Epilogue II

460 19 14
                                        

Word count - 2610


EPILOGUE II

As it turned out, Arthur wasn't entirely wrong. John Marston was still a fool, just an older fool. He had bought this land, on a heavy loan from the bank, in an attempt to win back Abigail - who had, rightfully so according to Rosemary, uplifted her and Jack to find somewhere else to live when John had slipped back into bad habits. Again.

However, he wasn't completely useless. Though originally insisting that the broken old shack was a perfectly fine home, just in need of a 'womanly touch', Uncle had thoroughly shamed him out of that and convinced him to build one.

What could be more romantic than building Abigail a home? Though Rosemary had to question just how romantic it was, watching three men and uncle, standing around confused at a large pile of lumber and some vague instructions. It was like watching wolves try to play poker—too much instinct - not enough thinking. A number of irritable arguments broke out over the following days.

'You worked in a lumber yard. How can't you read a damn diagram?'

'I chopped trees down, idiot. Had nothing to do with what happened after that'.

At first, it might have been amusing, but two days later, and only a foundation was made, Rosemary found herself making excuses to cook dinner further afield. Just for a moment of peace from all the yapping.

Perhaps what caused more irritation to Arthur and John (Charles remained quietly uninterested) was that Uncle was actually rather adept at reading schematics. Meaning he had a perfect excuse to lay back against a tree and holler orders at the burly men.

As days trickled by, Rosemary got to watch as a pile of lumber slowly became a home. An admittedly nice one at that. The kind of home, she was sure, that Arthur would rather have liked her to have one day, too.

So after a thorough drunken celebration that brought them all back to their glory days in the beautiful Horseshoe Overlook, Rosemary sat John down and forced him to write an apology letter to Abigail

Not entirely unwilling to do so - John did admit it was necessary - He was still awkwardly evasive to admitting wrongdoings. But with the threat of "Write the letter or I nail a dunce hat to your damn head" from Arthur, John did so with a grumble. Aware that the joking threat might not be so much a joke in the end.

The result was a charming and heartfelt reunion between mother and child, to father. This alone was enough to appease Arthur. Knowing all was well, however unbelievable that might be. Nearly a month after taking up room at the Marstons, Arthur and Rosemary were preparing their next steps.

The early afternoon sun bathed Beecher's Hope in gold, turning the wooden slats of the house warm beneath Arthur's feet. The air smelled of sun-dried hay and the faintest trace of gun oil from his holster - still tended even if not used. A pair of sparrows fluttered between the fence posts, oblivious to the man who had spent a lifetime killing.

Arthur's large hand traced slow circles on Rosemary's thigh, the heat of his palm sinking through her skirts. She hummed, tilting her head against his shoulder. There were few greater pleasures than to have his woman comfortable on his lap, with an air of idle chatter between them. "Hmm. Don't know 'bout Calendar." Rose mused "I reckon Joseph Pleekton's still alive, and I've managed to go seven years without murdering anyone. I'd hate to break that streak."

Arthur grinned, pressing a kiss on to the top of her head as they rocked smoothly back and forth on the porch swing. "I'll happily break my streak? I'm only at four m'self."

Ghosts of the Past [ RDR2 - Arthur Morgan ]Where stories live. Discover now