"Ya can stop right there or I'll shoot the three of you dead."
Molly instantly recognized one of the three trespassers as he stepped closer to her lantern's luminescence. "Ah, Miss O'Shea, what an absolutely marvelous delight to see you alive and well!"
She didn't lower her pistol. Mr. Trelawny oozed charm, but she wouldn't be taken in quite so easily by his false sincerity. He was mostly his own agent, but she knew who he ultimately worked for.
"Spare me the pleasantries, you trickster. If you're here to harm Jean-Marc, I won't be showin' ya mercy at all."
"Hold on a damn minute," she recognized another voice as Arthur intruded. "Molly? What the hell's goin' on here?"
Somehow, she wasn't surprised by his presence. Roughening up an innocent man for money was just the sort of job Arthur would get himself mixed up in. She told him, "I knew Henri was working with thugs, but I didn't think he'd hired the worst of the worst."
Molly didn't have a clear view of Arthur from her angle in the doorway, but she heard him take a step on the porch in her direction and she swung the pistol his way. "I mean it, Arthur. I'll shoot you where you stand if you try anything. If you've killed Jean-Marc..." Her eyes glanced at the ground, where she could somewhat make out in the dark a still, crumpled body and her heart leapt with fear.
Arthur dared to claim, "He ain't dead."
"Then why isn't he movin'?" she screeched at him.
"He's unconscious. He fell on his own and likely has the goose egg to prove it."
She wanted to believe him, but she knew these men were liars. They'd say anything to save their skins. The gun started to tremble in her hand.
"Miss O'Shea," an unexpected calming feminine voice spoke next, startling her. It was Charlotte, the third member who Molly had originally aimed her pistol. Charlotte's palms were still raised, the only obedient one of the three. "Perhaps we might go inside and discuss this?"
Molly was torn at the suggestion. Arthur standing over her knocked out fiancee made her rabid, but Charlotte had been kind to her. Not only that, her words had ultimately helped extract herself from Dutch's clutches.
"I can tend to Jean-Marc," Charlotte offered. "I have some passing medical knowledge."
"You do?" Arthur asked her with surprise.
Unless something had drastically changed since the last and only time they'd spoken, Charlotte was a normal person, not an outlaw or a thief or a liar. At this time, Molly was still willing to believe her.
"Anyone else here, Mrs. Balfour? Lurkin' in the bushes or up the street?"
"No," Charlotte said patiently. "It's just us three."
That settled it for her. With Jean-Marc injured, she'd have to reluctantly take Charlotte's word and trust her until there was a reason not to.
"Bring him inside," she ordered Arthur, finally lowering her gun. She turned, stepping back in the house and set her pistol on the credenza by the doorway. She opened the door wider for their entrance, trusting that this was not a ploy of some sort.
Arthur shouldered Jean-Marc with a grunt and she pointed as he crossed the threshold. "Lay him on the sofa, Arthur. Through the door on your right."
Molly followed him, leaving Trelawny and Charlotte responsible for closing the front door. Arthur slowly and delicately set Jean-Marc on the sofa and she swept up next to him, inspecting Jean-Marc's face for any bruising.
"If we're staying a minute, I'm gonna grab the horses and hitch them closer," Arthur announced and strode from the room.
Charlotte came up to her and said, "Why don't you loosen his collar, Miss O'Shea?"
Molly obeyed the instruction as Trelawny took an observing seat in a chair adjacent to the sofa. Charlotte felt for Jean-Marc's pulse. Molly waited, her own heartbeat pounding in her ears.
Eventually, Charlotte informed her, "His breathing is steady. As long as he wakes up soon and is aware of his surroundings, he shouldn't need to see a physician."
Molly breathed a sigh of relief. She'd been worried. If something happened to Jean-Marc, she'd be the first to be blamed for it. Her hand dropped over Jean-Marc's and she clutched it tightly. That was without saying how much it would affect her on a personal level.
