little amused huff of breath. “Suppose it’s easy to think like that when we’re like this.”

“Hunting?”

He shakes his head and gazes off at something you can’t see in the distance. “On the run, laying low. We’re not exactly goin’ to run around robbin’ branks when we’re tryin’ to keep the law off our back.” His voice grows quieter, more sentimental, “Not when we’ve already lost too much.”

You feel something like shame clogging your throat and wish you’d never said anything at all. It was easy to forget just how much loss they’d all experienced. They didn’t wear it on their sleeves like others might. Just carried it with them in their heavy hearts. 

You’d noticed that Arthur, especially Arthur, tended to turn it all inwards. He blamed himself for any loss or death that occurred within the gang. He never actually blames the person who truly deserves it. You wish you could help him, but you can’t keep trying to fix broken things; you only end up cutting yourself in the process. 

“We’re gettin’ close,” he speaks before the silence can reach any further. His voice is a little rougher now, slightly closed off from you. He turns towards a thicker grove of trees and you try and nudge Lady to follow him. 

She keeps going straight and you tug a little harder on the reins. “Come on,” you mutter, trying to tilt her towards Arthur. You look over your shoulder and see he’s already hitched Diablo and is retrieving his bow from the saddle. “Oh, this is just embarrassing, you wicked beast.”

She knickers in discontent and you roll your eyes. Of course, out of all the horses you picked, it had to be the most stubborn one. You nudge your heel into her ribs and she comes to a complete stop. Her tail flicks with irritation and you throw your hands up in defeat. “I absolutely despise you-”

A sharp whistle rings through the air and cuts you off. Both you and Lady whip towards the noise. Arthur is leaning against a tree, fingers still hovering over his mouth. He pauses, making eye contact with Lady, and whistles again. 

You startle as she takes off in a trot. You grapple for the reins and glare down at her in confusion. “How in the world did you do that?” You call out as Lady approaches Arthur. He chuckles and reaches for the reins in your hand. You give them over willingly, not wanting to try and reason with the stubborn bastard any longer. 

“Got years of wranglin’ these things under my belt. You’ll get there one day.” He comes back around to your side of the saddle and holds his hands out for you. 

“I’m not sure I want to,” you grouse as you slip your hands in his. He eases you off of Lady’s saddle and helps you gently onto the soft grass below. 

Arthur pulls out his map and turns towards the clearing a little way before you. You hear the rushing of water in the distance and figure this is where the deer come for a reprieve from the day. You don’t have to imagine how exhausting it is to always be running from predators. You know what it’s like living your life by taking soft steps and trying to make sure you’re never seen. You’d never go back to that if you had the choice. 

“The place Hosea wanted me to look at isn’t too far out. Couple minutes walk, probably.”

Arthur starts off without looking back and you frown at him. “Hey,” you call out, “shouldn’t I have a bow, too?”

Arthur’s brow quirks up and he’s silent for a moment before he barks out a loud laugh. You roll your eyes and let out a heavy sigh. He’s got a big grin on his face that’s making it hard to actually be mad, but you’re trying. 

“You ever shot a bow before?”

You tuck your tongue in your cheek and frown. You’ve used rifles and pistols plenty of times. Of course, then you had really just been shooting at bottles. But you can’t say you’ve ever experienced a bow. You’re slow to answer, “No.”

“How ‘bout we see how you do today? I’d rather not have you shoot my damn eye out.”

He starts walking back towards you and you practically stomp your foot. “Oh, Arthur, that’s ridiculous-”

He cups your elbow in his hand and forces you forward. “Trust me, sweetheart, I’ve seen it happen. It ain’t pretty.” You can’t find it in yourself to argue anymore. You’re too caught off guard by how tender he’d sounded when he’d called you that. 

Sweetheart. You wonder if he ever calls Mary that.

The thought leaves a sour taste on your tongue. You jerk your arm out of his hold and do your best to ignore the surprised look he sends you. He should be more careful how he acts around you, especially if he’s got a woman of his own. 

You and Arthur drift into another tense silence, one of your own creation, yet again. You follow along whatever path Hosea’s created on his map and let your mind drift away. You try not to linger on any passing thoughts. Instead, you want to focus on the world around you. 

You take in the sounds of bird song and try to memorize the melody. You never want to lose this feeling of being so wholly encapsulated by the world around you. Walking along quietly behind Arthur feels like you’ve become just another slinking animal in the forest. 

A sound breaks through your thoughts of nothing. Something like the wet squelch of blood. It reminds you of how your husband’s brain had sounded under your boot. You come to a stop that goes unnoticed by Arthur. He continues ahead but you’re stuck in a memory. 

There’s a low growl like the click of your gun’s hammer as you’d pulled it back. A fierce bark rings through the treetops like a gunshot. You whip around to face the sound and find nothing but the bright green of the forest. 

As though pulled forward by a rope, you find yourself walking without thought. You step carefully over roots and push through brambles. You follow a red trail dotting along the leaves on the ground until you manage to push your way into a small clearing.

The trees are thinner here. They carry less leaves and occupy less space. They give you just enough room to see what has drawn you forward like a siren’s call. 

A wolf dangles from another wolf’s bloody maw. She’s panting, eyes practically red with bloodlust as she crunches down on the neck of the wolf beneath her. There’s a pathetic whimper, quickly followed by the low gurgle of death. The second wolf hangs limply from her jaws and you’re reminded even more of your marriage. 

But you’re not the bleeding, weak, shadow of a creature on the ground. You’ve turned into the hunter, the defiler. You won’t ever let yourself be cowed by someone weaker than you are. You’ve forced yourself into the role of an animal, blood on your maw and righteous fury in your eye. 

The wolf hasn’t noticed you yet, but you feel as though you’ve seen this animal before. A shadow pacing before your home’s door. The howl outside the camp in the dead of night. She’s haunted you for so long and has only allowed you this one glimpse now. Why?

Something clamps down on your shoulder, heavy, hard, and calloused. It takes everything in you to tamp the scream in your throat down. “What the hell were you thinkin’? Could you stop runnin’ off all the damn time?”

Arthur glares down at you. He hasn’t seen the wolf yet, he’s only just found you. Your eyes widen and you turn slightly towards her. His brows furrow in confusion but he follows your gaze and you watch as his face pales. His hand immediately drifts to the revolver on your hip but you lunge forward, stopping him before he can fully grab it. 

“What’re you doin’?”

“Stop,” you plead, voice heavy with emotions he’ll never truly understand. “Don’t.”

His eyes dart between you and the wolf. You can see the battle waging within him. He doesn’t want to upset you but he can’t risk turning his back and having the wolf on him. You squeeze his hand, eyes big and pleading as you stare up at him. Finally, he relents with a sigh, grip going lax on the handle of the revolver. 

You let out a breath of relief and he takes your hand in his, tugging you back a little. The wolf doesn’t feast on her kind, she just stands over him, lips curled back and ears pinned. You keep your eyes firmly on her as Arthur guides you both out of the clearing.

Once you’re safely out of earshot, Arthur starts grumbling under his breath. “Shouldn’t have done that,” he says vaguely. You frown and catch up with him, shrugging your shoulders in confusion. “There’s plenty of prey in the area,” he clarifies. “It shouldn’t be killin’ its own.”

You look over your shoulder, as though you might see the wolf again, but she doesn’t come back. “Maybe she had to,” you muse. “Maybe he had it coming.”

You don’t miss the odd look Arthur gives you and you don’t blame him. You don’t quite understand yourself sometimes. But you do know you were meant to see that. Whether as a reminder of your sin or a confirmation you did the right thing, you don’t know.

You’re crouched behind a fallen tree as Arthur shows you how to properly nock an arrow. A herd of deer graze along the grass only a few feet ahead. Arthur’s got his sights set on the biggest one and you can already feel your stomach squirming at the thought of watching the beast hit the ground. 

You’d just seen a wolf ripping another wolf to shreds, but the thought of a buck dying makes you nauseous. You need to get your priorities straight. 

Arthur lifts the bow and pulls the string back. He’s facing away from the herd for now, still trying to get you to understand the basics. “Alright, you want your arm level, one finger above the arrow,” he wiggled one of his fingers on the string and you smiled slightly, “two below.” He brought the bow back down and shrugged. “Ain’t too hard, you’ll have to get used to the effort of keeping the string back. Beyond that, point and shoot.”

You roll your eyes with a scoff, “Really? It’s that easy?”

“Well,” he smiles slightly and shakes his head. “Nah, it’ ain’t that easy. You gotta consider the wind, how far the arrow needs to travel, and you gotta be steady.” He pauses and runs his tongue over his lips, struggling for words. You tilt your head in question, letting him find them. “You haven’t been steady in a while, sweetheart.”

There’s that name again. You’d be pleased if it weren’t for what he just said. “Steady?”

“Calm,” he clarifies. “You can’t even ride your horse.”

“I don’t like horses,” you try and defend yourself but it sounds weak, even to you. 

“You and I both know it’s not just that.” He moves a little closer. He leans over you, blue eyes imploring you to just tell the truth. You want to, every part of you is screaming just to give in, but you can’t. 

“Arthur, not now, please,” you’re practically begging. You can’t meet his eye any longer, looking at the ground instead and praying he just drops it. 

He lingers behind you for a moment longer before letting out a low breath. “Alright, fine. We’ll just hunt. I mean it, though, eventually you’ll just have to let go of whatever it is that’s buggin’ you.”

That won’t be happening anytime soon, but there’s no point in telling him that. Instead, you turn back to the herd of deer. It’s thinned slightly, a few of them having run towards the fields beyond. But the big one remains, antlers decorated with moss as he cranes his lithe neck for a drink in the river. 

Arthur passes you the bow and you shoot him a concerned look. “Just give it a try, like I showed you.” When you don’t move, he wraps his palms around yours and forces the bow and arrow into your hands. He lifts them, leveling your arm with your chin and pulling it back until the string is just by your ear. “Come on, you’ve got it,” the whispered instructions should have you melting into him but you can’t. You can’t bring yourself to loose the arrow. 

Your arms drop to your sides and you shake your head. “I can’t,” you utter, sounding completely defeated. “I can’t shoot.”

Arthur mistakes your reluctance for insecurity and smiles slightly. He slips behind you, his chest pressed against your back, and lifts your hands again. “‘Course you can,” he encourages. “I’ll help you.”

Once more, he guides you into the right position. Except, this time, he doesn’t let go. He keeps his palms firmly wrapped around your fists and guides you until your aim is just right. He waits for the breeze to stop blowing, forcing you to keep your tight grip even as your bicep begins to tremble with strain. 

