Arthur woke early, later that week, and he heard the quiet bustle of the early-risers around the fire, likely digging into the day's first pot of coffee. He slipped a dress shirt and vest over his union suit and a pair of pants that didn't have too many holes in them. He would have to get a couple pair to the ladies for mending sometime soon or buy new ones.
He stomped into his boots, slung his satchel around his shoulders, and jammed his hat on his head. Since it was early, he figured he could do some hunting before the day started.
Poking his head out of his tent, he saw Hosea and Lenny chatting quietly. They looked up at him.
"Good morning, my boy," said Hosea. "How are you this morning?"
Arthur crossed to them, sitting heavily on one of the benches at the table. "Doin' alright. Have a coupla errands to run today before I really get going."
"Going hunting?" Lenny asked.
"Yeah, seems that way. Hoping to get a couple good deer before noon."
Hosea nodded. "Now's the time. They'll be out and feeding as the sun rises. Want some coffee?" Arthur shrugged in response, but Hosea rose anyway, retrieving a cup and filling it with strong brew. He replaced the pot and returned to the table. "Here you go, son. Nice and hot for you."
Arthur squinted at him, suspiciously sipping from his cup. It's not that Hosea wasn't nice. It's just that he wasn't usually this nice. "Anything on your mind, Hosea?"
"No, not much. I ran into Abigail earlier this morning. Jack wasn't feeling well." Hosea took a couple gulps of his coffee before rising, smacking his hands lightly on the table. "Well, boys. Time to get rolling. I have some business in Strawberry. You coming with me, Lenny?"
Lenny smiled and stood, reaching for his gun belt on the table to his right. "Sure. I'll get Maggie ready and we can go anytime." The pair meandered to their tents, talking quietly. Hosea snuck glances at Arthur, but if he was trying to be subtle, it wasn't working. He would check in with Abigail when she woke.
Arthur, alone now at the table, finished his coffee with a sigh. The newly risen sun was burning off some of the chilly fog that had settled into camp in the early hours of the morning. People were starting to stir and stumble toward the coffee. Arthur refilled his cup and stood next to the fire, watching.
Karen looked like she hadn't slept all night, and Arthur hazarded a guess that the look reflected reality. Her blonde hair was a mess, dull and sticky with mud. She was walking to the river with her scrub brush. A bath would do her good. He'd pick up something for her in town. A trinket of some kind. Something to make her smile, if even for a moment.
John threw his tent flap, ducking furtively to Abigail and Jack's tent, holding a damp washcloth. Arthur's heart jumped, and he sprinted across the camp with an impressive kickoff. Keiran, who'd just sat up from his bedroll by the horses watched him, bleary-eyed.
Arthur stopped outside the tent, listening.
Abigail sang quietly, and he couldn't hear anything from John. Arthur ran his fingers down the flap as a warning and stepped inside.
His eyes adjusted to the dim light quickly. Abigail and John looked up quickly before turning back to their task.
"Hey, Arthur." Abigail held Jack in her arms. He was restless and fitful. Pale. Too pale. She was calm, which warmed Arthur slightly. She'd been an anxious new mother, especially during John's absence.
"He's sick. I don't know what's wrong. He won't stop crying." Abigail was tearful herself, pacing and rocking a screaming baby Jack. She'd left for the clearing down the trail when she realized he wouldn't stop screaming. The last thing she wanted to do was wake all of camp.
Arthur took him from her. "Good of you to leave camp, but you should really be more careful." He looked around, into the woods around the clearing. "Anyone or anything could be out here."
Abigail sniffed. "I'm sorry, Arthur. I just – "
"I know." Arthur held Jack to his shoulder and patted his back until he burped up all over Arthur's union suit. He heard Abigail hiccup, but he didn't mind. He had plenty sets of underclothes - Jack could burp on as many as he'd like. "I think he's just got colic. Babies have trouble getting stuff through 'em more often than not." Jack started to quiet, but his whining continued.
"Really?" Abigail approached him, smoothing her hands along Jack's little soft head. "I thought there was something really wrong with him."
"Probably not." Arthur reached down with his free arm and checked for his revolver. It was planted firmly on his gun belt at his waist, next to his hunting knife. He could handle anything that came his way. "Why don't you get some sleep. I'll keep him with me tonight, and bring him back to camp when he falls asleep."
"But you need to sleep, Arthur." Her insistence was weak. She was exhausted.
"So do you, and I've had more'n you the past couple nights. You can't do this by yourself."
"What's goin' on?" Arthur's question was flat and quiet.
