Life is very confusing, and I see now that I am not very good at it.

Stiff where he stood with the single sheet of parchment in his hand, Arthur's eyes glided over the words. And it was almost like he'd written them himself, almost like it was his own voice relaying that portion of the message in his mind, rather than hers that he could still make out so well.

I am afraid we have got ourselves into another mess. It's not my fault, but I need your help. I'm staying at the Hotel Grand in Saint Denis. Oh Arthur, I know it is wrong to ask you, but I have nobody else…

He swallowed at that, and a pain leapt into his chest. For her. Undoubtedly for her.

Could've been that he himself had once known what it was to have nobody, not a soul to rely upon—not so much as a tender word spoken in patience or a hand moved in compassion—not before Dutch and Hosea. Could've been that another woman had known a similar lonely life, due to his own wretched choices—strung out on her own with their son, forced to bear it all alone, aching for those same tender, patient words.

Could've been simply that he felt for her situation. He knew she wasn't lying, after all. Or maybe it was all those things. But he shuddered at the existence of the possibility that it meant he still loved her.

…and for what we once had together, I beg of you, even though I am ashamed to do so.

Yours,

Mary

He quickly turned the letter over once, and seeing nothing on the back, he folded it.

"For what we once had together."

He could see her, so clearly. Her blushed cheeks above her neatly pressed white lace collar. The way her hair fell about her—dark, but lit with the sun's haze. Her kindness and gentleness, even how flustered and embarrassed she could get. Her amber eyes and thick brown lashes. The way they could look back at him.

And he was a young boy again, no older than the fresh age of nineteen. Bright-eyed and anticipant. Eager for life's possibilities. Even then, he'd known what a life with her would've meant. And he'd been ready for it. Had felt himself steady, and prepared. To be a stable supply of spousal love and support, perhaps receive it as well. To grow in intimacy. To learn the blessed gift of being a father, of cherishing and stewarding your own child, of developing a legacy. All the stuff and storms of life—to figure it out with her.

But it'd turned out all they'd 'once had together' had been nothing more than wishes, kisses, and quakes through already broken earth. It hadn't been enough.

As a boy, he'd relied upon the excuse that for his part, he'd done all the loving. That she hadn't had any to offer him in return, not really. He knew well that that was a callow lie, had probably always known it; only now was he able to look at it.

Fatherhood and all those other dreams... He'd never really had a chance at them with her. Ultimately, they'd escaped him altogether.

But he had loved her. He had. He couldn't snuff at that. Her cares, burdens, joys, and dreams had been his own, at one time. Though long ago.

Whatever hope he didn't want to toy with, and whatever else may lay inside him beyond where he was willing to venture at the present, he found he did still concern himself with her well-being, with her life's good. Did still consider himself her friend.

Closing his eyes and releasing a long sigh through his nose, he braced himself by resting the heel of his hand with the letter still in it on the tabletop in his room. He listened to the slight creak it gave beneath his weight, felt the worn grain of the peeling wood under his palm. Noticed a rare breeze seep in through the window and dance across the top of his right cheek and the bridge of his nose.

"Yours."

Lifting his head, he glanced out his window at the grounds of Shady Belle, his family members going about their business. They wouldn't miss him for a day. And despite how thoroughly he despised such dense civilization, maybe the brief sight of the filigree-bordered balconies of Saint Denis would be a nice change of pace.

Trying to keep himself in check, he lazily ambled down the rickety stairs of the old, dilapidated plantation house, letting each step be a surprise to his indolently swaggering hips. But once he'd mounted his horse and had made it a ways from the property, it took him a minute to realize he was leaning forward in the saddle, his spurs were hiccupping almost of their own accord, and the wind was lapping at his face.

It didn't seem long at all before the chimed clops of his horse's hooves against Saint Denis's cobblestone pavement filled his ears, and he hardly remembered the journey or the route he'd taken. Being in the tapered streets now though, he made a point to tug on the reigns and slow his mount to a trot, taking care to avoid the plentiful people roaming this way and that. He lent a thought to hopping down and leading his horse by the reigns, but before he knew it, he was pulling up to the place anyway—the Hotel Grand.

