Molly was sitting in the corner of the piano room when the door shot open and Arthur came striding in, a woman of mysterious origins in his arms. Any other man in this camp and she'd have suspected a possible kidnapping. But this was Arthur.

He was quickly followed by that crow Grimshaw, Tilly and Mary-Beth. None of them noticed her. Grimshaw ordered the girls about and they went on their way, tittering about the woman.

Arthur and Grimshaw were upstairs for a few more minutes before she eventually heard Arthur's heavy footsteps on the stairs.

Molly stood and approached him when he reached the bottom. "What's goin' on, Arthur?"

He hesitated and spared a brief look up the stairs. "It ain't nothin'. Don't worry about it."

Arthur turned and went out of the house. She narrowed her eyes on his back. That's how it was gonna be then. She hated when people kept secrets from her.

Tilly was back in with an armful of supplies. Molly didn't offer to help, but she did follow the girl up the stairs. Tilly went straight for Arthur's room, getting into a discussion with Grimshaw.

Molly stopped at the top as she wasn't sure what she'd see. Whether the woman was injured or not, Molly didn't want to find out firsthand. She didn't much care for the sight of blood. She'd seen enough of it that night in Blackwater from poor Jenny Kirk's gunshot wound.

They'd lost the Callander boys that night too. But violent Mac and handsy Davey were no sorry loss in her mind. Dutch had promised her after that night they wouldn't lose anyone else that way.

She trusted his word until Sean had been killed unexpectedly. However, Kieran's death had actually scared Molly the most. She hadn't liked neither one of them much personally, but Kieran hadn't been killed like the others. He'd been taken and no one had been the wiser 'til his corpse had ridden in on a horse.

Molly shuddered. Gang members were dropping like flies and her nerves couldn't handle it. She wanted Dutch to console her, to confidently tell her all would be well. But he wouldn't spare her the time for a proper conversation and she didn't know why. The few moments when she did finally have his ear, she'd been too hot from hunting him down all day to speak without temper. She didn't appreciate his snide comments either.

"Did you get a good look at her?"

Molly startled as Mary-Beth came up behind her. She answered loftily, "I have not. Who is she?"

"I don't know. Only that I heard Arthur call her Charlotte." Mary-Beth's eyes went dreamy. "But you shoulda seen Arthur tearing up the lane on his horse, a maiden cradled in his arms like a prince in a fairy tale."

Molly crinkled her nose. "He ain't no prince."

Mary-Beth smiled at her. "Don't you have any sense of romance, Miss O'Shea?"

"Not anymore," she muttered.

Tilly was leaving the room now and joined them.

"How is she?" Mary-Beth asked.

Tilly shrugged. "I couldn't say and Miss Grimshaw don't want us anywhere near."

Mary-Beth clasped her hands together. "I wonder who she is."

Tilly moved past them, going downstairs and Mary-Beth followed. "Miss Grimshaw says she's a proper lady."

A proper lady? Molly's interest piqued. If that was the case, she wanted her own look at this Charlotte. In fact, she wanted more than a look. She wanted to speak to this woman. It'd been ages since she'd had a conversation with someone worthy of own status.

But when Molly walked into Arthur's room, Grimshaw was on her faster than a vulture feasting on a corpse. The old witch pushed her out ruthlessly. "This ain't none of your concern, girl. Now, shoo."

Molly stood outside the door a few minutes, staring and fuming. How dare she? How dare any of them treat her so? She turned on her heel and strode to the room her and Dutch shared upstairs.

She might as well call it her room and not their room since he hardly joined her up here. She suspected he had another bed partner when he made his little trips to Saint Denis.

Her bedroom bordered Arthur's so she didn't miss when he came back upstairs. She pressed her ear against the wall, but all she heard was a muffled conversation between him and Grimshaw. Soon after, his door opened and closed and there was silence.

Molly thought everyone had gone until there was bustling on the other side of the wall. She let out a frustrated breath. She'd have to wait until Grimshaw left. She cracked her own room door open for better hearing and then laid on her bed.

In the early hours of the morning, Grimshaw finally left Arthur's room. Molly rolled from the bed and peeked out the door as the older woman came out looking harried. Molly watched her with disgust. She never wanted her looks to turn that awful.

