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bunnypulp · 1 year

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Arthur Morgan x F!Reader

~4.8k // MDNI // exhibitionism // first times // pointless, shameless, let-me-fuck-that-man smut // reposted from ao3

“Shh,” he coos, slowing your hips from their desperate grinding. “Keep those pretty noises just for my ears.” His mouth quirks slightly, thumb coming to stroke over your bottom lip. “Unless you want to be caught.”

“Got room for one more?”

Your stomach twisted with nerves as the stagecoach you rode in came to a rickety stop, heart beginning to race when the lockbox in the back opened and a stranger's items were set beside yours. Your first long trip alone, and you’d be spending it in a small coach with an unfamiliar man. What if he was a road agent? Or if he tried anything on you? Simply someone annoying you had to put up with for the next however many hours to Saint Denis?

You watched out of the corner of your eye as a tall figure approached the side door of the coach, each step punctuated with the sound of clicking spurs. Spurs and no horse, you thought. The pages of the book you’d been reading were pinched between your fingers, mind racing through all the undesirable possibilities of who this man may be, what he might want, what he might do.

As the coach rocked with the weight of a new passenger, your stomach jumped, eyes finally dragging away from the empty seat in front of you to the man who will soon be filling it.

Tall, broad, and rugged, the brim of a worn hat covered most of his face, but the moment he looked up you felt yourself shrink.

The sharp jaw and downward slope of his pouting lips somehow came to contrast the otherwise austere appearance. He was terrifyingly handsome, what with the mean pinch in his brow and sheer size of him. Tall enough you doubted he even needed to use the foot pedal to get in.

But at the drop of a hat, his face had suddenly softened. The fear that had built-in your stomach since the slow of the coach had dissipated in an instant when you realized his shift in demeanor was to one of...nervousness.

“You okay with an extra passenger, miss?” he had asked, as if the decision was up to you. You’d explained to him it wasn’t a private ride, that the driver was welcome to take on any passengers he wanted on the way to your destination, but the man didn’t seem satisfied until you finally said, “Yes.”

You thought for a moment you’d have to ask him not to ride up at the top with the driver with how he deliberated whether to get inside the cart. All the while your eyes had been at the two guns on his waist. A man would be suicidal to leave the house without protection--be it from the wilderness or road agents or God knows what--but you’d rarely seen someone brandishing two. You thought for a moment you could make out the shape of a flower engraved on one, but before you could inspect it further the coach rocked to one side.

Your cheeks flare at the memory. You hadn’t meant your gasp to be rude. Arthur Morgan, as he’d since introduced, was not a slight man, but it was just the sudden shift of the coach that had spooked you.

You peer over the page of your novel at him, relieved to find him preoccupied in a book of his own. Not reading, though. Doodling, you think by the quick strokes of a short piece of graphite. What is the real mystery. The leather-bound book pulled close to his chest so as not to give you even the briefest of glimpses.

A shame, you think distantly, tucking your nose back into your pages. You’d really love to see what Mr. Big and Burly deems worthy of immortalizing on paper.

—

A yawn interrupts your reading, bringing forth small pricks of tears to your drooping eyes. The sky has long since lost its color, the inside of the coach illuminated only by the dim light of a lantern. Along with the light lost, the day’s heat has tapered off quite dramatically, the chill of the night settling in unapologetically. Stretching your legs, you feel goosebumps flush along your exposed skin even despite the shawl around your shoulders.

Tucking yourself deeper into the seat, your eyes flick over to where Mister Arthur Morgan sits with his hat drawn over his eyes. You envy the tanned sheepskin jacket he has on, keeping him warm against the elements. He’s probably as hot as a fireplace, you think with another yawn. Just how late was it?

He’s been asleep for hours now, not even rousing when the coach shook and jumped along the road. Maybe, if you just went to his side you could warm up and move back without him even realizing it. You doubt your smaller presence would rouse him any, not in comparison to the bumpy ride.

A nipping breeze decides for you, and you slink over to his side of the coach. Tentatively, you slip in next to him, the heat of his body drawing you in closer and closer. You were right, you think, eyes fluttering shut. He’s like a freshly stoked fireplace.

You wake up to a particularly harsh jostle, the coach’s wheels running over a patch of rougher terrain. Groaning quietly, you defiantly keep your eyes closed, set on falling back asleep, but a gust of wind slips in through the windows, pulling a shiver up your spine. You go to burrow closer into your seat, to the warmth accumulated there, but get pulled closer instead.

You’re barely able to rein in a gasp, eyes snapping open.

It doesn’t take but a second for your mind to catch up to reality, or for your eyes to adjust to the dark interior of the coach. Seeing your empty seat across from you and two pairs of legs spread out in front of you.

You’re tucked tightly against Arthur’s side, certainly not the position you recall before you had fallen asleep on him. Arthur’s heavy arm is folded over your shoulder. His relaxed hand barely grazing your exposed arm, but the sensation sends goosebumps over your skin. Your own hand is placed on his thigh, a comfortable resting spot but entirely improper. Snatching it away, you shift as much as you can to look at the snoozing man next to you. His green eyes are still closed, even breaths coming as quiet snores half of the time.

