Ghosts of the Past [ RDR2 - Arthur Morgan ]

chapter 40 - Where a Man Belongs.

Word count - 2396

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CHAPTER 40 - Where a Man Belongs

The stolen horse trotted sluggishly beneath Arthur's legs. Exhaustion hardly covered it. He was burned. Battered. Bruised. Filthy. His hands barely held the reins as he gently guided the horse toward Lakay. Toward home. The smell of woodsmoke drifted through the air, curling between the gnarled trees. That was the first sign. The second was the flicker of movement—figures in the distance, just barely visible through the gaps in the moss-heavy branches.

Arthur's fingers tensed around the reins. His chest tightened. He'd made it. His first thought was of her. Had she kept faith? Had she waited?

When he arrived at the edge of camp, Charles was the first to notice. "Arthur!" His voice rang out, sharp and disbelieving. The sound cut through the quiet murmur of camp, turning every head. "Everyone! It's Arthur!"

The stolen horse barely came to a stop before Arthur slid from the saddle. His feet hit the ground wrong—mud sucking at his boots, legs trembling, body struggling to hold itself upright after too long spent running, too long spent fighting, too long spent bleeding and baking under the sun.

Movement. A cabin door swinging open. Arthur lifted his head, and his breath caught.

Rose.

She was different. Gone were the impractical skirts, the soft, frilled blouses. Instead, she wore jeans, chaps, and a tucked-in blouse—practical, form-fitting, like she'd finally stopped dressing for a world she no longer lived in.

But it wasn't just that. Arthur's eyes dragged up—and there it was. His hat. Perched on her head, slightly too big, tilted just enough that it made her hair look somehow wilder, softer than before.

Maybe it was the exhaustion. Maybe it was her, standing there, his hat on her head like she, too, belonged to him. Arthur's knees gave out.

He barely registered the thud as he hit the ground, barely heard the startled gasp from someone nearby. His vision swam, heart pounding like he'd just taken a bullet.

Then—her voice. Soft and soothing as a cold balm "Arthur." She was moving. Walking. Then jogging. Then—she was there.

Arthur exhaled a sharp, breathless laugh, shaking his head as he gazed up at her from the dirt. "Careful, darlin'." His voice was hoarse, too wrecked to be anything but real. "Wearin' a man's hat like that—might give him ideas."

A small, strangled sound escaped her—half-sob, half-laugh. She didn't slow. Didn't hesitate. Dropping to her knees right there in the mud and flung herself into him. Arthur didn't have the strength to hold her as tight as he wanted to. But he tried.

"You're back," she whispered. Her hands clutched at his dirt sodden shirt. His arms locked around her waist. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, squeezing his eyes shut. He could feel her heartbeat against his ribs—racing just as fast as his own.

Slowly, Arthur pulled back, taking her in properly now. He searched her, hands cupping her face, his rough fingers trembling just slightly as they traced over familiar skin.

Then, his gaze flicked up again. To his hat.

With two fingers, he nudged it up, just enough to see her eyes better. A low, appreciative hum rumbled from his chest. "That hat," he murmured, voice thick with exhaustion, with something else, something deeper. "Looks better on you than me."