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say-hwaet · 2 months ago

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That's the Way it Is

Chapter 39: Learn to Heal, Part I Next Chapter: Forty Summary: You and Arthur follow the breadcrumbs that Mary Beth left you. What will you encounter along the way? Warnings: Mature themes, violence, language Word Count: ~10,000

Roanoke is as though Lemoyne and the Heartlands had converged to make a new landscape. With the woods and hills and rivers from the Heartlands and the grim, gray, and dangers of Lemoyne, this territory is beautiful while also uncertain.

The whole ride up north, you’ve heard talk about a band of monsters called the Murfrees, an inbred group of people who feast on the innocent and consider torture as their means for fun.

You haven’t wanted to travel this way, but Arthur promised he’ll keep you safe, not that you ever doubted.

The leaves are already beginning to change color, the oranges and yellows nearly mesmerizing. The cool air is also welcomed, given the heated days you spent in Guarma. You rebutton the holes in your new jacket that Arthur bought for you in Rhodes and readjust your hat.

You look down and watch Arthur as he leads Montana. Even though Arthur has been taking good care of Montana: feeding him extra apples and beets, and keeping him groomed and well-rested, he still insists on walking every few miles.

So far, he’s walked ten miles today.

“Arthur,” you say softly. “I’d feel better if you were on the horse around this area.”

He doesn’t stop walking, but looks up at you over his shoulder. “Maybe in a little bit.”

“Arthur—”

In the middle of your argument, you hear a loud scream. You instantly clutch at the reins, the young leather creaking under your grasp.

Without saying a word, Arthur hurries to hoist himself on Montana’s back, pressing close against your spine. With a quick kick of his boot heels, Montana gallops onward toward the sound of the scream.

“You think it is the Murfrees?” you ask worriedly.

Arthur doesn’t answer, which is all you need to know.

But the good thing is that Arthur’s now fully armed, having spent some of the money you’ve both recovered on a rifle and repeater. From the corner of your eye, you see him reach past you to pull the repeater out of the saddle’s holster.

Even with the afternoon sun, the dense underbrush and trees don’t let hardly any light in, making it difficult to see more than a few yards ahead. It lends a haunting quality to the forest, amplifying every sound around you. the scream echoes once more, closer this time, desperate and filled with terror.

Then, there is the sound of gunshots. And laughter.

Murfrees. Even you know it is them. Their victim’s screams tell you enough.

“Hah!” Arthur urges Montana to go faster and the stallion breathes deep as he pushes forward up the hill.

The ground beneath Montana's hooves turns uneven, and the trees claw at your view with their skeletal branches. You lean into Arthur, feeling his heartbeat against your back, fast and firm like the pounding hooves. The sense of urgency grows with every breath you take, the cold air biting at your cheeks as you and Arthur race to intervene.

As Montana crests the hill, the scene below unfolds with chaotic clarity. A small group of travelers, their stagecoach overturned, are fending off a band of Murfrees. The attackers whoop and holler, swinging machetes and brandishing rusted shotguns with wild abandon. A woman clutches a crying baby to her chest, two others are already dead and lying in the dirt.

You gasp at the sight and Arthur pulls the reins until Montana skids to a halt. He immediately enters the fray, swinging off the horse and running towards the Murfrees.

“Come fight an armed man, you bastards!” he roars, instantly firing his repeater in rapid succession, taking out three of the Murfrees instantly.

You have to do something. You need to help those alive to get to safety. You dismount Montana and run towards the overturned coach, where others are trying to hide.

The woman with her crying baby spots you coming, confusion riddled across her face.

In your rush, you slide through the muddy underbrush, reaching out to her. "Get behind the coach," you call out, your voice strong despite the clamor. She hesitates for a moment before nodding, scrambling towards the relative safety as you cover her retreat.

Your heart pounds like it's trying to escape from rings of fire. Excitement. Danger. The thrill is good for you, but for these strangers, who have not grown accustomed to such things, need immediate protection. It’s only a good thing that this does not phase you one bit, allowing yourself to help while Arthur singlehandedly takes out these monsters.

You urge the mother forward and when you escort her to the back of the coach, you regard the remaining strangers: two men and a young girl, about eighteen.

“Any of you hurt?” you ask.

They all shake their heads. That’s good.

“You’re going to be okay,” you say as you regard each one. Eye contact is one of the first steps of establishing trust. Each of them seem reassured and while the young girl's eyes are wide with fear, there's determination there too. You nod to her, a silent promise of protection. You glance back over your shoulder to where Arthur is now grappling with another Murfree, his movements fluid and unforgiving. The sharp report of gunfire punctuates the air, a grim symphony that harmonizes with the pounding of your own heart. The earth underfoot trembles slightly with each discharge, a tangible reminder of the chaos erupting around you.

You turn back to the people behind the coach, your voice cutting through the noise. "Stay down and keep quiet. I'll come back for you." Your promise is firm, an anchor in the storm of violence around them. You move swiftly, heading back toward the front lines where Arthur is still engaged.

Your body moves with the memory of countless such skirmishes, each movement calculated and precise. You retrieve a small sack from your pouch, and you squeeze it to shape the ingredients inside. Moving closer, you retrieve a match and strike it quickly as you step assuredly towards Arthur and the Murfree.

“Hej, ty blázne přírody!” you shout and that gets the assailant’s attention. Just as he looks up at you, you throw the bundle his way.

And it immediately bursts in a plume of colored smoke.

A smoke bomb.

The Murfree's confusion is palpable as he coughs and waves away the thick, disorienting cloud that envelops him. Taking advantage of his bewilderment, Arthur lunges forward with a swift precision honed by years of survival and combat. His fists connect with a thud, the sound muffled by the smoke that still lingers like a ghostly curtain. The Murfree stumbles back, unprepared for the ferocity of Arthur’s attack, his movements sluggish as he tries to regain his bearings.

Arthur doesn't let up, his every strike a testament to the pent-up rage and protectiveness that fuels him. You watch for only a second more, just as two others come charging down the hill.

“Here, kitty kitty!” they gargle at you. But you’re ready.

