THE PILGRIMS OF SORROW - Lichengrass (2024)

Chapter 1: — FOR THE LOVE OF MONEY

Chapter Text

PREFACE

In July of 1872, a heifer had been dragged by the neck through a busted paddock so neglected it had fallen apart simply by being opened by a stranger to whom it didn’t belong and didn’t know how delicately to work its hinges. The heifer was reluctant to go as it had not been fed yet and so caused a ruckus. As he dragged the grunting heifer who dug in her heels, he heard rustling within the house and panicked that his crime would be witnessed. He tugged harder and harder until the rope bit into the cow’s neck and drew blood. But she would not move.

And soon he heard a woman coughing and moving about within the sodhouse. The sun was barely up, the morning still dark, but he fought, weakened by his starvation, to steal the cow. He begged and begged to God, pulling the rope so tightly it burned his hands. The rope tightened so badly it cut a ring through the cow’s neck but the thief would not let go, she was almost out of the little paddock.

The thief saw candlelight approach through the cracks of the poor peasant’s front door and as he heard the woman fumble with the latches he angrily tugged once more, finally, and let go of the rope and ran.

Beatrice Morgan could only see the man’s dark and skinny silhouette escape into the bushes before he was gone. She didn’t notice the wheezing of her cow as she went to find her husband and tell him of the strange man who had fled. She didn’t notice how the latches on their broken paddock had failed again no matter how much her son fiddled with it and tried to make it work at least most of the time.

But by the time Lyle woke up, took to his pipe, drank his fill of whiskey as he peered out at the dawn, and got dressed, the cow had been suffocated. And there in the mud of their paddock, she lay on her side all murdered and gone.

It was Lyle’s rage upon finding her that woke Arthur Morgan that morning, but he had fled from the house before Arthur could know what incensed him. It was later in the day than he normally woke up, and his mother had already taken the medicine he always helped her with. He rubbed his eyes as he padded from his hammock to the kitchen and called for his mother.

Beatrice was standing over the kerosene stove, lowering a pail of white water to boil. “Yes, dear?”

“Did we get any bread?” He asked.

Beatrice shook her head and stifled a cough in her hand, “No more bread this week. Take some rice down. Don’t go outside.”

“Why?” Arthur’s eyes were still blurry. In the back of his mind he hoped it was a surprise. He had been telling his mother how he wished for a little pony to ride. Had been hearing his parents whispering in the night about saving up for something and he hoped it was a pony and not a claim.

Beatrice turned her back as she took a swig of the whiskey in her apron. She’d taken it from Lyle after he left.

A surge of hoofbeats arrived outside their door and Arthur turned with his curiosity, but he would not go outside. He would not disobey his mother even as his imagination told him it was his pony. “Who’s that?” He asked.

Beatrice was surprised by the amount of questions Arthur had that morning. He was usually such a quiet kid. Perhaps, she thought, he knew what happened. Maybe he heard something in the night that made him antsy.

Oh, blast, she remembered, it’s his birthday.

“It’s the Marshall.” She finally answered.

Arthur’s expression turned dark. Even for a kid barely nine years old, he understood grave things such as that. “Daddy hurt someone.”

Beatrice shook her head and took their bench down from the ceiling. She coughed again after the struggle and laid her thin, pale hand down on the bench beside her to offer Arthur a seat. She lowered her dark, pitted eyes sadly. Arthur sat down beside her and looked up at his sick mother with boundless adoration and his childlike innocence that trusted her completely. She put her arm around his shoulder, “How’s about you go down to that little spot of yours by the wash?” She said.

Now Arthur knew it was certainly to do with his father.

“Stay there for a few nights until next Sunday.” Beatrice said. “Someone killed our heifer last night.”

Arthur looked up at her with wide eyes, “Bethany?” Was their cow’s name. He turned his head down in shame, “The hinge broke again.”

“No, dear boy.” Beatrice said sweetly, petting his head. “Someone came and tried to steal her. That’s why the Marshall’s here, so we can find him and have him hanged. Dirty effing thief.”

Arthur knew his father would have worse to say to the man. Would kill the thief himself if he could. Beatrice looked down at him again, “You ought to go get lost someplace he can’t find you.” She said, referring to Lyle, “You know what he'll say. He won’t want you fed.”

Arthur shook his head, “What if he beats you again?”

“Oh, sweet boy.” She wiped his eye, “You know I’ll be okay. I’ll have the Whitley boy come bring you some beef once he’s down.”

Arthur hated Jim Whitley, but he’d do as his mother said.

Beatrice ministered to Arthur very softly her praises of him, but made no mention of his birthday or his pony—which he knew, despite his hoping, would never be his. He looked up to his mother and wished to ask her about it. If only just to hear her say ‘No’ once and for all and forever quell that little hope inside him. But his mother was too kind and would say sweetly, ‘Maybe, my dear, maybe if we get lucky someday.’

And that would break Arthur’s heart to hear, no matter how he knew he’d love that pony, because despite his and his mother’s kindness, to bring such an innocent creature under the wing of Lyle Morgan was the cruelest punishment he could imagine. And as he looked up into his mother’s soft, blue eyes, he knew in the depth of his soul that he had done that very same thing to his own mother by his birth and he did not deserve any kind gift nor any happy birthday.

So before Lyle could invite the Marshall in for coffee and their hard soda biscuits, Arthur grabbed himself a small pack and escaped out the back door and through the dark road that cut across the forested fields into town, and back out the other side to a dried-up old creek where he often spent his afternoons alone. But not before he stopped outside the sodhut and saw his poor beast lying on her dead side, all bloody and slain for no good reason at all. And though it was sad to see, Arthur knew the real slaughter hadn’t begun yet, for Lyle’s friend the Marshall would never find the dirty effing thief and that would be to his mother’s grief alone if Arthur left.

But still, he’d do as his mother said.

THE PILGRIMS OF SORROW

“” JOB 14:13

OH, THAT THOU WOULDEST HIDE ME IN THE GRAVE, THAT THOU WOULDEST KEEP ME SECRET UNTIL THY WRATH BE PAST, THAT THOU WOULDEST APPOINT ME A SET TIME AND REMEMBER ME!

“”

JANUARY 1, 1900
New Almaden, CA

Arthur was in the hall looking for her. At the door, beside one of the house's eucalyptus-sized ferns, he leaned in and heard Siobhan singing. The hallway was lined with French glass doors and several egregiously baroque paintings that made him feel like he was in some storybook. Siobhan had escaped so quickly from the kitchen—blood running down her hand—that he had to ask Griffin Calhoun what had happened before he could get an answer from Siobhan herself.

Arthur yanked the door open. Siobhan jumped, looking up at him in shock, “Arthur! I could’ve had my uglies out!”

He didn’t laugh at her despite his amusem*nt, frowning as he came in and took her hands and looked at them from below the brim of his hat, “You alright?”

Siobhan grumbled, “It was just a scratch.”

“Then why’d you run so fast?” Arthur said, grazing the cut with his thumb. Siobhan hissed, yanking her hand away. Arthur’s eyes followed her movement, “I thought it was just a scratch.”

“It is. That doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt when you touch it.” She averted her eyes, “And I didn’t run. I just didn’t want to start a fuss and have everyone look at my… you know.”

Her scars.

Siobhan giggled as Arthur took another step into her intimacy and wrapped his arms around her waist. He whispered against her temple, “Is that what you call them?” He was amused at her blushing smile, “You know what I call them?”

“Arthur!” She stage-whispered, “The door’s open.” Arthur backed away to shut it and Siobhan caught him by the arm, tugging him back. “Arthur.”

He narrowed his eyes at her, “You’d rather I take you home for it?”

Arthur looked Siobhan over, head to toe and back up again, very slowly. She was wearing one of those old dresses she stole from Penelope Braithwaite all those months ago. The cream-colored prairie dress with wheat embroidery. Her skin was glowing and her cheeks still blushed from the state he put her in before with his flirting. Arthur halfway muttered, “Yeah, I’m looking.”

Arthur eyed the hallway a little desperately as Siobhan drug him away, thinking about the likelihood of him getting caught stealing from them, or if Siobhan would be angry with him if he did. Having no idea that Siobhan had, herself, just stolen a great majority of things from that very bathroom.— They crossed into the blinding gold room and Mary Calhoun stood up from her chair and crossed over to Siobhan.

Her sing-song English accent came into full swing with her pout, “Oh, dear. I’m so sorry about that glass! Are you alright?”

Siobhan wasn’t entirely sure the woman hadn’t placed a broken glass in the wash basin on purpose, but she summoned her civility with careful practice and smiled, reassuring her, “It’ll be just fine in a few days.”

Mrs. Calhoun smiled with relief and looked Siobhan over until her bug-like eyes landed clear on Siobhan’s neck and her sweet smile broke for a second before returning, half-hearted. “Oh! That’s a lovely scarf.” She said and reached forward to run her finger along the edge of the tie, “Isn’t that just a lovely scarf, Griffin?”

Griffin looked over his mother’s shoulder from the table, “A scarf? I didn’t notice you wearing a scarf before.”

Arthur clapped his hands, “Well, that food smells good.” He rubbed his palms together and Mrs. Calhoun’s eyes revived at the sight of that motion and her hands jumped up.

“Oh, it has.” Siobhan said with a grin, “We’ve been all over. Texas, Louisiana, Colorado, New Mexico, Arizona, here.”

Mary looked enchanted. “So peripatetic.”

‘Peripatetic’ was another one of those words Siobhan did not know and had never heard. She looked at Arthur, hoping she’d be able to gauge by his face whether they’d just been insulted or not. She couldn’t rightly tell, and it seemed he couldn’t either. Everything Mary said sounded nice, especially when she was most certainly insulting you.

“And you,” Mary sat straighter and gestured at Arthur, “Where are you from?”

“Well, uh, I was born up North. I guess I ain’t really from anywhere, I just sort of go where family takes me.” Arthur explained with a slight touch of shyness. He didn’t want to somehow embarrass Siobhan in front of this illegible woman.

Griffin joined in, “The papers used to say you were from Pennsylvania.”

“Pennsylvania?” Arthur huffed, “I ain’t too sure I’ve ever been up that way. More likely I was actin’ like I had been to whoever wrote that paper you was reading.”

“Why lie about where you’re from but still give them your real name?” Griffin said, setting his fork down.

Arthur shrugged, “Just lyin’ for the sake of it. Keep folk on their toes.”

Siobhan tried to hide her smile. Didn’t want Mary or Griffin to think they had gotten into the sincere habit of lying whenever the mood struck them. Instead, she eyed her friend, “When did you read about that, anyway?”

“Years ago.” Griffin said, and resumed cutting into his roast, “You were still living here. The paper was all about the most notorious gangs in America and of course, Dutch van der Linde was mentioned.”

Siobhan looked at Arthur through the corner of her eye for reassurance before she leaned forward at Griffin, “I was still here?”

“Yes. They had just robbed a bank in Reno.” Griffin said matter-of-factly, as if he had no notion of how this information might set both Arthur and Siobhan at unease. “I was nine.”

Mary raised her brows, “Goodness.” And tried to smile through a grimace, “What an interesting convergence of personalities you two made out to be, hm?”

“Well,” Mary said, smiling, “I do hope you’ve given up that line of work now, Mr. Morgan?” She popped a piece of roast into her mouth with her glittering fork as she looked straight at him.

“She’s kidding.” Arthur said, somewhat nervously. Perhaps in an attempt to salvage his own moral quality. He eyed Siobhan stiffly, but she wasn’t looking at him.

Mrs. Calhoun took Siobhan’s arm lightly and led her into the hallway to the front door. They didn’t say anything to each other as they walked, though Siobhan was snickering with all manner of petty comments inside her head, totally flipped over with misbehavior.

Mary nodded sweetly. “And…” She looked down the hall as if searching to ensure her husband wouldn’t hear her—although whether she was looking for her own husband or for Siobhan’s was unclear. “If you ever need anything… medical… I just want you to know I have no reservations about a woman’s right to her body.”

Siobhan wanted to apologize in some tiny way—without being overly reproachful for what she said, which was, after all, true—but everything moved too quickly for her to get it out. When she was free, Siobhan ducked her head into the crook of her elbow and sneezed so hard she felt it in her pelvis and nearly buckled over from the piercing pain of it.

“Shiv, you have literally puked on me before. I think we’re beyond all that now.”

She shook her head, resolute, “I have to get my dignity back somehow.” She was only half-kidding.

Arthur kissed her cheeks, murmuring, “You’re so cute… when you sneeze, kittens are born, babies smile—”

“Oh, shut up!” Siobhan grinned and pushed him playfully away.

He backed away, “What what what?”

Chapter 2: — EMBRYONIC JOURNEY

Chapter Text

JANUARY 15, 1900
New Almaden, CA

It was the middle of the day when the Sheriff, Paul Henry Hallock, ended his journey from San Jose to New Almaden. Had been riding all day and all night to get there. Had received a telegram during his investigation in San Jose—looking into the lynching of Devon Portridge’s cousin, twice removed, on behalf of Mrs. Betty Spurgeon—that the infamous van der Linde gang had arrived in his town. Now that was enough to make him take his hat off and sit up a little straighter. But the penman, his own deputy Griffin Calhoun, knew him well enough; that would not be his greatest concern. For what drew him out of his chair and directly to his saddle, was the mention of one Siobhan Davenport, now Mrs. Arthur Morgan. Daughter of Caoimhe Magda-Davenport. She had returned from Salinas, Texas to her birthplace after nearly six years. She had returned to New Almaden.

He could remember having glossed over Griffin’s introduction, asking after Sheriff Hallock,—polite kid that he was—and the mention of Dutch van der Linde and his gang certainly gave him pause;

It took me several days to write this letter as we still had not gotten word from the police commissioner of San Jose as to your exact whereabouts and by the time we did, and I began writing expeditiously; several things have happened.

I will begin with what is most pertinent to you. The gang has not caused any trouble in New Almaden and are currently staying on the Davenport ranch. This may upset you to hear, but it is not as you expect. To my shock, and the shock of the entire town, we have discovered that Dutch van der Linde and his outlaw accomplices have taken Siobhan Davenport under their wing.

Paul Hallock covered his mouth in awe and a great swell of love and worry filled his heart.

She maintains that she joined under her own will and that they have not harmed her, but that they have become like family. She has just gotten married, too, by Pastor Foote, to the outlaw Arthur Morgan. I have met the man and he does not seem to be fond of much else besides her. They are staying together on the Davenport Ranch and allow all of the members of the van der Linde gang to live there.

Siobhan has confessed to me in confidence that she worries her uncle in Salinas or the Pinkerton Detective Agency will read of her arrival in New Almaden and come after her and her husband. And she was right to worry. Last night, we received a telegram from the Pinkertons asking if the sightings of Dutch van der Linde were true. Don’t worry, I haven’t responded to them and no one else knows, but the town is at a loss and I do not know what to do. As you know, we all loved Caoimhe Davenport, but some people will not feel safe at night knowing those outlaws are in town, bringing the attention of the federal law on all of us.

Paul Hallock rode all day and all night.

And when he arrived in his hometown, from the end of the street where the Sheriff’s office and jail cornered the sidewalk, he lifted his eyes to the top of the hill past the mines and spied the tiny white lettering that marked the entrance to the Davenport Farm. He never thought the day would come that he would see that home lived in again, not during his lifetime. And certainly not by a Davenport by right. Not Siobhan Davenport…

Griffin Calhoun stepped down the porch of the office with haste upon seeing Sheriff Hallock through the window glass. “Sheriff, thank the Lord you’ve come.”

“Where is Siobhan Davenport?” He said, pulling his revolver free from his fenders.

Griffin stood amazed. Sheriff Hallock had always spoken of Siobhan and her mother with great admiration—much less for her father—but he could never conceive of why. Though Paul Hallock claimed he had been good friends with Caoimhe Davenport, Griffin could only recall a handful of times he’d ever seen the two near each other as a child.

Griffin answered, regardless, and started walking with the Sheriff, “She’s up at the farm. They’ve been clearing a lot on the back of the property to build a second house.”

“How is she? Do you talk to her often?” Paul Hallock kept his blue eyes straight ahead. His hair was just past his ears, in light brown, fluffy locks. And his brown beard was full but trimmed, with little salt-white jowls capping his chin. Griffin thought he looked more tired than usual that day.

Griffin kept his pace swiftly. The Sheriff's spurs jangled with each step as he lit a cigarette. “She seems very well. Seems happy. She’s…” Griffin cleared his throat, “Older. Barely any taller.”

Sheriff Hallock stretched his earlobe. He shook his head in slight discomfort at the idea that Griffin had formed some kind of a crush on her. But he knew Griffin like a son, and that’s the way it sounded, how his voice lifted to describe her. “So you said you met her new husband?”

“Yes, Mr. Morgan. He’s a real quiet fellow, very large and strong.” He said, and there wasn’t much else he could say, he barely knew Arthur.

Sheriff Hallock picked a piece of tobacco off his tongue, “How old is this fellow?”

“Thirty-six, so she says. Siobhan herself is only seventeen, but her birthday is coming up if you’ll remember—”

He put his hand out, “I know how old she is. I remember her birthday. It’s tomorrow.”

“Oh.” He said, and blinked a few times, “The sixteenth? I always thought it was the eighteenth… I guess the numbers are both round in my head.” He looked up at the Sheriff but he seemed lost in thought and did not respond. He flicked his cigarette into a rain puddle and continued on. They were nearing the turn of the road into the mine and followed off a weak track toward the farm. Griffin asked, “How do you remember it so well?”

He looked down at Griffin and patted his shoulder, “It’s good to keep the mind sharp, son.”

As they approached the farm they could hear lively chatter, and further back, a loud knocking like an ax hitting a tree. Which, upon reflection of what Griffin had told him, he assumed was exactly what he heard. There was a man sitting out front of the house and Griffin approached him before the Sheriff could, “Javier, how is everyone?”

The man, Javier, dropped his boot from the fence post and stood up, “All good, amigazo. Who’s this?”

Paul Hallock wasn’t one to flash his badge unprovoked. He held out his hand, “Sheriff Paul Hallock, it’s good to meet you.”

“Sheriff, eh? Well, we don’t like Sheriffs too much around here, cabrón.” He said looking him up and down. Sheriff Hallock rolled his eyes. But Javier, turning to Griffin, gave him a wink. “Ah, pero Griffin... nos gusta a el aqui. El es fresca como una lechuga.”

Only Paul understood what Javier said and was quite sure Javier was mocking his young deputy. But he preferred to feign ignorance and pretend he couldn’t speak Spanish, so Griffin would simply have to remain ignorant to that one. Griffin could only vaguely understand that he was well-liked. Griffin gave him a shrug, “Sheriff Hallock isn’t a bad man, he’s my friend. And he used to know the former owners of the property.”

“Siobhan’s mother.” Paul explained. “I’d like to speak to Siobhan.”

Javier shrugged, “Well, it’s not my property, eh? I can’t stop you.” He moved to sit back down.

“Grah-see-us." Sheriff Hallock said in utter jest. But Javier only gave him a strange look, embarrassed for the Sheriff. Griffin had no reaction, he was used to Paul’s antics. They made their way past the gate and down the long drive of trees. He looked to Griffin, “I haven’t been here in years.”

Griffin nodded, “I know, I thought it was weird coming back too. Never thought I’d see Siobhan again.”

Paul Hallock shook his head in awe. The farm was well lived in. Soil furrows rearranged neatly, brown-wet. Some sprouting already. The house had been cleared of vines, porch swept, windows opened, music playing. Men he did not recognize walking to-and-fro, recognizing Griffin, saying hello. Griffin seemed uneasy and confessed, “They all behave nicely around me except for a few of them. Arthur doesn’t seem to like me very much.” He lowered his voice for that last bit and then raised it again as a man passed them, “Hello Uncle.”

“Is this Mr. Calhoun?” Uncle stopped, jutting his face forward as if it were a joke.

Paul turned to his side to greet the pinch-faced man with a complexion like a tomato, “Sheriff Paul Hallock, nice to meet you.”

“Sheriff?”

He turned his head to another voice, not Uncle’s, coming from beside the house. His voice was a deep and husky groan and his accent was very strongly southern. Such that they did not often get in New Almaden and certainly not any further north. He was tall and well-built, with two belts wrapped around his slim waist. One for his pants, one for his guns. “Is there a reason you brought the Sheriff here, Griffin?”

Paul resisted the urge to correct him, ‘Deputy Calhoun,’ and watched as he walked towards them. He walked casually and with heavy limbs, his chin up and head a little tucked back like he was suspicious of them. Griffin spoke up, “Arthur Morgan, this is Paul Hallock, the Sheriff I was telling you about.”

Arthur looked at him with slightly downcast eyes as Arthur was a few inches taller than him. “Good to finally meet you.” He said politely, but with restraint.

Sheriff Hallock was not so immediate to speak, he rather found himself quite content studying this man who had apparently married Siobhan Davenport. He found his mild attitude slightly proud and his comfort with himself and Griffin grating. Arthur was well-shaven, humbly dressed despite his expensive guns, with nails cleaner than Paul’s own, trimmed down to nothing. He wouldn’t soon forget the sight of those perfectly clean nails. Paul pulled a cigarette out, “Charmed—”

Arthur held his hand out. His shining gold wedding band caught Hallock’s eye. “If you don’t mind smoking farther away, my wife don’t like the smell.”

Sheriff Hallock raised a brow and lowered his match. “Siobhan?” He said and fingered his pockets for his cigarette carton once more.

Arthur’s brow creased, “You know her?”

There was a beat of silence during which it seemed Arthur was doing his own share of appraisal, judging whether or not he really trusted that. Finally, he scratched his chin, “Well, I’ll go tell her you’re here, then.” And promptly started to walk.

“Tell her it’s Paul Hallock.” He insisted.

Arthur stopped and looked back at him, “I remember your name, partner.”

He shrugged, “Two-dozen, I think. And they’ve been saying Abigail might be pregnant again so… Jack might have a sibling pretty soon.”

Paul looked away, shaking his head. All he could hear around him was the labor of men logging and building. “I leave for two weeks, and we’ve got a new settlement of drifters.” He threw his hands up, gesturing at everything around him with surprise. And laughed, “And Siobhan Davenport brought them here.”

He leaned forward and wiped his brow, “What a world…”

Griffin nodded, “Yeah. When I first met her I thought, ‘She’s changed so much, she’s a completely different person.’ But you’ll see pretty quickly she’s just the same. Just as sweet. Ridiculously funny, if you can learn to tell when she’s joking.”

Paul smiled, “I’m sure she is. Caoimhe was just that way too. The most lovely woman. All class, but she knew how to make anyone laugh.” Griffin, he could tell, didn’t remember her much. Especially since, towards the end, her husband didn’t let the kids come around the house as much. And Caoimhe was so high on codeine half the time that she didn’t say two words to anyone but Siobhan. Not even to Paul himself.

It amazed him, how his heart still sank so low he could cry just thinking about her.—

“There she is.” Griffin said and stood up. And Paul turned to look, but Griffin had blocked his view.

Paul heard her voice as he stood up, though it had mellowed in pitch over her years, it was certainly Siobhan. “Griffin!”

Arthur stood directly beside her as she smiled at Griffin, and when her eyes rose to his, she stopped dead. Her brow creased, “Mr. Hallock… You look so much older!”

She smiled widely and took a step forward to embrace him, “It’s so nice to see you again!”

Paul was dumbstruck, his eyes as clear as a limpid newborn. Could barely even wrap his arms around her, he couldn’t feel them. When she pulled away, he forgot where he even was. He stuttered, “Y–you look so much like your mother…”

Siobhan’s cheeks flushed and her mouth flattened, she remembered him, alright. She remembered how much he loved her mama. So she flushed, yes, because he had said it so sweetly. But there was a pause of terrible silence where it dawned on Paul how awkward he must have made it for her.

Then she went on, bright and cheery, as if he hadn’t said anything at all. “Griffin never told me you were the Sheriff now. Used to be Sheriff Foote, right?”

“Oh yes, Rick Senior died just a few years ago, though.” He shook his head, amazed with himself. What did any of that matter? He was speaking to Siobhan! He looked at her closer, narrowing his eyes, couldn’t believe them. “You’re so big! Last time I saw you, you were this tall.”

He held his palm flat down, level with his waist. Siobhan was now just around five inches shorter than him. And her hair was so long it looked like she hadn’t cut it once in all those years. She still smiled through one side of her cheek like she always did as a girl; co*cking her head to one side and watching with her mouth agape, full smile and attention, eyes glittering like the birth of stars. She could make you feel like the most special person in the world with that look.

She turned and hooked her arm under her husband’s, “Arthur, Mr. Hallock used to be good friends with my mama. Took care of me all the time when I was little.” She looked up at Arthur with twice as much admiration and Paul could tell she loved him a great deal.

Arthur reasserted him and held his hand out politely, shaking his. “Well, I reckon you just got back to town. You’re welcome to stay and have dinner here with us if you want. I think you'd like that, wouldn’t you, Shiv?”

Siobhan smiled widely and nodded at Sheriff Hallock, “If you don’t mind eating outside.”

“Course not, I was raised a country boy.” His cheeks were red as a febrile woman. He’d be so embarrassed with himself if he knew. But Griffin was not so stupid as to mention it to him.

Siobhan inhaled deeply, “We’ve got a chef, but don’t expect a blow out, he barely just learned of the existence of seasoning.”

Arthur went to go fetch Pearson and Siobhan went into the kitchen to cut the vegetables for dinner as she often did. Kieran came in and, in his passing, stopped by the kitchen door, “Hey, who’s the feller Griffin brought with him?”

Siobhan looked over her shoulder at him just as Arthur shimmied past him. “It’s the Sheriff. But don’t worry, he’s not arresting us.”

Kieran sighed, “Ehhh, you know me, Siobhan. I don’t like parties.” And with that he disappeared like a ghost into the hall. Siobhan sighed, going back to chopping.

Arthur stood beside Siobhan, washing his hands as she chopped the vegetables for Pearson, “He stares at you.”

“Who? Mr. Hallock?” Siobhan’s mouth twisted humorously, “Naw, he’s probably just surprised to see me.”

Holding a cloth, Arthur dried his hands. “Gave me the stink eye when he walked up. Probably knows who I am.”

“Considering he’s a Sheriff, I’m sure he does. Just be glad he didn’t try to haul you to jail.” Siobhan pointed out, “I’m a little surprised by that myself.”

“I guess he’s alright with it cause we’re with you. But ain’t that strange?” He leaned against the counter and looked at Siobhan. The sun was beginning to go down and through the aperture windowglass, the yellow dusk of January painted her beautiful face. “Been a long time since he’s known you.”

Siobhan shrugged, “I know…” she looked up and out the window, “Maybe it’s a little strange.”

Arthur took a few steps forward and wrapped his arms around her waist, “You’re so pretty.”

Siobhan smiled, her attention never torn away from cutting. “You’re getting in the way.”

Arthur kissed her temple, “Can I help you so this’ll get done faster?” He kept his lips against her face, craning his neck awkwardly down.

Siobhan raised a brow, set down her knife and turned toward him, backing up, “Go ahead. You cut, I grope… it’ll go much faster and then Pearson will come in and see me feeling you up.”

Arthur took up her knife as she scooted aside, “Sounds good to me.”

Siobhan scoffed.

*

“Will the both of you just go away! Feed yourselves if you hate it so much.” Pearson pointed with his big old cleaver, “Maybe my food tastes like fish because I was in the Navy so damned long, I still sweat seawater. Which not one of you would understand, you bunch of cowards.”

Paul watched Siobhan wean on the soup happily, unoffended by the crude jokes, and not taking them seriously enough to deter her from her meal. He still hadn’t caught hold of his nerves and it was only harder each time he looked at her. All alive and full of joy. He couldn’t believe it.

Paul stood dumbstruck, his mouth agape and crooked, staring into Dutch’s eyes. “No… Jerry Mcklintock?” He said, pliant to his stupid lie. “I thought you were dead!”

Siobhan watched Paul look back over his shoulder briefly at her like he didn’t want to get swept away like this. Looking at her like she were some unfinished business of his. She tried not to let Dutch’s behavior nag at her and went back to the table where Griffin was stuffing his mouth and flicked him in the back of the head, “Paul’s leaving.”

Nearly choking, Griffin suddenly let go of his form and held his hands out. He rubbed the back of his head. “Ow–Oh.” He looked around and saw Paul well on his way across the lawn. “Darn it, Sheriff!”

“Bye, Griff.” She said casually as she went over to Arthur.

“Bye!” He called over his shoulder. “Thank you for dinner!” And caught up to Paul who was trying to escape.

“—we’ll handle your bounties. It would be our pleasure.” Dutch was saying.

“Well isn’t that just wonderful?” Paul grinned, patting Dutch’s shoulder. His brand of sarcasm could be hard to read until you got to know him, but Dutch could read it when his voice dulled to say, “You can grab a bounty in San Jose. We don’t have any here.”

“Bounty, you said?” Griffin piped up, “Bounties here? In New Almaden?” He laughed, “Imagine! Ha-ha!… Ahemmm.” He caught how Dutch was eyeing him all menacingly with his dog-bitten ear and his scraggly black hair and he ate his words. “Uhm… Gosh, you’ve got a Heck of a good head of hair on you, Mr. van der Linde.”

Dutch blinked at Griffin while Paul stared at them both, utterly amused at the stupidity amounting between the two of them. “But, uh…” Paul said, “I guess helping San Jose helps us so, sure. You take bounties, I put in a good word with the town.”

Dutch seemed pleased, “We’ll make a fine citizens of this town, Sheriff, you’ll see.”

Paul nodded with droll politeness, “Sure thing, skipper.” He thought how awfully convenient it would be for a man in Dutch’s position to make such a deal with the law. How, if something went awry and the gang turned to him asking ‘What went wrong?!’ He could say, ‘Well that damned Sheriff bailed on us!’ But he didn’t care about the gang either way. He’d humor the big idiot. “Alright, Griff, let’s get you home before your mother locks you out.”

Griffin rolled his eyes. “So, what’d you tell Siobhan?”

Paul sucked his teeth and lit a cigarette, “Told her Dutch was gonna attract Pinkertons and she should get rid of him. Told her the town wasn’t gonna—sh*t what is that? Is that a bird making that sound?”

Paul Hallock who was likely nothing more to Siobhan than some old shadow from her childhood that used to follow her mother around.

Chapter 3: — CAPRICORN WOMAN

Chapter Text

JANUARY 16, 1900

ACT I.

The creatures of the early morning bustled quickly to their places like actors on a stage, awaiting queue. The sun rose,—peachy air and amber-yellow mist floated up to the fields rising over the mountains—careful not to break curfew, all was golden. The neon-threaded lightning that had sprinkled over the night petered away, skipping with kisses blowing back to the audience—exeunt.

(Enter ANGORA RABBIT.)

He sniffed the edge of the tent-wagon with his fuzzy nose, he knew his role very well. The rabbit was disturbed by the sound of water pouring from a scupper aside the house—which was his queue to leave—as all of the people within began to wake up and make use of the plumbing. His tufted legs extended as he hopped away—exeunt.

And now, the lead of the play—who shames the broad daylight—began to stir.

(Awaken SIOBHAN.)

She smacked her lips with a long exhale and pushed hair out of her face as her eyes cracked open. And with her limbs all stretching simultaneously, she searched the cot for Arthur’s body where she could feel his warmth but not his skin. She sat up, jumping, “Oh,—Jesus.”

Arthur seemed to have scared her.

“Why are you sitting down there like that?” Siobhan said groggily, eyeing the way he leaned against the back of the wagon at the end of the cot, cross-legged and facing her.

He gestured to the journal in his hands, “What you think?” He smirked proudly, “I was drawin’ you.”

Siobhan’s puffy eyes shifted with languid blinks, blushing. She reached forward, “Lemme see—hey!”

Arthur had tugged the journal back, hiding it from her. But he only leaned forward, looking down at her lips as he grabbed her leg through the quilt, “Happy Birthday, Shiv.”

Siobhan’s eyes widened, glittering. “What?”

Arthur’s brow furrowed curiously. “It’s your birthday, ain’t it?”

She stared at Arthur, looking between his eyes in amazement as he waited, his face inches from hers. She knew it was early January, though not the exact day, but she figured he might as well be right… “Yes.”

But Arthur could sense a trace of confusion in her voice still. He frowned, “Is somethin’ wrong?”

“You said ‘Happy Birthday.’” Siobhan remarked, awestruck.

Arthur looked away for a second, his eye shifting to the corner of the room, second-guessing himself. He looked back at her, “Uhh… Isn’t that what you’re supposed to say?”

Siobhan swallowed, “I haven’t heard anyone say that to me in—since—” She threw her arms around his neck, “Oh, Arthurrrr!”

“Ideas?” Siobhan repeated.

Arthur laughed and smacked her thigh through the sheets, “Alright, get ready, then.”

“Yeah, I should bathe.” Siobhan looked around the room blankly, deep in thought, wiping the sleep from her eyes.

Arthur watched her with a light smile. “I could just tell you what I was plannin’, it don’t need to be a surprise.”

Siobhan’s nose scrunched up, “You should bathe too.”

Arthur nodded. Sardonic, “Right. Obviously, that’s what I meant.”

Siobhan giggled, looking at him from the corner of her eye. “You know, I know your birthday too.”

Arthur’s brow fuzzied, “No you don’t.”

“June twenty-second.” She said confidently and looked at Arthur, fluffing their pillow. His face betrayed his surprise, confirming what she already knew. She smiled, self-satisfied, “See?”

Arthur took a step towards her, putting his belt on the edge of the bed, “How you know that? Hosea?”

Siobhan nodded, “He told me about your birthday and—” she interrupted herself, “Specifically your nineteenth birthday when you—”

“Do not finish that sentence.” Arthur warned, “He told you about that?”

Siobhan looked at him narrowly. Caught red-handed, she froze. “I forgot he told me not to tell you…”

Arthur shook his head, huffing, “Embarrassing me to my wife like that… I should tell you about the time his pants got stuck to his saddle and tore ‘em straight down the center with no drawers on.”

Horrified, Siobhan covered her mouth, “No!”

“Yes.” He said matter-of-factly. “That old-salt flashed a whole crowd of folks in Washington, Utah.”

Siobhan grimaced, “I don’t know which is worse! You farting on that lady or Hosea’s uglies popping out. Geuhhhggh.”

“Shiiiv.” Arthur groaned, stepping past her and leading her out of the tent.

She chuckled, following him, “Sorry, sorry. But you shouldn’t be so embarrassed about it. You fart on me like every night.”

Arthur barked out a laugh, “That makes me feel much better about it, thank you.”

As they left the tent wagon, Siobhan hung behind with her clothes in her hands and ushered Arthur out before her in a motion of her arms that said, ‘Go! Go!’ and followed almost meekly behind him as he led her to the lake. The air around the water was cool still with the morning and mist clung to its surface. Neither of them were sure how tolerable a bath it was going to be.

Siobhan crouched at the edge of the lake in her shift as Arthur got out of his clothes, laying them against a rock flatly as if to sun-dry them. She tested the tepid waters with her toes and looked over her shoulder at Arthur who was looking over his shoulder at her. They both smiled as they turned away.

She started to wash off her most important bits first, avoiding her hair which was still fresh enough from her last bath and hair being too delicate a process to interfere with prematurely.

“I think it’s drizzling.” Arthur said behind her. She turned around to see him baring his curved throat to the sky, naked down to his cotton drawers which were baggy and airy.

Siobhan looked up at the sky too, and saw a gathering of dark clouds. “Oh, no, it’s gonna rain.”

“Do you not want it to rain?” Arthur narrowly stared at Siobhan, awaiting her preference as she looked down from the sky at him.

“Do I—” Siobhan shouted with laughter, her brow pinched, “What are you gonna do? Make it stop?”

Arthur threw his arms out, “What? I could try.”

They both looked back up at the sky. In the distance, some thunder was rolling around. But the rain was still gentle, and by the time it was filtered through the canopy of tree branches, it was almost nothing. Siobhan shook her head, smiling, “You’re ridiculous.”

“I can be ridiculous.” Arthur implied that he was not ridiculous at all before. Challenged, now, to be as ridiculous as possible. “Come here.”

He had a devious look in his eye. Siobhan backed up, “Uh-uh, I don’t like the sound of that.” And as he started to march towards her, she kicked up her feet from the cold lapping of ripples and ran, “Stop!”

Arthur laughed like a panting dog as he chased her down the lakeside, water splashing up loudly, white and cold from the charging of their feet. Splitting fountains ran all up their legs and soaked them head to toe,—and Arthur caught up with Siobhan in no time, tanking through the water like his legs were studded with steel. He grabbed her around the waist as she howled and yelped and kicked her feet, thinking he was gonna drag her to the depths of water she couldn’t swim through again, but he only squeezed her tightly. She shivered in his arms, “It’s so cold!”

And without a witty remark or a suggestive quip, he carried her back to their clothes and their towel and offered to help her dry off. Siobhan opened her mouth to answer him but before she could, he had grabbed a fistful of her shift and peeled it clean over her head. She had no choice but to raise her arms and let him strip her down. He got to one knee before her bare stomach and took her by the hips, kissing all around her belly button.

Siobhan couldn’t help but blush and shut her eyes as she felt her dry, warm towel run up the backs of her legs and slowly up to her torso as Arthur gently rubbed her down. “Let me warm you up.” He mumbled against her skin.

She beamed as she looked up at the sky again. Her heart was so full of love and excitement in a way she had never really expected. The day could have passed without her knowledge until one day within this week or the next, she would glance at a calendar and realize her birthday had passed and that she must now be eighteen. But to have made the day special, celebratory, all for her; just breathing the air of that day was exhilarating.

“Good?” He snapped her out of her thoughts. She took the towel from his hand, holding it to her stomach herself as she nodded. Arthur stood up and looked her over, approving. His finger curled around a little tendril of hair that hung over her cheekbone, “I got your hair a little wet. Sorry.”

Siobhan’s cheek touched his finger as she smiled, “It’s okay.”

“I gotta clean up real quick myself.” He spoke while looking her face over so absentmindedly and yet with so much love. It was as if she were drawn by him especially, and was his proudest achievement. A portrait untarnished, perfect in every capacity and entirely his.

Siobhan turned her head around to search for her dress, breaking Arthur out of his infatuation. And after he took a step back from her toward the lake, she spotted the dress where he had placed it carefully on the rock beside his clothes.

She tossed her wet shift on the rock which landed with a slap that made her giggle. Her bra went on without too much trouble despite her tacky-wet skin, which she was grateful for. And her bloomers slid on as easy as always for these were made of silk and allowed the lavender dress to slide on over her head easily. She pulled her hair over her shoulder and angled her arms back to button herself up, hearing Arthur splashing water on himself behind her. Making weird noises as he did it, grunting and clearing his throat like he’d gotten water up his nose.

She leveled herself against the rock to put on her socks and her shoes and by the time she was all done dressing herself up in her hooks and buttons and reams of layered fabrics, Arthur was done washing.

“You ready to go?” Arthur asked, shaking his head dry. Siobhan was pleased he took the time to properly clean himself.

“I think so.” She closed the last of her buttons. She turned around, flaring her skirt a little and fluffing the wet ends of her hair in dissatisfaction. Her voice betrayed her undermined perfectionism, “How do I look?”

Arthur’s hand fell from his head as he looked her over with her crooked pout, looking down at herself as if there were something askew. But she looked perfect. She had grown into the dress a little, if he wasn’t mistaken, and it fit her like a glove. He could see her every breath against the neckline that framed her sternum and the mole above her breast that drew his eye. Her hair was fluffy and wilder than she normally liked it, but he found it beautiful either way. And though Siobhan was a girl to rarely wear makeup, her beauty was so specific it seemed almost fabricated or put-on. And he could almost not believe she had just gotten out of the water this way if not for the fact that he woke up to that exact beauty every morning.

He stepped towards her, lowering his voice, “You look gorgeous, Shiv.”

Siobhan’s eyes were wide and she flushed but stepped back regardless. “You’re all wet.” She pointed out to his dismay. Entertained by the way he sighed and sought after the towel again. She added, all shy, “But thank youu.”

Arthur was pleased just that she sounded so happy.

ACT II.

Siobhan kept her face buried against Arthur’s back as they rode into town. He had begun to ramble as they made it off the farm’s trail that winded down the mountainside of Cape Horn Pass and dipped to meet the road into town. Siobhan was hardly listening to him, could not make out a word in the muddy blur of her sick excitement. A few minutes after they hit cobblestone, they came to a stop. “Anyway, that’s why we took in Mac and Davey.”

“Are we there?” Siobhan asked, still squeezing her eyes shut in an attempt to retain her surprise.

“Yup, here we are.” He dismounted first and as he reached up to grab Siobhan by the hips and take her down, he asked, “Did I bore you?”

Siobhan covered her eyes but still aimed her face upward at him, “No!” She swore, trying not to admit that she heard nothing that could’ve bored her. “Should I look?”

“I told you the surprise will stay a surprise until it ain’t. Just look.” Arthur chuckled and removed her hands from her eyes. She opened her eyes to Serena’s dress shop, and looked immediately back up at Arthur, saying nothing.

She bit her lip and, with nipping little pinches, dived straight for his pockets, “Give me your money! Gimme, gimme, gimme!”

Arthur laughed, trying to back up from her and not let go of Bess’s reins. He swatted her hands away and explained, as he hitched Bess up, “It’s already paid for! Get your hands off me.”

Siobhan tugged on his sleeve all excited while he hitched Bess up, staring at him with hearts in her eyes, unable to say anything to express her excitement beyond the tugging of his sleeve. “It’s paid for?”

“I got you somethin’. I think you’ll like it, but if you don’t, I’ll get you somethin’ else.” He had finished tying up Bess’s reins, patted her lovingly on her muzzle, and looked at Siobhan out of the corner of his eye. He brushed a piece of hay off of Siobhan’s hairline that must have come from the back of his coat.

Serena’s door swung open and she appeared in the doorway with her hand on her hip, scratching her head, “Goddamn it, it’s you two.”

Siobhan backed away from Arthur and set her greedy sights on Serena, running up to her for a hug. “Hello again!” She cheered. It had been a few weeks since Siobhan had last seen Serena.

“Hello, Siobhan.” She hugged her back, swelled up with pride. “You’re gonna love it.”

Arthur came in behind them and shut the door.

Serena explained, “He asked for a dress with the least amount of fabric, I said, ‘Sir, I make dresses not lingerie.’”

Siobhan gasped at Arthur, turning around, “You did not!”

“I was joking!” He defended himself half-assedly.

Serena hummed, her laughter was always quiet. She leaned over her countertop and snatched the keys to the apartments upstairs and clicked her tongue at Siobhan like she were a horse. And Siobhan certainly was one in the way that her attention and curiosity could so easily be snatched away. She looked at every dress in the room like it could potentially be standing up there secretly just for her. But Serena said, “It’s upstairs.”

