Chapter Five

"People always talk about the simplicity of country life. But, there's nothing simple about any of this."

Charlotte provided Arthur a stack of clothing from the wardrobe and he didn't ask whether they had been her husband's or not, simply accepted them with his thanks. Over the next few days, he got up and moved around when he could, which was usually only to use the outhouse. Any more than that and Charlotte scolded him about overworking himself. He would be irritated about it if he didn't grow fatigued just from that little bit of walking.

One morning, Charlotte told him, "You should come outside for some fresh air today, Arthur." She cleaned up their breakfast and returned to the kitchen. "I'm sure it would do you a world of good."

"I'll think about it." Did he want to embarrass himself and faint on the goddamn steps again? It'd happened the first day he'd tried to walk to the outhouse by himself and Charlotte had fussed over him the rest of the night afterwards.

"I have some chores to accomplish today, but I'll join you at lunchtime if you can't make it out."

Arthur sat in the empty house by himself, trying to journal, but he couldn't think of much to write or draw. He glanced out the window. Nature always inspired him and he did itch to leave the house.

He eased out of bed. It weren't as difficult today, especially since he hadn't got a coughing fit in awhile. He was starting to believe the doctor when he'd recommended rest and relaxation.

There was a plate in the kitchen with some leftover meat and he picked it up for a snack. Next, he collected his journal and pencil Charlotte had provided and walked onto the porch. He settled himself down on the bench, sketching some of the foliage nearby. He watched Charlotte for awhile as she did her various chores on the property. Today, she was taking on clearing the shed. He wished he weren't so useless and could help her, but he still felt pain in his chest if he exerted himself too much.

Arthur closed his eyes, enjoying the feel of the breezy, summer morning. He dozed off a bit, stirring awake when he heard Charlotte walking to the patch of garden she'd started in front of the house. She smiled when she saw him and waved. He lifted a hand in greeting. He watched as she knelt and began her weeding.

After a few minutes, she paused and turned her face up to the sky, her eyes closed as she took in the sunlight. Charlotte had adapted well since he'd last visited. She'd been pale, frail and uncertain when he'd stumbled upon her up here. Now, her skin had tanned, adjusting to a life outside, and her gaunt cheeks had filled out healthily.

Before she moved, Arthur opened his journal and started a sketch, trying to capture her tranquil expression. For the first time since their acquaintance, he realized she was an attractive woman. He hadn't recognized it before, but now, with her features relaxed, he saw she was more than a sorrowful widow.

He'd always liked Charlotte. When her husband got killed, she'd grieved, but she hadn't drowned in self-pity or given up on life. She hadn't even escaped back to the city like she could have. She persevered out here and look at how much she'd accomplished, at the confidence she'd gained. It was a quality he admired in almost anyone.

Something caught his eye on the empty spot on the bench. He turned and found a gray cat trying to snag the meat strips he'd brought out. A dirty, feral-eyed thing with more bones than fur.

He murmured, "Miss Charlotte is a just magnet for strays, ain't she?"

The cat didn't answer, having frozen in place when Arthur had turned his head.

"Go on. You look like you need them scraps more than me." It was a surprise the thing hadn't become a predator's meal out in these woods. After it finished the bits, the cat didn't flee as Arthur expected. The odd thing padded onto his lap and settled down as if it had done it a hundred times before. Hesitantly, so as not to scare it off, Arthur laid a palm on it, gently stroking its fur.

"You got Puck to come to you."

Charlotte had made her way to the porch and leaned on a wooden column, wiping her forehead. There was admiration in her voice, as if he'd accomplished some magnificent feat. Charlotte always had a way of making his actions feel more impressive than they actually were.

"Puck?" he asked.

She quoted, "'I am that merry wanderer of the night/I jest to Oberon and make him smile.'" At his bewildered expression, she crooked her own smile. "It's Shakespeare. Puck is a mischievous sprite who likes to cause pranks." She took the seat next to him and petted the cat too. "Like this one. I've been trying to feed him all week, but he kept running off."

"I guess he was just tired of running."

Charlotte nodded and then inquired of him, "How are you feeling, Arthur?"

"I don't know. It seems I keep waking up when I didn't know I'd fallen asleep in the first place."

"That's good though. It means your body is healing."

"My body needs to heal a little faster so I don't feel so damn useless around here."

"I brought in some potatoes, if you want to do some peeling." She peeked up at him. "That is, unless you consider that women's work."