"Arthur! Arthur!"

He ducked his head around at the sound of his name being boisterously shouted.

"Up here!"

He glanced up and caught a figure waving from the balcony, then decided he could get a better look after dismounting. Once standing in his boots in the middle of the craggy street, he craned his neck and found Mary waving almost as frantically as a little schoolgirl above him.

"You came!" she said with a bright smile.

"Yeah, I came," he chuckled in spite of himself. Still looking up at her, he wondered whether he could expect their whole interaction to take place right here, and whether it was appropriate to ask her to air her business out in the open like this. He opted to drawl a vague, "So, uh…what you need?"

With relief, he received, "Wait there. I'm comin' straight down!" as Mary patted the air before her in emphasis.

Nodding and facing forward again, he noticed something in his periphery and turned his head to find two nosy oafs in fine dress standing and gawking up at the balcony. Upon realizing the look of the man whose attention they'd caught, with a start they quickly continued on their way, just as Arthur was spinning the other way with bunched brows.

Mary had made a bit of a scene, sure, but there was no cause for ogling. Especially if he was there to say anything about it. Well, he was just fine with the sight of himself startling them away.

When his gaze landed on his own reflection in the hotel's display window, the thought naturally led him to take quick stock. Though, knowing he wouldn't like what he'd find, he didn't have any desire to linger.

A grizzled, haggard, worn-out sight greeted him. Scuffed hat, snagged and soiled clothing, parched leather gun belt, sturdy work pants, and glinting spurs that clinked like the reaper's death scythe. Crows' feet and eye bags. Patchy scruff and wayward locks. Chapped lips, rough hands, and dirt caked into the sun-touched pores and creases of his scarred, aging, and almost nastily frozen face. Hadn't been raised in a barn—he'd been raised under the sky and stars. Truly a rugged, washed up, churlish, and unruly son of a bitch to boot.

It was enough appraising. Enough in half a second to last him a lifetime.

He almost wagged his head and yanked it away. But instead, he quickly glanced down at his mouth and peeled his dry lips open, running a single finger back and forth over his dull, crooked teeth. Couldn't hurt.

And he gave his reflection one last glare as he looked down over himself. But as he faced the hotel's main entrance, he thought with a low Good god... that he hadn't had enough time to contemplate the stink he'd affront her with.

By then, she was already walking out with a pleasant smile and a hitch in her step. She wore a fine, clean, teal jacket-taille overdress and an orange and goldenrod plaid petticoat with a short standing collar at her neck.

"Arthur," she said simply as she stood before him and looked at him. She was no longer a thought in his mind. Just like that, she was flesh and blood before him.

Her raven hair was neatly plaited back into a simple low chignon at the nape of her neck—a style that matured her a little, though nicely. But her amber eyes were still looking at him with excitement and admiration, till shaded by those thick lashes, her cheeks still flushed a hue that could make a good man come apart at the seams, much less a bad one.

And the muscled organ in his chest still leapt and skipped and bucked and kicked like a green-broke jackass at the sight and sound of her.

Goddamn pathetic, sorry ol' fool. A child.

"Hello, Mary," he nodded with a mellow smile in return, his tone level, along with his gaze. The way he swayed and shifted a bit matched the heavy feeling above his eyelids and across his shoulders. As if he were stuck in some sort of thick, sticky-sweet syrup. And as cross as he was with himself for it, he couldn't seem to adjust his posture, no matter how he wanted to.

"You came," she nodded with a smile.

"Sure," he responded quietly—all he could manage—even in the midst of this filthy, bustling city. He tipped his head with a single nod. "Whenever you call for me, I come."

"Oh, Arthur." It was almost like she became a bit too overwhelmed for a moment.

Leaning to the side, he watched her closely as she turned away, noting the concern and suffering woven into the folds of her brows. "What's wrong?" The soft, smooth sound of it out of his throat and mouth was intimate—like the hushed, murmured glow of candlelight—perhaps more intimate than the nature of what they'd meant to each other had ever deserved or garnered.

