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say-hwaet · 4 months ago

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If I Had to Do it All Again

Chapter 10: Abigail Next Chapter: Eleven Summary: As Arthur recovers from his bout of influenza, he tries to keep up with the world as it moves around him. In doing so, he notices something changing beneath the surface and it reveals itself in the form of a teenage girl. Warnings: Mature themes, language, Dutch being a creep Word Count: ~7,800

“Are you sure you don’t want to come inside where it’s warm?” you ask as you approach Arthur from behind. He sits at the open campfire with a blanket wrapped around him, which he wouldn’t have worn without your insistence, and turns to look up at you over his shoulder.

You hold a cup of coffee in your hand, supported at the end of your fingertips, and wait for him to answer.

“I’m shoah. Sun is out and I’ve been cooped up inside for too long.”

You look to where the sun rests high in the sky. The days are finally getting longer but it’s still the cold month of January. You turned twenty-five two days ago. 1894. Almost at the end of a century.

You dared not to say anything to anyone, lest they try to scramble up another celebration. With last year’s remaining holidays being bypassed, all that trouble and stress for a birthday is time wasted and you’ve been busy taking care of Arthur and the children. Besides, you’ve never liked that kind of attention.

It’s been almost two months since that day he returned from his hunting trip and he’s just now beginning to get his strength back. You’ve spent most of your waking hours by his side, a percentage of it changing mustard poultices, helping him to the outhouse, serving him stews, and keeping him hydrated.

God must have had some pity on you, for He gifted you with an exemplary immune system. You haven’t coughed or sneezed once while being in close proximity to Arthur. And when his fever broke, you felt it safe enough to return back to the cabin to relieve Susan of tending to the children. Up until then, you had only been with them long enough to feed Alice and read to Isaac before he went to bed, and that was risky enough as it was.

You have no doubt that it was pneumonia or something that affects the lungs, and you also know that it was by some miracle that Arthur is still alive and breathing.

You and Arthur don’t speak of the nights you held him as he slept, your body heat his source of warmth and comfort. It is as though upon mutual agreement that it is not to leave that shack, and things are to return as they were. You nod at the thought, simultaneously agreeing with his comment. “The sunlight is good for you.” You finally offer him the cup of coffee in your hand. “But not too much.”

The corner of his mouth tugs back into a smile and his right hand slips out from the blanket to accept the dark brew. “Thank you.” He takes a long sip of the coffee and you remain beside him, tempted to sit down on the log, but don’t. He brings the cup away from his lips and cradles it in his hands. “Dutch’ll be expectin’ me to go back to work,” he says softly, his eyes focusing on what remains in his cup.

You feel yourself tense at this. You don’t want him to, not while he’s just now starting to get back on his feet. You also know that they haven’t reconciled yet, and even if Dutch had ever intended to, Hosea forbade him from coming near the shack. He insisted it was because of the risks of catching it but even you know that it was for the sake of peace within the camp.

You cross your arms and jut out your hip. “Has he spoken to you?”

Arthur shakes his head and goes to drink again. “No.”

“Then don’t expect to do anything until then. I’m still responsible for you.”

Responsible. Like what a mother says to her kid. He’s been wrestling with his own giants this whole illness, his desires to be held and spoken softly to, and his desire to be the protector and provider. He’s a man, not a child. He doesn’t want to be fussed over.

But the smell of your hair. The way your fingers scratched his scalp in the most perfect way.

But he needed to be the one. He needed to be the one holding you.

He lowers his head to hide his shame. “Shoah.”

You know that tone. The same tone he’s used when you had to do things without him, like fixing broken windows or building chicken coops. When his pride has been pricked. “Arthur, having me care for you doesn’t make you less of a man.”

The fact that you say it outright, say it so casually, almost hurts more than if he had to explain it to you. The fact that you know and want to reassure him doesn’t do anything to lessen how he feels. “You all seem to manage without me.”

“Exactly. We manage, not prosper.” You reach down and cup his chin as you move to stand in front of him and encourage him to look up at you. “I for one would be lost without you.” You pause for a moment, letting yourself get lost in those eyes of his. “So don’t you dare go getting yourself sick again.”

He chortles and you lower your hand as you step away. “Finish your coffee and come inside. Alice is going to start running before you get the chance to see her really crawl.”

He smiles at that, only seeing her crawl a handful of times since he’s been around the children again. She’s babbling more now as well, nearly forming words. Isaac insists on repeating his name in front of her several times a day in the hopes that her first word will be his name and not “mama” or “dada.”

They’re growing up so fast, the both of them. Isaac is past your waist now and eats like a horse. Arthur has seen you slipping your son your stew when you think no one is looking, after Uncle complains that the boy has had too much food.

“That kid’ll eat your hat if you ain’t watchin’!” he says.

“You don’t know his father then,” Hosea will retort, or something to a similar effect. “He’s got a quota to fill!”