"And Arthur didn't harm him, Miss O'Shea."
"You mean, he didn't have a chance to," she snapped, "because I interfered."
Charlotte paused. "Perhaps. But, nonetheless, Arthur did not purposely cause injury to him in that moment."
Arthur returned, catching her sharp, livid glare and chose to stop from entering the room fully. He crossed his arms and leaned his shoulder against the doorway, as if readying himself for a quick exit.
Meanwhile, Charlotte instructed her to find a damp cloth. She hastily fetched it from the powder room, unwilling to leave the group alone with Jean-Marc for too long. When Molly returned to the sitting room, she perched on the edge of the sofa, acting as a clear barrier between Jean-Marc and his attacker, Arthur. She pressed the wet cloth to Jean-Marc's forehead and his light breathing tingled across her arm, reassuring her he hadn't been killed. It was enough to calm herself down to start asking questions.
"If I'm honest, I'm surprised to see you degenerates still in Saint Denis. Thought Dutch would have ya sailin' the open sea by now." Inwardly, she rolled her eyes. He'd been spouting so much about islands and freedom before she left.
"Reckon I've had enough tropical paradise for one lifetime," Arthur commented darkly.
As far as Molly knew, she was the first person Dutch had introduced his lunatic idea of traveling to Tahiti. He'd mentioned it one night when they'd actually been getting along. The last night they'd still been on speaking terms, in fact. When he told her of his desire to sail down to South America on a boat with all of them loaded up, she'd thought he'd been making a joke at the time.
She'd snorted. "Could you imagine how ridiculous that'd be?"
Without a word, Dutch had lurched from her embrace and stormed out of the tent before she understood what had made him so angry. When she realized he was serious, she changed from regretting her laughter to having concern over his earnestness.
Molly said to Arthur, "I was tryin' to tell you weeks ago, when were still camped near Rhodes about the new hare-brained ideas he'd formed. Something's changed in him. You've been with Dutch a lot longer than me, Arthur. Have you noticed anything?"
"You were spouting a lot of craziness before you left," Arthur deflected. "But you seemed to get riled up and more paranoid about Dutch if you saw him flirtin' with the other girls at camp."
His easy dismissal of her concerns irked her, and she snapped, "It ain't just that he was lookin' elsewhere for his pleasure, Arthur."
Though, she wasn't pure enough of heart to claim Dutch's wandering eye hadn't stung as much as nearly everything else he'd done to hurt her.
Charlotte asked curiously, "What makes you so sure Dutch has changed, Miss O'Shea?"
Molly got to grips with her anger and she told the three of them, "There's something in his eyes now. I can't explain it except that it ain't natural. Like, madness creeping in."
She'd only been with the gang for a couple of years and Dutch had immediately taken her under his command as thoroughly as a puppeteer. How could someone like Arthur, who'd been raised as his son, break from the mold? They, all of them who'd remained, were still as mesmerized as she'd been.
Arthur shuffled his feet, changing position, but fell silent on his opinion. She wondered what was going on in that thick skull of his. Was he in denial or was he too oblivious to pay attention to the signs she'd seen? Maybe Arthur had noticed the changes, but couldn't come to terms with Dutch the Grand being anything less than perfect.
The silence stretched long enough that it grew awkward. Molly could end it and ask about the others at camp, but frankly, she didn't care. They hadn't ever warmed to her and neither she to them. Perhaps she was to blame for that more than Dutch, but it didn't alter the fact that she'd never made much for friends.
Charlotte was the one to finally break the quiet. "Do you live here, Miss O'Shea?"
Molly's eyes traveled between the three of them, to catch their reactions as she affirmed, "I do live here, it's true enough."
"You serious?" Arthur gaped, gobsmacked, all too willing to let their conversation on Dutch drop.
"How fascinating," Trelawny commented with great interest, fingertips bridged in front of his face.
"I also go by Maggie O'Clery these days," she informed them. "Or, it'll be O'Clery for a few more weeks."