Pulling out another crafted item, you take out used shotgun shells stuffed with a mixture of gunpowder, fat, and moonshine, lighting each one before throwing it in their direction. They burst just as they reach them, emitting a loud crackle loud enough to burst their eardrums.

They immediately reach for their ears, falling to the ground in agony.

Now is your chance.

You sprint forward, your bare feet digging into the dusty earth as you close the distance between you and your fallen foes. With a swift motion of your firm hands, you disarm them, your palms jabbing into their jugulars to ensure they remain subdued. Your heart races, the thrill of the fight feeding the fire within you, but you don't let it distract you from your purpose. You're here to protect, to survive, and to find a way out for you and Arthur.

Glancing back, you see Arthur finishing off the last Murfree brood, with a quick slash of his knife into the creature’s neck. Aside from your heavy breaths, the forest falls silent. The battle over.

You watch Arthur as he rises from his bended knee, immediately scanning the area. “Kitka?!”

“I’m here!” you call out as you run over to him. His eyes meet yours just as you enter his embrace. He holds you tightly and you can feel the pounding of his heart.

“You alright?”

“Yes…” you sigh and after a moment longer, you gently push him away. “We need to check on the survivors.”

He nods, his expression hardening as he turns towards the smoldering trees where the skirmish had erupted. It seems that is how the Murfrees operate. Wait for an unsuspecting traveler to come by, then use fire to scare their horses and block their path.

It makes you furious inside.

Together, you and Arthur tread cautiously, your senses alert for any more Murfrees hiding in the shadows. The ground crunches beneath your feet, a stark reminder of every hazardous step you take in this lawless land.

As you approach the stagecoach, you take the lead, knowing that the strangers are learning to trust you. “You all still okay?”

One of the men peeks out from behind the coach. When he meets your eyes he nods his head. “Yes…We’re alright.”

You smile. “Good. It looks like the worst is over. My husband took care of them.”

After a brief hesitation, they slowly rise from their hiding place and cautiously step away from the coach. Their eyes scan their surroundings, taking in every detail with a mix of curiosity and caution. The woman's baby, who had been crying inconsolably, has finally settled down but she continues to whisper soothing words to her little one, refusing to take any chances with their safety.

“Thank God you came when you did,” the other man says, quickly approaching you. “We were all on our way to Annesburg, when they had come out of nowhere!”

“They’ve been taking travelers captive,” the young girl whimpers, her cheeks stained with tears. “But none have ever been recovered.”

It seems that these folks are some of the lucky ones.

You turn to Arthur who has his jaw set, his gaze steely with anger. “Crazy bastards…” he growls as he eyes the tree line. “We gotta get you folks goin’ before any more decide to show up.”

You agree. This may postpone your travels, but you can’t leave the job unfinished. As you look about, you notice a wagon cart that the Murfrees had brought, and it is hitched to a worn-out nag with scars and old wounds. The poor creature. While you wouldn’t dare burden the mare with its use, the wagon will be useful.

You touch Arthur’s arm and he looks at you. “Do you think Montana is strong enough to pull a small wagon full of passengers? Just to Annesburg?”

He must see what you’re getting at and he regards Montana who has remained close by. “It ain’t too far from here,” he reasons. “I think we can manage it.”

Arthur then parts from you and walks over to the old nag, running his hand down his face. You watch silently as he slowly approaches the mare, speaking softly to her. “Woah, easy, easy…” Once he is able to touch her, he gently runs his palm across her flank, assessing the condition of her body. He then whistles for Montana, who comes trotting over. Once the stallion meets Arthur, your husband begins patting his neck with a familiar ease. "Alright, Montana, let’s get these folks safe," he murmurs as he begins to unhitch the sad nag from the wagon cart.

You turn to the group of travelers who look at you expectantly. “We will help escort you to Annesburg.”

The woman sighs, bouncing the baby in her arms. “Bless you.” She turns to the young girl. “You will be seeing your mother soon, Meredith.”

Meredith smiles softly, blinking at her tears as they start to fall.

Arthur secures Montana to the wagon, ensuring everything is sturdy and safe. You gather a few supplies from your own pack—some water, dried meat, and blankets. Distributing them among the travelers lightens their palpable stress, even if only slightly.

“Let's move out then,” Arthur commands with a gentle authority and you turn to see that he has Montana hitched to the cart and the nag tied to the back. It looks like you will have a unique caravan to travel with, though temporary it is.

You gesture with a sweep of your arm for the group to follow. “Shall we go?”

And with that, you and Arthur begin the journey of an honorable life.

***

“What do you wanna call her?” Arthur asks you as you sit beside him in the wagon cart. After dropping the survivors off and resting near Annesburg, you’ve set out on your journey once again. The sun has finally risen high enough to peek through the leaves, creating an autumn glow that is nearly breathtaking. It’s a beautiful contrast to yesterday’s events and you’re happy that it is all over and done with.

When you returned the frightened travelers to Annesburg, the husband to the woman and baby insisted you take twenty dollars, and after refusing adamantly, Arthur finally accepted it as to not offend the man. While you weren’t doing it for the promise of a reward, it doesn’t hurt to be twenty dollars richer. Any bit is going to help as you and your husband search for your lost family.

You shrug as the gentle jostling of the wagon cart pushes you closer to Arthur. “I’m not sure, yet.”

Arthur chuckles softly. “What? I figured you’d be itchin’ to give her a name. You aimin’ to give her away for free, too?”

You smile at that, remembering your time in the Heartlands and the mule that you rescued. “I just think I need to give it some thought. She might not even respond to the name I’ll give her.”

Arthur flicks the reins gently. “Maybe so.”

You finally leave Roanoke and enter the border of Ambarino, which has more mountain ranges and cooler air. You wonder how much farther you’ll have to travel before you reach the reservation. Arthur seems to know where he is going, which gives you peace of mind.

The trees start to thin out, which means you’re either approaching a lake, valley, civilization, or a homestead. Really narrows your options, doesn’t it?

As you both come down the road, a lake comes into view, with a solitary cabin at its edge. You start to look for any sign of a turtle, wishing that this could be the place that Mary Beth, and hopefully, others.

