Florence wakes to the sound of birds. She keeps her eyes closed, feeling the warmth of Arthur against her, his hand splayed across her back. Did he do this on his own accord or did it happen in their sleep? They live in their own little world, away from the shooting and the dead husbands. He breathes in slowly and she risks a look up. His eyes are closed and he's peaceful. The usual frown he wears on his lips are gone. "Are you gonna keep staring at me?" he rumbles, peeking at her with one eye.

"Perhaps. You're peaceful for once," Florence replies with amusement lacing her tone.

"I'm always at peace, miss. Peace with the world gone to shit. Peace with no more room for folks like me."

"Knights in shining armor? There is always room in the world for people like you, Mr. Morgan."

Arthur shakes his head. "No. Bad people. I am not a good person."

"You have yet to prove that to me."

"Give me time. I will." He removes his arm from underneath her, leaving her back to the cool morning air. Birds chirp, welcoming them back to the real world. The fire is barely alive, a few coals made it through the night, but it's mostly ash. Florence remains laying down, capturing the last of the warmth and the tingling feeling in her limbs. How many years has it been since she's been held so tenderly?

And why him of all people? Waiting for the tingling to subside doesn't seem like it will work as Arthur is already kicking dirt over the fire to kill what little life remains. Chance neighs at her as she emerges from the tent. Florence laughs, patting the horse as he lumbers up to him.

"Come learn how to take down a tent." They take it down together. It's as easy to take down as it looked to put up. He rolls it tightly, putting the stakes in the middle and ties the bundle to Lemon's saddle. His bedroll is next and she blushes, such a stupid reminder of barely ten minutes ago.

Eager to get back into the saddle and distance herself from the weightless, tingling feeling in her chest, she mounts Chance, petting his soft neck as he shakes his muscles under the saddle.

Arthur is on Lemon and they find the trail back to the camp. "Life ever settle as an outlaw?"

He rubs his chin, placing his hat on his head to warn off the sun. It's slightly warmer out. Now that they're on the horses again and moving, she removes the jacket, laying it gently across the rear of Chance. "No. We've been on the run from the law."

"For what?"

Arthur seems to hesitate telling her. "Not something I'm proud of," he says quietly. She lets the conversation drop, focusing on the small hairs of Chance's mane.

Tension begins to build again. Maybe asking about the past wasn't such a great idea. She locks away that little tidbit for later. The sun rises higher in the sky, the fog of her breath fading as they wear down the path at a slow walk. "What's the plan now?" she asks, hoping to get back to their natural order, where things fell into place.

Trees begin to line either side of them and soon they were down the path of the camp. "Took ya long enough to get back to us," John's familiar husky voice calls as he steps from behind a tree, his rifle relaxed in his hands.

"I didn't want to ride the trails that late."

"But you could send Bill and Lenny back."

"Miss me or something Marston?" John narrows his eyes at Arthur's joke and shakes his head. He waves them through. Sounds of camp drift down the narrow path, bouncing off the trunks of trees.

Miss O'Shea's shrill voice can be heard from behind the canvas wall of Dutch's tent. Her words jumbled, sentences incoherent. Florence hears her name and it makes her stop from next to Chance, his saddle half off his back. What did she do this time? She's been gone almost an entire day. Or an entire day.

"Florence right?" a voice says. A pretty blonde in a man's jacket approaches her with a kind smile stretching across her face. Florence puts the saddle down next to the horse's feet and holds out her hand. "Karen. I'm sorry I haven't gotten to properly meet you. It's been so crazy around the camp and…" Karen looks back at Dutch's tent. "Miss O'Shea has been screaming about you for hours on end. God knows what she's on about this time."

"Did I do something wrong?"

"Oh highly unlikely. It doesn't take a lot for Miss O'Shea to get her knickers out of sorts. You see," Karen whispers, making sure the canvas stays closed as if Miss O'Shea will be summoned by her name, "she's so used to laying low. Us being on the run from them lawmen isn't good for her, you know." She makes a sign towards her head. "Paranoid is what I call her."

"Gossiping again, Karen?" Arthur asks, making Florence jump.

