Miss Grimshaw yells at Dutch first then Florence. "What were you thinking, girl? You got any common sense in that shit brain of yours?" she asks roughly, inspecting the stitches. "You nearly opened them with all that roughing you've been doing." Dutch stands there like a scolded child, smiling at Florence.

It was a quick turn around. Everyone welcomed her back, well, almost everyone. Miss O'Shea had no words for her and Florence thinks that's just fine. "I'm sorry. I was-"

"You were nothing." Miss Grimshaw tsks and bandages it back up. "You have to take it easy. No use in wearing yourself out just to try and keep up with the men. I'm ordering camp rest from here on out."

And for the next few days, Florence spent her time in camp, reading books Dutch has in his collection, learning to make her own clothing and cooking with Pearson. She had given Pearson the herbs and spices she'd taken from her home and is glad to see them in use. The stews benefit from all of it as well does camp morale.

Arthur is gone for most of that time, hunting down debt collectors for a German named Strauss. "What does it involve?" Florence asks as Arthur sits at the table with a bowl of stew. She's nearly taken over the domino set, hating the game but loving to set them up in little lines and watch them fall after one another.

"Nothing you really want to know about," he replies gruffly, hunching over and spooning it into his mouth.

He's brought her back small things. Flowers, a rabbit's foot she keeps in the bottom of Chance's saddlebag because it upsets her to see the poor thing, pretty pieces of rock. Karen notices too and teases her about it.

"Come on. I'm stuck here for at least one more day." Her arm had stopped hurting a while ago, but Miss Grimshaw wanted to make sure the wound was fully healed. She'll have a nasty scar on her arm when it's all said and done. "I'm *bored*, Arthur."

He sits up and wipes the back of his hand across his mouth. "You want to know? Fine. Herr Strauss lets people borrow large amounts of money at a high interest rate and when they can't pay it back, they rarely can, I beat the shit out of them until they agree to give it back to us plus interest."

That frail old man? The one who looks absolutely harmless? Well, not entirely harmless. She has noticed the way his buggy eyes follow her across the camp. The way he searches her face when they come into close contact with one another. "Oh."

"I told you you wouldn't like it."

Florence shrugs. "It's just the way it is, right?"

They sit there for another hour or so, him helping her setup the dominoes in a swirl and her knocking it over again and again. She'll never get tired of the clinking sound of the tiles hitting each other. The sun sets behind a line of mountains off in the east, outlining each individual peak in red and pink.

"I'm going to bed. You coming?"

Florence puts the tiles away and follows him. Hopefully tomorrow, Miss Grimshaw will let her go somewhere. Anywhere.

Arthur's small space has been widened just enough to put another cot inside of it. She helped pay for that cot, giving him the money from William's stash, even though he kept insisting she keep the money for herself. Afterall, she earned it.

Cot by cot allows no path for them to step between, so keeps her boots on the other side of his. Shivering as her feet hit the grass, she jumps over his and lands deftly in the middle of hers, burrowing herself underneath the blanket. Arthur shakes his head with an amused smile across his mouth. "What? I'm cold."

For the last few nights, since he got this cot anyway, Florence finds herself sleeping near the edge of hers to be closer to him. She notices in the morning where their hands have met across the metal bars and clasped in their sleep. It sends shivers down her spine and travels into her stomach, making her slightly more awake.

"Good night Florence," Arthur says, staring into her eyes as he lays down.

"Good night Arthur."

Arthur flips onto his back, woken by the call of Charles waking Marston for patrol. He hasn't had to do it only because he's been out most of the time, coming back to camp to sleep. He's avoiding Florence, if he must be honest with himself.

In his journal, he's drawn her a thousand times at least and he'll draw her a thousand more. How do you court someone like her? He shot her husband.

She whimpers next to him, her fingers flexing as she's trapped in yet another nightmare. That's the other reason he's awake.

Florence gets trapped in these nightmares, whimpering, edging on screaming her lungs out. He scoots her back, the two of them barely fitting on the cot. Adjusting, he brings most of her body onto his so she's not on the edge and his back isn't against the metal frames. This isn't the first time he's done it.