“Hold on,” he mutters, eyes narrowed as he focuses on the buck. Your heart kicks up a beat the longer you watch it move. As much as you’d like to relax into Arthur’s warmth, you can’t. You’re watching this animal move and live its life. And you’re about to kill it like it’s nothing. What right do you have to claim it’s blood?

“There,” Arthur lets you go before you can stop him. Your hands naturally follow his guidance and the arrow whistles through the air. The deer notices it too late. You can hear the thud as it embeds into his neck. It lets out a loud, dying, bleat that alerts the rest of the herd of danger. They jump around for a moment before racing off. 

Your arms sink to your sides and Arthur squeezes your shoulders. “There ya go! Told you, you could do it!” He grins down at you, waiting for you to celebrate along with him. You can’t, all you hear is that awful noise the animal had let out as you killed it. 

Arthur pauses, finally seeing the downtrodden expression on your face. “Hey,” he cuts himself off as the first tear falls. You can’t help it. It’s like a dam has burst with that deer’s death. You crumple into yourself, hands rubbing your eyes raw as you try and stem the tears. “Dammit,” he hisses, “how do I keep doin’ this?”

You laugh wetly at that, sniffling as you wipe your nose against your sleeve. “It’s not you,” you promise him. 

“Then what’s wrong?” His voice has lost any tenderness it once held. It’s rough, and commanding, as he tries to force some answers out of you. You don’t blame him for being upset. He’s right, you really aren’t steady right now. 

“I can’t-”

He cuts you off with a rough shake of his head. His hands find their way on your shoulders and he forces you to turn towards him. You try and slip out of his grip but he grabs your chin and ticks your face up. “Look, I know you and Charles are hidin’ somethin’. I may be a fool but I’m not blind. I’ve also never seen someone cry so hard over a damn deer. You gotta give me somethin’ here.”

You can’t tell him the truth, you know that much. Besides, you’d be implicating Charles in your crime as well. You don’t need to drag him down along with you. But Arthur seems so desperate. You know, deep down, that all he wants is to help, to finally get you to stop crying. And you suppose you owe him something after breaking down on him so many times. 

“I did something,” you whisper, staring down at your hands and for a moment seeing blood on them. “Something awful, and I don’t know if I’ll ever be forgiven for it.”

Arthur’s brows furrow and he rubs the back of his neck. “Forgiven by who?”

You shouldn’t be surprised that he didn’t ask what you did. You know he’s used to all sorts of awful things in his life. You suppose he probably thinks your definition of awful is simply killing a deer- not the man you’d promised the rest of your life to. 

“I don’t know,” you shrug and attempt to collect yourself. “God. Myself. I feel like I’m tainted,” you clench your hands shut and take in a shuddering breath. “Like I’ll never be able to cleanse myself of this.”

Arthur’s silent for a while and you worry that you’ve lost him. There’s a shuffle of feet and you force yourself to finally look up. 

Arthur's eyes soften with concern, but his face is still tainted with a slight suspicion. “Look, I don’t know what happened and I won’t pry. But you’re a good person. I haven’t known you very long,” he amends, a little sheepishly. “But I know you well enough to see just how kind you are. There’s a lot of good inside of you. A lot more than what’s left in me or any of the rest of the gang.”

You sniffle, wiping away a stray tear, and offer him a shaky smile. “You sell yourself too short, Arthur Morgan. You’re a good man, one of the finer ones I’ve met, that’s for sure.”

You swear you almost see a blush on his cheeks as he looks away. “Ah, I wouldn’t go that far. Can’t seem to stop makin’ you cry, anyway.” You laugh a little at that and he finally looks at you again. He gets to his feet and holds his hand out, “Come on, it’ll be dark soon, we gotta get a move on.”

You nod, slipping your hand in his and letting him help you to your feet. He doesn’t let go of you right away, instead, he lets you lean on him as he leads you forward. You appreciate his strength and, as selfish as it is, you relish in the feeling of his body against yours as you walk together. 

You try not to think of his lady or your husband or even the dead buck ahead of you. Instead, you hold onto Arthur’s words. If he believes there’s good left, then maybe there is. 

Arthur told you the ride back would be too long and that you probably wouldn’t do well with Lady at night. You’re sure he’s right but part of you thinks he’s just not ready to be back at camp yet. You can’t blame him, you’re not either. 

It’s nice to get away from the noises of others. Surrounded by the tranquility of nature is the sort of calming environment you need right now. You hadn’t realized just how frayed your nerves had been until you broke down on Arthur for the second time. 

Arthur finally gets the tent set up and comes to sit beside you on the ground. You throw another branch onto the fire and watch as the sparks float up towards the stars. You don’t know why the thought of his woman flits into your mind again. It could be because of how close you both are or simply because she’s lingered in your thoughts since you discovered her. 

You find yourself prying into a man you’re sure would be happier left alone. “How do you think your lady would feel about you sitting so close to me?” You try to give him a teasing smile but you know it only seems strained. 

Arthur’s face drops before it pinches quickly in confusion. He lets out a very ungraceful, “Huh?” And you can’t help but snort slightly in laughter. “The hell are you talkin’ ‘bout woman?” He demands, turning towards the fire and tossing some more sticks on it. 

“The woman in Valentine,” you clarify, still laughing a little. “Oh, I’m sure you remember abandoning me in town for her,” you remind him airily. He lets out a heavy sigh but you keep on. “Doubt she’d appreciate us being so close.”

“No,” he rubs the back of his neck and gives you a sardonic smile. “She wouldn’t, but it don’t matter much now. We haven’t been together for a while.”

“Oh,” you keep your face schooled but there’s a little bit of giddiness bubbling in your gut. But that doesn’t make any sense. “Why would you leave me in town alone to go be with her all day  if you’re not together?”

“I-” he starts and stops himself a few times before giving you a defeated shrug. “Suppose I owe her. I dragged her down into this life, tainted her with my love, I guess I owe her a few favors.”

“Tainted her?” You scoff and wave him off. “I doubt a day goes by where she doesn’t count herself lucky to have been loved by you.”

His face takes on that familiar flush you saw earlier. It could easily be dismissed as heat from the fire but you know better. He’s not used to such blatant honesty, especially not when it compliments him. “Really?” He scoffs and shakes his head. You roll your eyes, already knowing what he’s going to say. 

“I doubt it,” he drawls, rubbing the back of his neck with a stubborn refusal to meet your gaze. You know it’s only because he wouldn’t be able to handle the truth staring back at him. “What about you then, what about your husband?” He easily deflects, throwing you for a curve as you rip your eyes off him. 

You focus on the flames of the fire until it makes your eyes burn. You know he doesn’t know anything about the truth, but you still have to be careful about what you accidentally let slip. “Oh,” you let out a short dismissive chuckle. “Neither of us were lucky. Certainly not me.”

“Why not?” Arthur sounds genuinely curious, not the sort of patronizing inquisitiveness you’ve heard from others in camp. You realize that you’ve not talked about your marriage much. You’ve done your damn best to keep it off the minds of everyone in camp. Starting a new life means not constantly dredging up the old one. But you suppose you owe Arthur just a little bit of honesty. 

“He never loved me the way a man is supposed to love his wife. I count myself lucky to have gotten away from him.”

“He wasn’t kind to you?” Arthur asks, but you both know the answer. 

You finally let your gaze drift off the fire and shake your head. “Not in any aspect of the word. The only part of our marriage that was real was the papers. And now he’s lost and so are they.” You suck in a deep breath and force a smile, turning to face him once more. “I’m finally a free woman.”

Arthur meets your eyes with a startling intensity. There’s something pinched on his face, a thought that’s just taking too long to form. You see the internal battle with himself as he debates whether or not to open his mouth. Your fingers dig into the softened material of your pants, fidgeting as you wait restlessly for his question. 

“Would you ever want that again?” He asks slowly. “Not marriage, but to be with someone like that.”

You look off to the edge of the clearing you’re camping in. The trees provide you both with a thick cover, the tips of them nearly reaching the stars. You’re used to a clear view like this from your home in the mountains. But you never realized just how much you were missing being locked up in that house. There are so many things you thought you’d never have the chance for, so many new opportunities to make. 

“I used to think to myself that if I ever got away from him, I would never be involved with a man ever again.” You wonder if you make up the way his shoulders stiffen slightly. “I had thought they were all just as cruel, just as useless as he was.” His gaze rips away from you and he stares pointedly towards the wildflowers in front of you. You let out a breathy laugh and lean back on your hands, shrugging. “I’m starting to think I might have been wrong.”

Arthur turns towards you and you wonder if you’re imagining the hope in his gaze. Is it just a projection of your own wishes, or is it the truth? “What about you?” You deflect, not willing to hold the weight of the conversation anymore. 

“With the right person. With someone who understood that this is just who I am.” Someone who won’t try to change him, you finish his unspoken thought and nod your head. He hesitates for a moment on his next question. “You think you’ll ever find the right man?” You feel your cheeks pull up unwittingly. Your fingers drift across the grass, just barely brushing against his. He doesn’t pull away from you or frown at the touch. Instead, you feel the warmth of his palm covering your hand. “I think I might be starting too.”

Next Part

end. — I do not own the characters or the game Red Dead Redemption 1/2, but this writing is my own all rights reserved © not-neverland06 2025. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

Hell Hath No Fury Taglist: @buckysblondie @littlebirdgot @heloixe @summerdazed @committingcrimes-2047

@m1stea

𝙰 𝚆𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚂𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍

Pairing ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ Arthur Morgan x fem!reader

Next Part - Hell Hath No Fury Series

Summary: Your husband was supposed to be dead. It's what bastards like him deserve after abandoning their wives in the middle of a blizzard. But he's here, haunting you even when you finally thought you were rid of him. No one can know.

Despite how sobering seeing your husband felt, it didn’t miraculously purge the whiskey running through your veins. You stumble towards the stairs of the saloon and stumble on the first step. “Damn,” you curse, blaming a loosened floorboard that doesn’t exist. Your fists clenches around the banister, relying on it to keep you standing. 

With each step, the warm air from the upstairs presses down against you. Your head spins with the effort it takes to keep moving forward. The heat of grinding bodies from the bedrooms seeps through the cracks of the doors. Sweat beads along your temple as you make it up the last few steps and you fight against the urge to pass out. 

Just as you pull yourself onto the landing, you manage to spot your husband’s form turning down the hall opposite of you. He and the whore disappear from view, “Shit,” you mutter, pushing yourself forward faster. Your legs pump as quickly as they can but the booze has numbed them. You feel nothing more than an almost pleasant tingle as you try and get them moving. 

