"Arthur!" Tilly called across camp, running lightly to meet him as he dismounted his horse. She approached him, a few letters in her hand, only a little out of breath. "It was address to you. Not Tacitus Kilgore or anything. You." She passed one of the folded papers to him. "I would make sure you fixed that in your response – Dutch doesn't want us using our names, you know."
He nodded gravely. "I know. Thank you, Miss Tilly. I'll get right on it."
She smiled widely, and continued on her errand, calling for Micah next, the damned bastard.
Arthur walked purposefully to his tent, where he sat and ripped the fine wax seal on the trifold.
Arthur,
I heard tell of a man in town with your bearing, and I wasn't sure if it was you, but I had to send this now for fear I would never run into you again.
I think it is very possible that you don't remember me, but I aided in the birth of Isaac, and I wrote you the letter informing of Eliza's passing after that terrible day. I know it was not the most traditional union between two people, but I always had faith you loved her and would settle down if you were able to. She was a sister to me, and your son a nephew. I was devastated by their loss, as we all were.
I have learned of a couple things since then that don't quite add up, and I would like to share them with you. I live in a homestead about 5 miles northwest of Rhodes, between there and Valentine in the Heartlands. Please post your response to the Valentine post office, where I receive my weekly groceries. I anxiously await your response, and hope you are well.
Respectfully,
Emma Wilson neé Evans
Arthur folded the letter and heaved a sigh. Between this and Mary, he was sure the women he loved would kill him one day. He scrubbed a hand down his face and tore a page from his journal, quickly jotting a response.
Mrs. Wilson,
Thank you for your letter. I am near Rhodes now and plan to be for some time. In the interest of security, please address letters to a Tacitus Kilgore. I receive mail in Rhodes and Saint Denis.
I will visit within the next week, giving time for you to receive this letter.
Many thanks,
A. Morgan/T. Kilgore
Arthur didn't have time to beautify it, only to send the immediate details. He trusted Emma would not do anything foolish. If she was anything like Eliza, she would understand his situation easily. He only hoped that was the case. If it wasn't, well, it wouldn't be Dutch's fault that they were moving, this time around.
He folded, addressed, and sealed the envelope with some hot wax from the candle by his bedside. Standing and leaving his tent, he found Mrs. Grimshaw knitting by the fire scowling at Karen, who was crossly picking at faulty stitches. As usual, Karen was in an inappropriate state of undress, her breasts practically hanging out of her slip, with a bottle of rum open next to her. Arthur did his best to avert his eyes, focusing on the always-upright Mrs. Grimshaw.
"Susan, I have a letter to be posted the next time someone goes to town. Would that be too much trouble for one of your ladies to handle?" He offered the folded paper with the barest hint of a smile, hoping at least to warm her sour mood.
Mrs. Grimshaw snatched the letter from Arthur, stuffing it roughly into the bag at her feet. Se didn't even look at him. He cringed. "I'll get on it tomorrow, if any of them decide to grow a brain between now and then." She shot another look at Karen, who bit the inside of her cheeks and slunk further into her mending.
Arthur raised his eyebrows before schooling his expression into something warmer, more neutral. "Sure. Thank you, Mrs. Grimshaw. I appreciate it."
"I'm sure you do." Her needle stabbed in and out of the yarn.
And with that, Arthur turned on his heel and left to find Abigail and Jack, down by the river. He caught the eye of Mary-Beth, who was returning with the laundry. She smiled warmly at him, and he gestured purposefully to Mrs. Grimshaw, a meaningful look in his eye. Mary-Beth nodded, and about-faced toward the river once more, in search of another activity to make her look busy while Mrs. Grimshaw cooled off.
After a moment, he found Abby and her boy near the water. He watched them from a distance. Abigail knelt beside Jack, her skirts trailing in the mud as she demonstrated how to find a skipping rock, and the best way to hold it. She threw a couple herself, staying on Jack's level as she directed his attention to the way the rocks spun across the water.
Arthur often forgot how young Abigail was. She was a teenager when they'd picked her up.
She'd started to undress quickly, shucking his gun belt and satchel from his shoulders. He reached up and stilled her, his hands on his arms. "Just hold on a minute, sit down."
"Are you serious?" She sat on the edge of the bed, her long braid hanging over her right shoulder. Her round face and kind jaw was cocked to the side, and the corners of her lips turned up. "You paid fifteen dollars."
Arthur shrugged, letting his coat fall from his shoulders. "Just wanted some company, is all." He was noncommittal, and Abigail snorted. Who was this guy? Who pays for a prostitute and then doesn't use her?