"You're tryin' to bait me, but I ain't afraid of making my own food."

She chuckled. "That makes one of us."

They settled into a comfortable silence, both watching the trees blowing in the wind. Birds chattered to each other atop the well and the sound of a train whistled in the distance.

Charlotte was close to him, but now she sighed and laid her head on his shoulder, her easy familiarity surprising him. "It's peaceful here, isn't it?"

Arthur looked down at the cat purring in his lap, to the woman leaning on him, listening to the sounds of the woods and the river beyond. He said quietly, "Yes, it's peaceful."

"Do you like it here, Arthur?" she asked softly.

'Course he liked it here. Probably too much for Charlotte's own good. He could impose on her like this for a long time, if she let him. He wondered what she'd say if he told her that. He wanted to laugh. The woman was so selfless, she'd likely take it as a compliment.

Before he decided what to say, he heard light snoring. She'd fallen asleep on him. Poor woman had worked her ass off this morning. Meanwhile, he'd been sitting here as useless as Uncle. But, it was difficult to hold on to frustration when the world was this quiet.

The warmth of the sun lulled him into sleeping too, but he awoke when Puck the cat jumped off his lap, pressing its weight into his legs. He blinked at the lowered sun, drowsily wishing he had his gambler's hat to shade his eyes and continue his nap.

Charlotte stirred and sat up. She stretched and then eyed him guiltily. "Pardon my manners, Arthur. I didn't mean to fall asleep on you like that."

He grunted, "Didn't bother me none."

She stood. "Come on, help me start dinner. We've slept straight past lunch and I'm starving."

OOOOOOOOO

Arthur did end up peeling potatoes with Charlotte, as she'd offered. They sat at the table together, peeling in a bucket and sorting the potatoes into a pan.

"Arthur, I've been meaning to ask," Charlotte said when they were settled. "Do you have any family for me to write, to let them know you're okay?"

Thinking of John, the girls, and Dutch, he said, "I don't know what I got anymore." He continued peeling. "What most folk call family, died a long time ago for me. There are a couple of people who'd care I'm alive, but where they are is anyone's guess." He hoped John and his family had made it out and far away. Sadie. Charles. Mary-Beth and Tilly. He wished the same for them too. "There are some who want me alive only long enough to see me swing." Pinkertons. Micah, if he didn't shoot him first. Maybe Dutch. He didn't know for sure. "I reckon it's best if everyone thinks I died on that mountain."

Arthur had avoided looking at Charlotte because he didn't want to see her reaction. Whether it be pity or fear. Therefore, if surprised him when her hands covered his. He peered up at her.

She told him firmly, "Arthur, you are welcome here for as long as you want. My home is your home."

While he appreciated the kindness, he thought she might have missed his meaning. He'd felt bad not being straight forward with her from the start and it was time he corrected that. "I reckon you don't understand what you're offering. What kind of man you're offering your home to."

She pulled away from him, but slowly. Unexpected, but clear amusement twinkled in her eyes. "Are you implying you're some sort of outlaw, Mr. Morgan?"

"Yes." Baffled at her expression, he narrowed his eyes. "It ain't a joke."

She further confused him when she chuckled. "I know you've been a wanted man, Arthur. I saw a poster up in Annesburg months ago." She eyed him. "Besides, even if I hadn't, you were never exactly...inconspicuous."

His brow furrowed. "How do you mean?"

She snorted and resumed peeling her last potato. "I haven't lived here long, but even I know a man doesn't wear two gun holsters and a bandolier full of cartridges if he's not heading into a gunfight."

Arthur had thought he'd hidden that part of himself from her well enough. Thought it was the reason she'd welcomed him so readily. "And you ain't concerned? About me? Or bringing the law or worse down on you?"

She paused and said simply, "You've always been a good friend to me. That's what I want to be for you."

Good friends with an outlaw? Arthur stared at her, at how sincerely she was looking at him. She truly meant it. He shook his head in disbelief. "You're an odd stick, Charlotte Balfour."

Her mouth dropped open. "I am not!"

He drawled, "The proof is in the deplorable company you keep."

She plucked up a potato skin from the bucket and flicked it at him.

Arthur clutched his chest as if he'd been wounded. "That ain't no way to treat a house guest."

"It's how I treat a mouthy one," she retorted and he had to chuckle. She let slip a smile before she stood and put the potatoes on to boil.

