Summary:John shares a heartfelt conversation with Mary-Beth, finally feeling seen and understood as he opens up about his troubles and inner thoughts. For the first time, he experiences the relief of being heard.
Chapter 2: H. Overlook Part 3
When Arthur finally arrived back at camp after what felt like ages, he saw Bill standing on guard. Arthur had been fortunate enough to avoid guard duty, something that had stirred a bit of jealousy among the others—especially Bill. But Arthur didn't pay it much mind. It wasn't like he flaunted it. Sure, he didn't have to stand guard, but he pulled his weight in other ways. He wasn't the type to sit around sulking or lazing in his tent. No, he did his share, same as everyone. And now, with the new rule that everyone had to earn their keep, with half going to the camp, he wasn't slacking. Not by a long shot.
—
Water splashed over John's face as he scrubbed it hard, the cold droplets awakening his senses in a way that coffee couldn't. Miss Grimshaw had somehow come across washcloths—he didn't know where she found them. As far as he knew, the general store didn't stock much, at least not the kind they'd be needing. Maybe they did, but he didn't have the time to ponder that now. The grease building up in his hair was starting to disgust him. It wasn't like he could wash as often as he wanted, what with them having to ration the precious shampoo. Damn stuff was expensive, especially considering how many of them were in the gang.
Everything they had was being used sparingly. They had to make the most of what little they possessed. But today, Miss Grimshaw had gone and asked him to buy a whole new batch of what she called "hygienic products." She'd mentioned something about "the women's time," but John had no idea what that meant. It wasn't his place to ask, though—best to avoid any further embarrassment.
So, after washing up, he grabbed a bowl of stew and a mug of coffee, a hasty breakfast to fuel the errand ahead. He went to saddle up Old Boy, murmuring a tired "mornin'" to the horse as he felt the weight of exhaustion still heavy upon him. Miss Grimshaw had him moving quick, pushing him to get out there fast—said he needed to be back in twenty minutes because the women would soon be waking up, and she didn't want them gossiping about whatever it was she had in mind. He was too worn out to care about her worries right now. Maybe later in the day, after some more coffee, he'd figure out what the hell she was talking about. But for now, his eyelids felt like lead, fighting sleep with every blink.
The camp was quiet, the usual chatter of morning replaced by an almost eerie stillness. He noticed that a few of the gang members were absent, likely off on some job Dutch had lined up. He vaguely recalled Dutch mentioning something to Hosea about Trelawny coming back. Whatever. Didn't matter to him right now. He just wanted to get this errand done and over with.
A good ten minutes later, John arrived in Valentine, pushing himself to pick up the pace. He quickly tried to remember the list of items Miss Grimshaw had rattled off: shampoo, conditioner, soap bars, and... something about a cloth? Damn it, he'd have to ask the shopkeeper about that. Hitching Old Boy, he walked into the general store, nodding a quick greeting to the shopkeeper, who seemed to be taking inventory.
John grabbed two of each item—shampoo, conditioner, soap. They couldn't afford much more than that. He carried them to the counter, setting everything down with a small grunt. The shopkeeper glanced up, his expression unreadable.
"Hey," John muttered, shifting his weight awkwardly. "Do you know somethin' for, uh... clothes? For... women?"
He glanced at the shopkeeper, hoping he wouldn't have to explain more than that.
But luck would have it, the shopkeeper looked confused, one eyebrow raised. "Sorry, sir, I don't quite follow. Plenty of clothes for women here if that's what you're after."
John swallowed hard, feeling heat creep up his neck as he scratched the back of his head. "No, I mean... not clothes. More like... for, uh, y'know, when a woman's, uh... leakin'?"
The words stumbled out, and his cheeks turned crimson. He wished the ground would open up and swallow him whole.
The shopkeeper blinked, then realization dawned on his face. "Oh, you mean for... her monthly course? Cotton, maybe?"
John's face went redder than a tomato, his eyes darting around as he mumbled, "Yeah, somethin' like that."