She instantly quiets, turning her face into his shirt, tears soaking through the fabric. "It'll be alright," he says quietly.

Nor is it the first time he's been caught.

Karen seems to be a night bird, always wandering camp and getting into people's things. She never opens the leather journals, but rather just looks at what people have collected. She showed him the small box of things he gave Florence and it jolted his heart for a moment. Now she stands against the wagon, arms crossed and staring down at them. "Careful or you'll turn into Miss Grimshaw," he says playfully.

Karen gives a short chuckle. "When are you going to tell her you like her? Is this something I have to do?"

"I would prefer if you didn't. I'm working at my own pace."

"And it's a slow ass pace, Arthur. If you don't snatch her up, someone else will." It's the same words she tells him every night. She climbs into his cot and sits there a while, brushing back Florence's hair. "She's a bit like Jack, isn't she? So innocent you want to protect her from everything obscene in the world."

Arthur moves his thumb as her shirt in a gentle circle. "That's the problem. We want to protect her when we should be dropping her head first into shit."

"Give her time."

"She's had time, Karen." He turns his head so he can speak clearly to the blonde next to him. "She's been in a gunfight with some kind of other gang, she went into the O'Driscoll camp without a plan. She's had time to sit here and realize what she wants…" *Hopefully him.* The thought enters his mind, completely forbidden.

"Arthur, you are looking to rush something. Slow the fuck down. Take her out to Strawberry. Bring her more flowers. Picnics." Karen gets off the cot and makes her way around the wagon, poking her head back at the last second, "She likes you, you know. But give her time."

He holds Florence tighter, not understanding why it's taken him such a short time to get into a position where she's nearly all he thinks about, but he has. His eyes droop closed, swearing to move off her cot before he completely falls asleep.

Florence wakes against something hard and breathing. Arthur.

Her feelings for him couldn't be anymore muddled than they already are and people sure have noticed her laying across his chest. There'll be rumors in no time. She carefully extracts herself from his arms, missing the warmth and movement of his body beneath her.

She smooths out her hair, running her fingers through it while staring at the small round mirror of Arthur's shaving area. A feminine throat clearing sounds above her and she looks up to see Miss O'Shea. It's gotten to the point to where Florence just doesn't care what the woman has to say about her.

"I…" Miss O'Shea looks away from her, biting her lip. Florence stays, curious as to what the woman has to say. She's never been this kind before. "I'm sorry." Miss O'Shea stands up straighter, her pale face pinched together in a haughty look. She then turns and marches back to Dutch's tent, pulling the canvas wall closed.

"Well, that was quite unexpected," Florence says to no one but herself. Her body still hurts, but it's more of a general pain rather than the absolute fire that it used to be. She's itching to get out of camp, even if it's going to Valentine to make a supply run. To show she's ready, she begins to brush down Chance, spending the morning as the sun rises higher and higher. Arthur finally emerges from the tent, stumbling around with sleep still etched in his face.

Adorable. There's something about men who just wake up and can't make out their surroundings just yet that makes her all gushy inside.

"Florence?" he calls quietly, probably being mindful of the people who like to drink and gamble until late.

"Over here, Arthur. I'm still here."

Arthur could have shot someone. He woke without the weight of her on his chest, even though he swore he wouldn't do that. Holding her during a nightmare is one thing, holding her throughout the night suggests something entirely different. It makes his heart stop for those agonizing moments when he can't see her. It seems the world is hell-bent on running her out of camp and he'll be damned if he allows that to happen.

Rolling out of her cot, he wakes almost instantly as his socked feet hit the dewy grass. "Florence?"

"Over here, Arthur. I'm still here." Her voice echoes from the right of the camp. She's standing in their little herd of horses, petting and brushing Chance who looks aboslutely relaxed. He wishes he was the horse for a hot second.

He's jealous of a horse. No. *Come on!* Arthur rubs the sleep from his face, shaking his head to appear more awake. "Ready to get back on the trails, huh?"

Florence gives him an easy smile. "Well, I had a good night's sleep and yeah… I'm pretty ready."