"Ain't gossip if it's true," Karen says with an easy smile at him. Something jumps in Florence's chest with the way Karen smiles at him. It makes her want to smack the girl across the face. Surprised by the strong emotion and urge, she bends to pick up the saddle and carry it over to a wagon. The woman is nothing but kind to her, so why… Is it jealousy? No.

This morning meant nothing to Arthur. Nor to Florence. She shivers, shaking off the feeling of his hand on her back. Of the warmth across her front and the peaceful bubble they lived in for a brief moment.

The canvas wall is whipped back, Miss O'Shea and Dutch come out, heading straight towards her. Miss O'Shea's usually beautifully done up hair is in tatters, strands falling in her flushed face. She looks like she's been drinking but her eyes are the eyes of a wild and aware woman. Dutch follows close behind, a little more put together, though his face is pinched, lines around the eyes more accentuated.

"They came looking for you," Miss O'Shea growls. "Your men. They came looking for you. 'Bout tore this camp apart. If it weren't for the quick thinking of… You stupid woman. Did you lead us into trouble just as we are getting out of it? What disease ridden men have you brought back?"

"Who are you talking about?" Florence asks a bit too loudly. Her voice carries well over the camp and people stop to stare at her. Arthur stops, a bale of hay in his arms. He narrows his eyes at the scene, taking a step forward. Though she's not sure at first if he'll see it, Florence puts her hand up where it rests at her hip. Out of the corner of her eye, she can see him nod ever so slightly. He goes about his business as if it's an everyday affair to have women screaming.

And it might be.

"Who are you talking about?" Florence asks again, voice more controlled.

"As if you don't know."

"I don't! I'm not involved with any men or another gang."

"They very clearly wanted you. They followed Arthur when he brought you back. What a mistake." Miss O'Shea throws her hands up, clearly done with the whole thing.

"Miss O'Shea, I would never bring back danger here."

"Oh? That's not what I heard from Bill. Walking into an O'Driscoll camp without a plan in sight. Did you think you could bring Arthur in on your dirty plans? Turn him against-"

"Molly, enough!" Dutch says, cutting Miss O'Shea's sentence off. She fumes at him, fists bunched in the skirt of her dress. Stomping away, she closes the canvas, but before it flutters shut, Florence sees Miss O'Shea drop onto the cot with her face in her hands.

Florence glares at Miss O'Shea, though it turns to sympathy when she sees how broken Miss O'Shea really is. "I hope you know, Dutch, I would never betray Arthur."

Dutch sighs, leaning against a horse hitch post. He closes his eyes and runs a hand through his hair which is usually tamed by a hat. "I don't know what to think right now, Florence. The men just about killed some of mine and if it happens again, someone will answer for their crimes," he says, opening his eyes and focusing entirely on her. His brown eyes see right into her soul and she hopes he'll see she's telling the truth.

"Oh, Arthur, I saw that girl of yours," Karen says in earshot of Florence. She glances at them, watching as he grabs Karen and they make their way to the other side of the camp. "In Valentine."

"I would prefer if you didn't mention Mary in front of Florence," he says quietly, coming up on the area Strauss likes to frequent.

"Getting sweet on her? 'Bout time. I was gonna set you up with one of the girls in town if you went any longer," Karen purrs, wiggling her eyebrows at him. "She even left you a letter. It's on your table if you're so keen on reading it now."

Arthur's heart thumps hard. He can't count the number of years it's been and how young and stupid he was to think someone like Mary Linton would marry him. Her daddy said no, he didn't want a dirty outlaw for his daughter.

He's aware of eyes and voices following in his wake, but all he can really focus on is the letter. He unknowingly pushes past Florence, his hands on her shoulders to gently move her out of the way. Her voice calls to him, but he needs to read that letter. It's almost like water. If he doesn't read it within the next few moments, he might die.

There it is. A white envelope assuredly untouched by other eyes. He tears it open, reading her terrible handwriting, but it brings him back. It hurts to hear her voice in his head reading the words to him. He sits on his cot, legs spread, letter dangling from one hand while the other is running through his short hair. Again and again and again, he tortures himself by reading the letter.

She's not far from Valentine in a small farm. Has been there for a few months and hell, how long did it take her to finally reach out? What does she want? Arthur stands, staggering between anger and love for the woman. What is he thinking, going straight to her. Why is he going straight to her?