You leave Arthur to his thoughts and return to your children in the cabin. You have a quota of your own, these past few weeks without your children near have left you at a deficit.

Arthur lets his eyes fall on the crackling fire in front of him and the temptation to write in his journal stirs him. Reaching into his satchel, he pulls out the hardback journal with its buckle latch. It’s nearly out of pages, and he will soon need to get a new one. He’s written through so many and keeps each one as though they were a series of encyclopedias.

And indeed, they are.

Taking out his pencil, he opens his journal to an empty page and begins to write.

Finally don’t have a pair of eyes watching me. I suppose that’s when it’s a benefit to be on the bottom of the food chain. When they leave you alone, you have moments to yourself.

But I guess I shouldn’t complain. That woman cares more than what any human being should ever be allowed. She’s nursed me back to health like a baby in her arms, though I am too proud to admit I didn’t mind. I guess that’s my trouble, not speaking enough. Not saying the things I should.

I love her. I guess I should just be proud for the ability to write it down. But she’s too good for me, I know it. She’s better fit for a better man. A man who can speak up and take her in his arms like a knight in shining armor. I’ve been barely able to pick up my pencil.

I’ve seen the books she’s read. Robin Hood and others. Tales of men of valor, ready to protect what’s theirs. Protect their women.

But what good am I, if I can’t even fight an illness?

My son, my daughter, so little and innocent. Their eyes and ears have seen and heard too much in their short lives. It ain’t fair to bring them into all this.

When I get my strength back, I’m going to go on one last job. Just enough money to buy them tickets to where they want to go.

And then I’ll let them—

“Dutch…!”

Arthur lifts his head to see Dutch heading toward his horse, with Uncle following close behind.

But it wasn’t Uncle who called for him.

Arthur’s eyes fall on Annabelle who comes out of the barn, hurriedly closing the buttons of her coat. “Dutch! You promised to spend the day with me.”

Dutch raises an opposing hand as he continues walking. “Later, Annabelle.”

Annabelle suppresses a sob, replacing her quiver with a pleading tone. “But, darlin’. It’s…It’s our…”

Dutch stops just before reaching the Count and slowly turns around. “Our anniversary.”

She nods, her eyes alight with the relief of his recognition. “Yes…!” she gasps.

There is a soft silence as they regard each other, Uncle standing there awkwardly.

Dutch sighs, a plume of white cloud leaving his nostrils. He nods solemnly and his expression softens as he looks at her. “Alright, Annabelle. Go back inside, I will be with you in a moment.”

Annabelle smiles the broadest Arthur has seen of her in weeks, and she quickly returns to the barn. As soon as the door closes behind her, Dutch turns to Uncle. “Go into town,” he speaks, his voice suddenly hushed. But still, as though the wind carries his voice, Arthur can still hear him clearly. “Bring her.”

Uncle’s brow furrows. “You sure? I’ve talked to her and she seems to think—”

“I blame you for this…! Bring her!”

Uncle nods his head, running to his old nag, and Arthur watches as Dutch readjusts the hat on his head before sauntering off to the barn.

Uncle rides off quickly in the direction of the nearest town.

Her? Who is “her?”

And why would Uncle be bringing someone here? In this desolate place of a camp?

And a woman, no less? The very creature Dutch blames for planting ideas of leaving in Arthur’s head?

Arthur can’t bring himself to finish his thought in his journal.

His mind races as he closes it, the fabric cover worn and bending under the weight of all it contains. His thoughts are a jumbled mess of fear and anticipation. The last thing you need is more chaos, more tension. But who is this mysterious woman Dutch demands be brought to camp?

And what will it do to Annabelle?

***

You hear footsteps near the door and raise your head quickly just in time to see Arthur come walking into the cabin. Your heart beats excitedly, energetically, but when his eyes meet yours, something halts your elation.

There is something in his eyes—worry, or distress. Your soft smile falls and he looks away. He sheds his blanket and coat, putting them in their respective places, then walks over to your son and baby as they play together on the floor. Taking it slow, he goes to sit down beside them.

You turn to look at Hosea, hoping that he might be able to provide some insight. But he merely shrugs his shoulders slightly.

Arthur sighs, a long, weary exhalation that seems to carry the weight of the world. His fingers lightly brush over Isaac's curly hair before he lifts Alice into his lap, pressing a kiss to her forehead. But his eyes don't hold their usual warmth; they're clouded, shadows flitting across them like a day without sun.

“Daddy?” Isaac asks, his brow lifted curiously.

Arthur blinks, reminding himself to appear cheerful for the sake of his children. “Yeah, partner?”

“Can we play a game with Alice?”

Arthur chuckles softly. “Ain’t she too young to be playin’ games?”

Isaac shakes his head fervently, confident in his answer. “No, Daddy! This game needs her to play!”

Deciding to humor his son, he relents. “Alright, alright. I’ll bite. What game is it?”

Isaac grins smugly, that same cheeky grin that mirrors his father. “First, put her back down.”

