.
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"But one thing I do know… there ain't no shame in looking for a better world."
Arthur Morgan
John doesn't exactly believe in "love at first sight" or any of that nonsense Mary Beth dreamily laments about when she's had one too many beers, but he certainly knows what it means to desire a woman as if she's God Himself offering salvation on a silver platter.
That was Abigail the very moment he laid eyes on her.
Uncle had stumbled into their campground with the typical swagger of a drunken idiot. Arthur, normally keen to mock the ridiculous bastard, had been stony and silent. Intrigued, John had glanced up from his dog-eared book and felt as if he had been punched straight in the gut. He scarcely realized that he had tossed the book onto the dirt as he eagerly pushed forward.
A woman flanked Uncle's right side, her plump, rosy lips curved upward. Her jaw was square and angular, and her high cheekbones only further complimented her disarmingly lopsided smile. With her hands neatly folded together and resting on her skirt, she surveyed the environment and those who approached her with a keen but wary look.
Her eyes, a soft canary blue, hardened when Dutch, dark and imposing, sauntered toward her.
"Everybody look here, I brought a new, er, friend!" Uncle exclaimed, gesturing to his dark-haired companion.
She arched an eyebrow, although her smile never wavered.
"My name's Abigail," she announced as they all came nearer (minus Bill who was gawking openly near his tent and Arthur, who remained a distant observer near the campfire).
"It's lovely to meet you, Abigail," Dutch replied, offering her his hand while greeting Uncle with a sharp chuckle. "And why, our dear Uncle, have you brought us this enchanting young lady?" Uncle snorted. " Companionship?" Abigail's smile tightened. "Well, more than that, I'd hope. Dutch, I've heard some truly inspiring stories about you and your friends here, and I've got to tell you, you ain't never seen a thief as good as me. I can contribute and earn my fair share, I promise you."
"Straight to the point." Dutch grinned, his teeth as shiny as pearls. "I respect that more than you can imagine." He offered her his hand but much to his surprise Abigail opened her arms. With a wide-toothed grin, Dutch swept her into a warm embrace and then—with his arms still curved around her shoulders—turned her around, presenting her purposefully to the onlookers.
"Oh, she can contribute!" Uncle had chortled. Miss Grimshaw sternly smacked the back of his head but it was John's own anger that cracked Uncle's colorful mood in half.
"Do you ever shut the hell up?" he had snapped, his tone cutting through the air. He was acutely aware of Arthur's knowing stare lingering on his face but chose to ignore it and instead offered Abigail a contrite head nod.
It was then that she regarded John fully, her eyebrows raised and the tautness of her smile faltering. She nodded once at him in return, perhaps a silent "thank you," before Davey swept her away and Dutch had delivered her a beer.
It was then as she gingerly plucked the glass from Dutch's hand that she revealed she had snatched his pocket watch.
John dreamed of her that night, and then more nights to come.
.
She's dead sober when she storms into his tent one summer's night, her cheeks a peculiar shade of pink. Startled, John raises his arms in faux surrender. The severity of her expression anchors him to the corner of the tent and she seems quite content with keeping him there.
"How come you're always ignorin' me?" She demands, although her tone is hearty. Her hair, normally tousled by this time of night, is pulled into a neat bun. "Have I done somethin' to offend you?" "Uh, no…" " Uh… Then how come you ain't never speak to me?" He frowns. "I said, 'Hello' this morning, didn't I?" "Do I scare you?" She tilts her head and crosses her arms. "Well, I'm sorry you ain't seen a real woman before but I've done nothing wrong to you or anybody here but you're always on about with those mean looks of yours." His eyes widen. " Mean? What do you want me to do, worship your feet like Bill and Uncle? You want me to lick your boots, Abigail?" "Maybe. Or maybe I just want to get to know you, is all."
"I've seen you get drunk and walk into their tents every other night," he accuses. "Why you need to get to know me now?" His heartbeat thunders in his ears and his chest tightens with the swell of repressed rage that lingers in his memories.
"Who?" Her skin flares red and her jaw tightens. "What'd you mean?" "Uh, Javier, Bill, Uncle. You want an itinerary?"