OOOOOOOOO

After dinner, Arthur helped Charlotte clear the table. He wanted to get something written down today and Charlotte mentioned needing to read. She settled across from him, lighting a lantern for the table so they could accomplish their activities before bed.

'I've never lived life this slow before. I'd always gotten restless when there weren't much to do, but these days my body only allows me so much time in a day.

Charlotte's been a saint, don't know how or why she puts up with me, but I like how intently she listens when I got something to say. The woman's heart might be too big though. She knows I'm an outlaw, said she's known for awhile, but it don't seem to bother her. I'd reckon it was ignorance on her part, but Charlotte's no fool. She might not have been born to this kind of life, but she's taken it head on...'

"Damn."

Arthur looked up from his journal, frowning since Charlotte weren't normally one for cussing. She was perusing a letter, and growing more flustered the further her eyes roamed. She stood abruptly and began pacing the small room.

"What's got you all agitated?" he asked after her third pass in front of him.

Charlotte stopped and looked at him, her brow furrowing. "My family plans on visiting."

"Your family," he repeated. For some reason, he'd gotten it in his head that her dead husband had been the only family she'd had. Although, now that he thought about it, he was fuzzily remembering her mention an overbearing father and them two brothers.

"I received this letter the day I brought you here and had forgotten about it until tonight." She bit her lip. "They're likely in Saint Denis right now."

"I take it you're not excited to see this family of yours?"

Charlotte started her short, anxious striding again. "Of course, I'd love to see them. They're my family and it has been awhile. It's just..."

Arthur knew where this was going, but she couldn't say it to his face. He was all too aware how he was received by folk in 'polite society'. He stated flatly, "You want me to make myself scarce before they turn up."

She stopped and turned to him with a frown. "I wasn't thinking that at all."

Her genuine response surprised him. After all, he'd been through it before with Mary and her family often enough. "What are they gonna think finding me here?"

She rubbed her temple and sighed. "Oh, Arthur. That's the least of my worries."

He said dryly, "I highly doubt you harboring an outlaw is the least of your worries."

She sent him a look and sat down once more. "My father is unlikely to travel this far into the country. Not with how severe his hay fever can get. As for my mother..." She fingered the paper absently. "Every letter I've received from her since I arrived has been to try and persuade me to return to Chicago. I've refused her in writing, but what if, when she gets here..." Her eyes met his anxiously. "I won't be able to tell her no?"

Without thinking, Arthur reached across the table and placed a comforting hand over hers. "Charlotte Balfour, I reckon you're a lot stronger than you realize. If you don't want to go, you'll be able to tell her off easy enough."

She gave him a small smile and turned her hand to squeeze his. "Your faith in my resolve is admirable, but perhaps somewhat misplaced."

He liked the feel of her hand in his. His were dry and calloused, the result of working every damn day of his life. Hers were small and soft, proof she'd only just started a life of hardship. Her slender fingers still yet without callouses. He wondered how they'd feel combing through his hair...

Where the hell had that thought come from? He cleared his throat awkwardly and pulled away.

To hide his inner tension, he teased, "If worse comes to worse, maybe you can scare her off with that cooking of yours."

Her mouth dropped open in mock offense. "Watch it, Mr. Morgan, or your next meal may contain poisonous berries."

He scratched his chin, saying lightly, "How I hear it, you are the expert at finding 'em."

She raised a dark eyebrow. "Then you understand my meaning clearly."

"Can't say I take too kindly to threats."

Her lips twitched upward. "Then, I expect you to keep the rest of those comments on my cooking to yourself." She stood again, sighing. "Well, I suppose I had better unearth something suitable I can wear that my mother won't criticize." She muttered grimly, "I may not return." She still managed a smile his direction. "Goodnight, Arthur."

"Goodnight, Charlotte."

She retreated to her room, closing the door softly and he settled back into his chair, a smile on his face. He liked this. Simple living. He'd always scorned the idea of civilization. He'd thought he'd get bored and disgusted with himself for growing soft. But, he reckoned he could settle down in a place like this. A remote cabin in the woods, close to a river and nowhere near town.

That specific image had him pausing. It weren't simple living he liked. It was Willard's Rest, with Charlotte. He liked waking up and hearing her cheery 'good morning', teasing her throughout the day and making her laugh.

He groaned. When had he turned into such a damn fool? Well, he'd always been a fool, but when had he gone so mellow? This soft life weren't for him, never had been. Ain't he learned by now good things his way were short-lived?