"Oh? How-how was that sleep exactly?"

Florence shrugs. "We somehow switched cots and I might have to steal yours."

Is she lying to him? He could have sworn they fell asleep pressed together, but she could've rolled onto his cot in the middle of the night.

"Yeah… yeah, you can have it if you want."

Hosea disrupts his train of self-destructive thoughts. "Arthur, dear boy, glad to see you're awake. I have an errand I want you to come with me on."

Florence steps forward as if invited too and Hosea laughs. "Yeah, you can come. We could use a female hand on this."

What kind of errand does Hosea have that requires a woman's hand?

Florence helps Pearson with the breakfast stew, adding her own little touch in the spices. "This is good," Bill says loudly, slurping from his bowl.

"Did you grow up in a barn?" Tilly scolds, taking spoonfuls slowly. Bill says nothing to her, only continues to slurp it up and burp loudly as the bowl is empty. "Oh Bill…"

He shoots her a grin. "You know you like it, Tilly."

"Away from the table with you," Miss Grimshaw growls, pushing him from the seat which she takes herself.

Florence laughs, sitting next to Arthur in the grass. This is everyday for him, Bill being the butt end of someone's joke. It doesn't seem Bill minds it like Uncle minds it. Bill is a drunk and is used to being the joke to everyone, to Arthur, it seems he does it on purpose at times.

He loves his strange, violent family. And he's glad Florence is able to stay.

Breakfast goes by without another hitch and Hosea approaches them both with a wide smile. "It seems Miss Grimshaw has given our patient the okay to leave the camp." Florence jumps into the air and hugs Hosea tightly.

"Oh thank you, thank you! I'm so tired of being here. Let's go!" She grabs both of the men's jackets, pushing them towards the horses as she goes and fetches her own.

Arthur stares at her retreating back, a soft smile along his lips. "Is there something I should know about the two of you? Way I heard it, you were cuddled in the morning light." Damn Karen and her big mouth.

"Please don't say anything to her. I'm not sure if she's ready to… acknowledge my emotions for her. And I'm not sure if I'm ready to acknowledge them either." It's a downright lie. He brought her back presents in hopes of softening her up to the idea of them. But after this morning, after she lied to him about the way they slept, he's unsure of where she stands romantically.

Hosea nods, soberly looking at him. "I would never."

Just in time to have the conversation dropped, Florence bounces back up to them, her hair pulled back into a braid and the hat he picked out for her on her head. The three of them take their time saddling up the horses, easy conversation rolling over the backs until it's time to go. Hosea leads them out to Emerald Ranch.

"It's a beautiful country," Florence says quietly. Arthur prefers the shade and secrets of the tree, but can understand why someone would love the open fields of the desert. He nods, not sure of what to say to her.

The ride is easy, no gunshots or O'Driscolls interrupting them as they ride into Emerald Ranch. "Now listen, before we go in, there are a few things you need to know about this." Hosea stops them short outside of the ranch.

"The man we're about to go see is as skittish as a mare with a newborn foal. So we have to be quick and precise about this." Hosea's eyes go to Arthur.

"What?"

"You know what. Keep your mouth shut."

"Seamus, this here is Florence and Arthur," Hosea says. Florence keeps her distance, not liking the look of the old man. "He'll be our partner if he likes us."

Seamus sighs and gets up, pacing. "It's not a matter of liking, Hosea. It's a matter of trust. Can I trust ya'll?"

"This is the clown you want us to sell to?" Arthur points to Seamus. Florence grabs his arm to shut him up, but it seems he wants to flap his mouth.

"Will you keep your voice down?" Seamus growls, looking at Hosea like he can't believe Arthur just said that. "This is just a sideline and I don't have to sell to asses. Good day Hosea. Good luck with your business dealings."

Hosea waves at Florence to take Arthur further back. "He's ready and quick with his tongue-"

Florence drags Arthur back over to the horses hitched to a fence near a corral full of sheep. She leans against it, looking at him. "What has gotten into you?"

