A Red Dead Redemption story.
A seasoned bounty hunter, you've buried your past beneath the weight of your work. But a brush with the notorious Van der Linde gang unravels everything. Amid bullets and bloodshed, you discover love and a sense of belon...
Early evening sun cast a blood orange complexion to the row and steam boats sailing the Lannahechee river. The current caused small waves to lap gently on the shore, just below where you were stood. Sharp blades of long glass flattened as the material of your skirt settled in to the ground with a frump of exhaustion and dramatic exhale.
"Y' weren't there one shootin' Lemoyne Raiders all day!" Arthur holstered his Lancaster Repeater in to Caliban's tack, sliding from his worn leather saddle.
"Whatchu got to be sighin' about?" His jovial tone quickly dissipated the hot-headed hiss that was about to escape with your tongue. Arthur undermining your award winning performance of a lifetime at the Parlour House a few hours before.
"I was about t' take y' head off y'r shoulders, Morgan." You growled, earning a deep chuckle from Arthur as he joined you on the verge of the river.
The Outlaw lit a cigarette, blowing it's remanence into the humid evening air. "What was she like?" Arthur started.
"Y'know what—she wasn't that bad," you shifted to face Arthur, "it was the way people looked at me knowing I wasn't from 'round here, the way their lives revolve around this feud between the Gray's and the Braithwaite's."
"Yeah, the deputy told me all about it—Dutch thinks we're on to somethin'." Arthur passed the last half of the burning cigarette to you.
"Y'know—I have this.. Feelin' about the Braithwaites too," rubbing your forehead, the cigarette nestled between your fingers, "I found out they're moonshiners—Mrs Gray said she reckoned they ran it further than just Lemoyne."
Arthur looked at you intently, "well, it wouldn't surprise me, deputy said they're a plantation family, old money—they been strugglin' since the war." Arthur reaffirmed the same things Mrs Gray told you.
"They've got to have known my Pa, Arthur." Your (e/c) eyes skimmed the distance, desperately trying to recall anything from that period of your life.
"Don't read too much into it," Arthur consoled, "main thing is, Dutch thinks we can play this lot like a fiddle." A smile tugged at your lips, "how so?"
"Well, story is there's alotta gold sittin' between these families." Arthur removed his Gambler hat from his head, exposing the mousey brown hair that sat underneath it.
"I ain't sayin' nothin'—but to me, it feels like we're just buryin' ourselves in this feud that has nothin' to do with us." You glanced down at the deputies badge that sat proudly on his white shirt.
"I mean—it's worked out for ya so far." Giggling at the irony of the situation.
"Yeah, I guess." He smiled warily. The pair of you shared another cigarette, watching shipping cargo make its way towards Saint Denis. Plumes of toxic smoke bellowed in the distance where the industrialised city just peaked in the horizon.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
"What did Milton mean about, uh—y'know.. when he.." Arthur stammered, struggling to find a way to address Milton's revelation about your past without upsetting you.
"Well he wasn't lyin," you started, figuring there wasn't a point in justifying yourself.
"I was a kid—I got out of it as soon as I was financially able to." Chewing the inside of your lip, your (h/c) hair dropped over your face as your gaze fell to the floor. Cruel exposure of your life in Saint Denis left vulnerability in its wake.
Arthur stretched his hand out, tucking a piece of your hair behind your ear. Your (e/c) irises met with his once more, confirming everything you needed to know in a matter of moments. His index finger traced your complexion; down to your chin, curling in slightly as he raised your lips to meet his.
All the while his gaze never left yours, "Don't ever think that he, Milton—that he ever woulda' changed my mind about you, (y/n)." You opened your lips, inviting him in, to which he placed the most tender of kisses. Like gasoline on a naked flame, the fire crackling in your stomach exploded once more.
Arthur selfishly invaded all your senses, intensified by the sweltering heat of Lemoyne. Drinking him in, taking advantage of his lips; you knew moments like this did not present themselves as easily as they would in a normal existence. You allowed your finger tips to trace the week old stubble that graced Arthur's face, slowly wrapping your arms around his sun-kissed neck. Time felt paused on the serenity of the Lannahechee river, the Gunslinger's delicate offering melted away your woes. You chased more, but did not want to push him further; knowing how fragile his heart was.
•
Deep indigo radiance sank the sky into darkness in the distance, few stars peppered the sky line drawing the evening to a close. The curving track to camp was darkened, barely able to see in front of you due to the overcrowded shrubbery secluding the new camp.
"Identify yourself." Javier's Hispanic accent echoed in time with the click of his gun, poised to shoot at the prospect of danger.
"It's (y/n) and Arthur." You bellowed back, reassuring Javier to stand down.
"Ah, miss (y/n), nice to see you back in one piece." His shadow emerging from the leaves, following behind the horses to the clearing of camp.
You grabbed one of the hay bales that were stacked in the periphery as Arthur removed the saddles from both your steeds; brushing the sweat from their coats. You watched as he affectionately whispered praises in their ears, causing Onyx to dip her head into Arthur palms.
"Psssh—what a turncoat she is." Chuckling as you placed the hay bale next to the horses, rubbing Caliban's snout.
Arthur flashed a smile, "na—look after 'em and they'll see right by you." Leaving a pat on Onyx's neck, "c'mon, we best see Dutch." Arthur placed his palm on the small of your back, guiding you towards the leaders tent.
Dutch peered up from one of his literary reading's at the sight of you and Arthur making your way across camp. Placing the book down, he lit a cigar; standing from the chair he was comfortably perched on.
"Ah, Arthur, Miss (y/n)," He bellowed, "I trust you met with Mrs Gray?" Dutch gestured you to take a seat in his tent, Arthur letting his arm rest on his gun belt.
"Yes—drainin' ain't even the half of it." Dutch heartedly laughed at your description of the afternoons event. You got to explaining the precious intel you had discovered, much to the same as what Sheriff Gray and his Deputy had told the gang.
"And then there's this Braithwaite family.." Not being able to shake your gut feeling, you confided in Dutch's wisdom.
Retelling memories from your childhood with the leader; spilling the trauma of loosing your mother and father like over-pouring on shot of whiskey. "Somethin' ain't sittin' right with them, Dutch. They're dangerous, I know it." Subtly referring to the death of those you held so dearly in your heart, and the looming suspicion it had something to do with that wretched family.
Dutch looked to Arthur, his darkened eyes meeting with yours. "You're safe, miss (y/n)."