"Quite the gentleman then, alright." Her mouth quirked, pursing her lips. Thinking. "What do you do for a living, Tacitus?" If he wasn't going to unpack her, she would unpack him.
Arthur rolled his eyes. "That's not really my name, you know." He tossed his coat on the back of the chair in the corner.
"Oh I know. Nobody's got a name like that." She laughed. Abigail had seen her share of outlaws and men who lived in sin. In fact, they were her primary customer.
Her laugh made his chest warm. He suddenly remembered Eliza, the way she looked when she laughed at rowdy saloon patrons. Abigail must have be around her age, maybe sixteen or seventeen at most.
"I'm Arthur." He offered her a hand. She took it, and he kissed her knuckles.
She looked up at him through her lashes, red from her chest to her ears. "Arthur, could I convince you into anything unsavory?"
He laughed. "Not even a little, Miss Abigail. C'mon. Let's get some rest. I'm sure you need it. You're a working woman, after all."
Not sure if he was teasing her or not, she turned down her corner of the bed and stripped to her underslip. Abigail was beautiful, but he didn't make a habit out of sinning with anyone under twenty. Except maybe John. But killing was different.
She turned to face him, after the light was out and they were tucked up and warm.
"You're a good man Arthur. Where you from?"
"Around. You're welcome to come with if you'd like."
To his surprise, when he woke up in the morning and she was there, hair up and boots on, she did just that.
The Abigail of today still had a round face, but John's yearlong "adventure" had worn lines around her mouth and eyes. They hadn't quite settled in like Arthur's, and he figured they gave her a stern and distinguished look. However, he was certain she would disagree.
Jack tried his hand at skipping a rock, but it just landed in the water with a hollow plunk. Arthur wandered toward them as Abigail took her son's hand in hers, giving him scaffolding to find the technique.
That stone managed three skips before it sunk. Arthur crept behind Abigail, reaching for a smooth, flat rock. He weighed it in his hand, and
He threw it, and it skipped six (or was it seven?) times before sinking. Abigail just about leapt out of her skin, cursing loudly. She lost her footing, falling backwards into the mud. She immediately blushed and slapped a hand over her mouth. Her wide eyes stared up at Arthur, and he wasn't sure if she was pissed or laughing.
Jack collapsed into laugher, and Arthur caught him and hefted him on his shoulders. "Good work, boy. I think you've just about got it."
By the time Jack cooled off, Abby had collected herself, rising from the mud and wiping her hands on her skirt. Mrs. Grimshaw was going to have a field day with that one. It would almost be better to go to the hotel in town and wash it herself, at that point. "You startled me, jackass." She was still red from neckline to forehead, but her color was returning to normal as she swatted at Arthur's hunting jacket.
Arthur was still laughing and Abigail continued to beat on his chest, and he felt Jack's little hands in his too-long hair, holding tight and close to the roots.
"Now you don't want to yank on the mane, son. You want to just hold on, nice and close to the neck so you can get a good grip without botherin' too much."
Jack nodded, his feathery brown hair floating around in the slight breeze. He was three next week, but already becoming a smart and serious boy, far more insightful than Arthur was at thirty. The boy tangled his impossibly small hands into Boadicea's mane, following Arthur's instructions exactly.
They were out in the meadow, walking around bareback. Arthur figured it was never too early to get a child on a horse, but he made sure Jack was safe and secure in front, between his legs and literally tied around his waist with a slat of leather. He kept a hand on his chubby thigh the whole time, a grip that was tight and protective without suffocating.
Abigail was watching from a distance, her fingernails worrying her lower lip. She offered a wave when she saw Arthur checking in. He smiled at her.
Boadicea was a good girl, calm and gentle. She and Arthur had a conversation earlier that day, and he was confident she understood the importance of her cargo today. He'd run her across the county tomorrow, but today she was playing babysitter. She seemed to enjoy it alright, remaining patient with Jack as he'd smacked her withers and pulled her hair. She'd even avoided sneezing when his fingers found their way up her nose.
"Well as long as your delicate sensibilities aren't wilting, I can deal with my son." Abigail reached up for Jack, but he only leaned further into the back of Arthur's neck, his hands wandering around to his forehead. "Really? You're gonna leave me for him now?"
"I can see everything up here," Jack explained simply. "It's much better than the ground."
She couldn't fault him for that. Her cheerful eyes met Arthur's warm ones. "Just return him whenever he's finished. I'll be avoiding Mrs. Grimshaw if you're looking for me."
Arthur smiled. "Sure thing." He reached out quickly, snagging her sleeve. "I would like to talk to you about something in a while though. When you have ears to yourself."
She nodded. "Of course. Anything you need." She slipped her arm out of his grasp and caught his fingers, squeezing twice before letting go.