“Mr. Morgan?” you whisper, testing to see how deeply asleep he is. The only response given is another low snore. Squirming a bit to try and remove yourself, you squeak when his arm only tightens around you, sliding around your clavicle to lock you in firmer.

Accepting that the only way to remove yourself from the situation would mean to draw attention to it, you relax against him and try to will yourself back to sleep. Maybe he’ll lighten his hold sometime through the night and you could divorce yourself from this, pretend it never happened.

Until then, you wait.

And wait.

And--Arthur shifts, groans, adjusts his hat, then goes right back to sleep. The entire time his arm doesn’t move from where it’s locked around your body.

You stare longingly at the book across from you, hardly a meter away yet entirely out of reach. For a lack of anything better to do, you drum your fingers against your skirt, press creases into the satin fabric, and flatten them out over and again.

You eye the hand resting limply on the thigh farthest from you. Where his fingers are long and thick, with nails looking to be bitten to the quick, yours are dainty and well kept. Hands that have only known the scorn of a quickly turned page, or the prick of a sewing needle.

You wonder what Mr. Morgan’s hands know.

Your fingers lightly brush over his thigh, strong and thick underneath his trousers. Your whole hand couldn’t cover the top, even when you splay your fingers.

It’s mindless entertainment, but entertainment nonetheless as you measure the width of his thigh with the first knuckle of your finger, then with two pressed together. Rolling them over this way and back the other, skating them from your leg to his.

You don’t notice when his snoring stops, or the man’s breath goes deathly silent. Only when the large hand you were just studying wraps around your wrist do you realize he’s awoken. The yelp that nearly escapes you gets trapped behind his second roughened palm pressing against your lips, barely a peep hitting the open air.

Neither of you speak for several beats. Long enough that you feel your chest ache for the air you’ve been holding back despite your nose being uncovered. So long you begin to wonder if Arthur had simply reacted as a reflex in his sleep. Maybe you could still get out of this, gently pry his grizzly-sized paws off of your person and pretend this never happened.

But your blood runs cold in your veins before you can make that decision, a low growl rumbling right against your ear.

“Go ahead and explain yourself, girl. We both know that’s not where I keep my money.”

His hand moves from your lips to your chin, guiding your face towards his with a foreign gentleness. This close you can see the flecks of yellow and blue in his eyes; could count his lashes, if your life lasted long enough to allow it.

You try not to pant outright or look into his scornful stare, but when your gaze cast to the side his grip tightens--a painless warning, but a warning all the same. “Don’t make me ask you again.”

“I wasn’t trying to steal from you,” you quickly squeak out. The breath he huffs through his nose is warm on your face.

“I’m well aware. So,” his fingers squeeze on your cheeks, pushing your lips forward. “What were those wandering hands of your doin’?”

“I-I don’t--don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” he repeats, a hint of amusement lingering in his tone. You nod your head as much as his hand will permit. “Then maybe you need a reminder.”

The hand around your wrist still trapping you against his thigh guides your palm up his leg--far higher than you ever traveled--and then back down again. Your eyes widen, snapping up to his own.

“I wasn’t--”

“Oh, but I think you were,” he says, guiding you higher again. Your hand passes over something underneath his pants. “Your wanderin’ hand caused quite the problem.”

The way he speaks, low and confident, sends a wave of heat through your body, melting the ice your blood had turned to when he caught you. It all pools hotly at the bottom of your stomach, scorches your cheeks. His eyes rake over your expression, face slowly but surely inching towards you. You can feel the heat of his breath on your wet lips, his nose brushing gently over your cheek. But just as your eyes flutter shut he removes his hands from you. Lets go of your jaw and places your hand in your own lap.

“Feelin’ a man while he sleeps is mighty improper, miss,” he says, voice devoid of its earlier gravely husk. “Best get some rest now so we can both forget about it.”

It takes you a long moment to fully register the switch in demeanour, your lips still parted, but for an entirely different reason. He was just going to...let you go? After that ?

Properly humiliated, you rip your gaze away from his profile, glance to the other side of the coach. The seat where you know you should retreat to, slink over with your tail between your legs, and pretend this never happened for the sake of propriety. You know this, and yet you keep yourself planted in the seat next to him, thoughts fuzzy and heart beating at a dizzying rate.

It’s hard to say what came over you. A fit of hysteria or complete mania, perhaps, but without his prompting you place your hand back onto his thigh, grazing it lightly over the swell of corded muscle there. It flexes involuntarily under your touch. “I don’t think I quite understand, Mr. Morgan,” you purr in your best seductive voice, leaning closer to him and pressing your breast up against his arm. You creep up his inner thigh until your fingers curl to cup the bulge that extends far closer to his hip than you expected.

The rush that passes through you when his eyes widen you’ve only felt once. When during a dinner party you snuck into the kitchen and split several bottles of wine with the help, giggling and drinking with them all for God knows how long. You spent the rest of that evening giving demure smiles and hiding behind your fan to conceal the dark red stains on your teeth. Oh, how it felt to do something frowned upon. To hide a little secret in front of so many people.

