Chapter 35; Abigail - An Evening I Will Not Forget
Jack woke at the crack of dawn same as always. He scrambled out of their shared bedroll, bored and itching to move.
"Momma, can I go play?"
The sun was still abed, lighting the sky a misty rose. Fog rolled off the muddy river running sluggish along the edge of camp, distorting the clearing so as the trees seemed a fence of magic brambles from the stories Hosea read to Jack. Abigail wished such things could be, if only to grant them a moment of peace.
"You stay close," she decided. "I need to get the fire goin'."
She looked to the sick wagon, Strauss' wagon, and noted the stillness and pushed the worry down in the pit of her stomach. They had a doctor. A real doctor. Abigail kneeled at the fire, stirring the embers and stoking them back to life. When it caught, she woke the cook.
"Get up, Mr. Pearson," Abigail said briskly. She shook the man's soft rounded shoulder. "Gotta get these people fed."
Simon Pearson snorted and sat up, the stray dark wisps atop his balding head standing askew. He rubbed the sleep from his small eyes. "Yeah, yeah, of course."
Dutch Van der Linde refused to drink stale coffee, and so Mr. Pearson ground it fresh. Even now. Out here. The sound of it and the rich scents that followed, of coffee and sizzling bacon, roused folk from their sleep. They rolled up bedrolls and made their way over to the fire. They said very little, the conversation remaining subdued as each man kept his own thoughts on whatever it was that happened back in Blackwater.
Abigail's eyes kept pulling to the Doc and Arthur. Where John had slept apart and opposite of wherever she and Jack were Arthur had bedded down with Emelia. A buck tending his doe in the rut. His every movement tender. Despite the lack of privacy she still touched his rough cheek and greeted him with a kiss.
They parted, reluctant but dutiful. Arthur to feed the horses and she to check on her patients. Their wounded.
It lifted a weight off Abigail, knowing John and the others were in capable hands. And though she could feel the good doctor's thinly veiled disgust, none could deny her ability. It made helping Pearson easier. Abigail stirred the grits in the great cast iron pot while he fried up the thick cuts of spattering bacon.
"Come and get it while it's hot, people!" Simon shouted soon as that first pot finished perking. The grits were just about done. He set out the tin coffee cups and chipped bowls and began spooning fair portions. The able men always ate first. The earners. To get them quickly back in the saddle. Arthur was there, among them, and Abigail could almost imagine that nothing at all had changed. But Arthur watched, from over the brim of his tin cup, waiting for his girl, and how he smiled soft and secret at the sight of her and Abigail knew nothing would ever be the same.
Abigail followed his gaze. Saw Emelia coming to join them. Her hands upon the flat of her stomach, as if to steady herself. As she drew nearer she clasped her hands together, nervously. Trying to still their shaking.
"So?" Abigail asked. "How'd they look?"
"They look well, Ms. Roberts," Emelia said. She met Abigail's gaze. "I have reason to be hopeful. For all of them."
John... John would be fine, Abigail knew. Lucky John. His wound little more than a scratch compared to the those which Jenny and Davey had suffered. Their guts torn and burned...
"Thanks, Doc," Abigail managed, finding a smile.
"You finally gonna eat?" Pearson asked.
Emelia blanched. "Oh, I... I was hoping to feed the patients first," she said.
"I'll take care of it, Doc" Tilly offered, rising from her seat. "I'm just about done anyhow."
"It really is no trouble," Emelia started quickly. "I... I am not afraid of the work."
"You've done so much for us already," the young woman persisted. Always sweet and pragmatic. "Sit yerself down and eat. Won't do us no good if you faint of hunger."
"Thank you," Emelia said, relenting. Pearson handed the doctor a heaping bowl and she stared at the contents dubiously. Arthur chuckled.
"It don't look like much but, I promise ya, it'll stick to yer ribs."
Emelia smiled weakly.
"Come on over here," he said and Emelia picked her way around the fire, to where Arthur had found a seat on a length of fallen log. Emelia perched herself right next to him, practically in his lap. She pushed around the contents of the bowl and looked like she might turn green.
"I assure you," Arthur confided to her with a little nudge of his shoulder. "Ain't no one died from his cooking." He shoveled a spoonful into his mouth and then added, "Yet."
"Ha ha ha," Pearson said. "Always the jokes with you."
"I swear, it is not an indictment of your cooking, Mr. Pearson," Emelia said. "I'm just..."
"I know," the cook said. His tone very serious, kindly even and his eyes were sympathetic. "This... it takes some getting used to. But, we're glad to have you, Doc. Always good to have another skilled set of hands around here."
"Ain't that the truth," Arthur said.