Trelawny observed, "I read in the papers Monsieur Mercier had gotten himself engaged to a young Irish lady. I never imagined it could be you, my dear. You've accomplished some devious work snaring one of the most eligible bachelors in Saint Denis."
"It's not like that." At least, not anymore. Her eyes followed the trimmings of the house around her, the quality artwork, the lush furniture, all under a roof of a house that wasn't infested with any sort of bleedin' vermin. Yet, her new life was more than her latching onto a rich man. This was home now.
"Hold on a damn minute," Arthur interrupted. "Did I miss something? How the hell did you get yourself engaged to a deputy mayor?"
Trelawny put in, "It is a fair question, Miss O'Shea. Last I saw you, you were apprehended most egregiously by the Pinkertons."
Ah, that was true enough. He'd been witness to her failed escape from America. She'd left the gang with Mr. Trelawny so many weeks ago now with every intention of sailing back to Ireland and reuniting with her family. She'd been struck with purpose, clarity and determination to be home again. But that had all come crashing down around her.
Arthur's eyes narrowed on her. "You were picked up. Did you let anything slip to the Pinkertons?"
"I was loyal to Dutch," she burst out passionately. "I didn't say nothing to anyone about anything."
Not that she'd known much of anything at the time. Dutch had stopped speaking to her by the time they'd reached Shady Belle. She hadn't been privy to a secret of his in months.
"Last I saw you," added Arthur, "you was nearly gettin' yourself killed by Milton outside the bank."
Molly's anger rose as she recalled that day. She'd been sequestered in some hotel rather than jail, guarded by a Pinkerton day and night. She'd had no means of escape. And then three days after her capture, Milton himself showed up to collect her and gloat to her face. He taunted her about being used as bait, to draw out and finally catch Dutch.
She'd told him straight to his face that it wasn't going to work. That she was no longer in his good graces and hadn't been for a long time. But Milton ignored her warnings and secretly, she hoped he was right, that Dutch would bargain for her in some way. She'd be saved, they would escape and all would be forgiven. Their love would flourish as it once had and Dutch would make her feel like the most loved, precious jewel again.
If Dutch had tried to save her, she'd have run back to him without a second thought. The humiliation that she ever believed he'd sacrifice anything for her sake pained her now.
"What happened, Miss O'Shea?" Charlotte asked quietly, drawing her out of her pensiveness.
Molly turned from them, from the man they reminded her of and the terrible memories he brought forth. She traced a finger along Jean-Marc's chin lovingly and answered, "Jean-Marc happened."
During the bank stand-off, Dutch had made himself clear in the exchange. He would not be making a deal to free her and Milton had nothing but murder in his eyes. She fully believed she was about to be killed dead right then and there.
Serendipitously, an explosion had went off somewhere in the city, and all eyes had turned, the Pinkertons for the first time dropping their focus on her. During the chaos that followed, Molly's only concern was for the sudden opportunity for freedom.
That was the moment she would have run back to Dutch again if he hadn't only minutes before abandoned her. The wounds of his words had healed, but memory of his harsh tones opened them up again.
"Imprison her, kill her or spare her. Miss O'Shea don't mean shit to me, Mr. Milton."
It was clear as the noon day, she would be killed if she returned to Dutch, she knew that much. Not only would he not liked to have witnessed her with Milton, she'd left a nasty little surprise for him when she'd stolen what money had been in the contributions box before she'd fled Shady Belle.
Without another thought, she'd lifted her skirts and rushed from the area, away from Dutch, away from the Pinkertons, and kept running. She didn't remember much from her escape, only that she had needed to put as much distance as possible between her and all of them, in case someone gave chase. There were too many who wanted her dead now.
Molly didn't know the streets of Saint Denis at all. She might have been running in circles for hours, but eventually she came out on a part of town that wasn't riddled with Pinkertons or outlaws.