The shopkeeper smirked, trying to hide his amusement. "We got cloth for that, sure. Women sometimes ask for flannel or cotton rolls to, uh, manage. You want that?"
John cleared his throat and nodded, avoiding eye contact. "Yeah, reckon that's what she was talkin' about. Gimme two rolls."
The shopkeeper quickly grabbed the rolls of cotton and placed them with the other items on the counter. John fumbled for the coins in his pocket, still red-faced, eager to get out of there as soon as possible. "You need a bag or any sort?" the shopkeeper asked, his tone casual. John paused, his eyes narrowing as he glanced out the window at Old Boy. "No, reckon I've got enough space," he said, trying to sound confident, though his mind was still reeling from the earlier conversation. "Uh... have a good day, sir."
Without waiting for a reply, John scooped up the items and hurried toward the door, his movements a bit too hasty, making the bottles clink together. He tipped his hat on the way out, his face still flushed, and headed straight for his horse. Thank God he was the only one in the shop at that embarrassing moment.
He stuffed the items into Old Boy's old saddlebags, wincing at the sight of the worn holes. Damn it, he needed to buy a new one, but the thought of spending what little money he had left made his stomach twist. He hadn't participated in the gang's recent missions, and he knew how it worked: if you didn't take part, you got nothing. Zero. The gang shared their spoils, but lately, John had been left empty-handed.
As he tightened the straps on the saddlebags, frustration bubbled up inside him. While he'd been wasting time, the others had been out earning their keep. With a resigned sigh, he mounted Old Boy, ready to head back to camp. There was a flicker of relief at the thought of finally being recovered enough to join in on a few missions. He could always ask Hosea for a little help, but the last thing he wanted was to burden the old man with his troubles.
Abigail acted like she was the only one dealing with their mess, as if she was the only one who mattered. It felt like he were trapped in a twisted game where she always played the victim. Sure, she hadn't chosen to have a kid or get pregnant, but it was her choice to sleep with just about every man in camp. She could've taken better precautions, made smarter decisions, but that seemed lost on her.
Jack was supposed to be his son, but every time he looked at him, doubt clawed at his mind. How could he be sure? Abigail had a knack for making everyone think she was so pure and innocent, when in reality, she'd been with a string of men, including some of his own brothers in arms. Dutch, Javier—hell, maybe even Arthur. While John believed Arthur was too loyal to betray anyone, the doubt still lingered.
But it wasn't just uncertainty about paternity that gnawed at him; it was the manipulation—Abigail's ability to twist the narrative to fit her needs. She always pulled the strings of sympathy, claiming to be the victim of circumstance. Never once did she consider how it made him feel. Every time she lamented her situation, it felt like she was silently demanding he take responsibility, to accept this life without question. What about his feelings? What about his doubts? He was expected to step into the role of fatherhood, to be the man she wanted him to be, but he didn't know the first thing about being a good father. He'd struggled as a child; the last thing he wanted was to repeat that cycle of pain and confusion.
The boy deserved better than a father who couldn't accept him, but could he really be that father? How could he raise a kid when he could barely keep himself alive day to day? It felt like everyone was pressing him to embrace this new life, to assume a role he was utterly unprepared for. And Abigail? She always managed to twist it back to her plight. Sure, she was struggling, but so was he. He couldn't keep carrying that weight alone. Why couldn't she see that? Why couldn't they all accept his decision?
Every time she looked at him with those wide, expectant eyes, it made him want to scream. He wasn't ready for this—not now, not ever. Yet, in this camp full of men and women with their own problems, he felt backed into a corner. He was just as much a victim in this situation as anyone else.
As he rode closer to the camp, a familiar mix of dread and resignation welled up inside him. The camp came into view through the trees, and he urged Old Boy to pick up the pace. Miss Grimshaw was bustling around, calling out for the other women. The moment she noticed him dismounting, she strode over, hands firmly on her hips, ready to confront him.
"And have you gotten the requested stuff?" she asked, raising an eyebrow as she approached.