A man stumbles towards you, grinning like a drunken fool. You don’t manage the grace to avoid bumping into him and his hands immediately rove your body, mistaking you for a working woman. You grunt nonsense at him, swatting his arms away and paying no heed to the insult he hurls at you. Your only focus now is the spot where your husband disappeared. You’ve nearly caught up with him when you feel your stomach roll unpleasantly. You latch onto the banister and curl over it, trying to keep your booze down. 

You suck in a sharp breath through your nose, clenching your eyes shut as you force the bile down before it can rush up your throat. You clamp a clammy palm over your mouth and turn your eyes toward the balcony on your right. 

Only an orange glow, fading against the horizon, remains of the day. The sun has long since disappeared from the sky. You were wondering why you felt so horrible. You’d drank the entire day away without realizing it. Not only that, but you’d been on your own all day. The cogs in your head are slow to turn through the sluggish mush that has become your brain. You know you had someone waiting on you, or you were waiting on them. You can’t seem to remember which. 

But there was something else you were doing, besides trying to remember why you were so drunk and in a saloon all alone. You push off the banister, stumbling back a few steps, and think as hard as you can. Your gaze drifts to your left ring finger, to the pale line of a missing ring. “Husband,” you whisper, “no good husband that’s supposed to be dead.”

A man shoots you a worried look as you pass by him but you just send him a watery smile. He shakes his head with a sigh, “Never should’ve started lettin’ women in here.”

You roll your eyes but the motion just makes you dizzy and you have to lean on a wall for a moment to get your bearings back. By the time you do, the man is gone and you’re all alone on the second floor. 

You have to use the wall to keep yourself balanced, but you do eventually manage to make your way towards the bedrooms. You’re not sure how you’ll know which one your husband is in. There’s always the option of simply busting down the doors until you find him, but that will draw too much attention. 

With your ear pressed to the walls like some kind of pervert, you pass by three bedrooms before you think you’ve found the right one. Slightly ajar, the door lets lamplight seep out into the hallway. Whoever is in there had been in a rush and hadn’t bothered taking the proper, mannerly, precautions. It seems like something your husband would do. 

With as light feet as you can manage drunk, you make your way towards the door. You hover in front of it, listening for a moment to soft sighs and creaking bedsprings before you peer inside. You only see the back of the woman at first, red curls falling over her shoulders, dress hastily pushed beneath her breasts. She’s bouncing atop a man who's wearing a pair of boots that look far too familiar to you. 

Reaching forward, you press the door open just the slightest bit more. Her grinding motions no longer block the man she’s with. Your throat tightens, heart souring, as you see your husband’s face turned up in glee. He lays below her, grinning like a fool, hands caressing her hips in ways he’d never done with you. She couldn’t look more tired of him, gaze constantly drifting towards the crumpled-up cash on the table beside them. 

You feel something white hot and angry strike through you. It’s callous, and unrestrained as you slip your hand across the revolver on your hip. You slide through the door with more grace than you should be currently capable of. You keep your eyes solely on the woman. You recognize the glazed look of your husband’s eyes, he’s too drunk to realize a gun’s being pointed at him, but she’s sober, she could scream and everyone would know you’re up here. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he slurs and it’s like something inside you splits and snaps open. He hasn’t called you beautiful in years, he hasn’t even tried to sleep with you since your first year of marriage. He’d bluntly told you that he’d rather cut off his cock than get you pregnant with his children. And here he was, laving this whore with compliments like he wasn’t paying her to make him happy. 

Righteous fury makes a fool out of you. You think of every bad night, all the moments you’d curled up in your room covered in bruises after he’d had too much to drink. You pull the revolver out, cock the hammer back, and point it at the back of the woman’s head. Her movements still, hips hovering in the air as she peers ever so slightly over her shoulder. 

“What’re you doin’?” Your husband slurs, slapping roughly at her hips. You see her jolt and listen to the smack echo through the room as her pale skin reddens. Your eyes burn with unshed tears and you nod towards the money on the dresser.

“Take the money. Get out,” you motion with your gun towards the door. She stays completely still, eyes so wide you can practically see the whole of them. Your finger twitches towards the trigger and she leaps up, nose flaring like a terrified rabbit. “Don’t make me say it again.”

She grabs the money, not even bothering to fix her clothes, and runs out the door. You figure after having to deal with your husband’s whiskey dick, she could use the compensation. She hastily slams the door shut behind her and you listen to the sounds of her rapid footsteps disappearing down the hall. 

You should be worried she’ll tell someone or get the sheriff, but you doubt she will. You’re sure she’s been threatened by plenty of angry wives in her time here. You’re probably just one of the rare few who bring a gun to drag their wily husbands out of a whore’s bed. She’ll dismiss you as nothing more than an irate woman taking her husband back home. 

Or, perhaps, you’re just drunk and confident enough to believe you can get away with this without any consequences. 

Vince’s pants are jerked lazily to his knees, he leaves himself exposed to you as he gets up on his elbows. You can almost smell the whiskey on his breath as you’re reminded of your disaster of a wedding night. He’d looked just like this then. Foolish, drunk, and like the biggest mistake of your life. 

He’d told you he was so nervous to lay with you that he’d practically drank the whole bar at your wedding. You hadn’t been able to do anything that night except stay up to make sure he didn’t drown in his own vomit. You’d even spent the next day nursing him so he wouldn’t suffer too much from the consequences of what he’d done. 

He’d been so sheepish, so horribly ashamed of his behavior as he apologized to you. You’d thought it be a silly story to share with your children one day. Or even one to just keep to yourself and laugh at, occasionally. You hadn’t thought it would become your everyday. You hadn’t thought the apologies would stop. 

His eyes roam lazily over you, tongue licking at his cracked lips in appreciation. A wet chuckle leaves him when he spots the gun in your hand. He grins at you, that familiar smile that always used to make you feel small. “Calm down, there’s more than enough of me to go around, honey.”

It hits you, then. As he laughs and smiles at you like this is all a joke. He doesn’t recognize you. You’re a bottle of whiskey deep yourself and you’d been able to tell the back of his head from every other bastard down there. But standing right before him he doesn’t even know who you are. 

He doesn’t even have the decency to realize you’re his wife.  “What’re you looking at, right now?” You demand, letting the gun drop a little. 

He shrugs, “I don’t know,” you grimace as he lets out a belch. “One wild woman, that’s for sure.”

You laugh but there’s no humor in the sound, only the acceptance that there was no part of him that ever cared about you. Even before things went bad, when you were still young and naive. You never meant anything to him and he had been your whole word. The gun hangs limply by your side, “You’re seeing,” you tell him slowly, “the wife you left for dead. I’m standing right in front of you, Vince, what does that mean?”

He blinks slowly and you watch as the thought forms. Eventually, the realization dawns on him. His jaw hinges open and closed, just the barest bit of sobriety shining through his reddened eyes. You tilt your head, face expectant, as you wait for him to say anything to you. Prove there’s any part of him worth redeeming. 

His brows furrow, lips turned down, and you wonder what he’ll say. “Help-” He starts to holler and you lunge forward. If anyone hears him or sees you standing in his room with a gun, you’ll be hanged. Maybe not before, you could have lied and said you were only an angry wife looking to scare him. But you travel with outlaws now, he’ll get you killed. He’ll get them all killed.  

You grab the closest thing you can and drag a pillow over his face. If this were any other day, he’d have you on the floor, his hands would already be tight around your throat. But he’s weak and he’s drunker than you. He has nothing to motivate him to stay alive but spite. And you have your grief and your rage and you use it to keep the cotton pressed firmly against his mouth. 

“I thought you were dead, you fucking bastard,” you hiss at him. He can’t respond, not with the way you’re shoving the pillow down his throat. His hands grab at your arms, squeezing your biceps so tight you feel like the bone might snap. But you don’t let go, not even when he rakes his nails down your arms and takes skin with him. You cry out in pain, watching as blood beads from his deep scratching. 

You put as much of your body weight against the pillow as you can, but he refuses to give up. He kicks his legs out wildly, bucking like a bronco and nearly throwing you off of him. His arms start swinging every which way. He manages to catch you in the nose and your head goes swinging painfully to the side. Even drunk, he’s still packing a hell of a punch. 

The pillow slips from your grasp as you clutch at your bleeding nose. He throws it across the room and starts to sit up. You can already hear his gasping voice, struggling to call for help after what you’d put his throat through. You spot the revolver on the ground, still where you’d dropped it. 

You don’t look at him as you pick it up, don’t listen to his pathetic whimper. You scoop it off the cracked wood and turn towards him. He only has the briefest moment to see what you’ve got in your hand, to realize the threat is real. You only get one second to revel in the wide-eyed, pleading look on his face before his head is snapping back and his brain splatters against the wall. 

Your ears ring as the shot echoes through the, now, starkly quiet room.  The adrenaline still rushes through you, heart pounding and knees knocking together as you take in the mess. His head dangles off the side of the bed and if you stay standing just where you are, you can almost pretend there’s no hole in it. 

Your arms buzz from the recoil, hands shaking so badly that the gun nearly slips from your grip. Your blood covers your arms and hands, but his douses the entire room. You press a hand against your chest, stumbling back a few steps and gasping. 

You’re going to have a heart attack. A heart shouldn’t be able to pound against your rib cage like this. Your blood shouldn’t be clawing at your veins and trying to escape. You turn away from his body and clench your eyes shut, trying to breathe normally. 

The barrel of the revolver is still warm from the bullet, the last bits of smoke eeking out of the tip. The smell of gunpowder and blood is overwhelmingly nauseating. You rush towards the window in the room, throwing the gun to the side and ripping at the pane until it lifts enough for fresh air to flow through. 

The body behind you can’t be your husband. It’s too still, to limp. He was wild and raging, full of life in the worst possible way. How is it possible that you’re responsible for taking that from him? It can’t be. You can’t have done this.

You try not to listen to the steady drip of blood. But it’s impossible not to taste the iron in the air. Your head tips out the window and the contents of your stomach burn as they rush out of you. It lands in the bushes below, rustling the leaves slightly. 

The sounds of the saloon are so loud that they drift into the night. People scream and shout at each other and you hear what sounds like a chair being thrown. How lucky for you. You shoot your husband and a fight breaks out so no one can hear it. 

You fall away from the window and sink onto the cool wooden floor. Forcing yourself to look at the corpse on the bed, you bite back a sob. You just killed your husband and the idea is slow to settle. A part of you can only see a corpse, with his head still hanging off the other side of the bed you can pretend it didn’t happen. 

Arthur sees Mary to the train station just as the sun begins to set. He’d like to linger in the ache of her absence, but he can only think about how he promised you it’d just be an hour. He can’t imagine how irate you’re going to be that he’d been gone the whole day. 