A feeling you’d much rather chase after than drown.

There is nothing modest about the smile stretched across your face now. The grin splitting your lips is salacious and predatory when you lean towards his parted mouth.

“What’s so improper about this?”

Your free hand snakes its way up his broad chest, grabbing onto the black neckerchief there and yanking on it to close the distance between your mouths.

The stubble on his chin and cheek abraid against your own, but his lips make up for it entirely; warm and supple and surprisingly soft. Almost too pliant at first, tentative and chaste, but when you move his bottom lip between your teeth it puts an end to that.

You have only ever read about men who kiss the way Mr. Morgan does. Dominating and firm but gentle and rich. You’ve kissed wealthy men before but never have had a kiss feel so luxuriant. As his tongue runs around the seam of your lip your mind is wiped clean of any memories to even compare him to. It’s shameless and near urgent, the way he tilts your head back to completely swallow you. When his tongue strokes against your own you let your lips wrap around it, sucking and licking and capturing him there to play with for as long as you please. He moans into your mouth, presses your body closer against him until he’s nearly pushing you down, and tangles his hand in your hair to assert himself back as the one in control.

You break apart purely out of necessity, wet and bruised lips parted to pant hard against each other. Mr. Morgan leaves you breathless once more when he moves you to his lap with such ease you’d think you were a child and not a grown woman.

“You need me to teach ya about improper?” he asks, mouth leaving hot and wet kisses along the column of your neck. You keen and tilt your head higher, giving him more room to explore.

“Would you be so kind, Mr. Morgan?”

“Arthur,” he corrects, teeth nipping at your exposed clavicle. The vibrations run down your spine like a silky cord.

You echo him breathlessly, “Arthur.” It sounds nice on your tongue; a handsome name. A strong name. “I’m afraid I’ve rarely been afforded the luxury of hand-on-hand instruction.”

He’s pulling down the neckline of your dress and exposing your breasts to the rapidly warming air inside the coach. You gasp, having only been this nude in front of your help before. There’s an urge to cover yourself, but you quiet it down when his warm, rough hands press them together.

“Then we better be real thorough, Miss.” He kisses your cleavage, tongue licking a line down your breasts to take a nipple into his hot mouth. You arch further into his touch when a hand moves to your bottom, kneading the flesh there.

He lets go of your breast with the barest graze of teeth, coaxing a whimper out of your throat. He chuckles from below you. “This okay with you, princess?”

“I believe there’s no backing out now, is there?” you jest.

His hands and mouth still, face lifting from your chest to look up at you with a sudden earnestness. “You call the shots, darlin’. If you wanna stop just tell me when.”

You blink at him, having not expected that kind of response. For such a tough and severe-looking man, you expected him to be the type to take what he wants. Maybe that was the initial appeal, but looking at his lust-blown eyes, now tempered with self-restraint, makes you all the more eager to be with him. Not sure what to say, or even trusting your voice to carry a sentence, you dip down and capture his lips once more, sweeter and slower than before. He takes the meaning and lets his hands continue their ministrations, pinching and rubbing and stroking against your breasts to find what pulls the better reaction out of you. Just as you pull apart the stagecoach hits a bump, jostling you two slightly. Arthur holds you steady against him, but in doing so presses you against his erection.

He groans deeply. A grin splits your face.

“Forgive my negligence, Mr. Morgan,” you purr, slipping your hands under both the straps of his suspenders and jacket, sliding them off of his shoulders. Your fingers flick open the buttons of his trousers with an ease that surprises yourself.

When your hand disappears under his trousers, you’re almost surprised by how heavy his erection is. It’s like velvet hilt beneath your fingers, hot and wet at the tip. You roll your palm around it before pulling him out.

“Despite all the erotic dime novels I’ve read I’m afraid none of them went into quite such detail,” you admit sheepishly.

Arthur grins, lopsided and lazily charming. “Let me show you.”

His hand folds over yours, gently guiding it up and down his shaft. You’re caught between watching his erection slip in and out of your hand and watching his expressions: The flutter of his long lashes, the burning red in his cheeks. His mouth remains parted to allow his deep breaths, but his teeth clench in a hiss when you dip your thumb into the slit, smearing the pooling liquid around.

“Move just like that,” he says, hand leaving yours to trail under your skirt and over your stockings.

“Has anyone ever touched you like this?” he asks, fingers mapping out the space between your parted thighs, slipping between the slit of your undergarments to brush over and part your folds. You shake your head, trying desperately not to whimper when his palm presses up against your core. “But you’ve touched yourself like this?”

You struggle to nod your head, not entirely due to his dizzying touch. Arthur notices this, latches onto it. “Say it, princess.”

“I-I’ve touched myself. Before.”

He hums, rewarding you with a large finger rubbing up against your wet entrance.“I want you to show me.”

Before you can question him, he’s removing your hands from his, wet fingers moving you so your back is in the seat. He kneels between your parted legs and hikes your skirt up your waist, untying your underwear easily to shimmying them down and off of your ankles. You fight against yourself to close your knees together tight, caught instead by Arthur’s deep green eyes locked with your own. “Show me,” he repeats, guiding your hands to the space between your thighs.