Her eyebrows fly up. "You mad I ain't visited your tent then, huh?" She shakes her head; wayward strands of brown hair fall from her bun. "Look, it's… Well, I'm not…" "Are you speechless?" He stifles his laughter. In the month he's known Abigail Roberts, he's come to appreciate her sardonic humor and her barbed comments. Hell, he didn't realize anybody could needle Arthur with a pointed jest without potentially losing a hand until Abigail arrived. Her words kept you on your toes and the sharp twang of her voice certainly worked in her favor.
And maybe because she's the most beautiful lady I've ever seen with my own two eyes.
"You can screw anybody you'd like, Abigail." He flicks his hand dismissively at her. "I'm not a man to judge how a woman works." No sooner has he finished his sentence that Abigail raises her palm, ready to strike. He flinches and recoils slightly, prepared for the sting of pain on his cheek, but instead she exhales softly and lets her arms fall to her sides. Her inaction thaws the hot anger that has seeped into his veins.
He mumbles, "I'm sorry," a phrase unfamiliar; foreign.
"No you ain't," she scoffs. Smiling nonetheless, she says, "I just meant I wanted to feel a part of this little family of yours."
"Mhm. So that's why Miss Grimshaw likes you?" "John Marston," Abigail gasps. She throws her head back and laughs heartily. The sound is as lovely and warm as an orange sunset; the knot in John's stomach tightens. He swallows the lump forming in his throat and explains, "Look, I'm not one for, er, talking and such. I don't mean to disrespect you."
"Oh, I know," she sighs. "I'm sorry for botherin' you."
He chuckles. "You aren't a bother to me. I'm just surprised you're sober."
Abigail's eyes soften. "I'm not a drunk, John. It's just hard to give yourself up like, well, that. A shot of whiskey helps. Or two or three…"
"You don't have to," he replies, folding his arms across his chest. "Nobody'd give it a second thought if you just kept to yourself." That's a lie to end all lies.
She is quiet for a minute, and he is surprised by how much he craves her voice, her thoughts, her beliefs, everything she has to offer. She bites and sucks on her bottom lip for a moment, an action that almost turns his knees into jam, and then gazes at him through slitted eyes. Ah hell, I've offended her again.
"Even you?"
John furrows his brow. "I don't know what you're saying." "Are you speechless?" She mocks, parroting his earlier words. "You know what I mean, John."
It's not long before John fastens his tent closed and sweeps Abigail into a deep embrace. She tastes as sweet as peach nectar. The night is too hot and the air is uncomfortable and Uncle and Bill are a pair of loud fools, and yet it all melts away with her soft touch and her deft fingers and the aggressive manner in which her tongue grazes his.
When he awakens that morning, peppered in sweat and rather perplexed by his memory that almost feels like a heavenly dream, he realizes with a start that Abigail is pressed against his side and snoring lazily.
It's only after a gentle ribbing from Uncle and a heated crack from Javier that he comes to know Abigail has never spent the night in anybody's tent.
The following evening as they all are gathered around a roaring fire and singing joyful songs of glitter and gold, John feels Abigail's gaze linger on him. He pretends not to notice. And when he retreats to his tent earlier than normal, he also pretends not to hear the quiet footfalls of a petite woman trailing his heels.
She whips open the curtains then and a soft sound of surprise escapes through her lips when he eagerly hoists her into his arms and hungrily kisses her.
After they have ravenously stripped their clothes from one another and John has buried himself inside of her, Abigail breathes into his ear, "I missed you." "It's only been a day, woman," he murmurs, his tongue dipping into her collarbone and his teeth grazing the skin. A soft, happy exhale rolls off her tongue and all John wants to do is chase that sound until his heart stops beating.
.
John never asks who she's bedded in camp.
It's not from a lack of curiosity and it's certainly not fear of what her answer may be.
No, John rationalizes, as he eyes Arthur's tender expression when Abigail offers him a cup of coffee in the morning. I don't need to know.