He grabs his hat from the corner of the wagon where it rests. "I'll be back in a few hours," he announces to Florence who is sitting in the wet grass rubbing at her saddle with some leather polish. She goes to rise as if to go with him. He leaves without a word, hopping into Lemon's saddle easily.

The horse grunts as he kicks him a bit harder than necessary. They thunder out onto the road, following the curves over the train tracks towards Valentine. The farm isn't hard to find. It's a modest two story house that could use some paint.

With Lemon hitched nearby, he knocks on the door, pacing back and forth until a tired, old woman answers it, pistol and hard eyes pointed at him. "Oh," Arthur says gently. "I'm sorry. I'm looking for a Mrs. Linton."

The woman stares at him for a long moment and leaves without a word. It slams shut and he's once again left on his own. He stumbles down the steps, taking off his hat and looking up at the blue sky. What is he thinking? He could've burned the letter, pretended it never made it to his table. If Miss O'Shea had her way, it probably wouldn't have. She didn't like Mary and still doesn't, talking about her like she's some common hussy trying to steal Arthur away.

A creak catches his attention and there she is. Mary steps out of the house, hands demurely in front of her. "Arthur," she breathes. "I wasn't sure you'd come."

"What do you want Mary? Why did you reach out to me? Where's what's his name?" He whirls around to stand and look up at her. The sun beats down on his eyes and he moves to the shade of the porch, not far from her.

"Dead." Mary looks to the left, her eyes brimming with tears. A few fall. "A while ago."

It's like opening a chest and finding treasure that'll turn to dust. Arthur stays very still, willing his heart to calm the shit down, sure she can hear the thumping over the whickering of horses and the settling of the house behind her.

"I'm sorry to hear that," he says, trying to catch her eye. "Your husband dies and you come looking for me? I'm not-"

"No! That's not it!" Mary takes a step towards him, her hands out to stop his sentence. She halts, bringing them back to her chest.

Why is he slightly disappointed by this? It sickens his stomach to ever think there was hope in it for him and her. "I need your help," she replies after a long silent moment. "My family needs your help."

And that sick tingling in his stomach is replaced by anger. "Family? You mean the family that looked down on me? Why would I help your family?"

"It's my little brother, Jamie." Jamie. The boy was better than Mary's family.

"I liked Jamie," he says simply, taking a step onto the porch. He stands on the lowest step, building up the courage to stand next to her.

"He's broken my daddy's heart." She takes a step down until they are one porch step away from each other. Mary sits, her head in her hands.

"He has a heart?" It's meant as a joke, coming out more harsh than intended.

"Arthur…"

"Mary, I wasn't good enough for you. My money, my life, me… None of it pleased him."

"Jamie… he joined the Cheloians."

Arthur shrugs, looking out at Lemon grazing on a patch of grass. "Good for him. He's found a place in life."

"A dangerous place. I'm sorry for what my daddy did Arthur, but Jamie is in trouble and he needs help."

"So…" Arthur considers his next words, leaning on the railing. "I'm too rough to marry into your family, but you can ask me for help."

"I'm sorry," Mary repeats. "I think of you often and I…"

"That was a long time ago, Mary." He's ready to let his past be his past and when he thinks he's finally done it, it comes back up, seeking him out with a knife in the back to alert him of its presence.

"Let Jamie live his life and not the life daddy dreamed for him. He's an adult," Arthur says, standing up and brushing off the dust from his pants.

"Jamie is so innocent. I'm begging you. Please, please help me." Mary stands as well, coming down the last two steps and taking his hands in hers. She looks up at him with her eyes, those eyes he loved to fall into every night. The eyes that haunted him from a window as she danced and hummed with her husband.

Arthur shrugs her off, needing to distance himself from it all. "Please," she tries again.

"I'll see what I can do." She breaks him down like none other. It reminds him of Florence in a way. Both women could spell trouble for him.

"I'll owe you."

Arthur picks up his hat, brushing past her with a single sentence. "You already owe me."

Florence finds things to entertain herself in the camp with. She helps Pearson with cutting the animals and learning how to skin small creatures like squirrels and rabbits. He seems to regale in telling her tales about his time in the Navy.

She learns how to play dominoes after Lenny finds out she's never played before. Poker as well and Karen joins them, a twisted grin across her plump face. Florence is sure she's playing dirty, but she doesn't care. They don't play to gamble as Florence has no money to her name.