You want to be embarrassed, tell him this is the point where you call a recess, but with the way the heat in your stomach seeps down to your core, aching to be acknowledged, and Arthur’s reassurance of his own enjoyment, evident by the hand slowly stroking himself--you decide to chase after the feeling of wine stained teeth.

With tentative strokes, you begin pleasuring yourself the way you would in your bedroom back at the estate. Your fingers dip down to your entrance to gather the slick there and spread it over your clit, making gentle but firm circles over the small bundle of nerves. As you begin to build your familiar rhythm, your second hand rises to your chest, stroking and pinching your nipple. Arthur seems caught between the same binary as you: to watch your sex or to watch your face.

He decides on the latter, and to your further joy leans up to kiss you, his knuckles brushing against your own with every flick of his wrist. You moan against his mouth, less occupied with moving your lips than you are chasing after your pleasure.

When you feel your core begin to tighten, Arthur pulls your hips to the edge of the seat. He leaves your mouth to sink down, his face inches from where your fingers are making quick, tight circles.

“What are you--doing?” you ask, breathless.

Arthur looks up at you from where he kneels, taking in the look of genuine confusion on your face and smirks against your bare thigh. “Your dirty novels not tell you ‘bout this?” You shake your head. “I’d rather show you.”

Nothing he’s done thus far has been anything close to unpleasant and, as silly as it is to come to the conclusion now, you trust him. You move your fingers, mourning the loss of your budding release, and nod once.

“Go ahead.”

He smiles against your thigh, kissing you there before continuing lower. And lower. And lower still, until his breath is hot against your core. Before you can grow any more nervous and ask him to stop, you feel the flat of his tongue lick from your entrance to your clit.

You gasp, hand shooting up to cover your mouth. You’ve never felt anything like that before. His tongue is heavy and wet against you, soft lips bringing your folds into his mouth. Salaciously, he looks up at you from between your legs, and you can see his smile in his pretty green eyes. He repeats this once more, but stays at your clit, circling it with his tongue before lapping at it greedily.

Your fingers card through his soft blonde hair, careful at first not to pull, but too far deep in your own pleasure to realize when you do. He moans against you when your hips raise involuntarily to press impossibly closer to his mouth, hands roaming over your waist and to your breasts. You didn’t realize why he wanted you to pleasure yourself in front of him, but now you understand. Everything you showed him he took into account, using it to dangle you over the edge of an impossibly blissful sea.

Your mouth hangs open, keens and whimpers escaping without care as his dexterous mouth and hands strum your body like an instrument, unaware of just how loud they ring in the stagecoach until Arthur’s mouth pulls away and you’re brought back to a sane state of mind.

Without your permission a low moan pulls out of your throat, desperate and needy. Your eyes widen, suddenly sober to your unintentional reaction. Arthur looks to have sobered up slightly too, but when his green eyes meet yours they fall darker than they were before.

“Oh, you dirty girl.”

Arthur rises from his kneel, looms over you in the small space of the coach. Slides his hips between your thighs like the piece of a jigsaw puzzle, the warmth of his manhood hot and heavy over your mound.

“That really gets to you, huh? The idea of gettin’ caught in such an indecent position?”

You go to retort, save yourself the embarrassment of a misunderstanding, but you stop yourself short. There really is no misunderstanding. Arthur kindly doesn’t press the discovery, but you squirm all the same until his lips coax your mouth open and your thoughts away. All the way up until you feel the head of his cock presses up against your entrance and you gasp.

“I-I’ve never--” you’re quick to blurt, but Arthur’s quicker to sooth.

“I know,” he coos, looking at the swell of your mouth. “Ain’t no need for it, darlin’, just say and I’ll go back to what I was doin’ before this.”

You swallow against a dry throat, eyes darting over his face and waiting for something inside of you to say anything other than yes, yes, yes. It doesn’t come, and Arthur waits patiently for your answer. “Please. Keep going.”

The sensation of being filled--of being stretched. Nothing in your books gave it proper tribute. It’s a sweet, slow burn that you feel all the way up your spine; a heat that spreads through your thighs, up to your navel. Your fingernails leave skinny red lines along Arthur’s forearms, stopping only when he’s fully seated inside of you.

You come to a standstill, luxuriating in the feeling of the other. “You fit me perfectly,” Arthur whispers, grinding his hips against the plush of your ass. You gasp.

“You think I’m the one with the dirty mouth?”

He chuckles against your lips, kissing you once quick and hard before pulling back to give you a proper grin, “This is church talk, girl,” and thrusts into you.

You’re already so full of him, filled in a way you hadn’t imagined possible, and having him press deeper into you hits something that has you out of breath with pleasure. Your toes curl, fingers digging into Arthur’s strong shoulders. It’s so, so good--

And then he pulls back to properly thrust.