Arthur follows Isaac's instruction, gently setting little Alice back on the floor next to her brother. The girl's tiny hands flail slightly in the air before finding her balance on the fur pelt beneath them.

Isaac, with all the seriousness a five-year-old can muster, begins explaining the rules. "It's called 'Favorites!’”

Arthur snorts. “Favorites? I ain’t shoah I like the sound of that.”

Isaac grins. “It’s not bad, Daddy! We can just see who Alice would rather go to first!”

Arthur's chuckle is half-hearted, his gaze drifting back to where you sit at the table, lingering with an unreadable expression. Your heart tightens, sensing the unspoken words hanging thickly between you two but you simply shrug your shoulders. He turns back to the children, his voice forcing brightness. "Alright, let’s set up then."

Isaac claps excitedly and sits down at a distance between Arthur and himself. “She needs to sit over there,” he says, pointing to the edge of the fur. “Then we wait.”

Arthur leans to pick up his daughter and sets her at the edge of the fur. Alice, oblivious to the tension hanging in the air, giggles as she clumsily sits wobbly. Her small fingers pick at the fur beneath her, enchanted by its texture. “Eee-ga-ga-ga…!!!”

Arthur and Isaac sit across from each other, their eyes locked on the tiny figure between them. You watch, heart aching as Arthur tries to remain calm and still, not trying to cheat this game. He’s quite curious, the hidden desire to be wanted by his daughter evident in the way his eyes soften every time she makes a sound.

Isaac, on the other hand, can barely contain his excitement. He wiggles, his little fingers twitching in anticipation, and every so often, he shoots a hopeful look at Alice, beckoning her with his eyes.

The seconds pass as Alice looks between them, seeking engagement of some kind. “Buh-buh…” she mumbles and eyes Arthur’s beard.

Isaac gasps, seeing where her eyes have fallen. “Noo…” he says under his breath and tries everything in his power to sit still.

Alice leans forward, supporting herself on her hands, and moves to go on her knees. She begins to crawl toward Arthur, her tiny hands patting the fur with determination. The room seems to hold its breath; even the dust motes in the air suspend themselves as if watching the scene unfold.

Arthur’s face breaks into a wide grin, a rare sight that lights up his rugged features and softens the worry that usually is hidden deep within the lines of sentences in his journal.

“Daddy…!” Isaac groans. “You’re encouraging her!”

Arthur laughs softly, a genuine sound that fills the small cabin with warmth. "Can't help it, son," he says, his voice tinged with amusement. He extends his hands slightly toward Alice, coaxing her gently. "Come here, little lady."

Alice's face lights up at the encouragement, a gummy smile with her milk teeth coming out, and she moves faster towards him.

“I think she was headin’ that way, any way,” Hosea comments from his place at the table.

Isaac groans and turns about his neck to look back at you over his shoulder. “Mama…?”

You give your son an empathetic gaze. “Can you blame her? You love your daddy, too.”

Isaac's cheeks flush with a mix of defeat and adoration as he nods, his eyes never leaving his sister. The cabin fills with a gentle, affectionate chuckle from Hosea, who shakes his head in amusement at the family scene before him.

Meanwhile, Alice reaches Arthur and clumsily tries to climb into his lap, her legs not strong enough to stand on her own. For a baby just barely crawling for a couple of months, she’s making strides to standing and will soon be walking on her own.

Arthur scoops her up effortlessly, the creases around his eyes appearing as he smiles down at Alice. His large hands are gentle, a stark contrast to the calloused exterior that belies his outlaw life. You watch, your heart swelling with love and a pang of sorrow for the moments lost when Arthur was away.

“I ain’t her favorite,” Arthur says as he lifts her to let her stretch her legs and stand on his bent thighs. “Just haven’t seen her much since I’ve been sick.” He locks eyes with his daughter and grins, softening his voice as he speaks to her. “Huh? I’m right, ain’t I, little lady?”

She squeals happily, reaching for his beard. “Buh-buh…!”

“Is she tryin’ to say beard?” Isaac asks as he walks over on his knees. “She says “buh buh” every time she touches your beard, Daddy.”

Alice grabs Arthur’s beard tightly and pulls it toward herself, squealing again. His eyes widen and he grimaces, trying not to cry out loud. “I think she’s just—oh—!”

Alice giggles loudly at his reaction, finding it rather humorous. Just as he brings his head back, she leans forward again and reaches for his beard. “Buh-bah…!”

He nearly dodges her attempt and holds her out in front of him. “You’re gettin’ a little feisty there!” he laughs. “Hold your horses…”

Alice sloppily claps her hands. “Da-da-da-da-da…!”

You all freeze. Did she just…?

“Her first word!” Isaac cheers. “She just said her first—!”

Arthur shakes his head. “No, she didn’t, son. She’s just babblin’ like always.”