Arthur paces in front of her, hands stuffed deep in his pockets, avoiding her gaze. "I don't like this. I don't like this at all. We shouldn't have to prove to that *clown* we're good enough to sell to him."

Florence remains quiet, unsure of how to calm him down. She puts her hands on her belt and kicks her leg back against the fence she's leaning on. Emerald Ranch is a quaint little area, once possibly a town or a hub of some sort. There's a closed saloon, houses crammed together as well as the large barn to her right.

Hosea comes back up to them, clapping Arthur on the shoulder. "You should learn when to hold your tongue, boy," he says.

Arthur furrows his brow at Hosea. "Usually you require me to play it rough."

"And I told you this guy is as skittish as mare with a foal. Either way, I was able to get us a way to prove our trustworthiness. Let's get going and I'll explain on the way."

"We're going to Carmody Dell to steal from his cousin by marriage. But no killing. No killing whatsoever." -

"Why am I here again, Hosea? I don't have experience in stealing." Florence kicks Chance into a trot to catch up with the men. They ride in a row, taking up most of the road. As people on horses and in wages have to work their way around the three, they get glared at. Florence sighs, looking down at her hands.

"I thought bringing a woman would soften Seamus up, but it doesn't seem like he trusts anyone." He gives her a smile.

"That's because he's a joke," Arthur chimes in, leaning over Lemon's neck to look at Hosea. "Are we going to take this job seriously?"

"Think about it Arthur. He's perfect. He won't cause us any trouble and will give us easy money for stagecoaches and wagons."

Florence's stomach sickens at the thought of all this stealing. This is what they do. They don't hurt innocent bystanders. As far as she knows, Arthur doesn't kill unless given a reason to. That's what he's proven to her at least.

"No killing though." Hosea repeats this several times as if having to convince Arthur.

"I'm still confused on how I come into all of this."

"You can distract them while we sneak in and get things settled and pull out the stagecoach."

Arthur pulls ahead, shaking his head. "No. She can help with the stealing. You or I can distract."

"Are you really playing knight-in-shining-armor right now?" Florence growls.

"These men can be dangerous. You don't know what you're getting into." She sets her jaw, working her teeth together as she thinks of her next words carefully.

Fuck being careful around him. "I can take care of myself, thank you. You said it yourself. I have to learn to be on my own. You'll be there in case something goes wrong." She sits up straight, staring him in the eyes, waiting for him to argue with her.

The tension in the air is thick as they ride in silence. She falls back behind the group, allowing herself a moment to breathe and work through the emotions. How can he tell her to protect herself and still try and protect her? It's not like she's practicing killing.

They stop short of the ranch, watching as two men work on unsaddling horses. "One of them is Bob Crawford," Hosea says, putting a stick in his mouth. He points to the big barn. "That's probably where they're keeping it."

Florence shakes off her nerves, noticing how her hands tremor slightly. This has to work or she'll never hear the end of it from Arthur or his constant worrying.

She gets on Chance, a plan forming in her head. "Smack him," she says to Arthur after putting him in the middle of the road. Arthur lets out a yell and smacks the shire on the ass. Chance rears up and it's all she can do to hold on as he thunders through the farm, startling both men. "He-help!" she screams, holding onto dear life. He, luckily, jumps the fence on the other side of the house and barn.

The men mount their horses, galloping after her. "Pull on his reins!" one of them commands. She makes a half-hearted attempt, sitting up enough to pull down. Chance isn't one to be stopped, but he isn't the fastest horse either. They are overtaken easily and a man reaches out to grab Chance's reins, turning his own horse in a tight circle to pull the shire to a stop.

"Oh dear. Oh God," Florence says, shaking and stumbling from the saddle. She pukes in the grass on her hands and knees. "Thank you. Thank you so much."

"Are you alright, miss?" the man asks, dismounting from his horse. He's fat and balding but his face is sweet enough looking.

"I… No." She sits on her bottom, wiping her hand with the back of her mouth. "This damn horse nearly killed me for the third time today. I swear…"

How long does she need to keep them distracted? "Name's Bob Crawford," the balding man says. His associate doesn't offer a name and Florence doesn't ask. "Have you had him long?" He stands and looks over the shire.