If having his tongue on you was the best thing you’d felt, having him bury himself in you over and over again is nothing short of heavenly. Each time it feels like he may be leaving, only to sink back in, you lose any sense. The hand at the back of your thigh, your ankles locked together, the sweat dotting your brow. It all feels like so much, and yet it waves to the background while Arthur takes you. You haven’t realized the noises filling the coach are entirely yours until Arthur quiets you with his tongue against yours. When your mouths finally pull apart the first thing back on your tongue is his name.

“Arthur,” you whimper, bottom lip catching between your teeth.

“What do you need, girl.” Your lips parts to tell him, but the words catch in your throat, another wave of euphoria hitting you when he presses all the way in and stills. Like this you’re so obscenely stretched and filled in ways you never knew you’d want to be, but he presses your hips back against him, pushing against your limit even further. “Tell me what you need,” he whispers, pulsing inside of you.

“H-harder.”

If the bulging muscles in his arms weren’t affirmation enough, the display of just how strong he is comes when his arms hook under your knees to push them back towards your chest, hands splaying along your upper back. You think for a second he’s going to throw you onto the floor and take you like that--something you’re surprised to learn you aren’t entirely opposed to--but instead of letting you drop he holds you just like that, supporting the near entirety of your weight in his arms.

You’re completely laid bare before him, legs spread lewdly for his viewing pleasure, hands too busy clawing at his shoulders and hair to cover your expressions from him, but it only makes the scorching need in your core burn brighter. He chuckles when you hook your feet over his shoulders, letting go completely to the obscenity of it all.

You think, at least. Then he starts to move.

His arms swing you back while his hips lift to meet you, thrusting inside of you with long, rough movements. The first slap of your arse to his thighs is loud inside of the coach, but not any louder than the sounds that rip from your throat. They only spur him on, working to keep a rhythm that has you useless in his arms.

“God!” you brokenly gasp, uncaring of your volume or the swear. “L-like that!”

“There you go,” he husks, hands squeezing you tight. Every part of you is overwhelmed by him, inside and out. His voice, his touch, his scent, his taste. It pushes you closer and closer to the edge, every sense heightened and primed as if with the sole purpose of bringing you over. That tempting line between wanting to remain in the rapture that comes right before your climax and needing to feel yourself fall apart. For him, on him, because of him.

The need only burns brighter every time you sink back down onto his length, his thick head pressing impossibly deeper inside of you and hitting every sensitive spot along the way.

You try to warn him, at least to keep him going long enough for you to claim your mark, but it comes out a broken mess. “A-Arthur, I’m--don’t, ah! Keep--“

“Let me feel you take your pleasure.”

And you do.

#arthur morgan rdr2 #arthur morgan smut #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x you #rdr2 smut #rdr2 x reader #Bunny Writing #testing the waters here how thirsty is everyone #are the arthur morgan girlies still alive

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journal-of-an-outlaw · 5 years

Text

Price to be Paid - Chapter 8

Friends in Low Places

Words: 3,826

The next day was the livestock con that John had been planning for weeks. He and Arthur rode off into the hills to steal the flock and bring it back into town to sell as their own.

Dutch watched his boys ride off while he smoked a cigar, and Hosea walked up to join him. “What a time we’ve had, eh Dutch?” Dutch claspsed Hosea on the shoulder, hanging on and reminiscing on their past adventures. “What a wild ride we have been through.”

“Hopefully, my friend, our running days will soon be over. Just one more big one with good money and we are free. Then we can get our people to a safe home, like they deserve.”

Lenny called you over to Pearson’s workstation. “YN! Teach me how to skin this rabbit, I know Arthur taught you so you oughta be good.” You laughed and rolled your sleeves up, “Thanks, Lenny. Alright. Let’s get to work. You want to know the first thing Arthur asked me when I wanted to learn how to do this?”

“What’s that?”

Acting grumpy with hunched shoulders you replied, “You sure you wanna get blood all over your dress?” Lenny bust up laughing while you impersonated the rugged man. “Damn fool didn’t see I was holding a knife five feet from him but still had the nerve to say it! Right after I shot a deer clean through the heart, too."

Lenny laughed again while you began to teach him the Arthur Morgan way of skinning a rabbit. Every once in awhile he would ask you a question by impersonating Arthur and the two of you fell apart on the wooden table. He was a bright kid, and really nineteen was a kid, with a good heart and an infectious laugh.

Jack came up just as the two of you were finishing and asked to pet your horse. Lenny ruffled the kids hair and left you to babysit, heading over to his tent to organize a few things. Jack grabbed your hand and dragged you to your mare.

“She’s pretty, YN! And tall. Not as tall as Uncle Arthur’s horsie, though. I wish I could have one, too.” His mind was everywhere, bouncing from place to place with no time to take a breath in between. Poor kid, four years old and stuck living the outlaw life. No wonder Abigail was so hellbent on getting out before something happened.

He bent down and grabbed a flower to pick, his sights on dainty yellow petals with a white center when Eclipse moved too close. You swung down and grabbed Jack before she could get spooked, and you saw Dutch and Strauss walking up.

They were deep in conversation and almost didn’t notice you.

“Now, Herr Strauss, we are to meet Arthur and John at the saloon after. There’s talk of some big man in town and I intent to get on his good side before we show him a reason to be on his bad, so maybe you just stay quiet then?”