Speaking of money, how much does William have stashed back at their house? And why hasn't she thought of going back there? At the end of their third hand in poker, she stands and bids them farewell.

"Where are you going, Florence?" Lenny asks as he watches her saddle up Chance.

"Back to my home. There might be money and other such valuables there." Arthur's been gone a long time, the sun is now in the east preparing for the journey down.

"Should you be going without anyone with you?"

"Arthur does." She knows how petulant it sounds, but this is a good way for her to prove she can ultimately take care of herself.

"Well, Arthur is trained in guns and can aim. Can you?" Lenny rubs the back of his neck, a knowing smile across his lips. So the story of her walking into the O'Driscoll camp has not only made its way around camp, though Lenny was there to witness it, but so has her inability to aim with the pistol at her hip. She just needs more practice. And Dutch rightly doesn't want her shooting near the camp in case it draws attention.

"I'll be okay. It's not that far from Valentine." Lenny waves his hand.

"I won't argue, but I can't imagine Arthur is going to be happy."

"Arthur is off doing his own thing," Florence snaps, wincing as it comes out of her mouth. With no other choice but to keep it, she presses the heels of her feet into Chance and he lumbers down the path. He's so tall she has to duck as she comes out from underneath the dead trees marking the entrance.

It's a left to Valentine and when she can hear the noises of the town, she takes a smaller road. There is no fence, though there used to be one. William said he'd get around to replacing it, but never did. Her house is small and squats at the top of a hill. It's a one bedroom, something William also promised to change in case they had a child. Her property, though they'll try and pass it onto her father or the man she marries if she so chooses so, is a reminder of those promises. They grow like weeds in the front, popping up with every word that comes from his lips.

Florence pats Chance and dismounts, hand on the pistol. She can't aim for shit,sure, but it helps to make her feel safe in case those men Miss O'Shea spoke of were here. And what manner of men were they? Was it the small gang that frequents Valentine that William had fallen into at one point or another.

He used to bring home groups of these men, some remaining the same, others new and order her to cook for them. Their living room would be filthy at the end, furniture stained with muddy boot prints and the smell of alcohol remained in the air until she opened every single window when he went to town.

Florence enters the house, the stale smell of it hits her. Propping open the door, she moves to the windows and allows lights in. It's small and square. They managed to get a chair and a couch pushed against the wall. Her table, oak and sturdy, was about the only thing she was proud of in the damn house. Four chairs are flush against the edges, all of it gathered a very fine coating of dust. It looks untouched.

And now it's not. Florence makes a right mess, tossing cushions from the couch and chair, cutting them open with a knife from the kitchen. Feathers fly all around her. She moves to the bedroom, emptying out both her wardrobe drawers and his. She finds a small stash of money hidden in a sock that thumped to the ground. It's barely twenty dollars, but it's a damn start. She also finds his golden wedding ring she can sell in town if needed.

Pocketing it all, she looks for things the camp can use in the kitchen. Knives are thrown in a bag that was hanging on the wall, wrapped in random bits of cloth as to keep them from cutting the fabric. Spices and different types of herbs is also thrown in. It's not a lot, but it's something she can do to thank them for taking her in.

Chance neighs outside. Florence freezes, hearing the footsteps of horses outside. Male voices murmur and she can't make out the words. "Florence! Come on out dearest," someone calls. "Don't make this hard."

Florence moves slowly through the kitchen to the living room. The door is a gaping mouth, just inviting them in. She needs to close that first. A gunshot nearly stops her in her tracks as it burrows itself in the wall directly behind the door. "Don't you dare," the dark haired man says. "You know, William told us a lot about you."

There are three men all on horses. The dark haired one that shot gets off of his and points his pistol at her. "He told us how sweet you were. How good you were to roll around in the hay. We all thought...highly of you." He waves his gun in the air. "Until you had him killed."

The other men shift, glaring at her. "You see," he continues, "I don't take kindly to someone killing off my men. And it happens so often because many of them are stupid enough to get caught or thrown in jail. Going up against the O'Driscolls, now I can't take them on. But you Florence… you can pay for dear William's life."

"I… I didn't kill him," Florence says without thinking.

