Where the Flowers Have Been Chapter 4: Four, a red dead redemption fanfic

The heat of the sun on her face made up for the burn in her muscles as Karen hauled crates, tents, and tables from the wagons at Horseshoe Overlook. She was sweating, and it seemed a marvelous thing. She found herself smiling for the first time in weeks, breathless with exertion but joyful; even as her underthings clung uncomfortably to her body. She was wearing a loose, low cut blouse and her favorite purple skirt, bound in at her waist by a leather belt. Her long black coat had been gleefully abandoned by her bedroll, leaving her feeling light and free.

Everyone, it seemed, was smiling a bit. Except that poor Adler woman of course, though even she had stopped crying quite as much. Karen wished she could say something comforting to her, but had never been the best with soothing words. Instead, she'd offered Sadie a cigarette and sat beside her in silence while they smoked, keeping a reassuring hand on her back.

Setting up camp was second nature at this point. She'd lost count of the number of times the gang had packed up and moved since she'd taken up with them five years ago. They were finished before sunset, and settling into the first easy evening they'd had in ages. Javier was perched on a chair by the fire, strumming at his guitar while Mary-Beth, Uncle, and Lenny sat swaying to the soft melody.

To Hosea's credit, this place was beautiful. Situated on a cliff's edge, in a clearing surrounded by lush woods. The dipping sun hit the camp perfectly, oranges and pinks painting the sky and reflecting on the river at the bottom of the drop.

Karen's eyes were drifting, and she wasn't aware she was looking for someone until they landed on Arthur, and stuck. He was bathed in the golden light of sunset, and wore a cornflower blue button-down shirt, the sleeves rolled up to show his muscled forearms. He was laughing with Hosea at the dominoes table, the skin by his eyes crinkling as he smiled. His chuckle carried across the space, a low rumble that tightened in her belly. She didn't realize she was staring until his gaze flicked up to meet hers, and she glanced away, flushing.

She tightened her hand into a fist as she hurried over to the fire pit, nails biting into her palm, and silently cursed herself. She wasn't some giggling schoolgirl to be flustered by a handsome face; nothing good ever came from this feeling. Uncle was wheezing with laughter, tipping a whiskey bottle back to his mouth, which Karen snatched from his hand before it reached his lips. She took a deep swig, hissing at the burn.

"Hey, now!" Uncle protested. "Get your own-"

"Like you ain't had enough already." She snarled.

He raised his hands in surrender, standing up and stumbling off, probably in search of more booze. Karen glared into the crackling flames, her good mood ruined by the traitorous fluttering in her stomach.

"What's the matter, Karen?" Lenny sounded truly concerned, which only served to irritate her more. "Thought you was havin' a good day."

"I'm fine." She deadpanned, taking another pull off the bottle.

"Of course." He laughed, unbothered. "What was I thinking?"

She smiled a bit in spite of herself; Lenny's unshakeable optimism was infectious.

"Worry about yourself, Lenny." She shot back, a teasing edge creeping into her voice. "From what I hear you can't even hold your liquor."

"Oh, is that how it's gonna be?" He leaned forward, bracing a forearm on his knee as he held his other hand out for the bottle. "I can hold my own well enough. Let's see how you live up to that talk."

She passed it to him, a smirk tugging at the edge of her mouth, when a heavy weight settled on the log beside her. She didn't need to look up to know it was him; the heat of him, and the way the wood gave a groan beneath his broad presence was clue enough.

"Kid, if you think you're about to out drink Karen here, we'll be buryin' you tomorrow." The deep gravel of his voice seemed to shake the air around her.

"I'mma make you eat those words, Arthur." Lenny's smile was cocky, and Karen was going to relish wiping it off his face.

"Well," Arthur slapped his knees, his gaze hot on her cheek, and now she did look up at him. There was a playful twinkle in his eye she hadn't seen in a month or more. "Have it your way, if you got a death wish. We're gonna be needing more bottles, though."

"Hey, Pearson!" Lenny shouted, waving to the camp cook. "Get over here, and bring some more whiskey. We's about to have an old fashioned drink-off."

Arthur laughed, a real laugh that had him tipping his head back, his shoulders shaking. He was grinning, unrestrained, and Karen had the urge to keep him laughing- just to see him like this some more.

"Don't you act all superior, Mr. Morgan. We've all seen you the day after a party." She teased, elbowing him in the side. She made a conscious effort not to think about the hardness of his body beside her. "Hell, I saw John and Javier carryin' you back to camp our third night in Blackwater. You were still singing when they tossed you into bed like a sack of potatoes."

He sputtered, and she was rewarded with another incredulous laugh. It brought her some kind of smug delight to draw it out of him.