She had been at a total loss. No money, no allies, and no hope. Dutch, her once promising future, had forsaken her. The Pinkertons had confiscated everything, all that money she'd stolen from Dutch gone. The only thing left in her possession was a single ring, a family heirloom.
She'd stumbled down one street and another until she landed at the town market. The area was packed with people who kept pushing products in her face as she passed. While near the market, she came across a fence and reluctantly pawned off her precious family ring to have some money in her pocket.
Molly had followed the train tracks, intending to spend her new cash on a train ticket, but she'd run into agents at the station. Lucky for her, they were distracted in swarming a man at the back of one of the train cars. She ducked to the side of a brick building and peeked around the corner in time to witness the Pinkertons wrench the man's arms behind his back. When they did so, she saw whose face they mercilessly pushed into the ground: John Marston.
She'd spun around before she was spotted and they arrested her next. In her haste, she collided smack into a man in a plaid suit. He'd attempted to catch her and mostly succeeded except she clumsily twisted her ankle trying to regain her balance.
This was how she'd met Jean-Marc. He'd been in the middle of his own rush, likely on an errand for the mayor if she were to guess now. Even though she was certain it was her fault, he was the one who started apologizing, in French before switching to English. She tried to step away from him, but crumpled when her ankle pained her and couldn't hold herself upright.
Jean-Marc offered her a ride in his buggy and she accepted, more on account to escape the area than because she felt offended at any faux pas he perceived. He lent a hand to help her into the open two-person seater, unexpectedly asking for her address. The city was vast and she knew nothing, and no one in Saint Denis. Therefore, she said nothing in response. She waited for him to rescind his invitation and boot her from his carriage as she was nothing less than a homeless vagabond.
Instead, he studied her a moment, and moved around the back of the carriage to enter the driver's seat.
"What is your name, mademoiselle?"
This time she was prepared with an answer, because if she provided her true name, there was a chance she'd be surrendered over to the police. "Miss Maggie O'Clery."
He tipped his head and introduced himself, "Jean-Marc Mercier. If it suits you, I shall set you up for the night at La Licorne, a most bourgeoisie establishment, and not too far from here."
"Why would you do that?" she'd blathered before thinking better of it.
A smile had twitched under Jean-Marc's dark mustache. "My sister runs the hotel and she's lately complained to me of Hotel Chevalier's grand opening, who she says have stolen her customers. Truly, Mademoiselle O'Clery, you would be doing me a favor."
So it was, that by a great kindness from a stranger, she didn't have to worry over shelter for the night. Jean-Marc came to check on her the next morning. She'd met him on the patio and they'd started a conversation, him asking her of the progress of her healing ankle. It would have started and ended there, but she noticed his distraction with his pocket watch, as he checked it three times within the short time span of their pleasantries.
"Are you late for something then?" she asked him.
He glanced at the other hotel guests present on the patio, eating their breakfast at the tables. "No."
"Then would you mind strolling the lawn with me a bit?" She added, "To stretch my ankle?"
He agreed and tucked her hand into his elbow and led the way. Perhaps it was easier for him to talk to her because she was a pretty stranger, but once they were away from possible eavesdroppers, he opened up. He unloaded his frustration over his employer, unhappy with the mayor's heavy-handed politics.
She politely listened, but was calculating a few clues he'd dropped. He worked for the mayor, his sister owned a fancy hotel, and he dressed impeccably. Jean-Marc Mercier was rich or she'd eat her shoe. Once she deduced that, she laid on the sympathy and leaned into a demure manner. By the end of their short walk, Jean-Marc was asking her out to dinner, and by the end of the evening, they'd started a courtship.
Her dalliance with Jean-Marc had started selfish, it was true. He was good-looking, wealthy and besotted by her beauty and charm. It was almost too easy to ensnare him.
The part Molly hadn't been prepared for was her own growing infatuation for him. He was organized, serious, and irreproachable, but with her, he was always generous and doting. He possessed a strong sense of self, of what he found right and wrong in this world. All in all, he was a quality man.