John looked at her, feeling a bit sheepish as he opened the saddlebags. "This is what I could get you with the money I had left... Didn't know women's things were so damn expensive," he mumbled, glancing away. The cotton he'd bought had cost him more than he anticipated, and he could feel the weight of that on his conscience.
Miss Grimshaw took the items from him, her expression softening slightly. "Well, being a woman ain't cheap, John. It's a burden we carry, and we don't often get credit for it. Thank you for picking this up."
He nodded, half-heartedly waving her off, relieved to escape her scrutiny. "Yeah, well, just... don't make me do it again, alright?"
She chuckled, rolling her eyes. "You're lucky I'm too busy managing everyone else to hound you about it."
As she turned to walk back, he caught a glimpse of her gaze, and for a fleeting moment, he saw understanding. Maybe she was aware of the chaos swirling in his mind. Maybe she knew he was struggling. But he was too lost in his own thoughts to focus on anything but his own turmoil.
John watched Miss Grimshaw walk away, feeling a mix of relief and lingering embarrassment. Just as he was about to turn back toward the camp, he heard the familiar sound of a match striking the bottom of someone's boot. He turned to see Arthur leaning against a tree, lighting up a cigarette.
Arthur flicked the match off with his fingers, tossing it into the grass, a small ember of smoke rising in its wake. He eyed John with a raised brow, skepticism playing across his face. "Well, look at you, playin' the good Samaritan. Didn't peg you for the helpful sort."
"Just doin' what I could." John shot back, crossing his arms defensively. He shifted his weight, feeling the heat of Arthur's gaze on him. "Thought it was about time I pitched in a little."
Arthur took a drag from his cigarette, his expression unreadable. "Yeah? That's rich coming from you. You've been off doin' your own thing for a while now."
John glared at Arthur, frustration bubbling up inside him. "What's your problem now? Can't believe I actually have a heart?" He scoffed, stepping closer, trying to keep his composure.
Arthur shrugged, his tone clipped. "You don't. You left Abigail and that boy of yours for a year, then came back like it was nothin'. You really think that's enough to make everything right?"
"Is that what's been bugging you?" John raised an eyebrow, the challenge evident in his voice.
"Yeah, it is. You're a damn fool if you think everything revolves around you. You left Abigail with a kid, John. That's one of the most foolish things you ever did." Arthur's voice was steady, but an edge crept in as he stepped away from the tree, moving closer to John.
John clenched his fists, biting back his anger. "He's not mine!" he spat, the denial slipping out more forcefully than he intended.
Arthur regarded him coolly. "Yeah? Well, Abigail seems pretty sure it is. So, what's it to you? You think you can just ignore it? Like it don't matter?"
John felt the heat rush to his face. "You believing her overme?" The moment the words left his mouth, he regretted them, the foolishness of the question hanging in the air.
Arthur didn't answer right away, his narrowed eyes studying John closely. John refused to meet his gaze, staring instead at the ground. After a tense moment, Arthur brushed past him, their shoulders barely grazing. Damn Arthur for smelling good, like gun oil and smoke.
—
John had been helping around the camp, and by the afternoon, he found himself chopping wood. Though he was lean, his muscles were hidden but still present, testament to his strength in a way that was all his own.
He brought the axe down with a thud, but it didn't split the log entirely; the blade got stuck in the middle. After already completing a few other chores, his arms felt sore, and he had less power than before. He placed one foot on the tree trunk and pulled the axe free, glancing at the three more logs he had left to tackle. Swiping the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve, he was about to take another swing when Arthur's voice cut through the afternoon air.
"Seems like you ain't gonna do much more than that." Arthur said, leaning against a nearby tree with his hands resting on his gun belt.
John glanced up, irritation flaring in his eyes. "Are you here to annoy me again? To lecture me again? Because if so, I'm not in the mood."
With that, he lifted the axe once more and swung down, finally splitting the log cleanly in two.
"You're doing it wrong; that's what I mean. Your technique is shit." Arthur said, crossing his arms as he observed John.
John glared at him, irritation flaring. "Oh yeah? Why don't you take over then if you're so high and mighty?" he grumbled, clearly displeased.