There's a period of a week in which Abigail doesn't visit his tent and he isn't keen on asking why or where she is. She's sleeping alone, he thinks, his eyes rooted to the entrance to his tent. During the day they're cordial and their conversations are plain, unassuming, and it takes everything in him not to lock her in his arms and shamessly fuck her in front of everybody ( or in front of Arthur).
After six days (not like he's counting) she saunters into his tent and slips into his arms, startling him awake.
"Where've you been?" He breathes in her scent and plants a deep, velvety kiss on her soft lips.
"I thought I'd give you space." Her tone is light and her body relaxes against his, and he realizes he's been holding his breath waiting for her answer.
He nods into her hair and finds himself lulled into sleep; his dreams are honey-sweet and her rich scent lingers, even in his slumber.
"You know I like you, right?" Abigail says the next morning, her nimble fingers tracing his arm. "I ain't… I haven't been with anybody else for a good while now, John."
"You're a smart woman, Abigail." He smooths his hand across her chest, his fingers caressing her nipples. "I'm not a good man." "And I ain't a good woman," she whispers huskily, palming his erection and kissing his neck. "Aren't we a match, huh?"
.
He never meant to run and yet his legs carried him away, guided by the siren call of freedom and booze.
John Marston is drunk, angry, and thirsting for blood, liquor, a good fuck, and perhaps a steaming bath, and it's not secret to anybody in the bar.
"You're in a nasty mood, sir," a bearded, fat bastard chimes in his ear, and it's as easy as breathing for John to smash his bruised knuckles into the man's jaw. A sickening snap of bone and a spray of blood greets John, and he laughs hoarsely.
He's tossed out into the mud and manages to find a cover of trees outside of town. Rain sloshes him and sobers him, and he's left curled against a rock, his hands splayed with blood.
That kid isn't mine.
.
He returns with rusty guns and a canvas of fading bruises patterning his slender frame.
Abigail spits venom at him before hoisting the toddler into her arms and speeding away, Miss Grimshaw and Hosea following closely.
Arthur doesn't acknowledge him.
Dutch gives him a solid handshake before asking how much money—or stolen goods—he has procured.
Bill gives him a heavy pat on the back, but when he also calls Abigail a "whore" John forces himself to stomp away.
After all, his knuckles are broken and need to heal.
.
"Please, just… Just look at him, John," Abigail begs, her fingers digging into his shirt while he gazes off into the setting sun. "He needs a father, John—he needs his father."
He chuckles bitterly. "He's got plenty of fathers, Abigail. Pick one."
"He's yours and you know it, you sonofabitch."
The toddler, with his deep brown eyes and ruffled dark hair, is not a sight John enjoys partaking in.
"I don't know shit, Abigail."
He shoves around her and stalks toward his tent (once theirs in a place John now considers a fairytale), ignoring her stormy insults.
John Marston isn't a good man.
Abigail has always known this.
.
Early morning mist cradles the camp and curls around the tents scattered across the grassy knoll. John, carefully concealed behind a thicket of bushes and trees, is perched on a rock; his steely gaze is ironed onto the fastened tent on the furthest right of the camp.
After the minutes chip away, his confidence wavers and he contemplates abandoning the anger that winds around his heart when suddenly the tent opens and Abigail emerges. She pokes her head in once more, her words inaudible at a distance, and then carefully ties the tent shut before turning on her heel and making her way to the empty pot of coffee.
John slides off the tent and then peers his head out, gauging the desertion of the early morning—he can hear Uncle's deafening snores somewhere amongst the camp—and then swiftly marches toward Abigail.
She stops mid-stride and spins around, and their eyes lock. There's a moist sheen in her eyes that momentarily paralyzes him but after stealing a glimpse of the tent she had vacated the rage that suffocated his chest returns.
"What were you doing in there?" John demands, his voice raspy.
Abigail folds her arms across her chest. "What's it matter to you? Are you stalkin' me? How did you even—"
"I came out to take a piss and I saw you sneak in there," he retorts, gesturing roughly with his hand. "What are you planning? You want another baby?" In spite of his resentment the shame that accompanies that remark burns inside of him; blood seeps into his cheeks. "Have you been crying?" "John, I don't get what this little tantrum of yours is but yes, I went into Arthur's tent but no, I was not sneaking." She rubs her eyes once before whispering, "I thought I heard him cryin'."
