Disclaimer: I own none of the characters presented in this story. Red Dead Redemption and all associated with said property belong to Rockstar Games.

Disclaimer: Strong depictions of violence, murder, and other such heinous and repugnant acts, very harsh language used throughout, and some taboo and offensive material occasionally presented.

Part Fifty-One: Kieran

4:58 PM, October 29th, 1899

The sun was an apricot semicircle, hovering at the cave's tip. A pleasant autumn air wafted through Beaver Hollow as her pencil scribbled furiously against the page. The ink had run out in Shady Belle, so she put all her weight on the graphite tip so it grated into dark shiny streaks. She sat in a cross, knees protruding from her purple skirt with a journal resting on them. She wore no lipstick but her lips were a blushing pink alongside her freckled cheeks, and she nibbled on them in concentration. Her pretty emerald eyes were frantic yet elegant as she wrote until they spotted something and drifted over, falling on Kieran squarely.

"What are you doing?" she asked shyly, a coy grin creeping up her face.

"Nothin'," he said, flicking a blade of grass at his toes, weakly pretending he wasn't completely focused on her. He was in an identical manner to her, knees crossed and he was close enough to stretch his right kneecap out and brush it along hers. She recoiled in horror, but she was biting a smile. (I'm sure why he made her so uncomfortable, you'd think she'd be used to it; boys discovered her young, as Uncle would attest.)

"Well, can you… scoot over?" she asked. "I can't concentrate with you this close." She glanced down at her notebook again timidly. He rubbed along the grass for approximately two inches before plopping down again comfortably. He rested his cheek on a fist and stared at her teasingly. She tried to write unsuccessfully, only squeezing out a few words, before setting her pencil down as a bookmark and closing her journal. "Why are you doin' that?" Her eyes were narrow and hateful, but she couldn't seem to stop smiling. "You know you're distracting me."

"I ain't sayin' a word," he protested innocently.

"Well, wh—"

" Am not. Sorry, I am not sayin' a wor—oh man! You got me doin' it now, too."

"Good," she said smugly, "glad to see those lessons are payin' off." And they were—Kieran was now reading with only minimal stammers, and could even understand a lot of her own writing now, leading to some unrelenting needling on his behalf of the poems at the first few pages of her book, the ones she'd written years ago when she was still learning the craft. And that labor should be earnestly commended, if by no one else than by me, because Mary-Beth wrote in a very interesting mixture between cursive and uneducated white trash. "Now, what are you lookin' at me like that for?"

Now it was Kieran's turn to play demure. "Oh, I-I don't know. I… I guess I like how you look when you write."

" Just when I write?" she said, folding her arms to act like she was angry. She wouldn't meet his gaze, he'd wounded her too badly.

"Oh, yeah," he drawled sardonically, scooting closer until their knees touched. "If you ain't writing—"

" Aren't, " They corrected in unison.

"—then you look about the same as Grimshaw."

"Hmm… that's strange," she mused, budging up and moving a foot away, happy when he closed the distance, "it ain't— isn't —any different from when I'm doin' other things."

"Well, no, it most certainly is," Kieran insisted at a high-pitched voice, as though she'd said God isn't real. "You got the, uh, whatever, the, uh… oh, what do you—oh glinter! You got the glinter—"

"Glinter?"

"Yeah, the gli—oh, no wait, sorry, I meant, uh… oh gli—"

"Glint?"

"—nt. Yeah, yeah, the glint. Y'know, that glint ya get when you're really passionate about something. Like Jack with his toys."

"Like Jack with his toys," she repeated thoughtfully, nodding her head.

"Wel—y'know, cuz a' the… y'know…"

"No," she said, paying him her undivided attention. "No, I don't. Go on, how am I like a four-year-old boy?"

Kieran sighed exasperatingly. "Y'know…" he tried again. "The-the passion. The-the wonder… and stuff." Let that be a lesson for any kids reading this: quote poetry, don't create it—Shakespeare exists for a reason, to be plagiarized. "Okay, let me try again—"

"Please do."

"Okay… so… you're like a horse—" She snorted so hard a booger flew out. "—no, wait, here me out: y'know, a horse does its thing, eating, grazing, doing what it does."

"Yes, that's usually what they do."

"And you're like that, a… a graceful —"

"Hmm…"

"— beautiful —"

"Okay, getting warmer…"

"—beast—oh, creature —uh, animal —"

"Put down the shovel, Kieran," she said, patting him on the back. "You gave it your best try."