"How about it Arthur?" Lenny challenged, tipping the bottle towards him. "You in?"

"Well, seeing as the lady has called my honor into question, it don't seem I got much of a choice."

Karen hooted, clapping her hands together; a pleasant buzzing in her skin at being called a lady in that tone, like she was someone to impress. Pearson was now wandering in their direction with two more bottles clasped in his fists, and uncle had settled down next to Javier again. The music kicked up into a jaunty, tumbling melody, and before she knew it the group of them had taken up a chorus.

I ain't got no father

To buy the clothes I wear

I'm a poor, lonesome, cowboy

Poor, lonesome, cowboy

I'm a poor, lonesome, cowboy

A long way from home

Arthur's voice was smokey and warm, if out of tune. She found herself grinning so wide her cheeks ached, giggles rising up through her singing. The fire was bright and hot against her this close, the whiskey already spreading a gentle tingle under her skin. She felt the tension and fear of the past weeks beginning to melt off her, seeping into the ground beneath her feet. They kept passing the bottle between the three of them, their restraint fading as it grew lighter and sloshed louder.

I ain't got no mother

To mend the clothes I wear

I'm a poor, lonesome, cowboy

Poor, lonesome, cowboy

A long way from home

A sudden moment of bravery struck her and she stood, hoisting her skirts, and twirled away with a devious smile. She snatched Arthur's wrist and he started, not expecting the touch, but didn't pull away.

"Dance with me, you big fool." She beamed at him, flourishing her skirt for good measure.

Maybe it was a trick of the firelight, the way he swallowed as his gaze roamed from where she held him, up to her face. She felt her skin heat, unsure if the whiskey was to blame, and gave an impatient tug on his arm- which may have been made of stone for all it budged. He stood, though, following her with a look that was somewhere between guarded and indulgent.

"I ain't much of a dancer, Miss Jones." He said, his voice lower now as he drew closer to her. She felt it as much as heard it, a deep vibration that sent a wave of chills down her spine and gathered low inside her.

"Lucky for you, I'm a fantastic one." She took his hand- huge and rough against her own skin- and arched it over her head, spinning in a way that teased out her flouncy skirt. When she came to face him again he settled his other hand on her hip. Now there was no doubt she could feel the heat of him through her clothes, and seeping into her hand where it wound around his. He was like a furnace, and she wanted to lean closer; wanted to know what he felt like, pressed full against her, fever hot and sweat-shining.

Sweet Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, what had gotten into her? Too much liquor- that would be it. Not that she'd had as much as she often drank tonight; but she refused to accept that it was his nearness she found so addictive.

If she was honest with herself, which she rarely was, she'd always been sweet on Arthur. He was strong and handsome, and quiet in a way that made people think he was stupid. She saw him, though. Saw how he sat back and observed, learning more than he ever said aloud. Whatever she saw in him, though, didn't matter. He had never shown even a flicker of interest in her in all the time they'd known each other.

It bothered her more than she would ever admit, the way his eyes never roamed over her body, no matter what she wore. He seemed to go out of his way to avoid looking below her face, and maybe she should have been grateful for his respect. She knew she should be more appreciative of his friendship, and felt dirty and shameful for the way she sometimes thought of him. He'd never be over that Mary girl, anyway.

She'd banished it from her mind for the most part, truly. So why, tonight, was she so intent on pushing her luck? Maybe she just enjoyed rejection.

She realized in a beat that she'd been letting her mind wander, and refocused to find him searching her face with a puzzled expression. He coughed, abruptly, surreptitiously using another spin to edge their bodies a step apart.

"You ain't stood on my foot yet," she snorted a barely forced laugh. "That's quite an improvement for you. You been practicing?"

"Every night with Dutch." He said, the warmth of amusement bleeding into his voice. "He's teachin' me the polka this week."

"Why, Mr. Morgan," she batted her eyelashes, mooning at him. "It's a wonder you don't have a line of suitors knocking down your door."

That pulled a startled laugh from him- more a scoff than anything- and she wondered if he really didn't see the way girls' eyes tracked him when they wandered through a town. He seemed to see everything else so clearly, it struck her as strange.

"I think I'd have to have a door, first." He said simply, his smile lopsided. "Not so many ladies looking for a grimy old man with a bit of canvas for a roof."

She rolled her eyes, letting the subject drop. She didn't bring up the fact that he'd just called her a lady a moment ago. It was best not to push this any further, and leave her stinging from rejection and jealousy. Just shut up and have a good time. It ain't that serious, she thought, gripping his hand a little tighter in her own.

I ain't got no brother

To drive the steers with me

I'm a poor, lonesome, cowboy

Poor, lonesome, cowboy

And a long way from home