John exhales heavily and then curses underneath his breath.
"You was passed out drunk last night but I'll have you know Cooper finally died. Javier kindly buried him near the creek." She sighs softly and then adds, "He really loved that dog, John. And it's… Well, you know… the anniversary…"
John nods once.
Abigail levels him with a scowl. "Have you spoken to him at all this week? He's been quiet. I don't blame him, mind you, but John, y'all really need to know that sort of hurt never goes away. Isaac was his son—"
"I know," he bites back, ringing his fingers through his disheveled hair. "I don't know what to say. We're like brothers but we don't really talk like that. It's Dutch and Hosea who know all these fancy words and poetry and I just thought they'd know what to say."
Her expression softens; his own anger melts away.
The palpable tension between them thickens with the silence. John notices the gooseflesh peppering Abigail's arms and reflexively starts to peel his coat off; she puts her hand up, palm facing him, and shakes her head.
"I'm gonna check on Jack. He gets nervous waking up and not seein' me."
John eyes her retreating form.
Half of him wants to follow her and lull her back to sleep; to memorize the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest as she snores.
Instead he releases Karen early from guard duty.
The cold press of steel and the heavy weight of his rifle are a comfort.
.
Summer in Montana—the fields sprinkled with blooming geranium and a plentiful harvest of deer and bighorn sheep—is a rich and jovial time for the gang.
Hosea unveils a bottle of aged rum, and their quiet camp is shattered by laughter and jeering not soon after. During poker Davey swindles Sean and Karen plants a sloppy kiss on Mac's cheek and Dutch sweeps Molly into a dance while the gramophone plays operatic tunes.
The log John is sitting on croaks from shifting weight.
From his peripheral he notes it's Abigail beside him and heat pools into his stomach.
"Pearson made a decent dinner for once," she jokes after a pregnant pause.
Finally he cranes his neck and returns her gaze; her vibrant blue eyes are twinkling against the campfire flame. "The venison here is something else," he agrees plainly.
She awards his agreement with a mock pout. "Are you mad at me?"
John pretends not to notice Hosea or Mary Beth departing or the fact that Abigail's mouth is welcomingly plump. "You always think I'm mad." "You're always mad." She shakes her head; her bun—already sloppily made—loosens and her silky brown locks unfasten and spill across her face. "We haven't talked in some time."
"We've yelled," he chuckles. "Or you've yelled and I've listened."
He expects her mood to sour and for her to abandon him in a huff. Instead she snickers lightly and says, "Oh, I wish you listened."
She's fucking drunk, he recognizes. He hurriedly finishes his beer and tries to dismiss the familiar fever that spreads through his body.
I need to make her go away, I can't do this. His mind, barely tethered to sanity, starts to unravel. Memories thaw the chill in his heart and he can distinctly remember the dip in her slender hips and the dark mole that sits atop her breasts. Discreetly he glances at her chest; the top button of her blouse is undone.
"You lookin' at somethin'?" Abigail murmurs, startling him from his thoughts.
"No, I, uh—how's that kid been doin'? Hosea said his reading and writing is damn fine."
"Jack," she says frostily. "His name is Jack." Standing abruptly she marches away, accidentally bumping shoulders with a drunk Tilly who merely glances between her retreating back and John's dumbfounded expression before rolling her eyes and following after the enraged woman.
John is just about prepared to shatter the empty bottle of beer on his own face when Arthur chuckles from behind him.
"Were you just born stupid or is it an acquired talent, Jack Marston?"
I can breaking his fucking face, he thinks. Well, I could probably get one hit before he knocks me out cold.
"You ain't hittin' me and living to see the sunrise," Arthur drawls, reading the way John's shoulders square and his fists tighten.
Once he leaves, John ponders his own year-long absence and what sort of comfort Arthur had provided Abigail.
He wakes up pressed against the tree the following morning and with a raging headache and dried blood on his hands and shirt; broken shards of an empty whiskey bottle are littered around him.
It takes him a second to realize the small figure perched beside him.