Siobhan stopped immediately in her tracks and turned around. Arthur was concerning himself with some of the little trinkets Serena kept on her fireplace. He still walked around the place with cautious feet like he believed the story Serena had told him about the mineshaft under the floorboards. Siobhan caught his attention, “Come with us.”

“Siobhan!” Serena stared, tugging her wrist. “No!”

Siobhan looked between the two of them, her hair swinging back and forth past her hips, “What? He’s seen me naked loads of times.”

“‘Loads of times.’” Arthur repeated in a high hum of a voice, half-laughing as he turned around. He already knew he was not going to go in that dressing room with them and chuckled as he walked away. He spoke clearly, picking up one of Serena’s little carousel figurines. “I’ll see it when you’re done.”

Siobhan huffed in light disappointment but she could admit—as Serena took her up the stairs shaking her head in vehement disapproval—that it would probably have been inappropriate for a man to watch his wife undress like that in front of another woman. And Siobhan was sure she’d hate to make it sexual in front of someone else.

The dress was in Serena’s sewing room in the smack-center on a big round table. In a big gray box with a silvery blue ribbon. She said, “I wasn’t sure if you were gonna make it today. He asked me to bring it by your house if you two weren’t here by three o’clock.”

Siobhan raised her eyebrows, coming around the edge of the table and ogling the box with wonder. She ran her fingers along the box’s slightly textured surface. It felt like a very fine and microscopic version of corduroy. “That seems like a lot of work.”

“Well,” Serena laughed, “He paid me a lot, so I’m not complaining.”

Siobhan unraveled the ribbon delicately, with as much ceremony as she believed necessary. And the lid of the box came away just as romantically slowly. It was unveiled to her surprisingly understated, a style keenly picked for Siobhan, and not overly flashy or fancy in a way that a man who hardly understood women’s fashion might gravitate towards. And still completely unique. For a second, she gawked, looking up at Serena and thinking, surely she picked this? But Serena looked at it, nodding, “He knew exactly what he wanted.”

Siobhan looked at it again, amazed. It was a red dress with a wide neckline like a ‘U’ that was not too deep to be as immodest as her Wasp dress, but not so short as to be like a schoolgirl’s uniform. It had slightly puffy sleeves, but nothing like a normal Victorian sleeve. And all around the neckline, it was trimmed with thick, rope-like thread of white that made it look a little twee. But it was all so simple, there was not a thing about it Siobhan disliked. Which surprised her, as picky as she was about clothing.

She wanted to scream at him!

She tore off all of her clothes and put the dress on without any of Serena’s assistance. Who rather stood there with her hands fumbling up and down in the air as she attempted to help Siobhan button it or tie it, and just gave up as she moved around more erratically than Serena could get her hands on.

And as soon as she was dressed she looked at herself in the mirror and her heart swelled for how much she loved it. She hardly looked at herself for longer than two seconds before she ran out of the room and tore down the stairs, leaving Serena to pick up all of her clothes and bring them down. While she barreled straight into Arthur’s arms before he could even realize she was all dressed in it and praised him and thanked him and professed her love altogether.

He laughed, patting her back, looking down at the top of her head, “Well, let me see it. Is it comfortable?”

She backed away about four paces and held the skirt out for him, totally proud of it. She looked very comfortable in it, moving around like it was a second skin. She twirled around to show him the skirt. It went down just past her knees and though it didn’t flare out around her hips the way some of her others did, a modern dress always suited her and he knew she’d prefer it that way. The red was not too vibrant, a muted carmine shade that brought out the green of her eyes and complimented the gold of her hair.

Arthur’s smile was bright, “It looks even better than I thought it would.”

Siobhan stopped twirling and planted her feet, looking at him, “How did you—? It’s so perfect! How’d you knoww? I don’t even think I’ve worn anything like this before!”

Arthur shook his head, taking a deep breath. “I always thought you’d look real pretty in red.”

Siobhan was totally taken with him. Couldn’t even see the room around her where it wasn’t just a little blue glow behind him. She looked all cow-eyed at his face with the biggest smile, her eyebrows somewhere up in Heaven, forgetting all about the other person in the room.

“Are you wearing it out?” Serena asked, folding up Siobhan’s lavender dress delicately.

She suddenly turned around. “Oh.” And looked at the lavender dress sadly. It was a very pretty thing, but there was nothing she’d love more than to wear Arthur’s gift. And it showed her little jade necklace—another gift from him—where the other covered it up.

“Yes.” Siobhan answered.

Arthur’s pleasure was immeasurable.

ACT III.

Siobhan borrowed a rain parasol from Serena and changed her shoes just so she could march around with Arthur even in the rain, proud just to wear the dress that few people even took the time to look at, shouldering themselves from the rain and tucking their heads behind their raised lapels. Arthur took her a street or two down to the pawn shop next, telling her it was from a pawn shop he had gotten her little jade necklace. And Siobhan told him as they walked, “I read that in Japan, people believe the color green brings fertility to women and they’re certain to get pregnant if they’re surrounded by jade during sex.”

“Shiv.” Arthur turned red in the face, looking down at Siobhan who was holding the stone lovingly in her hands and speaking as if people were not crossing them on the street.

Siobhan looked up at him, smirking. She said nothing more and felt, if Arthur’s fluster was anything to go by, that she had gotten her point across sufficiently enough. She let go of the stone as Arthur put his hand on her back and led her into the pawn shop. It smelled instantly like rust when they walked in and the smell made her feel like she needed to clear her throat, but Arthur was rather used to that smell.

The shop was fairly small but filled with lots of stuff. They came directly to the counter at the front of the store where a jewel case of glass was. But Siobhan was not particularly interested in getting jewelry that day unless she were to find more jade. And she saw one little jade ring which was unfortunately quite ugly, but when she pointed it out to Arthur she smiled, “Perfect, I want that!”

Arthur scoffed. “Do you really?”

She raised a brow. He knew her too well. “Not really.” She looked up at Arthur, “Do you think they’re right about green?”

Whoever owned the little pawnshop was not in and both of them were keenly aware of the fact that they were alone.

Arthur tutted, putting his hand on Siobhan’s hip. “I think red is more like the color of fertility.” And leaned in to kiss her temple, he whispered, “Like this pretty little dress.”

Siobhan swallowed, her eyes sinking down to his feet as he stepped closer to her and she felt his hand slide lower and lower toward her ass, taking her completely in his palm. She heard a sound in the other room behind the counter and pushed Arthur back, staring up at him red in the face, “Now I see why you chose it.”

Arthur smiled proudly as she turned away and shortly after the pawnbroker came out from the room behind the counter and let out a huge lungful of air somewhere between relief and disparagement that people had shown up. He wiped his hair back and got out his pen and paper, “Hello, hello.”

“Hi.” Siobhan said politely, “I’m Siobhan.”

Arthur was amused by the way she introduced herself to shopkeepers as if she’d ever see them again.

Even the pawnbroker seemed surprised. “Well, it’s good to meet you, Siobhan.” He shook her hand, “I’m Maurice.”

And even though Arthur had already been here before and this was the exact man he’d purchased their wedding rings from, they did not know each other’s names. Maurice turned his hand to Arthur, he reluctantly introduced himself too. All gruff and displeased, “Arthur.”

“So what are you folks looking for?” Maurice asked, looking over his wares as if he wanted to get rid of it all. Not an ounce of pride in his face.

“We ain’t sure yet. It’s her birthday.” Arthur explained, putting his hand on her lower back and gently stroking, indicating to the man that they were very much married and not related before he had the chance to make that mistake.

But Maurice had already gathered that from the wedding band on Arthur’s finger and the beautiful little diamond on hers which, as he looked at it, he could remember selling to Arthur. He pointed between them, “This is the girl you said you wanted to marry.”

Siobhan’s breath went clean from her chest and she looked up at Maurice and back at Arthur who was slowly nodding. “She ended up saying yes after all.”

Siobhan looked back at Maurice and realized that they had talked about her and she had no idea what they meant but she was completely ruined with love and flattery. Arthur’s hand tightened over her hip where he gently squeezed her in his hand.

“Well, congratulations to you both.” Maurice smiled.

“Thank you!” Siobhan said sweetly and looked back up at Arthur but he was clearly not willing to dwell on anything sentimental in front of this stranger. He nudged at her, shaking his head, to look for what she wanted so they could go. She found it endearing the way he wished to leave so quickly after that.

So Siobhan looked over the man’s wares as she was supposed to and—instantly!—she yipped, pointing, “Oh my God, that has your name on it!”

“What?” Arthur’s brow pinched at the suddenness of her excitement.

“That belt buckle!” She was bouncing on her toes.

Arthur spotted a belt buckle with a big old stallion rearing his hooves up in the air with a rider swinging his lasso in the air. Arthur figured she must have meant that, but he didn’t particularly agree that it was his style. “That thing? I don’t know, Shiv, it’s a little gaudy.”

Siobhan gave him a stupid look, “Not the horse! The belt buckle that says ‘Arthur!’ Oh, we have to get it!”

“The what?” Arthur’s eyes scanned all the identical-looking brass under the display until he finally saw what had enraptured Siobhan so. And, sure enough, it was a big golden belt buckle that literally spelled his name. He scoffed, “I don’t want that thing. What kind of grown man wears a belt with his name on it?”

Siobhan looked at him again, could not believe that he didn’t understand what she meant. “Not for you, for me.”

And Arthur, equally unimpressed, looked down at her seriously, “You want a belt with my name on it?”

“Yes.” She grabbed his hand, smiling so widely he could see all of her teeth, “‘Cause I’m yours.”

“Shiv…” Arthur grimaced, “That’s flattering but… Ain’t it a little odd to wear somethin’ like that in public?”

Siobhan kept looking at it. She didn’t even care if it was odd, she was totally in love with the little thing. It drew her in like it had a rope around her heart. “Arthurrrrr, please? Please, please, please!”

“Well…” Arthur looked at the pawnbroker, “It is her birthday.”

The pawnbroker shrugged and went after his keys to unlock the case and get it out for them. Arthur knew he probably thought it was strange as hell, as any sensible man would, but he could never say no to Siobhan, certainly not on her birthday.

Siobhan looked so completely pleased she might melt. Arthur sighed as she wrapped her arms around his waist, “Just don’t tell folks I got it for you. They’ll think I’m—I don’t even know what, but it ain’t good.”

Siobhan let go of him, saying, “Thank you, thank you, thank you.” And watched most eagerly as the pawnbroker took out the belt and folded it up in tissue paper, closing it with a lovely wax stamp before he marked down the price on his little piece of paper.

Arthur paid for it as Siobhan took it into her hands, surprised by the weight of it, and was already imagining a number of outfits she could wear with it.— Almost all of them were imaginary, though. She only had one pair of poorly-fitting jeans all the way from Horseshoe Overlook which certainly kept the stains of all that time and few dress shirts that would not look odd with a pair of jeans. But she didn’t care, she’d wear it with anything and be pleased.

Arthur had never looked so relieved to leave a place as he did walking Siobhan out of that pawnshop. He may have been a little uncomfortable but he was not irritated or embarrassed. He was foremost just happy to have pleased his wife so much with something so cheap and, in his mind, silly. He led her to Bess, “Now… one last thing. Go ahead and put that in my saddlebag.”

“More stuff?!” Siobhan pulled at the strap from his saddlebag. “Arthur, I don’t know if I can handle any more.”

“This one’s for both of us.” Arthur watched her lovingly, shaking off their rain parasol and lifting it over her head. “I wanna get our photograph taken. John and Abigail just got some and I figured you and I don’t have nothin’ like that so—”

Siobhan turned around. “Oh my God! Our picture?!”

Arthur chuckled, nodding, “Our picture.” He repeated most seriously. He looked her up and down, licking his lips. “If you’re just humoring me with that dress, now’s your chance to go ahead and change.”

Her face contracted in offense, “Humoring you?!” She guarded herself, “I love this dress! Don’t be silly.”

Arthur smiled. He knew it was not much like anything high-fashioned women of Siobhan's age wore and it was not too ornamental, only expensive due to the fact that it was completely custom-made, and he had long-prepared himself for the possibility that she wouldn't care a fig for it. But he believed her the way that she kept looking down at it, tugging at the skirt to feel the fabric in her palms with a big smile. “Good.” He took her hand. “Get Bess.”

Siobhan looked across the street where the main street doglegged off into two different directions, pitted down the center with the post office kiosk. She yanked his hand, “Wait! I need to check the mail.”

Arthur stopped, looking at it curiously, “What you got coming?”

She grinned, “Just wait here a second.” And before he could protest, Siobhan went running out into the rain and across the street to the kiosk, hauling ass with her hand over her head to make it underneath the overhang before she got soaked.

Arthur could remember the last time—which was, incidentally, the first time—she had left him hanging outside of a post office waiting while she went in for something and had come out with his bounty all paid off. And he still to this day could remember how surprised he was that she cared so little for his criminality to offer him that, and that she had done such a sweet thing in the first place. His first indication that such a sweethearted angel of a girl could overlook the fact that he was a no-good criminal and meet him halfway to it with her forgiveness.

He loved watching her come out of that post office a second time with a little box tucked under her arm, checking the road for carriages before she ran back to him. And nearly barreled straight into him as she howled with laughter to escape the rain and promptly shoved the little box against his chest, “Ees for you!”

Arthur backed up and took the little box into his hand. It was about four inches long x two inches wide. He frowned at it, “It ain’t my birthday, Shiv.”

She scratched her nose, “I bought it for you a few weeks ago but the mailman said it just got here last Sunday.” She smiled up at him, picking a piece of hair out of her mouth, “Open it, you’ll see why it took so long.”

She took the parasol from his hand and held it up much higher than he had to in order to cover the both of them with their height difference. And he opened it with a big kink in his face like he was displeased. But Siobhan knew he just didn’t expect it and perhaps his heart objected to receiving a gift himself on her birthday. He pulled out from the box a little gold pocketwatch, heavy and expensive. It made satisfying little clicks as he moved it, the way a gun does when it’s loaded. Siobhan watched him smile with concentration as he flipped it open and, sure enough, he realized why it took so long to get back.

Inside of it, etched in delicate silver, the gold was lined with the words; 'Yours through the rest of my life—Siobhan’

Arthur met her eye to see her watching him most eagerly, waiting to see any sign of a reaction. She could never have imagined how his heart skipped a beat like a schoolboy's heart does when a girl brushes his knuckles as she passes. “Shiv…” He shuffled the pocketwatch back into the box and put his hand on her cheek.

Her lips parted, eyes wide. Her geeky smile all wiped by the intimacy of that touch, “Do you like it?”

He nodded, “I like it.” His lips twitched with a smile, “I love it. Thank you, Siobhan.”

She bit her bottom lip and looked back in the box, “Can I see it? I wanna make sure that bastard spelled my name right.”

Arthur let her pluck it back out and while she read it, satisfied that it was spelled correctly, he found underneath it a little golden chain he could use were he compelled to have it linked to his lapel the way that Dutch wore it.

Siobhan handed it back to him, “It was supposed to be in return for the necklace. So now I have to get you something to make up for today.”

“Now, Shiv, don’t you start with all that.” He put the timepiece in his pocket and grazed her chin with his thumb. “I told you those were gifts, and gifts ain’t meant to be repaid.”

Siobhan shook her head, “I don’t agree with that philosophy.”

Arthur was surprised by her use of the word ‘philosophy’ which made him laugh. And he slid his hand around the back of her neck and took a step closer to her, “Thank you, Shiv.”

She lifted herself onto her toes and tilted her head back for a kiss, “No. Thank you.”

They kissed deeply and with love, but it was clear Siobhan was impatient. She had gotten all excited by the prospect of getting their photograph taken, and therefore didn't let Arthur kiss her for as long as he liked to and was quickly nudging him back, bouncing on her heels. "Let's get those pictures, please!"

Arthur scoffed. He should have kept it a surprise like everything else. But he let her take his hand and drag him down the street regardless. He didn't mind her being in a rush, it had been such a perfect day—such that he didn't fully expect or anticipate her appreciation of—that he knew exactly how the day was going to end for them.

He'd be lying if he said he didn't look forward to it.

END SCENE.

The next day, in Arthur’s journal:

Yesterday was Siobhan's birthday. Eighteen years old. Still, my mind reels to think of our difference in age. She's certainly more accomplished than I was at that age. I bought her a gift at her insistence. A little brass belt buckle with my name on it. Today she is wearing pants just to show it off. I find it odd + a little bit embarrassing but she just loves the ugly thing. The house is still coming along at a snail's pace but I do not seem to mind it as much as I did the first week. The work is certainly more peaceful than gunslinging was.

Chapter 4: — TRAMP

Chapter Text

FEBRUARY 1, 1900
New Almaden, CA

The New Almaden Bed & Breakfast worked like a brigade as it was run by its very own loving brigadier. The owner of the place Mrs. Poorwill were a strict woman who tended to and oversaw every mechanic of the business and its operations with meticulous attention and care it was all very much like clockwork. And all of it done around the church hours by which she attended most piously. Mrs. Poorwill had not anticipated to find a loose screw in the mind of the tenant who occupied room four currently in her Bed & Breakfast—but there she did and he could of assured her she did.

Travis Hay was making use of his time alone and privacy with little care. He paid fifty cents a night to stay there and was offered little other accommodations apart from a bed and four walls. But that was enough—with a lock and a curtain—to make good use of his time alone. He had stripped down to nothing and gotten on the bed and on top of all of the sheets to take himself in his oil-slick hand and enjoy himself how he saw fit which was louder and more vicious than the other tenets was apparently pleased with.

And it was so violent and so loud that the neighbors on the other side of the wall—who were currently being brought their bill by Mrs. Poorwill—all turned pale at the sound of his braying and looked at the brigadier like someone had squat in their stew. So Mrs. Poorwill charged out of the room and across the hall like an infantryman and beat down Travis Hay’s door and startled him blue in places he was shamed to admit so he tried hastily to cover his dignity “Mother of God!?” said he.

It was an exclamation of true surprise that came out more like a question than he had intended which was further embarrassing though he did not like to admit embarrassment as an attribute he could be taken with. “What God?!” Mrs. Poorwill shouted “You’re inviting only demons!”

Travis Hay balked at her he was confused as to the nature of Mrs. Poorwill’s authority over the usage of her rooms and her mentioning of such things as demons as though he liked to imagine himself well endowed he figgered that was more a blessing of God’s than the Devil’s “Did I not pay for a room with a lock?!”

She wagged her finger “Not a place to stroke your co*ck!”

“Are we singing a song now?!” The both of them were still shouting at a half-shrieking panicking volume. Travis Hay would of liked a fella to have written all of this down thinking it would make a mighty fine comedy though it disgusted him so that he were living it.

Mrs. Poorwill hadn’t blushed ever in her life. She tore Travis Hay’s sheet away simply to humiliate him which would of been a thing that excited him as it was only a thing women did to him when they intended to romp with him in bed but Mrs. Poorwill did not look ready to hop on his lap “Do it again and you’re out!”

Like the passing of a cloud she were out again and Travis quickly put his clothes on. He had only just woken up and hadn’t expected his morning to go such a way but then again these sorts of situations seemed to follow him in all of his absurd notions of life.

He went down into the breakfast part of the Bed & Breakfast still blushing and ordered himself eight flapjacks and a bowl of strawberries; two pieces of sausage drowning in a pile of grits; a cup of coffee with three sugars and a splash of milk; an entire stick of butter (for the pancakes the grits and the coffee) and some peach marmalade just in case he decided to have toast with it. He was a pleasure-seeking man and rarely felt guilt in that. If he decided to round this breakfast off with a beer and a bowl of ice cream it would not have been his first time.

Were it a mighty fine breakfast all on its own Travis Hay would of been more than obliged to carry himself out of that fine establishment by which he had destroyed the sanctity of and taken himself for a stroll through the town’s other polite societies. But he had come to New Almaden for a reason most pertinent to his occupation and felt he had already lagged behind enough for one day so to gain it he wiped his mouth clean pushed in his chair and went to the bar to pay for his meal. There at the bar as he slid his silver coins across it were a very nice-looking young couple who shared a plate of grits and smiled at Travis surely having no notion of his misdeeds there that morning and when he looked away they was talking of things most interesting to him.

He had strolled over to the window of the little parlor and squinted across the sun-drenched and humble dirt road that crossed into cobblestones where at the corner was a schoolhouse and children all filing in in a hurry. The young woman behind him was hissing as she had nicked her fingertip on a card of paper which was the menu Travis had become well accustomed to. And he let out his belt a little with the creaking of his stomach expanding with all that heavy food. “Oh I’m fine.” said she “And I wonder whether that house won’t cave in on them. I have never heard of outlaws building a house. They normally like to burn them down.”

There were at the very same time a very pretty girl who crossed over to the schoolhouse looking older than the rest of them and had a full head of shiny golden hair which was a thing Travis hadn’t quite seen the likes of before for its length were very long and almost half the length of the girl herself. And on her arm she walked with a girl a little older she were dark-skinned and equally as beautiful with a crown of black braids framing her smiling face. And they was mighty pretty though perhaps a bit young as Travis Hay loved women but did not love girls as they was often stupid or shy or afraid.

He hocked a loogie into the bar spittoon which was a habit of his when he was busy thinking or figgering. “Thanks Missus.” And took himself out onto that humble little dirt road ready to get on with the whole ordeal.

Though the white girl’s mouth was pretty it was as foul as ever he had heard from a lady and she looked at him in distaste “How is that any of your Goddamn business?”

And she covered her mouth looking around like she wished the little children had not heard her cussing but Travis was sure they had not because they had already gone inside and it were only the three of them on that side of the street. And Travis smiled for she was charming and not stupid shy or afraid as he loathed in girls. But she was already grabbing the black girl’s arm and walking her down the street though his heart leapt for wanting to go after her so he went on about his day truly ready now to get on with it all as he should of. But those girls were lovely little things and he were glad he chose to stay in the Bed & Breakfast rather than the tent community behind the Hacienda as was his first idea now that he could see them every morning were he to get lucky.

ARTHUR

Arthur was trying to repair the handle of his adze beside the lumberstack. He’d been working from sunup to sundown every day and today was no different, besides the fact that it was the day after Siobhan’s birthday, and the sweetness of that day was still burning off of his starving heart. For a few months now, Arthur’d been getting little bouts of uncharacteristic anxiety whenever he and Siobhan were apart. And since she’d started working at the schoolhouse, they hadn’t spent so much time apart since before they’d gotten sick.

It was foolish, and Arthur knew it, but he imagined any number of ways Siobhan could get hurt or in trouble while she was away and out of reach of his protection. Outlandish things like what had happened in Rhodes or how she’d been kidnapped by Micah in New Mexico. He thought of it so much, some days he had to sit down and take his mind off of it with something else, or go into town for an ‘errand’ and check on her from afar. Regardless, he knew it was no way to be spending his time and it embarrassed him that he couldn't seem to help it.

A sudden unfamiliar voice broke him out of those thoughts just then and there.

Arthur raised a brow, running his gritless sandpaper over the handle of the adze absentmindedly. Though the small motion drew the stranger’s eye and served as a kind of scooped metal warning to him, held in those overlarge, over-muscular hands of his which were more distracting and more fascinating to him than the weapon within them. “Yeah.” Arthur said, “And who are you?”

He held out his hand trying not to appear too eager, “Travis Hay.”

Arthur considered it, looking out at their yard. It was a bit ironic, he thought, that the town was indeed on its way to becoming a ghost town, and yet this was the most lively he’d seen the gang in a long time. Like they thrived on being ghosts. “Actually, they’re still running that mine. For now, anyway. If you got a family or something, feller, I’d go to the foreman for a job.”

Arthur’s brow deepened, steep and hard. “New Verhalen?” He asked, though it was only a passing question to cover the sound of his heavy thought. A sudden cloud of dark suspicion covered him at the mere thought that a bunch of strange men would come around where he had his wife sleeping beside him at night.

“A few days ride from here. Down by Santa Cruz it is.” Travis said happily.

Arthur circled his jaw and his tone suddenly darkened as he put his hand on his belt, looking Travis in the eye. “I ain’t about to hire a bunch of men.” He said, “I see you come up here with any other fellers and you’re liable to get shot. All of you.”

Travis’s face was blank. He met Arthur’s eye without a twitch or tremble. “They’re only tilers Mr. Morgan”

Arthur’s thoughts had darkened a measure and he took a deep breath in an attempt to quell them, assuring himself Siobhan would be home soon.

“Let me show you what we’re workin’ on, then.” Arthur said, setting the adze down and cutting across the lot. “That’s Sean, Lenny, John. They help us build most days.” He pointed them out to Travis, “That’s Dutch, he kind of runs the rest of the gang.”

“Is it?” Charles said gruffly, turning away with disinterest.

Travis followed after Charles and strolled with his full swagger. “Well you don’t name a stallion ‘Charles’ do you reckon?” He watched those broad shoulders turn strong as they were a bullocky fresian and Travis felt were Charles really a stallion then he'd like nothing more than to bust his bronco.

Charles chuckled lightly, he couldn’t stop from it. He hadn’t expected the man to say that. And maybe he was slightly uncomfortable at the connotations of such a comment, but it was amusing after all. Travis on the other hand found it much less amusing. He was serious as death about what he had said. Charles was a whole lot of man. Every glance at him was an eyeful.

SIOBHAN

Arthur smiled, warmed in satisfaction and opened his mouth to hers, sinking his breath into her mouth the way a husband does a wife. And she leaned her head totally back in acceptance of all of it.

But too soon their kiss was broken by a loud voice in the yard. Paul Hallock announced himself loudly, “Hellooo troglodytes.”

Siobhan turned to find the source of the voice but Arthur tugged on her hip, “You just got back, Shiv.”

Siobhan looked up at him, slightly surprised. “Well, yeah, but…” As she stopped, not really sure what to say, she could hear Paul say her name. She co*cked her head to the side at Arthur, “Is something wrong?”

Arthur’s brow furrowed. “‘Course not.” He was too quick to answer.

Siobhan worried but she could hear Paul’s voice getting closer as he came around to the back of the house. She removed Arthur’s hand from her hip though she felt slightly bad to do so. She wanted to reassure him as his mood seemed to darken with disappointment that she didn’t understand the source of, but she also didn’t want to patronize him. “I’ll be just a second.” She opened the curtain and walked out of the tent.

Paul spotted him then, and shouted, “Ah, Siobhan!”

Siobhan dropped her hands too and her mood soured slightly to see Paul Hallock in the flesh again. She still found herself slightly irritated from the conversation they had last time they met. Siobhan could see he was holding her coat, though, and she figured he was only bringing it back to her.

Paul sighed at the mention of it, putting his hands on his hips. The thought of that whole ordeal still made his stomach turn. “That was dirty business. I did what I could. They’re ruthless over there. Some big aviary overlord with deep pockets has the favor of the law. Same as everywhere else. Tried to threaten my badge for asking questions about lynchings.” He sighed, “Anyway, Betty’s half-crazy these days. I know she’s gonna be real upset for a while but don’t bother yourself with it.”

Siobhan disliked how coldly Paul seemed to treat the whole ordeal. And calling a woman grieving ‘half-crazy’ seemed a little over-callous. She folded her jacket under her arm and swallowed. “Well.” By the stiffness in her jaw, it was clear she had been turned off to him. “Thanks for my coat.”

Paul was surprised by how she soured. He wasn’t entirely sure what he said that had offended her so and realized this was not the first time he did it. His shoulders fell slightly. “Of course.” He said awkwardly, avoiding eye contact as she was. “I’ll be… I’ll go back now. Got… Business.”

Siobhan nodded at him firmly, giving him no warm farewell, and her heart fell sadly for the grief that seemed to befall New Almaden in her absence. Particularly towards her beloved school teacher and childhood best friend. And how isolated and cold everyone seemed to grow. It was all so very different from how she remembered it.

Siobhan turned back to Arthur who tried to stand there looking at her journal as if he wasn’t listening to their conversation at all. She wondered if he’d ask her about what she had written. But even if he didn’t, she was ready to pounce on his bruises with her love.

Chapter 5: — LITTLE WING [NSFW]

Chapter Text

FEBRUARY 4, 1900

New Almaden, CA

Arthur put his hand on her jaw, “What you think?”

“What’re you doin’?” He asked, an amused lilt in his voice.

“Shhh, honey. Just relax.” She caught his eye, “I wanna lick your co*ck.”

Instantly, he tensed and sat up against his elbow. That changed everything. “Whoa, Shiv…”

She saw his co*ck twitch as she freed it from his drawers.

Siobhan smirked, pulling his drawers down his thigh. Her face was covered here or there by his co*ck as she moved beneath, smirking, “What, you don’t want it?”

“It ain’t…” Arthur’s brow furrowed and he suddenly laughed, “You’re just normally more… prissy about that sort of stuff.”

Siobhan lifted herself up on her hands and feigned offense, half-gasping, “Prissy?!”

He put his hand on her face, “Pretty, prissy, prudish sometimes. You’re a—well…”

Siobhan narrowed her eyes as Arthur held her chin, “Princess?”

“I was lookin’ for a word with less history between us.” He remarked, trying to mask his amusem*nt.

“Princesses get everything they want, though, don’t they?” Siobhan opened her mouth and lightly bit his thumb, crawling over him with it in her mouth. His eyes widened, fully surprised by her acceptance of the word; Siobhan who never let anyone call her a name she didn’t like… “I reallyyy wanna suck your co*ck.”

Arthur held his hand to her face, his erection straining just imagining it. “f*ck, Shiv. You sure?”

With his thumb against her lips she moaned, nodding, “Mmhhhmmm.”

Arthur watched, awestruck as she licked his thumb and held it well between her teeth, her hands running up and down his arm. Little seductive teases evocative of what she intended to do to him exactly where he needed attention so badly. She kissed the pad of his thumb, “Should I take my ring off?”

Arthur chuckled, “No, angel. It won’t hurt nothin’.”

She smiled with an innocence that made him see double, “Okay.”

His brow twitched as she let go of his hand and slowly slid back down his body, keeping her low eye contact while she settled between his legs. On her stomach, she glided her hands up and down the thick expanse of his thighs, bracketing her head like two lumbering bridges. As her hands slowly advanced towards his erection, she lifted her feet into the air playfully. Arthur could’ve laughed for how cute she looked like that, if not for how utterly perverted it all was.

If Arthur had ever imagined receiving fellati* from a woman, he imagined it would be dark and secretive, slightly shameful, and in a whor*house where other taboo things were generally explored. A far-flung little box of Pandora’s, shunned and unacceptable.— He had such queer ideas about certain sexual acts dubbed as overly French.— He did not imagine he’d receive it from a girl he’d married and only known a year. In the most superficial sense, she was a sweet girl, who was young and relatively pure, and who was not more educated than him on the matter of sex. He could only be led to believe, then, that she didn’t desire this out of a selection from her arsenal of sexual exploitations, but simply a passion and love for Arthur and a desire to please him.

But it was still hard to believe.

Gently palming his balls, she looked up at him as if she could read his thoughts, “I’ve been imagining it.” She looked back at his upright co*ck and licked her lips. “It sounds so sexy.”

Arthur’s brow cinched, feeling her soft little hands grope his ballsack, “Oh goddamn…”

She giggled and, grabbing his co*ck at the base, gently placed her plump-wet lips on the tip of his co*ckhead and prodded her tongue gently against the little hole. She looked up at him as she tightened her soft hand against his shaft, about five inches below her mouth. “It’s so big.” She appropriately mumbled.

“Ohhh ffff—” He reached for her head, gently stroking her hair as his eyes cinched closed.

Then she opened her mouth wider and took the head of his co*ck between her lips, swirling her tongue in a delicate circle. She moaned with him and watched his abdomen desperately flex. Wetting the palm of her hand with spit, she stroked his shaft while lowering her head down to lick his balls. She spoke then, over his panting and moaning, “Tell me what you want and it’s yours.”

Arthur started to chuckle lightly, underneath his pleasure. “Ah, sh*t, Shiv—mm, keep suckin’ it.”

Siobhan did as he asked, sinking her hot, wet mouth over his first inch, gently bobbing her head as she licked and stroked. Her tongue constantly guarding his shaft from her teeth. Once her spit had coated him, she ran her lips, puckered, across the head of his co*ck as she stroked him with her palm. She enclosed her palm over his co*ckhead in twisting upward strokes until he was spreading his legs further.

She looked up at him, her brows cinched, eyes wet, cheeks hollow. He was red-faced, breathless and bucking. He put his hand in her hair, just rubbing her scalp mindlessly while his head rocked back and forth. “f*ck, I can’t believe you’re doin’ this.”

With both of her hands working his length in opposing circles, she sucked on the first inch or two of his co*ckhead; spitting, sucking, spitting, sucking, until he was writhing. She looked up at him, proud as he rubbed his ankle against her thigh. “Goddaaaamn, Shiv. How’re you doin’ it so well?”

In between licking and stroking, she cupped his balls, lifting her head slightly to keep eye contact as he let his head fall back again. She came off slightly more shy than she meant to when she said, “It feels good?”

He spread his legs a little wider, clearly approving of the attention she gave his balls. And seeing that, she ducked down to lick them and take one into her mouth as she kept stroking his co*ck. Arthur looked down at her cum-glazed little hand running up and down his upright erection, more red and stiff than he’d ever seen it. Teased and oversensitive, scorching with a breaching desire. He stuttered, “Y-Yes, Shiv. It feels so goddamn good.”

“f*ck, Siobhan. You really askin’ me if I like stuffin’ my co*ck in your throat?” Arthur’s face was tightly knitted with a frown of pure disbelief. But those words made Siobhan blush bright red. He smirked, “Yeah, sounds dirty doesn’t it?”

She kept stroking him, kissing and licking his co*ckhead while they looked at each other, smirking, teasing. Her jaw strained off its hinge as she opened her mouth for him again. And angling her throat down, took him deeper and faster than she had been able to before. Though she felt her jaw pop and it felt impossible to move, Arthur’s entire body convulsed at the sensation of her hot throat tightening around his co*ck that she was immediately gratified. She tried to swallow—instinctually—and that bizarre choking down his shaft made him shudder and grab her by the scalp. “f*ck! What are you doing to me, Shiv?!”

His thighs twitched and tensed like he was apprehensive,—and Siobhan needed a second to breathe anyway—so she snaked her head back and felt the abrasive pressure of his co*ck slide out of her throat. She took a ragged breath, her wet palm stroking him with a weak grip. “You can f*ck my mouth, honey.”

Her voice was coarse and wet. And her redlined eyes dripped with tears at the base of her sultry eyelashes. She smiled as he gawked at her. Arthur was breathless, “That could hurt you.”

Siobhan licked along the reddening threshold of his stretched foreskin, “Then hurt me, Arthur.”

“Shh,—f*ck Shiv, you’re dirty. I don’t need to f*ck your throat, just your pretty little mouth will make me cum.” He ran his thumb along her lip. “Do you want me to pull out?”

She snickered, “Cum down my throat, I wanna feel it.” And before Arthur could protest, she swallowed his entire co*ck up again between her plump little lips. And looked up to him at the height of every bob of her head and every low valley of moaning.

“Ohh, Siobhan, you use that tongue better than a French whor*.” He said, too thrown by his pleasure to even consider what he was saying.

Siobhan giggled and gagged on his co*ck with the conflict there in the center of her lodged throat.

Siobhan could tell by the shift in the tone of his voice—where it had gone from airy and desperate, like his mouth was just the end of a tunnel that led directly out from the whirlwind of thoughts inside his pacified brain, to a coherent, level-headed drawl—that he was self-conscious about what he’d said. Wouldn’t be the first time he said something ridiculous while they screwed around, though. Siobhan seemed more used to it than him. He bit at his lip, “I get stupid when I’m inside you, huh?”

Siobhan looked up at him and pulled his co*ck out of her mouth with a pop and sucked up a thick stream of spit. She giggled as she stroked him, “Stupid. Cute.”

Arthur’s mouth formed a little dipped oval as he watched her hand stroke languidly across his sticky-wet co*ck. Sideways like she was petting an animal just so that she could get between his thighs and lick his balls at any given moment. And he was never sure when she was going to do it until, somehow, she managed to do it just before he realized he wanted it.

“Just like that, sweetheart. That’s so f*cking…” Arthur’s head fell back as he panted, “Good.”

She could tell he was getting closer and closer, but she wanted to draw this out for as long as she could. So she stroked him faster and watched his body shudder and twitch and took him back into her mouth and as far down her throat as she could manage without it hurting. And as his thighs tensed—which was always his tell—she pulled off of him and squeezed his co*ck at the base, saying, “Your co*ck is so big it makes my jaw hurt.”

In a little tease of a voice that pretended she didn’t know she had just stolen away with his org*sm. “Shhhhhit—!” Arthur groaned and gripped her scalp as he hissed, “I was so close, Shiv!”

Siobhan wiped her mouth with her fingers to try to hide her smirk and pouted, turning her head slightly to make him pull her hair. And when that fist against her temple pulled at all of her fine hair she winced and a tear fell from her seductively blinking eye. “So sorry, honey.”

Arthur loosened his grip when he saw her pout like that and was ready to apologize himself until she stroked him upwards, directing his shaft toward her opening mouth. She crossed her ankles over each other and her pale little feet made a heart in the air as she cooed, “Let me make it up to you.”

He swore he was on the verge of passing out.

Siobhan lowered her mouth slowly over his co*ckhead and swirled her tongue over it. She couldn’t believe it, every time, how much bigger he felt when he was in her mouth. It made more sense, like this, why it could hurt so badly for Arthur to stretch her c*nt out with it.— She took him into her throat until she could feel herself gag and cough—stuffed and muffled but still wet. She took him all the way until her nose was pressed against his stomach and held it there. Arthur put his hands on her head, crying out mindlessly, but applied no pressure at all. He simply ran his hands desperately through her hair.

Siobhan suddenly pulled back, coughing. She spat against his shaft and cleared her throat, but her voice was starting to go, “f*ck my mouth, Arthur.”

Arthur’s hips stuttered and he thrust his hips forward in the smallest most desperate measure. “Ah, Shiv, please!”

“Please what?” She kissed his co*ckhead again, stroking him lower.

His voice was the kind of whine she normally gave him.And he tugged at her hair when he said it, “Don’t tease me.”

Siobhan smiled, “I mean it! I’m just here to make you cum.”

She took him back into her mouth quickly before he could say another word. And, as if to illustrate what he should do to her, she started to bob her head up and down rapidly over his shaft. But it wasn’t as fast as Arthur could do it—and he knew that, through a blinding white bliss,—he knew he could amplify this deliciously treacly pleasure by holding her head in place and thrusting so far against the back of her throat he made her lose her voice for the next three days.—

One of her hands caught his in her hair and squeezed it tightly against the back of her head and Arthur fully let go of himself. He gathered up her hair in a lawless, tangled mess and gripped it so tightly he could force her entire neck to curve to the pleasure of his thrusts. “Ahhhh! f*ckf*ckf*ck! sh*t, Shiv, I’m so f*cking close.”

Siobhan started to moan roughly, almost like she was crying, but her hands moved up and down his thighs in loving, delicious little caresses that assure him she was not in distress. “I’m gonna cum in your mouth, Angel.”

Her hand reached up and gripped the sheets beside him. He looked down at her in uncertainty, clouded completely with the urge to just f*cking do it, “Can you take it?”

She attempted to nod but was held stiffly in place. There was only the tiniest indication at the back of her neck and against his palm that convinced Arthur he could do it. He squeezed every muscle in his body as he thrust deeply inside her throat, pushing her head down into his lap, “f*ck—! Take it! Take my f*ckin’ cum!”

Arthur thrust so far she felt her nose slam against his pubic hair, engulfed in the ticklish feeling on her face and the swarm of fluid filling her throat. She squeezed her eyes shut as she gagged through Arthur’s final spasms. And as soon as he fell limp, Siobhan lifted her head and shut her mouth to keep his cum inside. The steady stream of spit, tears and cum nearly came gushing from her mouth if her hand hadn’t caught it and shoveled it back in. She coughed, pressing her mouth closed with her hand to try to keep it all contained. As she caught her breath, she opened her mouth to show it to Arthur.

“Ehh air a hot?” She tried to say.

Arthur was dumbstruck, blinking the tears from his eyes to see Siobhan’s mouth coated tongue-to-roof in sticky cum. Is there a lot? Arthur nearly passed out, “Yes… there’s a lot.”

Siobhan gave him a geeky smile as she shut her mouth and swallowed. She gulped and giggled when she failed to inhale properly. And coughing, her throat sounded at once coated thickly with fluid and also hoarse and dry. Her voice was rough when she opened her mouth again, “I thought I was drowning for a second.”

When he saw not a trace of his cum in her mouth, Arthur didn’t even hear what she said. He gawked, “You just swallowed it all.”

She swooped forward as she tossed her hair over her shoulder and barred her arm over his stomach, “Not all.”

Arthur could not move as he watched her lick up the rest of his sem*n dripping down his co*ck and balls. She kept eye contact for most of it, too. He put his hand in her straggly hair, “f*ck, Shiv.”

She kissed his shaft, “Not very princesslike?”

“No…” He wanted to say 'that was so wrong,’ but he couldn’t form the words because the truth of it was that he had no idea. It sure felt wrong, but it also felt amazing. Too good to not be pursued from every woman by every man on the planet. Instead, he explained, “No-one’s ever done that to me before.”

Her eyebrows raised and she lifted her head, still holding the base of his co*ck. “Really? Abigail said it’s common.”

He chose not to ask in what context, exactly, she and Abigail had discussed this, and his mind instantly pushed away the very reasonable assumption that it was Abigail whotaughther how to do that. “Abigail… comes from a whor*house, sweetheart. I ain’t been in too many whor*houses.” He shook his head, amazed, “Not any where they do that, anyway.”

Siobhan smiled and pulled herself up his chest, she was overtly proud of herself. “So, how’d you like it? As good as f*cking?”

Arthur licked his lips, staring at hers as wet and plump as they were. “It was… almost as good as f*ckin’.” He put his hand on her cheek, “But there’s truly somethin’ special about f*ckin’ that pretty face of yours.”

She blushed and took hold of his wrist, “Well, I liked it too. I think we should do it more often.”

“Greedy girl…” He ran his fingers over her ribcage, “You’d keep me here forever if you could.”

“Mm-hmm.” Siobhan grinned, “Exactly.”

“You swallowed so much.” He pointed out again, with a wall of disbelief behind him.

She meekly smiled, “Do you think I should spit it out?”

Arthur’s eyes widened. He was shocked. “H-how do I—” He wiped his face and chuckled, “Damn, Shiv. How do I answer somethin’ like that?”

Bracing herself on her arm, she looked at him curiously, “What? You ashamed of it or something?”

His brows twitched, “Maybe a little…”

“‘Cause you like it when I swallow, don’t you? You reaaally like it.” She smirked, leaning in. She lowered her voice seductively, eyeing his mouth, “You like to mark my body with it, fill me with it,—stuff my throat and my c*nt.”

Arthur gripped her ass, “You’re a dirty little girl. Who made you this way, huh?”

“A dirty old man.” Siobhan countered and spread her legs to straddle him.