John pressed the washcloth to Jack's forehead. "He's been sick all night." His voice was low and terse, and the muscles at his shoulders were jumping around, restless.
"It shouldn't be too serious. If he can't keep anything down after tonight, I'll take him into Valentine tomorrow." Abigail's voice was soft and soothing, only a slight waver betraying her fear.
She'd been up all night, washing the sheets from Jack's vomit and keeping him cool. John found her at the river when he got up to piss in the middle of the night. Abigail knew he was upset with her. She didn't wake him, hoping she could handle it herself. Some of those habits are harder to break than others, she guessed. He'd barely spoken to her since but did his best to help her in his frustration. She appreciated and admired his tenacity, but hoped he understood, even a little.
Arthur's appearance in her little residence soothed her, and the tight set of John's jaw loosened slightly. Arthur had a way of making them both feel calmer, like a balm for sore muscles.
"I can get you some more cool rags, John." Arthur offered. He kept his voice low.
John felt it rumble around the tent. "Thank you."
Arthur ducked out of the tent and raided Person's shelves for a couple cooking rags. He would have them washed and returned, of course, but right now there was something more important to handle. He found two more in the laundry basket behind Karen's tent.
Abigail rocked Jack back and forth, patting his back. He'd thrown up about three times in the night. John intercepted the last one, helping her with some of the mess. They both decided it was some kind of food poisoning. Abigail was sure she saw Jack eat something he wasn't supposed to yesterday. If she had a heart attack every time that happened though, she would be dead many times over. The little gifts of parenthood never cease to amaze me.
As he crossed to the river, Arthur kept himself as composed as possible. Alarming the rest of camp to an illness that would likely pass in the next few hours seemed irresponsible. Selfishly, he wanted to keep John and Abigail as calm as possible and all to himself. The gang crowding around looking for a helpful task was just about the most anxiety-inducing situation he could imagine. He felt a pang of empathy for Mrs. Grimshaw.
He wet the rags, wringing them out so they wouldn't drip. He tucked them over his elbow when he was satisfied, and took the back way to their tent as to not draw attention.
John held the flap for him as he knelt inside. It was cramped, certainly, but Arthur didn't mind. He'd been in his share of foxholes, both literally and metaphorically, with Abigail and John. Jack's fitfulness eased after a while, rotating washcloths and arms until he'd landed in Arthur's lap. John and Abigail finally fell asleep in a heap on Jack's bedroll.
Arthur was happy to rock him like he did when Jack was a child. They spent much of the morning there. Every once and a while, Mrs. Grimshaw would poke her head in with a raised eyebrow. Arthur would nod at her, waving her off or handing her a warm washcloth to be re-cooled. She kept quiet and brought Arthur coffee.
"What do you think is waiting for me with my girl's cousin, huh?" Arthur said, quietly, to sleeping Jack. "Your momma's been helpin' me with that. I'd take you with me if you were feelin' better. Your pa and I could go out riding like we did when we were kids. Didn't feel much bigger'n you, really. You'll see. Someday you'll be old and tired and you'll see someone like you and you'll see."
Arthur brushed Jack's moppy brown hair off his brow and he turned in Arthur's lap, fitting neatly in the nest he made with his crossed legs. No fever, thank God. His color was coming back, and he hadn't been sick since before he arrived. He was less restless, looking just like his mother. A small hand was wrapped up in Arthur's shirt.
He glanced over to John and startled, finding him awake.
Abby was curled up in his arms, grasping loosely at his shirt. She slept with her mouth open and her brow slack. Arthur's lips turned up at the corners as he looked back at Jack. Just the same.
"You always talk to people when they're sleeping?" John kept his voice down, but the teasing was evident.
"Well, I never did it with you. I only do it with people I like." Arthur didn't look at him, continuing to worry over Jack's forehead.
John huffed down his nose. "Right." He studied his son, squinting in the dark. It was bright outside, but the sturdy tents did excellently at keeping much of the light out, even through the afternoon. "How's he doing?"
"He's okay. I think he'll be alright. I'm headed to near Valentine this afternoon if you want to take him to a doctor or something."
"That may be a good idea." John shifted his gaze to somewhere in the middle distance, thinking. The scars from his mountain run-in were fading, shifting silvery-white from the angry pink from before. Arthur thought it aged him, but it was hard to take away from John's natural good looks, as a rule. You'll never have that problem, you ugly bastard.
Arthur watched John's hand, absently stroking Abby's bare arm. She'd removed her frock during the night, leaving her in her full skirt and underslip, the thin straps falling off her shoulders.