“But Dutch, I still have three loans that need to be collected! That money -”

Dutch interrupted him, yelling in his face, “That money is the only thing keeping us alive! Now why in the hell have you not gone to collect it?”

Her Strauss replied meekly, “I asked Arthur but he never had the time.”

Dutch ran his hand down his face and noticed you there. “YN, it’s time to learn another skill, my dear. When Arthur gets back from town, go with him to collect those debts so generously given by Herr Strauss. The two of you should get on just fine.”

You nodded and moved Jack closer to your hip, afraid the loud voices would frighten the child. Herr Strauss handed you three loan sheets which you tucked away in your satchel for later. Jack simply continued to play with the colorful flower in his hands until he held it out to the approaching Abigail as a present for simply being there.

The tent you called home had built up a small collection of outfits, guns, and various other objects during your months at Horseshoe Creek. It was small but cozy. You even had a proper blanket now made from the skin of a cougar you hunted not too long ago.

After you flopped down to the small bedroll, you grabbed the book you had been devouring most recently after swapping with Hosea. He had gotten you invested in a crime series and had given you the latest last night after finishing it himself, of course, and was bursting to discuss it so you promised to be quick. The sunlight was still filtering in warmly and you left the flaps of the tent open for fresh air to accompany you on your journey to another life. Precious few things brought you the pleasure like reading did.

Later in the day, Hosea himself stuck his head in your tent. “How are you getting on, YN? Hiding from Grimshaw so you can get through more of that book?”

You jumped as the voice ripped you from the pages, but quickly laughed at how eager Hosea was for you to read. “I’m trying! Doesn’t help I can hear her scream every few minutes. But this book, Hosea...it’s so -”

The end of that sentence was never finished as Grimshaw had finally found you. “I should have known you would have something to do with this, Hosea! YN! Get that lazy Blackwater ass out here to help with the laundry."

Hosea looked sheepish at having given you away but you smiled and promised to read again later, then followed Grimshaw while she continued to chew you out.

Sadie Adler was finally cleaned up and dressed with the other girls who were doing the laundry in the middle of camp. Buckets of sudsy water sloshed around as item after item were dunked, scrubbed, and passed to the next. You joined in after Mary-Beth and before Sadie.

“Nice to see you out and about, Mrs. Adler! Feelin’ better?” She smiled back and her eyes were clear for the first time since you’d met her. “A bit, miss. Working to see what livin’ is about now. You fine people took me in, time to do my share. Although I ain’t choppin’ no vegetables no more with that man, about ready to chop him up too.”

The girls chattered as the laundry eventually finished up, and everything was hung up to dry. You grabbed the last few pieces to hang on the line when a hand snaked out to grab yours.

“You got anything special in there to show me, YN?"

Michah had found you again and hid behind the colorful array so no one could see him.

“Jesus, Michah. You got nothin’ better to do than stalk me doin’ laundry? Leave me alone, I ain’t got nothing to entertain with you.”

He smirked and moved closer, “Oh girly, I got some entertaining you could do. Just give me a few hours.” His hand rubbed the back of yours, mocking the memory you had of Arthur comforting you and you shook him off violently. Irritation and rage began to pump from your heart and spread across your chest.

“I don’t want anymore time with you than necessary, thank you.” He didn’t seem to mind the constant rejection, and in fact it seemed to make him pursue you more.

“‘Thank you?’ Always so kind,” he sneered at you. “YN. One of these days you’re gonna have to learn how to be a real outlaw and toughen up.”

“Only a damn fool mistakes kindness for weakness, Mr. Bell. Strength don’t come from the lack of love or compassion in a heart,” you snapped back.

He was unimpressed with your outburst. You were just hoping he had lost interest when he said, “You book folk are so boring. Always full of words. I prefer action. You know where to find me once you wisen up. And girl, I sure hope you do.” The clothing on the drying line parted as Michah smacked them out of his path. You rolled your eyes and picked up the empty basket to bring back to Grimshaw and prove your chores were done.

That afternoon was when true chaos began. The sound of horses thundering into camp made everyone stand to attention as Dutch, Arthur, John, and Strauss rode in looking extremely shaken from Valentine. All of them were dishevelled and covered in dirt. Abigail rushed over as John jumped from his horse and said something to her. She nodded and left for their shared tent to begin throwing things in their tent. Dutch grabbed Hosea and moved to his tent, retelling everyone what happened.

“Our time in Valentine has come to an untimely end! Leviticus Cornwall and his band of thugs met us outside the saloon and things did not end well for them. It’s time for us to pack up and leave this area, what with Pinkerton’s breathing down our necks and Cornwall comin’ to find us. Ms. Grimshaw, Mr. Pearson, if you please! Get this place packed up while we look for a new spot.” Everyone began to move, you rushed to your tent and began throwing everything into the few bags you had bought and rolled the bedding up to make it easier to carry.

Hosea sat with Dutch as Arthur approached, and was none too happy about the current situation. “So, we keep heading east. Is that the plan?”

“For now.”