Arthur put his hands on her hips, pushing her upwards tightly, “Oh no, no, no, no.” He sounded exhausted as he hoisted her, hovering, over his body. Her thighs still touched his, and her nightgown hung between her legs like a fig leaf. “I can’t. You gotta gimme a minute to recover, darlin’.”

“What? I laid you out?” Siobhan grinned proudly and pulled her thigh back, laying beside him casually.

Once it was all within the chest, she drug it out slowly, trying to keep her strained groaning as silent as possible so as not to wake Arthur. But the chest was full of literally every piece of cloth they had in that little half-tent and she had never really been very strong. But eventually, she got it a good distance away from the wagon and from there pulled it with all of her force to the back porch of the house where she had been doing all of her sewing.

Sewing provided her with a lot of time to think. Siobhan took up her quilt pieces and slowly started to stitch them together, darks and lights against each other, skill second-hand and absentminded; she was thinking. Though she had been working on the quilt for about as long as Arthur had been working on their house, she was still half-afraid that she had done nearly every step completely wrong. There were few things so intimidating to her—where it concerned a needle and thread—as a quilt. Especially her first, the Irish Chain. Which, to anyone else, shouldn’t have been so scary since it was simply a dozen rows of diagonally running blocks.

But this quilt was more than just a blanket, more than her first endeavor into the hobby that chained her so closely with her mother. This was a flag. It was a message.

And she, over his, shouted too, beating her fists against his back. “Put me down!”

With her squirming, Arthur nearly dropped her, but caught her waist with both of his hands and held her over his shoulder with a mean grip. Siobhan looked up at John, “Don’t bring that trunk!”

And as they disappeared into the tent and John could barely make out the sounds of her squealing, he turned back inside and bolted the door to keep Jack from going back out, and locking them away in their uncivilized, chaotic little world outside. He went about his day just trying to laugh about it.

*

Arthur flipped her off of his shoulder and onto the cot and fought at her hands and legs to get her to stop squirming. Pinning her hands above her head, he stared down at her, trying not to smile, “You think you’re real funny, huh?”

Siobhan tucked her lips in, forming a straight line, “You just ran out into the yard naked. What the Hell is wrong with you?”

“You stole my clothes!” Arthur argued. Siobhan giggled and Arthur’s face darkened. “I ought to tan your hide like I said I would.”

And warning, he flipped her over and pulled her by her legs over his lap. She squealed and squealed and her blood ran cold as Arthur’s hands ran smoothly underneath her skirt. She looked over her shoulder at him, “Don’t you dare!”

Arthur caressed her ass through her bloomers and underneath her skirt, “You thought I was kidding?”

Siobhan’s cheeks burned red, “You can’t spank me! I’m your wife!”

Arthur grazed her soft skin with the cold metal of his wedding band, his head co*cking to the side arrogantly, “I’ve spanked you a hundred times and you still married me.”

Her eyes widened, realizing he was undeterred. She swallowed, and said narrowly, “Only when we f*ck, Arthur.”

He raised a brow, “What you think I’m about to do to you?” His fingers slid between her thighs and right against her c*nt and she twitched, almost jumping clean out of his lap, yelping. He held her down, “I told you I’d finish what you started this morning.”

He took her arms and crossed them behind her back. Siobhan pressed her knees together, suddenly swooning, and held onto his forearm tightly while his other hand moved beneath her skirt. Arthur lifted the fabric over her ass and stuffed it into her palms. She whined, “This is so wrong!”

Arthur ran his fingernails along her ass, “You want me to stop?”

Siobhan dropped her head to the cot, faced with that dreaded question. How she wished he would just do it despite how she kicked and whined and protested its morality. Otherwise, she was forced to admit aloud her sick and twisted desire to submit to him completely and in every capacity. Muffled by her own awkward shame, she admitted, “No… please.”

Arthur, satisfied, smirked. He was glad she couldn’t see it. Wouldn’t want to embarrass her that deeply. Slowly, and making sure to graze her skin with his fingernails as he did it, he pulled her bloomers down. His hand glided across her gorgeous little ass, soft and plump, just begging to be slapped. And down her thighs, in towards her c*nt again—but not far enough to satisfy any part of her starved flesh. At the back of her knees, she shivered and lifted onto her toes. Arthur ran his hands back up, completely drenched in overindulgence, just groping her cruelly.

“Ow!” She hissed, sucking on her teeth and bucking, “Fuuck!”

Her feet danced like an anxious horse, trying to wiggle off the pain. Arthur soothed the blazing white-yellow handprint with his palm, watching the back of Siobhan’s head as she rubbing her forehead against the bed, quietly mewling. Arthur lowered his voice, almost like stepping out of a character, “You tell me if it’s too hard.”

Siobhan could’ve cried for how sweet he sounded, his voice so serious and concerned, while his hand laid in the perfectly sweltering print of itself on her soft, pliant skin, aching. And though she was never good with pain, and his rough hand had been angled perfectly to inflict the maximum amount, she still found her c*nt pulsing. And within the buzzing aftermath of soreness there lay bliss. Her lips smacked as she opened them, cotton-mouthed, sounding exhausted, “I can’t believe I let you do this to me.”

“Do you want it or not?” He said, somewhere between softness and impatience. As if he couldn’t decide whether her disobedience warranted stopping, or continuing just as harshly.

She wiggled her ass, needy and enticing, “Yes!”

He slapped her again, satisfying his own palm with the sting of it and with the sound of her gasping arousal. Stippled with the burning red marks of his greedy hands, her pale skin reddened in increments like suet, tender and mouth-watering. Arthur touched her with a hunger that would embarrass Mammon himself. Gritting his teeth, “You like that?”

She gripped his forearm tightly, squeezing her thighs together and whining, “You’re disgusting!”

Arthur chuckled darkly, “Just say the word and I’ll stop.” And punctuated his terrible tease with another harsh slap that made her cry out hopelessly again.

His voice was suddenly two shades darker, rough and vibrating. Siobhan was in for it now. Arthur had trailed up her thigh a vein of white arousal that escaped from her flooding little c*nt, and caught it on his finger. He brought it to his mouth and licked it clean off. His mouth watered tenfold at the delicious taste of her, nearly metallic, so ferric and animalistic. “You do like it.”

Siobhan had a lump in her throat the size of which she actually had something to compare to now, after that morning, and failed to swallow it too. “Please, Arthur, don’t torture me!”

His gut had turned to poppy milk, and he remitted his punishment, aching at the hot taste of her c*nt, “f*ck, Angel, I can’t rightly handle you much longer either.”

Then as Siobhan eased, knowing this horrible tension would end, gasped as Arthur yanked her arms back and brought her roughly to her feet. He turned her to face him as she let her skirt go and it fell around her ankles. Her hair was erratic and ruined, thrashing past her hips with every movement. As she bent down to shamefully pull her bloomers back up, her eyes immediately dropped to the erection he had been pressing against her ribs the entire time, larger in size than it felt. She was still intimidated by the size of him, however much she lusted for it.

Arthur’s voice was demanding. “Let me see you take off your clothes.”

Siobhan’s ears went red and she gawked. Through the discomfort warming her thighs, she crossed her arms stubbornly. She didn’t wish to be subjected to his intolerable ogling any longer. Had filled his palm with enough of it to wet his tongue too. “No!”

His head shook slightly with the aggression of his words, “I ain’t askin’.”

Doubling down, Siobhan raised her eyebrows, “You don’t control me. I’m not gonna strip for you just because you’re mad.”

Arthur stood up, “Oh, Shiv, I don’t control much. My heart, my obsessions, my erections around you,—I can’t control none of that.” He stopped in front of her and gently traced her cheekbone with his fingertip, “But you’ll strip because all I have to do to make you…”

His hand slipped underneath her arms and around her waist. Siobhan’s arms faltered as he tugged her closer. She uncrossed her arms, but did not embrace him. Though her breath hitched and her eyes dilated as she looked up at him, and he down at her—pressed against his warm, naked body—she did not give in.

Arthur’s eyes were on her lips, “Is deny you what you want.” He said, and backed away from her.

When he sat down, Siobhan was only faced with a question. It wasn’t ‘yes or no,’ as she’d be able to answer that much too easily—already had, in fact. Rather, when Arthur sat down in front of her with his legs apart and his co*ck upright,—unmoving, debonair—she could only think to move would be to let him win.

Siobhan circled her jaw.— Watching Arthur’s instant reaction to it made her head spin. The way he gripped the bed with one hand while the other inched closer to his co*ck, resting on his thigh instead of succumbing to the desire to pleasure himself at the sight of Siobhan mimicking him through nothing but proximity and subconscious conditioning. She swallowed everything she had drowning her head with thoughts and stood straighter, “If I decided to walk away, you’d be the one learning a lesson, not me.”

Arthur shrugged, “You’re not gonna walk away.”

Siobhan’s face flickered with a frustrated grin and she paused to take a breath and collect herself. Her jaw circled one last time, “Watch me.”

She turned to walk out of the tent and Arthur didn’t even move behind her. She left the confines of that charged space and took a breath of fresh, cold, empty air. Suddenly free of the scent of him. An empty lawn and the back of her house. She didn’t make it two steps out of the tent before she stopped dead in her tracks and her gut twisted with a hot coil.

Oh, I hate him. I hate him, I hate him, I…

Siobhan turned right back around to come back to Arthur standing, smirking. She grumbled as they came together again, “You asshole.”

Arthur’s hands were tight around her arms as he pulled her against her, kissing her with all of his starved frustration. When he had cursed her that afternoon for stealing his clothes he had subjected himself to exactly this.— This was the only way it could’ve ended.

With Siobhan writhing hot and undressed in his conquering and vengeful hands. His wife.

Siobhan swore Arthur did not control her, but he did. In ways he could not control himself, he reigned her in with a single look, with an absent touch. Because he was on her leash, and a dog knows how to earn a treat. Arthur pushed her gently back, forcing her in two uneven steps to pant in her denial. He spoke through a grunt, “Take off your clothes.”

He sat back down to watch.

With a burning grimace, Siobhan’s hands roughly fought at her skirt in a haste, eyeing him the entirety. But he stopped her again with his pausing snarl, “Slowly.”

Siobhan’s hands stopped altogether and she wholeheartedly considered leaving again. But the absence of the smell of his body, of the heat that radiated from that hardening, aching monster of a co*ck between his legs kept her in place. Some biological instinct froze every one of her muscles, and like some biblical prophet had taken a seat in the back of her mind, she could only think one thing; obey, obey, obey.

So her hands moved slowly at her buttons. So slowly she didn’t even realize she had begun to move them again until the cold air greeted her exposed thighs. Pulled halfway down, Siobhan bent forward with her eyes following one very specific point on Arthur’s body as she dropped her skirt to the ground.

Arthur leaned back on his hand, and the other moved closer to the inside of his thigh. “Good girl.”

“I was just trying to make you rest.” Siobhan swore. Her voice wavered as if she were afraid, but she was not afraid in the slightest. She was anticipating. And such anticipation she hadn’t felt the piercing heights of in a long time.

Arthur nodded, his eyes trailing her bare legs, “I know, Angel.— I don’t call you that lightly, you know. ‘Angel,’” he repeated with emphasis, “You do things for me only an angel would. You’re my Angel.”

Siobhan slowly pulled her hair over her shoulder and lowered her hands behind her back. “I don’t remember any angels being forced to strip in the Bible.”

“I ain’t forcin’ you.” Arthur corrected. He lightly rubbed the back of his finger against his shaft, and pulled away from himself as he twitched. He closed his eyes briefly with a shuddering breath, “You can walk outside and bring back my clothes and shut me right up.”

Siobhan laughed, two buttons down. “You wouldn’t shut up that easily.”

“Maybe not.” He hissed, touching himself again, “I gotta work some frustration out of my system either way.”

Her blouse fell around the back of her arms and she shrugged it off delicately. At this point, the gentle touches of her own clothes tickling themselves off of her was a tease of its own. It was not simply for Arthur’s pleasure anymore that she moved so slowly. But he got more satisfaction out of watching it fall than she did. He palmed himself right against his stomach the second he could see her skin. His eyes dropped to the little jade stone between her collarbones with love, “You’re wearing the necklace I gave you.”

“I always do.” Siobhan said quietly.

“You couldn’t even see it under that shirt.” Arthur pointed out, his heart warm.

“Still. It makes me think of you.” Even with a brassiere beneath, just the sight of her torso and that little teardrop gem lifted him up with a thrust against his palm. But he put his hands behind himself and sat back against them.

“Siobhan…” Arthur whispered, eyeing the moles gently scattered across the side of her ribcage and the adjacent scars by her hipbone.

Their eyes met, “What?”

Siobhan could see from the bottom of her vision, indirectly, Arthur’s feet flex and his toes curl. He bared his teeth for a brief second as his mouth twitched, “You control me. I was a normal man before I met you.”

He put his fist against his mouth as he watched her tug her bloomers down with a back-and-forth sway of her hips. “God.— Now I forget things because I can only think about you. I don’t hear other people talking because I’m starin’ at you. I can’t sleep long enough at night because I just wanna wake up and be closer to you.”

Siobhan shivered as her bloomers fell around her ankles, “Arthur…” she covered her breasts with her arms, and looked away, “I don’t—”

Arthur stood up and closed the space between them in seconds, “Shiv, you turned me into a different man. I’m molded to you, my heart only beats when you take a breath.”

Her hands raised to her face, “You’re killing me!”

“I’m sorry,” He laughed, exasperated, “You never like it when I talk like this, huh?”

Siobhan put her hands on his chest, shaking her head, “It isn’t that I don’t like it. You just make me feel like I’m dying a little bit. I don’t know how I’ll ever get used to it.” She looked up at him, almost ashamed, “Did I really ruin you?”

Arthur took her hand against his chest, “No, Shiv. You brought me back to life.”

Siobhan’s eyes widened at Arthur’s sincerity, so gently given. And within the swell of love he allowed her to move in, she raised up onto her toes to kiss him, but he lifted his head, “Now take off that bra and pick up your clothes.”

He backed away from her mercilessly. She stood there for a second, bewitched, betrayed. Convinced for a second that she would have him in her cage, in her control. But the tides between them were ever-shifting, and neither knew who was steering the ship until the wheel jerked against their hands.

Siobhan took her bra off fast. Quicker than Arthur would’ve liked, but it was off before he could tell her to slow down. She bent down to pick up her clothes, bunched them into a ball and held them against her stomach, awaiting orders.

Arthur resumed his position on the edge of the bed. “Go to the edge of the tent, and throw your clothes out as far as you can.”

“Arthu—”

“It ain’t up for debate, Shiv.” Arthur interrupted.

Siobhan’s ears were burning bright red. Arthur, just by seeing it, could imagine the pounding in her head; brought on, probably, by immense irritation and embarrassment. Irritation that he was asking her to do this, embarrassment that she was obeying.

And she did obey. She walked to the entrance of the tent, peeked outside at the darkening evening sky, and tossed her ball of clothes out with all of her force. Instantly, she backed up into the tent and caught her breath from the rising adrenaline of having been bare out in the open yard for those two split seconds.

She didn’t know how she could face Arthur now. But she did. Somehow, she managed to turn around, arms crossed and shivering. She bit her lip.

Arthur’s eyes, even from that distance, noticeably darkened. He felt exactly the same as he did the first night they slept together in Shady Belle; completely lacking in self-control. “Come here.” He said.

Siobhan took slow, tentative steps forward, her eyes on her feet until they stopped directly between his and she looked up at him where he sat on the edge of the cot. He put his hands on her waist, “You want me to rest?”

“Yes.” She said quietly. Her face was burning red.

“I’ll rest. You don’t have to do anything. I promise you, I’ll take a break whether we have sex tonight or not.” Arthur promised it as if Siobhan was behaving like she didn’t want to have sex with him.

But it wasn’t enough. Siobhan requested further, “You’ll take more breaks?”

Arthur nodded. He couldn’t have her worrying over him, and certainly not to the degree of stealing his clothes and running away with them. “I promise.”

Siobhan bit her lip again, and dropped her arms. She put her hands on Arthur’s shoulders, and as his eyes darted down to her breasts,—where his jaw clenched and he gripped her tighter—she asked, “What do you want me to do?”

His hands gently slid down from her bare hips to her ass, in large circles he caressed her up and down, up and down. Teasing as he watched the anticipation build underneath her skin with every single goosebump. One-by-one, setting her body on it’s delicious edge. “Turn around and sit on my lap.”

Arthur watched Siobhan’s ears turn red, and his hand moved up along the curve of her hip, over the ridges of her ribcage until his palm was filled with the weight of her soft breast. He squeezed gently, “And when I say you can, move your hips up and down and take my co*ck inside you.”

Siobhan bit down on her bottom lip to hide her smile. And slowly, she turned around. Arthur’s hands moved downward and followed her rotation until he had her hipbones right underneath his pressing fingertips, pulling her ass back against his co*ck. “Put your hands on my knees.”

Shaking, she gently filled her palms with his muscular knees, and he pushed her ass slightly down. He groaned aloud when her c*nt touched his shaft, “Good girl.”

Siobhan stared at her feet as Arthur pushed her hair over her shoulder and made her grind against his co*ck. All of the tension built in her thighs as he made her slide all the way up his length, and all the way back down, teasing her.

Arthur’s fingertips trailed the ridge of her spine, “I love your ass, Shiv, have I ever told you that?”

She tried to keep the embarrassment out of her voice, “No.”

Still marked and still stinging, he gripped her ass with both hands, feeling her plump skin spill between his fingers as he squeezed and directed her up and down, up and down. “Ahhh, f*ckkkk… It was one of the first… mmmh… things I noticed about you. This perfect round ass of yours.”

Siobhan almost couldn’t breathe anymore. She always hated her ass, that went without saying. How big it was, as if she’d never worked a day in her life, thought no man would ever find it attractive—let alone catch someone’s attention.

“I just wanted to squeeze it, slap it, press it against my co*ck just like this. Before I even really knew you.” He admitted, and his hand rose up her center and grabbed her breast again. He pulled her back against his chest and kissed her neck, “Tell me I’m a bad man for lookin’ at you that way.”

Siobhan squeezed her eyes shut, trying not to hold her breath. But her chest was so tight with anticipation, she swore she’d never get another breath in. “You’re a bad man for looking at me that way. I should’ve never let you near me.”

Arthur licked his lips, “You shouldn’t have.”

Siobhan leaned her head back against his shoulder. Her back was arched so deeply, Arthur could’ve slid his fingers beneath her ribs and held her heart in his hand. She gasped, “Please put it inside me, Arthur. I hate feeling empty.”

Arthur’s brow tightened up and he lifted her up by her thigh. He wasted no time in lining himself up for that soaking wet hole. A perfect ring of pink underneath glistening wet-white, aching to be filled. “I should’ve never taught you what it was like to be full in the first place.”

And with a cleaving thrust Arthur sat Siobhan striking down on his co*ck with a hand on her shoulder, splitting her in half until she cried out. “Oh—! f*ck, Arthur!”

He pulled her back against him and kissed her neck, “Was that too hard, angel?”

“No…” Siobhan was fighting for that breath that had been getting stolen somewhere underneath Arthur’s heavy hand. “Noooo, it’s perfect.”

Arthur made her circle her hips down against his thighs, would not let her up even the slightest amount. He wanted to poke and prod at her innermost walls with the tip of his oversized co*ckhead until he could feel it against his hand on her stomach. And Siobhan mewled hopelessly, gripping his thighs and squirming with her thighs shut tightly together, aiding nothing. “f*ck, you like it deep inside you like that?”

“God, yes, Arthur. You’re so big, I—” She pressed her lips to the corner of his jaw, panting, “It hurts. You’re so— God! You’re so deep.”

Arthur licked at her neck the way he knew would make her writhe. Kissing all over from the back of her ear to her opposite shoulder blade. All the while he bucked his hips roughly into hers, with little give either way. Just grinding into her over and over again, completely hilted inside of her overstretched c*nt. It was soaking wet between their legs, so densely nuzzled against each other that nothing could escape. “I can feel your tight little c*nt leaking on my balls.”

Siobhan cried out into the air, “Oh, Arthur! You’re too f*cking big!” She leaned her head forward ever so slightly to put more pressure against her cervix. Inside her at this angle, Arthur was perfect.

Arthur opened his mouth against her shoulder, panting, gliding his teeth across her perfect skin. Leaving little white trails that slowly turned pink. “You want to move?”

She raggedly begged, “Please.”

Arthur considered it. But this pointless rubbing, unending; Sisyphean in its hopelessness to bring either of them to their end, was addicting. “Grind against me. You don’t get to move yet, just grind.”

Siobhan scratched and scratched at his thigh, almost breaking his rough skin from her desperation. The pressure was overwhelming, almost muscle-pulling in its tensity, but never leaving that crowning, piercing spot in her gut. He just rubbed against it over and over again until it was sore and aching. Aching for just the slightest release; aching for him to just pull out once, and finally thrust back into its perfect place.

Arthur couldn’t even imagine how he could dislodge himself from this position. She was sucking the life out of him. Swallowing his co*ck up so narrowly, he swore his chest would go hollow. He grunted roughly against her back, “f*ck you’re so tight. I don’t f*ck you enough if you’re this tight.”

Siobhan released her grip on his legs as he scrambled at her chest. He took hold of her hips and her breasts, and fought for leverage beneath her armpit, anything to keep her as close against him as he could. She gasped,— “No, you don’t f*ck me enough. But I’m too nice to say anything… I’m still a nice girl, even after you perverted me.”

His hand went up to her neck, and he turned her jaw against him. He kissed her cheek, scratching her soft skin with his stubble and blowing hot breath against the saliva he left on her, “Nice girls don’t strip in front of grown men and sit on their co*cks the second they’re told to.”

Siobhan moaned in such a desperate frenzy at that, she widened her thighs just to get her hand between them. Arthur was amazed by it, how horny it made her to hear that, that he had to take a second to run through those words again. He was at once disgusted with himself, and completely turned on. “f*ck, Shiv, what am saying, huh? You make me say awful stuff.”

Siobhan’s wrist revolved in feverish circles, frantic and consuming. “I love it when you’re awful, Arthur. I love it when you’re mean and rude and you say things that hurt me. I love it when you say something so completely horrible I should feel insulted or cry but instead I get dizzy and my heart stops because I know how much you love me.”

She twisted her back to kiss him on the mouth. And as he moaned into her, stuffing his tongue between those pretty little lips, he tore her hand from between her thighs and replaced it with his own. He pressed his middle finger against her cl*t until her legs started to shake. “Ohh, honey, you do it so much better than me. God, Arthur, I need you. I love you. I love when no-one can tell if we love or hate each other.”

“Mmh, Shiv, I turned you into a little masoch*st, didn’t I?” He chuckled, kissing her lips and cheeks and chin.

She kissed him right back looking darkly into his eyes, had no idea what ‘masoch*st’ meant. “Whatever you turned me into, I don’t want it any other way. You’re perfect for me, Arthur. You’re all I need.”

Arthur squeezed her hip and ran his hand up to her neck, holding her head up towards Heaven as he whispered beneath her ear, “You don’t know how much I love hearin’ you say that, sweetheart.”

Arthur pushed his hand into the bottom of her thigh and lifted her up to the tip of his co*ck. Her ass deliciously full between his fingers, warm skin filling and overwhelming, he squeezed. And his command came from his mouth before he could think the words through, “Kneel on the bed.”

Siobhan hadn’t time to register what he said—weeded from her mindless pleasure—before he lifted her off of him completely and her gut twisted with painful heat. His hands remained on her hips as he directed her to the bed. Hesitantly, Siobhan placed her knee on the cot as Arthur got behind her. She looked at him through the corner of her eye, “What are you doing?”

Arthur put his hands on her waist, caressing and kissing. Siobhan pulled her hair over her shoulder. His lips were on her spine, “Bend over.”

Siobhan’s face burned red, “Arthur…” Her voice was shaking with hesitation.

Pressing his chest against her back, his co*ck slid between her thighs and for a second it was all she could feel, her lungs hollow of breath. But he reached around her and took her hands, hugging them to her body and squeezing her tightly with long, seductive kisses against her neck and ear. “Shiv…” his voice whispered, “Are you enjoyin’ yourself?”

“Yes.” She gasped, pushing her ass back against his hips. “We’ve just never done it like that before.”

Arthur kept opening his eyes in between kisses. Just to catch a glimpse of her beautiful face. The shell of her little ear, the dip of her cheekbone, the corner of her pouting lips, the tip of her pointed nose, the flutter of her eyelashes as he stole away her words with each breath. “I’ve had you on your hands and knees before.”

Siobhan giggled, “Not like this.”

Arthur lowered his mouth to her collarbone and his hand snuck out of hers—still bracing her wrist to her chest with his arm—and palmed her breast. “Not with my co*ck inside you, you mean?”

Siobhan flinched, feeling it move between her legs. She tried to look down over the tangle of arms caging her chest. She swallowed, “Did you just make it move?”

Arthur chuckled, “It’s got a mind of its own, Angel. All it knows is there’s something hot and wet against it right now.”

Siobhan shivered, leaning slightly forward, “I can’t believe you make me do these things, Arthur.”

“I know…” Arthur nibbled at her ear, mumbling through his teeth, “Bend over, sweetheart.”

Hesitantly, Siobhan leaned forward more and Arthur released her arms from his hands. She planted her hands on the bed, face-to-face with the side of the wagon where Arthur had a picture of his father tacked up. She made uncomfortable eye contact with the man as Arthur slid his hands up Siobhan’s thighs. Her cheeks burned red and she tried to tell him—but as she opened her mouth nothing but a squeal came out as Arthur thrust inside of her.

Siobhan shut her eyes, gasping. It was so much tighter and lower in her stomach than she expected. This position forced her back to arch, swooping down until only her ass and her face stood upright. Arthur hadn’t even realized how different it would feel for her and so didn’t have it in mind to go slowly.

Shocked, she planted a hand on the wagon and with her mouth gaping, stared forward to meet the eyes of Arthur’s dad again. She felt like he was watching them and felt the greatest sensation of burning embarrassment. Even as she averted her eyes, she could feel the phantom sensation of his presence, staring with that permanent scowl. Disapproving in every respect to watch his daughter-in-law in such a position. She felt like she was being torn apart. She felt like a whor*!

“f*ck, you feel good.” Arthur said, clutching a fistful of her ass with greed, completely unaware of the debasem*nt he’d subjected her to.

Siobhan’s eyes squeezed shut and she choked out little inarticulate gasps, unable to speak. He was moving so roughly inside her and at such a breaching angle, constantly rushing, overfull and sensitive, she felt like she had to pee. Suddenly, she dropped her arms and collapsed against the bed, reaching back to grip Arthur’s hand.

He slowed down, bending over her, “Are you ok, babygirl? Is it too much?”

Siobhan’s voice was muffled by her hair, “Your dad.”

Arthur’s brows knitted tightly, “‘Dad?’” He repeated, completely confused. He stopped moving, he must have heard her wrong. “What’d you call me?”

She whimpered, his co*ck shifting deep inside of her as she lifted her arm to point at the wagon. Arthur saw it and realized what she meant. Had he been f*cking her right against that picture? He cringed a little, “Oh-ho… Sorry.”

He reached forward to pull it down but as he did, pressed his hips tightly against Siobhan and pushed her further into the bed. He saw her fingers twist, grasping her own hair as she whined at the pressure. He tossed the picture at the end of the bed and caressed her back softly, “Does it feel good like this, Shiv?”

She wiped hair from her face, her torso twisted to the side so she could look at him. Her face was red from all the pressure, “So good…” Her eyes watered, “But tooooo fast.”

“Oh.” Arthur gripped her ass and released, caressing and grabbing in soothing intervals. He started moving again in smooth, slow strokes, just teasing the wet core of her tight c*nt. Pressing his co*ckhead gently against her cervix each time, so delicately it almost tickled. “I’m sorry, Angel.”

Her toes curled and pressed against his thighs, “Ohhhh mmmhffffd.” She put her hand over her mouth, squeezing her eyes shut.

“You like it like that, babygirl?” Arthur cooed, grabbing her hip tightly.

She nodded and stuffed her fingers in her mouth, catching carelessly tufts of her hair that covered her face roughly. And coated now with spit, she almost gagged as she moaned, “Deeper! Pleeeeassee!”

Arthur smirked, his face twitching just to keep from biting down on his lip. He raised one of his legs to the bed and angled his hips against her upright little ass, taking her hips with both hands. Slowly rocking into her, he pulled her gently back until her ass bounced with the quick little burst of contact and then slowed down as he pulled out of her again. Over and over until he felt such an urge to curl his toes he swore he’d pull a muscle in his foot. “f*ck, Shiv! You’re so f*ckin’ tight.”

Siobhan began to regret having taken all of the sheets out of the room, now she had nothing to grab onto. So she scratched and scratched at the canvas of the cot and wriggled her hips roughly in search of a release that was still building. And Arthur’s hands on her hips kept her—whether he intended to or not—completely incapable of shifting her position away from such a rough and cleaving penetration as this. And with his foot up on the bed—bending into her with hips trained constantly in this particular motion from how frequently he f*cked her—she had no choice but to endure a pleasure this intense.

Arthur’s hands constantly roamed her back, up and down from the curve of her ass to the diminution of her spine where her body presented to him a perfect heart shape, upside down. He was dizzy at the sight of it, taking her in such a way, how gorgeous her body looked from every angle—and constantly discovering new beauties lying secretly in store for him such as that. And down where his co*ck disappeared between her delicious little ass, his length was coated white with her arousal. He looked down to Siobhan’s burning red face to see tears soaking into the mess of hair and spit that covered her face, she looked completely undone.

Arthur bent over her and clasped his hand over hers, kissing her spine, “You like that, Shiv?”

Siobhan squeezed his fingers between hers, curling his hand into hers, desperate for grip as her thighs began to tremble. She couldn’t speak—had barely been able to the entire time—but assured him through a ragged moan, almost screaming, as she nodded her head.

Through vision of unimaginable white, Siobhan’s mind blanked with a sudden spark and she trembled weakly to release, stuttering blind. All of the pressure, clenching over Arthur’s co*ck, wet and narrowing, pulsated as she came. In some obscure disgust at the pinnacle of it, Siobhan was acutely aware of the carnal animality of having another wet human body inside of her own, making her contract in the innermost sensitive place found in a woman. But as soon as the pinnacle passed and, pulsing, declined, her body loosened and limpened and she let go of his hand to finally take a breath—the feeling of him inside her was loosely becoming languid and easy. Nothing but the most listless of pleasures given to her without effort, she relaxed. “Ohhh, God, Arthur, that’s sooooooo good.”

Arthur’s cheeks were burning red from the sensation of that. How, in this position, her every contraction felt so much more intense. And he wondered what it was about bending over like this that seemed to compact her organs into an even tighter little hole than she naturally gave him. It made him blind with the feeling of being choked. His throat closed, mouth dry, heart beating at a million miles a second. When he decided he wanted to f*ck her, he never had such an arrest of his body and soul in mind.— Almost regret how he had pushed himself into sex as passionate as this. Was getting too old for it.

But with Siobhan cooing beneath him with little moans of pleasure released and relaxed, praising him for her org*sm that nearly made him collapse, he could not have stopped. His hands marked her skin white and red from gripping her hips so tightly as he increased his pace, rutting into her pretty little ass. He gasped, “Shiv… f*ck, f*ck, f*ck!”

Siobhan started to rock her hips slightly too, and it was murderous.Arthur pulled his co*ck out of her as quickly as he could manage—almost a second too late—and shot cum against her c*nt, lifting itself with each pulse towards her ass and glazed her over wet. He bent over her, exhausted, and caught himself on the wagon while his body finished. He kept one hand on her hip—needed to feel the soft and warm body that had done this to him. And she kept her back arched and her ass up so that as Arthur opened his eyes and returned to his body, the first thing he’d see was how he’d painted her ruined body in thick cum.

He swallowed, gripping her ass as he looked it over, “Christ…”

Siobhan wiggled her hips, looking back at him as she brushed hair out of her face, “Did that feel good?”

Arthur looked at her and couldn’t answer. Shutting his mouth, he looked around for something to wipe her clean with, but there was nothing. Siobhan seemed to notice what he was searching around for, though, and carelessly reached back and swiped his cum up on her fingers and licked them clean. Arthur staggered back, grimacing as he watched her, “Oh, f*ck, Shiv.” He covered his co*ck with his hand as it twitched, “Don’t make me hard again, Angel, I’m half-dead after that.”

She pulled her finger from her mouth with a pop, bearing herself all glazed with cum to him, testing the strength of his heart. “Look away, then.”

So Arthur lowered his eyes as Siobhan cleaned herself up and sat straight on the bed, throwing her feet over the side. He looked at her as she stretched, leaning back into her palms, “Oh man, that is not easy on the back.”

Arthur licked his lips as he walked towards her. With his knee, he pushed her legs apart and stood between them. She craned her neck totally back to look up at him as he breathed, tracing the line of her jaw with his finger, “Go get our clothes.”

Siobhan’s pupils were blown wide, and she had mistakenly believed that after Arthur finished, the tension would end. But it didn’t. So she stood up and started to walk—Arthur stopped her suddenly, grabbing her wrist and pulling her back. He kissed her deeply and his hand roamed down to her ass. He squeezed it one last time and turned her back around to the mouth of the tent and sent her off with a spank. She yelped, looking back at him with a scorching blush. “I’m going!”

Arthur watched Siobhan step back in to rush her clothes on, shirt half buttoned and skirt hanging loosely around her waist. She tossed her bloomers and brassiere carelessly on the ground within the tent as she went back out to drag the chest back in. All the while Arthur waited on the cot, bare naked and increasingly colder, with his eyes closed, just trying to come down from the workout he had just put himself through. He almost felt bad for sending Siobhan immediately back out to get their things, but relied back on the knowledge that it was her own doing. He chuckled, now, thinking back to what she had done. He couldn’t imagine any other woman in the world who’d have done that to him simply for the sake of giving him a break.

Siobhan returned shortly, and the chest was overflowing with all of their stuff. But, seeing Arthur completely naked, before she threw all of the sheets back on the bed, she stripped back to the buff herself and smiled at him. “So you feel less alone.” She explained and dug into the chest.

Arthur smiled, “I never feel alone anymore.”

Siobhan blushed and looked up at him as she tossed him a blanket. “Don’t forget about Lyle.” She said and pointed under the cot, “He fell down.”

Arthur looked down and saw the picture of his father face-down on the ground. Remembering how it got there, Arthur’s chest constricted with a slight trace of embarrassment as he picked it up. “Maybe I should put it away until we move into the house.”

“Then you could get a nice frame for it.” Siobhan tossed their pillows on the bed. And she considered, “You don’t have to take it down unless you plan on bending me over like that more often. Cause I do not wanna stare into the eyes of your dad while you do that to me.”

Arthur snorted, “Sorry.”

Siobhan’s mouth twisted with a smile, “It’s okay.” She got to her feet and came to his side, putting her hand on his shoulder, “You never answered my question, honey.”

Arthur set the picture on the table and wrapped his hands around her waist, raising his brow he clarified, “‘Did it feel good?’”

She nodded.

“Oh, yes, Shiv.” Arthur looked at her lips, “You always feel good. That felt incredible.”

Siobhan blushed, “I think that was one of the sexiest things you’ve ever done to me.”

Arthur co*cked his head to the side, “Now, I don’t know about that.” He put his thumb on her lip and slowly pressed it into her mouth. It made him think of their wedding night, which was one of the sexiest things he’d ever seen in his life. “I prefer to see your face when we’re f*ckin’.”

He kept his thumb in her mouth and her eyes widened as his hand ghosted around her backside and underneath the ribbons of her honeyed hair, all the way up the delicate curve of her spine. He held the base of her neck in one hand and her jaw and the other, “Feels wrong to have your back to me sometimes. I like to see your face while I make you cum.”

Siobhan tried to swallow with her mouth lodged open like this. Even her chest turned red with her blush, “Ee hoo.”

Arthur chuckled and took his thumb out of her mouth, wiping her plump lips over with her own spit, “What’s that?”

She shut her mouth and swallowed, “I said ‘Me too.’” She threshed her fingers through his hair, her eyes charting the corners of his face, “You’re so beautiful.”

Arthur’s heart melted. She was sweet and pretty and he found he could hardly wait for the day she turned twenty years old and he might desire wholeheartedly to put his baby inside her. He turned his head to the side like she were up to something and he knew it. Saying, “You’re too goddamn much for me, Shiv.” As his hands flattened over the backs of her thighs.

Siobhan yipped as he slapped her ass and grabbed her, saddling her right on his thigh. She hung onto his shoulder, blushing, “I didn‘t satisfy you well enough this morning, did I?”

“Oh, Shiv, you satisfied me perfectly. But I still can’t get the image of your mouth stuffed full of my co*ck out of my head.” He kissed her forehead, his fingers sliding between her thighs from behind. “Sorry if I’m a little persistent.”

Chapter 6: — PRAYING TIME WILL SOON BE OVER

Chapter Text

FEBRUARY 21, 1900

New Almaden, CA

At the edge of the path that led up into the Davenport Farm Travis Hay raised his eyes to the dawn coming from the eastern mountainside. The sign above the farm gates was now gone and soon to be replaced so he was told. And atop an old dead tree he could see a sloping vulture shouldering the horizon with an irreverent caution in his hunched survey. Travis had always been sensitive to mementos like this and the sight set him a measure uneasy.

Once the great Henry Beecher had said that if men had wings and bore black feathers few of them still would be clever enough to be crows. This Travis thought of as he looked up at the corvid he had never read and couldn’t read but still he thought of this quote which he must of heard of outside of books or letters. He came into the farmyard with this on his mind and knew now the people he was meant to observe so carefully.

Travis shook his head he truly did not realize that he had.

Travis awkwardly swallowed and slapped his knees. All witty retort he had planned to give Karen who he wanted to flirt with was clean gone. She seemed to be in a terribly foul mood this morning and had rather turned him off. He wondered then where Charles had gone to and hoped to get a look at him again. “I better get to work before the lion catches my scent then.”

SIOBHAN

The smell of lavender wafting through a cold breeze woke Siobhan. Her green eyes glittered with the filtering sunlight as they cracked open, bleary. Her cheeks were red and skin pale. Arthur was looking at her from the mouth of the tent where he held the canvas wide open, soughing his face with a thick white lathery.

“You wakin’ up?” He said softly. The horsehair brush moved in broad circles across his cheeks and chin.

Siobhan’s body ached all over. Her thighs were shaking with the grit of overworked muscles. Her limbs all felt too heavy to carry or move. She was cold and naked, and the blankets only covered the important parts—for modesty’s sake; her legs were exposed to the draft Arthur let in. She tugged at the blankets, in a bunch, and stuffed them like a pillow underneath her chin. “I ache all over of sex.”

Arthur chuckled and set the horsehair brush down, “Sex will do that.” He bent over and started to shave.

Siobhan lamented, “All your beautiful hair!”

Her voice was somewhat muffled by her weak enunciation and the blankets crowding her face. Still, Arthur understood her. He leveled the razor flatly against the base of his nostrils, “You said you like it trimmed.”

Siobhan wiped her eye and yawned, “I know. Still.” She looked around their little half-tent, half-wagon situation and dreaded the thought of getting up. The day previous had drained her completely of any semblance of physical energy she might’ve had. And yet… she found herself still wanting more of him. If not sex then simply to touch him.

“You not working today, are you, Shiv?”

Siobhan curled up and laid sideways in the bed, propping her chin up on her arm to watch him. “No.” She said, “It’s a Saturday.”

She could see Arthur smiling in his reflection. She giggled, “You’re so cute.”

Hiding his smile with the necessary shifting of his cheeks in random, flattening directions, he continued to shave wordlessly. But Siobhan could see in the way his eyes crinkled around the corners that he was still amused.

She stretched out, arching her back and twisting in wringing fits, and hummed and whined. “Ugh—why did we screw so much yesterday? How are you still walking around after all of that?”

Arthur trimmed around his sideburns and spoke evenly, “You kept me trapped in this bed all day, Shiv. All I wanna do is walk around.”

Sheepishly, Siobhan returned to her cocoon, curled up and peering over the mound of blankets she walled herself into. “Heheh, fair enough.”

“If you’re too sore,” Arthur said, and started to wipe off his razor, turning to look at her. “I’ll give you a massage.”

“Hell no!” Siobhan said, guarding herself protectively, “I know what kind of massages you give, that’s how I got so damn sore in the first place!”

Arthur shook his head with a smile, “I ain’t playing.” He closed up his razor and patted his cheeks clean.

“And anyway,” She leaned up against her arm, “Too sore for what? You got plans?”

Arthur nodded, beginning to put his stuff away. Siobhan watched his every action very carefully, looking over the things he had left to do and estimating how much longer it’d take him to finish up before he’d come over to her.

He cleared his throat, setting his razors away in his little leather pouch. “Well… Mary-Beth came by and said she wanted to do somethin’ with you when you got up, but after that, I figured we’d take a day off and play some baseball.”

Siobhan was surprised to hear it, “Baseball?”

“Yeah, John and I used to play it sometimes when we could. I figure you don’t know how to play.”

“Never have.” She said. “But I can hit stuff hard.”

Arthur chuckled, “That’s half the work.”

Finally, he had put everything away and though their tent was wide open, instead of coming to Siobhan’s side, he crawled over the end of the cot and caged her in against it. Siobhan looked up at him with her lips tucked in, blushing, “I said I don’t want your massage.” Her voice a little demure.

*

Siobhan nudged his arm, reminding him, “You said we were gonna play.”

He gestured confusedly at Arthur’s back and Siobhan rolled her eyes.

“You teach kids your own age?” Travis pointed out feeling bad for her “If I was one of them kids I wouldn’t listen to a damn thing you told me baby. What with you bein’ my same age and all within this hypothetical.”

Arthur finally came back and brought bats with him. “Let me show you how to swing.” He said.

“There is.” He said, “And Travis and John and Kieran’ll get in place and show you but first you need to know how to swing.”

Siobhan watched Travis move to the center of the diamond shape Arthur’d created with the bases and Arthur handed her the bat. He grabbed her hands roughly and made her grab it specifically, with her left hand at the bottom and her right hand above it. She held it kind of loosely.

Clicking his tongue, “Hold it real tight,” he squeezed her hands, “Else you’re gonna throw it at somebody.”

So Siobhan tightened her grip and stared at Travis who was standing a couple yards in front of her, throwing a ball up into the air menacingly. She looked at Arthur, “Is he gonna throw the ball at me?”

Arthur lifted her arms by her elbows, ignoring her completely. “When you swing, you wanna bring both hands over your shoulder like this.” Siobhan tried to pay attention as she watched Travis practice swinging his arm in a circle over his shoulder like a big old mill. “And when you hit the ball, your right arm should go straight like this so that it’s in front of the other.”

“Ok.” Siobhan’s voice was light and nervous and she had ingested none of what Arthur said. She hated things being thrown at her.