Arthur doesn’t seem to think this is the place, for his eyes focus ahead, his mind clearly elsewhere.

As you come around the bend, your eyes remain fixed on the cabin, and the front of it comes into view. As well as a small pen with two horses. One is a cremello gold Dutch Warmblood, his coat shining when the sunlight hits it just so.

And the other…

A palomino American Saddlebred mare.

You quickly grip Arthur’s knee, making him jump in his seat. “A-hey! Kit, what—?!”

“Stop the wagon!”

He pulls the reins immediately but before Montana can even come to a halt, you leap out of the wagon and run in the opposite direction of where you were going, back toward the small cabin at the edge of the lake.

“Kitka!” Arthur calls out to you as you slide down the embankment, ignoring the tear you just made in your skirts. As you near the house, you slow your steps. You aren’t sure of who lives here, and if you want to be sure of what you suspect, you need to not draw attention to yourself.

You approach the pen where the horses are kept, your steps calm but not the beating of your heart. You eye the mare carefully, watching her as she munches on some grass.

And you whistle.

Instantly, the mare sticks her head up, looking around as she nickers softly. As her head turns, she meets your eyes and her ears perk up excitedly.

It is. It’s Odliv!

But how? How did she get here? Did this cabin-dweller take her? Rescue her? You scan her body. She looks well-fed, her coat and mane still shiny. She hasn’t been neglected, thank God.

But you still need answers. You need to confront the thief.

You reluctantly back away from the fence just as Odliv approaches it. You turn to the cabin and as you walk over to it, you see Arthur pulling up the wagon.

“Kit, what are you—?” he stops mid-sentence, almost gasping. “Is that?”

And you’ve already gone up the steps and are knocking on the solid door to the cabin.

You aren’t sure how this is going to go down. But you’ve already decided to take a more assertive approach. You square your shoulders, relax your face, and prepare to give the stranger a good stare-down.

You hear an odd step approach the door and it finally swings open.

Revealing an old man, with a long grey beard and buckskin hat. He sees the assertive expression on your face and his brow raises with a guarded curiosity. “Can I help you?”

You immediately thrust your arm toward the pen, pointing a finger at your mare. “Where did you get that horse?”

The old man lifts his chin and folds his arms across his chest. “Who’s askin’?”

You lower your brow. “The owner.”

At that, he chortles. “You can’t be the owner. That mare has never been ridden!” He ambles his way out of his cabin, brushing past you. It is clear that he has a crooked gait, perhaps an injury of some kind? You want to take pity on this stranger, but your expression remains firm. He walks to the edge of his porch, pointing at the mare. “She followed me home as I was ridin’ Buell, but I haven’t been able to ride her or even go near her. It’s been enough just to keep her here!”

You hear Arthur’s heavy footfalls behind you. “The mare’s hers, mister.” Arthur's voice is firm, carrying a weight that you've come to rely on. The old man eyes him suspiciously, then looks back at you with an expression softened by, resignation or perhaps genuine curiosity.

"Is that so?" the old man replies gruffly, scratching his beard thoughtfully. "Well now, if she truly belongs to you, ma’am, you’d best prove it.”

You lift your chin. “Gladly.” And with that, you turn and walk towards your husband. “Arthur, open the pen.” You pause, looking at the old man over your shoulder. “That is, if it’s alright with you.”

The stranger shrugs, waving his hand.

Now given permission, Arthur nods and walks toward the gate. Upon reaching it, he lifts the latch and opens it, stepping aside.

Waiting a moment, you let out a sharp, short whistle.

Odliv perks her head.

That’s when you give the command. “Přijít!”

Odliv tosses her head, snorting excitedly, as she trots past Buell and out of the pen. Arthur makes the swift motion of closing the gate behind her before Buell tries to make his escape. Odliv’s tail swishes wildly and when she reaches the porch, she turns her body to stand parallel to its edge, waiting for you to mount. You look at the old stranger, lifting your chin in a proud gesture, before you seamlessly swing your leg over Odliv's back.

You settle down with a natural grace, every movement a testament to the years of experience and the bond between you and the mare. Arthur watches with a hint of a smile tugging at his lips, his pride in you clear even from a distance.

But of course, you are a performer, so you must finish this with a little bit of flair. “Teď se, Odliv, ukloň.” You watch as her ears tilt toward the sound of your voice, and without any resistance, she lowers her front right leg, bowing her head and lowering herself into a formal bow. You remain stable on her back, squeezing her barrel gently with your legs and you remain astride without sliding or falling off.

You hear Arthur cackle, clapping into his leg. “Haven’t seen you do that in a long time, darlin’…!”

The old man’s mouth goes agape. “I’ll be damned…!” he gasps, astonished by the display. “Well, I ain’t too proud to admit when I’m wrong…!”

You wait for Odliv to rise before dismounting, landing lightly on the soft ground. As you pat her flank affectionately, Odliv nudges you gently with her nose, a sign of her deep trust and affection for you.

Arthur saunters over, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "I reckon you just about won that argument single-handedly.”

You shrug. “Used to be able to stand on her back while cantering.” You chuckle to yourself. “I’m not ready to try that yet.” You look back at the stranger, softening your expression. “I do apologize for my forwardness. I should be thanking you for taking good care of her.”

The man waves off your apology, the wrinkles around his eyes more prominent as he grins. “I should be thanking you for the performance! It isn’t every day that I get to see somethin’ quite like that.” He motions to walk down the steps and holds out his hand to you. “Hamish Sinclair.”

You don’t hesitate to take it and shake his hand firmly. “Kitka Morgan.” You point to Arthur. “This is my husband Arthur.”

Hamish looks over at your husband. “Nice to meet ya.”

Arthur tips his hat in a gesture of casual respect, his eyes never leaving the interaction between you and Hamish. "Pleasure's all mine, sir."

Hamish nods appreciatively, sizing Arthur up with a keen but friendly gaze. “You ain’t from around here, are you? Most I ever see are from the reservation, if they even travel this far.”

Your heart leaps at this revelation. “You mean the Waipiti Reservation?”