Hunting down Mary’s brother had been much more tedious than he thought it would be. He’d joined some turtle-worshipping cult and Arthur doesn’t even know where to begin explaining himself to you. You’ll probably think he's just making it all up. 

He pushes Diablo forward, the horse nickering below him like he’s giving him hell too. He doesn’t even know where to start looking for you. But, he figures in a town this small, if anyone had information they’d be in the only half-decent place they got. He nudges Diablo’s sides and turns him towards the saloon.

He takes his time walking to the saloon. He’s in no big rush to have you yelling at him for leaving you alone all day. He tries to prepare a half-decent explanation, maybe mentioning Mary and their history might ease some of the tension. You’d at least know why he felt like he had to help her. Or maybe that would only make you more mad. 

He didn’t know how to handle women, especially when they were angry. He figured no matter what he came up with, he wouldn’t be absolved from this. He looks around the saloon, trying to spot you anywhere but it’s crowded with smoke and bodies. He’s got better luck just asking the barkeep. 

“Ain’t got food here,” the man behind the counter warns as Arthur approaches. He doesn’t look up, too focused on scrubbing some blood off the wood. 

Arthur shakes his head, “Don’t need that. Need a woman.”

The old man scoffs and gestures behind him, “Take your pick.” Arthur turns and finds five working ladies smiling at him. One of them waves and he shakes his head with a grimace. 

“Not like that,” he grouses. “I was with a lady, had to leave for a little while. She might have come through here, you seen ‘er?”

“Geez mister, with a description as detailed as that I’m surprised you haven’t found her,” the old man grumps. Arthur glares, leaning further onto the counter and pushing the revolver on his hip out. The man rolls his eyes with a huff. “Only one lady been through here on her own. Sat here drinking the better part of the day away and stumbled upstairs. Haven’t seen her since, I swear.”

Not once has Arthur seen you drink more than a sip of liquor since you’ve been at camp. He sees the way your face screws up whenever Javier tries to pour you some more, he knows you don’t like the taste. He knows being on your own all day probably had you bored, but he can’t imagine you drinking so much for no reason. 

He gives the old man a doubtful look but he’s already back to cleaning up. Sighing, Arthur glances up the stairs and frowns. It’s not like he’s got anything else to go on. Maybe you’d just used his money to rent a room so you could sleep. He heads towards the stairs, calling out your name as he goes. 

It almost seems empty until a door slams up ahead and a redheaded woman comes rushing out. She’s wide-eyed, face so white he can see the blue of her veins. She slams right into him, nearly falling on her ass as she gapes up at him. 

“Oh,” she forces a smile, “sorry mister.” She looks suspiciously disturbed and it has Arthur’s stomach flipping uncertainly. She tries to slip past him but he reaches out, snagging her shoulders and turning her around before she can get far. 

“I’m lookin’ for a lady,” he tells her lowly, the tone of his voice a threat. He describes you as best he can, not once taking his eyes off her face. It twitches now and again, her eyes darting every which way. “You seen her?”

She opens and closes her mouth rapidly, shaking her head like she doesn’t know. “Um,” she clears her throat and Arthur’s eyes narrow. What has she got to hide? “Sure, ran out of here like a cat on fire a few minutes ago.” 

“You know why?” He asks in that same tone and she just shakes her head again. She shifts like she wants to leave and Arthur tightens his grip. There’s clearly something she’s not sharing and he’s going to get to the bottom of it. Realizing this, she lifts her foot and slams her heeled boot down on his toes. 

“Shit,” he hisses, letting her go as he jumps back in surprise. She bolts towards the terrace, sliding around the corner and disappearing down the back set of stairs. Arthur runs after her, one foot dragging slightly behind the other. “Hold on a minute!” He shouts as she disappears into the alley beyond the saloon.

She runs him in circles, dragging him between every building in Valentine before he finally lands right back in front of the saloon. He can’t find a trace of her anywhere, their footsteps overlapping in the mud and making it impossible for him to track her. 

 “God dammit, where’d you go?” He mutters to himself. He lets out a heavy sigh and tries hollering your name again. He doubts it will help at all but he feels useless just standing in the middle of the road. 

He’s properly worried now, not sure why you would have run off. He’d given you that gun to protect yourself with, he can’t imagine you would get much trouble on your own with that on your hip. He still fears that a drunken patron in the saloon might have mistaken you for the wrong type of woman. Maybe you were handled improperly before you could pull the trigger. 

Arthur doesn’t want to linger long on a thought like that. He can’t imagine something like that happening to you. It makes his stomach tense with more guilt as he walks back towards Diablo. 

“-I swear, she looked insane.” Arthur’s ears perk up as the hotel owner’s voice drifts towards him. He turns and sees two men talking out on the porch. “She ran through here with what looked like blood all over her. ”

It could be any woman. Hell, it could be the prostitute he’d just chased down like a madman. But there’s a chance that the man is talking about you and he can’t take the chance. He stalks towards him and the patron the owner’s talking to spots him. His eyes widen and he scrambles back just as Arthur barrels forward. 

He grabs the owner by the collar before he can turn around and shoves him into the wall of the hotel. “Where’d she go?” 

“What- Who- Sir, please-” He sputters, eyes wide with fear while he looks like he might spoil himself. 

Arthur shakes him a little harder, shoving him further up the wall. “You know damn well who I’m talkin’ about,” he growls, fists clenching so tight in the man’s shirt it starts to tear. “The woman, where’d she go?”

He can’t answer, he’s gone so pale Arthur can practically see through him. He also looks like he might pass out. But the patron he’d been talking to shoots to his feet, backing away from Arthur while he points to the barn across from them. “He said she went to the stables, I swear.”

Arthur lets the other man go with a rough sigh. He didn’t need to threaten him, the man was only a witness to your escape, not an accomplice. Still, he’s angry he even has to interrogate him at all. 

Arthur rushes towards the stables and slams the doors open. The older man inside practically jumps out of his skin as Arthur glares from the doorway at him. 

“The woman who came by?” Arthur demands. He’s got no time to explain himself now. If you got a horse, there’s no telling where you might have run off. And the way people keep describing you, you sound like you were drunk and out of sorts, possibly even hurt. You might not even remember the way back to camp. 

Arthur had promised Hosea he’d take care of you. He couldn’t have messed up this badly just because he was busy trying to rustle up a rich boy. 

“Oh, well, she came in lookin’ all sorts of wound up. She grabbed one of my mares, gave me the money, and went running. Gave me more than she was supposed to, I don’t think she was in her right mind.”

“Where’d she go?” Arthur barks out, impatient of his doddering story. 

The man shrugs, eyes wide with surprise. “Well, I don’t know. Think she mentioned something about an overlook, but I’m not quite sure. Is she in some kind of trouble?”

Arthur doesn’t answer the man. He whistles Diablo forward and hastily climbs the horse. He rides him harder than he should, driving him faster even when he knows he wants to slow down. He doesn’t see your bleeding body anywhere along the path as he races to camp and he has to be slightly grateful for that. 

He can’t help but feel slightly irritated at you, though. Why didn’t you just wait for him? He knows that he took longer than he said he would. But just leaving town altogether was beyond stupid. The roads are dangerous at night, even if you do know how to work a gun, you don’t have any chance against an ambush. 

He digs his spurs further into Diablo’s side, ignoring the way the horse huffs and puffs as they make their final stretch through the woods. He ignores Charles’s greeting as he rides in and practically leaps off the horse as he runs into camp. 

He doesn’t have to go far to find you. You’re in a new dress, staring over the fire with this odd sort of wide-eyed look. He doesn’t see any paint or blood, just a few nasty scratches on your arm. Seeing you standing there acting like nothing’s wrong and you didn’t worry him half to death gets him beyond angry.  

He bears down on you, grabbing you by the shoulders and flipping you around to face him. “What the hell were you thinkin’, leavin’ like that?” He knows he needs to be mindful of his tone. He’s not exactly easy on the eyes, he’s sure it’s not much better when he’s shouting in your face. But he’d thought you were dead or worse.  

Hosea notices the commotion, standing up from the domino table as Tilly turns towards you both. Arthur doesn’t have eyes for anyone but you. You’re staring up at him, all glassy-eyed and trembling. But you’re not speaking and it’s making the anger in his mind gnaw away at any common sense. 

“Answer me, dammit! What the hell were you thinkin’?”  

You open your mouth and Arthur thinks you better have a damn good answer for this. Instead of words, all that comes out is a shuddering sob that has you shaking in his hold. “I’m sorry,” you blubber, head bowed as tears start streaming. 

Arthur’s eyes go wide and he slowly releases your arms. “Oh,” he trails off, hands hovering over you in an almost-touch. You wipe desperately at your tears but they won’t stop coming and he’s worried you might fall over with the force of your heaving. 

“I’m so sorry,” you cry out. He doesn’t have a moment to react before you turn around and run off towards the trees. Arthur watches this all happen with a slack-jawed, awed kind of expression. He looks around and sees half the camp watching him. 

“I didn’t mean to,” he argues weakly, trying to think of some defense. He moves to go after you but Mary-Beth shakes her head. 

“Don’t, Arthur. Leave her be, you have no idea how terrifying you get sometimes.” She shakes her head in disappointment and walks over to her tent. 

Arthur feels his heart sink to his stomach, tongue-tied with all kinds of excuses. No matter how hard he tries to be good, he just can’t do it right. 

There’s no light but the moon to guide you as you trip your way through the underbrush. A few fallen branches snag at the hem of your dress but you keep moving. Your chest heaves as you try and catch your breath. You rub painfully at your eyes, trying to stem the flow of tears that just won’t stop coming. 

The tip of your boot catches on a stray rock and you fly forward. Your hands sink into soft grass and you feel wet patches forming on your knees. So much for your clean new dress. You stay where you are, curled up on the forest floor feeling like a pathetic wretch 

You can’t get the blood off your hands. Even after washing it off in a pond on the way to camp. You still feel it soaking through your clothes and staining your skin. Somewhere inside yourself, you know that this is just shock. You’ll be fine soon enough. 

But for now, you’re stuck in an endless cycle of watching the death of your husband play out over and over again. You see his chest blowing out the last bits of air in his lungs. You feel the heavy weight of his limp body in your arms as you drag him into the wardrobe. The squish of his brain under your foot as you made a run for it. 

You curl into yourself, and one last, hard sob rips through you before you feel your chest begin to silently fill in and out. The tears come a little slower as you place your hands over your face and force yourself to breathe. 

“Who’s there?” You recognize Charles’s voice but you don’t have the wherewithal to answer, still trying to calm yourself. “Who’s there?” He demands again, louder. His question is accompanied by the cock of a gun, but that’s all you hear. He’s near silent as he makes his way through the forest. You open your eyes only to find yourself staring down the barrel of his rifle, no warning of his approach. 