He took a step back, “Now all you gotta do is hit the ball and run the bases.”

Siobhan looked at Arthur, her face written with worry, but he was looking at Travis and signaled for him to throw the ball. She had no choice but to turn and prepare to hit it,—though she wanted nothing more than to throw the bat to the ground and run away—and try her best not to flinch at an object being propelled towards her rapidly.

Arthur took a couple good paces back away from Siobhan and watched as she stood terribly straight and as Travis pitched weakly—afraid, probably, to launch the ball directly at her head—she completely missed the ball and cheered, dropping the bat to her feet.

Travis gestured at her, “The Hell are you cheering for? That’s a strike.”

Arthur waved his hand dismissively, “She’s learning, screw the strikes.” Siobhan looked between the two as there seemed to be some disagreement between them about how easy they should be going on her. “Take the bat again, Shiv, I’ll pitch this time. But you gotta remember,” She looked at him, “If you hit the ball, you gotta run.”

“Okay.” She said, and looked around the bases. They were spread out wide but she could be fast when she needed to be, so it was not very intimidating. So Travis and Arthur switched places and Lenny and Kieran came back and watched the two. Siobhan shook like a scared dog all of a sudden, “Wait, Arthur I don’t want you to throw!”

Arthur held the ball and stared at her, “Why?”

“You’re way stronger than Travis—”

Arthur chuckled, “I’m not gonna hit you, Shiv.” He squeezed the ball, “C’mon now, don’t be scared.”

She barreled into him, howling with her own excited laughter, and yelled, “Did I do it?! Did I win?”

Arthur’s eyes were bent at the corners with a bright smile and he shook his head, “You threw the bat at Travis, sweetheart!”

Siobhan’s eyes widened and she looked over at him where he was doubled over on the ground with his hands between his legs, groaning. Lenny and Kieran stood over him laughing their heads off. She was mortified, and broke free of Arthur’s hands and ran over to him, covering her mouth, “Oh no!”

“f*ckin’! f*ck—not the! Balls?!” He writhed on the ground moaning and groaning and, she swore, drooling! She’d never hit somebody so hard they started drooling before!

She got to her knees and threw her hands at him, but didn’t touch him. She didn’t know what to do! “I’m sorry! Are you okay? I’m so sorry!” She covered her mouth, staring at him in complete embarrassment and concern.

Arthur watched her look up to him helplessly as he came over, shaking his head with laughter. Everybody but Siobhan and Travis were in stitches. He leaned down and got Travis by the forearm, tugging him up to his feet for Siobhan’s sake, “Come on, man. Walk it off.”

Siobhan tried to help him up too, though he was still wincing and groaning. He wiped the spit from his chin and limped back toward the benches. Siobhan followed after him, “I’m so sorry!”

Travis shook his head throwing his hand back at her. His voice was all tight with pain and he didn’t want her to feel too bad “Don’t… worry about it. I’ll be fine in… just need a second.”

Arthur was just laughing at him. Completely merciless. "It ain't that bad!" Mocking now, "I've seen tougher schoolgirls."

Travis stared up at him still cradling his junk “I know! You're married to one!"

Siobhan gaped in surprise and she and Arthur both looked at each other. But Siobhan was the first to laugh because, she figured, Arthur had walked face-first into that one and Travis was not entirely wrong. She instead snickered while Arthur agreed, "You know what, you ain't wrong, Mr. Hay. Siobhan certainly is tougher than you."

Arthur held the bat out for her. She shook her head fervently. “No!”

Arthur barked out a laugh, he couldn’t blame her. He came over and wrapped his arm around her shoulders and kissed her temple. “I’ll play for a bit, you’ll bounce back.”

Siobhan shook her head grimly and let him take her place gladly. She watched him from the sidelines as he and the others played much much better than her and with fewer injuries. Which was to say zero injuries. And with Siobhan off the field, John came back and joined the game.

And though she was fully glad to watch Arthur play, as he looked as happy and unconstrained by stress as she’d ever seen him, he, on the other hand, felt a little bad for Siobhan—markedly, not Travis. So he came to her side for a quick break between games and though Travis had long rejoined the game, Siobhan insisted she should not play again.

“C’mon, Shiv, you’ll like it.” He assured her, putting his hand on her thigh as if he was gonna horse-bite her if she said no. So she pushed his hand away just in case because she hated the feeling of being horse-bitten on her thigh. But it made Arthur think she was even more upset than she was, “Hey…”

She raised the pitch of her voice in an attempt to reassure him, “I’m fine watching, Arthur, really.”

Arthur shook his head, “But I like watching you play. You didn’t even get to see how far you launched that ball, Shiv.” She wasn’t brooding and she wished Arthur did not treat her like she was, and got a little annoyed. But he continued, “Just hold the bat tighter. And if you end up tossing it again anyway, make sure you aim for Travis and not me.”

Siobhan snorted, looking at him. “Thank God it wasn’t you.” She poked at his thighs, “That’s my best friend down there.”

Arthur made a face of slight discomfort at her, “You’re so weird.” He snatched her hand and stood up, “Come on. Play one more game and I’ll get you somethin’.”

Siobhan bolted up, “Get me what?”

“I don’t know.” He shrugged, “Whatever you want.”

“A bed!” She exclaimed. She was tickled pink. “We can get a bed tomorrow and put it in the bedroom!”

“The bedroom ain’t even done, Shiv. There’s no windows or doors. Hell, there ain’t even any walls!” Arthur could not make sense of this request but found it endearing regardless.

Siobhan shook her head, “If I play anymore Goddamn baseball, I want to go look at some catalogs and pick out a bed. Tomorrow!”

Arthur took a deep breath and put his arm around her. “Alright, whatever you say.”

So Siobhan acquiesced and batted for Arthur’s pitching again and found after a few rounds she really didn’t mind it so much. And by the second game she found she quite enjoyed outrunning all the men as they scrambled after her badly hit baseball and struggled to make it to whichever base she was approaching before her. Only Lenny and Travis were able to keep any sort of speed with her when she was determined to make it somewhere before the rest of them, but even still, she could outrun them six out of ten times. Which was good enough for her.

“Will do!” Siobhan happily announced as she tramped over and took the bat from Arthur’s extended hand and faced the bases with a wicked grin. Travis stepped back from the Sheriff, snickering as he hid his badge.

Hallock peered past him, watching the game with half of his attention, “Well ain’t it funny you should think so?” He snorted, then, interrupted, “Siobhan really isn’t good at that game is she?”

Hallock took a deep breath and scratched his beard, “I can’t be too certain about it either way but…” He nodded, “It was bad over there. Makes Dutch look like Robin Hood.”

“Well, I can see this bothers you, Sheriff, but it sounds like good news to me.” Arthur said. “Pinkertons ain’t gonna be botherin’ us no more.”

Paul turned to look and saw Siobhan and everyone else gathered around the edge of the fence where there stood before them some big-horned creature. Siobhan’s hair flew over her shoulder as she turned her head and yelled, “COW!”

Arthur squinted, “That’s a bull!”

Hallock frowned at Arthur with a half-crooked mouth. “Do you want me to say it in Spanish?”

Arthur rolled his eyes, “And you wonder why no-one gets along with you.”

“The Pinkertons might be distracted for a little while but they’re never gonna forget about Dutch. There’s too much money to be made off bringing in a big dog like him. If you keep Dutch here, the Pinkertons are gonna come here one way or another.” Hallock said, and shrugged, “There’s only so much I can do to disabuse them of that.”

So he created a falsehood to face Siobhan’s husband with, “I don’t agree with the Pinkertons’ way of approaching law enforcement. They’re dirty killers, no better than the outlaws they hunt down.”

Which, he realized pretty immediately after saying, wasn’t a falsehood at all. He truly believed it. It made him laugh a little bit, thinking himself just too damn clever.

Arthur sighed, “Shiv don’t particularly like the idea of getting rid of him. She’s worried it’ll split everybody up, I think.”

“Sheriff, is it legal to shoot the cow?” Siobhan looked over Arthur’s side, summoning Paul over.

Arthur didn’t seem too deferent to the laws of the land, “Shiv, go get my gun. If he gets through the fence, I’m shooting him.”

Siobhan looked up at him with a cinched brow and scoffed, “Ffh,—yeah right! I’m not gonna be an accessory to his murder. I petted him and we bonded. I won’t betray my friend.”

“Don’t bother,” Paul interrupted, “I’ll bring one of Helena’s boys over to come round him up.”

She shot back, “Aren’t you supposed to be building?

“Sorry Mr. Morgan. I was only joking anyway I love talking to her. Siobhan’s got the kind of mouth that makes you want to—” Travis stared at Arthur impishly as he turned his head with menace ready to strangle him to death. Travis laughed it off “You thought I was gonna say something dirty about your girl. No she has the kind of mouth that makes you want to plug your ears…” Travis mused and after a beat snorted “And then put your pizzle in it.”

Those few seconds of self-amused silence were brief before he was knocked to the ground with a bursting pain in his cracking nose. He fought at hands that were gripping his collar and through his pain, squinted, spitting. Arthur held his fist up, ready to strike him again, “I like you, Travis, but if you talk like that about my wife again I’ll make damn sure you don’t like me.”

Travis spat blood thick as chaw once again and shook his head “Goddamn van der Linde’s.”

Arthur continued walking toward the porch to get the tools as he asked of Travis. He huffed and after a beat followed after him shaking his head for all the mess he’d gotten himself into. Thinking how he could be at home in Blackwater just relaxing and let everyone else do his work for him save himself the excitement.

Chapter 7: — THIS BEARD IS FOR SIOBHAN [NSFW]

Chapter Text

FEBRUARY 22, 1900
New Almaden, CA

Sean was shaking his head, looking so torn up he could’ve been on the verge of tears as he shuffled in and past Karen, “Shut up, all of youse! I need a drink.”

As the energy of the room shifted to follow Sean out or stay put and laugh as he marched past, Siobhan turned back to Arthur. She put his hands on the keyboard, determined to teach him how to play.

“Play these two keys with your ring or your pinky and this one with your pointer or your thumb.” Siobhan instructed, “Bum-bah, bum-bah, and then go down two keys and do the same; bum-bahbum-bah, over and over.”

Arthur copied it near perfectly, but only went down one key instead of two on the second measure, “Like that?”

Siobhan moved his hand down a key and he played it correctly. She nodded and lifted her right hand to the keys and, on Arthur’s beat, added a simple melody which increased in pitch at Arthur’s suggestion, until around the fourth measure when she improvised an arpeggio. By the third measure, Arthur was so concentrated simply keeping time that he didn’t notice Siobhan inch her left hand over Arthur’s thigh. And when she gently curved her hand against his fly, he missed a beat and hit the wrong note blatantly.

Siobhan moved her hand, saying, “Keep going.” And added her left into the mix, throwing in a lower pitch to the melody. She didn’t look at him, the house roared with life all around them. It seemed no-one but Arthur noticed it.

Arthur looked at the side of her face in surprise at what she had done, but she looked so perfectly neutral he had half a mind to believe he’d imagined it. After a bit, her left hand dropped to his thigh again, and Arthur was so fixated on her that his playing became offhand, he played it perfectly.

Siobhan finally curved her shining lips into a sly smile as she shot him a look out of the corner of her eye, pressing her hand into his inner thigh. Arthur tried to give her a face that would elicit from her an explanation, but she quickly looked away and her hand suddenly rose again to the keys. And this time, she played with both her left and right so expertly, Arthur’s playing was reduced to a simple metronome. But when he stopped to give her the floor—as her fingers moved deftly and quickly across the board—the whole melody was uprooted and sounded bizarre.

Without stopping, she stared at him, “Keep playing.”

And as Arthur hesitantly resumed, he realized his little metronomic beat was integral to the structure of the song she created. Siobhan smiled, inclining her head back and forth like a bird, specifically to his beat. Arthur laughed, stopping, but thoroughly impressed with the both of them. Siobhan shook her head at him but he lifted his hands in surrender, “I’m no good.”

Siobhan recognized that Arthur was giving up and swiftly shifted to another song, solo. While, with one hand, nudging him in the arm. She spoke under her playing and under all the laughter of the house, “It sounded great.”

Arthur softened at her compliment, though he didn’t wholeheartedly adopt it.

But some people can kill a pulse like that with the tiniest amount of pressure.— Right behind Sean, the doors opened again, and Dutch van der Linde did exactly that. Coming in, announcing himself like he were the mayor of the town. “Ladies and Gentlemen,” he said, “I bring spoils.”

With his old bowler hat upended in his hand and full of cash like an usher in the church house, he began going around the room and handing out money. Announcing, one-by-one, the bounty he and Sadie caught in New Verhalen that paid out a thousand for both him and her.

Siobhan turned her eyes from the donation box sitting on the piano and watched Dutch mete out rolls of cash himself, like Saint Nick. She looked at Arthur as the room went silent. By the look in his face, the both of them seemed to understand exactly what was going on. Why the energy of the room had been zapped though there was news of a victory; the eyes of everyone in that room save Siobhan and Arthur lit up with joy, amusem*nt, and the fruits of loyalty. Dutch had them hanging on his every word and so the room died to accommodate him.

“Thank you. All of you…” His voice trailed of with his dark color, rasped with sincerity. “I know I said some things… recently. I don’t know. But I was wrong to blame you for doubting me.”

He looked across their faces with full confidence in himself and his words. Siobhan wondered where he had stashed the paper on which he wrote this little speech. She wondered how many times he crossed out and rewrote those words; ‘I was wrong.’

“The truth is,” he proclaimed, “I can’t blame you for doubts. If I had no-one to doubt me… I would be too sure. Maybe I was too sure of some things in the past. I-I admit,” he pointed, underlining his admittance, “That. But… Thank you, all of you, for sticking by me through it. You all remind me what we do this for. I can’t forget that.”

In the corner, by some incident of the arrangement of the room, Siobhan and Travis caught each other’s eye. And Travis stood directly behind Dutch, always with Dutch’s back to him, stiff as a board, a harsher brow than she’d ever seen on him. A man so full of humor and life as Travis looked dead serious as he stared at Dutch and Siobhan wondered whether he also recognized a madman when he saw one.

*

“Shiv…” Arthur sighed, “If Dutch decides to leave and the others go with him… there’s nothin’ we can do. They’re grown people, they can make their own choices.”

Siobhan hated to hear that. It wasn’t because she didn’t know that,—she did—it was that she didn’t want to accept it. “So we just let Dutch fill their heads with lies and false promises and fairytales so they can all end up shot or hanged someday?” She shook her head and started to shuttle about again, tossing the clothes in a basket. “I could kill him!”

“And to kick Dutch out?” She, unweighed down by a pile of clothes, pinched her brow with her headache. “Don’t you see that’s exactly the point? You said it yourself, if we kick Dutch out, everyone goes with him.”

“That’s not what I said.” Arthur stated, but didn’t correct her. He felt that was a bad avenue to go down with her scowling at him the way she was. “Look, you know I love having everyone here. But you and I could also do without Dutch and clearly this is all too much for you to be worryin’ yourself over, so why not just bite the bullet? You’ll be glad once it’s over.”

“‘Too much for me?’” Siobhan scoffed, “You have no idea what’s too much for me. The amount of Dutch’s crap I’ve already put up with! Are you serious?”

Arthur’s gaze steeled with the fury of indignity. His chest was heaving with his quick breath and his blood moved so quickly through his body there was no hope of quelling that terrible erection she’d given him even now as he had no intention of making use of it.

Siobhan sighed with her trembling anger and took a deep breath. She hated when they got like this. Her voice fell like a tree, “I love you, Arthur, but I don’t want it to be just us here. I want a family. That’s all I’ve ever wanted and you know that.”

Arthur took a deep breath too. Her tone shifted into softness that sounded like she was sorry. And he couldn’t rightly fault her for being fair. He swallowed, “When it comes to families, Shiv, you are my family. I just…” His hands fell, “When we said all that stuff at the sanatorium about leaving this life behind I— I guess I just accepted that part of this gang ending was everyone going their separate ways. I’m just not afraid of that anymore.”

Siobhan crossed her arms. She tried to cover a frustrated groan, wiping her face.

“Yeah, well you’re real f*cking funny, aren’t you!” She tried to storm out.

He grabbed her by her arm, “Don’t just walk away.”

“Yes!” She shouted, “That’s right!” Siobhan was angrier than she should have been. She shouldn’t have yelled, she knew that, but Arthur shouldn’t have grabbed her like that. But now he just stared at her silently, looking at her the way he always did when they fought. Like he couldn’t take her seriously. Like she was a little fussing foal to be sweetly amused at and nothing more.

But the fact of it was that he could see right through her. Straight to the lava that coursed through her veins and glowed and was, in fact, not anger,—but something else entirely. He probably knew it the second she called him ‘sugar co*ck.’ Implying it worked on her. Which it did. It always did.

He took a step forward, “Then I won’t touch you.” He said gruffly and with a permanence that made her break apart with anger redoubled because she knew how he could be when he wanted to prove a point to her. ‘I won’t touch you’ could easily have meant ‘I’ll never touch you again,’ and she could not have that.

And of course Arthur could cope with it. God, just to look at her… he thought, even right now.

She was overcome with indignance, but something else took authority over her actions and she just grabbed his jaw and kissed him fiercely. He moaned into the kiss, almost giving up instantly,—completely. He put his hands on her waist—glorious for those hot seconds—but she pushed him back. It was over as soon as it started. She stared at him in some kind of rough anger, as if her arousal had taken over her better senses and she remembered she ought to be mad at him. But Arthur only wanted her more like this, and he reached forward with two steps and pulled her face up to his. Devouring her from above with his open-jawed kisses.

Siobhan complained with a bratty whine and tried to wriggle away from his kisses, but he fought to keep her in place. Wringing one hand through her hair and tucking his other under her armpit, pulling her against him. With no other alternative, she bit his lip until he winced and pulled away and slapped him clean across the face for holding her hostage, “You’re not gonna shut me up like that!”

Arthur whipped back, indignant, guarding his stinging cheek, “You kissed me!”

“Ugh!” She threw her hands up and started to go out the room but Arthur ran up behind her and took her by the waist, picking her up. Siobhan beat at his hands, “Let f*cking go!”

“Lower your voice, for f*ck’s sake!” Arthur shouted, exactly at her volume. He walked backwards, only tightening his arms around her waist, turned around and tossed her weightlessly onto the bed. She bounced on the squeaky boxspring and picked hair out of her mouth, huffing. Arthur spoke up, “You gonna let me talk?”

Siobhan stared up at him in serious frustration, debating just running back out again. Her voice creaked with a tight groan. But she tried to even her breath, “You keep grabbing me!”

Arthur’s face was red with irritation, “You’re just tryna run away like you always do. And the way you’re yelling, someone’s gonna think I’m beating you senseless in here!”

“‘Like I always do?!’” Siobhan stood up, incensed all over again.

Arthur put his hands out, “You know what I mean!”

Siobhan didn’t want to be unreasonable, she knew she often had a needlessly short temper. So she tried to calm herself. After a deep breath, though relatively short, she considered that he was right. She always ran away from things that intimidated her. Especially concerning Arthur. So she sat back down. “I’m not gonna apologize for hitting you. Obviously, I wanted you to stop kissing me.”

Arthur shook his head, looking away from her for his frustration, “You kissed me first.”

“Do you want to be children about this?!” Siobhan said, looking up at him.

“I’m sorry!” Arthur yelled. It came out completely insincere and only made Siobhan more angry. “But it ain’t like you don’t play around with me all the damn time, acting like you don’t want somethin’ you really do.”

Siobhan looked at the ground, moody. She could sense some kind of insecurity in the way he said it that made her think she’d really upset him. She sighed, “I’m sorry for hitting you. I just…”

“Thought you wasn’t gonna apologize for that. Since it was so ‘obvious.’” Arthur bickered.

Siobhan looked up at him, hurt. “Arthur!”

Arthur knew he was being unreasonable. It begrudged him to know it and to know that he needed to be better than that. He wasn’t used to being better than that. He swallowed his frustration and asked again, “Can I talk?”

She crossed her arms, “Fine. Talk.”

“Are you gonna interrupt me?” He narrowed his eyes at her.

Siobhan shifted her eyes to the floor and reluctantly groaned, “No.”

The thought of leaving it alone terrified Arthur. He could never explain it to Siobhan. Could never, to her face, compare her to Mary and Eliza. But if he didn’t fix it, it would fester. It would all add up. She would resent it eventually. He knew it; it had happened before. He had to surrender. He crouched down in front of her, “I don’t think this is really about Dutch.”

She gawked at him, “What the Hell else wou—!”

“Hey!” He interrupted her, staring, “You said you weren’t gonna inter—”

“I know! I just...” She grumbled, clenching her fist. “Nevermind.”

“I don’t think Dutch really the problem here.” He repeated and his sad eyes drooped with a tiny squint, “I think it’s me.”

“Of COURSE you do!” She stood up. Arthur yanked her back down onto the bed with a furious grip on her thighs that bit down to the bone. “Owh!”

He looked up at her, still horse-biting her legs, “Sit the hell down and let me finish, girl! Christ!” Petulantly, she tore his hands off her legs but stayed put as she was asked. Arthur was satisfied with that, though very little else. “I think you’re afraid of being alone with me. Only time we’ve ever been alone together is when we was sick. You’re afraid of that.”

Siobhan laughed mockingly, leaning back, “What?!” She fell back against the bed, kicking her feet forward far enough to land a toe in his chest. He grabbed her ankle just to keep it from hitting him in the jaw and stared up over her body with fury barely withheld. She sat up again, still laughing, “You think I’m afraid we’re gonna get tuberculosis again?!”

So she swallowed whatever pill of grief that was meant to be and locked it back up the way it was before. The way she locked it up immediately that night and tried never to imagine what her life would have been like if he had actually gone through with leaving her. Tried to pull her gut up from the ground at the knowledge, in the back of her mind, that he’d likely be dead if he had.

The only way she knew to hide her fear was to front with anger. But she was so fully distracted from everything that had just incensed her so that she could only think to insult him. And it all came rushing out before she could hush it! “You must be full-blown crazy if you think I’m the one who’s afraid of that.”

Arthur recoiled. He had seen how her face fell with despair. So what was this?

“If either of us should be afraid of the other leaving it’s you! I’m young and pretty and there’s no shortage of men your age willing to drop to my feet like you are right now.” Siobhan said, her face twisted with bitter cruelty. Almost smiling, she fell right into it.

She stood up and followed after him. “You can’t keep up with me. I’m too young for you to relate to, too feminine for you to understand, too pretty for you to deserve. All you can do is lust after me like the sad, dirty old pervert you are.”

Arthur suddenly turned around and took a step toward her. There was a warning in his eye and she shut her mouth instantly, staring up at him like a dog tucks his tail. They stared each other down and she swore she had done it now. Swore he was finally gonna give up the nuturing, caring act of trying to fix everything for her; prop up her feather pillow and kiss her feet. She swore now he was going to get mean. She swore now it was going to get ugly.

But she looked down and could see he was aroused. Aroused!

His hard-on was even more prominent than before. Her mouth watered. She looked him in the eye, biting her lip. Arthur’s fist tightened, suddenly dizzy with the shift in tone. Siobhan’s eyes went wide at the sight and she almost frightened herself with the excitement her body stunned her with (couldn’t control it!) at the sudden wish that he would strike her. At once her stomach turned in disgust and also a feral, feral lust. She unbuttoned her shirt.

Arthur’s mouth went dry as she stopped in front of him—exposing her sternum beneath the shifting ‘V’ of her half-undone shirt. She started to fight for control of his belt and Arthur took her by the wrists, “I’m not in the mood anymore.”

“Okay.” She acknowledged in feigned compassion and pulled at his button and fly.

“I’m serious.” He said, and grabbed her arm.

She dropped to her knees as her hand fought underneath his cotton waistband to the warmth that waited for her, “Be quiet.”

Running from his surprise, she tore the tarpaulin aside and marched into the living room, her heart beating with need. Follow me… she begged, throw me to the ground and shut me up! “I hate you!”

Arthur went after her and pushed her back into the front door, grabbing her jaw, “You’re a goddamn child!”

Siobhan’s face was wicked.

“You throw a tantrum any time you don’t get your way!” His eyes charted her face so rapidly, she could not discern where he was looking. She couldn’t tease his eye to the most tempting place. She smacked his hand away and he grabbed her wrist, holding his above her head. He lowered his face to her neck, “You’re a spoiled brat and a headache and a heart attack and you’re my goddamn woman! I’ll touch you wherever I damn well like.”

Siobhan gulped, praying he wouldn’t look down and see how her nipples hardened and her knees rubbed helplessly together. She tried to put any amount of strength into her voice that wouldn’t turn into a feral moan. “Go buy yourself a whor* if that’s what you want.”

Arthur chuckled. A dark, Godawful earthquake of a laugh that tore vibrations through her skin. Her entire body felt prickled suddenly with cold goosebumps. “There ain’t a woman on this planet who could satisfy me after layin’ with you, Shiv. Even when you act like a spoiled little girl.”

Siobhan’s head felt full of air. Her body ached from her center out, a plunging white heat. She almost felt sick. She swallowed, looking directly at his lips. Her voice was breathless, dry, aching. She could barely speak, “You… are the most… selfish, mean, dirty… awful, sick, evil man.” She looked him in the eye, “I wish I had never married you.”

“You’ve never been a good liar, sweetheart.” Arthur’s hand tightened over her wrist. Her fingers went numb, her face twisted like she was going to cry. He wanted to bite into those gorgeous lips and make her yelp. The hold she had on his heart could kill him. “The state of you, Shiv.” He chuckled, deflecting his own state completely, “I should teach you a lesson before you come full undone.”

Arthur looked down at her carefully, studying how her chest stuttered for breath. He could practically see her pulse racing in the veins of her neck. She whined and bit down on her lip. Near silently, she swore, “Please.”

Arthur sank his mouth over her neck and quietly groaned, “Shiv. We’re getting pretty rough with each other.”

Siobhan rubbed her knees together. She didn’t say anything. Couldn’t spit out more than two words if she even tried, she was sure.

Arthur’s breath cooled her pulse, “I need you to tell me you actually want this.”

She nodded, rubbing her cheek up and down in his greasy, tussocky hair, “I want, I want, I want.” She sank to her knees, squished against the wall, and tugged at his pants, “I want, I want, I want!”

“Ohhh, dirty girl.” He taunted her with his breathy chuckle and pulled her up to her feet with a merciless tug of her hair until she was hissing. He gave her a couple of hard, bruising kisses, all teeth and jaw. “I’m not mad at you, babygirl. But goddamn—I wanna be mean to you.”

Siobhan’s eyes were wide with anticipation and she smiled. Arthur couldn’t believe that she would smile. He smiled right back, kissing her again. A slow, grateful kiss that promised everything he was going to do to her was out of this exact love—perhaps not gentle, but passionate.

As the kiss stopped and Siobhan opened her shy eyes to his, he slowly slid his fingers into her hair. And as he tightened his grip, he whispered, “Don’t let me get too carried away.”

Siobhan blushed with her smile. The apples of her cheeks pitted with dimples in the corner of her smile lines. He was fairly certain, by that devious look, that she didn’t take him totally seriously. He pulled her with him as he walked gently backward, “Promise?”

Siobhan smiled with her shameless gaze and nodded. “I promise.”

Arthur smirked, tried to hide his pride. He loved this brave girl. Infuriating and perfect; shy, sheltered, and prissy, but brave and hungry. She was just what he needed to temper his brutishness, entice his repression, and feed on his lonely reserves. He pushed her against the vanity and tore at her clothes.

She gasped, looking back as he tore her skirt. He slapped her hard across the ass, and she cried out. “Arthur!”

“I’ll get you a new one later.” He gave a growl for an apology and grazed the redness there with love, but his tone was anything but loving, “Right now… Jesus. I’m gonna f*ck you until you fall over.”

Siobhan whined, wiggling her needy hips against his erection, “Please—I wanna look at you.”

“Don’t start with that, now, Shiv. ‘Please’ ain’t gonna do you any good.” Arthur reached forward and took her by the jaw, directing her face to the mirror, “Look at me.”

His hand lowered as he tore open her blouse and grabbed one of her breasts. With his other hand, he spat into his palm, stroked his co*ck, and lined it up against her. She shut her eyes, “This is embarrassing.”

“Mmmh. But, damn you’re cute. Look how cute you are.” He leaned forward and nestled his cheek against hers. “So f*cking prissy, Shiv.”

She wanted it?!

Arthur loved to hear her moan like this, with reluctance. Having her on the verge of a pleasure she had convinced herself, pointlessly, that she should never feel. He loved to watch her body shake on the precipice of diving head-first into sin. The kind of feeling he had grown grossly accustomed to since meeting her. He knew the kind of bliss that waited on the other side of the threshold of taboo. Still, his voice crooned angelic in her ear, like the breaking of a wave, “I won’t do anything you don’t want, Angel.”

She shut her eyes again, couldn’t handle the sight of being bent over her vanity like a prostitute, no matter how much she loved it. It was shameful.

Her cheeks and ears burned red. Her pulse was in her ears.— Vision darkening around the edges. She’d never heard such a thing, “What?”

“Order me around. Let me take you the way you want it. Let me be rough the way you like it.” He took a fistful of her beautifully thick hair. So soft and shiny. It filled his palm with a satisfying weight and tugged her head back just enough that he could get her back to arch even deeper.

Arthur opened his panting mouth against her shoulder, scratching her lightly with his teeth, “You give this dirty, rough man a reason to be so dirty and rough, Angel. I need you.”

Siobhan’s eyes were squeezed shut, like an orange being juiced, tears streamed down her cheek with breathless spasms. Her entire brain had gone blinding white and she stood with a shivering stiffness. All of her muscles quaking with desperation on the tips of her toes, straining all up and down her legs. She hadn’t even realized how she nearly collapsed forward until she hit some resistance on her chest, punching the breath clean out of her lungs, and she was lowered gently against the vanity. She thought for a pulsing second she had cum, but it was so brief and so deep inside her that she wasn’t quite sure.

She reached back behind her and grabbed Arthur’s wrist desperately, curling her torso sideways as her thighs hit the edge of the table.

Arthur kept his hands perfectly in place, but asked as he thrust deeply, “You want me to stop?”

“No!” She howled, curling up against herself and pulling at the hand that Arthur had halfway in her ass. She gripped him until her knuckles were white, “It’s just—” she was panting for breath, “Hhh—so… tight!”

Arthur bent over her, his face stern, “God—yes it is.” He couldn’t believe that she’d let him do this to her. No woman ever had, and he didn’t blame them either. He could imagine reacting just as, if not more hesitant, were he in Siobhan’s position.

But, oh, how she trembled around his body. The entirety of her small self just aching and bucking and shaking to be so full of him. As he fingerf*cked her pretty little ass just as hard as he f*cked her c*nt, and destroying all strength in her body with the overwhelming pleasure of it—god, he could do this forever.

Siobhan clenched her fists, unable to crane her neck back as she did before. Arthur had to pull her back by her hair just to get his tongue in her mouth like he wanted. Stealing all her breath for himself, eating away at her in every capacity.

All of his nerves were on fire. No matter how much they f*cked, when Siobhan was mad, nothing could keep him off her. She was too delicious, that short-fused temper and how it lit her body up. But within those hungry kisses, Siobhan’s knees went limp and she nearly slipped down to the floor.

Arthur quickly grabbed her by the hips rather than the scalp to hold her upright.

Arthur shook his head and swooped low to pick her up. She swooned into his arms, limp as a noodle. He took her back towards the bed, “You look like I just banged the life out of you.”

She could barely speak as he laid her down, “Maybe…. You don’t have to— whew— make me cum as hard as possible every. Single. Time...” She wiped her face weakly of tears and sweat and looked up at him, “Then maybe I wouldn’t look like you just banged the life out of me.”

He frowned as he crawled over her legs, “Did I make you cum as hard as possible?”

“Yes.” She said will full confidence.

“Really?” He co*cked his head to the side and grabbed her thighs, pulling them apart. “I ain’t too sure… I think I need to try again. Just to be safe.”

“I almost toppled over!” Siobhan protested half-heartedly, resting her ankles on his shoulders happily.

He leaned forward and kissed her, wiping her hair back out of her face and caressing her soft hair. He kissed her forehead too, “You can’t fall off the bed.”

Siobhan gently scratched his beard, caressing his face as she look him in the eyes. “I still haven’t even recovered from the other day.”

Arthur smirked, “Neither have I.”

“Liar!” Siobhan laughed, looking down and biting her lip as Arthur lined himself up for her c*nt again. “You’re more than recovered.”

Arthur kept rubbing his co*ckhead against her c*nt and grinned, “Well…” he admitted. “If one hole’s too sore, I’d be happy to f*ck the other.”

Siobhan’s eyes widened and she gasped. Arthur mimicked her face, clearly indicating that he was not entirely serious, but Siobhan was still shocked. She bit her lip, her brow furrowing, “You’re so dirty.”

“And yet your legs are open same as mine.” Arthur said, licking his lips. He leaned forward and pecked her with a tiny kiss, whispering, “I’m just playin’.” Before kissing her deeply.

Siobhan moaned into the kiss and mumbled, “I know.” She reached down between her legs and pulled at his length, pushing him inside her. Arthur pulled away from her mouth to hiss and groan and look into her eyes as his co*ck plunged deep into her c*nt. No more resistance, not from this angle, her hot c*nt sucked him right in.

He staggered a bit, losing his balancing hand and nearly knocked her in the face with his own, but caught himself on his elbow, swearing, “f*ck!”

Siobhan pushed his shoulder up, giggling, “Careful, honey, you’re toppling over, too.”

Arthur chuckled a little bit through his biting moan, and steadied himself through his blindness to keep thrusting into her. He realigned himself and kissed her again, “Sorry.” He said, his voice low and quiet. “I always forget how good you feel like this.”

Siobhan put her hands on his jaw and neck, pulling him into her kisses, nibbling on his lips. She could tell by the way his arms and legs trembled that he had staved off his org*sm for as long as he could and was nearing his limit. And she, reeling underneath him in her own pleasure, would let him finish however he liked. He gasped against her collarbones the second his head dropped, wetting her skin with his breath. Her thighs rocking back and forth, her feet bouncing limply over his thighs—Arthur tried to squeeze himself at the base of his co*ck and relish it a little longer.

But Siobhan yanked at his wrist, “Don’t hold back, baby.” She smiled, wondering what would happen. “Cum however you like.”

Arthur’s eyes grew wild over her like she had stuck a dagger to his throat and he suddenly—without breaking eye contact—pulled out of her and thrust raggedly into his hand, covering her stomach in cum. He gripped the sheets beside her head, his face cinching up tightly as he squeezed his eyes shut and groaned loudly with his org*sm, as he always did. “Shiv?! f*ck!”

Siobhan watched in delight as that perfect white liquid thickly dripped from his swollen co*ckhead. Glazed almost white, and pulsing. He looked like he was going to gag as he backed away from her, but she had long gotten used to that, and knew it was far from displeasure which he was displaying. She smiled in pride as she stretched her legs and arms, letting her head fall back and relaxing all her muscles.

Arthur wiped his face and ran his hand through his hair. First she felt his hand on her thigh, the first sign of him overcoming his org*sm. “f*ck, Shiv… I was tryna last longer for you, sweetheart. Christ almighty…”

Siobhan giggled, “You don’t have to. I can just f*ck you again if I need to.”

Arthur closed his eyes with his exhaling laugh. “You—…” he shook his head, “You’re somethin’ else, Shiv.”

She was pleased to hear it.

Then he leaned forward and kissed all around her torso, avoiding the whitened spots of spilled cum. He took a deep breath and his voice was exhausted, “Let me get you something to clean up with.”

Siobhan leaned onto her elbows just to watch him walk across the room. She could see in the nuance of his movements how his body was recalibrating from sex. She loved it when he was like this. He was a different man. Soft and vulnerable, completely torn apart with devotion. He sat by her side as she wiped herself clean and he tossed the rag aside, leaning over her. He licked his lips, “D’you enjoy that?” He slurred a little bit.

Siobhan smiled against his lips, “Yes. Very much.”

His fingers slowly slid up her inner thigh, lowering his voice intentionally against her skin, “Did you cum?”

Siobhan blushed, “I think so.”

His voice was colored with indignation, “You think so?” He lowered himself off the edge of the bed and, tsk, tsk, tsk, yanked her by her thighs until he was crouched between her legs, “That ain’t good enough.”

Siobhan’s thighs started to tremble, teased with shivering touches. “Arthurrr!”

“Tell me what you want.” He kissed her thighs, holding them up in his palms. Giving her looks underneath his heavy brow.

“Mmmh! You know how I like it, Arthur.” Siobhan begged, kicking her legs lightly against his back. His hot hand then covered her c*nt. Dry, coarse fingers just caressing her inner thigh, barely making it where she really wanted him. She could imagine the smirk on his face as he did it. Skirting the border of her trimmed hair with his light little touches.

And in their sudden absence, she heard him lick his fingers and spit in his palm. He distracted her,—his hand slid up her side and found hers, interlocking with safety, assurance, love—as her fingers slid through his, he pushed a finger inside her. She curled up instantly, contracting, body and soul, in a way Arthur had grown used to. The way she scratched away from him and yet would rip his head off if he stopped. He’d grown adept to f*cking her and subduing her at the same time. Fighting her limbs down until she was still only enough that he could touch her the way she needed to be touched.— He licked her right where his finger pumped in and out of her.

Siobhan lifted herself on her elbows, stretching fully on her back to look down. She squeezed his hand tightly as her thighs twitched, “Just like that…” She panted as he opened his mouth over her c*nt, flicking his tongue and sucking her cl*t right against his tongue, gently teething. “Ohhhh God…”

She reached above her head suddenly, grasping at the pillows on the bed, scratching the wall, her whole body curling. Arthur spoke against her c*nt, raising his voice just so he wouldn’t have to raise his head, “Ride my face, Shiv.”

Siobhan melted. She pushed his hand into the bed under the force of her own grip as she rocked her hips, digging her heels into his back. “Fuuuuuck!”

Arthur was ready for it. Loved the sensation of her c*nt pressing, rubbing, up and down over his nose. Filling his senses with her delicious scent, overflowing his mouth with her arousal and sweat and his spit and tears. He loved when his mouth was so full of her c*nt that he could choke on all the fluid in his mouth and smothering his face. He loved when it was all he could smell for hours and hours after. He loved how she squeezed his hand every time he licked her just the way she liked—or when his finger gently pressed against that soft, pliant divot inside of her that his co*ck could only press into directly at certain angles, and when she screamed out in pleasure as he did it. He did it all knowing that there was not another man on the earth who’d ever know the pleasure of having Siobhan Morgan in his mouth or wrapped around his fingers or his co*ck. And with that knowledge, he could die happy.

Siobhan was guttered with tears herself. Not from a lack of oxygen or gagging on a flood of saliva like Arthur was. But simply out of the twisting pleasure of it all. Coiling like clockwork machinery inside of her, tense and clicking. She pulled and pulled at his hand, not for a second did he let go of hers. He rose up as Siobhan gaped, digging her head into the mattress.

The springs screeched as Arthur got beside her, feverishly watching her desperation unravel as he left her untouched for those few immortal seconds where he sucked his fingers clean and then soaking wet. And finally, he put his finger back inside of her, with the very welcome addition of another, and watched Siobhan coil up all over again.

“That’s it, Shiv. Real good, girl, real good.” He licked his lips, gazing lovingly at her tortured little face.

Siobhan’s eyes slowly fluttered open and she looked up at Arthur, almost in shock at how he looked at her. She felt nothing but safety in that loving face of his. Something content, fulfilled, beatific. He looked at her either as if she was all he needed in the world or had given him all he needed in the world. It killed her heart. Stopped beating clean in the center of her chest as her breath all went out and she cried, breaking over the peak of her sudden org*sm.

Infected by the purling beneath his palm, Arthur’s heart throbbed as he felt her cum on his hand. Her knees nictitating as she reached her peak, opening and closing over and over. She cried out in bliss and pressed her hand to her mouth as she felt it pass.

Arthur laid himself down beside her and kissed her stomach lovingly. Pressed his nose into the soft spot beside her bellybutton and took a deep breath. He looked up at her as she did the same, her stomach rising with air. She was covering her face with her hands. Arthur raised himself up, planting his hand on the bed, “You okay?”

Suddenly, she tossed her legs to the edge of the bed and sat up, burying her face in her hands. Her spine poked out jaggedly as she nakedly slumped forward, away from Arthur, and began to sob. Arthur’s heart dropped and he threw his legs over too and sat beside her, “Hey, hey, hey. What’s wrong?”

With the absence of all that excitement, and as it died down inside her body, Siobhan realized how much she regret everything she said. She shook her head, sobbing and sniffling. “I’m so terrible!” She said

Arthur put his arm around her, trying to goad her into sitting up a little straighter so he might be able to see her face. But she was obstinate. So he simply wiped her hair from her face, his heart breaking for all the number of things he did that might have made her cry like this, and tried to understand it. “You’re not terrible, Shiv. What are you talkin’ about?”

She shook her head again, “I-I’m not g-honna LEAVE you! I’m not too g-hood for you! You’re not a-a p-pervert!” She threw herself suddenly into his arms, “I’m so sorry! I’m sorry, I’m sorry! It was so mean.”

Arthur gently patted her back, amazed. He took a deep breath, “It’s ok, Shiv…” She wet his neck with tears and hung onto him with so much guilt dripping off of her. He tried not to laugh at how sweetly dramatic she was. “I know you didn’t mean none of that.”

“I hate fighting. I always say things I don’t mean.” She lamented, sniffling. She wiped her nose all over his neck and shoulder and covered him with a mixture of snot and tears all over but she was too distracted to realize and Arthur didn’t care at all. “Why do you let me yell at you?”

Arthur laughed, squeezing her tightly. “What am I gonna do, hit you? Yell at me all you like, Shiv. I’m a grown man.” He kissed her neck, “I’d be crazy to let it get to me. You’re just a—” He stopped himself.

He meant it in the sweetest possible way, ‘you’re just a kid,’ but he knew, considering what they just got through doing, that it would come out all wrong and beyond that, it would probably make her feel worse. He didn’t wanna undermine her feelings, but at the same time, he could acknowledge that they came—sometimes—from a place of purity, innocence, and naivety that had no bearing on reality. Especially when she got angry, which was an emotion so much bigger than a slip of a girl like her that he couldn’t blame her for not knowing how to tame it. Even he, at his age, didn’t have a solution for that one.

Siobhan hung back to look at him and for the first time he saw how wide and unworldly her eyes had gotten. Green and sparkly with tears and redlined and hiding behind them a lionheart. He pursed his lips, wiping her cheek with his thumb, “I know how much you love me, sweetheart.” Is what he finally said. “No matter what you say when you’re upset.”

“W-what you said earlier…” She wiped her own eyes, staring at his pouting face, alive with sympathy. “I am a little scared of being alone with you.”

Arthur’s eyes fell and he held her tighter, “Ahh, Shiv.”