Hamish blinks and nods his head. “Yes, that’s the one. The chief is a nice feller. We’ve traded animal skins a couple of times.”

Your curiosity piques, and excitement builds as this information brings you one step closer to your family. “We want to speak them. We had a friend help them once. Seemed they really needed it,” you say, warmth lacing your tone as you glance at Arthur, who nods in agreement.

“Indeed they did,” Hamish agrees, resting a hand on his waist. “But they’ve been doin’ pretty well these past couple of weeks. Got rights to their land back.”

Your eyes widen. “They did?”

Hamish grins from ear to ear, seemingly eager to share the good news. “Yeah! Seems they were able to submit some evidence of Cornwall Kerosene and Tar’s illegal involvement in retrieving oil. They had murdered a man who had refused to sell. That and they presented some forged documents that had been recovered.” Your heart leaps with joy at this news. It seems that your photographs and Charles’ involvement did some good after all. “Not sure how they did it, but it seems they had some divine intervention.”

Your smile mirrors Hamish's as your heart swells with pride for Charles and the Waipiti. Knowing that your actions had helped, even in a small way, brings a sense of accomplishment that warms you deeply. "That's incredible news," you say, feeling a surge of hope. "It’s comforting to know that good people are still getting happy endings.”

Hamish nods. “I couldn’t agree more.”

“Could you point us in their direction?”

Hamish nods and turning his face to the northwest, he points towards the sun. “They’re up north. Start by following this road southward and it will take you past Moonstone Pond. It will eventually go northward, past Donner Falls. The reservation is just on the other side.”

You’re close. You’ve seen Donner Falls on Arthur’s map before. Though he doesn’t have it, the picture in your mind is clear. You reach out to Hamish and shake his hand again. “Thank you.”

Arthur clears his throat and you look back at him. “Darlin’, we should probably get goin’.”

You nod, feeling a twinge of reluctance at leaving the warmth of this conversation, but knowing the importance of moving forward. "Thank you, Hamish, for sharing that with us. You have no idea how much your news means to us."

"Anytime," Hamish replies with a heartfelt smile. "If you ever find yourself back this way, don’t hesitate to stop by. I know that we just met, but I kinda like you folks.” He chuckles. “Even if you had nearly accused me of stealin’ your horse.”

You look down at the ground almost bashfully. “Well, I…”

Arthur's hand nudges your shoulder gently, a silent reminder of the purpose that still lies ahead. "We appreciate it, Hamish. We’ll definitely make a point to come around again," he says with a tip of his hat, an expression of gratitude etched across his rugged face.

As you both turn to leave, the cool breeze picks up, rustling through the sparse grass and carrying with it the faint scent of rain from the distant hills. You pull your coat a bit tighter around you, feeling the chill seep into the air as the sun dips lower in the sky. You whistle for Odliv to follow, and she eagerly does. Buell, still in his pen, whinnies to her, seemingly longing for his fellow equine companion.

You hear Hamish chuckle behind you. “Guess we can’t always get what we want, eh, boy?”

Arthur leads the way back to the wagon, his boots crunching softly on the gravel. He reaches it first and rests his hand on the seat as he turns to you. “How far do you wanna go before we make camp? We may not make it before nightfall.”

You look at the sun. He’s right. You have only a couple hours of good daylight left. “As far as you think we can go. I want to cook you a good meal so we might want to hunt something.”

He nods. “That, I can do.” He holds a hand out to you, offering to help you onto the wagon cart.

But you take a step back, shaking your head. “If it’s alright with you,” you start, turning to look over your shoulder at Odliv. “I would like to ride Odliv for a little while.”

When you turn back to your husband, you can see a knowing smile on his face as he nods softly. “Shoah, Kitten.”

He watches with those deep blue eyes as you approach Odliv, who tosses her head and stamps a hoof eagerly. Mounting her feels like second nature; for a moment, it's as if the years rewind, back to the days of daring circus acts and the thrill of performance. You can't help but feel a wave of joy and relief sweep over you and you let yourself lay against her as you sit astride. You pause for just a moment, listening to her breathing and the wind in the trees.

“Chyběl jsi mi,” you whisper and you know in her own way she understands you.

You hear Arthur make a soft clicking sound with his mouth and the gentle flick of the reins. You slowly rise and as you watch him drive the wagon cart, you take hold of Odliv’s golden mane and urge her into a gentle trot, keeping pace beside the creaking wheels of the wagon. The rhythm of her movements is comforting, and the wide-open land stretching ahead feels like an invitation to freedom and new beginnings.

For the first time in a good while, things are looking up.

***

The soft earth is cool against your back as you lie down looking at the sky. Its dark hues are illuminated by twinkling stars, framed by pine trees as a beautiful landscape.

You hear the sounds of the crackling fire and the sound of Arthur’s boots as they scrape against the gravel. He had just thrown another log in by the sounds of it, perhaps as an extra precaution as the nights are now colder and the area uncertain.

Your eyes remain fixed on the celestial canopy when he walks over to you.

“Dinner was good, darlin’,” he says warmly. “Near forgotten how well you cooked pheasant.”

“So did I,” you say with an amusing air and you hear him chuckle softly.

“You should cook more often,” he teases, settling down beside you with a soft grunt, and you turn your head to look at him. His face is partly shadowed, flickering in the firelight, but his eyes are clear and bright.

You smile, remembering the nights you’ve shared under similar starry skies, though they were enshrouded in secrets and hushed whispers. What a thrilling time, to be secretly loved, but it was also painful not to be able to share it out loud.

“I will, now that I can. I have recalled so many recipes my mother had taught me. Things that I helped Pearson cook in camp.” You look back to the sky and let the smile remain on your face. “I didn’t realize how much I knew until it all came back to me.”

Arthur lays down, supporting his head by tucking his arm behind his neck. “How did all that feel?”

Your brow pinches as you try to sort all of that out. “It happened so suddenly. I had fallen into the ocean when Micah threw me overboard. I was drowning and when everything went dark, it all just started to come back. Flashes of who I was, who I had met, conversations I had. Then I remembered Blackwater.” You pause a moment and you feel Arthur place a comforting hand on your torso, curving it to your side and pulling you close. “When I woke up, it was as though I had never forgotten a thing. If I had a question, the memory would come right to me. I didn’t have to think twice.”