He returned his hold to Jack's tiny ankles and returned to camp. He actively avoided Micah, Javier, and Bill, who were staring at the pair like they'd grown another set of legs, each.
"The way you treat that boy, Morgan, you'd think he was yours," Bill jabbed at him from across the yard, where Arthur had an infant Jack wrapped in his coat.
He returned the comment with a dark glare. Jack had just fallen asleep, and he was giving Abigail a much needed hand. They were short a pair of arms, after all.
"You know, he kind of looks like you, Arthur." Javier, who Arthur hadn't noticed, leaned on the side of his tent, arms crossed and a smirk on his lips.
Arthur heaved a sigh and chose to ignore them, focusing on the tiny set of fingers that clung tightly to his thumb. Jack's round lips bobbed up and down while he slept, making little spit bubbles that trailed down his chin. Arthur mopped it up with his shirt. He was glad he wore cotton today. It was the only thing he owned soft enough for Jack's delicate skin.
"Fooling around with Marston's girl, weren't you?" Bill had wandered over, lowly taunting. "I bet that's why he left. He told me."
Yeah, sure he did. Arthur slowed his breathing and leaned back against his wagon, firmly planted in his bed. He'd done this with Isaac too, leaning back and sleeping anywhere, not moving too much. Jack hardly stirred in his arms.
"She's a good fuck, but you and I both know that." Javier's crude remark slithered past a shit-eating smirk.
Arthur couldn't help himself. "Too bad she got sick of you then, you asshole." It was as low as a growl. He simply couldn't afford to wake Jack. Not now.
Javier snorted. "C'mon Bill. We'll never get a rise out of him. He's too busy with his bastard."
A well of anger pooled in Arthur's chest, but he fought it and closed his eyes. A few minutes passed in silence, where the peaceful crackling of the dying fire kept Arthur from leaving Jack in his cot in favor of his hunting knife. Javier and Bill knew where they could stick that. .
He felt the edge of his cot dip, and he cracked an eye. A tearful Abigail was there, wrapped in a blanket. She gave him a watery smile that told him all he needed to know. She'd heard everything. She was puffy, heavy from the weight of her pregnancy and her sorrow.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. She hiccupped, and swiped at her eyes.
Arthur shut his eyes again. "Don't you dare." He released his thumb from Jack's grip and extended a hand to her. She held on to it like a lifeline. They fell asleep sitting up, next to each other.
He ran into John on his way to the horses.
"Arthur!" John crowed.
Jack wiggled on his shoulders, and Arthur swung him down, planting him firmly in the dirt. He ran immediately to his father, who picked him up and set him on his hip. "How was your hunting?"
"You'll put me to shame, so I won't bother telling you."
Arthur shrugged. He wasn't wrong. "Just make sure it all gets to Pearson so he can make something edible."
"God forbid Abigail gets her hands on it." John laughed. Jack laughed too, wrinkling his nose. The boy was lucky – he'd only heard tell of his mother's poor cooking, but he was happy to be in on the joke.
Arthur checked his pocket watch. The sun would set soon, but Karen and Mary-Beth were headed into town with Charles, his letter with them. They would likely be back before dark. He would set out at the end of the week for Emma's home. He was more anxious by the moment for what he would find waiting there.
He returned to the fire, where Javier had retired with his guitar. He hummed softly as he absentmindedly sung. Micah sat with his blade, picking at dirt under his fingernails. Arthur hoped the blade slipped one of this days, leaving him without a hand, the bastard.
Arthur took up the last unoccupied log, closest to Dutch's tent, where he was likely reading aloud to Molly. He was relieved the fighting between them had reached a cease-fire. God, it was incessant.
"I don't understand what I've done wrong!" Molly's lilt was tinged with indignation, and Arthur could tell this was more than a lover's quarrel, something he wasn't meant to hear.
"I'm not sure you've done anything wrong, Molly. I do not know what to tell you." Dutch sounded exhausted.
"The women – they don't like me."
"I cannot help you with that."
Dutch left the tent, then, and Arthur made himself busy at the ledger, ordering a few provisions for the next trip into town.
"Arthur." Dutch greeted him. He lit a cigar and puffed on it, pensive..
Arthur nodded politely. "Dutch." He sniffed. "Everything okay?"
"Oh, Arthur. You know women."
Arthur snorted, and gave Dutch a nod. Arthur was sure he knew women, but he wasn't sure Dutch did.
John and Abigail joined them a while later, after Jack had gone to bed. Their arms swung as they walked hand-in-hand. Arthur threw a pebble at Bill's feet when he caught him staring.