Jack examines the glass pieces for a moment before reaching forward. Instinctively John launches upward and grasps the boy's wrist. Jack gasps and gapes up at John in open horror.
"Don't you ever touch broken glass," John growls, his eyes narrowed. "That's a stupid way to accidentally hurt yourself."
" You're the one bleeding!" Jack bellows, yanking his hand away and sprinting swiftly toward his tent. Once he has disappeared into the structure, John stares dumbly at his hands.
He's not certain how the bottle broke, or if it was an accident or deliberate.
He doesn't particularly care to know the answer either.
.
Abigail never pretends to be well-spoken and yet it's she who often softens broken men and women with quiet reassurances and tender words of faith. She's known for a long time how to comfort men—hell, most men who sought prostitutes usually craved company more than sex. They'd ask if she thought they were handsome or if she ever considered being a wife and mother with a spark of hope in their eyes. Sometimes they'd lament pitifully on their first loves who are now quietly out of reach (or above their class) or their dull careers in banking and management and property ownership.
She may not be literate but can she read men as if their very souls shone brightly before her.
She utilizes this craft now as Lenny weeps softly in her arms.
"I'm so sorry," she whispers, rotating her palm on his back; he wets her sleeve with his tears. "Jenny was a special woman."
"Why'd Dutch have to—I just don't understand!" He throws his head back against the wall and places his hands on his neck.
"You have no idea how important it was that you were with her when she passed," Abigail assures, planting her hand on his knee. "It's a frightful thing to die alone but you were with her. What's your faith, Lenny?"
His hands fall on his lap; Abigail takes them in hers and squeezes. "I'm a Protestant," he finally answers.
"So you know she's in Heaven with God and she's at peace away from this madness."
Lenny's shoulders sag. "I can't say I know that. We've been…. Everything is messed up, Abigail. I lost my father's pocket watch," he admits, his voice trembling. "I think it fell into the goddamn water when we ran." "You've been through a lot tonight, Lenny. You should rest. We all need it."
Lenny loosens his grasp from hers and nods. She knows he won't relax—probably not for a good while—but still she asks, "Will you promise me you'll rest your eyes for an hour? Just an hour? Then you can yell and fight and scout all you want."
He nods and leans back, his arms loose and his expression blank. She pats him once on his knee knowing he won't keep to that promise and then silently leaves.
At least he's stopped crying.
.
"Have you seen John?" Abigail rushes to Bill's side and pulls him closer. Her heartbeat rattles her eardrums. "I've been lookin' for him and I ain't seen him anywhere." "He's out with Micah," Bill grumbles, shaking off her arm.
"That was two days ago," she whines, her hands quivering—either from the severe cold or the fear nestling in chest, she cannot decide.
He shrugs and turns away from her. Conversation over.
Fat fucker's angry when he's hungry. Scoffing at Bill's sulky display, Abigail rushes from the cabin and heads into the next.
There she finds Tilly, Mary Beth, and Karen bundled together and sharing body heat. Tilly and Mary Beth pay her no attention but Karen's hard expression relaxes when she sees Abigail.
"What's wrong?"
Abigail falls onto the floor beside Karen while massaging her chest; she can hear her heartbeat everywhere and wonders if it's as loud to them as it is to her. "It's John," she breathes out; white frost peppers the air. "He ain't back."
"He's fine, Abigail," Tilly says, smiling kindly at her. "He's a tough man. He can handle the storm."
"You should get Arthur," Mary Beth offers, her high-pitched voice hitching against the cold air that she swallows after speaking. "He'll know what to do."
"You've got a wild look in your eyes, girl," Karen jests, extending a trembling hand and poking Abigail's shoulder. "Don't go wanderin' out into that blizzard yourself, okay?" "I'll get Arthur," Abigail agrees, ignoring the growing terror spreading through her veins. "You're right. Arthur can help me."
It's only as she passes through the door of the cabin housing Arthur that uncertainty steals her breath away and wounds her with a new panic.
Arthur wouldn't leave John to die… Would he?
.
"I can't be this fool who begs and pleads forever. I can't. He ain't interested in being Jack's father and I don't think that's changin' anytime soon. I should've never told Jack that John was his father. It wouldn't even be a lie, would it?" Abigail laces her shaking fingers through her hair while a humorless laugh rolls off her tongue.
