Abigail rode into camp the moment the contractions started. A part of her knew that the women in the brothel would take care of her but she wanted him to be there. She wanted him to care.

In her mind she heard the same phrase repeat over and over again.

Queen of the rodeo, you rode on in with nowhere else to go

She never thought that she would be here. Never thought that she would fall in love. Not with John.

She had been in love once before. He would visit her time and time again. Promises falling from his lips of a better life than working in a brothel. She believed him. Believed he would take her away. She was naive. She would never be naive again. But something about John just… She didn't have the words for it. He just was.

Her mother had always told her she was a beautiful girl.

Beautiful, she would whisper, hand running through her hair.

Beautiful, the men visiting the Cat house would say as she played the piano.

Beautiful, he panted, hot breath in her ear.

As another stab of pain cut through her, face red and sweaty with exertion, she thought beauty can only get you so far.

Jack was an angry lump of dark hair, red faced and lungs full of breath. They laid him upon her breast, her body sagging in exhaustion. He was beautiful and she understood.

The moment she discovered John had left, she walked into the woods. She stood in the copse of thick leafed trees and screamed. She screamed until her voice cracked. She screamed until her throat was raw. She screamed until she tasted the bitter iron taste of blood on her tongue and she imagined that it was pieces of her heart. She walked back into camp, eyes wet with tears, voice gone. She took Jack back from the arms of Grimshaw who eyed her with concern and shut herself in their- her- tent.

She was grateful for them. For the girls who supported her. For Hosea who defended her place in the camp. For Arthur. Parts of her wondered what it would have been like to be with a man such as him. Solid, steadfast, a quiet protectiveness that seemed to fill the air. But her heart would whisper as she watched him hold Jack. As he would hand her his share of the take for Jack's clothes. As he made sure to ask about her in his quiet awkward way.

That he wasn't John.

And she spirals once again.

Jack is confused. He looks to her, eyes wide with questions she has no real answer to, as John quietly moves about her tent. And she thinks of the time when he was learning to talk. Of the way his little arms reached out- hands grasping, face split with a gummy smile- towards Arthur who had passed by her tent. Of the way he yelled "Dada." Of the way Arthur startled and dropped the hay bale, straw scattering around his boots as he turned towards them.

John may have been Jack's father but he wasn't his daddy.

Arthur had politely distanced himself from them after that. She didn't blame him. She knew he had his eyes and heart set on someone else. She wishes.. Well. If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.

It took her years to reconcile in her head that this was a different John. That he grew and changed. That he wouldn't cut and run. That, yes, that was him looking at her as she combed her hair like she was a star in the sky. But sometimes in the night she would touch his back. Feel the muscles move, up and down, with the timing of his breath. As he stirs and turns towards her, eyes alert in the dark. Feel his heart beat through her palms as he hovers above her. Yes, this is John. This is him. He's here he's here he's here-

She touches the empty spot beside her. Fingers running over the indentation where his body lay. His scent no longer lingers but she can still smell it. She can feel Jack's hand on hers. Worn and smooth from work. He looks so much like his father. She thinks of when she rode into camp all those years ago. She closes her eyes.