NOTHING GOLD CAN STAY: RDR2

27. TOO MUCH TO PAY

"A voice said, Look me in the stars

And tell me truly, men of earth,

If all the soul-and-body scars

Were not too much to pay for birth."

—Robert Frost 

I made it to camp quickly, John had been waiting for news out by the scout fire. He'd almost knocked me off my feet trying to get by when I told him where to meet Dutch and Arthur. I don't know why it surprised me, but I hadn't expected to see the intense panic in his eyes. It was as though he were an entirely different person from the one I had shared a cigarette with only a handful of days ago. That person had been a man, but this one was a father.

I considered going to tell Abigail but thought better of it, it would be cruel to get her hopes up only to have them dashed if Jack wasn't there. Instead I had decided to busy myself around camp until they returned, hopefully with Jack in tow. I'd asked Miss Grimshaw if there was anything I could do, she'd looked pleasantly surprised by the offer, telling me that there was plenty of vegetables that needed chopping. Pearson was equally grateful for the assistance, providing me with a knife the size of my head and a bag full of carrots. I got to work, trying not to think about the passing time, or how the sun was setting, or how no-one had yet returned.

"You'll cut your fingers off if you ain't payin' attention." Sadie said, appearing beside me. I smirked and held up the cleaver.

"Fingers? This thing will take off your whole hand." I laugh, Pearson clearly only owned butcher's knives, I supposed that as long as it was sharp it did the job.

"Any news on Jack?" she asked, picking up an apple from the chuckwagon and taking a bite.

"Found Bronte's place. The others are there now, hopefully Jack's still there." I sigh, trying not to think about the multitude of reasons he might not be there.

"What would he want with a kid like Jack anyway?"

"Ransom, maybe." I say, leaving out the more insidious motives that came to mind. The word was full of sick bastards, children were never safe.

"Poor Abigail." she said, perching on the corner of the table. I nod sadly, poor Abigail indeed. "She's been holed up in that room since we got here, won't speak to anyone."

"John seemed pretty shaken too." I say, thinking about his rush to meet the others, the bright fear that had flashed across his face.

"Yeah, looks like he's stopped pretending not to care." she said, chuckling. I hoped she was right, I hoped he got the opportunity to make amends.

Sadie slid off the side of the table, tossing the apple core over her shoulder and into the shrubbery surrounding us. I couldn't help but notice how much more confidently she moved now, as opposed to that scattered and frail figure that had approached me back in the muddy camp near Valentine, asking for a ticket out of there. She stood before me now in clothes that fit her, a holster at her side, her golden hair flowing down her back. She looked like she belonged, she looked formidable. There was still a wildness in her eyes, a hardened glaze that only time could dissipate, but she had regained some small part of herself.

"I hate the fuckin' swamp." she muttered, wiping the sweat from the back of her neck before trudging off towards the house.

I got back to peeling and chopping, scooping each handful into the stew pot ready for whatever Pearson planned to do that day. God damn stew was the bane of my existence, I dreamed of one day owning a kitchen of my own, where I would learn to cook something else. I'd learn to bake pies, I'd fry fish that I'd caught, I'd roast vegetables and smoke meats. Food would be something I spent time on, something I planned. No longer would I be bound to one pot wonders.