Emelia blushed and whispered a quiet thank you, but still she did not eat. She could not even look down into the bowl.
"Come on, Doc," Pearson offered. "Give it a try. Maybe sleep did you some good."
"It's just corn and…" Abigail began irritably. Then she had a thought. "Mr. Pearson, can you get her a scoop without the meat?"
"Without the bacon?" the cook demanded, flabbergasted. "But that's the best part!"
"Mm hm. The simpler the better." Abigail raised her brows. "You know. How I used to like it?"
Pearson frowned. "But you love the fatty bits…"
Damn silly fool of a man. Abigail stared at him sternly and raised her brows again. Please, please don't make me say it out loud... I could be wrong...
Pearson's confused scowl suddenly softened. "Oh..." he said. He looked between Emelia and Arthur and started grinning and winked and Abigail wanted to smack him upside his balding head. "Yeah! I can do simple!"
Arthur leaned back a little, to get a better look at the both of them. He eyed Mr. Pearson suspiciously. "I'm sure you could," Arthur drawled.
Pearson paid the surly enforcer little mind, handing Doc the bowl of plain grits. She spooned a mouthful. Swallowed. "Oh," she sighed. "This... it is just what I needed."
"We'll just chalk it up to intuition," Abigail said quickly.
Dutch emerged from his tent then, looking refreshed. Miss O'Shea followed, her hair loose and her fine white wool shawl about her shoulders.
"Good morning," Dutch said grandly. Mary Beth poured them each a cup. Charles, sitting on a wooden slat chair, vacated the seat for the boss. Dutch sat. Abigail prepared his plate. Extra bacon.
"Quickly now," Ms. Grimshaw barked. She motioned for Karen and Mary Beth and Bill to follow her. "We need this tent taken down. Now!"
Bill shuffled about with his task and grumbling all the while. The rest finished their breakfasts, with the scraping of plates and slurping of coffee. The crackle of the cooking fire. Arthur and Emelia spoke in hushed tones, a couple of mourning doves.
Dutch watched them while he ate. Finally, he set the plate down and then took up his coffee, still staring at the couple across the fire. He smiled.
"Slow to get moving today, Arthur?"
"Horses are fed," Morgan replied. "Reckoned I had a little time to spare before the boys were ready."
Dutch nodded, still watching them. "This here," he said, gesturing to Arthur then Emelia with his cup. "The two of you. It really is beautiful to see."
"I'm a lucky man," Arthur allowed.
"What you did, Doc," Dutch said to Emelia. "For Jenny and Davey, well, it's nothing short of a miracle."
"Only time will tell," she replied modestly.
"Yes indeed," Dutch continued. "Strauss and I were talking. It'll be mighty fine havin' a doctor around."
Emelia stopped eating and Arthur chuffed an uncomfortable little laugh.
Dutch seemed oblivious to their hesitation. He stared at Emelia. "You promise to kick a little to the camp and you will be more than welcome to the supplies. Our boys will find you some clients... folk too afraid of them slimy city docs. "
Emelia lips disappeared in a look of quiet dread. Mutely, she reached and clasped Arthur's forearm. Arthur's gaze dropped down briefly, looking at her hand a moment, then back to Dutch.
"Well, I reckon we'll wait till Jenny and Davey are on the mend," he started. He paused a moment to clear his throat. "Then we'll, uh, head our own way."
"Your own way," Dutch repeated.
Arthur looked at Emelia. A small smile curled her lips and she nodded.
"Yeah," Arthur said.
"Oh, of course. Of course," Dutch said, regaining himself. After a moment, he added. "Though… there is one problem with that plan, son."
Arthur frowned.
"Pinkertons," Dutch elaborated. "You pointed it out yourself yesterday."
"I did?"
"These here are transcontinental mercenaries pursuing us."
"It... it does seem that way," Arthur agreed, cautiously.
"So are you certain, Arthur, you'll be okay once you… go your own way?"
The enforcer frowned. "I… I dunno."
"Here we thought this place was a republic," Dutch said. "What happened to the notion of states' rights? Of boundaries? Don't seem quite right, does it?"
"Or maybe... we hurt too many folk," Arthur grumbled.
"Well I guess we did," Dutch said flippantly, chuckling. "But they all seemed to deserve it at the time."
"My friend died on those docks, Mr. Van der Linde," Emelia said evenly. Everyone looked at her. She raised her eyes, met Dutch's gaze. "She did not deserve it."
Dutch stared at her a long moment. "That was about survival."
"You're not starving children stealing food."
"Well, I do got all these fine people to feed."
Emelia cast a glance around the fire. She swallowed. "I see able bodies. I see people who could make honest livings. If they so choose."