She thought she'd never trust another with her heart, but the feelings Jean-Marc conjured in her were similar as to what Dutch had originally awakened. Yet, it wasn't quite the same.
With Jean-Marc, she actually enjoyed herself. He listened to her. His quiet confidence made her feel safe and wanted. Everything about him seemed so perfect and dreamlike that when the whirlwind romance turned into a sudden engagement, she was so swept up in it, she didn't contemplate the possibility of a refusal.
At the engagement party, she met Henri Lemieux, Jean-Marc's employer. She could smell the rot from him before he ever spoke a word. The darting eyes behind his spectacles and his smug mouth were the first signs that, while he might not be a criminal in the strictest sense, she recognized that he was corrupted.
The reminder of the mayor's existence prompted her to recollect the incident tonight and the peril of Jean-Marc had been in.
Molly twirled the engagement ring on her finger, examining the emerald as she fully brought herself back to the present. "What are you degenerates doing here then? And what were you about to do to Jean-Marc?"
Arthur rubbed the back of his neck. "Mayor wants to have a talk with him."
It was one thing for her to suspect the mayor of committing something foul and another to have it confirmed. Fury rose in her, quick and hot. "So Henri did do this?"
"He told me Jean-Marc's been spreadin' lies about us."
"That's a damn lie!" Molly stood, agitated, as she knew what the mayor did to the people he felt threatened by. "He means to kill Jean-Marc."
"Now, I don't know about all that—"
"Arthur, why do you think the mayor had you come here?" she snarled. "Just to have a little chat with your charmin' self?"
"Hey now, you don't got to get nasty about it," Arthur replied with his own irritation. "But...yeah. I reckon you're right. Why have me kill his deputy though? Seemed like they were close."
"I think I can answer you that, Arthur," Trelawny said. "It's an open secret Mayor Lemieux is willing to take deals under the table, so to speak. Yet, Mercier is...less flexible."
"Jean-Marc is a good man," Molly blazed in defense.
"I don't doubt it, miss," Trelawny conceded. "But in this city, one needs a backbone and an assertive nature to resist the temptations that arise with the gain of power. I'm sorry to say your Jean-Marc is known as a political doormat."
"You men and your bloody games," she muttered. Trelawny's observation stung, even if it wasn't directed at her. What made Jean-Marc special was he wasn't aggressive like his rivals. In case Arthur meant to change his mind, Molly appealed to him, "You'll spare him, won't you, Arthur? You'll not do Henri's dirty work?"
"Damn it." Arthur rubbed his eyes a moment before he eventually sighed. "I might be a brute, but I ain't a paid killer."
Molly let out her own breath of relief. Arthur was a man of his word. Now she only had to reckon with Monsieur Lemieux.
"But this is what you're set on?" Arthur questioned her. "Playin' housewife to a politician?"
"It's not anything less dangerous than what Dutch ever put us in the middle of."
Arthur brushed her off again. "It ain't that bad."
"For you, maybe." Molly raised her chin. "You look me in the eye and tell me Dutch wouldn't kill me on sight if he knew where I was. That he wouldn't exact revenge on me."
Arthur couldn't refute her when she spoke too closely of Dutch's true nature. He asked instead, "You think this new life will work when Milton could recognize you?"
"The Pinkertons won't stay here forever," she said confidently. "They're after Dutch. I know it firsthand, Arthur, and you know it too. It's why they offered you the same deal they offered me, isn't it?"
"I ain't sure..."
Molly scowled, losing patience with Arthur's denials and excuses. "Dutch thinks he's the Lord God Almighty himself, but, mark my words, he'll get what's coming to him."
Trelawny cleared his throat, as if to also clear the rising tension. "So, this is truly where you want to stay, Miss, uh, O'Clery?"
"O'course. What do you two not like about it that you keep askin'?" Again in life, Molly had luxury, comfort, and station. She hadn't thought she'd miss the life of the nobility, but she'd absolutely despised living in the wild.