You know he’s right. She’s at that age that she’s exploring vowels and different sounds, but it is the first time that she’s sounded that out. “She is talking more,” you say encouragingly. “Maybe it will be the first thing she says.”

Arthur isn’t so sure. He shrugs and forces a smile when his daughter looks at him again. “Maybe.”

Isaac is hopeful, still holding onto the dream that it will be his name she says first. He comes close and takes her tiny hand in his. “Alice, can you say Isaac?” She turns her head and pushes her feet into Arthur’s thigh. Isaac nods at her once her eyes meet his. “That’s right, it’s me! Your brother! Can you say I-saac?” He repeats it, but slowly this time, hoping she will catch on. “I…saac…!”

She smiles and lets go of his finger as though to wave at him. “Bah…!”

Already sassy and rebellious, this girl! Oh, you already know that she’s going to be a handful.

***

After ensuring that he has enough food for a few days, Arthur rides into town to deliver pelts to the butcher for some extra cash. Standing in front of his outdoor booth, the butcher looks over a deer pelt that Arthur just laid out before him.

The butcher tugs at his mustache, his eyes never leaving the pelt. "This is quite nice, Mr...?"

"Kilgore," Arthur answers quickly, having much practice in using the fake name.

"Ah, Mr. Kilgore—say, a lady had been asking about you!” The butcher grins. “Maybe a month or so ago?"

"Really?" Arthur smiles, having an inclination as to who it was.

The butcher nods eagerly, happy to have a reason to help a fellow member of the town. "Yeah, she seemed really worried about you."

Oh, Arthur doesn’t doubt that. His departure was a painful experience, and he can only imagine what it had done to you. He knows that this time won’t be easy, either, considering he will only be here for two more days. He grins at the butcher and shrugs. "Well, she found me, eventually."

"I can see that.” And casualty over, the butcher is eager to resume business. He gestures to the pelts in front of him. “So let's see, I can give you three dollars for the pelts."

Three dollars? He can get more than that robbing O’Driscolls than this. But he isn’t about to cause trouble in the town you live in. This place is off-limits. "That's fine."

The man pulls out a box and takes three dollars out of it, slipping them in Arthur's hand. "You take care, now, and don't get lost!" he jests, waving the young man off.

Arthur shoves the money into his satchel. "I am shoah I won't, good day to you." Tipping his hat, Arthur turns around and walks to Boadicea, patient as ever. He glances in the direction of the restaurant and something catches his eye.

A middle-aged woman, with a broom clutched tightly in her dry hands, fiercely swings it at a group of young men—four of them. Her voice echoes through the street as she shouts at them, while their boisterous laughter rings out in response. As he gets closer, he recognizes her as Bethy, the waitress that you work with. They seem to be harassing her, but she holds her own with an air of determination. Should he intervene?

As though sensing his question, one of the young men grabs the broom from her grip, forcefully ripping it away as she had smacked him just moments before. Arthur, now decided, crosses the street, drawn to the commotion, and as he nears them, he can make out their crude remarks and taunts directed at Bethy.

"You get off this property now, before I go to the sheriff!" she threatens.

"The sheriff? Old McAbee couldn't care less about stupid, little women like you," one of the boys sneers and he jumps back just as she swings an open hand in an effort to slap him.

"You boys have nothing better to do than to bother folk? If I weren't civilized, I oughta give you a good thrashing!" She jams her forefinger in his face, but it seems to have no effect on him.

He eyes her finger, a smug, little grin on his face. Oh, wouldn't Arthur take great pleasure in punching it clean off. "Well, it looks like you're a broom with no handle, lady!"

They laugh at her expense.

Arthur has had enough. He’s close to where they can hear his voice, loud and clear. "Why don't you shut up?" he orders.

Their laughing stops and they all turn to look at him as he stands firm at the bottom of the restaurant steps. They seem to know who he is, and then he realizes who they are.

Willy's boys. You were right. And they were getting bolder in their displays of defiance. Foolish. Wannabes. They think they can hold a candle to a real gang? Even the O’Driscolls could out-show them in comparison.

The boy that still holds onto the broom doesn’t move and instead stares Arthur down. Typical. "This ain't any of your business, big man."

But Arthur isn’t easily intimidated. He takes another step forward, the brim of his hat casts a shadow over his face, concealing his features from view. "It's my business when you're in my field of vision, boah, and if you don't want to be a distant memory, I suggest you get out of my sight." His hand slowly hovers over his holster.

The tension between the two men is palpable, thick like fog on a winter morning. The stranger's fingers twitch nervously as he sizes up Arthur, trying to gauge his opponent's strength and resolve. But Arthur remains an immovable force, radiating power and danger with every breath.

The standoff doesn’t last long, for they seem to recall the rumors and back into each other as they take off.

"This ain't over! Willy will get what's his!" one of them calls. Arthur doesn't know which and doesn't care. They're all the same to him.

Cowards, Arthur thinks to himself.