He says your name, his tone tinged with worry. “What are you doing out here?”

You wipe your face off, take in a shuddering breath, and open your mouth. Nothing more than a wheeze comes out. You don’t know what to say to him. You don’t even know how to begin to approach this. 

He kneels before you, his hand landing on your shoulder and then running gently across your arm. Your brows furrow as he starts petting you, almost, like a dog. “What the hell are you doing?” You ask, barking out a wet, incredulous laugh. 

He lifts his hand, a slight tilt to his lips, “Seeing if you’re injured. Is that not what’s wrong?”

You shake your head, biting your lower lip and scrubbing a hand down your face. “No,” you whisper. 

“What happened?” His voice is so gentle and soft that you’re lulled into a feeling of security. You don’t see him shouting at you the way Arthur did. You imagine him listening with that stern expression of his and not saying anything at all. 

“I killed him,” you mutter, staring down at your balled-up hands. “I killed him and I stuffed him in a wardrobe.” You look up at Charles and if he’s shocked, he’s doing a damn good job of not showing it. “I ran, threw my clothes in a lake, and came back to camp. I didn’t know what to do,” your voice is a hushed whisper, words coming out faster than you can think of them as you begin to unload on him. 

“Stop,” he interrupts before you can confess any more of your sins. “Who did you kill?”

You hesitate and he gives you a stern look that forces the words out. “My husband. I saw him in the saloon, he had a woman with him and I just got so mad,” your nails bite into the palms of your hands and he reaches down, forcing you to uncurl them. 

“You stuffed him in a wardrobe?” You nod your head rapidly and he sighs, getting to his feet. “Did anyone see you?”

You think back on it, trying to think of a witness. You’d been pretty drunk at the time, it’s hard to recall much before you pulled the trigger. “The woman,” you whisper, head bowed with shame as you remember her. “There was a woman with him and I kicked her out.”

“Get up,” he tells you, tone short and commanding as he starts to walk off. 

You feel your heart drop to your heels, scrambling to your feet and chasing after him. You nearly barrel into his back in your attempt to catch up. “Where are we going? Are you turning me in?”

He shakes his head with a low laugh. “No. But we need to get rid of the body. If we’re lucky, no one will have gone in there yet. If we’re not, we’ll need to deal with that woman.”

You blanch at the idea of having to shoot someone else but Charles doesn’t give you much time to stomach the thought. He walks back into camp, tossing his rifle at an unsuspecting Lenny. “Hey, it ain’t my turn tonight!” Lenny argues with Charles retreating back. 

“It is now,” he calls over his shoulder. He leads you back to the horses and it’s like he’s got you on a leash. You follow blindly behind him, just needing someone to tell you what to do. You climb the mare you’d impulsively bought. You hadn’t even really processed what you’d done. 

It’s not until now, that you’re sitting on her, that you take in anything about her. She’s pretty enough, an Ardennes with white coloring and an odd grey speckling on her back legs. You like the feathering on her hooves and how soft her mane is when you run your hand over it. But you’re most thankful for the fact that she got you back to camp as fast as she did. 

Charles starts to pull out of camp when someone approaches your horse. You glance down, focus still split between what you’ve done and what you’re about to do. You find Arthur staring up at you, hands bracketing the saddle so you can’t leave. He looks around you, glancing at Charles before turning back. 

“What’re you doin’?” He asks, voice having lost some of the edge from earlier. You can still see the tension in his shoulders but it's clear he’s trying to keep his tone in check. 

You look over your shoulder, leaning on Charles for guidance. It’s not like you’ve ever murdered someone before, you’re not even sure how to lie about it. You just know that you don’t want Arthur to ever learn about what you did. You don’t want any of them too.

It’s a gang of outlaws, liars, murderers, and jackasses and you’re terrified that if they ever found out about this, they’d start looking at you like you’re one of them. “Nothing important, just taking her for a ride,” Charles answers. His horse kicks at the ground impatiently, wanting to get a move on and you can feel your own mare getting restless. 

Arthur’s eyes narrow with something like suspicion. His jaw sets and you have a sinking feeling in your stomach that you know what he’s going to say. He’ll call your bluff, say he’s coming with you. Then you’ll be forced to tell the truth. He’ll know you killed your husband. 

You play a dirty card, staring down at him with wide, wet eyes and sniffling. “I just need to be away from camp, Arthur. I got so scared earlier.” The because of you goes unsaid but you know he hears it nonetheless. 

His face slacks with something like guilt and he takes his hands off your horse, backing off. “Look, about that, I’m real sorry, alright? I got worried because you weren’t in town-”

“You said an hour,” you snap. A sudden wave of irritation takes hold of you. Not only is he stopping you from cleaning up your mess but he’s trying to make it out like you leaving wasn’t his own damn fault. “You left me on my own until sunset. What the hell did you expect me to do? I thought you were just going to leave me there.” You scoff, shaking your head and looking down at your hands. “Wouldn’t be the first time a man abandoned me.” It’s low, comparing him to the husband you just killed, but you need to play every card you have to make sure he stays away. 

His brows furrow and you see the brief flash of hurt on his face before it disappears. With a heavy sigh, you lead your horse towards Charles. “Just leave me be,” you snap, taking off before he can say anything else. 

You’ll stew in that guilt later, for now, you need to go get rid of your husband's body. 

“He’s in there?” Charles motions towards the saloon and you nod your head. “Alright, hitch the horses over here. We don’t want people seeing us.” He leads you to the gunsmith across the way and you both get off your horses. 

Charles stops you from going in the front and takes you around the back of the saloon. He leads you to a set of back stairs that almost gets you exactly where you need to be. You’re on the upper floor but the room your husband is in is on the other side of the building. 

Charles looks at you expectantly and for a moment you’ve forgotten that it’s your murder you’re cleaning up. You’ve just been obeying him blindly like a beaten dog, needing someone to tell you everything will be alright. “Oh, right,” you whisper, leading him around the banister and towards the hallway your husband is in. 

You’re nearly at the door when another couple starts walking towards it. “Shit,” you hiss, “that’s it.” 

Charles looks around your shoulder to the slightly ajar door and lets out a loud sigh. “You didn’t even close the door?”

You turn and glare at him, “I was a little distracted,” you snap quietly. He only shakes his head, grabbing your hand and running towards the room before the couple can get to it. You nearly slam into the woman in your haste to get inside. 

Charles slams the door closed behind you both and you hear her laugh as she moves down the hall. “Young love,” she muses to the man she’s with for the night.

You sink against the door, letting out a breath of relief. When you open your eyes again you find Charles standing in the middle of the room. He almost looks a little shocked. When he turns back to you he’s got an astonished expression on his face. 

“What did you do?” He demands lowly and you flush. 

“I- I,” you stutter and take a hesitant step towards him. “I shot him and stuffed him in the wardrobe,” you rush out, motioning towards the closed wardrobe beside him. You stand next to him, finally getting a good look at what he’s seeing. 

You grimace in disgust. You suppose in your haste to hide the body and leave you hadn’t wholly taken in the gore of the room. There’s a puddle of blood soaked into the bed and a trail of it leading to the wardrobe. You’re pretty sure there’s a pile of your sick in the middle of the floor. Besides that, it’s like a bomb of feathers and brains splattered across the wall and floor. You can even see a bootprint where you’d stepped in a pile of mush. 

“Oh, god,” you mutter, stomach flipping. “This is bad.” You’re grateful you’d already thrown up earlier, you don’t need Charles seeing you get sick. He’s already seeing you at your worst, that would just be salt in the wound. 

Charles lets out a heavy sigh and moves towards the wardrobe. “It’s fine, we only need to rid of the body.”

“The body?” You take in a deep breath, lowering your voice and giving him an incredulous look. “What about the blood?” You can’t help your shrill tone of voice as you motion towards the innards everywhere. God, had you painted the walls with it? How the hell did it get this bad?

“Blood doesn’t matter if they can’t find the body,” he tells you with a deadpan expression. He pops the wardrobe open and your husband comes tumbling out. He lands at your feet with a wet thud and you grimace. 

Charles grabs the sheet off the bed and hands you one end. “What are we doing?”

“We’re gonna wrap him up. Then, you’ll go outside and make sure no one sees as I toss him off the balcony.”

“What-” Your eyes go wide as you help him lift your husband onto the sheet. 

“There’s a pig pen nearby. We’ll toss him in and the hogs will have taken care of everything by morning. As long as no one knows the man who was killed in here was your husband, it can’t be brought back around to you.” He speaks about this with such casualness you’d think he was deciding what he wanted for dinner. He tucks the sheet and starts to roll your husband, you blink a few times and force yourself to help him. 

When he’s fully wrapped Charles hoists him over his shoulder with a groan. “Downstairs,” he commands and you take off running. You leave the room and take care to close the door this time. You head down the hall and make your way towards the back stairs. 

Just as you open the balcony doors someone comes through them. She stumbles into you with a groan. “Watch it-” She cuts herself off, jaw clicking shut as she gives you a wide-eyed stare. This is the woman who’d been with your husband. 

You hold your hands up, “Hold on-”

“You killed him. I heard the gun.” Your face drops, hand instinctually going to the gun on your hip. She notices this and quickly stammers out a rushed sentence. “Usually the women beat on me.”

Your brows furrow and you shake your head. “What?” You glance around her, wondering if anyone would see you kill her. Hiding a body isn’t a leisure activity, you need to get downstairs and she’s in the way. You should just shoot her or hit her over the head and drag her towards the hogs too. 

When did you get so comfortable thinking like this?

“They just go after me, the wives. Yank on my hair, kick me, sometimes they spit too. They don’t never go after their husbands. I’ll be honest, I thought you were finally gonna be the one to do me in.” She laughs to herself and you force yourself to join along, not sure if she’s leading into turning you in or not. “But, no, you paid me for my time and let me go.” She winks and grins, “I won’t say nothin’ if you don’t.”

She walks off without another word and you stay firmly rooted in your place. Your eyes are narrowed in confusion, jaw slack as you try and process a whore casually agreeing to not turn you in for murder. You knew outlaw life was different than the way you lived as a proper lady. But this is simply astonishing. Is your life now just full of absolute psychopaths and madmen? 

Turning back towards the balcony, you rush down the stairs and nearly fall on your ass as you run to stand under the open window above you. Your eyes dart every which way, checking that no witnesses will spot your illicit activities. There’s a dark howling forest at your back and lightless houses surrounding you, no one to see what you’re going to do.  