"I don't know." Arthur shrugged. "Seems sorta tame is all. I mean, compared to what we got up to when you was running with us."
Molly laughed and she saw it startle him. "You know nothin' about politics, do you, Arthur? Plenty a-danger here. More a game of words, but the consequences could be worse, if played wrong. Just look at your business here."
"You sure you can stay out of trouble?"
She scoffed. "Before I was with you lot, I mingled among the highest of Irish peerage. This is less than that. I can handle myself. A step down from my former lifestyle, and ten steps up from you lot."
"I meant no offense. Just..." Arthur glanced at Jean-Marc and asked, "You gonna be alright here?"
Molly's expression softened as she realized he didn't mean nothing by his questions except honest concern. Now that she'd been away from them all for so long, she saw much more clearly whose words she could trust. Arthur was one of the genuine ones.
She said with sincerity, "I'm safe here. Thank you, Arthur."
Arthur tilted his head towards the sofa. "How you gonna explain to Jean-Marc here what happened?"
"I'll manage, Arthur. Don't you worry yourself about that." She checked on Jean-Marc, whose nose scrunched up as if his dream was turning unpleasant. "Now I don't mean to be rude, but you can't stay here any longer. If Jean-Marc suspects I know you at all, he'll lose all trust for me and I'll lose my fresh start."
She herded them all to the front hall. Arthur stepped out the door first, Trelawny tipped his hat at her. When Charlotte made to follow, Molly caught her elbow to stop her.
"Hold on a second, miss." Molly waited until the men were to the horses and out of hearing.
Meanwhile, Charlotte commented pleasantly, "I must say, it's wonderful to see you've landed firmly on your feet, Miss O'Shea."
Molly glanced at her. "I'd say the same, but it seems you've got yourself stuck in the same boat as I was."
Surprised, Charlotte protested, "It's not—"
"Listen to me. Get as far away from those people as you can right now. Follow the advice you gave me and get yourself home."
"I'm afraid it's not quite as simple as all that," Charlotte muttered, her eyes straying to where Arthur and Trelawny were waiting by the horses and watching her quizzically. "There isn't really a home for me to return to anymore."
Molly's eyebrows rose. "You've fallen in with them, have you?"
Charlotte faced her again. "I wouldn't say—"
"You're caught, as sorely as I was." Molly shook her head, rueful. "I won't offer it to them, but I'll offer it to you, for your kindness. There's a guest room here. Jean-Marc wouldn't mind if a lady friend stays with me, even if it's for an extended amount of time."
"That's very kind, Miss O'Shea." Charlotte bit her lip and her gaze drifted back to the men again. "But I feel my place is with them right now."
Molly shrugged. She'd tried, but she couldn't say she blamed Charlotte at all. She knew all too well the initial allure of that life.
"I want to help Arthur," Charlotte confided unexpectedly. "He carries so many burdens."
The bloody woman was already head over heels then. It was foolish, but Molly couldn't harp on Charlotte when she'd once done the same thing. "All I'll tell you then, is to keep your guard up, especially around Dutch."
"Dutch doesn't frighten me."
She snorted. "You better not let on you fear him less than the Lord himself."
Charlotte winced. "I may have already slipped up in that regard. I defended myself after he blamed me fully for your departure."
"Oh, but he's not wrong, there. I blame you for all this." Molly waved her hand back into the house, but she said it with a smile.
Little did Charlotte know she'd begun a thoughtless scheme the day they'd met. It'd been all that desperation and loneliness, forming into a vindictive and brainless plot to say anything to recapture Dutch's attention again...even if it meant him believing she'd betrayed him. Molly saw now how ridiculous and dangerous that would have been to act upon.
She clasped Charlotte's hands, wanting to sincerely express her gratitude. "If ever you need anything, I shall be here. You have yourself a friend in me."