With a steady gaze, he watches as they disappear around the corner before confidently ascending the wooden steps to meet Bethy. The old wood creaks under his weight, a familiar sound that echoes through the quiet street. He reaches down to pick up her broom, its bristles worn and frayed from years of use.

"I can see why she's so taken with you," he hears her say, her voice soft and admiring. With a hint of a smile, he hands her the broom and she takes it, her fingers wrapping around the smooth handle. She nods her head in thanks, her eyes lingering on his face for just a moment longer.

As if reading her thoughts, he smiles gently and without saying a word, turns to make his way back down the steps. The sun casts long shadows across the worn wooden planks, making him seem more larger than life, more like a storybook character than non-fiction.

Bethy wants to talk to him. To ask him so many questions, but he doesn't know her, and he doesn't owe her anything. But she needs to try.

"Mr. Kilgore!" she calls, and waits for him patiently. He pauses for a minute, and she worries that he will just continue walking.

But he doesn’t. Instead, he slowly turns around, and their eyes meet.

Bethy swallows, but remains in good posture, wringing the broom handle in her hands. "I don't know who you are or your intentions,” she begins. “but I know she cares for you. You are all she has. I just don't want to see her hurt."

"I know," he answers soberly, the gentle smile remaining.

They regard each other for another minute longer, no words needing to be spoken.

And, just as calmly as he appeared, he walks away, and she goes back into the restaurant.

***

Arthur…

Arthur…….

“Arthur.”

Arthur snaps awake and snorts, turning his head to see Annabelle standing over him as he lies in his cot. The morning light accentuates her pinched brow, and Arthur is surprised that it isn’t a permanent expression she wears.

“What’s wrong?” he asks sleepily as he rises to a sitting position.

“Did you see Dutch come in last night?”

Dutch. Again? He rubs his eyes to conceal his dissatisfaction but lets a sigh escape his lips. “No, but maybe he’d gone off again.”

Annabelle shakes her head. “The Count is still here.” She swallows thickly and when Arthur doesn’t say anything, she explains the cause for her worry. “It was awful cold last night. I’m afraid a wolf might’ve…” Her green eyes look like pools of emerald and they slowly begin to glisten. “We had such a good afternoon together, Arthur, like old times, I just…” her voice begins to quiver and she can form words no longer.

Arthur sighs again. “Say no more, Annabelle.” He pulls the blankets back and rotates his legs to bend over the edge of his cot. “I’ll go have a look.”

“Let me go with you.”

Arthur offers a smile and shakes his head softly. “Naw, it’s best you stay warm. The others will be gettin’ up soon. I know you enjoy the mornin' quiet like I do.”

She nods. It is true. In his morning routine of being an early riser, he has crossed paths with Annabelle on her way to a quiet spot to reflect and take in the sunrise. That’s probably how she came to find Dutch gone in the first place, waking up to find his side of the bed empty.

Arthur can understand her concern. If he woke up to find you gone, he’d begin to wonder as to your whereabouts.

But, then again, he wouldn't expect to find you lying beside him. At least, not now.

After putting on his boots, Arthur motions to stand and Annabelle backs away to give him room. “I’ll take my gun just in case,” he says and reaches for his coat.

Annabelle nods thankfully. “Thank you, Arthur. I’ll go check on the fire.”

“Good idea.” Carefully walking out of the stall his cot is in, he goes for his hat and rifle that hang on a large nail.

Arthur regrets moving back into the barn. While he’s glad to be welcomed into the fold, he didn’t mind the small piece of serenity that it gave, the sanctuary it offered as you tended to him. But it’s hard to maintain multiple fires when it’s already a chore to chop wood. Nobody wants to be outside longer than it takes to go to the outhouse or walk from the barn to the cabin to eat.

So if Dutch is still out here, then—

Where’s your wagon cart?

Arthur stops in his steps, eyeing the tracks that lead out and away from the farm. He needs to check on something, and quickly goes to the back of the barn, to enter the side where the horses are kept.

He pulls open the heavy wooden door, its hinges groaning under the strain. The dim light inside reveals the usual row of stalls, but as his eyes adjust, Arthur realizes that one of the horses is missing. It's your horse, the Suffolk Punch you always take care of with such diligence.

Arthur's heart tightens and turns just as Annabelle notices his departure as quickly as his arrival, unable to get a word in before he closes the door behind him.

He rounds about the barn, hurrying towards the cabin. There is a chance that you have taken the cart, though he can’t imagine why. You haven’t traveled beyond the farm, so you wouldn’t even know where to go.

He steps carefully into the cabin, so as not to wake anyone. It is cool inside, and he knows nobody has awoken to start the morning fire.

You wouldn’t have left without doing so. You must be in your room.

He will start the fire. If he is to be gone searching for Dutch, he wants to do this much of a kindness.