"Oh you're right and we found that quaint little camp. But they have guns and men. Better and smarter shooters than I seem to have and to go against them would be the death of me and my gang. But you… you aren't anything, are you?" He shoots again, the bullet grazes her arm.

It stings and immediately blood begins to pour down, soaking in the green shirt. Florence grabs it, remembering the first thing her mother taught her. If you get a cut or get shot, apply pressure. Florence stands strong or tries to. Her legs are visibly shaking, knees threaten to buckle.

"They won't come looking for you. There'll be no revenge on your head." He shoots again, entirely missing her, but she thinks that's the point.

"Who are you?"

"Me?" The man laughs. "William said nothing of us?"

"He used to… bring home men. But not you." Florence leans against the door jam, pushing the small wooden block she put in front of it to keep it open. She stops when he take a step closer, fear in her throat.

"I never came back to his house. And I'm not the leader of this gang, just the right hand man. The one who gets the pleasure of seeking out those who wrong us." If she can just keep him talking, she could close the door. It wouldn't save her life, but it could give her long enough to run.

"The gang… who are you? Why haven't I heard of you?"

"Oh but you will." One of the men protests and the dark haired man shoots above his head, sending the complantive man's horse into a rear. "She's dead as anything, what does it matter?"

After seeing Jamie and Mary off, Arthur could seriously use a drink. He begins to head to the saloon, stopping at the doors. Drinking isn't going to make the past go away and drinking alone is pathetic. Sighing, he heads back to Lemon.

A gunshot spooks the horse as soon as they get out of Valentine. It's a little ways off. Now a gunfight, a gunfight isn't pathetic. Maybe shooting up men could help him forget everything. He pushes Lemon into a gallop and heads down the trail that seems to lead to a small farmhouse that needs repairs.

Three men is all he counts. Whatever they are after, it seems they didn't think the owner much of a threat. A broken down wagon is perfect to hide behind as he scans the scene. Chance? No… That's a different shire.

"You took my William… turned him into a monster!" Florence's voice is wavering and weak. Damnit.

Arthur grabs his gun, preparing to make a bolt for it. He has to kill the man pointing a gun at her before he decides to fire.

"No!" the man screams, shooting into the house. She screams. He can't see her from this angle, unsure of whether or not the man shot her.

"No. William was a monster before. We simply… encouraged it out." How many more bullets are in the gun? How long will the man continue to play with her? "He was so eager to join. To take part."

Take part in what?

"Enough talking, dear woman." He points the gun into the house.

Arthur acts before he can think clearly. The barrel of his rifle lines up with the man's head. Blood explodes shortly after the shot rings in the air. Horse and human screams are hard to distinguish apart in the chaos of it all. A man on horseback takes a shot towards Arthur, it veers off far to the left, splintering him with wood from the wagon he's hiding behind.

The man on the horse goes down with another bullet in the brain. Arthur considers shooting the one running, but Florence is still screaming. Or at least it sounds like her. It could easily be the horses. He shoulders his gun and runs towards the house, stepping gently, ready to grab the shotgun in his holster.

Florence is ashy, kneeling on the floor. Her left hand holds a wound on her arm loosely, dried blood caking on her shirt. He can see it still bleeding as it burns a trail down her jeans where her arm lays stationary. "Florence," he says quietly.

She raises her head, green eyes usually so vibrant are dull with pain. "It's me. I have to move you, okay?" Florence says nothing, hair plastering to the back of her neck with the help of sweat. He moves as slowly and gently as he can, putting his arms underneath her body and lifting her. They barely fit through the door and he tries to take most of the scraping as to not disturb her, but her groans of pain shoot straight for his heart.

What is she doing out here by herself? What the hell was she thinking? And who allowed her off the camp without supervision. Dutch would tell him she's his responsibility and if she walked off, it's his fault and he wouldn't be wrong. Anger at himself flares brightly like a fire in the night. Arthur was so caught up in seeing Mary again, he completely forgot about her. Selfish.

Except… she isn't something of his. She may be his responsibility, but that doesn't make her something more. Does he want her to be something more? Florence shifts, knocking him from his thoughts. He grabs Chance's reins, knowing she'll never forgive him for leaving the horse there and makes his way to Lemon.