“And when do we stop? When we reach Paris?” Hosea exclaimed sarcastically.

“Oh that’d be nice, and join the Commune? We stop when we find someplace sensible, shake them that’s following us and lie low.” Dutch countered. It felt like an age old argument, with Hosea thinking legit scams were the way to go, and Dutch wanting one last big score to blow the others out of the water.

Hosea put his face into his hands, “And this is lying low? We’ve turned into a bunch of killers, I mean it.”

Dutch sat up straighter. “Sometimes, survival means having only one choice. We have to take it, or lose everything we’ve worked towards.”

Hosea threw his hands up, fed up with not feeling safe in his own home and stormed out of Dutch’s tend. Arthur moved closer to the older man to get a better look at the map he was studying.

“Michah told me of a place we can lie low. Dewberry Creek, he said. Maybe you and Charles can go take a look, clear off anyone you find before the whole lot of us move in.” Dutch pointed at the spot and Arthur nodded.

“Looks like I’ve turned into the Goddamned errand boy,” while walking away.

Dutch stood as tall as you’ve seen him, chest puffed with pride. “You have turned into my son, you worry because I worry. We are just the same!” Before Arthur got too far, Dutch yelled again, “Arthur! And when you return you and Miss Moore have some debts to collect on behalf of Herr Strauss. We’ll see how things are when you’re back from scouting.”

Arthur and Charles left shortly after that, not expecting to be gone more than a few hours. While they were out riding free, Ms. Grimshaw saw that every single one of the girls was sweating away, cleaning and packing and washing and sorting. All these damn men and not a single one could pack the knives away correctly.

Abigail and John were struggling to get everything done with Jack running around, so you offered after your tent was packed to take care of him. The fighting didn’t stop, but at least the kid was out of the way and not there to see it.

Jack took your hand and wanted to go see the river one last time. You wondered if he really understood why you were moving so constantly, and the past few months you had two camps. To a four year old that’s a lot of life changes.

He found a blue flower and tried to braid it into your hair, making you both giggle. It matched the shirt that Mary-Beth finally got around to make for you. A light blue that played with your dark features beautifully, and she even made some lace designs to fancy it up. You loved that shirt and were ecstatic when she gave it to you a week ago.

“I want a flower too, YN,” Jack whined when you sat down for a moment. “Of course, Jack, what color you reckon?” He contemplated it, then decided on yellow. The two of you set off to wander the small field for a yellow flower.

“Here! Help me put it in my hair.” Jack loved flowers in hair and his own was no exception. This fascination with flowers was interesting to you, but when you asked he only shrugged and said something about Abigail loving them too.

A few hours later, Charles came riding down the slope. “YN! Arthur is waiting for you back at camp, or what’s left of it. Want me to give you two a ride up?”

Jack shook his head, so the two of you walked next to Tamia while Charles chatted about the new campsite he had found.

“The site Michah told us about already had people there, a dried up old creek bed. Would have been fine, but it’s hard to settle so many folks on uneven ground. Poor German lady and her two kids were there, hiding out under a wagon. While we went out riding to find her missing husband we found this perfect spot by a lake. Huge, even field hidden by trees. I can see us hiding there a long while.”

He looked calm about the whole ordeal and happy about the new site.

“What happened to him?” You asked suddenly.

“Who? Oh, the husband. Arthur took him back to his wife and we met up as we was coming back near Valentine. The family is alright,” he smiled down at you, the worry leaving your face.

“Just like to know they were safe is all!” You said a bit too defensively, but laughed at yourself.

Arthur was leaning against the last wagon as it was being packed up. Charles waved to you and carried Jack up to meet Abigail and John leading the wagon, then left to lead the caravan off to the new campsite.

“Guess it’s just you and me then, huh?” He took the last puff of a cigarette, then threw it out into the grass. “Guess so, Mr. Morgan.”

“How many damn times you gonna keep calling me that?” he growled.

“Sorry. Arthur,” he waved his hand, signalling his indifference. “Now, Her Strauss gave us three people to collect from, are we gonna be able to do that all in one afternoon?”

“Hope so. All locals, just need to get them talking quickly. Need be we can camp and head to the new site tomorrow.”

“With what? Most of my supplies just left,” you motioned to your things now rolling away in the last caravan and out of sight. The few supplies attached to Eclipse were nothing compared to what had just left you. Arthur swore and moved to get on his horse, “Then we best get this done fast. It’s already late and the first one’s an hour ride.”

Eclipse kept up with Zeus, Arthur’s dark bay stallion, well during the journey. She was a little headstrong and sometimes didn’t respond to you right away, causing Arthur to take the lead in case she decided to jump off a bridge or something like that.

Talking was infrequent. Arthur turned out to be more of a focused and quiet rider. You found out he also liked to read, though not like Hosea. He shared many qualities with the older man but was still inexplicably drawn more to Dutch. They were both hot headed with a sense of leadership, and Hosea was more about playing things safe. Arthur had a healthy dose of each and the influence was easy to see in just about everything he did.