No one spoke. The breath around the fire collectively held. Dutch said nothing. He stared at this young woman with a hard, shrewd glean to his eye. The way one might regard a puzzle, or a knot to unravel. After a moment, he turned his gaze to Arthur.
"You know, son… I never did get a chance to properly thank you."
"Thank me?"
"Well, sure. You're our hero!"
Arthur frowned. He checked over his shoulder, making certain someone else were not standing behind him. He looked back at Dutch. "Me?"
"Oh, stop pretending to be an idiot. I taught you better than that! Bill and Charles told me about what you did. How you saved 'em in that alley."
"Naw," Arthur said, looking down at the bowl in his hands. "I, I just happened upon 'em -"
"Don't be so modest! You saved 'em from bounty hunters."
"Bounty hunters?" Emelia squeaked. "When?"
"Back in Blackwater," Dutch provided with a proud smile. "Beat 'em to a bloody pulp! Our Arthur's always been good at... sortin' these things out."
"It… it weren't like that exactly, Dutch, I—"
"And lighting that Police Station on fire? Now that was a clever piece of work."
Arthur sighed. He tossed the coffee cup, grinds and all, toward the fire and stared at his hands.
"You set the Police Station on fire?" Emelia asked. Arthur shrugged.
"That he did," Dutch confirmed with a chuckle. "It provided just the distraction we needed. We never woulda gotten out of there without him."
"I…" again Arthur shrugged, helplessly. Like a whipped dog, he did not know where to look. "I had to get 'em to stop shootin' somehow."
"Arthur!" Emelia gasped. She shot up to her feet, standing apart from him and he flinched.
"Well...," now Arthur looked at her, a little stunned. He fumbled for an explanation. "It seemed preferable to, well, to shooting up the whole goddamn town."
"That was an option?!" she demanded.
"Aww Christ, Emma," he said, his voice hardening. "I ... I didn't know what to do!"
"So you lit the town on fire?" she pressed. Her hands were shaking and she pointed to Dutch. "To… to save them?"
"I thought-"
"After what they did?"
"Christ sakes! I was worried –"
"Someone else might have been killed!"
Arthur blinked. "In the middle of the day?"
"Well… what if someone had been sick, or, or if a baby had been sleeping or…"
"What the hell was I supposed to do?" he demanded hotly, standing. He towered over her.
Emelia backed up a step. "I don't know!"
"That much is clear! 'Be good'," Arthur huffed sarcastically. "'Do nothin'', more like!"
"But you, you set a town on fire!"
"I had no idea where you were!"
"I… I wasn't there!"
"I didn't know that!" Arthur roared, his angry voice booming like a blast and echoing off the pines and all the fight froze in her then. Emelia's eyes were wide and white and no words came forth. She stared at him. Eventually her gaze ticked from Arthur. She looked back at the faces and then… she ran, out of that clearing like a shot.
"Emma, wait!"
Arthur moved to follow her, but Dutch stepped smoothly into his path.
"Let her go."
"No," Arthur said, looking down, embarrassed. "Not after that." He tried to push passed, but Dutch rested his hand on the younger man's shoulder.
"Let her go, Arthur."
"But -"
"She just needs some time to cool off. Get her head right."
Arthur frowned. "Get her head right?" he asked, confused.
There was a murmur of doubt that rippled through the gang members then, that the doc would ever get her head right. In all the commotion, Abigail alone noticed the nagging detail of their public argument. That Arthur's involvement in their escape was pure chance... If not for Emelia, he would have been shoveling horse shit while they all died.
"I know I called you a fool a few nights ago," Dutch said, voice nothing but honied sincerity. "But when the chips were down, you were there for us. Just like you always are. I never should have doubted you, son."
Arthur put his hands on his hips and looked at the ground a moment.
"Dutch... what you did back there, on that dock... it ain't how you taught me."
"Oh," their leader said. "That again."
"Heidi," Arthur said. "She ain't ever hurt nobody."
"Well, I'll admit, it weren't nice," Dutch conceded.
"That's a goddamn understatement if ever I heard one."
"What other choice did I have?" Dutch asked. "You saw that mess. They would have killed us all, Arthur. Like animals -"
"So you keep sayin'," Arthur grumbled. "An' I keep sayin' you never shoulda been there in the first place. Hosea smelled somethin' rotten. He warned ya as much. But no… you had to go act all crazy!"
Micah stood then, started to walk forward but Dutch cast him a quick look of warning and the gunman froze.
"We needed you," Dutch said evenly.
"No," Arthur said, shaking his head.