“Did it hurt?”

You turn to look into the eyes of your husband, his face golden from the amber firelight. “I think being away from you had hurt me more.”

Arthur's grip tightens slightly, a mixture of pain and affection etched across his features. "That time without you," he starts, his voice rough like the sand underfoot, "felt like I was draggin' my soul through miles of hell." His fingers trace a line along your arm, tentative as if rediscovering a forgotten map. "But now, lookin' at you, I think maybe we got a chance to make things right."

You nod slowly, feeling the weight of his words sink deeply into your heart. The night air is crisp, and the distant howls of coyotes blend with the crackling of the fire, but you aren’t frightened or worried. “We do, Arthur.” And you find yourself leaning into him, tucking your head underneath his chin. “And come morning, we will be with our family again.”

He nods. “And we can finally search with those treasure maps.”

“And hunt bounties.”

“And go west.”

You feel it welling up inside you. The hope that has been softly dancing in your mind these past few days. Since you stepped onto that pier in Van Horn. “Yes,” you sigh.

“You wanna buy a home or build?” he asks you.

You think to answer with a question. “What makes the most sense to you?” You nuzzle him, taking in a deep inhale of the tobacco and pine that you love so much, and feel your body sinking into restfulness. “What has been a theme of this life?”

“Or what it should have been?”

You smile. He understands.

And you say it at the same time. “To build a home.”

Pulling you closer, he wraps his coat around you, keeping you in the warmth of his embrace.

Then he adds, “Together.”

And you fall asleep to those words.

*** It was just as Hamish said. Past Donner Falls and on the other side is the Waipiti Reservation. The sky is open with an assortment of birds that fly overhead, and the water that flows under the bridge is riddled with life. A doe and buck graze on some dry grass nearby, completely unbothered by the wagon cart and horses.

You sit beside Arthur this time, hands gently clutching his right arm, and you take in the fresh air and scenery. Leaves fall and a breeze carries them over, an autumn rain of color landing in your short hair.

Arthur looks at you and smiles softly just as your eyes cast downward. Your heart beats faster now that his attention is on you, but also for the anticipated reunion that soon awaits you.

You wonder if they will be there. The tribe is definitely a clue, so you are curious to see how they are connected. Perhaps they know something about the turtle home? Whatever that is. You still haven’t figured that part out yet.

Arthur continues to drive the wagon down the dirt road, turning right towards a slope that is fenced by several pine trees. By the snake-like lines of smoke rising into the blue sky, you deduce that it is the reservation, not someone’s camp.

As the wagon rumbles closer, a group of children playing near the edge of the forest pause, their curious eyes fixed on your approach. You can't help but return their gazes, feeling a mix of nervousness and excitement bubble within you. It's a reminder of how different your lives might soon be—away from the past that you’ve tried to leave time and time again.

You smile at the children, wanting to appear friendly and they immediately run into the trees towards the smoke. “Do you think they won’t welcome us? Given how they’ve been treated…” you trail off, the weight of Cornwall and the oil feud pressing down upon your thoughts. Arthur squeezes your hand, a silent gesture of reassurance.

“If our people have met with them,” he begins to say, his voice soft and honest. “There’s a chance they might see us as allies, not enemies.”

Following the road, it leads up the slope, right into the trees as they open up to reveal the tribe’s domain. Arthur drives slow and careful, pulling off to the side before making a complete stop. You take in the reservation. Several men and women are out and about and they pause their daily tasks to look at you with calm, but curious eyes. The children, who you had spotted earlier, have run up to their parents, pointing and whispering.

Arthur gets out of the wagon cart first, walking over to your side as he regards the curious tribe. When he reaches you, he offers a hand and once you take it, he helps you hop down.

He turns around and as you both look out, the tribal members step aside as an older man, with dark long hair and a deep blue coat, walks toward you both. He carries a calm, omniscient expression and if you look close enough, you can almost see a smile on his face.

He raises a palm in greeting. “Mr. Morgan,” he says, his voice rumbling like a distant thunder.

Your heart skips a beat at the acknowledgment.

Arthur takes a step forward, taking your hand as he walks. “You know who we are.”

The man nods. “I am Chief Rains Fall.” He pauses as he looks back to his people. “We’ve been expecting you.”

And once again, the tribe parts, and you hear a strange set of footfalls.

And there, hobbling on a crutch, is Hosea.

With Charles aiding him.

You let out a sob simultaneously with any remaining decorum and you let go of Arthur’s hand to run towards them. Your vision is blurred, but you can still make out their forms as you open your arms. Blinking at the tears in your eyes, you reach Hosea and wrap your arms around him, still being careful with his injured arm and leg.

You can feel the weakened embrace of his working arm as Charles remains at his side to stabilize him.

“My girl,” Hosea says softly, his voice fatigued and trembling. “We’d begun to run out of hope…”

“So did we,” you cry, and you back away as you wipe your tears away with the back of your hand. “But we found the note.”

Hosea nods knowingly. “Mary Beth’s a clever girl.”

You nod, sniffing softly. “I have so many questions.”

“So do we,” Charles states as his eyes are cast upward as Arthur approaches. “Where did you and the others…?” His voice trails off and his brow pinches. Then he looks at Arthur. “Where are the others?” His voice is tinged with sobriety and curiosity, preparing himself for the worst.

“Others? You mean you haven’t seen anyone since the robbery?” You feel your heart sinking just as it had risen up again.

Charles shakes his head, readjusting his support for Hosea, who listens patiently. “No, I mean Micah, Bill, Javier, and Dutch.”

You turn your head to meet Arthur’s gaze. There is so much to tell and it feels like it would take years. With everything that happened in Blackwater, to your marriage, Dutch’s hidden motivation, Micah’s murderous attempts, and Javier’s choice to stay.

But Arthur, straightforward, unwavering Arthur, gets to the meat of the matter with a simple answer. “Javier was the only one left.”

“And where’s he?” Hosea asks.