You whistle and a blanket-wrapped lump drops from the window. You jump back before it can land on you. When it hits the ground with a thump you run forward and roll it into the bushes under the window. Charles's head peers over and disappears in a second. 

You’re paranoid, head whipping in every direction at every gust of wind and rustle of leaves. At any moment you think someone is going to jump out of a bush and cry “Murderer!”

It only takes two minutes for Charles to join you and in that time you feel like you’ve aged ten years. He comes down the stairs calmly, in no rush at all. He nods towards the body and you both roll it back out of the bushes. 

You take the feet sticking out of the blanket and he grabs the shoulders, nodding his head backward. “Pen’s this way.”

You both stumble along behind the shops. Pausing every so often when you see the glow of lamplight or the chatter of voices gets too close. “Why didn’t we take the horses?” You grunt, readjusting the feet in your hold for the nth time. Your arms are screaming with overuse as you struggle to keep a hold of your husband. 

Charles smirks and keeps walking backward, looking for all the world like he’s completely at ease. “Consider this a lesson the next time you plan on killing someone.”

Your jaw gapes and you narrow your eyes at him. “You’re punishing me?” 

“You think this is how I wanted to spend my night?” You clench your jaw shut, keeping quiet as the squealing of pigs gets closer. “Nearly there,” he mutters. You can see it coming up now, the wooden fencing is nearly at your fingertips. 

“Alright, come on.” You scuttle along behind him, shuffling until your hip hits the wood. You prop the feet on your knee, groaning as you heave the body up to your shoulder. “Toss him,” Charles instructs and you use the last of your remaining strength to send the body over the fence. 

The hogs lift their noses to the air, already curious by the smell of blood. Charles jumps over the wood and undoes the blanket, he slices open another cut on the body, enticing them further. He jumps back over just as the animals come trotting forward. 

“They’ll really eat him?” You ask, doubt flooding your voice. 

Charles hums and nods his head. “They’ll eat anything if they smell the blood.” Your stomach churns as you see one take the first bite, the others quickly following. You whip around, putting your back to the scene. Charles crosses his arms, glaring down at you. “Think you’ve learned your lesson?”

You tug the revolver out of the holster on your hip and hold it out to him. “Never again,” you swear. He chuckles and takes the handle from you. “Sure as hell never trying whiskey again.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” he corrects, smiling down at you. 

You sink against the fencing, ignoring the sounds of the pigs feasting. Mud soaks the hem of your dress and blood covers your hands once more. But it’s not as awful as it was a few hours ago. At least you’re not alone now. And you know Charles won’t tell anyone the truth of what happened tonight. 

Still, you can’t help but worry that they’ll find out somehow. Dutch won’t risk having a liability around and that’s all you made yourself tonight. You could have gotten caught, you could have hanged for this. The bastard getting eaten behind you certainly isn’t worth all the trouble. 

But there’s no mistaking that with him gone, there’s a weight off your shoulders. An empty spot in your heart is filled with the knowledge that he’ll never hurt you again.

Next Part end. — I do not own the characters or the game Red Dead Redemption 1/2, but this writing is my own all rights reserved © not-neverland06 2024. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

Hell Hath No Fury Taglist: @buckysblondie @littlebirdgot 

𝙲𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝙳𝚘𝚐

Pairing ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ Arthur Morgan x fem!reader

Next Part - Hell Hath No Fury Series

Summary: Hosea's meddling has you and Arthur heading into the local town of Valentine. You're on a mission to get some clothes of your own. And Arthur's looking to help some woman named Mary. You don't know who she is, but she must be important for him to leave you all on your own in a strange town for the whole day. One thing is certain, you're not forgiving Mr. Morgan for this anytime soon.

You feel Arthur’s worried stare boring into the side of your head and let out a heavy sigh. “I am perfectly capable of driving a wagon, Mr. Morgan.” You turn towards him with a frown and his face falls flat. Like he hasn’t just been drilling holes into you for the past five minutes. 

“I know, I know.” His brows furrow and he shoots you a worried look. “Still, you don’t have much experience.”

“Oh,” you huff and glare at him, tugging the reins a little to the right on accident. “Would you calm down?”

“Tree,” he says, eyes darting forward. You shake your head and he rips the reins out of your hand, “Tree, woman!” He doesn’t exactly shout at you, but you still feel like you’re being yelled at. Finally turning forward you see what he was saying. 

“Oops,” you whisper, watching him direct the horses back onto the trail and away from the trees. “Well, it’s not my fault these ridiculous things don’t know not to walk into trees,” you argue, motioning at the horses. 

“Hey,” he chuckles, “don’t blame the horses.” 

You see Hosea lean forward from the back of the wagon. He peers between you both with a smile. “Having fun up here?” He asks you, nodding towards an overbearing Arthur. 

You roll your eyes with a faux pout, “Not really. Arthur here can’t seem to wedge that stick out of his ass.” Arthur turns to glare at you and you nudge his calf with your foot playfully, giving him a sly grin. He fights it, but you see the way the corners of his lips twitch up. 

Hosea glances between you both, something mischievous playing on his face. “What’re you up to?” You ask, suspicion brewing as you practically see a plan forming in his head. 

Hosea sends you a smile that does nothing to assuage your reservations. “Nothing, nothing. Arthur,” he chides, turning towards the man, “let her try for a while.”

Arthur sighs through his nose, you see him glance out the side of his eye at you with a perturbed expression. You don’t know why he’s so adamant about not letting you drive. You only crashed the wagon once and that wasn’t your fault. The horses got spooked by a cougar as you were going down the mountain. Still, he hasn’t let go of it. 

You know he’s not used to denying Hosea, but he takes too long to relent. Just as he’s starting to hand the reins over, the wagon bumps into something. The left side of it flies up, sending you sliding down the bench towards Arthur. His hand shoots out, bracing you so you don’t tip out of the wagon. You can’t help but flush at the feeling of his arm around you, caught off guard by the reaction. 

You push that down, deciding to address it later. The left side dips down now and the horses come to a bumpy stop. You let out a rough sigh, turning around and glancing behind the wagon. Arthur drove you all into a large rock, knocking the wheel off the wagon. 

You can’t help but bark a laugh at his expense. “Well, Mr. Morgan, looks like I’m not the only one in need of some driving lessons.”

He takes his hat off, running his hands through his hair and glaring at you. “Enough,” he grouses. He jumps down from the bench, walking off to fetch the wheel. Hosea climbs to the front of the wagon, taking a seat beside you. 

“I suppose once he gets that fixed, I should take over.”

You laugh, grinning at Arthur as he props the wagon up. “I think that would be best.”

His head snaps up and he glares at you both, “Shut up, both of ya.” You can’t help but laugh a little harder at his grumpy tone. 

Mary-Beth helps you set up your few belongings beside the tent alongside the other women’s trunks. You glance over your shoulder, watching Arthur pitch his tent and rifle through his satchel. A part of you is going to miss the solace of having Arthur beside you at night. 

It was comforting, having such a strong man to watch over you while you slept. Especially while you healed. You supposed you were healed now, though, and you didn’t have much more of an excuse to be near him. Not like you did before. 

A part of you is surprised by this sudden attachment to him. You should have seen it coming, though, this sudden onslaught of feelings. It has been so long since you’ve been around any truly decent man. 

Your husband had been good to you at first, but they always are, aren’t they? You hadn’t had some great love story. But you’d been lucky for two people of high status to get along as well as you had. You suppose that success changes every man. For some, they turn into a miser. They want to keep their money as close to their chest as they can. 

Your husband had been the opposite. He’d flaunted his wealth in every way he could. Placed larger bets than was smart. Let people borrow from him and never collected. And then he got into it with some bad men who set him down the wrong path. They made it so he was their cash cow, milking him for what he was worth and turning him against you all the same. They couldn’t risk any words of wisdom getting him to think about what he was doing. 

There was no sharp pain in your chest when you thought about your husband lying dead in the snow somewhere. You didn’t want to lay down and weep. You didn’t even miss the ring on your finger. The one that those O’Driscoll bastards had stolen. If you didn’t remember every bad night with him then you could almost pretend that you’d never been married at all. 

Since he had turned down that path, you hadn’t met a man you thought was worth knowing. Until Arthur. He could say what he wanted about himself, but you’d never had a man treat you as gently as he has. Maybe it’s creating some warped sense of admiration. It could explain the coying urge to want to repay him and be near him at every chance. 

You almost wished you weren’t healed. If only so you could make up an excuse to see him. Now, you’re not sure what you’re going to do. You think he might have only spoken with you because he felt a sense of responsibility towards you. Alive and well, he’s got nothing to say to you. 

“My, I think I see hearts in your eyes.”

Your head snaps up and Mary-Beth grins at you. “Oh,” you catch the teasing glint in her eye and frown. “Hush, you. You’re reading too many of those damn books.”

You help her haul a crate up, pretending to look busy as Miss Grimshaw passes by. “Uh uh,” she argues. “I might fill my head with too many love stories, but I’m no fool. You’ve got it bad.”

Before you can object Tilly walks up. “You talkin’ ‘bout Arthur?”

You frown, brows furrowed as you drop the act of unpacking anything. “How’d you know?”

Mary-Beth and Tilly share a knowing look, both of them giggling slightly. You can’t help but feel like it’s at your expense. “I’ve just never seen a lady so attached to him. Hard to stomach the smell sometimes,” Tilly teases. 

“Hey, he doesn’t smell that bad,” it’s a weak argument and an even worse deflection but it makes them laugh harder. You can’t help but laugh along, cheeks aching with a smile. You’re not too much older than them, having been married to your husband at a young age. You find yourself enjoying the company of women your own age more than you thought you would. 

Someone clears their throat behind you all and you turn around to find a very upset-looking Miss Grimshaw. The three of you straighten up, scrambling for something to fix. It’s not until she shakes her head and walks away that you start cracking up again. Tilly shoots you a look, turning up her nose and mocking the woman. 

You smile, throwing your shoulders back and trying to adopt her haughty walk. It makes Mary-Beth snort so loud that Arthur turns towards you all. He sends you a questioning look and you can’t help but flush, turning around and busying yourself with anything other than him. 

“Knew it,” Mary-Beth whispers behind you as she walks away. You roll your eyes and sigh but you know she’s right. Clearly, you’re feeling something for him. But it feels wrong too. Too fast and too soon for you to be feeling anything but lucky to be alive. 

A few days later, once you’re all settled and Miss Grimshaw is finally satisfied with the camp’s state, you all gather around the fire. You’re late to join the others, having to change your dress after Uncle spilled whiskey all over the other one. 

You walk towards the glowing firelight and the sounds of Javier strumming lightly on his guitar. He’s not singing yet but you’re sure a few more drinks for everyone and the whole county will hear your hollering. 