Seriously, was this going to go on all day? Arthur just had to annoy him right now, didn't he?
"Sure, since you offered so nicely." Arthur pushed himself off the tree and stepped behind John.
John turned slightly, confusion crossing his face until he felt Arthur's hands on his arms. "What the hell are you doin'?"
Arthur ignored him, tapping his boot against John's. "Spread your legs wider." John raised an eyebrow but complied, shifting his stance.
"Stand with your feet shoulder-width apart for balance." Then, Arthur's hands travelled down to John's wrists, adjusting his grip. "Now, hold the axe firm. Get your dominant hand down near the bottom of the handle and your other hand closer to the blade. You'll have better control that way."
John couldn't help but notice the way Arthur's veins stood out on his forearms, the hair failing to conceal the definition of his muscles. "When you strike, use your whole body, not just your arm. Look for cracks in the wood and aim for that part; it'll make it easier to split the log." Arthur instructed, his voice steady.
He guided John's arms above his head, and John felt Arthur's muscular chest pressing against his back. They were so close that he could feel Arthur's warm breath on his neck, sending a shiver down his spine. "Just like that. You feelin' it?"
"Yeah, I'm feelin' it." John replied, his heart racing slightly at the closeness. He focused on the log ahead, trying to ignore the way Arthur's presence seemed to intensify the moment.
Then Arthur stepped back, letting John hold the stance. He moved into John's line of sight and nodded. "Go ahead."
John swung the axe down, and it felt different this time. The weight of the swing was more fluid, and the blade almost split the log in half. However, it got stuck at the end. Frustrated, John lifted the axe again with the log still attached and thumped it back onto the tree trunk. This time, the log split cleanly in two.
How silly, John thought. He had never known there was a correct way to split logs; he always figured you just had to make sure it was in the middle and then bring the axe down.
"Now again." Arthur's voice shook John out of his thoughts, and he realized Arthur had placed a new log on the tree trunk.
John focused on what he remembered Arthur telling him. Stand with your feet shoulder-width apart for balance.He adjusted his stance, feeling more stable this time.
Get your dominant hand down near the bottom of the handle and your other hand closer to the blade.He gripped the axe as Arthru had instructed before.
When you strike, use your whole body, not just your arm.John took a deep breath, ready to give it another try.
He bought the axe down, and it was split in half in one go.
"Good job. Let me do the last two; you've done enough already."
John nodded and handed the axe to Arthur, who took it with ease. John then wiped his forehead slicked with sweat, he felt utterly disgusting; his body was slick with sweat. He needed to find Miss Grimshaw soon, but for some reason, he stayed to watch Arthur.
As expected, Arthur split the log in one go. John shouldn't have been surprised; he had seen Arthur do it countless times before. Yet, Arthur's strength still struck him as formidable.
When he watched Arthur place the last log on the tree trunk, John turned around, searching for Miss Grimshaw.
It was now around evening. John sat by a tree at the edge of the cliff, a spot he liked to claim whenever he wanted some peace. He'd either read a random book he found or, more often, one Hosea had offered him. It was still embarrassing to admit that he couldn't read all that well. Well... he could read, but there were still some struggles. Writing? That wasn't as bad. He could write just fine, maybe not as neatly or well as Hosea or Dutch, but he was decent enough.
Dutch and Hosea had both taught him how to read and write—just enough to get by, to be able to have decent conversations or talk his way through a robbery. Now, at 26, still being nothing more than "decent" was a bit embarrassing. But who cared? They were outlaws, living in a gang. It didn't matter in the grand scheme of things. If you could shoot straight and stay loyal to Dutch, that was all that really mattered.
John was looking at the setting sun, the warm glow casting an orange hue across the camp. He liked moments like this; they made him feel as if he was slowly getting back on his feet. It wouldn't be long before he'd be able to join the others on missions again.
Just then, he heard soft footsteps behind him. At first, he thought it might be Abigail coming to check on him, but when he glanced over his shoulder, he saw Mary-Beth approaching. What did she want?