She gulped, “Not that I’m afraid you’ll leave me but what if you get sick of me? Or bored of me? I don’t wanna cage you in.”

Arthur scoffed, “Cage me in, Shiv? I don’t wanna cage you in. I’m not gonna get bored of you, sweetheart.”

“Well,” She swallowed, sniffling, “I’m not gonna get bored of you! But if you had John and everybody else around then I’d feel a lot less afraid. It wouldn’t be just me keeping you happy. You’d have a fulfilled life with lots of people.”

Arthur smiled, “You say that, but thirty years from now, when I’m a dust bag of an old man and you’re still running circles around me like you do, you’ll realize I have no right to take you for granted.”

Siobhan tucked in her lip, her chin wobbling, “Neither do I.”

Arthur shook his head. How much he loved her, he could not bear. “It makes me happy just lookin’ at you, Shiv. You don’t even have to be lookin’ back.”

She shook her head, gently scratching his stubble with her knuckles, “And you make me happy even in your sleep! I couldn’t tire of you.”

Arthur’s fingers grazed the bony jut of spine at the back of her neck, “So what’re you afraid of?”

“I don’t know.” She admitted, her voice shaky. “Sometimes I get really sad after sex. Especially if we were fighting.”

Arthur tutted, “I’m sorry for makin’ you so mad.”

Her eyes grew wider. And quietly, she asked, just drowned in insecurity, “Am I really a slu*t?”

“What?” Arthur asked, recoiling. He had almost forgotten about that. And then, remembering how betrayed she looked when he called her that, realized he had hurt her feelings. His voice lowered with softness, “Shiv, no. No, I didn’t mean it like that. No.”

Her eyebrows were tightly knit, her eyes overflowing with tears, “But isn’t it abnormal that we do such dirty stuff together? Do normal wives do that kind of stuff?”

Arthur’s face knitted with worry and regret. He remembered how he had told her something about fellati* being some horrible dirty thing that was only done in whor*houses. And here he could only admit his own terrible ignorance. “Shiv… I must have misled you, honey.”

“Not you, exactly.” She said, “But everyone’s been saying I’m such a whor*.”

“What?” Arthur searched her face, “Who?”

“Grimshaw.” She said, “Mary-Beth told me. Everyone’s been talking about it. And isn’t it true? I don’t think wives are supposed to do the kind of—”

“No, Shiv. That’s all hogwash.” He shook his head, “If you’re a slu*t, so am I. I do it all with you, don’t I?”

Siobhan’s face sparked with surprise for how serious she sounded. And then she laughed, it was ridiculous. “Men can’t be slu*ts!” She howled, “C’monnn, Arthur! I’m serious.”

Arthur sat up straighter, with conviction. “Well so am I. I’m damn well serious. Half the things you do to me, I did to you first. Doesn’t that make me the bigger whor*, huh?”

Siobhan’s heart warmed stupidly with how sweet he was. “Arthurrr.”

He shook his head, “Don’t start with that, Shiv, I’m dead serious. Susan’s got no right.” And suddenly he stood up, going after his clothes. Siobhan got up too, nervous by his sudden springy line of determination. What is he going to do?

He rambled as he pulled his pants on, “Everybody’s been saying it, huh? I can imagine who.” He shook his head, “Them that wouldn’t dare say it anywhere near me.”

Siobhan stared, covering her modesty with her bare hands. “What are you doing?”

Arthur cleared his throat, clasped his belt and waved his shirt on. “I’m gonna let everybody know.”

Siobhan’s eyes went wide and she went to him, tugging on his shirt desperately, “No, please! Don’t say anything about it. I don’t want them to think… I don’t want to dignify it.”

Arthur held her hands, pulling them off him, “I’m not gonna dignify sh*t except the truth.” He said and marched out.

Rushing with panic, Siobhan threw a robe on and ran straight into the livingroom as the front door shut behind Arthur. Her heart was beating with nerves. She couldn’t go out there now. She had no idea what he was going to say.

She stole away to the window, clutching the sill as she watched Arthur go out and shout, pointing, “Grimshaw, the rest of you, listen up!”

Siobhan had never seen him act so wild. They surely must’ve thought he was drunk.

“I had sex twice today! Twice as many times yesterday!”

Siobhan covered her face in shame. Oh, my God…

“Arthur, shut the Hell up, what the Hell is wrong with you!?” Karen shouted, “You’re drunk!”

“I’m perfectly goddamn sober, thank you, Karen!” Arthur responded, “I know there’s been some confusion as to who is and who ain’t a whor* or a slu*t or a trollop in this gang. And you should all know that it ain’t Tilly or Karen or any of the women but ME! I am a big old manwhor*—sorry Abigail!” He cleared his throat as she took Jack inside, and once the door closed he continued. “But it is the truth. So go ahead and stick that in your pipe and smoke it, Grimshaw. I’m a manwhor*!”

“Go inside, you fool.” Grimshaw bitterly shook her hand at him.

Arthur, pleased to have let it be known to as many ears as was up and about outside, walked with satisfaction back inside and found Siobhan curled over with laughter. He came to her side, smiling, “Now tell me I told a single lie, Shiv.”

She shook her head, beating her hands against his where he forced her into a hug, hysterically laughing, “You’re crazy!”

Chapter 8: — NIGHT SHIFT

Chapter Text

MARCH 14, 1900

New Almaden, CA

“Cold this morning, ain’t it?” Dutch said to Siobhan. Arthur had noticed the conversation happening feet away from him because of Siobhan, and how odd he thought it was that she could be found standing on the front porch of the house. Which, normally, she was either busy inside or outside of, but not simply lingering around. She sneezed, bending forward and wiping her face.

Arthur’s heart wrenched slightly to see her walk away from him and he wished he hadn’t been so conscious of who might’ve been watching them at any given moment and had kissed her properly. The cold blue morning seemed already colder in her absence. But Arthur was acutely aware of the shift in her demeanor—like night and day—when she spoke to him instead of Dutch.

In the space of Arthur’s speechlessness, Dutch took a step forward, “Son, regardless of what happened between Siobhan and I, at that time, I had no idea the two of you were together. She made no mention of it to me. And you were, weren’t you?”

Arthur grit his teeth. He looked Dutch’s sincerity over shrewdly, but he could not answer his question. They had not been together then. Not in anything more concrete than Arthur's sartorial protectiveness over her.

Dutch’s frown deepened, “Son.” He patted Arthur’s shoulder, “I’m sorry for it. I told her as much myself, did she mention that? Twice, I apologized for it.”

Arthur shrugged Dutch’s touch off of him. He had no idea what to make of any of it anymore. Why Arthur seemed so upset over it though Siobhan had told him not to make a thing of it. Why he stared at Dutch and felt the most twisted disgust and disappointment in him for having touched a girl so young after putting her in a situation like that. Careless of her safety, allowing a monster like Angelo Bronte to take her, and advancing on her sexually afterward.

Dutch watched Arthur leave and his mind ran with a thousand other things he could have said as he went. He could not decide whether he had said the right thing or not but the fact that Arthur couldn’t argue any further seemed a good sign that he finally believed Dutch. How easy it would have been for him, in his heart of hearts, to blame Siobhan for it all.

But no, he did not blame Siobhan, though he was sure she had disparaged him enough in Arthur’s confidence to skew his idea of Dutch and what he had done. It didn’t matter whether she had or hadn’t because Arthur’s trust and loyalty were things Dutch was already beginning to do without. Though it broke his heart to see his son turn on him so, he did not see a point in trying to win him back.

Dutch wondered how he ever found himself attracted to that girl.

*

But she didn’t always leave immediately. Most days, since she’d been teaching the younger kids, she waited with them on the street for their parents to come collect them. Sometimes a group of six or more kids would run off together and she didn’t stop them, but she rallied up any strays and kept them to her sides like a mother hen. And he watched as a little girl came up to her and held something up in the air and Arthur watched as Siobhan’s face lit up, mouth agape with wonder and surprise and she shouted something in joy.

He watched Siobhan crouch and the girl place the object on Siobhan’s head and she gave her a big hug. But when she stood up again, Arthur could see how Siobhan had started to sob and sob and all of the kids flocked to her side in a big hug.

Arthur stood for a second, his heart wrenching to see Siobhan cry. But she crouched down and hugged all of the children and shortly, the older teacher came down the schoolhouse steps and took Siobhan aside. He sat back down, wondering what had made her so upset. He thought it was sweet. The girl must have given her some sort of a crown that made Siobhan all overwhelmed, sensitive as she was.

SIOBHAN

Siobhan couldn’t believe she came here. Here. On Mary Calhoun’s stoop. She was careful to stop by the Sheriff’s office and make it seem casual, polite. Sheriff Hallock was so excited to have a guest there at the Jail with him that he didn’t even think it was strange that she simply asked after Griffin, ensuring he wasn’t home as she planned to go visit his mother.—

Here she was, knocking on the woman’s door. “Come on in, darling, I’ll be out in two shakes!”

So Siobhan relieved the dark brass door handle with her thumb and hesitantly stuck her head inside before allowing herself in. The hall was dim and chilly, and the further Siobhan walked in, the more apparently she could hear the speaking of two women. She went up the stairs and down the hall to where Siobhan knew Mary’s examination room to be. —Although, Siobhan didn’t have a name for the room herself, and would have simply called it, ‘The room where the pregnant women go.’

Siobhan went to the room and peeked her head through a crack in the door to see a woman sitting naked in a strange clinical contraption of a chair. She had her legs hoisted up into the air, spread far apart with skinny metal stirrups, inhospitable and shining. It was terrifyingly mechanical, juxtaposed so sharply against the soft, round belly of a pregnant woman. It made her shiver and back away.

She went back to the stairs and sat on the top step, waiting patiently until Mary came out. She was nervous and out of her element, but there were small little mercies. Griffin wasn’t here, Arthur didn’t know, Mary was a woman, the stairs were cozy, the house smelled nice. She had dressed warmly enough that the cold draft of the house’s lungs didn’t bother her too much.

Shortly, Siobhan could hear heels knocking against the ground and the creaking of something mechanical, so she could only assume the giant wingspread of those stirrups had been moved to set the woman free. And Mary started to say things that she couldn’t understand. The door then cracked open behind her and Siobhan nervously got to her feet, moving out of the way of the staircase.

“Good morning.” The pregnant woman said as she passed. She had long black hair coiffed up into a chignon, piercing blue eyes, thin and siren-like. Her mouth was a delicate pink triangle and her skin was clear of any imperfections. She had gorgeous round cheeks and was the polar opposite of Siobhan in every capacity.

Siobhan watched her carefully as she moved out of the way, “Good morning… Your earrings are lovely.”

The woman paused as she grasped the stair rail with her delicately gloved hand, looking at Siobhan with a gorgeous smile. The woman was glowing. She wore pregnancy beautifully. “Thank you, honey.”

‘Honey.’ Siobhan repeated in her brain, watching with wonder as the woman went. Awestruck by her beauty. Her heart skipped a beat.

Mary Calhoun’s gentle English accent poised, breaking Siobhan cruelly out of her infatuation. “So, what can I do for you, darling?”

“Uh, I—” She looked once more at the door at the base of the steps but the woman was gone. Her heart fell with the task at hand, turning back to Mary Calhoun, “I was just… I came to talk to you. I maybe, had a few questions, I guess. Um… Medical questions.”

“Medical?” Mary repeated. She took a step forward, “Are you ill?”

“No.” Siobhan kept her eyes slightly down, her ears burned bright red. “They’re… sort of… female questions, I guess. I didn’t want to see a male doctor. Last time I did that, it was very uncomfortable.”

“Yes, men aren’t quite so palatable, are they, darling?” Mary clasped her hands together, “What are your questions?”

“So… after the dinner on New Year's, you said stuff about having no reservations about—”

“A woman’s body, yes, did you not understand what I meant?” Mary eyed her, “There’s no need to dance around it, Siobhan, I’m not a man.”

Siobhan’s hands were shaking. She was nervous, scared, unsure. She’d never done this before,—any of it! And who was this woman to be so rude to her about it? Interrupting her. And always with that tone, so passive-aggressive. So superior. She had half a mind to turn around and walk out.

But she wanted advice. Needed it. Was desperate for it. She imagined a soft voice, a beautiful little room. Warm, little ribbon bows tied on white rails, a soft carpet,—the only offending object would be the metal speculum in the corner. A necessary evil to the whole ordeal of womanhood. What was this? The impatient, frazzled, and rude Mrs. Calhoun telling Siobhan not to ‘dance’ around a question she worried would solidify her a place in a ringed, burning furnace in Hell. A dark, utilitarian room with cold, white light and dreaded electricity.—

“You seem frightened, Siobhan.” Mrs. Calhoun snapped her out of her swirling thoughts.

“I’m just new to all of this.” Siobhan swallowed, her eyes darting around, “I’ve never been to a doctor like you before.”

“Well, let’s start with why you came to see me, then?” Mary explained kindly, “I had reason to believe, given our history, I might’ve been the last person you’d ever willingly seek help from. So I’m assuming, whatever it is, you’re desperate.”

Siobhan’s face scrunched in defiance. Her nostrils flared in such a way that was a reaction of anger and disadvantage—but looked rather like a rabbit, sniffing out her environment curiously. It wasn’t threatening to Mary Calhoun in the slightest, even as Siobhan’s gritty voice protested with hostility, “I am not desperate.”

“I don’t mean to roil you, Siobhan, please.” Mary assured, “I’m not your enemy. You can trust me.”

Siobhan could remember more times than she could count when being told, ‘You can trust me,’ signified most objectively a person who was not trustworthy in the slightest. But she acquiesced. Mary Calhoun was not a woman who built her profession through lying or deceitfulness toward women. As far as Siobhan knew. She took a deep breath, “When you said that… did you mean you were open to fixing a cycle…?”

“Fixing a cycle, darling?” Mary laughed, “I’m not a mechanic.”

Siobhan’s face stiffened in frustration. Mary Calhoun was among one of the most annoyingly and purposefully ignorant women Siobhan ever had the displeasure of meeting!— She blurted, “I think I want to take the trade.”

Mary eased a measure from her humor, and solemnity challenged the pitch of her voice, “I see.”

Siobhan swallowed. A lump had formed in her throat. “I mean—I was… I was just thinking about it.”

Mary leaned her head askew with sympathy, “Why?”

“It’s not that I don’t want it.” Siobhan said, tears coming to her eyes, “I’m just afraid that he doesn’t.”

Mary knew exactly what she meant. Had heard this exact story a million times before. “Your husband? Arthur?”

“Yes.” Siobhan said, her voice a whimpering, round, blubbering mess. Her saliva was ferric from the force of all of her swallowing. “He said that having it might kill me.”

Mary Calhoun knew this was the defining moment in a woman’s life, her first pregnancy. And so few women had ever been afforded safety, security, and trust with the matter of their reproduction. She was eager to provide that for Siobhan. It would, maybe, in some way, repair what had been done to Siobhan. Mary’s eyes widened with sympathy, “Oh you poor thing. How long have you known?”

“Not long. I’ve always been very regular. The beginning of the month—always.” She explained, hiccoughing. “Until now.”

Mary pursed her lips at her as if mimicking the pouting of a child, which only made Siobhan that much more enraged—but this was all she had. So she put up with Mary’s infantilizing questions, “Well, the proof is in the pudding, so to speak, darling. Have you two…?”

“Yes.” Siobhan nodded fervently, “A lot. Most of the time he’s careful about finishing, but… Not every time.”

Mary’s brow raised with a measure of suspicion. She held herself a little salver of neatly arranged and reduced opinions of the man, but which she would not share with Siobhan for the sake of her heart. “And he doesn’t know?”

“No.” Siobhan said sternly. “I don’t want to tell him. That’s why I came to you. If I went to Doctor Fauntleroy, Abigail could have found out, and if Abigail knew then she could tell John and John could tell Arthur.” Siobhan rambled quickly, “And I think if Arthur knew, he’d freak out and would treat me differently and everything would change and we’d fight more and it would be so tense and I would be so scared. And it was my fault it happened in the first place so if he—”

Mary put her hand on Siobhan’s arm. “Siobhan, darling, slow down.”

“Sorry.” Siobhan’s brow bent low like a broken cypress, weeping. “I’m just very worried about it.”

“I think it’s a very wise decision, considering your age and the fact that you’re both still newlyweds. A pregnancy complicates a relationship and changes people.” Mary explained, “And though you might think you know your husband well now, once he becomes a father, you might not recognize him the same way.”

Siobhan sniffled, “Or if I became a mother.” She said, “If I’m already thinking like this… Oh, God, that’s a terrible sign! I feel trapped, Mrs. Calhoun. I feel like every choice is a mistake.”

“Oh, shhh. Darling. Be at ease.” Mary reached over and took her hand. “Let’s take it one step at a time, all right? I could do an examination.”

“An examination?” Siobhan repeated, nervously aware of the scary metal contraption behind her.

“To determine for certain if you are.” Mary assured.

Siobhan had no knowledge of it. Didn’t understand how any of it worked. Barely even understood how the whole matter came to be in the first place. “You can do that? I thought I just had to wait until you were big and sick.”

“Oh,” Mary laughed, patting Siobhan’s hair on the side of her head, “Silly girl. Of course not. We’ll do an examination, and discuss your options from there.”

“Right.” Siobhan said. “Do I have to sit on that thing?” She pointed with her thumb over her shoulder at the chair which terrified her so she did not want to look at it.

Mary knew—from the moment she confirmed that Siobhan was right—what she would truly want. Every woman is always, in some way, taken up with the idea of wanting a child. They are built for it, their organs trick them with survival instincts and visions and dreams, all wiring a woman’s brain—against her better and higher judgment—to want a child.

But it is not always right. It is not always good. It is not always time.

Siobhan was too young, her husband too old. She was too naive, too afraid, and had surely hitched herself to the wrong wagon—and too soon for her to really know. But Mary knew. She had met the man and cared little for him. Few people seemed to. Griffin spoke of him stiffly, Paul spoke of him adversely, and Siobhan seemed afraid of him. So Mary allowed herself to judge the circ*mstance appropriately.

Siobhan would be glad, eventually. And know she had done the right thing.

After Mary had explained to her all of the different ways of taking the trade, and Siobhan chose what sounded the least dangerous, she sat downstairs in Mary Calhoun's kitchen and thought it over for the millionth time that month. But she had already made the decision, she believed, the day the baby was conceived. Arthur had told her she was too small, that he wanted to wait until she was twenty years old—and, Christ, she had just barely turned eighteen! He still never talked to her about Isaac, but now that she had a name for him, she could see the sorrow in Arthur's eyes whenever she carelessly mentioned the prospect of having children. All of it scared her so badly, she knew there was no other option.

At some point, Mary Calhoun's front door had opened and Siobhan was so drowned in thought she didn't even notice Griffin had come home until he was walking into their kitchen and called her name in surprise. Siobhan turned her head suddenly and revealed the fact that she had been crying, wiped her tears quickly away, "Griffin." She said.

"What are you doing here?" He looked perplexed, "What's wrong?"

Siobhan didn't want to tell him. She knew there was a high likelihood that the more people who knew, the more likely it was to get back to Arthur somehow. But she couldn't stop herself. Griffin was her longest and truest friend, always had been. And what could she have possibly needed more than a friend in that moment? She got up to her feet and ran into his arms, confessing all.

Griffin's surprise to hear what she intended to do was very quickly eclipsed by his love for her. It was a sad thing to see his childhood friend face the same fate he had seen so many women reduced to when they walked into his mother's house this desperate and heartbroken. He could not let his amazement suspend his sympathy, he accepted her decision instantly. And when she bayed and begged him not to say anything to anyone he crossed his soul before her eyes, "I would never tell anyone, Siobhan." He swore, "Never."

It was not simply because he had been raised such a way by his mother and he knew, in the back of his mind, nearly every woman in New Almaden who had come to his house to take the trade, but because he understood the humanity of it. In his mind, 'the trade' always seemed to be one of God's many transactions, suffering in exchange for grace later, and vice versa. And he would protect the sanctity of that with his solemn silence. It was not for him to know, observe, or repeat.

ARTHUR

“Here,” Arthur slid another quarter across the bar to the bartender, “Have yourself something.”

“Thanks.” The barkeep said.

Arthur took his drinks carefully, shouldered by the rancid spittoon at the end of this side of the bar. He told himself he’d only have a couple. For Siobhan’s sake. Then his brooding mind got the better of him and after some offhand inspection,—surrounded by the impersonal eyes of similarly brooding red-faced men, who likely all had wives at home they also felt inadequate for—found his environment inviting him into the state of drinking plenty.

“What’s the world coming to, man?” He looked around as if inviting everyone else in the bar into a debate between them. “They just let outlaws come into decent towns and settle down now?”

“I’m not an outlaw and I never was one.” Arthur argued, looking over his shoulder, “I ain’t even held a gun before in my life.”

The drunkard inspected him a little longer in silence and, perhaps simply due to the fact that Arthur didn’t have any guns on him at that exact moment, decided to give him the benefit of the doubt and sit up next to him. “My name is Joseph. Joseph Beauchamp, sir.”

Arthur extended his hand, “Well, I am Joseph Callahan. Ain’t that a funny coincidence?”

“Did you clap?”

Joseph’s eyes were wide right back, just a few inches from Arthur, gripping the bottle in his hand like he would use it. The bartender stood still like he was waiting for the right moment to bend down and take his shotgun from the bar.

“You talk like an outlaw.”

“You’re startin’ to annoy me now.” Arthur said, nodding, “You’d better leave me alone now, ‘fore I get angry.”

Joseph stepped back from the bar, shaking his head, “What kind of a man would I be if I let my kids grow up in a town full of outlaws, huh? I ought to report you. Those bulls in San Jose would hang you!”

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, friend.” Arthur stood as if he were ready to pull out his gun and shoot the man, but he was truly unarmed.

But Arthur had a tendency to overindulge. In almost every aspect of his life. Even something as naturally indulgent as having sex with his own wife, he could overdo. So when he landed the sort of nose-crushing punch that typically sounds victory and ends a fight, Arthur merely stood up, chest heaving, and proclaimed as if it were funny, “Damn, man! You sound like you’re giving birth to a baby cougar!”

Arthur couldn’t even reach his feet without Hallock’s grip and could fight his drunkenness no longer.

Arthur's journal that day:

I still cannot seem to decide what to do about Dutch. He has been lingering around more than usual these past few days, riling everyone up. To me, he is scarcely recognizable. Despite how everyone seems to love him, he is often sulking around, scowling. We are doing well here in New Almaden, but he seems hellbent on refusing that. Perhaps he's been that way for a while now. I am no longer sure. Shiv + I keep fighting about it regardless regardless. It seems clear to me that he should not be here but she and I can never agree. She doesn't want everyone to split up and truthfully, neither do I. I suppose we shall see how things play out.

Chapter 9: — CROSSROAD BLUES

Chapter Text

MARCH 15, 1900

New Almaden, CA

Siobhan had gotten home early the night before. Her hands were raw and sore and her arms ached. The state of her stomach was even worse, but that was typical. What wasn’t typical was that Arthur wasn’t there when she woke up. She sat up in his cot and the space that he normally filled was empty of anything besides her.

Arthur’s crooked knee was not jutting out against her thigh, his bony foot was not poking through the end of sheets twisted around his knobby legs.

Siobhan sat up slowly, wrenching her tired and sore muscles out of their dormant weight. The cot was cold and quiet, not the way Arthur would have left it. He’d have left her an oil lamp and spread the quilt over her as the night got colder around her. Even if he had left her early,—and without waking her to say goodbye—he’d leave her some warmth to wake up to.

So, by the cold dirt floor, the quilt crumpled and bagged by the chest at the end of the bed, the oil lamp soot-stained and dry, and the tent closed up just as she had left it, Siobhan assumed he had not come to bed that night.

And her heart wrenched with loneliness. An ungrateful, spoiled sense of loneliness that entitled her to no more than a few hours without the touch of her husband.— But it didn’t matter, she reasoned, she’d have pushed his pastoral hand off of her swelling belly either way. She’d have turned her back to him in bed and asked, shielding her face, that he just stay beside her and not touch her. She’d have gripped a pillow against her stomach in replacement for his touch and been left hollow and lifeless either way.

Today, she had to be grateful he was gone. Her shame would go unseen. She would quietly walk it to the edge of town and leave it there, in bloody rags beside Mary Calhoun’s hearthless chair.

ARTHUR

“I haven’t got no lovin’ sweet woman that love and feel my care”

In the rafters above his head, the wooden crossbeams of that dreaded bar, a rat scratched and scratched.

“You can run, you can run, tell my friend, boy, Willie Brown”

“What…” Arthur’s voice came from his chest rather than his mouth, and some great pressure pooled in his head. (Though, ‘pooled,’ implies some level of repose, and Arthur had absolutely no concept of the current orientation of his body). He was still speaking, “—day is it?”

“Lord, that I’m standing at the crossroad, babe”

A spot of plaster and lead paint crumbled above his head and came snowing down into his mouth. As he spat, coughing clouds of dust, the spot of plaster in the ceiling widened and a little snout poked through.

“You damn rat!” Arthur drunkenly hoisted himself with all of his power from his waist to scrabble upward at the ceiling netting that annoying rodent.

“I believe I’m sinking down”

“You are a full-tilt loser, Arthur Morgan. You’ve got puke on your chest.” The rat said.

He heaved upward again, “I will COOK you for dinner!”

The rat’s clean little hands poked out as he wiped his face. “You’re filthy. How’d you ever get married like this?”

“And your FAMILY—! All those raaats.” Arthur slurred.

With a sudden rush of cold water— Arthur lurched forward, gargling some complaint.

“You can run, tell my friend, boy, Willie Brown”

“Good morning, Arthur Morgan, you was shot in the neck.” Someone said. Arthur’s eyesight was so blurry and stretched with heavy pressure, blinded by sudden, real light, he couldn’t see the man speaking to him.

He could feel, by the stretching ache down his body from his hips to his head and the pounding in his head that did not come from the liquor, that he was upside down. “Cut me down right now, yew wag-tail sidewinder.”

Another splash of water and Arthur recoiled, caught by his waist on the edge of a hoisted bed. And that music continued through some belching gramophone on the other side of the room,—the other side of the bars, “Lord, that I’m standing at the crossroad, babe”

Arthur’s face mellowed as he spat water off his face, “Now, sir, I am not as drunk… as I look.”

Sheriff Hallock—he was the rat all along, Arthur thought—shook his head. By that alone, Arthur calling him ‘sir,’ Paul knew he was completely out of his mind. “You were calling yourself a loser in your sleep. And—” he paused to chortle, genuinely interrupted by it, “I have to agree with you. A full-tilt loser.”

Arthur hoisted himself up, gripped the bars around his knees, and laboriously rolled himself back over the edge. He laid there and closed his eyes, but it was all white underneath his eyelids. He ignored Paul Hallock’s insults, “Why am I in a cell?”

There was a scratch on the other side of the room as the gramophone hit the center of the record and screeched to a halt. Sheriff Hallock lit a cigarette, “You attacked folks last night. Got all drunken-violent. It was pure degeneracy.”

Arthur wiped his eyes and sat up straighter, “What time is it? Have I been here all night?”

“Yup.” Sheriff Hallock said and blew a lungful of smoke. “And Joseph Beauchamp has been in the doctor’s office even longer, so count yourself lucky.”

Arthur sat up, groaning, “No… No, I gotta get back home. Siobhan is—”

“You ain’t goin’ anywhere, buddy.” Hallock said, “You’re waiting here until we find out if Joseph’s gonna make it or not.”

“‘Make it?’” Arthur squinted, “I didn’t hit him that hard.”

Arthur couldn’t remember any of it. The man could’ve been dead for all he knew. Even further, Paul Hallock could’ve made the whole thing up and Arthur couldn’t know better. A fight, no fight… all of it could be blamed on the liquor, and therefore was indecipherable from it.

Hallock leaned against the bars and pointed his two cigarette-squeezing fingers at Arthur. (The smell of it still made Arthur’s jaw clench with some lungful of hunger). “Then where’d all that blood come from?”

Arthur looked down at himself. He was covered in it. Some spots of browning red still wet. Arthur’s reaction was mild, “Well, sh*t.”

“‘sh*t’ exactly, buddy. Better start praying he makes it.” Hallock walked over to his desk.

Arthur eyed him through the bars as he sat down at his desk and poured himself some kind of drink. He had the newspaper open and was shirtless. Just as casual as if this were his home and not someplace somebody could walk right through the door and see him. Or a place where he held a feller hostage to his nudity on the other side of cold steel bars. Arthur wiped his face, “Can I get a change of clothes, please?”

Hallock side-eyed him, “I could ask Siobhan to bring you some—”

“No.” Arthur immediately stopped him, holding out his hand.

Paul was grinning, “I’m sure she wouldn’t mind, I could just bring her straight here and she could keep you company while we wait for—”

“Hallock,” Arthur sat back against the wall and rolled his head in the Sheriff’s direction, “Keep talkin’ about my wife and I’m gonna have to rub one out right here in front of you.”

Paul nearly gagged, and his voice contained no trace of humor when he responded, “You’re disgusting.”

Paul finished writing Arthur a fine and handed it over to him with much too much enjoyment for Arthur’s comfort. He smiled as Arthur held out his hand for the little yellow slip of paper, “Pay it by the end of the month. And don’t go drinkin’ again, you don’t hold your liquor too well.”

SIOBHAN

Griffin was so kind to Siobhan when she arrived at their doorstep, wet as a dog with tears—for as soon as she left all the children at the schoolhouse and her destination moved up from the back of her mind and took a seat in the front, she always began to cry. Griffin answered the door for her, hugged her, handed her a handkerchief, and lead her inside. He took her in with an arm around her shoulders, “How was school?”

Siobhan sniffled, her eyes on her feet, “Idgie’s little brother gave me another flower crown.”

Griffin smiled bittersweetly, but he couldn’t offer her any words of comfort. He wiped her tears away with his thumb. He couldn’t imagine how she could make it through a day like that, with all of those kids, without breaking down into a mess of tears as she was now. In his mind, he wished to tell her that she was strong, but worried very much that she might not like to hear that now. His mother was in the kitchen and called out for them and Griffin knew it was hopeless. He squeezed Siobhan’s hand, “Do you want to go watch a picture-show afterwards?”

Siobhan nodded as they stopped in the kitchen doorway, “Yes.” She said with a stuffy, berry-red nose, “That sounds nice.”

He gave her a firm nod, squeezing her shoulder as he turned to leave her and his mother their privacy. Mary Calhoun was chopping vegetables when she looked over at Siobhan shaking in the doorway. “Oh, you poor thing. Come sit down.”

Siobhan meekly shuffled over as Mary pulled an old wooden chair up to the countertop. She stuck her hands in her lap and slumped forward with her puffy red face jutting out over the cold marble. The bewilderingly sharp scent of minty pennyroyal was too strong and too connected to the sort of medicine she would only have found in Mary’s house to be anything other than sickening to her. Mary said, and it was not the first time she had said so, “You’ll be glad when it’s over.”

Siobhan remembered how Arthur had said the same thing to her in that fight about Dutch. Thought of how angry it made her. How unjust it felt. Now, here? It only served to break her will even further beyond whatever autonomy and resolve she had exhibited that day.

And Siobhan wondered when exactly it would be over.

Would it be as soon as she undressed to find her clothes soaked with blood? Would it be days, months, or years later when Siobhan finally worked up the courage to tell Arthur what she had done? Would it be when—if they could even salvage their relationship from a secret such as that—they decided to have a child at the right time, under the right circ*mstances, and the baby she had been blessed with now would be replaced by another, with whom Siobhan would never have made the mistake of not wanting?

Oh, but she did want it.

She wanted this baby so madly it killed her. She wanted nothing more than to bring home a little baby for her and Arthur to raise, surrounded with family and love… And—because Siobhan could think of nothing other than the swirling dark pit of desperation she had fallen into, getting lost more and more in it with each passing day—she thanked Mary for it. Hating herself as she said it, though she knew she should, for how rare it was to be allowed such freedom in the first place; “Thank you for this.”

“Oh, don’t thank me yet, darling.” Mary said. And then she asked, in the hopes of transitioning Siobhan’s mind into thinking of things more earthly and more practical—of which she had already made commitments toward—than the little lump of cells that could not be offered its future, “How is your husband?”

A lead-filled tear hit her cheek when she blinked, blankly staring ahead, “He’s ok, I think. Busy. I didn’t see him this morning.”

“Have you planned on what to tell him?” Mary narrowed her eyes at Siobhan.

She shook her head with a pout, “No.” And as the word, shaking and whining came from her mouth, she lowered her head in shame and sobbed more. The worst part of it all, Siobhan had begun to realize, was how long it could take. How, every day, she had to carry around this sin, who knew she was ashamed of it.

Mary came around the other side of the counter and cradled Siobhan’s head against her bosom, “Oh, there there, Siobhan.” She held Siobhan’s head with one hand and prepared the steeping cup of tea in her other. “Drink whenever you’re ready.”

As soon as Siobhan saw it in Mary’s hand, she gulped it down. There was no ceremony, no hesitation, no fear. It was the only water in the world. The river of Lethe. She drank and hoped to forget. Through her tears and the snot coating her mouth, she drank and drank—her head back, staring up at the tear-blurred ceiling praying it would soon be over.

Mary Calhoun took her mug back and filled it with more of the tea, but looked at Siobhan carefully as she hid her face in shame. She felt a great sense of pity for the poor girl and could tell this was all too much for her to bear. But Mary was a doctor before she was a woman, and she wiped the cup clean and took Siobhan upstairs. “Have you gone to the bathroom yet?”

“No.” Siobhan answered, shimmying up the stairs dog sorry.

Mary pointed at the bathroom door, “Go ahead and do that now while I get everything ready.”

Mary went into the examination room and left Siobhan there in the dim hallway. She could see that Griffin’s bedroom door was cracked open. She walked over and stood in his doorway instead. He was writing when he saw her in his periphery and looked softly up, “You okay?”

Siobhan peered at his pen, “What are you writing?”

“Oh,” He smiled, “A letter to Woody Hallock. Did you ever meet him? Sheriff Hallock’s son?”

Siobhan shook her head, “I didn’t know he had any kids.”

“Woody’s only a few years older than me. He lives up north in Grass Valley with his mom.” Griffin stood up, moving carefully, almost awkwardly around his room as he talked to her, “He comes here sometimes to visit his dad. And we go riding sometimes.”

Siobhan crossed her arms. She would have felt guilty for how little she had any interest in it, but her mind was completely preoccupied. And, anyway, Griffin knew that, and could never have blamed her for it. “Does your mom have a study?”

Griffin looked at her curiously, patting his thighs, “Yeah, why?”

“Can you bring me to it?” Siobhan requested, “I’m looking for a book.”

Griffin nodded and passed her in the doorway, flattening himself horizontally to get past her as he directed her with a tick of his head, “I can’t promise she’ll have it…”

Siobhan was sure she would. If it was something Mary could answer if Siobhan had the guts to ask her, then it was surely something that could be read in a book on the subject. The study was downstairs and was dark as the rest of the house. Griffin moved the blinds aside and the room was suddenly illuminated with white light. Siobhan squinted at him as he did it.

The room looked completely different with light on it. In the dark, it was as a castle chamber, stacked with books on every wall. The claw-footed furniture easily could have been made of books. The edges of the cruet-heads in the corners could’ve been the glowing eyes of little scampering critters, encased in the dark shadows of a hidden library. In the light, it was actually quite bare. There were lots of books, but not much else besides one small desk and a pillow in the windowsill. Compared to the frippage of the rest of the house, Siobhan was surprised that Mary Calhoun had decorated it. And it was hers, undoubtedly, for all of the medical books.

“Mom likes the house dark and cold.” Griffin coughed into his fist. Siobhan could tell that he didn’t like it, considering how bright his bedroom was in comparison.

“She’s a grim lady.” Siobhan said, and crossing her arms, and reluctantly added, “But nice, in her own way.”

“If you need help finding it…” Griffin offered, except not quite, for the fact that he didn’t finish his sentence.

Siobhan was inspecting the books on her shelves, “I think I should be able to find it. Does she sort them… um…” She looked at Griffin as if to find the word, and curiously muttered, looking up at the ceiling, “Alphabetically?”

“Uhh…” Griffin looked around. The books were all leatherbound or made of such thick paper that where they frayed at the corners, layers of stuffing were revealed inside. “Chronologically, I think. She says ‘always go for the new ones.’”

“Why?” Siobhan asked, though, knowing Mary Calhoun, the answer was fairly obvious.

“The older the science, the worse it gets.” Griffin led her over to the bookshelf marked ‘1900,’ which naturally had only one book. He worked backward with his fingers, “What are you looking for?”

“Reproductive science.” She answered bluntly.

“Ok.” Griffin had no reaction and was undisturbed by her request. “I might be able to answer your question, though. Save you some time.”

Siobhan pursed her lips, wondering if she ought to keep it to herself. Considering her circ*mstances, she was rather worried that Griffin would feel pity for her, or think she didn’t really think any of this through. But it came out before she could think better of it, “Do you know how long a full pregnancy is until the baby is born?”

Griffin swallowed, his eyes darting down to her feet grimly. “Yes, I think. A full term is around forty weeks. Lots of ladies don’t make it quite that far before they give birth, though.”

Siobhan looked down at her hands strung around her belly. “Are there any ways of preventing pregnancy before it happens? Besides the obvious, I mean.”

Griffin turned a little red. “Uhh…” He quickly grabbed a book off of Mary’s shelf, “Not sure about that one. This might have some answers, though.”

He placed the heavy book into Siobhan’s open hands, weighing them down. Siobhan looked at it and read its title. “Thanks…” She said, but just as she went to sit down and read it, Mary Calhoun called out for her.

Just the thought of going upstairs made her ache with soreness, but she stored the book somewhere she could find later, and went upstairs anyway. Like a soldier, she set certain thoughts and fears aside, and took herself blind through it. Mary had explained her the process the day before. Siobhan would drink a cup or two of pennyroyal and then exhaust herself so completely that she would dehydrate. At that point, Mary assured her, she would watch her carefully as she rehydrated, and Siobhan would know it had worked when she passed a lot of blood.

The process of exhausting Siobhan was simple. Without water, without cool air, and without relief, she would run until dizzy enough to pass out. After a brief break, and if her legs were too sore to go on, she would hang from her hands by a crossbeam under Mary’s ceiling until she could not hold on any longer—the gravity was instrumental in assisting the trade and would be the primary technique. As a last resort only, by Siobhan’s insistence, would they resort to anything surgical.

And by the time Siobhan had been there for a few hours, pushing herself to her absolute physical limit, Mary suggested they stop. Siobhan went to the bathroom, unrelieved by the lack of blood, and came back down to drink water. She had stripped down to her shift after getting down from the ceiling, overwrought and stuffy with heat, and did not look forward to redressing herself in order to go home. Griffin was shocked to come down into his kitchen and find Siobhan pale as tallow and shivering off beads of sweat from every portion of her body. Her lips cracked and dry, lacking color even in her eyes.

“That’s okay. I think I’ll walk home myself.” She said, “If I need to stop somewhere, I’ll make sure to ask for you.”

“Well. Be safe. Can I come by tomorrow and walk you to school at least?” Griffin asked. He seemed nervous to let her alone but all Siobhan wanted was to be left alone during all of this. Like a wounded animal, she wished to run off from everyone else and tend to her agony in peace.

“Sure.” She said to Griffin, reassuring him through her exhaustion.

*

The first thing Siobhan did as soon as she made it to the house was grab herself a glass of water from the spigot of the water keg and drank about three of them in one go. And she overheard, as she faced the house with her glass, Strauss and Javier talking behind her.

“There was a young woman who mentioned she and her husband were going to leave as soon as he had enough money.” Strauss explained to Javier, “The people have been saying the mine is going bust.”

“So you lent them some money?” Javier asked. His raspy voice was slightly sympathetic as if he didn’t enjoy the idea of usury in a town he was starting to like the idea of living in. “Were they from the Hacienda?”

Most miners were.

“No, no. It was a young American couple.” Strauss said, “I can give you their address. They haven’t paid—”

Siobhan set her cup down on the picnic table and turned around, staring across the yard where Strauss and Javier sat at the five-finger-filet table, peering over the piece of paper on which Strauss had begun to scribble. She tramped over, frowning and raising her voice at Strauss. “You loaned someone money?”

Both of the men looked up at her, clearly interrupted. The abruptness of Siobhan’s passionate interjection made Strauss fumble for his words for a second, “I-I, well you understand that—” And he wondered why he was so nervous to tell her that he had. What threat did Siobhan pose, after all? “Yes, I did. I suspect that Javier will be able to find a couple hundred on their persons.”

Siobhan was wickedly angry. She could not help the anger that rose in her chest, “Javier isn’t going anywhere. If you loaned those people money, it’s your own damn fault.”

“Siobhan, it’s a business.” Strauss enunciated the word ‘business’ as of it held too many grand, masculine syllables of so much importance that she could never ever hope of understanding.

Siobhan took a step forward and with a metallic ‘shink,’ yanked the knife clean out of the table and balanced it heavily in her palm towards Strauss, “You will not loanshark in New Almaden and if you ever try to send one of us out to collect your debts I will cut your lying tongue right out of your skull!— Do you understand me?!”

Strauss was frozen with fear and Javier held his hands up in phony surrender, eyeing Siobhan’s movements carefully, ready to stop her a second before she tried to cut Strauss—if she even would. None were quite so threatened as Siobhan, though, who’d been so ignited with the fear of what might happen if the gang did something like that again, that she could barely hold the knife steady. “They will not do it! Not after what you made Arthur do!” Siobhan’s voice was shaking.

“Siobhan Magda!” Miss Grimshaw howled, marching over with disdain, “You get that knife out of Strauss’s face this second!”

Siobhan stabbed the table, clean through the paper he had written that poor, insolvent couple’s address on, and stared Strauss down a final time, “Do you understand me?”

“Y-yes, Mrs. Morgan…” Strauss said, eyes wide.

Siobhan stood straighter and looked at Mrs. Grimshaw. She crossed the table and moved toward the woman, baring her teeth, “I am not Siobhan ‘Magda’ anymore, Miss Grimshaw, and you know damn well.”

Susan’s cheek curled with a purse of her stuck-up lips. She didn’t have to say the words ‘slu*t, trollop, hooker, whor*,’ or any of the other awful things that had been floating around about Siobhan behind her back—didn’t have to say it to her face—all was evident in the disgusted look Susan reserved for her and her alone. “I won’t call you by his name, it ain’t right.”

Siobhan’s blood was on fire. After the day she had had, the exhaustion that woman had put her through, the turmoil of it all—to come home to this… She wanted to scream, cry, light something on fire, shoot Miss Grimshaw—anything.

“Now, Miss Grimshaw…”

Siobhan froze, her heart stopped.

“You could do with showing my wife a little respect.” Arthur said. Siobhan’s heart beat so fast with fear, she wouldn’t dare look back at him.