"He'll wisen up, Abigail," Hosea says, his arm crooked around her shoulders and pressing her against his side. "He's a stubborn fool but it's not disinterest that's gotten him turned upside down, I can promise you that."
She rolls her eyes. "Then what is it, Hosea? He can make those ridiculous comments all he wants, Jack is his. We can all see it. And if Bill makes another wise remark about Jack's 'heritage' then I'm gonna—"
"You can stab Bill in his sleep for all I care," Hosea chuckles, "but you're going to have to clean up the mess yourself." His expressions become more stern as he says, "We know that Jack is yours and John's and nobody else's. The men in this camp, well… They're not exactly the most mature breed I've encountered and I wouldn't let their lack of manners get to you. Bill couldn't tell the difference between a wolf and a coyote.
"What John sees in Jack is something he can't quite reconcile," he continues, his thumb massaging her upper arm. "And Jack's at that age when John lost his own father suddenly. John, who never had a mother and never read books and learned to shoot and steal and fight far too young—well, Jack is not that little boy."
"Jack is innocent," Abigail affirms strongly. "I intend to keep it that way."
"And so does John."
She cocks an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"
"John isn't an innocent man. He probably thinks that his touch is poison." He holds up his hand, silencing Abigail's rebuttal. "He can be a good father. I know it. Arthur knows it. And you know it. You push him every day so that must mean you have faith in him."
"I don't think I can keep pushing," she admits quietly. Across the camp she hears Jack laugh shrilly and her heart soars. "I love that boy so much."
After a long stretch of silence, Hosea softly asks, "John or Jack?"
Abigail does not answer.
.
Crickets vibrate loudly outside the window. The full moon is covered in a thick expanse of clouds and tucked behind a cluster of hanging trees. Peering out the window, Abigail absentmindedly watches the fog roll over the swamp.
The door of her room creaks open.
"Sadie?" she whispers wistfully but does not turn around.
Behind her John coughs politely and her body tenses. "What?" she barks.
"I just came to check on you. You haven't eaten in two days." She winces at his observation. "How do you know that? You watchin' me?"
"Yes."
Abigail turns on her heel and frowns at the scarred man. Purple shadows are painted underneath his eyes and his face is gaunt. "Why? I ain't your problem."
"You're not a problem, Abigail," he argues, shaking his head at her as if she's the fool and not him. "You can't keep running away from everybody. You can't just sit here and not eat or drink water or—"
"Well, everybody else is just sittin' around so I thought I might as well, too!"
He pinches the bridge of his nose, exhales loudly, and then points his index finger at her. "I've been looking for him, Abigail. Me, Arthur, and Dutch. Every fucking day. But this is a big city and that Bronte motherfucker has a tight hold on everybody in it." "Then how come he ain't back here with me—with us?" she cries, advancing on John and pushing him; she is too weak and he does not budge. "You ain't even want him and suddenly you're stepping up? Why now?"
She balls her hands into fists and attempts to strike him; he easily clasps her wrists and lowers her arms.
"It's real now," he mumbles, refusing to meet her gaze.
"Real now that he could be dead?" She laughs bitterly at his impulsive confession.
John glares daggers at her then. "He ain't fucking dead," he snarls, tightening his hold on her wrists; she ignores the pinch of pain and meets his aggression with another hysterical laugh.
"I've been lookin' out that window all night watchin' them alligators. Do you think they eat people?" She swallows the sob bubbling in her throat.
John releases her and buries his face in his hands while falling to his knees. Abigail stares down at him while hot tears pool in her eyes.
"I hate how you look at me—all of you," she whispers, her right hand hovering over his shoulder. "I can't stay sane out there, John. I see that swamp and all I can think is…" She stifles a choked sob with her left hand as a slither of ice slips down her spine. "I keep thinking someone's gonna find Jack in there, all white and bloated."
She kneels in front of John, her fingers now digging into his shoulder. He wraps an arm around her waist, drawing her to him. "I'm tired of thinkin' awful thoughts. I can't even sleep without those nightmares tearin' me apart."