"A few days, a week at most I think." Florence stands as well, keeping her distance. She can't shoot, but she can sure as hell threaten in case things go south.

They don't. Bob is happy to look over the shire, to look for any uncomfortable spots that might be making the horse temperamental. Guilt blooms in her stomach as she scratches her head. These men steal as well and what Arthur and Hosea are stealing was already stolen. So why does she feel bad about distracting them?

"Thank you," Florence says sincerely. "Thank you so much for looking over him."

Bob nods, stepping back so she can mount.

Where the hell is she? Arthur looks back, worry boiling in his stomach. He knew he shouldn't have let her go on her own. She isn't ready. She'll never be ready. Florence would give you the shirt off your back if you told her you needed it. She's too naive for this world, it'll eat her right up.

Hosea takes over the reins, huffing at Arthur's mother hen like behavior. "She has to fly the coop at some point, Arthur. No point in holding her hand." He whips the reins against the horses and the carriage moves forward, creaking as it travels down the road.

"I know that," he says gruffly.

"No you don't. That's why you've been looking behind us since we got the carriage out." Damn him for being right. Arthur listens to the impulse to look behind him again, searching for Chance.

"She wasn't ready, Hosea. You should've left her at camp."

It's rare for Hosea to raise his voice and his anger is nearly non-existent at times. He's usually go with the flow, trust what others do around him but when Arthur feels the tight grip of his mentor on his right arm, he knows he fucked up.

"Stop smothering her. She's a big girl, Florence. She can deal with her own problems and get herself out of trouble. And if or when she can't, we'll come knocking down that door. But *until* then, let her live her life."

Arthur runs a hand through his short hair, looking up at the cloudless sky. When did he become so obsessed and worried? He needs to take a moment back. Apparently the time he spent outside the camp while she was on bedrest wasn't enough to separate his feelings for her.

"You're right, Hosea. But you're always right." Hosea laughs, smiling and wrinkling the corners of his eyes.

"You just need to back off a little, Arthur. Let her breathe. If she's going to be out of camp, then she needs to know how to find her own way. If she's going to be an equal, treat her as one."

The thumping of hooves announces someone in a hurry. Florence is standing slightly in the saddle, Chance huffing underneath her. "Is this it? Is this the stagecoach Saemus wanted?"

Hosea laughs loudly, pulling the stagecoach to a stop. Florence trots her horse around, stopping next to Arthur. "Well done. They never even noticed we were there."

This is coming from Hosea. Florence looks at Arthur, wanting him to say something. Tell her she did a good job or what she could do better. He smiles at her briefly but says nothing about her distraction.

Oh.

Well, it's not like she needs his approval for anything. Hosea offers up more than enough.

She follows them back behind the stagecoach, mulling over Arthur's silence. It bothers her more than it should. She's been asking to be let alone and to be allowed to do her own thing and now-now that it's happening, she hates it. Florence pets Chance, breathing out slowly. This is all too confusing.

From his cuddles when they first camped underneath the stars to him holding her while she slept, she has no idea where she stands with him. Is it too soon after William's death to go seeking the arms of another man? And if it is, does it matter? William wasn't good to her for a good long while.

Emerald Ranch comes into the view on the horizon, surrounded by dust being kicked up by the ranch hands doing their activities for the day. Hosea leads the stagecoach to a large barn around the side of Emerald Ranch, hopping off and shaking hands with Seamus. "We got a deal?"

"That we do, Hosea. That we do." Seamus looks around before closing the barn doors and happily patting the wood.

Hosea mounts his horse. "This old man needs some rest. Ya'll enjoy yourselves." He trots off towards the camp, leaving Florence and Arthur alone in the middle of the ranch.

"Look I-" Arthur scratches his head. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I've been a mother hen to ya. I'm just.. .worried."

Worried is good. Maybe. It could imply liking her to not wanting her to fuck up because he brought her back into the camp against Dutch's wishes. Florence nods. "I appreciate it." Whatever it truly meant.

