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...
"Six hundreds all I got, so either y' take it, or get strung up in town for rustlin' horses that ain't yours." Clay propositioned, waving the bill stack towards Arthur.
The gun power it took to steal the horses from Catherine Braithwaite proved futile. Defeated, Arthur snatched the bill stack from the Horse Traders hand.
"Goddamit, Marston." He snarled, shoving his adopted brothers shoulder.
"How was I supposed to know? It sounded like a good deal." John defended himself.
"We were spun a yarn by Mr Gray, Arthur. It ain't John's fault." Trying to diffuse the tension mounding between the Outlaw's.
You palmed John's denim sleeve in reassurance, "c'mon, we should be getting back."
The short track back to camp was silent. Arthur rode ahead, leaving yourself, Javier and John trailing behind like three disobedient children. Hitching Onyx to a post at the fair end of camp, you removed her ebony worn saddle, hoisting it over the post.
The mares sleek black coat tinged garnet in the glow of the evening sun, casting shadows over birches in the distance. Steam boats bellowed black smoke drifting across Flat Iron Lake, connecting with the mouth of the Lannahechee River. Your eyes caught a glimpse of Arthur just off the end of the pier, one leg stretched in front of him; the other supporting the leather bound journal he was scribbling in.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Watching the Outlaw at such peace when writing about his endeavours, contrasted the violent life he lead. The sensitivity underneath the tough exterior drawn you to him like a moth to a porch lamp, and the previous nights you spent only cradled the embers burning evermore in your stomach.
Finishing up Onyx's groom with a pat on her muscled neck, the golden spurs hanging from your boots clinked in the direction of the bubbling clay pot Pearson had hauled over the fire. Ladling out two portions of stew into metal bowls, you slowly walked to join Arthur on the pier.
The cladding of your boots caused him to tuck his journal away in to his satchel. "What's this?" He smiled.
"Catfish—I think?" You peered down at the various chunks of vegetables and fish, inspecting the consistency.
Arthur chuckled, "I mean't you, y' dumbass." You gestured the saucer towards him, "if that's s'posed to be a thank you, Mr Morgan, I won't be showin' ya the courtesy anymore."
"Well—thanks very much, Miss (y/n)." The cowboy husked in those velvety tones, you never got tired of hearing your name escape his lips.
Clatter and scrapes of metal ensued as the pair of you tucked in. Taking advantage of the remaining broth, you tipped your head back; finishing every last drop. "Oh my gosh—that was delicious." Setting your bowl down beside you.
"I'm glad y' enjoyed it darlin'—sure looked like y' did." Arthur chuckled, eyeing the yellow stains soaked into your shirt.
Swiping the remaining soup from your blouse, you moved closer to Arthur; allowing your head to rest against his shoulder. You let your (e/c) irises examine the horizon. Islands dotted in the distance, paired with the humidity; fooled you into believing you were on some tropical island - far away from here.
"Y' need to stop bein' so harsh to John, he's tryin'." You started in a soft tone, "he weren't t' know."
Arthur scoffed, "I guess."
"You did real good though." The cowboy looked down at you over his shoulder, his blue eyes narrowed in a proud smile.
You smirked back at him, readjusting the position of your head; nestling deeper in to Arthur's underarm. Warmth in the form of a bicep wrapped around your waist, snuggling you deeper into his chest. Luckily, Arthur's actions spoke for him; his reassurance's of reciprocated feelings came in small gestures of affection.
Not afraid of prying eyes or gossips from your family in camp. It was natural, like fresh leaves in spring. You wondered whether it was appropriate to question the trajectory of the dwindling platonic relationship between the pair of you, but hesitancy locked your spiralling thoughts. Recalling the conversation with Hosea in the Heartlands, you did not want to let on you knew about Mary; nor that it was Hosea that told you. Instead, you savoured the moment.
"Are y' plannin' t' sleep—y'know.." Arthur interrupted the silence that fell between you. Hearing the thumping of his heart from where your head was resting, suggested he'd been mulling over that specific sentence for several minutes.
"Huh?" Playing coy, you wanted to hear him ask you. A smile tugged at your lips, exposing your plan.
"Y'know what I mean." Arthur turned his rosed cheeks, hiding himself in to the horizon.
"Well—y' gonna have t' be more specific." You toyed with the cowboy, making him squirm a little longer.
"I like.. wakin' up n'—knowin'.. y'r there." Vulnerability threaded the Outlaw's stammered words, offering a glimpse to this scarcely explored side to his personality.
Your cheeks burnt from the smile beamed across your face, "y' sweet on me or somethin', Mr Morgan?" You teased.
"Somethin' like that." Arthur murmured. Without realising, he answered all the questions whirling in your mind.
"I might jus' take y' up on that offer." Reassuming your position on Arthur's chest. Your new favourite spot was here, with Arthur; watching daylight sink over Flat Iron Lake.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Orange hue shadowed the faces around the fire. Abigail cradled Jack on her knee as he fought sleep, too engrossed in tails from Bill's stint in the military. Arthur and John's expression depicted the notion they'd heard these stories a million times before, doubting their credibility. Nonetheless, avoiding spoiling Jack's imagination - or Bill's.
Sitting close to Abigail, a smile pulled at your cheeks. Acceptance came in moments like these, around the campfire or helping out with chores during the day. That familiar sense of belonging, bonded by experiences unique to those who lived them; comforted you once more. It wasn't romantic, life was feral, hard-laboured and violent; but it far exceeded the solemnity of life before the Van Der Linde gang.
Wrapping Abigail and Jack in for a goodnight hug, you sauntered in the direction of Arthur's wagon. You pulled the weathered canvas drapes secluding the newly shared space. Arthur cautiously made his way through the opening of the make-shift tent, afraid of over stepping boundaries; as chivalrously as the first night you spent on Caliban's Seat many weeks ago.
Fervent nerves gushed through your veins, tingling all of your senses. This was not the first night you'd spent with Arthur, but affirmation that the Gunslinger wanted you here permanently made something as simple as sharing a bed feel significant. You weren't inexperienced, you'd shared sheets with men before—but this wasn't Saint Denis, and you weren't a twenty year old working girl anymore. Your presence was wanted, not your body.
Perhaps it was Mary-Beth's romance novella's gone straight to your head. Nevertheless, curled up in a thin blanket with Arthur Morgan's arms gripped over your waist; cradling you to sleep, was an entirely new feeling of its own.