Arthur's hands work methodically, setting the kindling and striking the flint, sparks catching softly before the small flames take hold. The fire crackles to life, casting flickering shadows against the cabin walls, illuminating the rugged room in a warm, dancing light. He stands back for a moment, watching as the fire grows, consuming the wood with a steady, hungry blaze. The room fills with the comforting sound of the crackling wood and the faint smell of smoke that always reminded him of colder mornings when life seemed simpler.

And suddenly, but softly, the bedroom door creaks open, and out you come, in your nightgown, stockings, and shawl. Your chestnut hair gleams in the light seeping through the window, its tresses the longest they’ve ever been. You don’t notice him yet, your head down and your attention is focused on closing the door quietly behind you.

But as your head gently lifts, your eyes fall upon Arthur and you gasp softly. “Oh…” You wrap your shawl around you tighter. “Good morning, Arthur.”

He’s relieved to see you, but that still leaves the matter in question. “Eliza,” he starts, already jumping into more sober conversation. “Farm Boah is gone.”

You blink, tilting your head in an unknowingly attractive way, and your hair follows after it. “Gone?”

He nods, taking a tentative step closer. “Yes. The cart, too. You know anythin’ about it?”

You shake your head, your brow furrowed. “No. I fed him some hay yesterday and Isaac helped me brush him, but that was it.” You see the concern in his eyes as he regards the fire again. “Arthur, what is wrong?”

He looks back at you, into your soft eyes, and the weight of his worries shifts to a different concern. "It's Dutch," he confesses, his voice low, almost a whisper as if afraid the walls themselves might be listening. "He’s gone again."

You click your tongue. “But why the cart? Why would he…?”

The woman. The woman Dutch told Uncle to get. Maybe that could be the reason, but there still are other possibilities. Arthur shakes his head. “Don’t know. Uncle’s gone, too. He actually took off earlier yesterday. I suppose Dutch may have gone after him.”

Your eyes look around pensively, considering this possibility. “No…Dutch may like Uncle, but he wouldn’t go looking for him.”

You have a point. Even you know that Uncle isn’t that important to him, leaving Arthur’s first guess as more of a possibility.

He takes a step back, intending to head for the door. “I’ll keep lookin’. You go get dressed. I’ll see you in a while.”

You nod, the feeling of unease settling into your stomach like a stone. "Be careful, Arthur," you whisper, a maternal instinct flaring up as you watch him grasp the door handle.

"I always am," he replies with a half-smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. He steps out into the crisp morning once again, holding his hat as a gust of wind threatens to take it.

He prepares to mount up and follow the tracks. See where they go. He doesn’t want to alert anyone, or Annabelle, so discretion is his best option.

He whistles, and within the paddock, whinnies Boadicea. He makes his way over to her, his pace quickening so as not to waste time. He opens the paddock gate and she trots right on out, shaking her head excitedly for this newly anticipated adventure.

Gripping her mane, he swings himself atop her back and pats her neck. It has been months since he’s had the thrill of a ride, and while under undesired circumstances, he’s glad for the excuse. “Been a while, girl,” he coos and he lightly kicks her barrel. As he rides her towards the tracks, he discovers that his ride is short-lived.

He sees a horse and cart in the trees. Headed his way.

And as he soon makes out the driver, his heart feels uneasy.

It is Dutch. And behind him follows Uncle.

But that isn’t what disturbs him. Sitting beside Dutch, in your wagon cart, is a young woman.

He quickly dismounts Boadicea and pats her rump. “Go on, girl.”

She pounds her hoof into the snow-covered ground, clearly disappointed in the abrupt end of their ride.

He pats her again. “Go on…!”

She tosses her head, but angrily trots off. She’ll find some dead grass or something else to chew on, and maybe they can actually go for a ride later. But right now, Arthur isn't going anywhere.

He stands at the front of the farm watching them approach. As Dutch pulls the wagon to a stop, it slows just in time to halt beside Arthur. He immediately goes to Farm Boy and offers a peppermint that is in his coat pocket. The gelding takes it happily and accepts Arthur’s gentle pats. He looks up at Dutch with an expressionless face. “Dutch.”

Dutch sits up taller in the seat, eyeing just as he hears the loud squeak of the barn door. He turns and sees Annabelle coming out, her movements quick and excited.

But Arthur feels his heart sink.

Her face is bright with relief and joy as she runs to meet up with them. “Oh, Dutch, I’ve been so—!” But as soon as her eyes fall on the young girl, any words she wants to say fail to escape.

Arthur’s jaw clenches as he watches the confusion spread across Annabelle's face. He reaches up to help the girl down, his hand firm but gentle. “Careful now,” he murmurs, as if the softness of his voice could somehow shield her from the sharp winds and harsh realities.

The girl descends, her hand soft in his, her feet touching the ground with a delicate uncertainty. Arthur keeps his grip on her hand for a moment longer than necessary, ensuring she's steady before releasing her. The wind picks up, sending a chill through the air, and the girl wraps her arms around herself, shivering slightly.

Annabelle finds her own footing again, staring up at Dutch with a burning curiosity. “Who’s this, Dutch?”

