"All faults may be forgiven of him who has perfect candor." -Walt Whitman
"Say, have you noticed that Sean's a little more…" Karen paused, scratching the side of her nose as she tried to sort her thoughts into a reasonable order. It was usually harder to do in the mornings, especially before she had her daily coffee. Still, it was that much harder when a certain idiot was the subject of the conversation. "I dunno… toothy, I guess?"
"Don't you mean mouthy?" Mary-Beth carefully blew across the rim of her tin cup, her eyes following the O'Driscoll boy as he carried a hay bale over to the horses. "But… no, not really. Sean's always been a bit of a chatterbox," she answered, as good-natured as ever.
"That's one way to put it. I swear, that boy must have come out of the womb hollerin' and hasn't shut up since." Tilly shook her head, chancing a sip from her own steaming cup. She grimaced, nose crinkling as she immediately poured out the rest. "Coffee's more rancid than usual." Mary-Beth winced in sympathy, peering into her cup as though searching for burnt specks floating in the muck.
"I meant what I said." Karen swirled the coffee in her cup, bracing herself before knocking back the liquid sludge like a shot of whiskey. It seared her throat, acrid in every sense of the word, notes of alum and campfire ash heavy on her tongue. She coughed, shuddering visibly as it worked a sharp line down to her stomach. "I mean toothy, as in missing teeth."
"Karen, I don't think that means—"
"Oh, you know what I mean!" Little Miss Know-it-all, she grumbled to herself, scowling down at the coffee pot. Thinks she knows everything, just 'cause she reads every chance she gets. Karen didn't truly think that, of course, but it was always easier to feel ornery with a pounding headache and a bellyful of shitty coffee. "So, who do you think took the first swing? My bet's on John."
Mary-Beth and Tilly shared an uneasy glance. Karen recognized it at once: the mainstay of deathbeds and doctors, the shared discomfort of painful truths. It was one of those long, poignant looks that could somehow convey a million different thoughts without saying a single word: I know, and you know I know, and how do we know, but she don't, and who's gonna be the first to say it out loud?
"What?" She turned from one hesitant face to the other, growing increasingly annoyed at the thought of being left out of the gossip. It was supposed to be the three of them against the world—or against Ms. Grimshaw and that insufferable Molly O'Shea, at least—but here they were, hoarding camp secrets. Something dark and bitter brewed in the pit of her stomach at the thought; she wasn't sure what it was, exactly, but it wasn't the coffee. "Y'all better tell me now, before I go making a fool of myself by asking the wrong person."
"You really don't know?" Tilly leaned closer, brow creasing in concern. "It… it was Ike Skelding's boys that done it."
"The bounty hunters?"
"Yeah… during their "interrogations". Tore the teeth right out of his head." Tilly sniffed in derision, folding her arms tightly across her chest. "And they say they're the civilized ones."
"That's—" Karen cast her mind back over the past few weeks. Sure, everything that transpired after Blackwater was nothing but one big blur of activity, and that could only be partly blamed on the liquor. But Sean had always had those gaps in his teeth… hadn't he? He had been riding with the gang long enough that she should have been able to say for certain one way or the other. Frowning, she tried to piece together a portrait of him in her mind of what he'd looked like in the Northern Grizzlies, long before they'd ever dreamed of robbing that boat.
Long strands of fiery hair, windblown and tangled even with the hat to hold it in place. It had been worse in the foothills, his stringy bangs hanging in his eyes and driving everyone insane… everyone except him, that is. Ms. Grimshaw had finally wrestled him to the ground with a pair of shears and trimmed the unruly mop into something halfway decent, the pair of them squawking loud enough to rival a couple of fighting jaybirds. A crooked grin, the goofy one that lifted a little higher on one side than the other; it was boyish enough to disarm all but the most determined assailants. Bright green eyes, a sly, shrewd glint in their depths. He was foolhardy, puckish, cavalier, and cocksure… but not as much of a numbskull as he led others to believe. Perhaps that was the reason Dutch and Hosea had invited him into their ranks in the first place.
Days-old stubble that he never bothered to shave, threadbare clothes that never seemed to scrub clean, big ears fit to eavesdrop on any conversation, laugh lines from years of cackling at his own jokes…. Still, try as she might, Karen couldn't remember what his teeth had looked like. That in itself felt ridiculous, as it seemed that his mouth hadn't closed from the moment he rode up on the back of Hosea's horse.