"Daddy."

And with that one word, his brows arched up. "Your father?" he almost squeaked impudently, the sound of it shifting the smoggy air between them. He shook his head and began to saunter off past her, taking heavy steps and swinging his arms just a touch as he went. It was a long time ago, but it still happened. Still had had immeasurable effects on his and Mary's lives. And he had just enough self-respect not to get involved with that sack of shit again. Or, at least just enough not to want to. At all. "I'm a bigger fool than I even thought."

"I'm beggin' you, Arthur!" she called after him.

And his steps slowed to a stop. He looked up at the gray mottled sky, and a wry, rueful smirk began to prick the corner of his mouth at the failure of his own feet. He shut his eyes and hung his head.

"I know Daddy was not…kind to you," she began her desperate entreaty, watching as he began to turn back around and face her, though his gaze remained out at the street, "but…but surely you cannot hate a man for the 'sin' of loving his daughter."

He blinked as he let his eyes wander across the broken cobblestones. He knew well enough where she was going with this. And she had him there. If he'd had a daughter himself, the very last person he'd want her gallivanting, cavorting, and weaving her life with was an outlaw.

"And wanting better for her than…"

There it was. He turned to look at her and slowly walked towards her with calculated movements, his chin cocked, his jaw set at an indignant angle, the cut of his figure shadowy and imposing.

"Th-than—" he intentionally made her stumble.

"Than me?" he nodded. He'd make her say it.

"Than…the…choices you make," she caught herself, finding the resolve and certainty with the last few words to cease stumbling and to gesture firmly but calmly with her hand.

He had to give it to her: she'd always seen her way so clearly, had always stuck to her guns. Ironically, it was one of things he'd loved about her, truth be told. But he was sure it left her no room to consider his perspective, his experience, his life.

"What choice did I have?" his brows shoved together, then rose. "Did I ever have?" he quickly retorted, beginning to lift his volume.

"Oh, I know," she whipped her head away. "You had to live by your 'code.'"

He squinted and almost wanted to spit nails at the way she'd said it—all mockery and belittlement—as if the stuff of his very life were nothing more than boys at play.

He'd almost forgotten that this was what their last couple conversations had been like, all those years ago, before she'd gone and wed herself off to the first dunce in the street she'd come across—words flying tense and angry in both directions, finally inducing tears in Mary, charged with frustration, standing there like two puzzle pieces that just would not fit. No amount of cramming or reshaping would do, no matter how they turned them and cocked their heads. Not at that time, at least. Not before they'd both grown themselves, he guessed.

"But your 'code' is…well, it's not right!" It was possibly the closest she'd ever come to raising her voice to him.

It was enough. Enough of her expecting his life to meet her godawful standards, when by her own words, she couldn't seem to reach them herself.

"Has your way been right, Mary?" he nodded once, his tone low and even as a steel blade. "With you, and Jamie joinin' a bunch a' crazies," he said slowly, his voice steadily rising, "and hypocritical Daddy, with his drinkin' an' whorin' an' gamblin'? Huh? Is that what a pure life has gotten you? Beggin' me for help?!" he jabbed his own chest. He'd grown so loud that the last few words had reverberated in his throat.

"Oh, Arthur," she spun to turn her back to him.

He silently huffed a little to catch his breath, forcing himself to cool and letting her gather her composure.

"Be kind to me," her voice trembled, though she'd found the strength to bring it above a whisper. "Please."

And he was slapped with it. Out of nowhere, like a hot iron across his face, he heard those exact same words—did it have to be those words?—merely breathed in the sheets beneath him by his son's mother. So quiet, he hadn't realized they'd been uttered until she'd already left the earth. So alone and so desperate, for his love, for him to give it to her. So knowing, somehow, that it was there, but that he was storing it up, scared, withholding it from her.

Letting his eyes fall closed, he relinquished a long breath through his nose. Did it have to be those words?