Since he'd returned, John had slowly remembered how to love his wife. He'd forgotten what it was like to touch her without thinking or without her flinching.
He grabbed her hand. She jumped. He screwed his eyes shut, flooding with guilt. He'd been back three whole weeks now, hadn't left once. And she still didn't trust him.
It was John's turn to jump when he felt her lips on the corner of his mouth.
John smiled. His skin had always burned when it touched Abigail, from the first press of his lips to her knuckles to the white heat of their bed. He was alight with her, to his very core.
The men were quiet for a while, then. Abigail stirred and rolled off to the side, landing squarely on the grassy floor. John and Arthur waited for her fall to wake her, but she just snuffled and kept sleeping.
"Amazing," said John. His soft looks at his wife warmed Arthur. Maybe he was learning, after all.
Arthur shifted Jack in his lap, passing him to John as smoothly as he could. "I'm gonna head out to Valentine. I'll stay in the hotel tonight and return tomorrow. If you bring Jack, just meet me there."
John nodded. "Thanks, Arthur. Owe you one."
Arthur snorted as he left the tent. "You already owe me one."
He stretched, realizing the overwhelming tight soreness in his back from his morning in the tent. Was it past noon? He checked his watch. Past noon, and've done absolutely jack shit. Walking across camp for some stew, he ran into Molly. She smiled at him, small and tight, but smiled nevertheless. He couldn't call Molly warm, but she tried to be friendly when she felt like it.
"How's young Jack? I noticed Mrs. Grimshaw worrying over you all this morning." Her lilt was quiet, and he wondered just exactly how many people Mrs. Grimshaw had to intercept this morning. He had to thank her later.
Arthur's eyebrows raised, and he canted his head. He couldn't remember a time where Molly cared about…well, any of them, really. "He's doing alright. Likely ate somethin' that disagreed with him is all."
"Good to hear it." She passed him then, brushing his shoulder with her puffy green sleeves.
Odd. She'd grown more comfortable since joining them, but she was still most attached to Dutch, remaining an outsider among the other women.
"Dutch are you serious? Irish nobility now?" Arthur kept his volume low, but the sheer disbelief in his tone was evident. His eyebrows were furrowed deep over his eyes, and he was looking at Dutch as if his tie was made of human flesh.
Dutch raised his hands as if in surrender. "Oh come on, Arthur. She's no harm and I like her well enough." He tried to return to his book.
"Does this Molly listen to your sermons?" Arthur swung his fork toward the book in Dutch's hands.
The book hit the table with a thud. Dutch stared at Arthur, the picture of innocence. "If by that you mean my grand ideas, then yes. She does. She seems very eager about them as well, which is a nice change."
Arthur poked at his stew. "Must be nice havin' a new audience."
Dutch's lips turned down, amused. "it helps that she keeps the bed warm, to be crude."
Ah. There it was. "Right," Arthur said, noncommittally.
Shaking Molly from his head, he retrieved a couple extra rounds of ammo from his tent and added a few arrowheads to the pocket dedicated to them in his satchel. He may not start hunting now, but he'd certainly make an attempt to bring something home for his family while he was out.
As he passed Dutch, he reminded him he would be out, "No more than a few days."
"Bringing back something good?" Dutch asked. "I've been in the mood for some bison myself."
Arthur shrugged. "Maybe. Not sure what I'll find."
"Alright, son. see you soon." Dutch returned to his reading.
Arthur found his mount, the Arabian from the mountain. He'd yet to give her a name, but he was sure she didn't mind much. They'd talked about it, and her ideas were terrible.
"Hey there, girl. You sleep okay?" He offered her a sugar cube from his pocket, and she seemed to grumble at him. "That's my girl."
Mounting up, he kicked off right from camp. He heard a shout from Mrs. Grimshaw reminding him to "Quit that shit right now, Arthur Morgan!" but he figured that was another problem for another time. Shame, too. Lenny wasn't even around to laugh at him.
The ride didn't take him long, and he bagged a couple turkeys on his way into town. Five miles northwest of Rhodes put him close enough to Valentine to warrant a trip to the butcher, where he sold the turkeys for a couple dollars each. Good enough.
He pocketed the money and turned back southeast, expecting to find the homestead in about two miles.
The land in this part of the country was beautiful. Sparse little trees faded into full woods, with little patches of plains scrub brush and little animals everywhere. Even this far east, it reminded him of California.
Emma's instructions did not disappoint. He found the homestead easily. It was beautifully crafted with care. He dismounted his horse and leaped up the stairs to the front door, knocking swiftly.
A woman, the spitting image of Eliza, opened the door. "Arthur!"