He answers as he gets down from the wagon cart, turning his back to her as he descends. “This is Abigail. She’s going to stay with us for a while.”

The girl, now Abigail, turns away from Arthur to look at Dutch, her eyes wide. Clearly, she wasn’t aware of this new arrangement until now, her expression a mixture of confusion and apprehension.

Annabelle steps closer, her suspicion not entirely concealed as she examines Abigail from head to toe. “Where does she come from?”

Dutch doesn’t answer, but Uncle, still on his nag, cuts through the tension. “In town. At the saloon.”

Dutch turns back to look at Uncle with a raging gaze, his eyes burning, demanding Uncle shut up.

And Annabelle’s face grows pale, a sudden realization entering her heart, breaking it into pieces. She turns to Dutch, shaking her head. “No.”

Dutch takes a step toward her, his brow furrowed and eyes darkening. “Annabelle…”

“No!” Annabelle shouts. “No, you can’t—! You can’t do this to me—!”

As her cries echo into the air, other members begin to slowly trickle out of the barn and cabin. When Susan comes out, it seems to stir Annabelle more. She gasps, and turns back to Dutch, her hair flying as her head whips around. “No. You aren’t going to—You—You said that there won’t ever be another, Dutch…! That I was—”

“It ain’t like that…!” Dutch retorts, but the fracture in his tone spells deceit.

Her composure shatters and she frantically sniffs, trying to hold back tears. In a sudden burst of determination, she jabs a trembling finger towards him and strides forward with purpose. "Then what is it like?! I won't be tossed aside like that. You can’t have her!"

But he viciously lunges at her, bellowing with rage. "You don’t control me...!" Her eyes widen in terror as she stumbles backward. "She stays!"

Dear God, Arthur thinks to himself.

Abigail takes a step back, realizing what is happening in front of her. The man who had come to visit her, spend time with her, and not lie with her, is now a man of a different make. She had never before questioned the men who would come and pay her for her time, for her body, but there was always something about Dutch. He was a mystery and began to lure her with whispers of a world where people could live free. She had nothing, was thrown into a world of brothels and saloons when she was too young to know if its kind, so the idea of this place sounded too good to be true.

Uncle introduced her to Dutch, merely on the premise that she could help with a job there at the saloon. She was revealed to be a good thief and quick with a knife—skills that endeared her to Dutch quickly. He began to come often and she looked forward to his visits, relieved for something different than men looking for a good time.

So it came as a golden opportunity when Uncle dropped by the saloon last night with the promise to bring her to her mysterious patron. She wanted to see him again and to hear more about this magical place of freedom. And when Dutch had surprisingly appeared to collect her himself, she knew there was something purposeful in it. He said he wanted to show her something miraculous and she went with him, no questions asked.

And now, witnessing this woman, Annabelle, pleading with him, begging him to tell her that it is all a lie, that he isn’t in fact placing himself in another woman’s arms, twists her heart. She feels sick. Weak. That isn’t what she came here for.

But she left everything for this. She can’t turn back now.

Abigail looks up at the tall man standing beside her, Arthur, and sees the protective stance he takes. She sees how he suddenly turns to his right and following his line of sight, she sees a woman, you, standing on the wooden steps leading up to a cabin. A young boy stands behind you.

Your eyes speak more than any question could and you lock eyes with Arthur.

“Eliza,” he says gruffly. “Go back inside.”

You hesitate, wanting to go to Annabelle as she cries. Without saying anything, you encourage Isaac to go inside the cabin. Feeling your gentle nudge, he obeys, the boy already familiar with the strains of life far beyond his tender years. He disappears behind the door, and you take a moment to assess the scene before you—the palpable tension, the desperate cries of a heartbroken Annabelle.

Arthur’s voice breaks through the uneasy silence again, sharper this time. “Eliza, I mean it.”

But you begin to descend the steps and once your feet hit the snowy ground, you walk towards Annabelle quickly, determined to comfort her.

Annabelle shakes her head, and the realization of what Dutch has done is now made clear to her. “You…you won’t go through with this…! Take her back, now!”

Dutch averts his eyes, speaking more than words ever could.

And in a matter of seconds, Annabelle’s world crumbles before her, as her worst fears are confirmed. Just like Susan, she is going to no longer be the apple of his eye. “No…!” she wails. “No, please, Dutch…!”

You reach Annabelle and wrap your arms around her shoulders, pulling her close as her body shudders with sobs. She clings to you, her hands gripping your coat like a lifeline. Around you, the cold air is thick with despair and anger, but her pain is palpable, filling the space between each breath. You look on at Dutch with rage. With anger. All those nights he disappeared. It was for this. To stroke his ego, his pride in romancing a young girl. A girl who has no business being amongst a gang of outlaws. You’ve chosen your lot, but her?

She’s just a child.

“Susan…!” Dutch barks. “Set up a place for Abigail. Maybe the shack, where it’s private?”