"Do you want to go get something to drink?"

Florence considers his question.

Giving him a resounding yes, they make a mostly silent ride to the saloon in Valentine. It's the closest one. She's quite the sight to the other men. When women walk into the bar in Valentine, it's probably to whore themselves off. When she walks in, it's obvious she means business with her spurs clinking and the gun at her hip. Arthur looks every man in the eye, standing up straighter to seem more intimidating. The last time he was in here, there was a bar fight he'd been part of.

Now they know not to fuck with him.

He orders two shots of whiskey, flipping the money onto the counter for it. "Here," he says, getting Florence's attention. She's busy looking at women pressing themselves against men, breasts nearly hanging out of their dresses.

Florence takes it without looking, downing the shot in one solid go. Coughs bend her in half as she slams the glass down. "What the hell did you give me?"

"Whiskey! What did you think it was?" Arthur tries not to laugh, but her face says it all. Disgust.

"Water." She sits in the stool, placing her forehead against the wood. "Jesus, Arthur. Next time warn me."

"Who says there'll be a next time?"

Florence whips her head to look at him, steadying herself on the counter. "Is that a challenge, Mr. Morgan?"

"I don't know Florence. Care to attempt to drink me under the table?" She'd be stupid to say yes.

Florence must be feeling brave after her successful distraction. She sits on the stool, staring at him, her teeth on her lip. Stop staring at her lips.

"Alright. I'll take you up on your challenge."

A crowd begins to cluster around them, forming a semi-circle. Arthur orders a full bottle of whiskey, throwing down money and placing her shot glass in front of her. "First to fall loses." They both sit on stools without backs.

Men cheer for Arthur, clapping him on the back, telling him he's got this. A few stray women yell out encouraging things to Florence.

One. Two. Three shots go down without so much as a burn. He could live off of this stuff if he so chose. Florence lets out an unlady-like burp, swaying in the chair. "Want to stop?"

She shakes her head no. Either she's never had alcohol or she's had so little, she hasn't built up a tolerance. He's never seen such a lightweight.

Four. Five. Six. It boils uneasily in his empty stomach, making his head spin for a moment. Florence is worse off, eyelids drooping, her speech slurred. "Kepth it goin'," she says, waving a hand at him.

Seven. Eight. Arthur feels it affecting his aim with the whiskey bottle on the ninth shot. Florence slides out of her chair, hitting the ground with a thud. She's instantly up. "I'm okay. I'm okay." Arthur laughs loudly and long, bent over like it's the funniest shit in the world.

The crowd has grown tired of watching the two and dispersed a long while ago. Why hadn't he noticed? Frowning, Arthur stands, the world swimming at his feet.

"Could someone stop this… saloon?" Florence tries to get up again, stumbling over her legs like a newborn foal. He helps her as well as he can, knowing they're both not in a state to ride back into camp. The sun is in the process of setting, gold and red rays striking the sky and what little clouds remain.

Across the street is the hotel and they crash through the door. "Oh sir, no more problems, please," the host says. For a quick sobering second, he's reminded what happened. He puts more money down than necessary.

"Room."

The host gives him a key to a room upstairs without a word. Getting Florence up the stairs is like holding onto soap with his hands wet. She slides out of his grip, giggling and tripping over the steps. "Florence. We need to go to bed," he says.

Florence giggles louder earning a shout from within telling her to shut the fuck up. He finally gets them to their room, shutting and locking the door behind him. It's a single bed, because of course it is.

Florence is against him instantly, her hands in his hair. "Arthur," she breathes, whiskey spreading across his face and trapping itself in his nostrils. "Arthur, I like you. I shouldn't but I do." She kisses his cheek and his body responds, hands gripping her to hold her steady as she showers him with affection.

"No, Florence," he mutters. "No. You're drunk."

"I'm not. I'm not, Arthur. I know what I want and it's you." He didn't know how much he needed to hear her say those words. Gathering her arms, he leads her to the bed, taking off her boots and gun holster and laying her down.

"Good night, Florence." Nothing like rejecting a woman you like to sober you up.