That F**cking Yankee

Secretly Admiring (SFW)

It had been about eight months since Dutch and the gang had saved you from a group of horrible men, well Arthur did most of the work. It seemed poor Arthur did all of the work in the gang, you usually helped him out during his hunts and general runs into Rhodes when he asked. Arthur was a sweet man, he was a brute, pure muscle yet he seemed so broken. You had grown quite an attachment to him, comforting him when it was his mopey moments. 

 Happy that he helped some folk yet upset that he failed another, trying your best to comfort him and reassure him that he did well he wasn't having any of it. He was one stubborn man, couldn't take a compliment without making a deal of how much of a bad man he was. You wanted to help him and make him realize how much of a great man he was but Arthur was Arthur.

The camp in Rhodes was warm, planted right on the lake. You had learned to swim in the early years of your childhood so you usually went into the water with Jack and some of the other gang members to cool off during the hot days. Jack's father, John, was practically useless, never paying any attention to him. John couldn't even swim himself so he was in no hurry to teach young Jack how to swim. John's wife, Abigail almost resented John for just being him, yet again, she was harsh on everyone. You didn't get along with her all that much, always demanding you to do stuff for her that you wasn't trained or inclined to be doing.

The gang member that found you was Dutch Van Der Linde. Dutch was a strange man, he was a total wolf in sheep's clothing. Ranging up to five feet and ten inches, he was the devil himself. Constantly had a cigarette in hand, he often reminded you of a black panther. Always dressed in black with the sexy accent of red. His general look around camp was a short cut red and black vest, blue and white pinstripe shirt, black and grey pinstripe pants, and a black top hat. Gold chains hung from his vest with a red ruby in the middle. While out of camp he usually throws on a black tail coat with red accents on the inside. His gun belt holding two holsters either side of him both holding silver customized Schofield revolvers. His face held a thick moustache and a soul patch under his lips, dark black hair slicked back with curls at the end.

Around camp you tried to keep your distance, he scared the living daylights out of you. The way his brown eyes fell upon you make you want to faint, you had seen him kill in cold blood. Kill innocent people who were begging for their lives, citizens fleeing from robberies. But you couldn't keep your eyes off of him when he wasn't looking. He had a perfect ass, his jawline sharp and full of stubble. You bit your lip at any glance at him, the odd time he would look in your direction, you would look away turning red and got out of there fast. Nothing would ever happen, he had a girl, Molly O'Shea. Everyone hated the Irish bitch, constantly nagging, constantly complaining and almost always drunk. You could see that Dutch was getting tired of her, not showing much attention unless forced too. Noticing a few times when you got up to go to the bathroom he was awake in his own chair reading a book or sleeping on the edge of the bed with Molly facing the other way. His sleeping patterns were non-existent, it was like he never slept.

This particular night it was hot and you had a reoccurring nightmare ever since Arthur saved you. Normally you would go sit with him for a while but again he was out of town hunting, robbing, killing O'Driscoll's. You got up and walked around the camp silently in your jeans and a dress shirt untucked, bagging. Walking past Dutch's cot you saw that he wasn't in his bed nor in his chair. With a little sigh of relief you thought he had probably gone out on a night ride. Looking to your right you laid eyes on his horse, The Count was standing at the fence looking over at you. With a gulp you realized he was still in camp and about somewhere else. Looking around you didn't see him or any other soul, walking down to the dock you sat at the end dipping your bare feet into the water listening to it swish past. Admiring the stars and the bright moon you silently hummed to yourself, looking at the constellations. Sitting there in the silence you then heard footsteps on the dock behind you, the metal tapping of the spurs on the approaching cowboy behind you, the metal tapping of the boots; you knew exactly who it was. Freezing in place you turned your head just slightly to the noise, the noise seemed to stop in place as you did so.