"He told me they strung him up by his feet and beat him half to death," Mary-Beth whispered. "I caught a glimpse of the bruises on his ribs… they look god-awful, all black and green."
"Burned his feet, too," Tilly added. "He plain refused to let Ms. Grimshaw or Abigail take a look, so it must be bad. I overheard Charles saying that he'd have to take good care of his boots until the feeling comes back… if it ever does. With all the snakes around camp, he could get bit and not realize until it was too late."
"I feel a bit sorry for him, really," Mary-Beth sighed, wrapping both hands around her cup. "I saw Hosea kicking him awake the other day. Don't get me wrong," she continued, seeing Tilly's raised brows, "I know that it's important to stay awake when you're supposed to be on guard duty. I mean, if someone managed to slip past him, it wouldn't be good for any of us. But I don't think he's sleeping very well at night."
"He's been drinking more, too. I can tell. But who around here doesn't have their own personal hell to deal with?" Tilly shrugged. "We're all getting on the best we can, him included."
"That's true."
"What I don't understand is how everyone else in camp seems to know his business, while I'm just now finding out," Karen huffed. "Sean ain't one to keep to himself, that's for sure. If everything you're saying is true, he wouldn't be able to go more than two steps without whining about his troubles for everyone to hear, whether they wanted to or not."
"And has been!" Tilly agreed, chuckling. "Just not to you."
"I don't see why not!" Despite forcing a lighthearted tone, Karen couldn't help but feel a bit disconcerted. For a man who insisted that he loved her the way flowers loved the sun, he sure as hell didn't seem too keen to share his troubles. "What makes me so damn special?" she added, petulant. If Sean saw fit to tell everyone except her, there had to be a reason.
Maybe he'd decided she wouldn't bother to listen, seeing as he thought she was… what had he called her again? Superior?
Karen could barely remember all the things they'd said to one another on the night of his return party. Her last clear memory was of Sean cornering her against a tree with his usual banter, that juvenile grin plastered on his face. Sometimes it seemed that his favorite hobby was pestering her, and nothing she said ever seemed to deter him from it. He'd ended up stealing a kiss while her guard was down, and she'd let him… but only because she was secretly glad to have him back. When he wasn't around, camp seemed too quiet for her liking. Of course, she'd never let him know that little fact.
His lips had been dry and chapped, but it was nice— too nice, almost. Even so, she couldn't let him know that, either, and had made sure to reward his nerve with a hearty slap the second she could get a breath in. It was barely a tap, more sound than fire, and the way he'd laughed afterwards, low and eager… the memory of it still sent a little tingle down her spine. Half of her had wanted to drag him behind the nearest wagon right then and there, and the other half wanted to put as much distance between them as possible. That side of her had won, but she'd heard him shouting behind her as she left about being the happiest man alive.
After that, the night was a blur of clinking bottles and drunken singing. She remembered stumbling around camp, searching for him and not entirely sure why she wanted to find him. And then he was standing in front of her, one of her hands clasped in both of his, telling her that he loved her. The words themselves meant next to nothing… at least, when he was the one saying it. Whenever Sean's kneejerk response to confrontation with the gang was to profess his love and undying loyalty, as though that alone would be enough to stop any payback headed his way. It never failed that he'd take a joke a bit too far, come face to face with the business end of a fist, and weasel his way out of a thorough beating with a hearty "Haha! I love ya!".
But there was something in his voice this time, in the way he said, the way he looked, that spoke even to her liquor-addled mind. Mary-Beth, with all her sentimental notions, might have called it a sort of "longing despair". Like it actually hurt him to hear her say those things. It was confusing, to say the least. She said similar things all the time when they were sober, and not once had he batted an eye or lost his stride. He was always ready with a comeback, some roguish retort that had her wanting to both laugh and scream in frustration. That was what she liked most about him; he kept her on her toes.
Then… then she was under him, the tears hot on her flushed cheeks, dripping down into her hair, pooling in her ears. She'd never been more humiliated in all her life as she had been in that moment, feeling ugly and unwanted, unseen. The worst thing about it was that he'd been almost sweet to her, wiping the wet trails from her cheeks with his thumb, his eyebrows so knitted that they seemed to meet over his nose.