"Well, y'know what I'm tryin' to say! You're doin' what you're put on the earth to do. Like a fish swimming, or bird flying, or… mole… digging?"

"Put. Down. The. Shovel."

Kieran grunted in defeat. "Fine, fine. I'll leave the fancy words to you." He stood, figuring the other horses could use some looking after. He took one step forward before quickly jumping onto his knees and striking Mary-Beth with a kiss on the cheek. She laughed, lamely swatting him as he further attacked her.

"Oh shoo! Shoo, you!" she cried helplessly until he tucked a thick loose strand of brown curls behind her ear and moved to the stables (I know, it's an offensive word to describe a few trees, posts, and rope). They'd kept three of the horses Sadie and Uncle had taken off the O'Driscolls: a brown and white Thoroughbred mare, a maroon Ardennes gelding, and a mustard Mustang. Uncle had suggested they name the mare Kieran's Sister and the other two Kieran's Brother, but Sadie of all people had shot that down, taking the Thoroughbred and christening it Robin. Uncle's stomach must've been wearing the pants in their relationship because he named the yellow steed Mustard Sandwich when he claimed it. The last one had gone to John by default and he gave Jack the role in selecting a title for it. Big mistake, because Knave of Hearts didn't exactly roll off the tongue—the boy enjoyed Alice in Wonderland , what can be said? (Though I suppose we should all be grateful it wasn't Jabberwocky.)

He started with Mustard Sandwich, brushing that spot where the back of his ear and head touched, before replacing its food trough—a bucket filled with cheap hay. He'd gotten halfway through with Knave of Hearts, inspecting its hide for any ticks or parasites, when he heard John's pleasant voice:

" Murfrees! " he yelled, racing from the hill, passing Kieran with a whoosh . "They're comin'!" The camp jolted into action; guns were being tossed to the unarmed; crates were pushed for cover; Mary-Beth led Jack into Beaver Hollows' cave mouth, followed briefly by Micah and Swanson, who held Molly's stretcher. Leopold entered next, clinging to his red box for dear life. "C'mon! We planned for this!"

N-not really, Kieran thought. Training was more akin to what he'd done in the army, it required weeks of target practice, physical activity, habitual routines, and rehearsed discipline. His drill sergeant—Kieran couldn't remember his name, only that he had multi-colored eyes and a hard scowl—made half the men tie their hands behind their backs as a partner practiced socking them in the face with boxing gloves. The goal was to teach one half how to throw a punch and the other half how to take one. Then they'd switch. Except Kieran. Drill sergeant hadn't liked Kieran's "uncommitted attitude." Bad for the others, he said. The real men . So he gave Kieran double shifts as a punching bag, had the others strip the glove too. He was the reason Kieran wound up with Captain Hudson, the only military man who hated the Irish more than the British. The fellas were sports however, always gave Kieran a southpaw when his hands were tied. Hurt less.

Kieran dove behind a crate—it was stuffed with sand Sadie had collected from Rhodes. John ducked beside him, loading shotgun shells into a bandolier before tying it around his shoulder. The massive double-barrel cracked in his hand when he snapped it shut. Kieran only had his double-action revolver, six shots plus five bullets in his pocket. The clippity-clop of enemy horses perked over the hill leading to camp. The Murfrees were almost there.

Kieran peeped back at their battleground's layout and gulped. Crates were arranged in a triangle, him and John at the vanguard, Javier and Sadie squatting at the second level, and Tilly, Grimshaw, and Uncle at the tail end.

Captain Hudson liked Kieran in the vanguard too when they marched. Enemy sniper or grenade hits you, he said, we got one less Protestant bog to deal with, and it buys our boys time to get down.

Clippity-clop… clippity-clop. Kieran made out their undefined shapes in the distance.

He felt something on his shoulder and nearly lept with fear, before sighing in relief. It was only John's hand. "Get outta here," he growled, the scars streaking down his face making him look like war paint for a tribe so evil God plucked their island from the world. "Fall back to the cave. Cover it in case they breach our lines. Lead them out the back side of the cave if all hope is lost out here."

Kieran felt the blood flow to his crotch and he almost jounced to his feet. I can get away from this bloodbath, he thought, hide with Mary-Beth in the cave. The opaque image of being alone with her in the dark excited him, and the prospect of avoiding the incoming hell ( clippity-clop… clippity-clop!) was even better. He could be safe… "No," he said simply. "I'll hang here with you."