"Thank you, Miss O'Shea. That means a lot. And, of course, the sentiment is entirely mutual."
At that moment, Molly remembered something curious she'd caught sight of a few days ago. "There's one last thing, Mrs. Balfour, that I need to tell you." Molly checked to make sure Arthur and Trelawny hadn't moved. She leaned in and whispered, "I'm not sure if it's of any concern to you, but I've seen Reverend Swanson."
"You have?" Charlotte asked in surprise.
Molly nodded. "He works down at the soup kitchen sometimes."
Charlotte eyed her oddly. "Why would you not mention this to Arthur?"
"I don't know the state of things in the gang anymore. I didn't have a chance to speak with the reverend or I might have asked him if he wanted to stay hidden." She paused. "Like me. Instead, I'll leave it up to your judgment if you want to tell the others."
"Maggie?" a hoarse, weakened voice called from the sitting room and Molly's eyes widened.
She stepped inside the foyer, her heart pounding, and whispered again, "I've got to go now, but you take care, and don't get yourself killed."
Charlotte smiled and gave her a silent, parting wave as Molly closed the door.
Molly rushed to the sitting room and perched on the edge of the couch where Jean-Marc lay, bestowing him a relieved smile. "Oh, you're awake. Hello, love."
"What has happened?" He sat up, moving his hand to press the back of his head.
"Some thug came to the house and attacked you, but I scared them off with one of your pistols."
"You are so brave." He raised his hand to her cheek. "But you must have been so frightened, cherie."
His concern for her melted her heart, even while her stomach flipped with guilt. However, she couldn't tell him the truth.
"But who would do such a thing? What have I done to deserve such treatment?"
"It was Henri," she told him ruthlessly, because she wanted the mayor punished. "He's lost it and he's workin' against you, to harm you, mo chroί."
Jean-Marc leaned back on the sofa, in disbelief. "Say it isn't so, cherie. I do not wish to believe it. "
"Believe it," she urged, shifting closer to him. "He betrayed you and who knows when he might strike again."
"His ambition has finally fully corrupted him then." Jean-Marc's entire demeanor had saddened. "He is supposed to be my friend, but it seems our opposing principles have destroyed that friendship. It is enough to give up."
Molly realized belatedly she'd been too merciless in her delivery of this terrible development, despite it being the truth. Jean-Marc had been loyal to the mayor for years. He wasn't only losing a job with this betrayal, but a part of himself.
In one of Molly's worst arguments with Dutch, he'd snapped at her, "You're a cruel, heartless woman."
She'd denied it, but the accusation had nonetheless stung and she'd lashed out at him in return, as she usually did. Dutch always brought out the ugly in her and it made her hate herself at what she'd become with him.
There was a heart in her, but she'd let the wrong man keep hold of it and he'd thrown it away, bruised and bleeding. Jean-Marc had picked up that heart and he was nurturing it to its former strength. More than he could ever possibly know, she owed him.
Molly must be his backbone in this issue, to help him prevail. "Darling, you can fight back."
"How so?"
"Run this city." she encouraged, clasping his hand. "Run it like a man of honor, instead of letting Henri blacken it with his corruption and bullying."
Jean-Marc hesitated in replying, but considered her suggestion, giving it merit. He imparted to her, "There will be push back. Lemieux has strong allies."
"We shall stand together."
Molly knew he could be triumphant. She believed in him and there one was no one else more deserving for a leading position in this city. She was ready to make something better of her life, to be someone better, not only for Jean-Marc, but for herself.
There were flaws in her, as all people. She was selfish, she liked pretty things and she liked to be pampered. But she'd discovered, through Dutch's mistreatment, she desired a mutual affection with her partner above all else. With Jean-Marc, she had that bond and she would do anything to protect it.
She could start by making sure the good men of this world rose to the top. Hand in hand, her and Jean-Marc would clean this town up, make fresh allies, and bury the corrupt.
And Henri Lemieux would be the first one they dealt with.