Susan looked at Arthur with a fury redoubled, “You heard her threaten Strauss like that. Are you just gonna sit by and let her talk like that to us?”

Siobhan wished Arthur hadn’t been there at all. She wished she could’ve screamed and thrown a fit and gotten as pissed off at everyone as she liked. But now, all she could think of was that Arthur was here,—and the job was not complete, it still moved inside her. And he heard what she said to Strauss? Oh, she could lay down and die right there!

“What am I gonna do? Send her to her room? I’m her husband, not her father, Susan. Strauss is a grown man, he don’t need you defending him.” He kept looking worriedly at Siobhan who would not turn around.

“This is still a gang, Arthur! She’d better remember that. I don’t care whose house it is.” Susan declared and stomped away, apparently too fed up with the whole ordeal to even harp on about it.

But Siobhan wished that she had. Now it was just her and Arthur, and she had no choice but to face him. She turned around with her eyes wide and sunken, dark as pits, afraid. Something shifted in Arthur’s eye when he saw her, as if he could instantly tell that something was very fundamentally wrong. Their eyes met and Siobhan almost passed out. Arthur stepped towards her, lowering his voice, “Are you ok, Shiv?”

Siobhan just stared up at him, starry-eyed and silent. It felt like the end of the world. He moved closer to her—had forgotten all about it—and as he leaned in for a kiss, and Siobhan slithered away, shuddering as if he were some oil-slick thing she had just spat out. She grimaced, looking up at him, “What happened to your face? And why do you smell like booze?!”

Arthur’s head fell with slight self-critical defeat, and he sighed. He hadn’t seen himself in a mirror, but he figured he must’ve been pretty beat up. “Uh, well… I-I’m sorry—maybe we should go talk about this elsewhere.”

He felt like such a goddamn idiot for having done that, knowing he probably smelled like puke and straight absinthe, and maybe a trace of the blood he hid, buttoned up, underneath his jacket. But as he tried to slide his arm around Siobhan’s waist, she backed away with three steps as quick as they were furious.

“Don’t touch me!” She hissed. And Siobhan could tell by the betrayal in Arthur’s face that her reaction had been so completely unwarranted it was shocking. But she could not separate her repulsion for human touch—and her avoidance of him feeling how large her stomach was—from her anger at everything that happened. And so she used it, unjustly, to fuel some rage that would distract her from the true sorrow that lay beneath the whole ordeal.

And Arthur tried his hardest to rectify a trespass he did not intend nor understand. “Shiv, what happened? Why are you so hostile?”

“Screw you!” She spat, offended. “I’m not the one who did anything wrong.” She admitted, through that alone, some guilt she had not meant to reveal. All of her hairs stood on end, bristling like a frightened cat, cornered. “Did you go out drinking and get hurt? Is that why you were gone last night?— Last night?”

His voice was desperately worried and his eyes dark and wide, “Shiv? What happened?”

Siobhan unshielded her head and looked over her shoulder. Beside the water kegs, the yellowed liquid of Pearson’s beer dripped everywhere that it had suddenly exploded. She breathed a sigh of relief, but her shoulders still hugged tensely together. Arthur patted her shoulder and backed away from her, deferent to her withdrawal. He looked down at her, “Let’s take a walk.”

Siobhan may have had some reluctance to follow after him but Arthur marched so casually on—still yielding sensitivity in his behavior, just a tinge in his movements—and she had been disrupted so by the sudden sound of an explosion that displaced and mislaid her from her reticence. She simply shut her mouth, hugging herself with a blank mind as she followed after Arthur. It felt as natural as breathing to be led by him to whatever might happen.

Chapter 10: — NIGHT OF THE SWALLOW

Chapter Text

MARCH 15, 1900

New Almaden, CA

Siobhan and Arthur took a walk about the edge of town. On foot up on the lower ridges of the mountains. Where the cold air bit their noses and they looked down into the valley of New Almaden. Seeing the smoke rise from the chimneys and the mouth of the mine. The corner of Englishtown to the north where the manors lined up like huge cubes of stone. Underneath rows and rows of farmland. And all diced between hills and ridges as far as the eye could see. They were not far from their house, which was just around the bend of the mountainside. But further above it was where Arthur took Siobhan. A flat of land at the top of the mountain where an abandoned old cabin overlooked their house.

“I hope she didn’t touch you.” Arthur said solemnly, referring to Susan, “I still remember when she pushed you in the mud at my feet. Christ, I could’ve killed her.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Siobhan moued. They got to the top of the trail where the side of the mountain flattened into a small plain. It seemed, from this angle, that the sky opened up like a wide, wide road above them. “Will you answer my question?”

He took a deep breath.

Arthur took a deep breath, averting his eyes away from Siobhan as she took the time to get properly mad at him. When he told Griffin it wouldn’t be so bad if Siobhan heard it from Arthur first, he had clearly relied on some sort of wishful thinking based on a well of Siobhan’s previous patience which had now, apparently, run out.

He stopped himself, couldn’t have begun the list of things that had led him to that bar in the first place. To do so would be to enrage her further. All of it was wrong, he knew. None of it was justified and he deserved all of this. But looking at the way Siobhan—in this precious hour stolen away by dimming sunlight, dappled in her wrinkled clothes, looking dog-tired—held herself tightly through her overthick coat and huddled away from him, it broke his heart. He wanted to comfort her; for her sake, which was an impulse hard to ignore, he needed to comfort her.

But nothing about the beauty of the scene could be appreciated for how terrible Arthur felt. He wanted no other beauty than that of Siobhan’s happiness, which had been denied him through his own actions. He hated himself for it, and stood to wait for her to come back and break his heart with the shades of disappointment that covered his love's beautiful face.

As Siobhan crouched, holding her skirts up awkwardly, bunched all up into her lap with her fingers crab-pinching the fat stack of newspaper Arthur had given her, she hoped when she stood up she would look down to a pool of blood. And she imagined it—grim and gravely, the way she had not ever anticipated staring at her child—the little ferric thing, as sanguine as that. Or else, nightmarishly, an etiolated, formless little smack of limbs in a sac of white, as small as a bantam egg. She could’ve puked imagining it, and hurried to her feet, stopping herself dead.

She didn’t want to see it. She didn’t want it to be gone. She didn’t want to lose it.

She heard something crawling through the underbrush over the small decline of the hill and clutched the paper in her hands tighter, expecting Arthur to have found her. She looked down at the ground then, as he approached, and was relieved not to see any blood where she had relieved her bladder in the smallest increment before running in fear from her own functions.

There was a balding head that shone through the brush, and at first, Siobhan was so utterly surprised and confused by the sight of it that she didn’t even register fully that a stranger was coming towards her. But he got to his feet not far from her, and looked straight at her, mumbling. His dark, drunken eyes somehow honed in on her long enough that he could trace his movement ahead, and started to stumble toward her, “Miss—Miss…”

Siobhan stumbled back in an attempt to get away from him but he caught her by the arm, grumbling something she could hardly make out. But she could understand, “Water.”

So she pushed at his heavy arms, trying to keep him up but was pushed further and further back by his uncontrolled weight. And just as she was to yell for Arthur’s help—a thud interrupted Siobhan’s consciousness, only for a few seconds.

She felt her entire neck vibrate as she called out, “Arthur—!”

Arthur didn’t know what he had done to Siobhan or why he had done it, but his mind narrowed, sharply, in a way he couldn’t control, to one goal; to hurt him for hurting her. Arthur shouted into his ear, “What were you doin’ to my wife? Huh?!”

Siobhan finally got to her feet and quietly said, as if she could read his mind, “I think he’s just drunk… don’t hurt him.”

But Arthur was so disgusted and had been already set so on edge with the fear that someone had threatened her life. So despite the fact that Siobhan may well have been right, and the poor sod had just lost his composure, Arthur roughly shoved him away rather than just letting him go. And Siobhan gasped at the sudden movement as the man stumbled, taking one step forward on a twisted ankle and falling to the ground, head-first.

And with a loud crack like the sheafing of corn, his skull was split over the spine of a rock and blood spilled everywhere. Siobhan covered her face in horror, jumping with the sudden need to turn around and look away.

“Goddamn bastard—” Arthur peered over the man as he rolled onto his back and, seeing that he was still alive despite the gash in his forehead, went to Siobhan instead, “Are you ok? Did he hurt you at all? Your nose is bleeding.”

Siobhan flinched as he pulled her hands away from her face and looked up at him, pale, “Did he die!?”

“Are you ok?” He repeated firmly, wiping blood across her cheek with his thumb.

Taking quick breaths, she gaped, “Why did you push him?!”

Arthur’s eyes dropped and Siobhan, for a second, had forgotten Arthur’d even touched her. His brow furrowed and Siobhan, gasping, felt his hand slide against her stomach. She jumped back, horrified, violated. He looked confused like he didn’t fully understand the magnitude of what he had just laid his hand on so carelessly. But he had noticed….

—How it was just slightly rounder than it had been if, as normal, she had eaten a large meal recently and her stomach expanded as it would. How firm and high, just slightly more prominent than he was used to seeing. And how she backed away as if he had unlocked a door he was not meant to open… He swallowed, “Shiv…”

And still, beneath that cold gaze, there lay devotion. She would not leave him. She was in it with him too; life or death; sickness or health. That had never changed. Arthur sighed. You foolish, foolish girl. In what world would I ever deserve you?

But Siobhan was sure, “We throw him off a cliff, smash his head in, break a few bones, no-one will know! It’ll look like he fell. And then nobody could recognize him and it won’t seem strange that two brothers nearly met God in the same damn day!”

Arthur sat down across from Siobhan on the cot facing the chair in the corner where she sat by the mouth of the tent. Both of them had been silent as death on the way back even while they scoured in the lake beside the house to wash the weighted dirt, ash, and blood off of themselves for the grim thing they had done. Siobhan stared at her feet in amazement, her pruned fingers wringing together and apart anxiously.

Arthur was surprised to find how empty the tent was. How Siobhan had not made the bed or gotten herself any extra blankets even though it had been cold last night. The bed looked as if it had been left undisturbed for years after someone, long ago, had stepped out of it and never returned. His pillow sat firmly in the center, bent in half like she’d been squeezing it. And he felt so terrible for being away, though she didn’t mention it beyond the timbre in her delicate voice when she, on the verge of tears, had said, ‘Last night?’

Siobhan sighed, she knew she was being irrational, as always. But this time… this time, there was nothing she could do to fix any of it. It made her hopeless. And hopelessness made her vicious. “I just don’t understand what started all of this. Why did you go to the saloon? Everything’s been fine…” Siobhan tiredly said. After a pause, her brow twitched, “Was it because I didn’t want to have sex?”

“What? No, Shiv.” Arthur looked at her, dogged with concern. Did she really think that of him? “Of course not.”

“You just never do stuff like that.” Siobhan said, looking him in the eye, though it felt dangerous to do so. For whenever, like now, she was torn apart, languishing in ways Arthur could not help, he would always try to as soon as their eyes met.

But, he seemed to understand how fatal a mistake such as that would be now, and kept apart from her and the secret she held against her heart. He wiped his forehead, it was best to be honest. “I got into an argument with Dutch after you left yesterday. He was sayin’ things about you and me and it just… It made me real angry.” Siobhan was watching him carefully, “He told me about the night you and him went after Angelo Bronte and he,” Arthur shook his head, circling his jaw, “Lied about it.”

“He said I’m sleeping around on you, didn’t he?” Siobhan said, staring. She had heard that gossip just the same as everyone else. And figured, from the beginning, she knew the two people a rumor like that was most likely to come from.

Siobhan’s eyes welled up with tears and she looked away, averting her burning eyes. She couldn’t bear to hear it, couldn’t stand how hurt he sounded. She loved him so much she swear it would tear her heart in half.

Siobhan swallowed. Her voice shook. “So you followed me after the argument with Dutch and then ended up in a saloon, because, what? You saw me go to Griffin’s house?”

Arthur went silent. He wasn’t cornering her. He swore it. He swore to himself when all of this started that he would never use any of it against her. He wasn’t spying on her, he had told himself, he was looking out for her. But now his reason crumpled at his feet. Why hasn’t she let me touch her?

He watched her go to his house. He saw it with his own eyes. And no, it hadn’t concerned him. He sat at the end of the street for the entire thirty minutes she spent there, completely complacent. He trusted her. It was never about her trust or her loyalty; just her safety. But now… He shook his head bitterly, and his face sunk into his hands. Siobhan watched him with deepening concern.

She couldn’t handle this, this tension he forced between them in his silence. After arguing with her so bitterly before, so willingly! To retreat like this as if he knew. Did he know? Did someone tell him?She scratched her arm with how tightly she gripped it and snapped. She begged, “Arthur, answer me!”

“Yes.” He admitted through the shame it brought him to say it. To imagine that she would think him so disgusting and controlling and imprisoning. And maybe he was. Maybe he was convincing himself that his intentions were good, even if the action felt wrong at times, and others outright predatory.

She grit her teeth, watching his dejected sadness with a growing rage. “So what? You think Dutch was right? Did you think I was sleeping around on you?” A part of her wished he did. Her eyes tore away, her stomach turned at the thought, “You think I betrayed you like that, and this is how you react? All you’re doing is sitting there! You won’t even get angry.”

“Then why?!” She pleaded, her face overcome with tears.

“That’s why I can’t breathe every second the thought occurs to me that somethin’ might happen to you and I won’t be there to stop it.” Arthur wiped his hair back, his hand shaking as he stared at her.

She covered her mouth and took a shuddering breath.

“That’s why I can’t hardly take it when you push me away even more, Shiv.” His voice cracked over the word ‘more’ as if the whole ordeal were so accumulative he was shattering beneath the pressure of it.

He looked down at her stomach and, with a flash of memory blinding, vertiginous in every respect, recalled the touch of her stomach that day—the first in a month—where he had suspected it. And he could’ve gone back to that moment and choked himself for how stupidly he had brushed it off as nothing. Pregnant?

Oh, Christ alive…

Siobhan took a deep breath. Some worry still trembled under her brow, wrought through her muscles with little stitches of coronet. She could think only of children now, and it broke her. The careful innocence she had the power to bring into the world. The fragility she would subject to the world’s sharp knife, and her uncertainty that she and Arthur would not add sharpness of their own.

She swallowed, “Can we even do this?”

Arthur looked down to where her hand disappeared between the layers of her coat and held her stomach. He blinked, his heart swelling with a love magnetized so strongly to the woman in front of him he almost couldn’t bear not touching her. “I…” His jaw clenched as he swallowed, trying to say the words without breaking their fragility inside his undomesticated mouth. “I don't know. I don't know, Shiv, but...I-I’d like to try. With you, Shiv? Nothin' would make me happier.”

Another crystalline tear fell, shattering, down her cheek. Her mouth shuddered, “Okay…” she nodded, breathless. Looking down, she felt nothing but complete confusion. She did not fully understand what she was looking at, “Mary said it was unlikely to work unless I kept going back for a few more days so hopefully…”

She didn’t want to finish her sentence. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. But Arthur, sitting picture-still, frozen like death, was on the edge of his seat. He stuttered, “C-can I see…?”

Siobhan looked down at his knee. She realized, for the first time, the magnitude of what she had kept from him. She couldn’t have afforded to think of her little baby’s future, and therefore didn’t.— She still feared to. But she couldn’t deny Arthur that. It was his baby too. Hesitantly, she unbuttoned her jacket, revealing the dimness below the cotton, quiet and secret.

Arthur looked up at her, his heart fell once again. He could not believe how easily Siobhan could uplift him with joy he could not picture the height of, and with a simple denial, dash his greedy infatuation in a second. The power she had over him was enslaving. He looked at the cot behind him and got up, “I—Ok… I understand, Shiv.”

He wiped his face tiredly, looking down at her. She cast her eyes away from him, as if ashamed, and he wished he could kiss her and hold her and make right everything he’d done to distress her like this. He felt so bad. At the root of it all, the blame was on him. All of this could be traced back to him… He started to leave and Siobhan, her heart betraying her, shot after his hand, pulling him back. She stared up at him desperately, devoid, in her eyes, of the love she needed from him. Her voice cracked, “I’d like it if you stayed near me, though, Arthur.” She begged, “If that’s okay?”

Arthur looked down at her and his face softened. He licked his lips and his hand rose to her face—she didn’t object. He wiped away a tear, “I’ll get a bedroll.”

Siobhan’s face eased immeasurably, and she took a deep breath. Closing her eyes, she whispered it like a prayer, “Thank you.”

And that tiny surrender, clothed in the sound of her voice, was the first sign of healing.

Chapter 11: — GLAD AND SORRY

Chapter Text

Arthur was standing over John who was crouching down and tightening a bolt on a bit of the house’s plumbing. They had spent thirty minutes prior arguing whether they ought to dig up the whole landline and move it somewhere else. It went as their arguments typically did, with John more irritated than corrected, and Arthur overconfident that he knew exactly what needed to happen.

By hanging out in the back of her, Arthur knew what he was getting at. He clicked his tongue, “Shut up, Marston.”

Between the two of them, it was still rather detached. Siobhan let him touch her, but less frequently. They hadn’t fought, but they hadn’t really done much else either. It seemed they were in a period of rediscovery.

And yet, even with all of that in mind, Arthur wanted to break the news. Excited, almost. Elated, but with fear propelling him. He put his hand on his belt, nodding, “She’s uh… Well, she’s…”

John clicked his tongue, “No, but the right woman’ll settle you down quicker than you know it.”

“sh*t, brother, the two of you?” John hocked some spit that had caught in his throat and chuckled, “Getting into fights for fun. Stickin’ each other up. Screamin’ one minute, screwin’ the next.” He shook his head, scoffing, “Everything about your marriage is strange to me.”

“Yeah…” Arthur chuckled, “I guess we are kinda… odd.” He trailed off a little. He had a light smile on his lips, but nothing more to say.

The front door of the house shut and Charles came through, picking up a bundle of pipes off the array of tools on the porch. With two waterskins under his arms, he came over to John and Arthur, getting up quickly as if to pretend they hadn’t taken a break to chat. John put his hat back on as Charles extended him some water. Saying, “Hot today, isn’t it?”

John unscrewed and gulped from the waterskin in record timing, parched as a mule, and nodded as it came away from his mouth dripping. “Yeah.”

Charles handed one to Arthur too, who asked as he unscrewed the cap more calmly than John had, “You get the rakin’ done over there?”

“Yeah, seeds are in. The soil’s too wet for much else, though.” Charles said. His fingernails were lined with dirt, his palms dry and calloused from the end of the wooden rake.

Arthur swallowed a great mouthful of water and wiped his lips with the back of his hand, “I’ll help you get the next rows down soon as I’m done helpin’ Marston with this.” He squinted past Charles and into the opening valley behind the house—which seemed, as John had suggested, a good place to start clearing more trees. “We gotta leave room for the horses to get through without tramping over everything.”

“Well, if you’re gonna start opening the land for the horses, we’ll have to build fences around the crops.” Charles said.

“We’re gonna have to either way with the chickens. Got too many squirrels comin’ around as it is and Cain’s just dragging them to the wagons. Shiv freaked out the other day, almost stepped on one.” Arthur chuckled, and John too, cause he remembered her screaming.

“Yeah,” John put his foot up on the lumber and leaned against his thigh, adjusting his hat to scratch his head with its border. “Cain’s a chaser and a mutt, but Jack loves that stupid dog.”

“I’ll have to get more chicken wire from town.” Charles said.

“Well, you do that while we finish up with this,” Arthur said, “We’ll do the rows and start putting up the fences this week.”

“Ok.” Charles started to walk away but Arthur, taking a step back, stopped him.

“You got the time?” He said, figuring Charles might’ve seen the clock when he was inside. He didn’t keep Siobhan’s pocketwatch on him while he was working, afraid it’d get busted.

Charles squinted slightly at the top of the trees, one of his eyebrows raising curiously up, “Looks to be around three o’clock, why?”

Arthur shook his head dismissively, “I think Shiv’s just runnin’ late again.”

“Late for what?” John asked as Arthur picked up the pipes Charles had laid down for them and started to walk back to the open foundation of the bathroom of the house.

He cleared his throat as he crouched, “Just late. She likes to get back around now.” He then changed the subject, squinting at John as he screwed another bolt on the pipe, “How’s Abigail? I don’t see her too much.”

“She’s just fine. Likes to stay inside when it gets hot, especially now she’s pregnant.” He said. He bent down to place a few bolts on the edge of the piping blueprints so the breeze didn’t blow the edges over.

Arthur was squinting at them carefully, “And how’s Jack? I always see him runnin’ around but he don’t talk to me as much as he used to.”

“Jack just loves it here. He’s either upstairs reading with his mama or down here chasing the dog around. He’s real excited to have a new brother or sister.” John said with an audible swell of pride. He took his hat off to fan himself, irritated—just a little—how Arthur could work and work as if the heat never let in.

“Yeah, I figure—between the two of us—in the next couple of months, this place’ll be swarming with kids.” He chuckled over the grating wrench. He took a deep breath, “Alright, this should be good. I’m gonna go flush the toilet, you let me know if anything busts or leaks.”

“Don’t sh*t the pot, you’ll kill us all.” John snickered.

“Yeah, yeah.” Arthur lumbered up the unrefined yellow wood of their porch.

After a beat of silence where John looked around, waiting awkwardly inches away from their big ugly steel pipe, he heard a rumbling and turned to see the thing trembling. For half a second, he recoiled, thinking it was going to burst somewhere. But it went quiet after a rinsing second and he made a curious face, pleasantly surprised.

“Did it work?” Arthur hoarsely shouted from inside the house.

John shouted back, twice as hoarsely. “Looks good!”

Arthur shortly came lumbering out, looking around the corner ready to see some leak John had missed. But as he inspected the plumbing, muted with the sound of trickling water, it was perfectly dry. “Well, I’ll be damned. I think those blueprints actually work.”

“I’m just glad to be done with it,” John said, wiping his face with his forearm. “That was annoying.”

“Yeah, well. There’s more where that came from.” Arthur said, “Go on, we’ll call it quits for today.”

“Until Charles comes back.” John complained.

“Nah,” Arthur shook his head, squinting, “I reckon me and him’ll do the fence ourselves. It ain’t hard.”

“Alright, I won’t argue.” John said, cracking his knuckles, “See you later.”

“Yeah.” Arthur said, wiping the grease off his wrench. In the quiet, now, Arthur looked across the yard at all the work they had done. The yard was filling out nicely with fencing and trails and tents. The house itself looked much more lively than it had when they first arrived, simply for the sake of being lived in—open windows, new curtains luffing out of the expanse, music playing, candlelight flickering at night. And as for the fences, most were new, and bracketing thickets of upshooting crops. The barns were freshly painted and full of horses grazing in and out. And Cain was always finding some little critter to chase.

The yard was always full of energy, full of life. And even the plot that was still dirt-bare and beveled—crowned with the bald-faced yellow wood of an unfinished house—had footprints plodding all over it, stray kickballs, baseballs, bats or shoes. Hooftracks and pawmarks. The blanks that had yet to be filled in still gleamed with promise, and though Arthur had only been there about six months, he could already feel himself reclining into the comfort of a home.

Only one thing was missing now—Siobhan.

“You two never take a break do you?”

Arthur turned to see Tilly coming over with her hand blocking the sun from her brow.

It seemed even she knew Siobhan was late, because he could not remember a time in recent memory that Tilly would come to Arthur for something she could not just simply go to Siobhan for. Those two were much closer than he and Tilly these days.

He chuckled, “I suppose not.”

Tilly was always sweet when they spoke, and she smiled to see him.

“Hello, Miss Tilly.” He wiped his nostril and leaned his elbow against the fence, “What can I do for you?”

“I just came by to bring these to you.” Tilly held up a pair of knitted baby slippers, tied together with a little red ribbon as thin as her pinky finger.

He took them into his hands before he even really registered what he was holding.

But Tilly could see the surprise on his face and explained. “Siobhan told me about the baby this morning. I was going to wait until she got back home but I’ve been working on them all day, and I got too impatient.”

Arthur looked up at Tilly with the soft little slippers filling his palm. His heart was somewhere in his throat.

“I’m very happy for you two.” Tilly smiled, “I know you’ll be great parents to that little baby.”

Arthur still hadn’t said anything. He looked down at the shoes and tried to pick them up and his finger slid into one of them like a little cap and he chuckled at how absurdly small they were. Of course they’d fit a baby, but he could hardly wrap his head around it.

“She and Abigail walk me to work every day. They go all the way through Englishtown to the other end of the city and back just to make sure I get there safe.” Tilly explained sweetly. Though Arthur knew this, he had never really appreciated how much of a distance it was. But he figured, since Tilly worked at a laundromat on the segregated part of town, that it must be a fair distance. “Even now that they’re both pregnant, they still do it.”

Arthur could hear the gratitude in her voice and he felt if she continued to speak, he might begin to cry with the unimaginable kindness of her gift. He had to stop her, “I—I ain’t quite sure what to say, Tilly.” His voice broke for a second, punctuating an unintentional pause in his sentence, “This is very sweet of you. I know Siobhan would have loved to hear you say so.”

Tilly shrugged, setting her hands on the fencepost beside her. She looked at the little slippers she had given him. “I used my softest yarn.” She swore and looked proudly as Arthur nodded, sure that it was the softest yarn he could imagine, at least. “And… I don’t know if it’s right of me to ask,”

Arthur looked up at her again.

“But if the baby needs a Godmother,” Tilly smiled brightly, “There’s nothing I’d love more than to take care of Siobhan’s baby if y’all ever needed someone to look after her.”

Arthur co*cked his head to the side, “Aw, Miss Tilly… I’m sure Siobhan would love that.” He nodded most assuredly.

SIOBHAN

Obediently, Phoebe did as Siobhan asked as all the other kids started to get their things together. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Miss Brown.” Siobhan said.

This old closet always seemed so mysterious to Siobhan, even now. For when she was a kid attending school here, she had never been allowed into the back closet. Mrs. Spurgeon used to say it was where she kept all of the cleaning chemicals and dangerous stuff and that a child walking in there could die any number of ways within minutes.

As a child, there was always a bit of reverence and fear about the back closet, and a lot of curiosity. Even now, at her big age, she found it exhilarating, though it was nothing more than a dusty old broom closet with broken lights.

—Suddenly, Siobhan heard a scream from in the class. She dropped the metal bucket to the ground and ran back into the classroom to see Mrs. Spurgeon grabbing Phoebe by the arm, holding her nearly off her feet. She was crying.

ARTHUR

Siobhan shushed him silent, backing away, “She’s sleeping.” She gestured at a little girl who was on her side asleep. Siobhan had put a pillow and a blanket on a narrow little bench on the other side of the room for her.

Arthur was a little perplexed. He finished his sentence a measure quieter. “I didn’t mean to turn up randomly, I was looking for you everywhere.” He said it somewhat shamefully. He was hoping she would not mistake this for him having followed her. “You were just gone for a really long time.”

Arthur wanted to protest most passionately that she was, as he found himself feeling very proud of her. But for the sake of Siobhan’s nerves, he held his tongue and saved it for another day. But every time he looked at her he could just see the same exact beneficence he had seen in Abigail and Eliza. What drove them, from the inside out, to change and be ready for what was to come. He was glad Siobhan was cut out for it, because Arthur was not so sure that he was or that he ever had been.

“We’re gonna take you home but first we have to stop by Sheriff Hallock’s office. Have you ever met Sheriff Hallock?” Siobhan said as she led her and Arthur out the door of the school.

On the stoop, Phoebe stood behind Siobhan as she locked the schoolhouse back up and Arthur went down to bring up Bess. “He came to our house one time when Mama was fighting with Papa.”

At the Jail, Paul Hallock opened the door a crack and saw Siobhan first, who had knocked on his door while Arthur helped Phoebe off of Bess. He mumbled anxiously, “One second, let me put a shirt on.”

And as the door shut, Siobhan figured, from that, that Phoebe’s parents weren’t there looking for her. The door opened again shortly and Siobhan hurried Phoebe in, Arthur behind her. Paul looked down at her with his arms up, amazed, “Hello Miss Brown, I hope you ain’t gotten into any trouble. I’d hate to lock you up!”

Phoebe hid behind Siobhan’s skirt. “Nooo!”

Paul Hallock’s eyes dropped to the small height of Phoebe, and therefore to the growth of Siobhan’s belly. He nearly tumbled back. “Shee-von, you’ve got a bay window!”

Siobhan chuckled awkwardly, “Yeah…”

Paul Hallock was amazed he could find words within himself. To see Siobhan, barely eighteen, taken with a baby… He hadn’t even seen her that long ago, showing no sign of it. And now? There was no mistaking it! He couldn’t believe his eyes. Couldn’t believe his joy—until he saw Arthur hanging around by the door and his stomach turned.

“Soo, we just need to find out where Phoebe lives so we can take her home. Maybe her parents have been by asking for her?” Siobhan awkwardly explained in wake of Paul’s speechlessness.

He shook his head, confused, “Why? Did Betty not take her home today?”

“Let me tell you about it.” Siobhan pulled Paul aside by his elbow, lowering her voice as they drew away from the poor girl’s earshot, “Betty hit her.”

“Hit Phoebe?” Paul said, frowning, “Well, she normally doesn’t do that.”

“I sent her home for it, but I didn’t realize she walked anybody home.” Siobhan explained. It sounded reasonable enough in words.

But Paul’s reaction was not what she had expected. “You shouldn’t have sent her home, then.” Paul’s mouth twisted, “I’m sure she didn’t hit Phoebe too hard.”

Siobhan crossed her arms, looking at Paul very seriously as he thumbed his chin.

He cleared his throat awkwardly under her blank gaze, “Well, I know where the Browns live. You want me to write down their address or let me take her home?”

Siobhan nodded sternly, “Her address, please. I’ll take her home.”

Paul co*cked his head to the side, “Now, Siobhan, you know I didn’t—”

“Oh, I’m sorry! I didn’t realize we were having a debate. Maybe I should sit down for this?” She gestured mockingly at the chair beside his desk.

Paul raised his hands, lowering his voice, “I’m sorry.” He pulled a small notebook from his pocket and grabbed a pencil off his desk. He scribbled down Phoebe’s address and with a tear, he gently offered it to Siobhan. “I’ll have a talk with Betty.”

Siobhan didn’t care for that, nor did she ask for it. She snatched the paper from his hand. “Thank you for the address.”

And they left under Siobhan’s utter need to get away from that man. Once Phoebe was all saddled again, Siobhan told Arthur what Paul had said, completely irritated with him. A Sheriff, no less! She kept thinking. “It just felt like he was making excuses for it.” Siobhan said to Arthur, keeping her voice low. “I don’t have patience for that kind of stuff, in any way.”

Arthur’s reaction was measurably more mild. “My parents would hit me sometimes when I was younger but… it’s different with boys.”

Though it was not immediately clear to either of them whether by ‘parents’ he meant his mother and father or Hosea and Dutch. All of them had at some point or another, really.

“Arthur?” Siobhan looked up at him, betrayed and horrified, “‘Different with boys?’ It’s not different at all. It’s just the same.”

“Well, no.” Arthur said and looked a little hesitantly down at Siobhan, greeted with her horror. He sighed, “Boys are rougher by nature. Sometimes that’s the only discipline they’ll respond to. I know I gave Dutch a hell of a time when I was younger. Wouldn’t listen to nobody.”

Siobhan’s face scrunched tightly, “The easiest thing to do is scare your kid. But it can’t be the only way to discipline them.” She looked up at Arthur, “And I don’t want our kids to fear us. The thought of that makes me sick to my stomach.”

“They’d only fear us when they’ve done something they know is wrong.” Arthur reasoned.

“So our kids have to be terrified every time they make a mistake?” Siobhan shuddered and let go of his hand, “Or if they do something that someone else told them is wrong but is just fine?”

“You mean like the sort of stuff Leviticus talks about?” Arthur said pointedly, remembering how skewed Siobhan’s reaction to her own menstrual cycle turned out because of that.

“Religion and abuse are not the same things.” Siobhan argued.

“Our kids would be afraid of somethin’, either way. And I think god is a little more terrifying than me or you to a kid.” Arthur looked down at Siobhan knowingly, assured that he had successfully tied her up with some measure of hypocrisy.

And from the way Siobhan’s face mellowed with thought, he was sure that he did. But instead, she admitted with realization herself, “That’s true.”

Arthur frowned, “What do you mean? Ain’t you supposed to say something about Heaven and sin and the eternal afterlife?” He chuckled, “Or whatever it is.”

“No,” Siobhan shook her head, “I don’t know that it’s such a good thing to raise your kid that way. I mean… I’d hate if our kids had to go through the same stuff I did. You know, fearing Hell.”

“But that keeps them good.” Arthur argued, somewhat Socratically, “Don’t it?”

“No.” Siobhan stared up at him. “It didn’t keep me good. I just accepted my fate even though it terrified me every night—and you know what else?” Siobhan’s face scrunched with disgust, “I don’t know how much I believe in that sh*t,” she whispered, “About Hell anyway. How could someone go through the world thinking that their little child could end up somewhere like that? What kind of psycho tells that to a little kid?”

Arthur was amazed, gripping Bess’s reins a little tighter for the fact that he hadn’t looked in her direction in a few minutes and was only looking at Siobhan, “Are you sayin’ you’re not gonna raise our kiddos as Quakers?”

Kiddos, Siobhan repeated in her head, how adorable. And it did not escape her notice that he, too, imagined their offspring in the plural sense of the word.

Siobhan took a deep breath, “I don’t know. Pastor Foote doesn’t teach about Hell. A lot of Quakers don’t. But still, I just don’t like the idea of telling them certain horrible things are gonna happen to them if they act a certain way, you know?”

“Yeah, I mean—Yes, I agree. I just… I really didn’t expect that from you. I figured it wasn’t up for discussion.” Arthur said.

“Sure.” she said sarcastically and pushed against his arm, “How we raise our kids has to be up for discussion. No-one has one parent.” She eyed him, “As long as we can agree on the very basic understanding that we don’t do anything to hurt them.” Her brows furrowed, “I don’t ever want to see you hit our kids. Girl or boy. I’ll straight-up K-I-L-L you.”

Arthur looked down at her, half-amused, spelling it out as she had, “You’ll K-I-L-L me?”

“I’m not kidding, Arthur. I almost ripped Betty’s head off. And I’m only whispering so she,” she pointed her thumb at Phoebe, “Doesn’t hear me. Otherwise, I’d be screaming about it.”

Arthur cleared his throat, trying not to chuckle, “I ain’t gonna argue too passionately about it, Shiv. It won’t happen.”

“Good.” She said. “I know as long as we agree on that, you’ll make a good father. Hopefully to lots and lots of children.”

Arthur shot her a look from the corner of his eye, smirking lightly as she smiled. That was the first time she had even hinted at flirting with him in a long time. And a part of him was amazed that she even did. It was like those early days when they first knew each other; the careening surprise of realizing—with a smirk and a touch—that Siobhan actually liked him.

He smiled the whole rest of the night.

Chapter 12: — SINNER, YOU BETTER GET READY

Chapter Text

APRIL 30, 1900

Englishtown in New Almaden, CA

She held it up to the glass to show him that it was locked and loaded, a little revolver with a distended chamber of rounds twice the size of the rest of it. Arthur’s face betrayed comprehensive confusion. “What the hell is wrong with you, lady?” Arthur shouted at the door, “I’m just tryna talk to you!”

Mary disappeared behind her curtain again.

“Arthur?”

Arthur stammered, “I-I… I had some… We–Well, you—”

Siobhan laughed, “Well, what did you ask her? If she has a cure for impotence?”

Mary raised a brow at him and after looking at Siobhan once again, seemed to let her guard down a little bit. She opened the door with slight hesitance and admitted, “It’s rarely for any good reason that a husband will show up to my doorstep without the company of his wife.”

“Well, I’m in the company of my wife, ain’t I?” Arthur said. He hadn’t even taken the time to really process or understand the meaning of what Mrs. Calhoun had said. And as she gave him a look of disapproval, inviting him into her parlor, he sighed, “I didn’t come here to… grieve you about the… you know.”

Siobhan looked up at him as Mary shut the door behind them. He put his hand on her lower back, gently soothing. Mary seemed relieved, “Well… you understand my caution? It wouldn’t have been the first time.”

“Um, Mrs. Calhoun?” Siobhan asked as she walked them into the sitting room. “Last time I was here, I meant to read a book of yours. Do you mind if I go grab it?”

“Oh, go ahead, dear. Try to keep it low, though, Jeremy is asleep in the hall.”

“In the hall?” Siobhan asked in apprehension, she thought she had heard her wrong but Mrs. Calhoun nodded. Arthur sat himself comfortably down on her couch. “Why there?”

“Yes.” Mary awkwardly lent herself to this discussion, compelled, maybe, by some Hippocratic sense of duty, despite how uncomfortable it would inevitably be.

Arthur blinked, his hand stilling in the air.

She laughed, “I swear. You and Siobhan both. With your talk of ‘fixing cycles’ and breeding horses. I’ve never met anyone more adept at skirting around an issue as the two of you.”

Arthur tripped over her mention of ‘fixing cycles’ slightly. Had no idea what she was referring to except that he gathered it was something Siobhan had said. He didn’t much appreciate the notion that Mary was calling the two of them stupid.

“Yeah.” Arthur looked into the hallway with increasing displeasure. “So should we be worried about that?”

Mary nodded, “There’s no telling. She got away with no signs of pregnancy for two months and has carried small so far. I see no reason why that should change. But she should have many capable midwives when it comes time to deliver.”

“And with the tea she drank and all that,” Arthur could see how Mary’s face dulled slightly to hear it mentioned. Almost like it was something she regret. “Should we be careful about what she eats? To keep the baby healthy?”

Mary’s sternness broke into a slight smile. She stood up, “Now, that’s a proper question. I can prepare—oh, hello Siobhan, did you find what you needed?”

Arthur’s eyes lowered, naturally, from Mary’s height to his wife’s belly, and then up to her face as she came in. She looked up at Mary nodding, her cheeks flushed. “Yes. Your books are very…” her eye flittered over to Arthur and back, “Descriptive.”

Mary chuckled, “Illustrative, you mean. I’ll prepare a diet for her, Mr. Morgan.” She danced around her parlor for a pen and paper. “The two of you can work out how to procure the food, but the nutrients are important.”

“Diet?” Siobhan said, coming over to Arthur after he had subtly summoned her with a flick of his fingers.

He remained in his seat as Siobhan came toward the chair and put his hand on her thigh. Siobhan batted it away. He looked up at her, smiling, his face playfully asking, ‘What?’

“Any restrictions, allergies, Siobhan?” Mary asked over her shoulder.

“She don’t like bananas at all. Won’t eat them if you put a gun to her head.” Arthur answered for her.

Siobhan’s head whipped back to Mary, she was passionate about this,— “Oh no! No bananas, please.” She pursed her lips, “Also, I’m allergic to cats.”

Arthur’s eyebrows raised in surprise for a second. He could not remember a time she ever mentioned being allergic to cats and for some reason, he couldn’t put his finger on why, it seemed strange that she would be.

Mary laughed, “Well I’m not going to feed you cats, am I? Goodness, darling girl.— Dietary allergies.”

Siobhan’s face twisted with displeasure as she stared at the back of Mrs. Calhoun’s head. So distracted with her irritation that she did not notice how Arthur stood up behind her and put his arm on her lower back. He looked over her cheeks, “What were you reading?”

Siobhan ignored him, crossing her arms. “I don’t think I’m allergic to any food.”

Arthur raised a brow as he looked down at her. She kept her eyes on the ground, swaying her shoulders back and forth with Arthur’s hand on her back.

“If you need beef, Pastor Foote just slaughtered one of their bulls. I know he has a cut of sirloin he was willing to give me, but we’re all stocked for the month.” Mary rambled and came back with a piece of paper in hand, “Sirloin is good for the beef-tea.”

“Beef tea?” Siobhan scoffed, taking the list. “That sounds terrible.”

“It is.” Mary walked toward her kitchen, “Allow me to bring you a pipkin, I have a spare.”

Siobhan scratched her head and wordlessly turned the paper to Arthur, showing him the list of recipes. “Would you eat this stuff?”

Arthur eyed it. He looked at Siobhan very gravely. “No.”

Siobhan watched him fold the paper up, staring at her as he stuck it into his pocket. She hoped for a second he was crumpling it up to throw away. “But I’m not the one who’s carrying a baby.” Arthur returned his hand to her back. “Let’s go see about that sirloin.”

Siobhan rolled her eyes, complaining. “I wanted to go home.”

“Then I’ll drop you off when I go to get the wagon.” Arthur said, and kissed her temple. “Or you can wait outside.”

“Fiiine.” Siobhan started after Mary to get the pipkin, “Let’s hurry up and go then.”

*

Siobhan thought, as Arthur walked with her back to the house to pick up the wagon, and as they left their farmslashranch to make it to Helena’s before they left for church, about how it came to be that she and Arthur had ended up in the same place after leaving each other that morning. It was so endearing to her that Arthur took it upon himself, without needing to ask or be asked, to check in with Mary Calhoun about Siobhan’s pregnancy. It convinced her that Arthur really did care—which was not to say that she ever doubted him, but such a reminder was sweet.

And though she didn’t particularly want to go to Helena de Foote’s house, she knew Arthur could not be dissuaded from going for the sake of her health, and Helena had a reputation for gossip. She didn’t want Helena to say things, carelessly, about Siobhan’s childhood to Arthur while she was not there to defend her dignity.

But now the two of them sat in Helena de Foote’s living room, thigh-to-thigh on her tiny loveseat that squished them together. Helena and Pastor Foote sat in their respective rocking chairs which creaked so loudly it filled the entirety of their bright little sitting room with echoing noise. They were talking about how Paul Hallock was there currently with Griffin to help them take care of their cattle in return for the meat they had shared from their slaughtered bull.

Siobhan stifled a laugh in her cheeks. She wished she could have seen it.

Helena huffed with her laughter. “Griffin didn’t seem to mind. It seemed like he had heard that sort of stuff before.”

Outside, Paul and Griffin were walking aimlessly between the paddocks. Paul was clearly explaining something to him that Griffin did not look too interested in. He kept throwing his arm up indiscriminately and slapping it down against his leg as if to scare the cattle, but they did not react much to it. Siobhan and Arthur came up to them shortly and it seemed that Griffin, for one, was grateful for the interruption, like it would stop Paul Hallock's incessant volubility. But he just continued to show off the cattle as if they were his own, just completely taken with pride.

Arthur was sure Siobhan was displeased with how long it was taking but she followed them politely anyway, her eyes far away and thinking of home. Paul pointed out another of the de Foote's cows, "This one's named Clara. I was there when she was born, raised her from a calf."

Arthur was not too eager to inspect the cows. He made conversation he was sure was more interesting to all of them. "I once met a feller who would dress cows up like dinosaurs, donkeys like zebras and dogs like lions." Arthur said matter-of-factly. He stood and everyone looked at him quietly like he had an education on it. "He was called Margaret."