“Happy,” you answer and an image of Javier’s face appears in your mind. You can see him on a large ship, looking out onto the open sea. You blink away unshed tears. “He’s found purpose again.”

Hosea nods thoughtfully and looks at Charles. “Let’s find a place to sit and talk. It’s been so long since I’ve talked to my son and daughter-in-law.”

You have to look at Charles to see his reaction to Hosea’s slip, but his expression remains the same. He must know already, or doesn’t seem to find it shocking. You don’t think Hosea would have revealed your long-kept secret without just cause.

Charles smiles at Hosea. “Of course, let’s get you back in the cabin.”

And just as though nothing surprising had happened, the life of the tribal members has resumed. They go about their business and you and Arthur follow Charles and Hosea as the invalid hobbles on his cane towards one of the few cabins on the reservation.

Everyone seems friendly with Charles and Hosea, as they either nod or smile as you all pass by. How long have they been here? You didn’t realize how thankful you’d be for Charles’ direct involvement with the tribe, and how it would return a reward for all of you.

It is a beautiful spot. Even if it wasn’t for the excuse of oil, though falsified it was, you can see the prospect of such an area. It seems that Dutch wasn’t the only one sinking in avarice.

As you reach the cabin, the smell of pine and earth fills your senses, a welcome distraction from the turmoil swirling in your mind. Once inside, Hosea settles into a worn but sturdy chair by a small potbelly stove, his face etching lines of relief as he leans back. Charles opens the hatch and stokes the fire, sending sparks dancing within. He blows on it gently and once the flame grows, he closes the hatch.

He backs away slowly. “I’m going to get some more firewood.”

But you want him to stay. You haven’t seen him in what feels like forever. “Can that wait?”

Charles looks at you, eyes softening. “We will have plenty of time to talk.” He looks at Hosea. “But we can’t all take up your time all at once.” And with that, he nods to Arthur before stepping outside.

Your eyes focus on the door still but you hear Hosea softly chuckle behind you. You quickly turn around.

“What’s so funny?” Arthur asks, chortling curiously.

Hosea sighs. “Our wood box is full.”

You raise a brow and find a chair to sit in. “So what is it that made him leave?”

Hosea tucks his chin, pulling his coat collar up to his ears. “Dancing Wind.”

He says it like it is not just describing the weather. Like it carries weight. “What?”

A hand goes on your shoulder. You look up to see Arthur standing there, a smirk on his lips. “I think Hosea means a lady, Kit.”

Hosea nods. “Charles has found himself a lady friend. Though he isn’t the first to admit it…yet.”

Arthur's smirk widens into a full grin, the lines around his eyes crinkling in amusement. “Well, no doubt that explains the extra firewood trips,” he muses, his voice thick with jest.

“And other things for the past week or so. Though that doesn’t mean he’s neglected in helping me.” He stretches his good leg, letting out a contented sigh. “I’ve stayed in the reservation while the rest have camped close by. Didn’t want to crowd the tribe too much.”

You can't help but smile, feeling a warmth that isn't just from the blazing fire. It's rare these days to find moments like this, fleeting and sweet amidst the tumult of your lives. It's a reminder that even in the shadows of the outlaw life, there are slivers of ordinary joy and human connection.

Arthur takes a seat next to you, his presence grounding. "What’s on your mind, darlin’?" he asks quietly, his gaze locked onto yours, searching for answers in the flicker of the firelight reflecting in your hazel eyes. “I can tell you’re thinkin’ about somethin’.”

"Ano, I am," you reply, leaning into the warmth of his side. "Just thinking how it's nice... to see some happiness around here." Your fingers brush against his hand, a silent message of comfort between two souls bound by hardships as well as joys.

“I take it you’ve seen not much of that, lately,” Hosea says, his voice sobering. “Tell me, what happened…when we parted ways.”

You feel yourself tensing as the memories are available to you, like looking in an index. Your memories are organized, structured, vivid, unlike they ever were before you lost them. You feel Arthur squeeze your hand and you turn your head slowly to meet his eyes.

“I can tell him, Kit.”

You shake your head. “We both can.” You look down at your lap. “But where do we start?”

Hosea tilts his head. “Well, start with the explosion.”

You shake your head. “No, Hosea.” And you lift your eyes to meet his gaze. “I need to go way back.” You pause a moment before explaining. “To Blackwater.”

It is then that his eyes widen, now understanding. “You remember it, do you?”

You nod. “Ano, I do.”

Nobody here knows. They are all still in the dark as to what had happened to you. The deceit and betrayal. Hosea leans forward in his seat, grimacing at the movements that he wants to make but his injured body protests. “Who did it?” he asks, his voice steady but laced with a palpable tension.

Arthur's hand tightens around yours, his other fist clenching in anticipation. You take a deep breath, feeling the cool night air fill your lungs, steadying your nerves. "It was Dutch," you say quietly, the name tasting bitter on your tongue. "Micah was there, too, but it was Dutch who shot me in the back.”

“He wanted Kit,” Arthur explains with a tight jaw, his eyes narrowing as he recalls that fateful day. “He was angry that she was spoken for and he’d rather her be dead than be with me.”

Hosea’s expression saddens, lines of betrayal etching deep into his weathered face. “Dutch,” he whispers, his voice aching as though in mourning. “You said only Javier survived…” He lifts his eyes again, searching for some sign of solace in your expression. “How did Dutch die?”

Arthur is only quiet for a moment before answering. “I killed him.”

You’re quick to explain. “He was sick and dying. He was going to kill Javier.”

The silence that stretches between you is thick, each breath shared seems laden with the weight of the past. You look to your husband and you see the ache in his expression, undoubtedly the memory of that day fresh in his mind.

“And I suppose you killed Micah?” Hosea asks. “I guess it would be too lucky if he died in the robbery.”

And Arthur gives a straight answer. “Yes. He admitted to killing Kitka. Well, he thought he had thrown her overboard.”

Hosea blinks, his brow pinched. “Overboard?”

That’s right. He doesn’t know you all had been on a ship and ended up in Guarma.

“A lot happened before people died, Hosea,” you say gently. “We can tell you the long version or the short version.”