It's awkward getting into the saddle with her in his arms and Chance's reins pulling at one of his hands, but he's able to do it. She's nestled tightly between him and the saddle horn. Though time is of the utmost importance, he takes his slower than he wants to. Every jostle seems to push the injured arm against his chest and she groans. "Stay with me."

He speaks to her the entire ride back to the camp, resisting the urge to gallop into the middle and demand help. Miss Grimshaw is the first to notice the blood and take her from Arthur's arms with the help of Charles and Javier. They carry her quickly to the med tent, laying her down and fluttering over her until Miss Grimshaw shoos them away with an angry word. "I can't help her with your hovering," she snaps simply, turning the light on the lantern up. "Oh dear." She clicks her tongue, cutting the sleeve away from Florence's arm.

"Arthur, leave." She doesn't tell him Florence will be okay. Miss Grimshaw doesn't waste time on polite nonsense. The woman believes the truth will set you free, no matter how hard it may be to swallow. Arthur does as he's told, crossing the camp and ignoring everyone trying to reach out to him.

Dutch passes a drink into his hand. It's a warm beer in a jug. "You'll need this to get through the night."

"No, Dutch. I'm good."

"Are you? Drink Arthur. There's nothing you can do for her right now." Dutch is right. Dutch is constantly right. He takes a sip of the alcohol, wincing as it disgustingly slithers down his throat. Warm beer is the worst. "You really like this girl."

Arthur downs the drink, needing the alcohol to have this honest of a conversation with Dutch. "I don't know," he says honestly.

Dutch chuckles, turning his head back to the med tent. It's the brightest spot of the camp, drawing the attention of those who missed the drama.

"You can't lead her on, Mr. Morgan," Tilly says from his left. "This woman has been displaced in the world. Her husband is dead and she's likely confused."

Arthur remains quiet. Tilly isn't wrong, but he's not sure how he feels. Or how he's going to approach this. His heart is still bearing scars from Mary all those years ago. He'd given the woman his heart and she gave it back to him in pieces and that took years to recover from. So why the anxiety? Why the worry over Florence making it alive?

Time passes slowly, stars twinkling to some unheard music. He drinks three more beers, the weight of the liquid settling unwell in his stomach. Dutch had gone to bed, unable to get Arthur to speak anymore about Florence.

When he met Mary, he'd been young and full of hope. Time was good. Money was good. He wooed her right away, stealing her out from underneath her daddy's plans. But family came first to her and she eventually turned him away, marrying into a proper family. Into a proper home.

He fell hard and fast for her, despite the warnings of Dutch. "No girl like Mary will want an outlaw," he said to him. Arthur shrugged it off, convinced she'd run away with the gang. Live on the cupse of society, never truly fitting in anywhere and always being able to explore the vast countryside.

Dutch had been right as Dutch is mostly right. The past drags him down under, threatening to drown him if he doesn't grab hold of something. "I don't know how I feel about her, but I know how she makes me feel." Weightless, tingly, happy, scared and angry. Calm. At peace with the world and his place.

"It's a start," Tilly says from her seat on the grass against the wagon.

Miss Grimshaw finally turns down the lantern, coming straight for him. He stumbles up, holding a hand out against the support. "You smell like a saloon, Mr. Morgan," Miss Grimshaw says in a low tone. She frowns, disapproving of his way of coping.

"Sorry Miss Grimshaw. I've just been-" He hiccups. "Mighty worried."

"She'll be… okay. It was a gunshot to the arm and I got the blasted bullet out. I don't know if she'll have full range of movement in that arm, only time will tell." Waving a hand in front of her face, she turns her nose downwind. "You can see her if you like, but don't wake her."

Arthur isn't quiet in his path across camp. He trips over hay bales that made their way into the circle of tents and pots set out for drying after a good wash. "Arthur, you ass, shut up!" John's voice echoes.

"Sorry." He tiptoes the rest of the way, watching the ground for things that could easily trip him. It seems like an eternity ago he left his tent to make his way towards her. Florence is sleeping under the flickering flame, her skin still too pale for his liking. Miss Grimshaw removed the green shirt completely, showing some sort of undershirt. He's not sober enough to look away from her, admiring her stomach and the curve of her breasts. His bedroll is on the ground next to the cot.

It whispers his name really. He lays down, out as soon as his head hits the pillow.