Paul Hallock stared at him for a few wonderful seconds, "Well, isn't that just the craziest story, Arthur? You should," He mimed it with his hands for added sarcasm, "Jot that down in a little book so your kids can read about it when you're dead."

Siobhan snorted, and though Arthur looked down at her a little betrayed to see her laugh at one ofPaul Hallock'sjokes—of all people—he could not feel justified enough to quip back as rudely as he wanted to. But he refused to humor him any longer, "Just give us the sirloin, Hallock."

HOSEA

Hosea and Travis sat beside each other on the side of the house where everyone who didn’t fit in the house typically gathered for supper. They’d been talking about this and that for the past hour or so since Arthur left and was no longer around to bark orders at the latter. Shooting the sh*t with the old man he’d come to find very level-headed and entertaining, if not a little crotchety and with a nasty tongue for gossip. But even Hosea could concede that this was not wholly inaccurate to his character.

Travis hocked the hundredth loogie of the day and turned back to Hosea “You like Arthur very much?”

Hosea barked out a laugh, laying his hand flat on the table. Lenny came around to sit beside him and even he was laughing about it. Travis and Hosea liked and knew each other,—but not very well apparently. “I raised him. Since he was just a kid. Known him my whole life.”

Travis raised a brow “Since he were just a kid? But you’re not his pappy?”

“No.” He cleared his throat with a cough and his voice lightened a shade to be clear of whatever it was that had congested him. “No, he was orphaned when he was real young. Must’ve been twelve or thirteen, I reckon.”

“Hmpf.” Travis crossed his arms thoughtfully like the whole ordeal struck him by the surprising nature of what seemed to be charitable outlaws. “And what about you?” He turned to Lenny “How’d you join these folks?”

Lenny shrugged, “Left my gang for this one, really. I had just turned eighteen.”

Travis’s eyes went wide as he thumbed his chin looking between Lenny and Hosea getting a picture of all this. “So you’re the youngest aside from little Jack.”

“No.” Hosea interjected, shaking his head. He was all-knowledgeable. He looked at Lenny, “Siobhan’s our youngest, right?”

Lenny confirmed it and now Travis looked even further confused. “Well how old is she?”

“Sevente—no. She just turned eighteen, didn’t she?” Hosea and Lenny nodded at each other and they could both see the concern that suddenly covered Travis’s face. And both of them knew it was not because a girl so young had joined a gang.

Travis blanched and started to count on his fingers. “That’s worse than I first thought.”

“The age difference.” Hosea agreed.

Travis’s face cleared as he looked up at Hosea like he were the only person in the world to relate to his current conundrum. He felt like he looked around and folks either said little to the detriment of the relationship or nothing at all aside from Karen who had painted a very disgusting picture of it. “When it comes to young girls it’s only right to divide your age by two and add another seven years for decency and I should know on account of being good with numbers as I am. To marry lower than that ain’t right.”

“So you reckon Arthur shouldn’t have married a girl younger than twenty-five or twenty-six?” Lenny asked, and he could see how this was a good rule, but considering that he was closer in age to Siobhan than either of them and thought himself a man grown since the age of fifteen, he was less disturbed by the relationship.

Hosea knew Lenny’s only problem was that he’d had a little crush on Siobhan when she first joined the gang and wished that it had been him instead.

“It’s only right.” Travis said with full conviction. “She is eight solid years too young for him.”

Hosea shrugged. “Some would argue she’s twenty solid years too young for him. But… she seems happy.” But he furrowed his brow thinking back to the early days when she had joined the gang and no-one even knew she had come from Blackwater or that she was being sought after by the Pinkertons. It wasn’t long ago, now, that Hosea had it in mind that her and Arthur’s relationship would be a vastly different thing to what it was. “I do remember how surprised I was the day they got married.”

Lenny scoffed, “You were surprised? How?”

“Well,” Hosea gestured defensively, “I always thought they were,—well, you know. I don’t mean to be distasteful, but… When he was coming to me with these thoughts and concerns and she was too, you know,” He looked at Lenny seriously, “I thought he meant to look after her the way Dutch and I looked after him and John. I thought he was taking after us, trying to adopt her.”

“Oh.” Lenny was surprised and it showed on his face the way he shut his mouth and went silent.

“I remember seeing this look of fostering on his face and I thought it was terribly sweet. Our understanding was Siobhan herself was orphaned, too. Didn’t have a father.” Travis looked amazed so Hosea turned to Lenny because he was not trying to imply he was disgusted. Merely that he had interpreted it wrongly. “I didn’t know what to make of it, but I accepted it anyway.”

Travis looked at Lenny for he were a little surprised to hear such implications “You wasn’t surprised a man old like Arthur got with a girl in her teens?”

Lenny shrugged, “I only say I wasn’t surprised cause everybody knew he’d been leaving his shoes under her bed months before they got married.” He looked at Travis who perked up to be enlightened with information, “They both got sick. Left the group for a couple of months and everyone was fairly sure the both of them were dead. But when they came back…” He looked at Hosea, “And you couldn’t tell?”

Hosea raised his brows, shrugging in surrender, “I typically pride myself on being quite the purveyor of gossip but, no. No, I never heard a word of any of that. Except some disgusting things from Micah but, ‘course I never paid any mind to a thing that bastard ever said. He lived off of making folk uncomfortable and I wasn’t in a place of giving him a rise.”

“How’d Micah Bell die?” Travis suddenly asked as he had always been curious of this.

Both Lenny and Hosea turned their heads to him. There was a tense silence underlined with hefty suspicion and Travis realized his mistake. He cleared his throat hocking another loogie like it were a nervous tick “Sean told me… hm—there he is” he looked across the yard where it seemed Sean Macguire were a notch drunk again. “Come here Macguire!”

He got up from the table and watched as Sean squinted trying to find the source of who had called his name when tramping drunkenly through the mud he mislaid his footing and slipped into the puddle. Travis mocked him with his instant laughter and came over “If dross was ever turned to a man then here’s Sean Macguire.”

“f*ck off, I’ll get up on me tod!” Sean blubbered and struggled.

But Travis offered him his hand anyway because he didn’t ever intend to help the idiot. So when Sean reluctantly took his hand Travis let go and shouted “Oh!” As Sean splashed back into the mud “Your hands are all wet don’t tell me you been crying?”

Sean tossed his bottle at Travis’s head, blatantly missing, and finally caught a good enough grip on his well-planted knee that he could stand up. He stared at Travis “I can already hear it. Just leave me alone, you pestering bastard. What’d I ever do to you?!”

Travis was too amused to hear Sean whine like a little boy getting bullied. Apparently, the drink had gotten him all wound up in his feelings and here the story was that Sean Macguire was a tough outlaw killing any bounty hunters who’d captured him. Here all on the verge of tears.

“Travis, are you fighting with Sean again?”

Travis turned his head to see Arthur had returned. His head rolled back in disappointment. But he wasn’t gonna let Arthur Morgan stop him from mocking Sean so easily “OH! Mammy's here to save you Sean don’t cry.”

Arthur gave him a look of disgust, “There’s somethin’ wrong with you, Travis Hay. I wonder about you.”

Arthur were dragged away by Sadie neither of them could of seen how young Jack plodded up from behind Travis and tugged at his sleeve. Travis were surprised to turn around he did not see anyone behind him until he looked down at his knees and there were John Marston’s child holding up a wedding band. “This is yours!” He proclaimed.

Travis were mighty confused. “It ain’t mine kid. I know it sounds crazy but I’m not married.”

The child shook his head he were mighty convinced “It has your name on it.”

Travis were suddenly intrigued his name were most funny to him he could not imagine the kid were right but when he took the ring from his hand he reeled in confusion. It were true after all it said Travis Hay. He snatched the ring up quickly “How’d you get this?”

The child had a voice as clear as the striking of tin he were clearly proud of himself. “At the lake camp. Mama says it was in Lemoyne.”

He must of meant Flat Iron Lake. Travis Hay’s amazement were clear he awkwardly patted the kid on the head and thanked him. He could not believe the world he found himself in where the child of an outlaw had pointed him out faster than the outlaws themselves it were a notch ironic.

Arthur wished Sadie had not asked him aside in front of Siobhan. She invited him to go bounty hunting with him. It seemed less of an invitation than a thinly veiled request, though. He looked out of the corner of his eye at Siobhan to his side as he asked, “You plannin’ on going out alone?”

“Well, Dutch and the others are out on their own jobs.” Sadie explained, squinting at him, “Without them, I figure I’ll have to go out alone.”

“And how much is this feller worth, you said?” Arthur scratched his chin, thinking real hard about it. Beside him, Siobhan was suddenly called away by Mary-Beth and she interrupted Sadie’s answer.

“I’ll be right back.” She said to Arthur, and he was surprised by how relaxed she seemed about the possibility of him saying yes.

Sadie watched Siobhan go and crossed her arms, drinking her whiskey. “We’ll split fifteen-hundred.”

Arthur raised his brows, nodding as he looked at the ground, “That ain’t bad…”

But he wondered about the house and how long he’d be away. He called Travis over from where he was very near to getting into a fistfight with Sean. “Travis!” He barked, and when the man came over, he squinted at him, “You think you and Charles’ll be able to handle the building for the next few days without me?”

Arthur tossed Charles into the equation simply because it involved him, but his question was really only for Travis who had a terrible attention span and a work ethic that could falter if he was not yelled at. He knew Charles could do it and would if he was asked.

Travis scoffed he were nearly insulted. “Of course we can. We got John too don’t forget.”

“Well, he’s got a pregnant wife, Travis, so if he needs to step away, you two gotta be able to take care of everything.” Arthur clarified.

Travis were sure. His face were reeled back with confidence and he put his hands on his belt. “We got it.” He could not lie he found the idea of being alone with that handsome Charles for so many days quite desirable. “Don’t worry about us.”

Arthur looked back at Sadie, “Well,” He took a deep breath as she held her hand out for a handshake in questioning. He confirmed her handshake, “I guess I’ll do it.”

“Thanks, Arthur.” Sadie seemed genuinely relieved. “I’m heading out first thing tomorrow.”

Arthur nodded in understanding and turned around looking for Siobhan but she was off talking to Tilly and Mary-Beth and they seemed all alive with some girlish excitement that he did not want to interrupt so he went and sat down by the fire where Javier and Swanson were singing. He looked around the camp and, though he was anxious about leaving Siobhan alone for so many days, he found it comforting how calm everyone seemed. With Siobhan and the girls laughing and relaxed, and a fight no more serious than Travis making a mockery of Sean for the hundredth time, it was easy to trust things would be ok…

With a child here in the middle of it, younger than Jack and on Siobhan or Arthur’s knee, he could not imagine anything more perfect than having his family, all of these people, here with him.

Siobhan had finished talking to the girls and came over to Arthur’s side, looking as happy as he’d ever seen her. She took his hand absentmindedly as she sat down and held it over her belly, leaning against his shoulder as Javier sang for them.

Sean came by behind him, "You brought home a leg of meat? Or was it an ass?"

Arthur's shoulders decompressed with irritation as he took a deep breath, shaking his head up at Sean, "Neither. It's sirloin you fool, take a walk."

Sean waved his big lanky arms out, "I can already hear the tale," he imitated Arthur's voice perfectly even while he was drunk, "'Killed it with my bare hands.'"

This time when Siobhan snorted with a laugh, Arthur did too. Sean was pleased to walk off snickering at his own joke.

Arthur cleared his throat, slightly worried, now, to tell Siobhan about his conversation with Sadie. He didn't want to dull her amusem*nt with what would most certainly annoy her to hear. “I told Sadie I’d help her get that bounty. Just this once… she didn’t have nobody else.” Siobhan looked up at him, giving him her full attention, “I’ll be gone a few days.”

Siobhan’s eyes were a little disappointed, but she didn’t argue. “She’ll keep you safe.” She said, making Arthur laugh.

And though Arthur was sure Siobhan would have been mad at him for agreeing to help Sadie, she kissed his cheeks and asked him how he felt and reassured his lonely heart with her soft touch.

But he could never tell her how afraid he was.

Every day, he found it an arresting joy, uninvited and catching him unawares each time, to see Siobhan in her pregnancy. Smiling and laughing and loving him the same way she always had, and now carrying his child inside her belly.

His joy was absurd and left him so wordless with awe, all he could be left with to express was the tragedy of it. That he, Arthur Morgan, should have to one day be the father of that child as he had been the father of his firstborn son. What greater tragedy was there than that?

Siobhan would make a perfect mother, their child would never lack that. He knew it, and it narrowed his anguish in little, smile-sized increments as she laid his hand across her belly, and there were few things he was more grateful for than that.

But he found himself angry. Angry with the nature of the whole ordeal. That fathers were left without whatever it was that made women so instantly equipped to give and to raise life with love, virtually without mistake. Instead, it was the job of fathers to provide the mistakes, to create the little daily problems, to be inadequate and to be forced to learn without maternal instinct.

He always felt Eliza looking down on him the way he was with Isaac. She had every right to, he knew. Where he wasn’t an absent father, he surely was a sorry one.

When Arthur first held Isaac, days old, his heart swelled with the violent urge to protect him and keep him safe. That never went away any time he had ever been blessed to see his son. And yet, he did what no mother ever does. He left.

And it was not that Eliza was an ill-equipped mother—what horrible fear she must have felt in those final moments still made his heart freeze and contract with horror and grief for his regret! She had been left alone and Arthur sloughed the responsibility of fathers onto her shoulders, forcing her unfaceted, soft-hearted motherhood to shield herself and their child from the untamed brutality of the world that only Arthur knew the sharpness of.

He didn’t worry that he’d make the same mistakes with Siobhan and their child, he expected that he would, some of them. Though he loved her more than he had any right to know, he would never forgive himself if he did to her what he did to Eliza and what he did to his own mother. And yet, he feared he already had.

How was he to know that the second his son was born,—and every son and daughter after that—the fate of their lives would forever be the blood on his hands? But it was all he knew now; that there is nothing more violent and summoning of the sorrow of death than the sorrow of birth.

—and to be honest, I don't remember much about her, but even on those days when my face was all bloody with bruises and my back was cut up from head to toe, my mother would tell me that it was not my fault. Covered in bruises of her own. But even at that age I knew that it was. I was the only thing keeping her bound to my father. The same way Eliza was bound to me before I abandoned her like I did.

I remember the early days when Eliza was just pregnant, had gotten kicked out of her house + had nowhere to stay. I was begrudged foolishly to hear from her again but as soon as I saw her taken with that baby I had no choice but to help her. I took her from boarding house to boarding house while we looked for a place she + Isaac could stay, and she tried to appreciate it. She was a good kid, never complained to me as I struggled to do my best to help her. She must have felt so cramped with me and all those other itinerant working men. I could not guess how long it had been since she had last seen or spoken to another woman while we were on the road. Maybe she liked it when I was gone for weeks at a time. She certainly never enjoyed the days I was around.

Chapter 13: — Y BLODYN GWYN // BOX OF RAIN [NSFW]

Chapter Text

He wished to talk to her of so many things regarding Caoimhe and so many things of her childhood but he worried it was all locked away behind pain and murder and trauma. And he worried whatever good he might’ve lent her girlhood was all forgotten to her now. And he’d hate to make her even more distant towards him as he already seemed to have. He cleared his throat, “I was all wrong about Betty.” He said.

Siobhan looked up at him, her attention caught by surprise.

“I shouldn’t have called her crazy. That was just… ugly of me.” He said, knowing how if Caoimhe could’ve heard it, that's what she’d have called it—ugly. “And there’s no excuse for what she did to Phoebe at all. I never meant to imply anything otherwise. But you had every right to tell me off like you did.”

Siobhan shifted uncomfortably. It was a strange conversation, she felt, to have over her mother’s grave. But in a way, too, it wasn’t. The softness of her mother’s heart, even in spirit, was infectious and now she was urged to stay and hear him out. She lowered her eyes to the hands in her lap, “Well, maybe you weren’t so far off when you called her half-crazy. She is… old.”

Paul didn’t find it in himself to quip about that. Didn’t want to say the wrong thing in an attempt at humor again.

Siobhan’s mouth skewed as she admitted, “I know you meant well about Phoebe. If the kids came to you about something like that, you’d do something, wouldn’t you?”

“I’d certainly try.” He said, sitting up straight. “As much as I don’t believe in it, I can’t go ripping children from their parents. But I can wave my badge around if I needed to.”

Siobhan lowered her eyes again. “That’s good. Kids need someone like that. Just to stand up for them, you know? Even if there’s nothing else you can do. It’s good just to know that someone cares.”

Paul wondered how exactly she came to know that and how she could speak so clearly as if from experience. He knew Oliver Davenport never hit her. But Richard Davenport, her uncle? Paul Hallock had little to no idea what went on beyond those Texan borders and on the other side of those fine plantation house walls. Though he’d been given a thorough gossip about it from Helena de Foote as soon as he came back from San Jose. It pained him to think she suffered more abuse out there, with him all ignorant to it all this time.

“You were right about Dutch, too.” Siobhan said suddenly, breaking Paul out of his thoughts. She laughed, “At least, Arthur thinks so.”

“He said you’re afraid of the gang breaking up.” Paul suggested, watching her. He looked out at the far hills of the cemetery.

Siobhan nodded. “We fought about it a lot. Strange how you can hate someone and need them around and someone else can love that same person and want them gone.”

Paul corked up a brow in full understanding of the sort of emotional treachery she described. He hated the idea of Arthur fighting with her. He mumbled, eyeing Caoimhe’s headstone with bitterness at the back of his tongue, “You know what they say; the Devil keeps his nails clean.”

Siobhan snorted, thinking about Dutch’s grossly long and manicured nails. “Ain’t that the truth?”

Paul eyed her carefully in her surprising agreement.— More and more everyday he was given the distinct suggestion that Arthur Morgan was not suited to court Siobhan Magda. And however in Hell it came to be that they were married, Paul could not imagine. But he believed if he had been in New Almaden a few weeks sooner, such a marriage would not have happened.

Stealing their marriage certificates and having them barred from the banker was the first thing Paul Hallock did after he met Arthur the first time and still, that was not enough to quell the injustice of it. But he didn’t want to rile himself up in ire with Siobhan over Caoimhe’s grave and changed the subject quickly, “Uncle’s in jail.”

“Uncle?” Siobhan’s face twisted, “You arrested him?”

Paul nodded, “I had to. He was pissing on Betty’s petunias this morning.”

Siobhan covered her face, “Oh my God, that man.”

“Wanna come get him? Bring him home?” Paul suggested, “He’s been in there nearly twelve hours.”

Siobhan got up with a tiny laugh, “That’s probably long enough.”

*

When they arrived at the jail, Paul held the door open for her. It was still stale and dusty, with some red hue of dirt seeming to hang without gravity or wind in the air. Completely static in its place. Uncle was singing in the corner.

“Come bustle bustle, DRINK about and let us MERRY be!” He was laying on his back, always in those red coveralls of his, stained with God knows what.

Siobhan shouted at him, “Uncle, you piss poor drunk!” It scared him nearly clean off his body and he bolted upright. Siobhan gave him a sweet smile as she approached the bars, “Good morning.”

Uncle could only hear the jangling of keys behind her, “Oh, you came to save me, Siobhan? I am saved?”

“You sure are, Uncle.” She stepped aside to let the Sheriff unlock Uncle’s cell, and he watched with star-struck amusem*nt as he did.

He began to rave, “Have you seen those flowers in front of the school? They were dry as cotton yesterday but now, oh, they shine like pennies.”

Siobhan rolled her eyes, “I’m sure they do with your piss all over them.”

Uncle patted Paul Hallock’s chest as he walked past him and followed Siobhan to his desk. Paul turned, wiping his chest off like Uncle had spread some kind of disease to him, and his eyes creased to see Siobhan taking up a place on his rightful throne. She even kicked up her legs on his desk. “I’m glad it was you come to get me and not Arthur. If it was him, I’d never hear the end of it.” Uncle appreciated, rolling on his heels.

“Arthur’s still gone.” Siobhan said, staring at her nails. She wished she had masked her disappointment a little better, but could not. He hadn’t been back in days.

Uncle went on, “Sheriff, while you was gone, a fine young couple came in here asking if they could see that body you found on that trail.”

Paul inspected a book on his desk. After a beat of silence, his eyes scanning the page top to bottom, left to right, and flipping a few pages, his face cleared into confusion, “They didn’t leave their names?”

“I guess not. People around here ain’t too polite.” Uncle said.

Paul rolled his eyes, “I told you to tell people to sign the guestbook, you clodpoll.”

Uncle looked at Siobhan, ‘victim’ spelled in his eyes, “You see what I mean about polite, Siobhan? We did better in Lemoyne.”

Siobhan looked up at the ceiling, rolling around in her head all of the different ways she could apply that to her time in Lemoyne,—all of it sincerely offensive. She decided to refuse to dignify it with a response.

“Did they tell you their names?” Paul asked, fossicking for a pencil.

Uncle nodded, “They did but I forget them just now. Told them they might well just come back when you’re here.”

“What about Griffin, did he turn up at all?” Paul raised a brow over his reading glasses at Uncle who was scratching his elbow.

Uncle thought it over for a second. “Oh, the little pipsqueak deputy sure did.” He nodded, “He says he was on his way to ask after the Beauchamps so I recollect.”

Siobhan stiffened to hear the name. She dropped her leg from the table as if she were about to go run out there and stop Griffin. She recollected herself quickly, though, that was a terribly foolish idea.

“The Beauchamps?” Paul sighed, scratching his nose, “They’re a bunch of drunks, he should’ve gone with me.”

Uncle sat against the desk, “I was thinking about that body up there, too. You know, maybe somebody went through his pockets, bashed his head in with a rock, and then threw him off a cliff.”

Siobhan went dead silent, searching the back of Uncle’s head for all the soft spots that made him say things like that. All the vulnerable spots she could hit him in that would kill him before he could say anything more incriminating.

“Why go through his pockets, bash his head in with a rock and then throw him off a cliff?” Hallock said, slipping his pencil against his ear, and turning back to eye Uncle suspiciously.

Uncle shrugged, shaking the whole desk, “It’s what I’d do.”

Hallock took a step forward, “Did you go through his pockets, bash his head in with a rock and throw him off a cliff?”

Uncle gave him a sweet, redfaced smile and looked down at himself, “Do you see how soft I am in my midsection?” He cradled himself, shaking his head, “I’m just as soft in my heart.”

Paul Hallock looked over Uncle’s shoulder and saw how pale Siobhan had gone, and patted the old man on the shoulder, “You are a very pathetic man to wag your bread jerker over such gruesome stuff in front of a girl.”

“A girl?” Uncle retorted, “You mean Siobhan?!”

“Well, it was nice to see you again, Siobhan. You take care now, okay?” Paul’s entire tone seemed to change. Of course it did. It had softened.

ARTHUR

Arthur returned home some time later, exhausted, dirty, quiet. He sat down on the couch in the parlor, hapless and tired. Siobhan had heard the door shut and put her work down. She rubbed her forehead as she came into the parlor, her eyes adjusting to the dark. “Arthur?”

He groaned, rubbing his shoulder, “Yeah, it’s just me.” He couldn’t see it, but he could feel a nasty bruise on his shoulder and the side of his neck where he’d been hit.

Siobhan lit a candle on the other side of the room, and set it on the table beside them. She looked at Arthur, “You look beat.”

“Heh, probably cause I am.” He gestured towards himself, telling her to come closer. She inched forward, inspecting him while his arms found their way around her hips. Idly, and habitually, he caressed her stomach, love in every touch.

Her face remained neutral to his touch—through some effort that Arthur wondered if he wasn’t only imagining—and only inspected him as he did it. She touched his shoulder, and he winced. Pushing him back toward the light, she looked closer. His hands fell, but she had no reaction to it. “What happened?”

He wasn’t in the mood to express his blunder, but he would since she asked. Sighing, “Ah, bastard bounty had an idiot friend. Hit me with a shovel, the hick.”

Suddenly she roamed away towards the kitchen. She lit another lamp and he could hear her rummaging through their cabinets. “Did you hit him back?” She asked, hoping he did.

“I grazed him with a bullet. He’s still alive.” She made a sound of disappointment and Arthur laughed. “Don’t sound like that, the bastard learned his lesson—what are you doing?”

She hummed for a second, and he heard chopping. The couch creaked as he got up.

“Uh-uh!” She peeled her head around the corner. He froze, catching her eye. She pointed her knife in his direction. “Stay. I’m making a poultice for that bruise.”

Arthur sat back down with a smile as her chopping resumed. She was always making something for him, one way or another. He kept talking, “Well, after he hit me with the shovel and I shot him, I found his friend—the bounty, I mean—sitting in the outhouse.”

Siobhan laughed.

“He was deaf, apparently. Felt a bit like we was cheating.” He added with a chuckle.

She came back into the room. “Cheating ain’t so bad.” With a bowl in her one hand, she hitched up her skirt with the other and kneeled on the couch beside him. “Move your shirt, please.”

He began unbuttoning it, watching her. “Sadie offered to let me come with her more often.”

She put one hand on his cheek, turning his face out of her way, “You don’t have to do any of this work. We’ll be making money off the crops soon enough, and we can last off our savings until then.”

With his shirt unbuttoned he hushed her, moving her hand. “I told you already, we don’t touch the savings. I can still work, so I will.”

“Hm.” She hummed with a raised brow as she spread the poultice across his bruise.

“What is that?” He sniffed, “Potatoes?” She was always putting some kind of weird plant, fruit or vegetable on him.

She nodded, “I told you before, potatoes are good for fat bruises like this, I just didn’t have any then.” She slathered it on gently with her slender fingers. It was cool and felt rather nice.

He watched her with interest as she set the bowl down and draped a cold rag over the paste on his shoulder. Then she reached over to the table and replaced the bowl she held with a mug. She handed it to him, hot and full of tea. “If you’re gonna work… I’d be more comfortable if it wasn’t bounty hunting.”

He sipped the drink, “I know.” It was nice and refreshing, with the stark bittersweetness of sugared ginger root. Siobhan eyed him sadly. He took her hand, “I don’t like the work either, Shiv. I already told Sadie I don’t plan on doin’ it again.”

She seemed pleased. “I’m glad.”

He took the time, then, to look his wife over. Appraising her worth, which he could never hope to afford (or hold without dimming), and reminded himself what he was missing while he was away—and even when he was here, really. Their house, while he had been away those few days out with Sadie, Siobhan had decorated and made full of life. It all smelled of her and of the many items, fabrics, and herbs she had lugged home and spread around. “What you been up to while I was gone?”

She smiled, “Well, I helped John break some wheat yesterday. Today I got Uncle out of jail after he pissed on Betty’s flowers.”

“Sounds like normal behavior.” Arthur said sarcastically.

“He’s nothing if not normal.— Anyway, when I got back I was sewing your coat back up and getting all the blood out of it.” She stood up and took the poultice back into the kitchen. From there she called out, “Do you want to take the tub down and run a bath?”

Arthur pulled his suspenders down and slowly started to roll up his sleeves. “Nah, that’s alright. I’ll do it tomorrow morning. Gotta get back to building anyway. Roof is almost done.”

“Take a few days off, the roof will live.” Her voice was moving around, quieter here, louder there. He looked around at the scant, but still pleasant decorations she’d fixed about the living room since it was built enough to use. He wondered where exactly the big cattle horns mounted to the wall had come from…

“Nah… I really should get it done before October.” Arthur said, his eyes moving onto the next thing she’d put in. A little unlit gas lamp on a tall, skinny, wooden table.

Her voice started to come back into the room and she lit the lamp he had just been looking at. “You can take a day off and still get it done by October, honey.”

Arthur smiled at her as she came around the back of a sitting chair she’d bought in town not long ago. Was enraptured by it when she found it. ‘Canyon brown’ she said, which to Arthur, wasn’t saying much. But that and the shape of it—shouldered and hipped; tacked with brass around the armrests,—she loved it. Begged Arthur to let her bring it home. “You know precious little about what buildin’ a house actually entails.”

“Oh, now you want to get nasty?” Siobhan chirped sarcastically as she sat down delicately. She was not serious, but still eyed Arthur something mean and warning.

Seeing her fold her hands against her full belly, how soft and measured. He held his hands up in surrender, “I’m just sayin’!”

“Then I’ll ask you what I asked before.” Siobhan said innocently, leaning forward; all menace. Let’s have a fight, shall we?

“Oh, no…” Arthur slouched back, shutting his eyes.

“Hire some more people.” She asked simply.

Arthur sighed, rolling his eyes over to her. She was sitting with her knees together, her hands flat on the seat beside her, leaning slightly more on one than the other. Slanted in Arthur’s direction with her hair all pulled to the other side, smoldering. Her eyebrows sat at rest and her lips gently puckered in thought,—her eyes traced Arthur’s movement with careful contention. But the golden light against her skin and the soft curve of her pink lips distracted him from what was supposed to become an argument.

Arthur couldn’t bring himself to argue. He wiped his face and looked down at his boots, and began taking them off. He sounded exhausted, “Don’t look at me like that.”

Siobhan’s eyes dropped to the hands around his feet, “Like what?”

“With your… Well at all, damn it.” Arthur kicked his boot off, “I can’t get mad at you if you stare at me like that.”

Siobhan frowned, “Are you serious right now?”

He kicked off his other boot and sent it across the floor with little pebbles of calcified mud scattered about it. And soothing his footsole, sighed, “Deadly.”

Siobhan sat further back, crossing her arms over her belly. She watched as Arthur averted his eyes from her completely. She eyed the mess of dirt on the floor from his boots, thinking of sweeping if she planned to walk around barefoot.— But that was a grievance for later. “Hire some more of the men in town—the miners.”

“No.” Arthur shook his head. “We got enough men.”

“We got two men. The only ones getting paid, anyway.” She argued, “They’d trust us—and they need it.”

Arthur sat up straighter and pulled his suspenders over his shoulders, “If those men need work they got a whole mine to dig into.”

“You could spare them a couple months of breathing in coal and quicksilver and just hire them.” Siobhan set her crossed arms forward on her knees, “It would take a load off your shoulders, I don’t understand why you won’t do it.”

Arthur exhaled with a deflating chest, slumped back in his chair and finally looked at her. God, she is pretty. He wished they didn’t argue so much. He wanted to kiss her beautiful cheek glowing with the edge of her pout, but even if they didn’t argue, she still probably wouldn’t let him do that. And he didn’t mind it so much. It only made it that much better when she finally did. “Siobhan, I don’t want any more strange men comin’ around, spending hours at a time here, with you like you are.”

Siobhan narrowed her eyes, “That’s what this is about?”

Arthur blinked at her and held up his hand, “I gotta warn you, Shiv, I am not prepared to hear you say that they ain’t gonna try nothing with you, ‘cause I’m sitting here looking at you and wondering why I ain’t kissing you all over right now.” He could see that she was displeased, but he shrugged, “I’m just warning you.”

Siobhan sat back and pushed her fingers against her eyes, massaging the growing headache out with frustrated little circles. She crossed her legs and set her hands in her lap in defeat, “I’ll go back to work.”

Arthur inhaled, “With Batty?”

“Betty.” Siobhan corrected. “Yes. I’ll be gone most days. And when I can’t work for her I’ll go help Serena in the store.— Hell, I’ll just go bother Griffin and Sheriff Hallock all day. Please, Arthur.”

He shook his head, putting his hands on his stomach, “I don’t want to.”

Siobhan stood up and crossed over to him, “Arthur.” She kneeled beside the chair and placed her chin over her hand on the armrest. “I’m losing my patience.”

Arthur raised a brow, looking at the wall, and shrugged, “Maybe all those men wouldn’t get to ogle you all day, but me? I wouldn’t get to see you until the end of the day and by then I’d be exhausted.”

Siobhan looked up at him without moving her head, looking over the profile of his face with love. She loved and hated him. He was infuriating. “You didn’t have a problem with that arrangement before.”

Arthur chuckled, “Yes I did. That was why we fought so much in the first place.” He scoffed, “That or I was following you,—and look how that turned out.”

Siobhan rolled her eyes and stood up, turned around and plopped into his lap. She put her hand on his jaw as his hungry eyes landed on her, “I’m not asking anymore. I’m demanding. Hire more men tomorrow.”

Arthur circled his jaw as his hands wrapped around her warm body. The moles across her cheek amplified the sight of her smoldering pout and her plush lips twitched with some measure of irritation that Arthur recognized too well. “That ain’t fair.”

“Life isn’t fair.” She said and looked down at his lips, “We have to do what we can to get these people to like us so they don’t throw us to the wolves, Arthur. This is the least we can do.”

Arthur put his hand in her hair and she instantly sat up, pushed herself off his lap and bent over in front of him to pick up his boots. He hissed, closing his fist in her absence, “Shiv,—goddamn it.”

Siobhan pinched her chin, “Maybe we should let them go, then. This just doesn’t seem right.”

“Shiv…” Arthur sighed, trying not to smile. “If I let them go, I’d have to build more myself and if I paid them reasonably, I’d have to get more bounties with Sadie. Whichever way you look at it, I’d be workin’ more.” He sighed, “And if we laid them off, the only other place they got is the mine, which you wanted to save ‘em from in the first place, right?”

Arthur thought again about the money he had stashed away, which may have been selfish enough to do. But, he was sure, wanting to take care of his pregnant wife was not. All the more reason, then, to do whatever he could to finish the house before the baby was due.

Siobhan looked at all the illustrations tacked up on the wall above their bed. “What if you sold some of your drawings?”

“What? Nobody’d buy those.” He laughed, looking at them himself. Though he always averted his eyes just a little bit from the finer details—or mistakes, more accurately—which he could remember on every one of them. “Not for enough money to ever hope of paying those fellers, anyway. Be surprised if I could buy a sack of corn with that money.”

Arthur had heard of the Alcott woman, and it all seemed so much more elite than he could put his own pencil to. “They ain’t that good.”

He leaned against the banister as he watched her patter over to the bed, hopping on it to shut the window as it began to rain outside. He raised a brow, checking her out as she kneeled on all four on the bed. “You look real pretty tonight, Siobhan.” Arthur said, licking his lips.

Siobhan scoffed, that was all. He was a little let down by that, but he shouldn’t have been. He had set the stage for her antics already, just trying to get close to her knowing damn well he should wait until she came to him. Teasing him was one thing, but teasing him when they both knew she was not going to go through with any of it was something entirely different. And he wondered if the entire length of her pregnancy would be like this. Celibate and repressed; downright Protestant.

Siobhan giggled over her shoulder, pulling the blinds, “Are you just gonna stand there and stare at me? Your silence is loud.”

Arthur huffed. “If… it’ll please you… I’ll see what can be done about gettin’ some more hands.”

Siobhan jumped off the bed, excited and surprised, “So you’ll actually do it?”

“I’ll see about it. But only for the sake of what happened with that Beauchamp feller. Keep them folks unsuspicious of us.” Arthur said and lowered his hand as Siobhan came back toward him. He moved out of the way of the door.

Siobhan was grateful but she said little of it and passed him again, “Good enough for me, honey.”

Arthur was almost disappointed she didn’t have a more exciting reaction to Arthur finally caving to her. Though he felt stupid to think so. Damn, he had to admit to himself, it’s been too long. He followed after her like he was skirtchasing. Just eager to enjoy a sniff off her breast and nothing more.

“Oh, Pearson bottled his beer today. You wanna try some?” She was washing her hands in the sink basin again.

Arthur came into the kitchen behind her. Answering her casually, giving her no notion of his starvation. “Sure, he seemed real excited about that.”

She took a bottle from the counter and handed it to him. She leaned back against the wood and smiled, “Yeah, after that first one blew up he was so happy to see this batch make it to the third month.”

Arthur made a face as he uncorked it. He looked at her, “You not gonna have any?”

“Not with the baby.” She said, retreating her hand against her stomach.

“A sip ain’t gonna hurt. You don’t even have to swallow.” He pointed out, then shrugged, “If you wanted to try it, I mean.”

Siobhan smiled, “Okay, just gimme a sip of yours.”

He handed her the bottle as if it were some little temptation he was sinning by extending to her, and she gave him a weird face as she accepted it. He watched her, with a tiny sip, wet her lips with the darkened liquid, entranced. She winced, shuddering away from it, “Oh God!”

Arthur knocked it back with an unceremonious gulp and then frowned at it, “Tastes like water.”

Siobhan watched him set the bottle down, coughing, “Water?!” She turned, nearly retching.

Arthur stood behind her while she bent into the sink, spitting. He was amused, “Damn, do you never drink?”

She shook her head. “No. God, why would I? That tasted like piss.”

“Ha-ha, ahh, you’re alright.” He laughed and, naturally, by the low candlelight of their home, he relaxed. His hand slid down her side and into the pause of her back, over her hip. His voice lowered, gravelly, “I missed you.”

Siobhan stood straight and slowly turned around, leaning back. “I always miss you.”

Arthur was surprised to hear her say so. Furthermore, that she let him touch her so suggestively. He raised a brow, “You always miss me?”

He tugged her up against his chest, squishing the baby between them just a bit— sorry little creepmouse, Arthur thought, this is big for me.— Siobhan stared up at him. He looked between her eyes and her lips desperately. How he longed to kiss her just once and make it last long enough to stave off his hunger for a few more days.

“Mhmm.” She frowned, “What makes you think I don’t?”

Arthur was amazed by how she could lay that pout across her face so innocently, bound to win a prize, knowing exactly what she did to him. His hand glided up her back, propping up her shoulder blade, she stood overarched, all neck and sternum below him. “You don’t act too eager to be near me.”

Siobhan scoffed, a tiny, seductive little breath of air between her soft lips. She chewed at them, “Then you aren’t very attentive.” She stated, “All the more reason not to say anything.”

And suddenly she broke away from his touch again and pushed him slightly back to get out of where he cornered her against the counter. Arthur’s skin was hot, “Shiv?”

She spoke carelessly over her shoulder, “Make sure you blow out those candles.”

Quickly doing as she asked, he rushed through the sudden darkness into the living room again. She was turning out all the lights. He came after her, “You mean you ain’t still mad at me?”

Siobhan gave him an incredulous look over her shoulder.

Now he was just plain confused, “If you ain’t still mad at me, why do you treat me so differently?"

Siobhan made a strange noise of disagreement, "I'm not!"

But Arthur stopped her again with his terrible heartbreak, “I’ll give you space if you ask for it, but I just need to know that’s what you want. I can’t read your mind, Shiv—”

A declaration that, though true, felt wrong in place of the connection they shared. Why shouldn’t he be able to read her mind? They were madly in love at some point, right? Siobhan sighed, her hand over the oil lamp notch. She rubbed her forehead, turning around to face him. “You know I don’t want space. I miss you so much.”

Siobhan took a few small steps forward, nearing the back of the sofa and leaned over the back of it, half facing him. And he, on the other end, did the same, looking at her softly. She continued, “Most days I just don’t want to have sex as badly as I used to, which is good, isn’t it? But if I do try to kiss you, or touch you at all, then I do.”

“Is that so bad?” Arthur said, looking into her deep, emeralding eyes.

Siobhan’s brow quivered with a shaky breath, she leaned into her palm, “Arthurrr. You don’t make it any easier, you know?”

“What can I do to make it easier?” He asked quietly.

“Don’t be such a fool.” She said. “You know we can’t have sex while I’m pregnant, so why touch me like that? It only makes me confused.”

Arthur, then, had the look of confusion. He frowned, “What you mean ‘we can’t have sex’ while you’re pregnant? Of course we can.—”

Siobhan huffed, she stood up as if Arthur had just ruined the sanctity of the conversation, “Get out of here—! It’s not safe.”

Arthur laughed, “Are you kiddin’?” He watched her blow out the lamp, “That’s why you been avoiding me? I thought you was just mad.”

“I was.” Siobhan said bitterly.

Arthur followed her into the bedroom. She began to shake out his jacket as she took it to the wardrobe. He sat on the edge of the bed, watching her in the dim stormlight from the window as she hung it up. Calm as ever, quietly moving, she looked happy. He rubbed his feet together, getting some dirt off his soles. He hadn’t finished that conversation, but he could see how Siobhan was reluctant to continue it, and so left it where it was for the time being. He looked around the room, which he had spent relatively little time inside of now that they had moved on to the roof and the other rooms. “You mind being here instead of the schoolhouse?”

Siobhan moved her head back and forth lightly, shut the wardrobe and went back to her Singer. “I like both. There’s a little more to do at the school, though. Not so much waiting around for plants to grow.”

“So John asked you to help him break wheat?” Arthur said smiling.

“No, I offered ‘cause he looked like he was having a rough day and I figured ‘what the Hell,’ all I was doing was sewing.” She explained, “And it wasn’t too hot.”

The legs had all been tucked up and the Singer folded in on itself like a little cabinet. She stuck it on top of the wardrobe and finally began to change her clothes. They felt plastered to her from how long she had been dressed.

Arthur soothed his shoulder, “Charles and I are gonna get those goats as soon as the fence is up. Get some new chickens, too.”

“Oh, I miss Nuthatch.” Siobhan lamented, “I loved her, she was a sweet chicken.”

Arthur watched her skirt come off in a reamed ring of black fabric. He smiled softly, “We still have a couple of her hens.”

“I know.” Siobhan said sweetly, “And I love them, too, but Nuthatch was my favorite.”

Arthur felt a little bad for how sad she sounded and the memories he had with her and that chicken, but he was much too taken up with Siobhan herself to proffer much condolence.— She hadn’t changed in front of him in a long time.

Her long legs—miles and miles of legs for such a small girl—nacreous and smooth. He unbuckled his suspenders but kept his eyes on her. She wore no corset and no bustle, and beneath her shirt, though she turned slightly to obscure his view, she was gloriously uncontained by fabric or baleen. She hung her blouse up, tulle black. And as she sifted through the hangers for her nightgown, Arthur took a second to admire the profile of her belly. He almost felt predatory, the way he looked at her.

He got to his feet, unbuttoning his shirt as he got closer to her. She looked shyly over her shoulder, half-displeased, “Couldn’t wait ‘til I was done?”

He shrugged and his shirt came off with it. Towering over her more with each step, he looked down her chest from behind her, and lifted his shirt into the wardrobe over her shoulder. When his hand came back, he grazed her arm with his fingertips. His lips were just above her ear as he whispered, “It doesn’t hurt the baby, by the way.”

He watched her skin prickle with goosebumps. She kept her voice even with some force, “Says who?”

He pushed her hair behind her ear and trailed his finger down the side of her neck, over the square of her shoulder blade, toward her armpit, and down her arm. “Ask Abigail.” He chuckled, “Or Mrs. Calhoun.”

He slid his hand over her belly and pulled her back against him. She gasped lightly, her backside grazing his jeans. And the rest… all warm, warm chest. Breathing deeply against her as he caressed her stomach, “But not right now.”

Siobhan planted one hand on the wardrobe for stability, would have hated the embarrassment of falling right into him, and kept her eyes straight ahead. She added, “I don’t think they’ve considered the size of you, Arthur.”

“Heh-heh.” He kissed her temple, “I’d be happy just to have you against me for the night, Angel. I don’t need to be inside you.”