You try to find an opening among everyone but most of the seats have already been taken. Just as you go to sit beside Charles, Tilly throws herself down on the log. She doesn’t look at you, just fiddles with the hem of her dress and slurps loudly on her drink. Your eyes narrow suspiciously but you don’t call her out.

Instead, you roam the faces of those around you, seeing a spot beside Sadie. She nods her head at you but before you can go claim it, Hosea grabs her attention. He sits beside her, asking her about some nonsense you can’t hear from where you stand. And just like that, it seems everywhere you look any open spot was gone. Someone either slid over or stole it. It left you with just one place left. 

Arthur looks up from his cup as you approach. “You mind?” You ask, lingering by the log, unsure of whether or not he wants your company. 

He slides over easily, “‘Course not.” You let out a small breath of relief and sit beside him. You don’t know if it’s divine interference or a few nosy campmates, but it feels too coincidental that the only open spot is beside him. 

There are a few moments of stilted silence between you. It might all be in your head. You’ve messed yourself up, putting too much thought into how you feel about him. Now, you don’t even know how to talk to him. You just stare into the fire, and watch the shadows play across the other's faces. 

Arthur’s voice breaks you out of your concentration. “You been feelin’ okay?” 

You’re surprised by the genuine concern in his voice. He really cares and it’s such a strange idea to you- meeting a man so attentive. “I’ve been a little sore from the ride, but nothing too bad.” When you turn towards him you’re surprised to find him already looking at you. 

It’s easy, to just stare into his eyes and pretend it’s just the two of you by the fire. It casts a comforting glow across the both of you, makes the dark night look a little warmer. Eases the chill of the night and lulls you into a place where you finally let the anxiousness that plagues you melt away. 

“How ‘bout you, Arthur, you okay?”

He chuckles quietly, nodding his head and glancing down at his lap. “Yeah, I’m alright.”

The soft way he speaks to you lures you into a false sense of security. You wonder if it would really be so bad to say what you’re thinking. He’s so kind to you, you’re sure even if he doesn’t feel the same he wouldn’t be cruel. 

“Would it be odd if I said I miss bunking with you?” You laugh a little at yourself, trying to downplay just how much you truly mean that.

You seemed to have made a horrible mistake though. Being around the woman of the camp has allowed you the comfort of a loose tongue. Judging by the way his whole body stills and he won’t meet your eyes, you think you might need to tighten it once more. “Oh,” you sigh, rubbing an embarrassed hand down your face. “I’m sorry, forget I said anything.”

“No, no,” Arthur’s quick to stop you. He glances around, making sure no one else is listening. “Nothing wrong with that. I just think,” he pauses and lets out a huff. Your face pinches and you bite your tongue, trying to stop yourself from shouting at him to just spit it out. He sucks in a deep breath and turns to you with a pained look. “There are better men than me out there, Mrs. Rowe. I think you’d be better off goin’ after them.”

“What-” He gets to his feet before you can object. You’d like to tell him what a fool he is. How he’s a perfectly fine man and you can choose well enough for yourself. 

“Good night,” he tilts his hat down, ambling off towards his tent and leaving the warmth of the fire behind. 

You look down at your lap with a frown. “Oh,” you whisper, “You’re such a fool, Arthur Morgan.” You watch him slip into his tent and feel like a stone has replaced your heart. You feel heavy now, wanting nothing more than to sleep the sting of rejection off. You quietly slip away from the fire and head towards the women’s tent. 

You ease onto the rocky ground and pull a blanket over your shoulders. You’d never thought you’d long for the rotted floorboards of that shed in the mountains but you crave that comfort more than ever. 

Arthur adjusts his hat and steps out of his tent. He adjusts to the bright morning light and finds his gaze drifting toward the tent the other women are sleeping in. You’re not there, your bed roll fussed up like you’d just gotten up. There’s a split second where he worries you might have changed your mind about the outlaw life and left. 

He’s not happy with the stomach-dropping feeling that leaves him with. He shouldn’t care whether or not you stay. Still, he isn’t satisfied until he looks around and sees you sharing some coffee with Hosea. 

He debates walking over to you both when Pearson ambles towards him. “Arthur,” he barks out. He holds a white slip of paper in his hands and you turn away from Hosea to glance back at him. “A woman brought this by for you.”

He tries to wave at you but you whip around when you hear Pearson speak, avoiding meeting his eye. Hosea leans in and whispers something to you, but you just shake your head. His eyes narrow at the two of you, wondering when you got so cozy. 

“Who was it?” Arthur asks. 

“I don’t know,” Pearson grouses, walking off with a shrug. Arthur flips the paper over and sighs. He didn’t even need to ask. He knows this handwriting about as well as he knows his own. Mary. 

He’s not sure he even wants to read this. There’s the chance that he’ll either have to deal with her father again or he’ll just feel the guilt of what she thinks could have been. Sighing, he turns away from you and Hosea. He flips the letter open, skimming it. He’s not ready to dive so deep into the past this morning but it could be urgent. 

Most of it is pretty vague. Brief mentions of her father devolving past the fool he already was and something about her brother needing help. She asks him to meet her in Valentine and he tucks the letter in his satchel. He doubts anything good would come of going to see her. 

Half the time they just have these quiet sort of non-arguments about how he can’t change and how she never gave him the chance to. They keep going back to each other and keep pretending they're different people than they actually are. She has it in her head that he would never abandon this outlaw life for her. And he thinks that she would never be able to truly accept him as he is. 

They go round and around each other endlessly. Never quite meeting in the middle. These occasional meet-ups have just started to feel like a punishment for himself. But there’s a part of him that always feels the need to hear her out, to see her one last time. He hates that part of himself sometimes. 

He turns to head towards the horses when an eager voice stops him. “Oh, Mr. Morgan!” Strauss stands up from his stool, walking over to Arthur with a large black book in his hand. “Just the man I was looking for.” There’s something in his tone that makes Arthur bristle. He has a feeling whatever he’s about to ask for is going to be something he doesn’t like. 

“What?” Arthur’s short with him, never having been a huge fan of the man. He hates that he’s the one Strauss comes to for collections. He understands the necessity of the money for camp. But half the time the people are just desperate families trying to keep a roof over their heads. If Strauss targeted the rich, maybe he wouldn’t mind roughing the debtors up so much. 

“I just need a favor from you. I’ve got some collections that need to be taken. A few reminders to be sent,” he laughs a little. The noise is empty and grates on Arthur’s already frayed nerves. 

“We’ve barely been here a week. You’re tellin’ me you’ve already got lives to ruin?”

Strauss's eyes narrow into slits before he forces on another thin smile. “Mr. Morgan, I’m sure I don’t need to remind you of the loss our camp funds suffered in Blackwater. We need everything we can get. Surely you understand this is for the good of the camp, yes?”

Arthur lets out a rough sigh. He looks down at the list of people in Strauss’s hand. He knows that he’s always going to choose the gang over anyone else. But it doesn’t make this feel any better. “Fine,” he snaps, snatching the paper from him. 

“Thank you, Mr. Morgan.” Arthur shakes his head, ignoring the smug lilt of Strauss’s accent. He shakes his head and turns away, walking towards the horses.

“-well, Uncle ruined my only other good dress. I’ll need to buy some new ones,” Arthur looks over as you speak to Hosea. You motion sadly to a large brown stain on the front of your dress and he rolls his eyes, thinking of Unlcle spilling something on you. Maybe he could pick something up for you while he’s in town. You’ve got hardly anything to your name, you could at least use a new pair of boots. 

He’s nearly to his horse when Hosea calls him over. Is he going to get anything done today, or does everyone need something for him?

He lets out an irritated sigh and walks back over. You don’t look up at him and that only further sours his mood. “What are you doing?” Hosea asks, the suspicious expression on his face only makes Arthur’s hackles raise further.

“Was gonna head to Valentine but Strauss has got me doin’ collections.” Your eyes lift at the mention of collections and he doesn’t miss the slight grimace that passes across your face before you’re looking away again. 

Something hot boils in the pit of his stomach but he shoves it down, trying to ignore it. Hosea shakes his head, waving him off. “No, I need you to escort Mrs. Rowe to Valentine. Micah will handle the collections,” he tells him firmly, not leaving much room for argument. 

“But-” 

Hosea cuts him off with a frown, “No ‘buts,’ the lady needs some new clothes, Arthur. You can’t let her go into town without a proper escort. Imagine what could happen.”

Your face drops at that. You roll your eyes with a scoff, “I most certainly do not need-”

You trail off, sentence falling short as Hosea shoots you a sharp look. You throw the rest of your coffee into the fire and get to your feet. “Right, well I clearly don’t get much of a say in this.”

“Neither of you do,” Hosea responds. He’s got a look that means he’s far too pleased with himself. Arthur glances over at you, feeling a little guilty at the perturbed expression you wear. He doesn’t blame you for not wanting to spend time with him. He knows he could have been kinder to you last night, but all he’d been thinking about was stopping another situation like Mary from happening. 

“Come on Mr. Morgan,” you call out, walking past him and heading towards the horses. 

Arthur lingers behind for a moment, shooting Hosea a glare. “I’m gettin’ tired of your games, old man,” Arthur grouses before reluctantly following after you. Hosea just laughs, taking a long, pleased, sip of his coffee. 

Arthur turns around and heads towards the hitching posts. You’re already waiting there for him, arms crossed while you examine the horse. “Somethin’ wrong?” You jump slightly, turning around to face Arthur as he walks up. 

Your lips purse and he can tell you’re debating whether or not you want to speak with him. Arthur stops walking, standing just a little ways back and giving you no other choice but to talk. Rolling your eyes, you force the words out. “Your horse is too damn tall.”

Arthur glances between you and the shire, laughing a little under his breath. “Alright, come on.” He comes up in front of you, hovering his hands over your waist until you give him a reluctant little nod. He takes you by the waist and lifts you onto the back of the horse. His hands drift down to your knees, squeezing once before he forces himself to back off. “Comfortable?”

You glare down at him, but he can see a little bit of sheepishness in the look you give him. “Fine as I’ll ever be, sitting like this.”

He swings up on the saddle and glances back at you. “We’ll see if we can’t get you a horse while we’re in town.” Your face lights up at that and it unravels a bit of the knot in his chest. 

“I think I’d like that,” you tell him, turning slightly to wrap your arms around his waist. He does his best to ignore the warmth you provide. But all he can focus on is how soft you feel against him compared to the harshness he deals with every day. He doesn’t say anything else, leading his horse out of camp and heading to town. He doesn’t know what he’s more stressed about, seeing Mary or having you see her. 