Hosea looks out the window, watching the remaining light as the sun sets behind the trees in the distance. “I may be old and weak and tired,” he says as he settles back in his chair, his sentence punctuated by a cough. “But I always like a good yarn.”

And so, together, you and Arthur start from the beginning.

***

“So, Javier has made himself a pirate…” Hosea sighs, a small smile growing on his face. “Never would have imagined that, but it suits him.” You and Arthur didn’t spare any details. From finding Arthur on the rooftops in Saint Denis, to sneaking on the boat, then the storm and all that transpired in Guarma, Hosea is now able to see the big picture. “And this Hamish fella you met sounds like an interesting individual.”

You nod, smiling. “Yes. I am glad that he had good intentions when he kept my horse. It makes sense that he would be an honorable man, given his relationship with Rains Fall and his people.”

Hosea glances around the cabin. “Yes, they’ve been kind to us. Cornwall and folks like him could learn from these people.”

Arthur leans forward, resting his head in his hand as his elbow buries into his knee. “Folks like Cornwall ain’t the learnin’ sort.”

You can't help but agree with Arthur's blunt assessment, your mind wandering briefly to the cruel faces of men driven by greed and power, men who wouldn't hesitate to put an entire town to torch just to write down a few extra numbers in their ledgers.

Hosea shifts in his chair, the creaking sound of the wood under his weight mirroring the weariness in his bones. “So, what’s the plan now?” he asks, his voice low and raspy from years of talking over campfires and the whisper of schemes.

Arthur looks at you, his eyes searching yours for a moment before speaking. “We been thinkin’ of collectin’ some treasure. Got some maps.”

“We want to go out west still,” you explain. “To Oregon.”

Hosea nods knowingly. “Good thing John likes surprises.”

You tilt your head. “Where is he?”

There is a small pause and you wonder if it is because Hosea has become more tired as the hours have passed, but you remember that Hosea is more methodical than that. “The Marstons have gone to Oregon.”

Your eyes widen. “Alone?!”

Hosea holds out a palm. “No, not alone. Sadie had gone with them. Seems that she was keen on being a bodyguard. Come to find that protecting people was something that she had taken quite a liking to after everything that’s transpired. It seems like the right path for her, and she’s made peace with it.”

Arthur exhales heavily, the tension fading slightly from his rugged features as he leans back against the wall of the cabin. “Well, that’s good,” he says slowly. “But I don’t like that he just left you here.”

“Now, don’t start making assumptions, son,” Hosea chuckles. “I insisted I stay here and recover.” He gestures to his broken arm. “I am not in the position to travel thousands of miles just yet.”

Hosea has a point, and to be honest, you are impressed with John’s initiative to make such a trip. You’re also glad that Sadie had gone with them. You figure it is good for her to do something else other than wish for the death of O’Driscolls. It has a bit of purpose more productive to escort John and his family to unfamiliar territory.

“So you do plan on going, though?” Arthur asks, interrupting your thoughts.

You watch Hosea as you wait eagerly for his reply. You had tried to convince him to go with you and Arthur. To live out his days in peace. And now that everything with Dutch is over, the Pinkertons off their trail, it seems like the ideal time to start anew.

Hosea nods, his gaze thoughtful and distant. “Yes, I reckon I’ll join you once this heals up nice and proper. Always wanted to be able to see the Pacific again.”

A smile tugs at your lips at the thought of all of you, finally free from the endless cycle of robbery and pursuit, settling down to a life where the horizon was vast and untouched, instead of closing in like a noose. The dream seems almost tangible, a soft whisper of hope amidst the harsh realities you all had faced.

Arthur stands up, his chair scraping back on the rough wooden floor. He stretches out his arms, his movements exaggerated and languid, a sign that he's trying to shake off the tension that always seems to linger like an uninvited guest. “Well, if that’s the plan, then we oughta start doing what we can to make it all work. You’ll be healing soon enough.”

Hosea chuckles. “If you think months is soon…” Then his smile falls. “You can’t afford to wait that long. Winter’s coming. If you stay, you’ll be stuck here for the cold months.”

You look up at your husband. You both wanted to get going as soon as possible. But you can’t leave without Hosea.

What do you do?

Arthur must see the concern in your eyes. “We can sleep on it. We don’t wanna rush into somethin’ without thinkin’ it through. Dealt with that enough times to know better.”

You relax. You and Arthur will talk about it tonight. You nod, signaling your understanding.

“Well, that sounds like a good plan, son.” Hosea motions to rise from his chair and you immediately go to his aide. He smiles gratefully to you and nods towards his cot in the corner. With steady arms, you support him as he hobbles his way over, each step slow and measured. The old injuries and the long years on the run had taken their toll on him, but his spirit remained unbroken. Once Hosea is comfortably seated on the cot, he pats your hand gently. "Thank you, Kit," he says with a warmth that fills the cool air as the door swings open. Looking up, Charles comes back in, acting nonchalant.

“Where’s the wood you was after?” Arthur teases, raising an eyebrow at Charles as he brushes the snow from his coat.

“Got waylaid,” Charles replies with a half-grin, taking off his coat and hanging it. “Seems some kids needed help settling a dispute in their game. Couldn’t just leave them to it.”

You chuckle, knowing that couldn’t be the only thing that kept him occupied. “Be that as it may, it looks like Hosea is ready to turn in.”

Charles nods. “It is about that time. Chief Rains Fall says you two are welcome to set up camp here, and I can take you to the others.”

You can’t help but feel excited. You had hoped to see them today, but you can’t rush this. You’ve been away for a month, you can wait one more day.

Arthur nods, his gaze lingering on the flickering light escaping the stove as he opens the hatch, contemplating your next steps. "We'll make camp here then. Get a fresh start at dawn."

You sense the unspoken worry in his voice, the weight of decisions yet to be made pressing down on him just as heavily as it does on you. It's a familiar burden, shared silently between the two of you as you navigate this fraught path you've both chosen. The resolve to leave the gang and start anew, though liberating in thought, is daunting in practice. But this is a different kind of parting. Just as you are about to be reunited, you will soon have to say goodbye.