"It don't matter now," Dutch pressed, and Abigail realized that Dutch understood too, with brilliant clarity. "You are here and I need you. We need you."
"But..." Again, Arthur looked towards where his woman had run, trying to catch sight of her.
"We need to get moving, Arthur. We need you in the saddle."
"Dammit, I can't just let her wander off."
"Don't worry, Arthur," Mary-Beth offered sweetly. "I'll find her."
"There? You see?" Dutch soothed. He led Arthur toward the hitching posts. "We take care of each other."
"She... she weren't wrong..." Arthur tried.
Dutch nodded. "Just… give her some time to cool."
Only, they made it impossible for her to cool.
Arthur was out of camp not five minutes before Grimshaw laid into her, like a cougar sharpening her claws on a tree.
"Who do you think you are?" Susan demanded, with all the fire of a dragon.
Emelia, about to climb into the back of the medical wagon, recoiled. "I... I beg your pardon?"
Mary-Beth did not know what to do. "Ms. Grimshaw... I don't think Arthur..."
Grimshaw turned on her.
"Arthur doesn't know what's good for him," the older woman snapped and Mary-Beth shrank back, avoiding the strike. Susan Grimshaw glared at her, making certain she had tucked tail and then the camp matron took a menacing step toward Emelia. "And it certainly ain't you!" the old woman declared, pointing emphatically. "I see right through you, little Miss New York."
"I... I don't understand," the girl stammered. And indeed, she did seem a girl now, beneath Grimshaw's withering glare.
"You did a mighty fine thing, patching up our boys like you did," Susan allowed. "You saved 'em, no doubt. That don't mean I'm gonna just stand here and let you destroy Arthur."
"Why on earth...?" Emelia began, genuinely confused. "I would never hurt Arthur."
Grimshaw snorted, smirking. "You already are! Forcing him to choose between you and his family. We all saw that humiliating little spat. Don't think we don't see what you're trying to do!"
"I only want what's best for him."
Susan rested her hands on her hips and leveled a fierce look at the doctor.
"What sort of woman would force such a horrible choice on a man?" she asked, though she clearly had decided what sort of woman Emelia was. "After everything he's been through? After all we've done for him?"
"You're going to ride him into an early grave!"
"We're each of us going to die, Miss Griswold. Ain't no sense denying it."
Emelia drew a breath. She met Abigail's eyes a brief moment before answering Grimshaw. "So everyone keeps telling me. Outlaws for life, is it?"
Grimshaw nodded proudly. "Yer damn right, missy."
"No," Emelia said, firmly, defiantly. "I love him."
"You love the idea of him, I'm sure," Grimshaw corrected. "Don't change what he is."
"He asked me to marry him!"
"So it's the sleeping then," Grimshaw decided flippantly.
"I beg your pardon," Emelia demanded. Her fair complexion reddened, with shame or anger, or some combination of the two.
"The sleeping. He wanted to sleep with you but you didn't have the guts to do it without the church to hold him!"
"You are crass and vile!"
Grimshaw laughed in the face of Emelia's honest indignation. "Damn right I am. You'll find him to be the same. Same as Mary did, with enough time. Sure as an alligator's got scales."
"Ms. Grimshaw," Hosea called. They looked to see the longest standing member, Dutch's second in command, coming toward them all. "I reckon we need to be getting on the move."
"I know it, Mr. Matthews," Susan responded icily. "I felt my attention was better served here."
"The medical wagon looks fine to me," he observed breezily. "I'd feel better knowing the others met your approval."
Grimshaw looked at Hosea steadily, her thin angry mouth twisting. "Mr. Matthews..."
"Please," he insisted. Grimshaw huffed and stalked away, fists clenched. Emelia let out a sad, reedy breath.
"Pay that old battle axe no mind," Hosea said quietly, turning to her. "She means well, but sometimes can't see the forest through the trees... of you get my meaning."
"She... she gets on all of us, truth be told," Abigail added, too late.
Emelia wiped her eyes and nodded numbly.
"You're safe here," Hosea promised. "I'll..." he paused and looked at Abigail. "We'll make sure of it. Just... Keep doing what you're doing. For Arthur, I mean."
"I... I don't know if I can, Mr. Matthews," Emelia confessed sadly.
Hosea looked at her a long moment.
"Well, I'm hoping you do," he said. Gently, Hosea touched Emelia by the arm. Guided her to the medical wagon and helped her up. He smiled at her. "Have a little faith."
Emelia forced a smile. "I... I shall try Mr. Matthews."
They rumbled along. Emelia sat, shaken and subdued. She would stare at the ring on her finger and bite her lip and blink away tears. An emotional wreck when not tending to the sick. When Emma heard horses riding up, and the call of warning, she would struggle to her feet and peer out the wagon, clutching at the bonnet to steady herself. Her shoulders would drop when she did not see Arthur.