Now was her chance to sneak in. If another woman was joining the gang, Molly wanted this Charlotte on her side before one of the others filled her head with poisonous ideas against her. But, first, she had to freshen up. She needed to create a grand first impression to contrast that wretched Grimshaw.

She took her time applying her make-up. She chose one of her favorite outfits, a low cut green top with long-sleeves and gold embroidery, accompanied by her maroon skirt. She draped her curls over one shoulder, taking time to sort them neatly.

Finally, she was ready and slipped out of her room. She paused in the hallway. She heard Arthur's snoring from another room. His tent had been set up near her and Dutch's often enough for her to recognize it.

Molly frowned when she saw the door to Arthur's room ajar. Had Grimshaw come back so soon?

She moved silently to the door and peered in. That creep Uncle was leaning over the sleeping woman. To what purpose, Molly didn't know, but if Charlotte really was a lady of quality, she didn't deserve such.

Molly pushed the door open all the way, her accent thickening as she snarled, "What the hell are ya doin' in here, old man?"

Uncle jumped and turned to her with a guilty look. "I swear, I-I was only making sure she was comfortable."

"Is that so? Last thing she needs is your nasty face lookin' upon her when she wakes. You'll scare her back into a coma, you will."

"You ain't a very nice woman, Miss O'Shea."

She smacked him with her fan. "Get outta here!"

"Ow! I'm goin', I'm goin'." He paused in the doorway and pouted. "I'm too old for this abuse, you know."

"You're too old for somethin', alright, you peepin' Tom."

Molly closed the door and turned to find Miss Charlotte opening her eyes. The first thing she noticed was the woman wasn't younger than her. It filled her with immediate relief because she wasn't the type to attract Dutch. That meant she wasn't a threat.

"Hello. Who are you?"

She lifted her chin and announced proudly, "Molly O'Shea."

"You shouldn't be in here with me, Miss O'Shea. If Miss Grimshaw is correct in her diagnosis, I may be contagious."

Darn. The old bat had already spoken with her. Well, it couldn't've been for too long. Molly waved her hand dismissively. "It's nothin' I can't handle. Back in the old country, I survived three illnesses that spread through my family and never caught nary a one."

"Alright..." Charlotte said skeptically. "If you're sure..."

"Do ya remember how ya got here?"

Her brow furrowed. "Not clearly. It seems like a dream. Miss Grimshaw said Arthur brought me here because I'm unwell. I don't exactly know where 'here' is though."

"Old Grimshaw didn't have the courtesy to tell ya?"

"Not in so many words. She didn't seem too keen on speaking with me. She said Arthur would explain everything." Charlotte gazed up at her. "Do you know where he is?"

"Sleepin', and that man can sleep like no one's business." Molly took a seat in the chair next to the bed and leaned forward. "But you don't need him. I'm here and I want you on my side."

"Your side?"

"You're among the wolves now," Molly informed her grimly.

"My, my. That's certainly dire." Charlotte pressed her lips together.

"It's meant to be. Nearly all the people here are awful. They'll smile at you one day and stab you in the back the next."

"Are you including yourself in that?"

Molly didn't like the humor in the other woman's eyes and she shot up from the chair. "Don't you make fun! They're laughing at me too. They think they're so grand and so above me in every way."

Charlotte's expression turned contrite. "I apologize. I didn't mean to offend. My head's a little fuzzy still and I'm having a hard time understanding." She sat up more in the bed, resting her hands in her lap demurely. "Why don't you retake your seat, Miss O'Shea, and explain to me what's going on?"

Molly sat again. "You may as well know, as you're goin' to find out soon enough. You've fallen in with a bad lot, a gang of outlaws."

Her dark eyebrows rose in surprise. "Have I indeed?"

She was aware of nothing. "Do you even know the half of what those degenerates are capable of?"

"I can't say that I do. I only know Arthur, after all."

Molly spat, "Do you know he's a killer? They're all killers. If not by their own hand, then by the information they give to the men who pull the trigger."

"Is that true?" Charlotte frowned. "It's somewhat hard to believe. Arthur's my friend. He's shown me so much kindness—"

"Kindness," Molly scoffed. "That's how they hook you in. Next thing, they're takin' away your innocence."