John grabbed him by the shirt, twisted, and brought his ugly mug within smooching distance. "I'm tryin' to save your life, idiot! You ain't one of us, so don't be a hero. This ain't your damn fight!"

Kieran was surprised that his hands no longer shook when he cocked his pistol. "Let go of me." He must've sounded imposing because John released him at once, wide-eyed as a dow. He nodded, and in unison, they turned to the incoming onslaught peaking out from the trail. Two dozen raggedy men, at least, shirtless all, some with redundant suspenders, poured into Beaver Hollow on horseback, firing wildly.

John shot a horse in the face and the rider collapsed with the beast. He put the second shell in the Murfree as soon as he struggled to his feet.

Kieran tried not to kill the innocent horses, but everything happened so fast he couldn't be sure his asshole wasn't up his armpit. He hit one, a fat one, in the heart and he went timber with a booming thud.

Sadie and Uncle provided additional fire, concentrating mostly on the riders snaking around John and Kieran, trying to shoot them from behind, and Tilly, Uncle, and Grimshaw did the same for them. A perfect system of bullets, contrasting with the sloppy, manic style the Murfrees rode at them with.

Kieran ran out of ammo quick, but before he'd even vainly fondled his pockets for an extra bullet, John had forced a sawed-off shotgun in his hand, flicking him shells from his bandolier blindly, still firing at the enemy.

The recoil from the horses' gallops made the Murfrees' aim unreliable which served the gang until several more equestrians came out with long machetes. Kieran ducked as one passed him, barely avoiding the blade. Uncle tossed a stick of dynamite just over Sadie, and the explosion blew two machete-wielding horsemen into the air, horses too.

The bodies were stacking up now at the trail, causing two more horses to trample and trip over him, their riders flipping from their saddles. One landed on their cover, smashing all his teeth as his mouth hit the crate. Kieran pushed him off and kept blasting. In the back of his mind, he remembered a hot shadow and washing blood off his face with a well, but those memories didn't seem to belong to him. He was a different man now. Or maybe he just had a different perspective. Didn't Tilly say somethin' about that? Kieran ducked down and reloaded his smoking shotgun. It was warm in his hand from the rate of fire.

Then he felt it wrap around him and he and John were flying across camp. The fish net was narrow but taut, and no matter how he tugged, it wouldn't give. Two riders held opposite ends of the net and must've taken their daily dosage of stupid pills and hooch this morning because they only spiraled around Beaver Hollow aimlessly, demolishing the tents and stomping over the campsite. John and Kieran were a part of the whole demolition; the horsemen would swing to the left and the net would fly out like a swinging tail, sweeping up wood, tarp, rock, everything in its path. The spool table exploded as they crashed into it; they blew out two of the chuckwagon's tires and the whole damn thing flipped on its side; they put out the campfire with their asses, sending embers and ash flitting into the sky. They went for Tilly, Uncle, and Grimshaw next. The former was able to leap out of the way in time, but the other two were swept off their feet, landing roughly on the ground. Kieran and John slammed against the sand-packed crate, and God bless that builder because it was the first thing they slapped that didn't budge. John softened a bit of the impact for Kieran as they flew into the obstruction.

"Sorry," he apologized, clutching his head. John only wheezed in reply and then they were off again, drawing a channel in the earth with their bodies. Heh, now Kieran was sure his asshole was in his armpit. Either that or the friction welded his cheeks shut because he couldn't feel it. And throughout all of it, the Murfrees stringing them along were laughing.

"Does baby like that?" one of them asked in a high-pitched tone. His eye twitched spasmodically. "Huh? Huh? Does baby like that?"

"That'll teach ya to fuck with the Murfrees!" the other shouted to no one in particular. He was bald and the glare from the sun stung Kieran's eyes. "This is our land, ya hear! Ours! We've lived in these forests for thirty years and you cowfucking desert dwelling namby-pambies ain't takin' it from us!" Kieran saw them riding for where he dropped his gun and reached out for it… he missed. Then he collided with the fat Murfree cadaver at high speeds, knocking a tower of bodies over. His fingers were thrust between the net's crevices, and when it coiled and overlapped from the movement of the horses, his hand was caught, and the fetters around it tightened painfully. He looked to his side and saw a stray knife had worked its way into John's back. "That's right! We know who y'all are! And we are lookin' forward to that bounty! Though, to be honest, I'd do it for free!"

"Does baby like that?" His eye quivered so fiercely it practically shut. "Does baby like being all tied up?"