They joined Arthur on the far log. Abigail leaned heavily on him, one hand wrapped in her shawl and the other in John's lap, her fingers laced in his. John's eyes were heavy, and soon he was laying on his back, his head in Abigail's lap, his eyes opening and closing every few minutes. He'd always reminded Arthur of a big cat, watchful and often lazy in the face of a heat source.
Hosea was wrapping up his final story. The crowd had dwindled and the errand-runners were home and sleeping. Abigail was snoozing lightly on Arthur's shoulder. John rose and stretched, kissing Abigail on the temple before leaving for his tent.
"And that's when I knew Dutch had my favorite wallet," Hosea concluded, his hands out in an extended shrug. "The rest is history."
Arthur chuckled. He'd heard the story about a million times, but somehow it always pulled a laugh from him. Abigail stirred as the rest of the gang went to bed. She sat up, rubbing her eyes. Her hair fell into her face, and it struck him again how young she was. She smiled sleepily at him.
"What did you want to talk about, Arthur darlin?" Her voice was soft and tired with disuse. She hadn't breathed a word since she sat down.
He couldn't believe her. "You didn't have to stay up for that."
Her brow furrowed. "Of course. Why wouldn't I?"
She was a marvel. He'd said it before and he'd say it again. Marston was a damned fool if he didn't understand how lucky he was. "Jus' figured you might want to get some sleep, is all."
She patted his hand. "Sleep can wait. What's on your mind?" He recognized the briskness that returned to her tone. She was ready to listen, even if he wasn't necessarily ready to tell.
"I got a letter today." He pulled the letter in question out of his coat and passed it to her. She unfolded it carefully and watched her read it in silence. She squinted at it in the dark, but the fire gave enough light to see. "I can't seem to make heads or tails of it."
Halfway through, he realized with a pang of panic that he'd never told her about Isaac. Only ever Eliza. She was his best friend and she had no idea. Shit.
She looked up at him after a long while in silence. He was very focused on one of his cuticles, and Abigail had to search for his eyes.
"Your boy…what happened to him?" Her voice was naught but a whisper.
He swallowed thickly. "He passed with her – Eliza. Shot and killed for ten dollars and a couple of furs."
Her soft gasp was an avalanche to his ears. "Oh, Arthur…" She trailed off. If he had a dime…
He felt he owed her an explanation. "I visited every couple months, to check in and see how they were getting on. I was too late." His confession grew softer, as he continued. Abigail leaned forward, listening with the attention of a churchgoer. "I found two crosses in the yard the last time I returned."
Abigail searched for his hand, and finding it, gripped it like she would never let go. "Christ in Heaven." She shook her head, numb with the revelation. "When was this?"
"About ten years ago. I met her when I was about twenty or so. I'd been running with Dutch a couple years and couldn't be with her proper." Arthur sniffed, the cold air getting to him.
Abigail looped her arm though his, tracing the back of his hand with her finger, drawing patterns and swirls. "Was this before Mary?"
Arthur nodded. "A few years at least. I wasn't ready to be married yet, or a father, or anything like that." He stared into the fire. "With Mary, though, I was ready for a lot of that."
"You think you'd wanna get married someday?" She propped herself on her arm and gazed at him, adoring.
Arthur turned to face her, touching her cheek. "Maybe. I gotta talk with Dutch. I'm not sure I can much get out of this business now that I'm in it."
Eliza sighed. "It sounds so glamorous."
He laughed through his nose. "Not even a little."
"Really? Not even a little?" She wrinkled her nose and brough her hand to his face, drawing circles around the scar on his chin. "It looks good on you."
"Well that's the problem, seeing as I don't look good much at all."
Eliza giggled, tucking herself close into his chest. "Well then, my darling. Just let me know if you ever change your mind. I'll be here, doing just fine with or without you."
Arthur kissed her hair, breathing her in deep. "You'll be the first to know." He thought for a moment. "I want to get to know the boy as best I can."
"Oh don't worry about that." She snuffled closer to his chest, tilting her head up to kiss his collarbone. "Isaac loves you more and more every time he sees you. You're his pa. I tell him all the time."
Sighing, he rolled onto his back, capturing her in his arms. "You are a fool, Eliza."
"Not as big'a one as you, Arthur."
"What are you gonna do?" Abigail jolted him back to the present, her warm eyes seeking his.
"I dunno. I gotta go see what the fuss is about, I guess. Emma wouldn't write if it wasn't important. So I guess it's important." He found his head shaking without realizing.
Abigail huffed. "I guess so." They were quiet for a moment. "Let me know if I can send John with you when you go."
"I never said I was going."
"You silly, silly man." She stood, and kissed his knuckles where the skin was still split from a tiff with Micah last week. "You didn't have to."