It was a tender and intimate, a raw and wounded nerve; Mary couldn't have known she'd touched it. Just as well, she stood there, in pain and need, her posture alone and desperate.

"'M sorry," he said quietly and gravely as he strode past her and back to the hotel steps. He turned and sat there, the act embellished by the sound of his knees popping just a bit. He hunched forward to rest his forearms on his thighs, slump his shoulders, and train his gaze on the gutter.

"I am…" she shook her head. "I should have asked someone else," she admitted as she walked over to sit beside him. "But—"

"But I'm the best guy you know at frightenin' decent people." Though mumbled and resigned, disappointed even—with himself more than with her—it wasn't a question.

As she sat, her skirt brushed his pant leg with the barest touch. She looked out at the street spotted with a few people and spoke slowly and clearly, each word measured with intent. "It wasn't that I didn't love you, Arthur. You know that."

"I know," he mumbled quietly, the edges of the words squishy and smushed, and he sounded almost like a toddler to his own ears. Despite the twists inside him at their convoluted history, he did know. There was no duplicity in Mary's heart, nor in the statement.

"Oh, Arthur," she immediately whimpered, her brows drawn as she glanced at him.

Had she nothing better to say?

"We were so very young," she slowly continued, her tone crumpled and pained.

He glanced at her. She was still beautiful, bless her. Still had the softness she'd had in youth, but with the added beauty of maturity mingled in different attributes of her skin and face.

She slowly looked forward again, matching his pensive disposition. "Think how different life coulda been."

He hung his head and looked down between his boots. "Yeah, I think about it," he said gently with a nervous sniff tacked to the end. "A lot…but…it all seems so long ago and far away now." Though the last words were hard to get out, they were as plain as he could be with her.

For it didn't matter that his physical eyes were trained on the grimy, crusty Saint Denis pavement. Didn't matter that he was seated beside the sweetheart of his youth. If he tried to reach back across that many years, he'd be passing over too much, far too much.

Because there they were, mother and son. In his mind's eye. He could see them standing there, with pleading faces, gazes full of love and longing.

Let me be real, they softly called to him. Don't turn me into a relic of the past.

His love for them had never been more real to him.

Don't let me be nothing more than a faded memory.

So real it slowly stole all the breath from his lungs in a weighted sigh, and returned it again to him with a sweet fullness.

Let me be real.

And their love for him... Somehow, someway, he could still feel it. He knew, without a doubt, it was real.

It was the tragedy of his foolish, forgone life—he could see it now—that he couldn't have brought himself to hold onto them when he'd had them, and couldn't let go now they were gone.

"Will you help me try to save Daddy?"

Jostled from his beloved and aching reverie, he shifted on the step and released a long sigh.

.

Sweet, kind readers,

I know this chapter seemed short, but it didn't feel that way to me! Eek! This one's a long time coming; it's been in my heart since playing a second time! 😭

Everyone's got opinions on Mary 😅 I really wanted to focus on Arthur's experience here though, and try to work his inner life into the scene, knowing more about his life now. If you've read all 3 works in this series, you might feel it's been a long time since we've actually seen Mary in the story. I wanted to echo a fraction of what Arthur said he felt, that it was "so long ago and far away now." Even writing for Mary feels like ages ago for me-2 years! I hope that came across. 😊

Hope you enjoyed it, and thank you so much again for your ever-kind support. 🌻💗💛💕

I know this time of year can be really hard for some. No pressure at all to do so, but if anyone needs extra kindness or wants to talk, about the story, about red dead, or about anything, just want to let you guys know I'm here.

tumblr: rivetingrosie4

Ariana, Will, TJ, Paige, Sam, and each guest reviewer, thank you so so much for your kind, amazing support! 💞🌻💛💕

To one guest reviewer: hearing Eliza is a profound and positive character whom you dearly love absolutely makes my heart melt and soar at the same time and makes me want to cry. I am more glad and grateful than I can say that that's true. Thank you so much for letting me know that! 💗

Love to all,
Rosie🎄 ️🎁