"I hope we can take at least one of youse alive!" the bald man cried (heh, if you know, you know). "I got some wicked ideas on how to send a message to the next group of fools who tries stealin' from us!" Kieran remembered what Bill had mentioned—men's body parts torn and nailed back into them before they were impaled with a skewer—and thought of Mary-Beth, shuddering with horror. He tugged violently, desperately. He needed to save her, but his hand was turning purple and wouldn't stop.

"Is it good for baby?" He gave Kieran a toothless grin.

"I ain't a baby!" he yelled. I'm a man, I'm a man, I'm a man. But still, his fingers bulged until he couldn't feel them.

"No," the bald man agreed. "You're nothing." His smile fell. The fun was over. He pulled out his revolver, cocking it boisterously. Slowly, he locked it with Kieran's forehead; even with the horses galloping, his arm was steady.

Bang! The sun no longer burned his eyes because the bald man fell from his horse, dead. Kieran glanced to the trail leading into Beaver Hollow and saw Dutch riding aside Charles and Abigail. They came to a screeching halt and began firing, three at once, creating a crossfire with the rest of the gang, the Murfrees caught in between. Those who were left fell, shirtless dominoes. The camp was clear and Kieran expected the net to hit the floor now that no one was holding it. But there was.

"Oh, you're tricky, baby, real, real tricky…" Blood trickled from his chest, the pink hole matching his nipples and forming a three-tile domino from the man, but he held firm his side of the net. The other was latched to the bald man's horse, which the last Murfree was ponying by the snaffle rein. He drove downhill in the forest, avoiding the oblique fire from Charles, Dutch, and Abigail. The bumpy terrain cut them as they were pulled back uphill onto the main trail. The human domino was breathing heavily now. Kieran heard the clicking of horseshoes and tried to look over his shoulder, but his tethered purple hand wouldn't allow it.

"Where are you takin' us?" John demanded through grunts of agony, shifting his weight repeatedly so his skin wouldn't be minced at the tough rock-strewn path.

"Home, baby, I'm takin' us home." He gurgled, spat blood, and his eyes stopped twitching. They twinkled with madness.

Kieran leaned forward and gasped. There, in the distance, sat a cliffside. And the horses weren't slowly down. "He's gonna fuckin' jump!"

The panicking began, and Kieran no longer cared about the throbbing in his fist. He tried his teeth against the rope, but cut his tongue, drooling bloody saliva. John was groping his back, fingers struggling, until he found the knife. He groaned as it exited him, but smiled wildly as he got to cutting the binds, tearing them with the jagged point.

"Just a little further, baby." It wasn't a lie—the cliff was so, so close, as though it was charging for them. "We'll do it together."

John brought his blade down, weeding his fingers through a hole big enough for him to squeeze out from. He passed the knife to Kieran and climbed out, tumbling from the net to a crashing stop, kicking up mahogany clouds of dust.

Kieran got to work briskly, brushing the knife up and down over the black rope, but the rope might as well have been him because he was southpawing it. He ran the edge along the bonds tangling his dominant hand, but the tightly knotted cotton wouldn't loosen. I'm not strong enough, he thought, lips quivering as he slowly resigned.

"Baby, you make me feel safe." Then, at the last second, the eye twitching returned, and the Murfree started crying. "Wait!" He turned the horses sharply to the left as the gorge appeared, their shoes scraping by the stone to the very brink of the cliff. He was crying, whimpering that he'd changed his mind, the psychotic fool. Kieran leaned with him, and when the net swung out, he barely kept from dragging all of them off. The net ground against the edge of the cliff for a moment, as the Murfree fought the weight and turned left, away from the dropoff.

Then the hook on the Murfree saddle connecting the net to the horses snapped, and Kieran went down.

Down. Down. Down.

He didn't remember the feel of the sharp wind on his face as he fell, nor the broken sound of his terrified screaming, nor the misery that shot through him when he hit the river, stemming mainly from the back and skull. Only the relief when he realized: I ain't dead.