The first stop was a man named Chick Matthews. As you rode up, one of the hands told you Chick was out around the barn tending to his horse. The moment he spotted the two of you riding up he jumped on and galloped away, which was a shocking sight.

“Arthur! I’ll head up over the ridge to his right, I think I see a bridge up ahead. You go right after him and let’s see who can get there first. Heya!” Without waiting for him to respond you kicked Eclipse into a full gallop after the little man. She ran fast and strong, but Chick had a good head start and it took a bit of corralling to catch up. In the distance you could hear him taunting Arthur for being too slow and old, and you can only imagine the rage boiling on his face. They came up to a train that you had bypassed by going up above when Arthur managed to lasso that fool straight to the ground.

Once knocked down he coughed and sputtered like an idiot.

“Look, look, I got the money...but it’s hidden. Untie me and I’ll tell you where it’s at.”

You rode up just as Arthur finished hog tying the man, throwing a punch or two for making you both chase him so far. This may be your fist debt collecting but you wouldn’t let him abuse the man. As he pulled back to hit him again you grabbed his arm.

“Arthur! Let the man talk, for heaven’s sake. He’s got the money.” Arthur looked at your concerned face incredulously. “Miss Moore, this country round here is full of idiots. Look at this one here,” he kicked his boot against Chicks lightly. “Now see, he doesn’t think we know about what’s in his pockets so why don’t you empty them out for me?”

Pick pocketing was better than beating, so you leaned down to see what he was hiding. An old carrot, a cigarette card, and a map leading you right to the money were all you found.

The map was incredibly simple. One bridge and a tree were all that were on it, and you looked down at Chick. “I may now want to hit you sir, for this is surely the dumbest map I have ever seen. Where the hell does it even start?”

He smiled a gap toothed grin up at you. “See Miss! That’s the best part. No one knows it but me.” At that Arthur delivered another kick to his stomach, hard and fast. “Tell me where the damn money is!”

“Fine! Okay, Jesus. Head north and turn left at the Old Creek Bridge, it’s the tree closest there.”

Arthur nodded and moved towards Zeus. “YN, you take that sack of shit back to the ranch and I’ll meet you once I have collected Mr. Matthews’ debt. You try any funny business with her, and you’ll wish all I’d done was break some ribs of yours,” and took off.

Chick starred up at Eclipse. “Gee, Miss, I ain’t never ridden behind on a horse before. And never with a woman!” You rolled your eyes and loaded him up behind you.

True to his word Chick Matthews put up no fuss heading back. He pointed out some of his favorite land features and asked you to walk into town more than once. You politely declined, but you knew he didn’t mean any harm. Arthur finally rode up with a bag, showing you the cash then tucking it safely away in his satchel. The two of you were off to victim number two, Mr. Wrobel.

The Polish man lived at a farm called Painted Sky, and didn’t speak a lick of English. You tried to be soft and comforting but that didn’t seem to go anywhere, so Arthur lumbered in and demanded the return of cash. Wrobel seemed to have nothing, but sadly motioned around his home and let the two of you take enough possessions to equal the amount of the debt. It broke your heart to watch his face, and leaving you could see it troubled Arthur too.

“Why do you do jobs like this if they don’t feel right?” You asked quietly as the two of you mounted your horses for the third and final destination.

Arthur scratched the back of his neck, thinking. “I honestly prefer when they try to run or put up a fight. Don’t feel so bad robbin’ folks who make a point to take advantage of the loan. But those like him? Who need it? Makes me think I’m only out here to grease the wheel so it keeps turning. Folks need money, we lend it, then take it back with interest.”

Finally arriving past dark at Emerald Ridge, the third debtor gave Arthur no hesitation in his approach of getting the money back. Lilly Millet’s boyfriend jumped up and attacked him with a swift uppercut to his jaw and the man drew no pity from you after you heard the way he was berating Lilly.

Lilly grabbed your arm while the two men brawled and made a fuss of it all. Truth be told, it was quite the sight. Both me tall and muscular in build it was an evenly matched fight. After a few quick hits the other man went down, and Arthur stood huffing above him. You definitely understood why he liked the ones who fought him, he looked damn fine doing it.

“Alright, alright! That’s enough. He has everything I gave him, please, just take what he has and go,” Lilly called out to Arthur. To you, she whispered, “You’re a lucky girl to be running with a man like that. Makes mine look like an old rag.” You both looked down to where her man lay unconscious, in the mud. She rolled her eyes and made her way over to get him cleaned up.

Chuckling, you walked over to Arthur. “What’s so funny now?” he asked while stuffing the last of the cash in his satchel.

“Lilly had more on her mind that just debts, I think,” you looked at him suggestively but were met with a blank stare. “Oh, come on Arthur don’t be dense. I think she likes you!” After a beat it clicked and he looked away embarrassed. “Want me to ask if she’s free Friday?” you moved slowly backwards but he grabbed your upper arm lightly. “No! Come on, woman. We best be moving. Probably have to camp halfway back now.” He started Zeus into a slow walk as you jumped up to Eclipse.

“Besides, she ain’t my type anyways. I like brunettes,” and with that he took off galloping, leaving you to watch and race after him.

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