Do you want me to stop? The memory turned her stomach, but not because she regretted it. In her mind, it had always been inevitable that the two of them would eventually come together. But she had also assumed that it would be… different, somehow. There was nothing she could put her finger on, no deciding factor to say yes, this is the reason why. Sean wasn't the best lover by any stretch of the imagination, but she'd also had worse in her life. He hadn't struck her, or called her names. He hadn't even been his usual idiot self. Why, then, had she started sobbing on him? Even worse: she'd blurted out her thoughts, shared her pain, and now he was refusing to do the same.
I always liked you, Karen… I see you….
"Ugh!" She shook her head, shooing away the memory like one of the countless mosquitos buzzing in clouds near the river.
"Oh, don't be like that!" Mary-Beth giggled, mistaking Karen's annoyance at herself for annoyance at Sean. "He only acts that way because he's sweet on you. He's like a little boy outside the schoolhouse, showing off in front of the girls and pulling their braids. I think it's kind of cute," she admitted. "He doesn't know how to be romantic, so he's doing the only thing he can think of to get your attention."
"That's right," Tilly nodded. "Besides, he can't go licking his wounds around the woman he's trying to impress. Better to let us other girls dote on him a little; he won't care too much if we don't think he's manly."
"But he shouldn't…." Karen trailed off, uncertain of what she was trying to say.
He shouldn't bother you.
He shouldn't hide it from me.
Neither option seemed quite right. In fact, they seemed to contradict everything she'd ever thought about him. Didn't she want Sean to leave her alone? How many times had she tried to get it through his thick skull, only for him to show back up the next day? If he'd been standing in front of her, she would have said "yes, absolutely" without a second thought. But… was it the truth?
"Mornin', ladies!"
"Speak of the devil, and he shall appear." Tilly hid her smile behind the rim of her cup as Sean strolled by. He was dressed as haphazardly as usual, unbuttoned coattails flapping at his waist and hat cocked to one side. One of the camp shotguns was slung over his shoulder, his free hand juggling a fresh cup of coffee from the campfire percolator. He grinned widely at them, gaps on full display, and the word toothy slipped back into the forefront of her mind.
"Lovely day for some— fuck!" His foot caught an exposed tree root and he went stumbling, splashing the hot coffee all over his hand and spilling the rest on the dusty earth. On any other day, Karen might have done no more than roll her eyes at his clumsiness. But with the recent conversation still fresh in her mind, she couldn't help but notice the grimace that twisted his smile as he tried to catch himself with the butt of the rifle.
"Hahaha… two left feet, this mornin'." He wiped the spilled coffee onto his stained trousers, his expression morphing from pained to sheepish between blinks. Clearing his throat, he reshouldered the shotgun and made his way towards the camp entrance, a jaunty whistle on his lips.
Karen stared after him, long after it prudent to do so. Was it her imagination, or had his laughter been strained? Had his cadence always been so wide-set? Had he always favored his right foot, or was that the better healed of the two?
"Karen?" Mary-Beth eyed her curiously. "Everything okay?"
"Y-Yeah." She shook her head free of the troubling thoughts, pushing them aside. There would be time enough to ponder over the hows and whys of Sean MacGuire… though perhaps the less that could be said of that, the better. "Yeah, I just—"
"Do we think this is a party, girls?!" Like an avenging angel—one with bat wings, rather than feathers—Ms. Grimshaw swept around the side of Pearson's wagon. "The morning is half-wasted, and where do I find you three? Standing around gossiping like ladies at a St. Denis brunch!" she snarled, clawed talons yanking Tilly one way, Mary-Beth the other. "There's work to be had, little missies!"
"Yes, Ms. Grimshaw!"
"O-Of course, Ms. Grimshaw!"
"You can go guard the creek entrance," she spat, her gaze frigid as she eyed Karen up and down. "If you ain't too drunk to see straight, that is."
"What?! But it ain't my turn!"
"I don't recall asking!" Ms. Grimshaw grabbed two handfuls of Karen's skirts, nearly sending her sprawling as she shoved her in the direction of the arms wagon. "Now get!"
Author's Note: I bought this game on Labor Day sale thinking I'd be bored in a week and now I'm obsessed. I think a lot about how Dutch says that Sean acts like a younger Arthur and how Hosea says that Arthur pretends to be dumber than he is and I've connected the dots (I haven't connected anything).