That relief subsided quickly. When the water filled his lungs and he remembered he really ought to be thrashing upwards, the net held him down. He kicked and fought, but the ends of his fetters were caught on rocks and every push only weakly tested the elasticity of the cord. His vision began to grow hazy, everything was blue, apart from his blood-red hand which he saw poking out the other side of the net, and he was envious of it. It was just his luck really. His wounds from the O'Driscoll beatings were finally in remission, and now he has to go and die. Whatever, he thought, spreading his arms, letting his heavy body sink. They weren't never gonna accept me anyway. Were never… He pictured her and began fighting again, bubbles forming in geysers when he screamed. No, no, no! She liked him, and he liked her. And she was so beautiful…

He began blinking as rapidly as the crazy Murfree, jockeying to keep awake. The water was cold as death and goosebumps had ballooned across his tired arms, yet somehow, a scalding figure of darkness worked its way to Kieran. The hot shadow smiled at him, steam hissing off of it. It offered a black paw for him and he knew he was dead. Still, he couldn't reach through the net, so he moved his swollen red hand to accept as he wondered: am I going to the good place or bad?

The shadow seized his grip greedily and yanked him with Herculean strength, more than Kieran thought a shadow had. Then a knife cut his hand free, before stripping off the rest of the net in fast, precise slices. Kieran saw his wrist whiten with fluttering, tired eyes as broad strokes pulled him up.

Up. Up. Up.

5:13 PM, October 29th, 1899

Kieran gasped water when the fist thrust at his windpipe. The sun shined in his eyes and he squinted at the figure looming over him.

"Well, good thing I showed up when I did," Dutch laughed, hoisting Kieran up by his sore arm so they both sat upright on the rocky shore.

"How's Mary-Beth?" he coughed.

Dutch chuckled, patting him on the back, which elicited more raspy coughs. "Oh, sorry. Yeah, she's fine. No one got killed that I saw."

"T-that's… g-g-good," Kieran stammered through a waterlogged throat. "W-what about… the horses?"

"Yeah… the horses are good, too, son, don't worry." The sun glintered peculiarly in Dutch's eyes when he stared at Kieran. "That's really all you care about, huh? Other folk?" Kieran wasn't sure what to say to that, so he just smiled shyly and shrugged. "Stand up." He complied, stumbling to his feet and Dutch joined, gripping him by the shoulders, shaking him lightly. "I was wrong about you. You are one of us. You're a good man, Kieran Duffy. A good son . I ain't been a very good father to you, but I swear, that changes today. I'm—" he looked away, tears in his eyes "—I'm sorry I made you do that with the O'Driscolls. I was bein' selfish."

"N-no, no, it's alrig—"

"No, it ain't. Kieran, you will never do anything like that again, I promise. I-I love you, son." He blanketed the Irishman in a warm hug then, clutching him dearly. "You are as much my son as John is. You are one of us. We need you, Kieran. Who knows where we'd be without you."

"T-thank you, Dutch," Kieran said, lips quivering with a grin. "I-I'm glad I found you fellers. It's the best thing that's ever happened to me."

Dutch stroked his head lovingly, strand by strand. As though he was counting them all up. " Yes… it is … and the feeling is mutual, of course."

9:45 PM, October 29th, 1899

Kieran dropped down like a corpse. Sleep would never come so readily, he knew. His bedroll had been smashed in the attack, so Dutch had so generously offered his own bearskin blanket for the boy to sleep on; it was thick and soft as a mattress and the second Kieran met it, his eyes fluttered closed. He'd just as soon hit the sack the second he and Dutch returned, but there was too much for the gang to discuss.

They couldn't stay here, that much was apparent. The Murfrees would be back, they were too damn greedy to let one ugly patch of their land go without a fight. "Besides," Dutch had correctly identified, "Beaver Hollow served its purpose. Gave us refuge for long enough to get our shit together. I think this is a perfect sign that it's time to move on."

It was Tilly who'd asked the million-dollar question: "To where?"

A grin had occupied Dutch's face then and he said proudly, "Where did Ibn Battuta go when he got bored of Afghanistan? To the Indians."

Charles and Abigail had tried to fight him on that, but in the end, they couldn't overwhelm the soundness of the idea: they had a relationship with the natives, including the chief and his son, who had the authority to grant them a short sojourn there; the Pinks would undoubtedly be scouring for them in places away from civilization, especially after Lakay—they would be hiding in plain sight; and, most importantly, where the hell else could they go? They'd been chased east from Horseshoe Overlook, pushed up from Shady Belle, shoved west from Annesburg—there was a severe lack of alternative options.

Kieran wondered though, as he began to drift off: was this more improv or the plan from the start? Why else had he ordered Bill and Charles to live with the natives and gain their trust? Maybe Dutch had been doing the same thing as the drill sergeant—handing out jabs to the nose to build the men up to a club to the ribs? Were they the club?

