When the sun rose, Arthur was already up, sipping hot coffee from a tin pot, leaning against a tree. Seemingly relaxed, his sharp eyes scanned the camp, watching for any signs of suspicious behavior. The place was quiet, most folks still asleep. Might be a good time to poke around, Arthur thought. He strolled past the wagons, casually lifting covers here and there, peeking inside. Maybe I'll catch him slippin'…

"Mr. Morgan!" a lady with curlers in her hair shrieked, clutching a sheet over her sleeping gown. "I declare, what are you doing!?"

"I apologize, Miss Scarlet! I must've mistaken your wagon for someone else's!" Arthur shot an innocent glance her way, then turned to see Hank poking his head out of his wagon. Arthur gave him a quick wink. Hank smirked and nodded knowingly.

Arthur finished his tour of the wagons but came up empty-handed. Frustrated, he made his way back to his horse. Tied to the saddle was a small bunch of flowers. Who in the hell could've done this? he wondered.

*

The journey resumed, bringing its share of mishaps.

"CRACK!"

"WAGONS HALT!" Arthur bellowed.

"What's the commotion!?" Hank hollered from behind.

"I broke the goddamn wheel!" Arthur barked, muttering a curse under his breath. A tall, sturdy woman known as Franny 'Jack' Ross was called to help replace the wheel. Her forearms were twice the size of Tanguy's. Admired among the ladies for her sense of humor, she quickly got to work alongside Hank. As she and Hank attached a new wheel, Arthur watched her closely, scratching his chin. Could be 'Jack' is the killer in disguise… She's stronger than most men.

The convoy used their break to replace a wheel and stop for lunch.

Arthur became restless, coiled with a nervous energy that wouldn't let him sit still. His gaze darted around, searching for even the smallest mistake from their fugitive, but he came up empty.

He regretted not getting to know the women better back in St. Louis—if he'd done so, spotting the one who stood out now would've been easy. In a moment of desperation, he briefly considered ordering them all to strip down to their undergarments. But even in his frazzled state, he knew that would raise too much suspicion—and definitely cause a ruckus. Not to mention scandalize the women, no matter how pure his intentions.

A gray cloud drifted across the sky, a harbinger of a May rainstorm. Restless, Arthur grabbed the axe and began splitting firewood. Each thunk was a blow to the head of the fugitive making a fool of him. The women sat nearby, chatting and laughing, blissfully unaware of the danger. Arthur cast a sharp glance in their direction.

Miss Scarlet was filing her nails, holding them out for inspection every few seconds. Miss Clara and Miss Jenny were engrossed in a book, while Mrs. Palmer knitted, humming cheerfully. The others were deep in gossip, giggling loudly. Hank was dozing, and Tanguy lay sprawled in the grass, squinting up at the hazy sun.

The scene grated on Arthur's nerves. His swings grew fiercer. The pile of firewood behind him grew into a precarious tower, yet no one offered to move it. He noticed the women whispering among themselves, aiming discreet glances in his direction.

"Well, don't just sit there gawkin'!" Arthur snapped. "These logs ain't gonna move themselves!" The women jumped at his tone, startled. Miss Scarlet let out an indignant "Well, I never!" but no one moved. Arthur paused, wiping the sweat from his brow and sighing heavily. He shut his eyes, already regretting his outburst. When he opened them again, he saw Miss Jenny striding toward him, her expression determined.

"I'll help," she said firmly. "What do you need me to do?"

"Nothing," Arthur muttered gruffly.

"I insist," she shot back in an iron voice. "You frightened the poor ladies."

"But not you, Miss?" he couldn't help but ask. She didn't answer, merely grabbed a bundle of firewood and staggered slightly under its weight. Arthur let out a sigh.

"Put that down, Miss Jenny, before you hurt yourself!"

"I'm fine!" she snapped, regaining her balance. "Where do you want these?"

"This way," Arthur said, gesturing for her to follow. As she trudged along behind him, he turned back to check her progress.

"Well, come along, princess," he drawled with a smirk as he saw her eyes flare with fire. She hurried after him, determined not to let him see her struggle under the load.

"She insists," Arthur muttered sarcastically under his breath.

*

Jenny kept her word and stacked the firewood neatly, with Arthur helping her toward the end. He opened his mouth to thank her, but before he could get a word out, she turned on her heel and disappeared behind the wagons. If nothing else, the physical effort had burned off the nervous energy buzzing inside him. As the caravan set off once more, a gentle rain swept across the landscape. It didn't last long, but it cooled the lingering heat.

The convoy rolled on without further incidents, and at sunset, Arthur signaled for the wagons to circle. Supper preparations began as the women took to their evening chores. Tonight, it was another lady's turn to cook. Arthur noticed that Jenny had avoided his gaze. Her aloofness carried into the evening as she ate her meal quietly, steering clear of his glance. He didn't have the luxury of fretting over her pride, though. His eyes darted over the camp, scanning each face, pretending to eat while his mind stayed sharp. Then he spotted what he'd been waiting for—a figure slipping away from the camp, disappearing into the dark trees. Muttering an excuse, Arthur quietly rose and followed.

Sneakin' off, are we? That hair looks like a wig… Could be the killer. Without warning, he lunged at the figure, grabbing her hair and knocking her over.