The other woman held silent and Molly thought maybe she was losing her. She softened her tone, "But I'm here to help you."

"You are?"

Molly's eyes narrowed out the window. "They've all turned against me. Every last one of 'em. And they're turnin' him against me too." She blinked away the sudden dampness in her eyes. "But maybe you can be the one who makes him see."

"I'm sorry," Charlotte said, confused. "Makes who see what?"

"Dutch," she said bitterly. She jumped up from her chair and began erratically pacing. "I love him and I've given him everything and he can't be bothered with so much as lookin' at me anymore."

Charlotte asked reasonably, "Have you spoken up about this?"

"He won't listen. I've tried time and time again."

"That doesn't seem very kind or respectful of him."

It wasn't. Molly pulled out a kerchief and dabbed her eyes, careful of her make-up. "It's been miserable here."

"Tell me about it," Charlotte prompted softly.

"It'd been fun at first, being at Dutch's side, but we haven't stopped movin' for nearly a year." More than once, Molly had participated in playing his wife in some cons, but then everything started changing. People started dying. It wasn't fun and she would play no part in it anymore. She admitted with shame, " I haven't had a proper bath in nigh on six months, if you can believe it."

"Then why stay?"

"I love him. I love Dutch with all my heart." It really was the only reason, she realized. She wasn't friends with anyone here. She didn't like nothing else about this life she'd sought out herself.

Charlotte asked, "Can you not return home?"

Molly wiped her eyes again and frowned at the preposterous question. "I can't go back to Ireland."

"Why not?"

Molly looked out the window, recollecting her home country. The grassy, rolling hills were a far cry from this infested swamp. Even the bogs were more appealing. And she'd seen nothing in all their traveling that compared to the beauty of the Cliffs of Moher.

"I'm sorry if that's impertinent on my part to ask," Charlotte said. "Only, it doesn't seem as if you're cut out for this life on the run."

"I suppose, it's a fair question."

Molly had come to America searching for adventure and romance and fun. And she'd run into Dutch Van der Linde, who'd promised her all of that and more. He'd taken her in and wooed her. He bought her pretty things, danced with her, read to her and made her feel alive in every sense of the word, like she was the most important woman in the world.

Her eyes burned. She hadn't had that feeling in a long time. Now, he did none of it and it wasn't unusual for her to find him eyeing Miss Gaskill when he thought she wasn't looking.

She pushed aside those hurtful thoughts and recalled why she'd left Dublin in the first place. She'd run away after a terrible argument with her Da. She couldn't remember the origin of the fight, but she used some terrible, inexcusable language on her part.

"I wouldn't be welcomed back home," she admitted bitterly. Was she welcome anywhere these days?

"Are you sure?"

"Perhaps Mamó could forgive me, but it don't seem worth the trouble."

She hadn't given much thought to Ireland or her family in a long time. It seemed like another life, the life of her childhood and nothing more. An impossible place she would never see again.

Molly remembered her trips into town, unable to walk down the street without some bleeding Irishman falling over her. It had annoyed her at the time, but now she smiled at the memory.

It'd been more enjoyable when the women looked at her with jealousy instead of mockery and the men watched her with rapture instead of contempt.

Molly lowered her head. "I've burned bridges that can't be rebuilt."

Charlotte's hand reached over and covered hers. "Forgiveness can be a frightening path, but worth the restoration of familial bonds."

Molly looked up. It was refreshing to find compassion and warmth in her expression, especially when it was directed at her for once.

"In the end, you have to do what makes you happy. For me, it was remaining in the woods and finding my independence."

Molly said desperately, "But I love Dutch. More than anythin'. I can't leave him." All she wanted was for Dutch to take her for his wife. But with each passing day, that dream was farther and farther away.

"If this man loves you, he would prioritize your concerns," Charlotte said gently. "From what I'm hearing on your part, it sounds as if this Dutch is causing you great misery."

It was true and it must be obvious if this stranger was saying it and she hadn't even met the man. Charlotte wasn't yet corrupted by his speeches and fancy words. But she would be. As they all had. Molly herself included, yet she was seeing a mite clearer now.

Charlotte continued, "All of us deserve happiness, Miss O'Shea."

And because of the genuine kindness in her eyes, Molly believed her.