It didn't matter, he was too tired to think anymore. He would've passed out and slept for days if he could. If she hadn't softly plopped next to him, if her breath hadn't been so soft and sweet, rousing his eyes awake. Mary-Beth was lying with him, her eyes perplexed and antsy.

"How are you?" she asked, but she'd asked him this before, the second he and Dutch had returned. She had something on her mind, and she was buttering him up.

"Fine," he mumbled, exhausted, giving her the same answer he'd relayed before. "Just real tired."

"You in any pain?"

"No." It was good she was making him go through this a second time, he was really hitting his stride with this second performance. "How 'bout you?"

"No," she said quickly. "No pain." When she chewed her lower lip, it meant she was being flirty, maybe even a mite lecherous, but when it was her upper lip, that normally presaged something bad. And she was going to town on her upper lip, as well as nervously plucking her brown curls.

"What's going on?" he inquired, yanking her hand from her hair and gently stroking it.

"I—" she looked away "I talked a bit with Swanson today… he's… he's decided he's leavin'. He's not comin' with us to the reservation. Things are gettin' too crazy, he said. He… he asked if… if anyone wanted to join him."

"Huh." Kieran caught on fast to where she was driving, but still, he beat around the bush. "Anyone take him up on that yet?"

"Does it matter?" She sounded almost cross.

"Yeah."

She groaned and ripped her hand free, returning it to her hair. "No. No one… yet."

"Do… do you want someone to take him up on it?"

She swallowed roughly, torn thin strands of hair coiling her fingers. "I-I don't know. I mean… they're my family, raised me, taught me, fed me, nursed me. But… I don't like where things are goin'. There ain't— aren't —no, uh… uh… there isn't goin' to be anything good spawning from all this chaos. Pearson's dead, Trelawny's dead, Sean's dead, Lenny's dead, Hosea's probably dead, Bill's lost it, Karen's gone, oh man, I miss Karen…" She gazed at him with filmy eyes. "I… I think we should get out while we still can."

On instinct he nearly agreed, nearly packed their stuff (what little was left) that night. He hated seeing her sad. But the pessimism oozed in faster and in stronger numbers than he could stop it. "And do what? We can't get by on our own."

"We could try. I could write and you could work with horses, and if we pool what we made I think we could save up enough for a nice house and I won't be picky, really, anything with four walls will do, we wouldn't even need that cherry wallpaper I always blabbered about wanting, I promise, anything would do, I won't be picky."

Tears slowly trickled down her face, never falling off, always dying before they reached the end of her chin, marring her pretty face with wet scores. Her dream was vivid and lovely and he hated that he had to kill it. "I can't provide for you, Mary-Beth," he whispered, drying her face with his thumb. "I can't protect you. I ain't no kind of man."

"You're man enough for me," she said bitterly, pulling away from him and rolling to her side. "Silly ass."

He leaned over, trying to pull her shoulder so she could see him, but she jerked out of his grip, keeping her back to him. As a consolation, he stroked the bare skin of her arms with his finger, gently pinching and caressing it, trying to smile. "It'll be okay. We're so close. Dutch says we're so close. And… and he called me his son . Can't you see, I'm finally in with the gang, I ain't an outsider no more. We… we just need to hold our ground a bit longer. Two days, he said, you'll see. Two days and we'll have the money, and I know by then he'll have some kind of escape planned out. I know it."

He felt the hairs on her arms stand up, and her voice shook like an acorn in a hurricane when she said, so soft he could barely hear her, even in the dead of night, "Kieran… there's somethin'... somethin' I should tell you. About Dutch. About something he did—or at least what he tried to do."

"Oh, is that about that joke he made when you were pretending to be married? He told me he knows it was tasteless and—"

"It wasn't a joke!" she growled, sitting up, leering at him with hateful eyes. Kieran shrunk back, letting go of her arm. She scared him, and he didn't like that, she was supposed to be kind, they were supposed to like each other. She saw the fear in his eyes and softened. "Oh, Kieran, I'm sorry, I-I didn't mean to yell. I'm sorry. I'm just tired, that's all. Dutch didn't do nothing, I'm sorry." She cupped his cheek and he relaxed a little more. They cradled each other for a while after, but despite their drowsiness, neither got much sleep that night.

And over by the stables, the Knave of Hearts let out a fart for the poor doomed couple who would never depart.

The Murfrees are back! Hope you enjoyed this internal Kieran conflict; felt like the kind of thing he'd be grappling with.

You've probably noticed: Dutch is really kicking the manipulations into high gear this act. Wonder if that will end well...