John looks at her then and another sob springs out of her throat. He subdues with her a bruising kiss; he tastes of whiskey and the stench of gunpowder clings to his skin. Hungrily she sucks on his tongue and licks his mouth and wrings her fingers around his shirt; the cloth rips.
He crashes down on top of her, and the floorboards—already stripped and shabby—squeak and crack.
"Please," she rasps throatily without thinking, clinging to his shirt and snaking her fingers through his messy hair. Her fingernails then claw up and down his back underneath his shirt; sinking down too hard, she draws blood and his body shudders.
They're still clothed when he penetrates her; she's aware of the noise they emit and the fact that the floor might give way but she can only focus on the sinfully painful pleasure that vibrates through her and sears her flesh.
When he's about to come he tries to slip out of her but she hugs him deeper, pleading without meaning, "Just in case."
After a heavy tremor racks his body and he stills, shame pulls them apart.
"Just in case what?" he demands, falling onto his back and glaring at the ceiling.
Abigail looks away from him. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it."
Seconds later he wordlessly gathers himself and leaves the room; the door slams shut behind him.
She cries herself to sleep that night and too many more nights after.
.
Abigail has never enjoyed Micah and certainly likes him less after he parades around their camp with his two unruly, smelly friends. "Extra guns," Dutch calls them.
She's washing Jack's clothes in the creek—anything to get away from camp—when Joe approaches her from behind, his boots crunching against dead leaves.
Stiffening, she makes a move to stand and face him but he merely scoffs at her and says, "I ain't payin' you no mind. I gotta wash my damn boots." He gestures to his feet; blood and mud coat the black leather. She's too anxious to ask if the blood is animal or human, and instead nods at him before continuing her task. Her hands tremble.
There's only a short lapse of silence between them while he soaks the soles of his boots and she furiously scrubs at a stain on Jack's favorite shirt before Joe asks, "You ain't married to that John kid, right?"
"Why does it matter?" she replies coolly.
"Just makin' small talk." He fixes her with a crafty smile; his eyes linger for too long.
Abigail frowns. "You ain't much of a talker in camp so why bother now?" I can finish cleaning Jack's clothes later. Just leave.
He opens his mouth but his retort never comes. They both hear the approaching footsteps and Abigail breathes a sigh of relief when she recognizes John's tall frame. The setting sun casts a large shadow behind him; she notices his fingers twitching over his gun holster.
"I've been looking for you," he says calmly to her, ignoring Joe's harsh scowl while the latter shakes the water off his boots. "You shouldn't wander from camp. There are some dangerous animals out here. Bears, cougars, wolves"—he glances at Joe quickly—"but I'll help you finish up here."
Crouching next to her, he holds up his hand and after she places the brush in his palm he pulls a different shirt from the basket and starts to scrub at the dirt. Joe squints at him and then her before gruffly snaking up the hillside back toward the camp.
"Thank you," Abigail murmurs.
"I meant it," John replies, setting the scrub down and eying her intensely. "You shouldn't go too far from the camp. Even a few meters. Stick to Arthur, Sadie, and Charles when you can—you and Jack." He plants a chaste kiss on her temple. "Promise?"
Tears well in her eyes. "This is all real, isn't it? What's happening?"
"Yeah…" His shoulders sink. "It is."
"Where will we go?" She monitors the forest around them, praying Dutch hasn't sent spies—that Micha or Cleet aren't hidden and ready to strike like snakes in the grass. "I don't want Jack in this situation anymore."
Johns rubs his forehead. "Neither do I, Abigail. Something's not right with Dutch. Arthur's sick as a dog and I don't think he can protect any of us for much longer." "It's good to see you two gettin' on again," she says with a small smile. "I never understood your issues with each other."
It's a lie, and they both know it, but they also recognize that the precise collapse and then repair of John and Arthur's friendship—of their brotherhood—has too many pieces to sort through.
One of those pieces is Abigail but she and John both know where she fits.
She gingerly places her palm on John's heart and leans against him; his heartbeat is steady. They both stare absently at the fish whizzing through the water; a bird sings a sweet tune in the trees.