Susan nods, her face a mask of concern and duty as she turns to do as commanded, but you can't tear your eyes away from Dutch. Anger simmers in your veins like a pot close to boiling over. What kind of man puts a young girl in such peril? What kind of leader makes these choices?

Arthur leaves Susan to tend to Abigail and he walks over to you as you remain holding Annabelle. “Let’s get her inside.”

Arthur's voice, steady and firm, cuts through the chilling air. You nod, still clutching Annabelle tightly, feeling her heartbreaking sobs slowly subside into quiet, despairing whimpers. Together, you help her turn around, guiding her back towards the warmth of the barn. The snow crunches beneath your boots, soft yet betraying, marking your path like whispers of the turmoil left behind.

Inside, the dim light from the lanterns hangs heavy, shadows dancing across the calm faces of the stalled horses. You settle Annabelle into a corner, on her bed and sit down beside her. Taking her hands in hers, you feel how they tremble and try to offer what comfort you can with a gentle squeeze. Arthur brings over a wool blanket, draping it around Annabelle’s shoulders without a word, his jaw set in grim determination. You watch him as he sits across from you on a barrel, his mind lingering on the young girl, then shifting his eyes to meet yours.

The day has barely begun but it feels already over.

The barn is silent except for the occasional snort or shuffle from the horses, the atmosphere inside as cold as the air outside. Arthur's gaze is heavy on you, filled with something you can't quite place—guilt, maybe, or a deep-seated concern that mirrors your own.

"Dutch is leaving me,” Annabelle says softly. “I’m not good enough for him anymore.”

You lean into her, squeezing her hands. “Don’t think about that now.”

Annabelle shakes her head. “It’s true. I knew it was coming. Ever since I confronted him about his priorities—his desire for more and more money, he’s been distancing himself from me.” She lifts her eyes and large streams of tears fall down her cheeks. “He’s changed.” She sniffs and exhales slowly. “And that poor girl…she’s now caught in his web.”

“How can you be so sure? Perhaps we can talk to her,” you suggest.

Annabelle shakes her head. “I suppose I was just as foolish as her. He made me feel alive. Real. Special.” Then her eyes darken, a determination filling her expression. “I won’t let it happen again. She won’t suffer as I have.”

Arthur’s expression hardens as Annabelle's words hang in the stifling air of the barn. You feel a chill that isn’t from the snow outside; it’s the forewarning of trouble, settling deep in your bones.

He looks away briefly, his hands clenching and unclenching. "We need to check on the kids.”

You nod. “You go on, Arthur. I want to stay with Annabelle for a moment longer.”

Arthur nods and rises to his feet. Letting himself out the front doors, he takes in his surroundings.

Most of the gang has parted from the scene, Uncle leading Farm Boy and the wagon cart away, and Dutch nowhere in sight. Arthur wonders where he might have gone, but doesn’t care to search. As he makes his way toward the cabin, movement on his left catches his eye.

Susan is leaving the shack just as John makes his way over with an armful of chopped wood. “Here,” he says, offering the firewood with a subtle lift towards here.

She scowls. “Go and take it in there yourself!”

John, still respecting the matriarch of the gang, hesitates, but grumbles as he makes his way to the shack. Susan continues on her way, heading towards the cabin to possibly retrieve more provisions.

When he reaches the door to the shack, he tries to put all of the weight of the chopped wood on one arm to knock on the door but his attempt is clumsy and a few pieces tumble to the frozen ground with soft thuds, nearly silent in the heavy snowfall. The door creaks open just as he bends down to pick them up and as he rises, he sees Abigail standing there.

John’s eyes widen, now finally close enough to see the young girl. “Erm…uh…” he mumbles, uncharacteristically speechless.

Abigail swallows and points to the wood in his arms. “That for me?”

He blinks and finally coming back to his senses, he coughs to clear his throat. “Erm, yeah. I can come in and get it goin’ for you.”

Abigail blinks softly, her wintery blue eyes catching the late morning sun. “Okay.” And she backs away from the door.

John takes a tentative step into the shack. “I’m John, by the way.”

“John,” Abigail repeats as she goes to close the door. “I’m Abigail.”

“I know,” he replies and the door closes behind him.

The air is then filled with a silence as Arthur stands there in the middle of it all.

Another person is now added to the group of carpet baggers and broken dreamers. Arthur’s thoughts linger on the new interaction between John and Abigail, but he doesn’t have time to muse. He has a duty to fulfill. As a father, as a man, for his own life has its own set of problems and feelings, and as long as he’s breathing, you will never feel discarded or neglected.

Ever.

And so, he continues on his way to see after his children.

Thank you for reading!

Tag Requests: @photo1030 @eternalsams

#red dead redemption 2 #arthur morgan #fanfiction #red dead fandom #ao3 writer #rdr2 #arthur x eliza #arthur morgan x you #abigail roberts #dutch is a creep #poor annabelle #things are changing

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