As Arthur stokes the fire, casting long shadows on the walls, your mind wanders back to all of the conversations that you had started with each of the members, hoping to stir them to find their own paths. You wonder who might have made that choice, and what their lives are like now. You wonder who all made it out, and if any others have been long gone.

By the tired look in Hosea’s eyes and the expression on Charles’ face, you know that will have to wait for tomorrow.

Arthur closes the door to the stove and stands erect, wiping his hands on his pant legs. “We will be goin’.” He turns to you and you step away from Hosea’s cot to take his offered hand. “You rest well, Hosea,” he says with a gentleness that only a son would give to his father.

Hosea leans into his pillow, closing his eyes. “That won’t be difficult, I promise.”

You all chuckle softly and Charles walks you and Arthur to the door. “Goodnight, you two.”

You and Arthur speak in unison. “Goodnight, Charles.”

And he closes the door behind you.

Outside, the air is crisp, carrying the faint scent of pine and the distant howl of a wolf. Stars twinkle overhead, unobstructed by the smoke of cities or the glare of electric lights. You find comfort in the darkness, in its vastness and mystery. It reminds you of nights spent under the celestial canopy over the many years of traveling across various terrain.

Arthur hasn’t let go of your hand as he leads the way back to the wagon, where your supplies and camping gear is stored in the back of the wagon. There aren’t many tribal members out now, most have gone in their teepees and tents to retire for the night. It is so calm and serene, a true picture of unity.

After gathering up the tent and bedrolls, you and Arthur set up camp at the edge of the reservation.

And just as you finish unrolling the bedroll within the tent, you feel the rush of cool air from Arthur entering the tent. “The horses are all okay?”

Arthur closes the tent flap behind him, going to his knees, and taking off his coat. “Yeah. That poor Murfree horse is going to need some extra care before we travel.”

You nod. That poor thing had been through a great deal before you came across it. The Murfree Brood didn’t even have one scrap of humanity to treat their horses well. “Come to bed, Arthur.”

Arthur hesitates for a moment, his face shadowed in the dim light of the lantern. You see the lines of worry that often crease his brow soften as he looks at you, a hint of that old affection flickering in his eyes. "All right," he murmurs, his voice low and gravelly from the cool night air. He moves closer, discarding his boots with a thud against the tent floor, and you scoot over to make room for him on the bedroll.

As he settles down beside you, the fabric rustles under his weight, a comforting sound in the enveloping silence of the wild. The space between you lessens as you wrap your arms around him and pull him close to you, letting him fall back into your chest. “What’s on your mind?” you ask him. “You don’t seem ready to sleep just yet.”

“I’m not,” he quickly answers. “We still ain’t done.”

“I know.”

“Hosea is gonna need a lot of time to heal. We can’t just leave him.”

“He’s been taken care of. Charles is keeping him out of trouble,” you say with a hint of jest. “Maybe…” you start, and let your voice trail off. You aren’t sure how well he may take what you’re about to say.

“What?” he presses.

You sigh. Might as well just come out and say it. “Maybe we can get a place ready for him first. Let him rest here in the wilderness. Maybe even meet Hamish and they can keep each other company.” You feel Arthur move away from you and watch him roll on his other side to look at you face to face. You try to read his eyes, but are unsure of what he’s thinking. “When our home is built, we can send for him. He will be with us.”

Arthur's eyes study yours in the lantern light, flickering with conflicting emotions. He seems torn, his rugged face etched with both hope and skepticism. "You think Hosea would go for that?" he asks finally, his voice carrying a hint of hopefulness that surprises you. "He might, if it means he don’t like to stay here instead.”

Your brow pinches. “Arthur Morgan, you must have a little faith. I think he doesn’t want to be separated from us anymore.”

“Faith…” he repeats as he averts your eyes. “Dutch used to speak of that.”

“Yes, but I think he misused that word. When I learned English, I took it for something different than he had made it out to be.”

“And what’s that?”

“Faith,” you say, pausing to gather the right words, your gaze fixed on his earnest face, “to me, it's about trusting what you can't see. Believing in something better ahead, even if the path isn’t clear.” You reach a hand to touch Arthur’s chest, feeling his beating heart beneath. “Dutch just wanted us to blindly follow him. That is not the same thing.”

Arthur turns away slightly, looking out into the darkness of the tent that isn’t illuminated by the lantern. “Can’t see him now.”

“Still isn’t the same. And you’re just being difficult at this point.”

You watch as a smirk tugs at the corner of his lips. “I guess I am.”

He shifts closer, the warmth of his body mingling with yours in the cool night air. "So, we build a place," Arthur murmurs, still wrestling with the idea as it hangs between you like a delicate promise. "And we send for him..."

"Yes," you affirm softly, pulling him close by the collar of his shirt. “If that’s what you want to do.”

He shrugs. “I can’t decide right now. We just got here.”

You don’t want to rush a decision, but you most definitely want to make a decision soon. “I can picture it now, Arthur. We’re so much closer than we’ve ever been before. Can you believe it?”

He shakes his head softly. “No, don’t seem real.”

You pull him close for a kiss, long and delicious, making it as tangible as you ever could. You part with a deep sigh, leaning back to look at him. “I think it’s pretty real.”

You see the warmth in his gaze as he looks into your eyes, and then they cast down to your lips. “Yeah…”

“And we will see the others tomorrow.”

His whole body begins to relax and you see his gaze still focused on your body, his voice soft and lowly. “Yeah.” His mind is clearly drifting off.

“And I will shave my head.”

“Yeah…”

You chortle, your brow pinched and your lips pulled back in a smile. “You aren’t listening anymore are you…?”

His eyes flicker upwards, blinking. “What?”

You try not to laugh, but instead kiss his nose. “Arthur, turn out the light.”

He chuckles, the sound rich and deep, resonating in the quiet of the tent. “Yes, ma’am.” Obediently, he rolls away and reaches up to dim the lantern, plunging the space into a soft darkness, save for the faint glow of moonlight that trickles in through a small canvas gap. And without a moment to spare, he returns to you, snuggling up into your chest and you feel his arms wrap around your waist.

And you’ve never felt happier.

Thank you for reading! :)

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