He lets out a rough sigh and shakes his head. Women, they’re not worth the damn trouble. 

The ride into Valentine isn’t too slow, but you know Arthur isn’t going as fast as he wants so that you feel more comfortable on the back of the horse. You’re still getting used to the finicky beasts, not quite having bonded with them like the others in camp. Still, you’d rather swallow your pride and get one of your own than have to keep riding side-saddle like this. 

Sitting on the back of the horse is damn near impossible to get comfortable on. And you know the animals don’t like it any more than you do. You think it’s only making them dislike you more. You adjust yourself again and hear Arthur sigh in front of you. His chest heaves under your grip and you realize just how tight you’ve been squeezing him this whole time. 

“Sorry,” you mutter, undoing your arms and stretching them out. You’re surprised the poor man can still breathe. 

“It’s fine,” he responds, but you can hear the strain in his voice as he finally sucks in a full breath. You grimace, wondering how you’re gonna handle your own horse if you can barely deal with this one. Arthur’s is the least temperamental of the bunch at camp and you still can’t bring yourself to trust it. 

Arthur passes by the train station and you straighten up, a little bit of relief forming when you realize how close you are to finally being able to walk around on your own two feet. Arthur brings the horse to a slower pace, pulling on the reins as townspeople begin to walk by more frequently. 

You’re not sure what you were expecting of the town. It’s certainly not glamorous. But it’s not as backwoods as you had been expecting. The people seem friendly enough, at least to you. They’ll nod their heads with a polite, “Ma’am,” but they don’t seem very warmed to Arthur. 

“You already been through here?” You ask, a little bit of a tease lingering on the edge of your words. 

Arthur stiffens under your grip, tilting his head back towards you before looking forward. “Whaddya mean?”

“I don’t know,” you hum, “these people seem a little wary of you, that’s all.”

Arthur lets out a heavy sigh, “Not my fault,” he mutters, his voice barely audible. “He called me a pretty boy, what was I supposed to do?” You barely catch the words before he brings the horse to a stop and gets down. 

“Pretty boy?” You question, a grin curling at the edge of your lips. His eyes narrow and he shakes his head. 

“Forget it,” he demands. He holds his hand out towards you and you hesitate. You could just jump down, you'll probably roll your ankle, but you could do it. But you’d be lying if you said you didn’t like how wholly Arthur’s hand envelops yours, even if he’s made it clear he doesn’t think he’s good enough for you. 

You slide your hand into his and he brings his other one up to your waist. He eases you down onto the ground but your boot slips into a bit of mud. You tilt forward, off-kilter, and catch yourself against his chest. 

Your eyes widen when you feel the bulk lurking underneath his tattered shirt. You clear your throat, backing up quickly and straightening out your skirt. Even after a few weeks, you’re still not used to touching another man who’s not your husband. Especially not so brazenly. 

Arthur laughs at your behavior but you see the nervous way he rubs the back of his neck. He ducks his head down, hat blocking his pretty eyes. You know that you have an effect on him. In the same way, a simple touch from him sends heat racing through you, you can see it happen to him. 

You’re not some lovesick fool who’s blinded by your desire. You may be naive when it comes to relationships, but you know want in a man’s eyes when you see it. If only he weren’t so damn stubborn. 

“I’ve got some business to deal with in town,” your face falls as he speaks. You’d almost forgotten about the letter Pearson had brought to him. The one that a woman had dropped off. You hope it’s his aunt or some withered old lady who just needs an outlaw’s help. As unlikely as that is, you still pray for it. 

He reaches into his saddle bag and your eyes double in size as he holds out a holstered revolver. You stare at it, eyes darting between him and the gun. “You know how to shoot don’t ya?”

You scoff in indignation. “I’ve spent my entire adult life in the mountains. Of course, I know how to shoot. But why would I need to?”

He looks amused by your attitude and it only makes you narrow your eyes at him in irritation. “Just take it, would you? You’re traveling with a gang of outlaws, it’s not smart to go around without anythin’ to protect yourself with.” He nudges the gun towards you once more and you snatch it from him. 

You bring it to your side, attaching it to your belt as you chew on his words. You hadn’t thought of that before, mainly because you haven’t left the camp since you made it out of the mountains. But you’re so used to being seen as a lady that you forget you’re now just as much of a criminal as the rest of them. If only by association. 

“Fine,” you relent. 

“Here,” he reaches into his satchel and tugs out a few bills. “Take this, for the dresses or whatever it was ya needed.”

You stare down at the money and shake your head, “Oh, no, Arthur, I couldn't.” He’s already done so much for you and the camp. You don’t feel comfortable taking from him further. But he won’t let it go, he takes your wrist and forces your palm open, placing the money in your hand. 

“You’re not gonna steal the clothes are ya?”

“No, but-”

“‘Nough fussin’, just take it would ya, woman?” You tuck the money in your waistband and glare at him. He’s being awful pushy this morning. 

He grabs the horn of the saddle, pulling himself back up and glancing down at you. “How long am I gonna be expected to look after myself?” 

“Only about an hour, I’ll be back soon enough.”

“You better,” you chide. He only chuckles, tilting his hat towards you before riding off past the shops and towards the houses behind the town. You let out a heavy sigh, fiddling with the money and looking around town. You don’t imagine you’ll find much here, but you figure the general store is probably a good place to start. 

It isn’t until you’ve bought yourself a few new outfits that you realize just how much money Arthur has given you. You could probably buy two horses with all this. You’re sure Dutch would be irate if he learned Arthur funded your shopping trip and not the camp lockbox. 

You walk out of the general store with your box of goodies tucked under your arm. You hide the rest of your money away in the top of your corset like you’ve seen Karen do before. You look around the shops, trying to spot Arthur’s giant shire hitched somewhere. When you don’t see the horse you frown, deciding to do a quick lap around to see if he’s somewhere else. 

It turns out to be fruitless, despite promising to be back within an hour, you can’t find him anywhere. You figure that his “business” just ran on longer than he thought it would and try and think of a way to pass the time. You debate going to the stables and getting your own horse but it seems rude to just spend his money so cavalierly. 

Besides, you figure you should get his opinion before you commit to one of the erratic creatures. He seems to speak their language. You figure he could help you find one that won’t send you flying if it gets spooked. 

With no other way to pass the time, you take a seat on the bench outside the general store. You pick up a discarded newspaper and figure you’ll just wait for him here. Of course, you only make it about three sentences into a report on a train robbery before you toss the paper to the side. 

You’ve never been very good at waiting. Living the life of a proper lady has left you spoiled and you’re starting to get antsy. Jumping up from the bench you walk around the back of the shop towards the houses Arthur had ridden towards. 

There’s a brief moment of intelligence where you think about the consequences of bugging him. He is an outlaw and for all the manners and grace he’s shown you, you’ve seen the bounty. You know he’s a known criminal and a murderer. Who's to say he won’t get upset at you for interrupting and just shoot you?

Still, the thought of him getting so mad he starts firing off rounds makes you laugh more than it makes you scared. You just can’t picture Arthur in that way. 

It isn’t hard to figure out which house he went to. All you have to look for is the giant black horse grazing in the grass outside. You pick up your pace when you see Diablo roaming in front of a particularly nice house. It’s probably the biggest one around and the most well-kept. You wonder who he could be meeting out here, in Valentine being “rich” doesn’t mean much. 

You notice the front door of the home opening, but you know they can’t see you past the large tree in front of you. You see Arthur first, the brim of his hat, and then his boot as he walks out the door. He turns around, talking to whoever’s inside and shaking his head vehemently. 

You take another step towards them but your foot hovers in the air as the person he’s talking to follows after him. So much for a withered old lady. You feel your stomach drop as the beautiful woman he’s talking to reaches forward and takes his hands in hers. You can’t hear them speaking, but you can see the familiarity in the way they dance around each other. 

She’s got a pleading look on her face and he’s got the expression of a man about to give into whatever she asks of him. You turn around as quick as you can, marching yourself right back to town. You never should have even gone looking for him. One hour or two, you should have just kept your happy ass where it was. At least then you wouldn’t be dealing with the racing thoughts going through your head. 

You had a suspicion that there was once a woman in his life. In fact, it would be odd for there not to be. He’s traveled for so long and he’s so different than other men you met that it wouldn’t make sense for him to have not caught the eye of a pretty woman. But you hadn’t expected her. She seemed so much like…

You. 

She reminded you of yourself before your husband had abandoned you and you started traveling with the gang. Hair done up prim and proper, clothes tailored perfectly to her body. Even the way she carried herself was straight out of the proper lady training book. She most certainly came from money. 

You just didn’t know how Arthur knew her. Or what their relationship was. It certainly wasn’t familial. You knew that much from the longing in her eyes. Oh, this was just awful. Arthur didn’t reject you because he thought he wasn’t good enough for you. He just didn’t want you. He had a woman of his own, of course he did. You feel like such a fool, getting your hopes up over something that could never happen. 

You trudge back into town, heading straight for the saloon. You’ve never had the stomach for alcohol, but you’re sure you can make an exception tonight. Just to ease the blade of hurt wedging itself in your chest. 

You toss your box of clothes on the counter of the bar and the barkeep gives you a startled look. His eyes narrow before he slides a glass over to you. “Looks like you need a whiskey.”

“Make it a double,” you slip him a few more bills than necessary and he whistles. Instead of pouring he just places the bottle in front of you. He leaves you on your lonely end of the counter and scrubs up a drunken spill. 

You use a heavy hand to pour and bring the glass to your lips, ticking your head back and downing as much as you can. The acrid, bog-like taste doesn’t comfort you. But it does make your tongue feel fuzzy and begin to soften the harsh edges of your mind. About a bottle later, you can barely remember Arthur’s name, much less why you’re drinking. 

You’re debating entering a very risky poker game when you see it. Just out of the corner of your eye, a man goes stumbling up the stairs with a whore. It’s not out of the usual, it’s been happening the whole time you’ve been here. But there’s something familiar to you about the back of his head. 

Stumbling to your feet, you rub at your eyes and blink a few times. You squint, trying to make out how you know this man when he finally turns slightly. Like a bucket of cold water being tossed over you, the whiskey seems to leave you for a moment. 

Your husband’s glazed eyes pass over you and he laughs at a drunk man falling face-first to the floor. Your heart pounds so harshly against the cage of your chest you can hear nothing else but your blood rushing. He stumbles the rest of the way up the stairs and you stand there, completely dumbfounded and confused. 

Your husband isn’t just alive. He’s here and he’s about to go fuck a whore like he didn’t leave you for dead.

Next Part

end. — I do not own the characters or the game Red Dead Redemption 1/2, but this writing is my own all rights reserved © not-neverland06 2024. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.