"Hey, John," she said with a warm smile, sitting down on a tree trunk nearby.
He closed his book and gave her a slight nod. "Hey, Mary-Beth," he replied, his voice neutral but not unfriendly.
Mary-Beth was one of the kinder souls in camp, always carrying a gentle demeanour that made it hard for anyone to brush her off. John figured whatever brought her over was worth hearing out.
"You know... yesterday, when me and the girls went to town." Mary-Beth started, her voice light. John raised an eyebrow, suspicion flickering across his face.
She quickly clarified, "No, don't worry—Uncle and Arthur were there too."
Mary-Beth placed her hands on her skirt, the fabric of her light poncho shifting slightly as she did. Her fingers folded neatly, and she looked out over the view, the breeze gently brushing her hair back. "There was this thing I heard yesterday," she said. "I snuck in as a servant at a rich house. They were talking about a train coming from New York. I told Uncle and Arthur, and they're considering it."
John's brow furrowed slightly. "Why are you telling me this?"
She turned her head, a soft chuckle escaping her lips. "Well, consider this your first mission to get back on track."
John pressed his lips into a thin line and looked back at the view. It wasn't a bad idea, after all.
"I know how bored you must be, just sitting around and healing. Not being able to do much." Mary-Beth paused, glancing at John with a hint of sympathy. "And, well... your arguments with Abigail. You're both not exactly discreet about them. Most of the camp hears at least half the conversation."
John sighed, the tension in his shoulders visible as he ran a hand through his hair. The truth stung, but he couldn't deny it.
"Can I be honest with you?" John asked, taking a deep breath. He couldn't believe he was about to admit it out loud. Mary-Beth nodded encouragingly, her eyes warm and attentive.
"I think... I think me and Abigail are no match," he said, his voice low and rough. "She wants me to be a father; she wants me to be something I'm not. And I know I can't be what she needs me to be. It's still strange for me to think I even have a son."
Silence settled between them, but John didn't mind. He liked the quiet, and it dawned on him that he should have talked to Mary-Beth more often. She was just such a kind, understanding soul, always willing to listen without judgment.
John decided to spill whatever came to mind. "I haven't had the best childhood myself, really." he admitted, his gaze fixed on the horizon. "And it's not that I hate Abigail or anything, but it's useless for her to hope for something I can't become. She wants and expects so much from me, and I just don't know how to give it."
He paused, running a hand over his jaw. "Every time I see Jack, I feel hesitant. I feel a form of disgust—not at Jack, never at him—but at myself. I truly want what's best for both of them, but I can't be what they want me to be. And every time I ask for her understanding, she just gets so angry. She slaps me, yells at me... she just doesn't hear me. Not like you do."
Mary-Beth's expression softened, and she reached out as if to offer comfort but stopped, giving him space. John let the silence sit between them, surprised by how much lighter he felt for having spoken.
"It never hurts to try," Mary-Beth said softly, folding her hands in her lap. "But don't push yourself to do it before you're ready. When the time feels right, try talking to Abigail. Let her know that you're still figuring things out, and that it's okay if it takes time—months, even years. We're human, John. We all make mistakes. What matters is that we learn from them."
She glanced at him, her eyes kind but serious. "Everything we do is a first for us, and I know Abigail means well. It's her first time being a mother too. But for a relationship to work, there needs to be clear communication and boundaries. You both deserve that."
John nodded, letting her words sink in. The sky had deepened to shades of purple and navy, the sun now nearly swallowed by the horizon. The temperature dropped, a chill creeping into the air that John felt through his shirt. He hated the cold, but tonight he accepted it.
"Thank you." he said, his voice low. "For listening to me, I mean. And not judging me. No one really understands me... I guess. They all just expect me to—" he snapped his fingers together "—become a dad, just like that."
Mary-Beth gave him a gentle smile, her eyes reflecting the dimming light. "Sometimes, people forget that it's not that simple."
John looked at her, appreciating the rare moment of understanding. He wasn't sure where things would go from here, but at least someone finally heard him.