John watched her resentfully, the only one of the three patients who had not been drugged to high heaven. His arms crossed over his chest petulantly.
"I should be out there," he grumbled. "Not sitting here with the women and wounded.
"You are wounded, Mr. Marston," Miss Emelia said.
"I'm fine."
"Indeed," Doc said. She too watched out over the miles they passed. "You ride out now and you reopen that wound. I trust Ms. Roberts will have a thing to say about that."
"Maybe you should listen, John," Abigail suggested, grateful to not be the bad guy for a change.
"So how long then?" he demanded.
"Two, maybe three more days," Emelia said. "Then you can be right back to getting yourself killed."
John huffed. "Thanks a lot, Doc."
Later that night, as Abigail wound her way back from taking a piss by the river, she came upon them.
"Oh, Arthur…" Emelia sighed. "I... I just wish things were... were..."
"What?" he prompted impatiently.
"Simpler?"
"What the hell did you expect?" he demanded, his voice rough and tired. "I told you! I goddamn told you I don't know nothin' else!"
They stood in a small clearing. Shielded from the gang by a wall of jack pines. Arthur could not have been back in camp long and yet they had sought one another out.
Abigail ducked behind a tree, not certain what to do. If she made herself known, they would disperse. If she allowed it to continue... This was what they wanted, wasn't it? For Arthur to accept that this weren't for him.
"I… I don't blame you," Emelia tried, heedless of his simmering anger, ignorant of how nasty he could be. "But this? They murdered Heidi!"
"I know!"
"And several more besides."
He growled and turned away, unable to refute it and yet still she carried on. "Your job and our home and Boadicea. All lost. My practice…"
"I know, goddamnit!" He paced away from her then. Angry and agitated. His hands balled into fists.
"And we can't go back, can we?" she sobbed. A great, tremulous thing and she wrung her hands and looked away from him, not knowing where to go. "We can't ever go back, and now we're here. We're trapped here and you... you..."
She could no longer speak for crying. Emelia seemed very young and lost in that moment. She had no business here, with him, them. In this life. It would break her. Abigail understood too well that there are hurts that time could not heal.
But Arthur sighed. Turned and went to her. Gentle now. Gathered her in his arms.
"I'm sorry, Emma," he said. "I've made a mess of things."
Emelia wound her arms round his waist, buried her face in his chest and sobbed harder.
"I warned ya," he soothed. Petting her. He spoke low now soft now. "I…" he shrugged. "I… don't know how to be what yer askin' of me. I... I'm no good."
Emelia looked up at him then and shook her head emphatically. "Oh, Arthur."
"Maybe... maybe it'd be best for you if I put you on a train back to New York. Get you away from all this..."
"No," she gasped.
"But it's true, ain't it?" Arthur pressed sadly. "I can't figure out a problem without killin' or breakin' something."
"That's not true," Emelia insisted stubbornly, despite everything. Tears stood in her eyes, but she looked up at him, earnest.
"I tried… you saw what happened."
"This," she faltered a moment. "This was not your fault."
He sighed. Emelia laid her hands against that solid cannon of his chest, palms flat and fingers splayed and seemed to ground herself with the sturdy heat and deep steady thrum of life that flowed through his frame. She stared up at him, into that rough, scarred face.
"Being good... Redemption, it is a constant choice, Arthur."
He wrapped her hands in one of his and stared back at her.
"But... I ain't sorry," he confessed.
Emelia frowned. "I… I don't understand."
"For lighting that fire nor for shooting them boys on the road. I ain't sorry."
"Arthur…"
"It was them or you," he insisted. "D'you understand what I'm tellin ya?"
"You...you were trying to protect me."
Arthur nodded, solemn. "I'd kill for you," he said gravely. "Lay my life down if need be."
At first Emelia did not know what to say to so frightening and ardent a vow. She did not make light of it. Nor did she curse him as something base or low. "I... I just need you to run," she said. "Please, Arthur. Please. Before it's too late."
"You…," he chuffed. "After all this? You still think I can do it?"
Emelia grasped his head in her hands and rose up on her toes while she pulled and he acquiesced, yielding so completely. She sealed his mouth with a soft, lingering kiss. When they parted Emelia looked up at him through her tears and nodded.
Arthur sighed. "Alright, darlin'," he promised and even Abigail believed him. Emelia kissed him again, deeper, slower. Her arms wound round his neck and Arthur... Arthur pulled her very close, breathing heavy as a stallion.
Abigail slipped away then. She had seen enough.