These are the small—and too far and inbetween—moments they linger on before the earth crumples and opens up beneath them.
.
Abigail thinks she has known hell.
It's the first man she beds as a prostitute—the pain scorches her and he squeezes her neck too tight and she thinks she might die but afterward he pays her good and she can eat a tasty, hearty meal.
It's Arthur and Javier dragging John into Colter, blood thick on his face and soaking his coat, and she realizes if she hadn't insisted on finding him then he would've died slowly and miserably with snow stealing his corpse away and no body to bury.
It's the haunting realization that struck her in the chest when she knew Jack wasn't in camp, anywhere in camp, and where was he, where was her son?
And now once more hell beckons her forward; threatens to swallow her whole.
"John's dead." Her arms around Sadie's waist tighten and she sags forward, her face pressing against Sadie's back. The large behemoth of a horse gallops quickly, unbothered by the shifting weight.
"We don't know that," Sadie barks angrily, patting Abigail's hands. "Arthur said he was killed or captured— captured."
"He seemed pretty sure," she argues, biting back tears. "He just wanted to spare me."
"It don't matter right now." Sadie pushes the horse to run faster. "We're gonna find Jack and Tilly, and then we're gonna get the hell out of here!"
Abigail bites back a groan. "What do I tell Jack? His pa finally loves him back and for what? To just die?"
"John always loved Jack," she declares indignantly, "and you, Abigail." She steers swiftly to the right and the horse neighs. "You know after we rescued him from hanging he immediately asked about you? That man was waiting for death and he could only think about you."
Abigail's stomach churns bitterly and bile rises in her throat. "Where will we go?"
"Somewhere Dutch or any of them don't know about. We'll set up camp in Copperhead Landing, eat and rest, and then we'll head back West." For a split second her voice croaks; Abigail represses her own tears. "I'll help you and Jack as long as I can, Abigail. I can't imagine Tilly will stick around long—there's a good head on that one's shoulders, I'll tell you that. You need to let your old life go. Arthur ain't gonna rescue you or me again, and John… Hell, who knows. Maybe John's out there somewhere lookin' for you and Jack right now."
The wind whips around them.
The horse pushes back against Sadie's insistent commands.
Arthur's words ring in her ears and she's just about ready to fall apart.
Abigail rehearses a speech in her head; her heart aches with each unspoken word.
.
The next morning Abigail is violently shaken awake. Jack, who had been pressed against her chest all night soaking her blouse with his tears, stirs and stares at their blonde-haired assailant bleary-eyed.
"What's the matter, Sadie?" Abigail moans, her back cracking as she props herself up with her elbows. Tilly mirrors the confusion while rubbing sleeping from her eyes,
Sadie merely states, "Look here," and steps out of the tent.
Slipping out of the tent and straining against the early morning sunlight, Abigail gazes onward across the muddy field; Jack, curved against her side with his face smashed against her skirt to block out the sun, mumbles, "What is it? I'm tired."
Abigail has known hell…. And heaven.
From what seems like miles and miles away but is merely a few feet John approaches, tired and limping. His gaze locks onto hers and he smiles warmly at her.
Abigail knows heaven.
.
John can barely see through the dawn's brilliant light but he knows Abigail when he sees her.
She squints at him and he almost laughs at Jack's small frame hugging her hips—boy never liked being woken early and he half-expects him to fall back asleep when he realizes it's just John; just that deadbeat father of his.
They're only inches apart when they collide, her arms winding around him while he buries his face into her neck (not caring that she smells of sweat and mud).
"Pa!" his son yells excitedly, extending his arms.
"Jack!" John leans down and lifts the boy up in his arms.
Abigail is sobbing and Sadie is patting his back and Tilly ruffles his hair.
The dawn finally breaks, settling the blaring sunlight into a cool, warm hazy orange. An eagle caws above them on its early morning hunt.
While John had been traveling to their campground hours earlier Arthur's hat had felt heavy and ridiculous on his head—like a crown.
But now with his wife crying happily at him and his son weaving a tale of an alligator swallowing a heron he recognizes just how well the hat fits.
How well they all fit together.