"Mr. Morgan!" a familiar voice yelped. Arthur froze in horror. It was Miss Mabel, a tall girl with auburn curls and a shy disposition. To his surprise, she didn't look angry—she smiled bashfully instead.

"I came here to pick some fresh flowers for you! I… I quite like you, Mr. Morgan," she stammered, her cheeks flushing red. Arthur sprang to his feet, clearing his throat awkwardly as he helped her up. He struggled to piece together a response.

"My apologies, Miss… This was, uh, a misunderstanding. Let me escort you back to camp—it's dangerous out here in the wilderness." He motioned her back toward camp. Her face seemed a little disappointed. Damn it! If I don't find this killer soon… Arthur shuddered as he followed her back to the wagons.

The camp was settling into quiet as night fell, the sky lead-gray, with no moonlight to brighten the darkness. It made the shadows seem deeper, heavier. As Arthur prepared his bedroll, his head buzzed with grim thoughts. He and Hank hadn't had time to talk much that day. The killer was still out there, hiding among them. Have I lost my touch? Arthur wondered bitterly. What good am I if I can't protect these poor women? He pulled out his journal and scribbled a few fragmented thoughts before a faint noise caught his attention.

Footsteps. Soft, deliberate. Someone was sneaking past the wagons. Arthur shot to his feet, scanning the camp. His sharp eyes caught a shadow slipping into the trees. His pulse quickened. This is it. This has to be him.

Rising without a sound, Arthur moved after the figure, crouching low, his steps as silent as a hunter's. The shadow weaved through the trees with uncanny swiftness, darting like a wildcat. It stopped in a grassy clearing surrounded by tall trees. Arthur crouched behind a bush, with one hand resting on the butt of his revolver. The figure bent low to the ground, as if picking something up. Arthur's instincts screamed that now was the moment.

"Alright there, partner," Arthur growled, in a low and dangerous voice. "Stand up nice and slow, and put your hands where I can see 'em." His gun was already leveled, steady as a rock, aimed straight at the figure. At that moment, moonlight crept from behind a dark cloud, casting its ghostly light across the grassy field, revealing the face of the shadowy figure. It was… Jenny Mae!

She gasped, startled, clutching a handful of wild herbs to her chest like she'd been caught robbing a garden.

"Miss Jenny?" Arthur gaped at her, sliding his gun back into its holster. "Miss Jenny, what in tarnation are you doin' out here at this unholy hour?" Jenny was trembling, but he could see her cheeks flush even under the faint moonlight. She tightened her hold on the herbs, her lips parting as though she were about to explain herself. Then, suddenly, her expression shifted, and the familiar spark returned to her eyes.

"Well, if you must know, Mr. Morgan," she drawled, "you about scared me to meet my Maker!" Arthur crossed his arms, letting out a slow breath, trying to keep his voice level.

"Didn't mean to frighten you, Miss, but you got no business wanderin' these woods at night." Jenny held up her handful of wild thyme and a few sprigs of something she couldn't name with a little pout on her lips.

"I was gatherin' herbs. Thought maybe I'd try my hand at a better stew next time." Arthur scratched the back of his neck. Guilt prickled at him as the memory of his jest about her cooking crept back. Did it really bother her enough to take off on her own in the middle of the night? Especially with the dangers lurking that she had no idea about.

For a moment, Arthur's jaw tightened. He couldn't help but feel protective of her, standing there all wide-eyed and determined. Still, she hadn't lost her stubborn streak.

"And what's wrong with takin' a stroll? Last I checked, it wasn't against the law."

"'Course not," Arthur replied with a sigh. "But out here, it's a damn fool thing to do." Before she could argue, a rustling came from the bushes nearby, making them both freeze. Arthur instinctively stepped in front of Jenny, his hand going to his revolver. He felt her delicate fingers clutch his arm as her breathing hitched. A rabbit bounded out of the bush, darting into the darkness. Jenny let out a soft laugh and her grip on his arm eased.

"Well, well, Mr. Morgan," she teased. "Looks like you're the one who's jumpy tonight. What's got you so on edge?" Arthur turned to face her, hesitating for a moment. She was so beautiful under the moonlight, he almost forgot to breathe. He took a half-step back, keeping his distance.

"Miss Jenny," he said in a low voice, "I got word there's a killer among us. An escapee, hidin' out, pretendin' to be one of the women." He watched as her expression shifted from curiosity to understanding, though she didn't show any alarm.

"Ain't told the others. Don't wanna stir up panic. But you'd do well to keep one eye open." Jenny nodded slowly.

"You have my word, Arthur… Mr. Morgan," she corrected herself. Something about the way she said his name sent a flutter to his chest. "I won't breathe a word to a soul, I swear it." she whispered under her breath. Arthur cleared his throat, trying to keep his face impassive.

"All right," he said a bit gruffly, motioning for her to follow him. As they approached the dim glow of the campfire, Jenny glanced at him and wished him goodnight in a soft voice. Arthur gave a curt nod, barely glancing her way.

"Goodnight, Miss Jenny."

As he settled into his bedroll, Arthur exhaled, and the tension in his shoulders eased as he looked up at the stars. Surprisingly, his head felt clearer that night. The campfire had dimmed to a warm glow, as the night sounds faded into a steady rhythm. Despite the weight of the situation, Arthur closed his eyes, letting himself drift off for the first time in days.