“What if I'm still mad at you?” She was breathless, looked over her shoulder at him.

Arthur hissed, pressed his nose against her hair, grazing her ear with his breath. Gently, he kissed her, teasing her untouched lips with the smallest peck. Almost an apology, almost a prayer. “Just let me have you for now. You can be mad again in the mornin’.”

“Hmpf.” Siobhan averted her eyes, thinking it over.

Arthur looked her over with his leaden eyelids, his eyes almost black from the size of his pupils. He licked his lips, “You’re never gonna lay with your husband again?”

“Nope.” Siobhan shut the wardrobe with some difficulty, her limbs feeling stiff with arousal and working underneath Arthur’s insistent weight. He suddenly turned her around, pushing her right up against the doors she had closed.

She held her chin up, her eyes feliform and vexing, her lips a straight line as she watched him look down her naked body expressionless. Nothing but dark, roaming eyes and a clenching jaw. Ohhh, she thought, I am done for…

He chuckled, running the backs of his fingers along her arm, “Oh, Angel. You know damn well you are.” He leaned in closer, whispering against her nose her cheek, her lips, “We’re just the same. That’s why I know you’re soaking wet right now, and you can’t stand to turn away another kiss.”

Siobhan blushed as Arthur’s hands groped her breasts, pushing her lightly against the wardrobe and gave in completely as Arthur opened his mouth over hers and kissed her into submission.

She looked past him at the window as he touched her. His hands were rough with callouses, more than he’d ever had, and in different places than before. (No longer against the heel of his palm from squeezing revolvers and rifles, but the pads of his fingers, the head of his knuckles, the blisters from his splinters). And his hands were greedy, happy, overindulgent. He groped and squeezed her. Even in places she had more muscle than fat, he still sought to paw.

Arthur kissed her cheek, smearing blood across her face, “Don’t ask me to be rough.”

He grazed his teeth across her skin, going for her ear. She held onto him so tightly her nails scratched his back. The scratching was a stinging, tingling sensation that advanced up his neck before she adjusted her grip, slowly sliding up each time as her smooth hands slid, lacking purchase. Siobhan shivered as his coarse beard bristled against her face. He loved how her meaty little thighs squirmed under his hands, “I’ll be rough.”

Siobhan gasped, turning her head away as Arthur nibbled at her ear and her neck. It made her whole scalp tingle. “The storm is getting bad.” She said.

“Don’t think about it.” He grinded against her again, “You won’t even notice it in a second here, anyway.”

If she let go of her last bit of strength—trembling and defeated—she’d fall right out of his hands. He pushed her firmly with his hips into the wardrobe and his hands slid down her thighs and gripped her ass tightly. He groaned, “Let’s go to the bed.”

But Siobhan squeezed her legs around him, almost afraid. Arthur hated how instantly that added pressure made his co*ck pulse—as Siobhan clung onto him in fear. “I don’t want to be next to the window.” She admitted.

“Why?” He breathed against her neck.

“It could shatter.” She said, trying to watch it, caustic and vigilant—but melting with the need to be f*cked. She pressed her fingertips into Arthur’s shoulders with a shudder, she could hardly consider both at the same time.

“Well, I’d be happy to screw you on the floor if you wasn’t pregnant as hell.” Siobhan laughed as Arthur kissed underneath her jaw, forcing her head so high she closed her eyes. He murmured, “I’ll move the bed away from the window.”

“Yeah?” He smiled. She kissed his neck and nodded. Suddenly he grabbed her by the thighs again, hoisted her up around his hips and set her down on the bed. “Convince me, then.”

Siobhan sat on the edge of the bed and pulled Arthur to her by his belt. Her face twitched with concentration as she killed it, twisting it’s head off and pulling it out of his belt loops, angry. Arthur’s hands then suddenly pushed hers away as they descended with one smooth flick of his wrist and his jeans were at once unbuttoned and unzipped.

“Mhmm.” Arthur took her by the wrist and lowered her down as he crawled over her, “Let me show you how pretty you are.”

She smiled shyly as he kissed down her stomach. He played at the hem of her bloomers where the ties hugged the middle of her thighs. But these bloomers were Arthur’s favorite for the cut-out left down the center and clean against the thighs, leaving everything between uncovered and bare. The color of his voice was as dark as his eyes, “You sat on my lap with these on?”

“I must’ve forgot.” She was all coy as if she had not hoped something like this might happen.

“f*ck, you gorgeous girl…” Arthur hooked her knees over his shoulders, “You should’ve stayed there.” Siobhan gasped as he kissed the bone between her thigh and her c*nt, making her shiver. He smiled, “Let me pull out my co*ck and f*ck you on the sofa.”

There was a knock at the door. The front door, thankfully. As there was not yet any doors to guard the bedroom.

Though it made Siobhan jump in surprise, Arthur ignored it and covered Siobhan’s intimacy with his mouth, making her squeal. She gripped the sheets and crawled back, “Arthur!”

But he pulled on her thighs, shaking his head. “Ignore it.”

The knock came again and Siobhan tried to cover her giggle, pushing Arthur’s head back from her. Arthur shut his eyes, leaning his head against her knee. “That’s gotta be a goddamn joke. I’m gonna kill whoever the hell that is, I swear to god.”

Siobhan bit her lip, “Just go tell them to go away real quick!”

Arthur sighed and got to his feet. But he pulled Siobhan by her knees and yanked her to the edge of the bed, kissing her forehead, “I’m gonna finish this later.”

Siobhan snickered, shaking her head, as Arthur went into the livingroom. He opened the front door, which was not locked, and stood between its gap. He raised his eyebrow to see the Sheriff lighting his doorstep with a lantern. “Oh. Hallock.” He grunted in surprise, “Uhh…”

Paul looked just as excited as Arthur to be seeing him again after arresting him however many weeks previous and holding him in a cell all day. Reeking of booze and ranting about talking rats in the ceiling. It was not one of Arthur’s best moments, admittedly. The rain was still coming down pretty hard and the way Paul had his shoulders peaked and his collar popped up made Arthur feel the pressure of etiquette to invite him in.

“Surprised you’re even up this late.” Paul shuddered rain off his shoulders. He made idle conversation, trying to break the ice before he introduced his real reason for being there. “What were you up to?”

Arthur answered cooly in the same perverted way he liked to in order to make Paul uncomfortable. “I was just making sure Siobhan’s bed is sturdy.”

And the way his face twisted up and his complexion greened, Arthur was confident he had. Paul muttered something under his breath which sounded like an insult and Arthur was only further entertained. Paul explained himself, shivering off a few rain droplets, “I just had some questions for you.” He huffed warm air into his hands.

Arthur kept his cool, though his mind started to run from all the possible questions Paul or any other lawman might have for the things that he and Siobhan had done. He swallowed, “Well, uh, let me go… Tell Siobhan you’re here and uh… You know. Tell her you’re here.”

Paul raised a strange brow as Arthur skittered back toward the bedroom. Siobhan was sitting on the edge of the bed with the bedsheets pulled up around her chest. He lowered his hushed voice as he came up to her, “Paul Hallock is here. You should get dressed.”

“What does he want?” Siobhan asked, trying to peek her head from around Arthur to get a look into the livingroom, but it was still dark in there. Arthur hadn’t even lit Paul in.

He shook his head, “I don’t know yet. Just get dressed. I’ll take him to the kitchen so he won’t see you.” Arthur turned back around and on his way out, mumbled, “We need a damn door.”

Paul was still loitering in the livingroom, looking around at all of the pictures Siobhan had put up. Mostly of Arthur’s family, less of hers. Including that old cross-stitched thing she had taken out of her old bedroom. Paul seemed pretty taken with it, staring at it with his light raised. “Come on in here, Sheriff, I’ll put on a pot of coffee.”

“House is bigger.” Paul said. He didn’t sound too impressed. He shrugged his coat off. “Still looks like something a kid painted with his ass.”

“Right…” Arthur leaned up against the counter as the stove began to boil. They sat in the kitchen of relatively dim moonlight. Even the lightning had dwindled so that it did not provide any light.

Arthur could just barely make Paul’s face out by the fire of the stove as he said, “Is Siobhan coming out?”

“What?” Arthur said, stalling. “Uh, I ain’t too sure.” he wiped his face, crossing his arms.

Paul looked over his shoulder into the dimness of the livingroom and nodded. “She used to be scared of storms like this when she was a kid.”

Arthur smiled, “She still is. Tonight she…” he broke into a rather wholesome laugh, “Swore the window was gonna shatter.”

But then he realized who he was talking to and cleared his throat, “So what you here for again, exactly?” Arthur’s impatience bordered on rudeness.

Paul opened his mouth to speak just as the water reached a boil. He watched Arthur take the pot off the flame. “I was just asking everybody living here—which is an absurd amount of people for one and a half houses—if they’ve seen any suspicious people walking around here or the trail that runs up the back of the property?”

Suddenly Paul turned at the coming of light from the other room and Siobhan padded out. Her hair was all perfectly brushed and pulled aside and she wore the same clothes he saw her in earlier that day, and did not look symptomatic of the things Arthur implied were going on before Paul arrived. Which really just sold the awkwardness of the whole deal into the hands of a lie. She smiled at Paul, “Hello Mr. Hallock. Damn, it’s dark in here.”

“Hello, Siobhan.” He said as she came into the room and sat the lamp down on the table beside him. She then went after some of the candles they had blown out on the countertop and lit matches to them. He squinted his eyes at her in concern with the fresh light, “Your nose is bleeding.”

“Huh?” Siobhan turned around and looked at him in unfiltered confusion. She wiped her nose and when her hand came back wet and red she realized he was right. “Oh.”

She eyed Arthur harshly for the fact that he hadn’t told her or made any mention of it. Though now that it was all aired out he was now scrounging around for some kind of handkerchief or rag for her.

Siobhan awkwardly cupped her nose while Arthur brought her something, which she took gratefully and stuck to her nose, still giving Arthur that look like the nosebleed was his fault.

Paul eyed her for a second, finding their behavior strange. And Arthur, leaning still against the countertop, just looked at Siobhan with his eyes wide and his eyebrows relaxed, a concentrated, dark look like he was so deep in his head that he forgot Paul was even there for a second. Until he looked at Paul suddenly, catching his inspection, and his entire face dulled.

“So, what’s going on?” Siobhan asked, her voice slightly muffled for the pressure of the handkerchief.

Paul’s demeanor shifted when he looked at her. His answer was measurably sweeter, “Have you seen any weirdos walking around the property?”

“Weirdos like Arthur?” Siobhan joked. Arthur looked down at her with a face of surface-level neutrality, but it was underlined with a severity that suggested she was on the verge of outing them.

Paul Hallock shrugged, “Sure. Weirdos on the trail behind your house? We found a body up there.” He raised his eyes to Arthur, “Know anything about that, deviant?”

Arthur was bemused. Paul’s droll insult may have even saved him from the feeling of being interrogated. “Ain’t seen anybody on the trail except yourself, Sheriff.”

Hallock scoffed, “Oh, well bite my blue buttcheek, I was up there!”

Siobhan interrupted the two men, “Sheriff, do you know who the guy is? Is it someone we know?” She put on her widest eyes and her meekest little voice. If his face was anything to go by, Siobhan could be sure it worked. Encouraged, she continued, “Has the family been told?”

Paul put out his hand, “We don’t know who it is. He’s unrecognizable. Whatever happened to him was bad.”

Siobhan covered her mouth, “Oh, that’s terrible! In New Almaden? It could be anybody!” She cleverly looked at Arthur with the peak of ultimate sympathy, utterly heartbroken. It made it easy for Arthur to frown at her in sympathy of his own. Then she moved and sat across from Paul Hallock, allowing his attention to be placed solely on her with Arthur behind him. “What can we do to help? Have you shown the body to anyone?”

Paul grimaced, “Siobhan, I don’t think you wanna… get involved. It’s kind of gruesome. Really, it might be best you and Arthur just stay here and not worry yourselves about it.”

It was easy for Paul to lump Arthur into it while he was out of sight and unable to cause him any further irritation. “I was just coming by to see if you two might’ve seen something. But since you haven’t, I’ll just go on my way. I’m not here to worry you unnecessarily.” Paul explained.

“Arthur!” Siobhan sparked, “Don’t be rude.”

“No, that’s alright, Siobhan, I got a few more house calls to make before it gets too late.” Paul pushed his muddied sleeve up his arm and checked his watch. “And uh… I’m sure I’ve already taken up too much of your time. But, uh, before I go, could I talk to you, Siobhan? In confidence?”

They both then looked at Arthur, but Siobhan was quick not to make him feel like he needed to leave. She nodded at Paul, “Of course, Mr. Hallock. Let me help you get your coat.”

In the doorway, out of Arthur's earshot, Paul Hallock lowered his voice for Siobhan, “Is he hitting you?”

Siobhan recoiled. His question gave her genuine whiplash. “Arthur?” She blinked, eyes wide, “Is Arthur hitting me?” She laughed out loud, “No! I mean,” she regained her composure to face his question with the respect it was entitled, “No. Never.”

“Because your nose.” Paul pointed out. “When I came in he made it sound like the two of you were foolin’ around but you come in all dressed and bleeding at the nose.”

Siobhan’s cheeks burned red and she covered her mouth.

“I’m sorry.” Paul planted his forehead in his hand for a second, “I shouldn’t have mentioned that to you, that was gross.”

She wasn’t entirely sure what to say. She cleared her throat and her answer was dry. “I just get bloody noses sometimes.”

Paul Hallock was amazed with his neverending ability to screw up every single conversation he’d ever had with Siobhan since her return to New Almaden. He felt like a complete and utter fool every time he walked away from her. He tried to excuse himself quickly for the awkwardness of it all without seeming rude. “I should really try to beat that rain, I’ll see you, alright? Don’t worry yourselves about that body, it’ll clear itself up soon, I’m sure.”

“Okay.” Siobhan crossed her arms and watched Paul go for his coat. She unlocked the door for him and held it open as he started to leave. “Mr. Hallock, hang on.”

She suddenly shut the door and stepped out onto the porch with him. She shivered for the cold and wet breeze, “Thank you for asking.” She said quietly, “There’s nothing going on but if there was… you know. It would mean a lot. It does.” She corrected herself. “It does mean a lot.”

Paul’s eyes lightened a measure, and his heart immeasurably, to hear her say so. He smiled, “Of course, Siobhan. You have a good rest of your night now.”

“Stay safe, Mr. Hallock.” She said and watched him go until his lamplight was dimming at the edge of the yard through the congestion of rain.

She turned back into the house and Arthur was sitting on the couch. Good, she thought, as she walked over. “You motherf*cker.”

Arthur blinked in surprise. “Pardon?”

“You told Mr. Hallock we were f*cking?!” She exclaimed.

“We were!” Arthur tried not to laugh. He thought, by the absurdity in her voice, that she found it funny.

“So?!” She corrected, “Why the Hell would you tell Mr. Hallock that? Of all people!”

Arthur was a little indignant, though he didn’t defend himself too strongly, because now he could tell her anger was genuine. “It ain’t like he’s your father, Shiv. I was just saying it to make him uncomfortable.”

“Mission accomplished.” She stared at him in wide-eyed disbelief. “He asked me if you were hitting me. He said it was clear we weren’t screwing, which we weren’t, and my bloody nose made him worried 'cause you were acting so weird.”

“Well, what’d you tell him?” Arthur had moved to the edge of his seat.

“What did I tell him? What, you think I said ‘yes?’” Siobhan started to braid her hair, which was a bad sign for Arthur. “I told him you’re a piece of sh*t but you’re not that big of a piece of sh*t. And you should never have said that to him and I pray to God you don’t ever say anything like that to him again. What the Hell is wrong with you?”

She walked around the couch and started to go towards the bed. Arthur got up and followed after her. “I’m sorry, Shiv, I didn’t know it’d bother you so much.”

Siobhan started to take her clothes off again but this time it was clear she was much more irritated than before. “By the way, I forgot to tell you, but apparently Griffin spoke to the Beauchamp family today.” She looked at Arthur narrowly, “They’re probably gonna find out it was him soon.”

Arthur clenched his jaw. “You didn’t think to tell me that before Paul Hallock came here?”

“How was I supposed to know he’d come here?” She hung up her clothes, fuming. “The fact that he didn’t arrest us is more than we deserve.”

Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose. He swore he drove himself mad with Siobhan. But he couldn’t find it in his heart to let it keep him up. He started after her, “Damn it all, Shiv. Let’s just—”

“No.” She cut him off, didn’t even need to hear him say it. She pulled her nightgown on in his silence. “You said you didn’t mind the couch. I don’t mind you on the couch either.”

*

In the night, Siobhan knew she was dreaming but her surprise and amusem*nt was not dulled in the slightest. She felt something slide around her arms and her ankles, all at the same time. Though it did not make sense in the slightest, she would not complain. She opened her eyes and Arthur was towering over her, had her all tied up against her bed. She could not move.

“I couldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer.” He said, his voice beaten down into nothing and breathing all over her face.

All of her clothes were gone and she stared up at Arthur with a magnetized heat of sexual attraction that, even in a dream, was dizzying. And she saw around his chest a yellow glow and her hands fought against ropes that cut into her wrists. Outside the window, the storm raged on so violently that all she could make out were the braying of the tree branches beside their house—like ships on the high seas, lurching and falling—between splashes of anelectric white light. Arthur’s tongue, warm and wet, pressed against the dip between her collarbones, puckering his lips to her voice as she whined. “Are you gonna—”

“Shhh…” Arthur kissed her cheek and shook his head, even in a dream he wasn’t going to be careless with her.

Siobhan’s nerves, in every capacity, were oversensitive. Arthur’s puppeteering gropes, the horizontal rain searing ice-cold as it drummed upon the glass, the lightning splashing brilliant light into the whole of the room—Arthur’s heavy breathing on her kiss-wet neck. His fingers warmed her c*nt, wet and aching. He kissed her neck and chest all over while he touched her. Her back arched, her face all twisted with concern and confusion as she gasped. “Why?”

“You don’t like it?” He grunted, painting her skin with shining spit.

“Ohh.” She squeezed her eyes shut. Her knees bent high and tensing.

“You do.” He told her. She did.

He touched her perfectly. Every inch of her that was most sensitive, his rough fingers grazed with perfect pressure. She could feel every minuscule ridge of his fingerprints. Siobhan’s eyes widened up at the ceiling of their humble little bedroom. Thunder shook the house. The windowpanes rattled in their frames and for the first time Siobhan wondered if Arthur was really any good at housebuilding at all. The wind howled and the rain made little shadowy dots across Arthur’s body as it lashed the windowglass. She asked again, “But why?”

Arthur chuckled. Oh, she could’ve died! They both knew she had better know the answer by now. He pinched a part of her thigh, “I like you.” She giggled at his touch as he spoke over her, “Don’t be angry with me.”

She could not see over the mound of her belly, but she felt him press himself against her. She tensed up in a split second, naturally, the way she always did, in preparation for him to suddenly split into her. But it didn’t come. He held himself bluntly against her c*nt, smirking.

Siobhan had never surrendered so fully to a kiss as she did then, as if in preparation of letting him just take her. But he released her, staring intensely into her eyes as she made a little whine. Denied that, she could burst into flames.

Her pregnant belly undulated with the tiniest indication of her ribs as she took deep, chest-filling breaths. Thunder shook the house and Arthur tried to swallow his tacky spit, “You want it?”

Siobhan stared up at him, her mouth opening with anticipation. Ready to scream yes, yes yes! Until—

Her own excitement woke her up, tearing her from her sleep. Her heart was beating out of her chest, her ears ringing. And, of course, her hands clutched empty sheets. She wiped her forehead of sweat and as she tried to sit up, all she could feel was the nearly ticklish sensation of wet skin sliding over the lubrication of her arousal. It felt cold, though she knew it was hot.

She looked up at the ceiling, felt nothing but the most coarse kind of irritation deep in her heart. The kind that made it feel like it was beating a thousand times a second. The kind you have to shake off, run off, or scream off. And there she was sweltering in bed. She threw the sheets off her and her hand instinctively inched toward her thigh, but she stopped.

It was always the same when she touched herself. It felt mildly good, but nothing she could starve over, and nothing that could satisfy a starvation already fully-formed. And now with the baby… it felt twice as unnatural and suddenly very awkward. At least with Arthur, her husband…She realized then and there what a stupid thing it was to throw Arthur out onto the couch over any little thing. She could've smacked herself in the head for how stupid she could act when she was irritated. Siobhan, always biting the hand that fed her.

She swung her legs over the edge of the bed and suddenly realized she was clothed. She figured that was not for long and hugged herself for the draft of night as she walked into the living room where Arthur slept on the couch. He was still in his clothes, on his back with one leg hanging off the edge of the sofa. She listened to him snore for a little while, her thighs aching just to lock onto his, and even the sound of his lungs gently breathing made her clench her jaw with need.

But it all melted into nothing but pity when she saw how uncomfortably he twisted to get his feet on the ground and leaned his bruised neck against a pillowless armrest. She hated to see him sleep so poorly. She came to the side of the couch and knelt by his head. She slowly lifted his leaden hand and strung her fingers through his. He began to stir and she rested her chin on his chest, her voice a quiet apology, “Come sleep in bed, Arthur, you must be sore.”

Arthur’s eyebrows furrowed and he tugged her hand. “You said you was—”

“I was being stupid, honey, come to bed.” She leaned in and kissed him on the mouth to his immediate pleasure and he kissed her right back, his heavy nostrils flaring with air. Pressing his nose against hers with his eyes shut gratefully.

Siobhan took his hand and watched him lumber up to his feet. Hulking as he followed her around the edge of the couch and back into the room.

He tugged the blankets back all bleary-eyed and concentrated like he was pulling back the skin of an animal. And as he crawled in and collapsed on his back, stretching out, he left out his arm and beckoned Siobhan in behind him, all heavy with sleep. She crawled meekly in and nestled into his chest where he wrapped her up into a snuggling embrace and kissed her forehead. Mumbling, “Thank you.”

And Siobhan felt so terrible and so full of love at once that it was too easy to forget what had woken her and drawn her up from bed to retrieve her husband in the first place. She swore she would never do that to him again.

Chapter 14: — WELL-HEELED MEN

Chapter Text

MAY 2, 1900
New Almaden, CA

The barn was quiet the afternoon that Siobhan came by. The trees around their farmslashranch were as green as ever, and the cold of winter was beginning to give way to a bit more sunlight from a hotter angle. The ground was losing its wet frost and started to warm like the belly of a happy beast. The rest of the gang had gotten to plowing the fields for the crops Charles, Hosea and Arthur planned to get going by summer. May now, it was getting dust-hot towards the middle of the day. Even the barn was dusted up, the horses were out grazing.

That morning, in a cheeky moment with Arthur, Siobhan asked him to meet her in the barn. Her intentions with him were clear, she wore Arthur’s favorite little dress with nothing beneath. Even if he wasn’t there now—which was likely, judging by how quiet everything was—she would wait for him. She had a book.

But when she entered the barn she found him in a chair on its hind legs, leaning up against the wall. He was likely sleeping, with one leg crossed over his thigh, leaned back into his hat which was sunk over his face. He looked like he’d been there for a while, just sleeping. That was funny to her, as she expected to be the one kept waiting, not him.

So she set her book down on a bale of hay and traipsed over to him with a smile on her face. Approaching him, she was a bit confused by his clothes, since he wasn’t wearing his belt, which he never took off until bed. But as Siobhan sat down on his lap, straddling his wide hips eagerly, it didn’t matter. “Howdy, cowboy.” She cooed, leaning into his neck.

His hands gripped her hips roughly as she grinded against his lap. Siobhan thought it odd how he touched her, half-confused, but in assuming he was only tired, made a sound of pleasure. And suddenly he grabbed her by her hair, cinched tightly against her scalp, and as he looked up at her, Arthur’s hat fell to the ground, and she looked directly into Dutch’s dark eyes.— She gasped in horror and pushed herself off of him and he let go of her hair.

She nearly fell to jump to her feet in such a panic as that but Dutch caught her by the arm and held her roughly upright in her shock. Siobhan wrenched out of his hand with a mortified look, “Jesus, I thought you—what the Hell are you doing?”

Dutch swallowed, slicking his hair back with a sweat-nervous palm. He chuckled shakily, “I could ask the same of you.” He said, making light of it.

Siobhan looked at him wickedly. “I thought you were Arthur!"She exclaimed, looking at him all nervous. She backed away too, as if he were threatening her.

“Woah, woah,” Dutch said, holding his hand out. “I know.” He said. His voice lowered into a sincerity that said he was actually sorry.

Siobhan exhaled in relief, looking at him still warily.

His eyes fell on her sadly, “You have no reason to be so afraid of me, Siobhan.”

She patted her dress straight. “I’m not afraid of you. You just…” She looked at the ground, chewing her lips. “I know how you are.”

Dutch huffed, his brow cinching in amused confusion. He was provoked. “You do? How am I, then?” He wasn’t angry, but she could tell he wanted her to think he was.

She was already irritated. She came there for Arthur, and now she had to deal with Dutch’s constant sh*t. She leveled her eyes at him. “Even if I wanted to entertain your flirting, which I don’t— at all,—how could you do that to Arthur? He’s like a son to you.”

He raised a brow. Cain was barking outside the barn, which briefly caught Siobhan’s attention. But Dutch was still looking directly at her. “My flirting,Siobhan? Oh, my dear, I don’t flirt with you. What I feel for you is far beyond that.”

“What?” She was struck by that and locked eyes with him in what was very similar to disbelief. But at her core, she should have expected that from him.

He knew what she was thinking before she had a chance to voice it.— “But I would never pursue a relationship with you behind Arthur’s back. I couldn’t do that to my boy. Even you know that, right?”

She eyed him.

After a pause, “He is the one thing, perhaps, that holds me back from it, Siobhan.”

Nodding, she bit the inside of her cheek in thought. She circled her jaw, deep in thought. She looked at Dutch something wicked, but he couldn’t have recognized what was in her—malice. Her eyes trailed his chest, taking a small step forward, “You really care about him?”

Dutch looked down at her in perfect stillness, his lips parted. “Of course, my dear.”

Siobhan slowly reached for his hand, cupping the shell of his knuckles as her sparkling-nervous eyes glittered envious up at him—all green. “You really wouldn’t go behind his back…? Even if no-one knew about it?”

Dutch raised a brow at her. For a second he almost looked uncomfortable, like he could tell what she was doing. And for a second Siobhan was going to pull back, didn’t even want to see him do it—but he did… He reached gingerly for her wrist, “Well, what Arthur doesn’t know can’t hurt him, can it?”

Siobhan’s gut twisted with anger and her shaking hand—perceived by him as some innocence all aflutter with nerves—approached the fly of his pants. Dutch’s hand lifted to her chin as she pressed her palm against his bulge. She almost gagged right there looking straight into his eyes.

Without hesitation, he reciprocated, “Shiv…”

The use of her nickname could not have trumped the hatred she already felt for this man in that moment. It only justified what she was doing. He held her hand tightly against his bulge, making her grab onto a hardening bulk of fabric. He stumbled back, knocking the chair over. His hands were eager on her, uncontrolled and lustful. He was like Arthur. What she wanted from Arthur alone.

Siobhan twisted her hand against his erection until he hissed in pain, “f*ck. You.”

She pushed him back, forcing him against the wall with a look of utter disgust. Instantly, he reached out for her a second time, he didn’t even understand what had just happened. One hand over his crotch and the other reaching out for the pleasure he was denied, he looked at her in complete betrayal.

But she stepped away, wanting nothing more than the maximum amount of space between them as possible. “That’s how much Arthur really means to you. You f*cking pervert.”

His face betrayed his shock. He was lost for words and could only weakly stuttered. His hands were still grasping out against the air but caught nothing. Suddenly enraged, he bounded after her, “Siobhan!”

But she did not stop, she walked straight out of the barn without an ounce of fear, and such an overbalancing amount of hatred that if he had tried anything with her she could be sure he’d never left that barn alive. Behind her, Dutch kicked at a stall and threw Arthur’s hat across the barn, cursing Siobhan as if she were some kind of siren come to tempt him and leave with his soul.

Siobhan crossed the yard with her stomach in knots. A shiver descended her spine as she walked, anxiously wringing and unwinding her fingers together, apart, and back together again. Her mind was already running with explanations. How in the world she would explain such a thing to Arthur, she did not know. And she knew, no matter how much she wished it wasn’t true, that she had to tell him. She had no choice.

When she entered through the front door and stood against it, Arthur, who was eating, looked up at her in surprise. She walked straight past him, almost like she didn’t see him (although they had made very sudden and startled eye contact for a few stalled seconds) and went straight into the kitchen. Arthur had gotten their strange and stubby little sink to run water, although it was missing a proper faucet head and was only a bent pipe. Siobhan made use of it, scouring her dirtied hands red, scratching out any trace of that lecherous man and the sensation of his disgusting body.

Arthur spoke through a mouthful of food, “Shiv?” And after a pause of running water, “You ok?”

After the water stopped and she patted her hands dry, Siobhan wordlessly walked over and took his plate, she was STARVING. He watched her in shocked offense as she took his fork and scarfed down the rest of his chicken and beans right in front of him. With no explanation.

Arthur leaned back against the back of the loveseat and watched her. “Either something great or terrible happened…” he scoffed, “I can’t rightly tell which.”

Siobhan set the plate on the ground and she swallowed the last bit. She wiped her face with the back of her hand and squeezed her hands together in her lap. “You didn’t go to the barn.” She stated flatly.

“That’s what this is about?” Arthur chuckled, leaning in. He wrapped his hands around her waist. “You’re just horny?”

Siobhan grabbed him by the wrists and stiffly shook her head. “Not at all.”

She looked at Arthur as he retracted his hands. He frowned, “You’re real pale, Shiv. Something happen?”

Siobhan nodded. “It was…” she swallowed and shivered, “So awful.”

Arthur put his hand on her back, rubbing gentle circles into her tensed shoulder blades.

“Dutch was wearing your hat over his face and he was all dressed like you and everything so I couldn’t even tell. And it was kinda shady and I just—” She looked directly at Arthur, “I swear I thought it was you.”

Arthur gave her a humorous look, “Did you accidentally have sex with Dutch?”

“I’m not kidding!” Siobhan pushed against his arm, “I sat on his lap and said some stuff that only you should be hearing from my filthy, Godforsaken, hideous mouth—and leaned in for a kiss before I realized it wasn’t you!”

Arthur’s brow creased, “Filthy and godforsaken, maybe, but hideous? Your mouth?”

“I backed off of him when I saw his face and I screamed and asked why he was wearing your hat.” She explained in a flurry of nerves, ignoring his insane flirting. Praise? At a time like this?

Arthur wiped his mouth of any beans that might’ve gotten caught in his mustache or beard. Those were his mounting concerns at that moment. “And what’d he say?”

Siobhan’s lips tightened as she thought back. After a pause, she smacked her lips, “Well, I guess he never really gave me an answer.” She shook her head, “He’s always been like that around me… creepy… trying to be flirty, you know? Just… gross and uncomfortable.”

Arthur’s mood lost its humor. He leaned in comfortingly, squeezing her shoulder as he could tell she was very upset by it, “For how long?”

She looked up at the ceiling, “God, I don’t know… Since I cut him? He has this weird thing about our scars.” She opened her palm casually in her lap to allow it to be seen, but not overtly showcasing it. “Acts like we have some kind of gross… connection.”

Arthur felt bad. He felt as if he had some responsibility over the situation that he was not exercising. But what? Everything he tried to do she had asked him not to. “I’m sorry, Shiv… if I had known sooner that he was—”

“Then you’d have known sooner.” She cut him off sharply with what was somehow still self-criticism. “It wouldn’t have changed anything. At the end of the day, that’s Dutch.” She looked right at Arthur, “You’ll always love him.”

Arthur’s face warped into a cold plateau. His cinched brow spoke to some level of disagreement, but his uneasy silence said otherwise. It didn’t matter how perturbed he looked, though, Siobhan already knew this. She didn’t blame Arthur… but then, how could she tell him what she’d done?

“I love him a lot less than I used to, Shiv.” Arthur said darkly, “Since Blackwater, he has scarcely been the man who raised me.”

Siobhan felt Arthur’s hand squeeze hers before she even realized he was holding it, and looked down in surprise. He'd taken her open palm where she had revealed the scar that stole Dutch’s fascination and covered it with his own. “And even if I did, that don’t mean I’d be fine with him making you feel uncomfortable.”

Siobhan was slightly comforted by that and he watched her take a deep breath, a little bit of reassurance plain on her face. “Do you want me to do anything?” Arthur said.

She looked back up at him and his face was soft with a look of pure understanding. There was not an ounce of betrayal or suspicion. She loved him for that. So desperately she could cry. So much that she knew she shouldn’t lie. She let go of Arthur’s hand, wishing she had scrubbed it a little more thoroughly. “I didn’t tell you the rest of what happened.” She said, with a touch of shame.

Arthur’s voice was serious once again, and he watched her still carefully, “Ok…”

And after a very long and rigid silence, Arthur was still waiting for her to answer. But she was looking at the ground as if something had suddenly occurred to her about what happened and she realized she ought not tell him after all. He wanted to touch her hand again but she had pulled away so coldly… “Are you gonna tell me?” Arthur asked, trying not to sound aggressive or mad.

Siobhan briefly looked at him out of the corner of her eye and back down at the ground. She took a deep breath… “I just—before I do, I just want you to know… I mean,” she looked at Arthur, “I have never wanted to drive a wedge between you two.”

“Shiv, you ain’t—” He put his hand on her shoulder but she shook her head, cutting him off.

“It doesn’t matter whether I did or not, I’ve already told myself that a million times.” She looked at Arthur with wide eyes, “I had to tell myself that, or else I would feel the worst guilt I’ve ever felt. It doesn’t matter whether I drove a wedge between you two or not, it just matters that I never ever, in a million years, ever wanted to do that. The thought never crossed my mind even when I hated Dutch the most,— I never wanted that.”

Arthur nodded, somewhat displaced with his concern, but nevertheless maintained his understanding with composure. And still stroking her back, he agreed, “I know that, sweetheart. I’ve known that for a long time. You told me so yourself. You’ve shown it.”

Siobhan nodded, shaking a little, “Okay… good. Because I—” she looked at Arthur. In the eye, because she would not shy away from this thing she had done as if it were a lie. “I asked him why he flirts with me and how he can be so comfortable doing that to you and he said that he’d never betray you like that. But I feel like sometimes I can never tell if he’s being truly genuine for the first time… I’ve believed him before and he ended up just lying to me anyway. I felt like I needed to prove it to myself.”

She swallowed, “So I grabbed his… hand and he totally changed his mind… and then I touched the fly of his jeans and he pushed my hand against his crotch and tried to kiss me and I hit him and pushed him off of me and made it very clear that I was only testing him.” She looked away, Arthur’s face was too neutral for her to bear it, “And he failed very badly. Like, zero doubt about it, he is a disgusting, malicious, cold-hearted, lying, envious, two-faced, double-crossing snake in the gra—”

Arthur laughed.

Siobhan stopped dead in her tracks and stared at him, fully afraid, suddenly alight with more nerves than she had felt previously. His head fell back against the loveseat and his eyes were squinting shut with his laughter. Laughter loud enough to be heard outside. Her chest went hollow, her heart lodged somewhere up in her throat now.

But then Arthur opened his eyes briefly and put his hand on Siobhan’s thigh. And after catching his breath he looked at her through wet eyes—wet with tears of laughter apparently—and restated, “He thought you would screw him?”

Siobhan’s mouth was open with confusion and concern and discomfort all rolled into one. She stuttered, trying to form an answer, but couldn’t. She was speechless.

“Oh, Christ,” Arthur wheezed, “That is priceless, Shiv. Whoowee—!”

She stared at him, just completely bewildered. Arthur finally realized the state his amusem*nt had put her in and sat a little straighter, gripping her thigh passively, but tightly. “What’s wrong?” He said.

Blubbering, Siobhan blinked, “W-what… What’s funny about this?”

“Shiv.” Arthur said flatly, “You’re about as sexless as a blade of grass.”

“He said he would never betray me by touchin’ you, and the first thing you do is touch him? Well, he’s gotta be dumber’n dishwater if he thought you were serious.” Arthur scoffed, “Bastard.”

“And you…” He said, narrowing his eyes at Siobhan. She shook his head suddenly, as if to go ‘tsk, tsk, tsk,’ which made her freeze up, ready for some kind of reckoning. “Are a hellcat for certain.”

Siobhan squealed in surprise as Arthur pushed her back against the couch with his hands tightly wrapped around her waist and kissed her deeply. She pushed him back with a hand on his chest, red in the face with a searing blush, “Arthur! Is this the appropriate response to everything I just said?”

“I don’t care.” And kissed her even more.

But Siobhan was almost put-off by his reaction and pushed him back again. She frowned, “Please explain why you’re kissing me!”

Arthur’s eyes were magnified to her lips like a compass. Completely incapable of shifting direction, he tried his best to peel off of her long enough to answer her properly. He held himself clean above her, but still caged her in by his arms, “Because I love you like hell and kissin’ you makes me feel better about somethin’ that’d probably drive me up the wall with anger otherwise.”

“You’re not upset with me?” Siobhan asked, clearly torn.

Arthur frowned at her, “Am I supposed to be worried that you touched him ‘cause you wanted to? Dutch, of all people? With the history you two got? No, Shiv, I ain’t upset with you at all.” He licked his lips, eyeing hers, “I’m just surprised he’s still alive right now.”

“I’m sorry about this, Arthur.” She said sadly, feeling the guilt she knew she didn’t really deserve to feel. “I wasn’t trying to encourage him or anything and if I did, I think it’s okay for you to be upset with me but you should tell me if you are.”

“I’m not, Shiv…” Arthur huffed and his thumb grazed the side of her belly, “You might have encouraged him but it doesn’t make any difference. Accidentally looking at him wrong on the wrong day could’ve encouraged him… he’s insane.”

Siobhan flattened her mouth, trying not to smile. But Arthur was chuckling. She looked past him, blushing and torn between some strange mixture of guilt and discomfort and the fluster that Arthur caused her by laying over her like this. And then—out of nowhere—something suddenly occurred to her… “Oh my God.”

She sat up, forcing Arthur to back off of her, though she hardly even realized that as she looked at the door. “What?” Arthur said, suddenly concerned.

Siobhan looked at him, her mouth agape… “It’s the second of May.”

“What’s that got to…?” Arthur paused… “Oh,— Blackwater?”

Siobhan reflected on all of it, now, from a different lens. She suddenly stood up, “I think I’m gonna boke.” She went straight for the kitchen.

Arthur was right behind her, “That bastard.”

TRAVIS

Travis Hay had no notion of the importance of the date. Though he lived in Blackwater he lost no family in the massacre and were gone when it happened. He had spoken to Arthur this morning before it all went down it were a very casual conversation that got him thinking muchly about the people he found himself embedded with.

“How is bounty hunting?” Said Travis he were pretending like he didn’t know.

“Well” Arthur were all leaned up against the fence watching their horse Fishbelly run around with her foal “It’s just a man his horse and the feller he’s got tied up in back. Ain’t very excitin’.”

Travis thought it were very funny to hear it described as such Arthur did not seem to like bounty hunting much. He seemed a strangely honorable sort of outlaw despite some of his other glaring flaws of character. But that were early in the morning and by noon it seemed something had happened in the back of everything that set the whole gang ablaze with drama. Travis were mighty intrigued.

Dutch were standing on the front porch of the main house above everyone and evangelizing like he were the mayor of some big city. In a way he rarely did he seemed to not be speaking from some rehearsed script but rather said everything that must have been brewing out of pure frustration. “Arthur is keeping you all here like sitting ducks. Are we not still wanted men?” Dutch shouted he were so very passionate “He wants you to think I’m the problem. Do I have to remind you all that there’s twenty-thousand dollars on his head alone?”

He looked at everybody he even looked at Travis Hay himself. “Do you not think they will be back here for us?”

“You were the one who said the Sheriff was protecting us, Dutch.” Hosea said his rickety voice sounding reason to the sudden fear that arose in anyone listening. “You told us those bounties don't extend past Colorado. You told us back in New Mexico, if I remember correctly. What changed?”

“They changed, Hosea.” Dutch took a step down the porch. He made himself even with the others for the first time Travis had seen. “The government is changing as we speak. Arthur and John are changing with them. They’re ready to surrender. To bow and let the law play games with our lives.”

He turned to look at everyone else. “We still have time to leave and find ourselves a place we won’t have to hide behind a Sheriff to live.”

It seemed Hosea weren’t convinced “You’re just paranoid, Dutch. This is the best thing for most of us. T-the Pinkertons won’t come here and arrest Abigail, Tilly or little Jack. And we just ain’t the outlaws we used to be.”

“We will always be outlaws, Hosea. They don’t care whether we live or die, they don’t want us anymore.” Dutch said grimly. The whole yard darkened at his words it were almost like they held truth. Travis could see how he had gone and scared everybody even Miss Tilly Jackson had fear in her eyes and Travis did not like to see it.

He were like a snake under the bed of these outlaws and yet he had no intention to strike once he had gotten all cozy and warm and he realized there were no big difference between a snake and an outlaw at all. He figgered maybe the Pinkertons wasn’t so liable to change but then again Travis had heard it same as Hosea they were not coming to New Almaden any time soon. The solution it seemed were very clear to Travis then and his blood moved a little faster just teased with the thought of it his fingers dancing like they held beneath them a metal trigger his eyes was on Dutch van der Linde.

But then the chaos really erupted. The front of Arthur Morgan’s new house slammed Travis were worried he might of just rattled his shoddy tiles clean off the walls. He came barrelling down his stairs into the yard “Dutch!”

Travis had no notion of this he were looking at Dutch’s face it was clear as the full moon in the sky. “What are you talking about?”

It were a shocking thing to see Arthur Morgan punch Dutch van der Linde clean in the jaw. Travis thought for a second Dutch had gone and slept with his wife he could not imagine any other reason for such a reaction. Everyone were shocked Hosea tried to pull them apart but Arthur wrangled Dutch to the ground they were shouting like two mountain lions.

Travis looked for Siobhan she were standing somewhere near the front porch of the house but Arthur hadn’t the patience to look back at her. His anger completely overtook him it seemed there were not much else he could do but to sate it.

“Yeah, well, the next time she touches you will be with a knife in her hand, and maybe next time, I’m not gonna tell her she can’t.” Arthur warned, spitting beside Dutch’s head. He dropped Dutch’s collar to the ground and left him in the mud as he stepped back his heaving shoulders was slumped forward but he were still towering with his height. He wiped his mouth his knuckles was draining with blood. Travis could see whatever Arthur Morgan was now it were not honorable what had made him so mean.

Dutch stumbled to his feet it were a mistake if ever Travis had seen one. No-one came to his aid not even Hosea. They was all staying out of it. “Everyone sees it, Arthur.”

“I sure as Hell saw it!” Grimshaw suddenly crowed from behind. Travis were amazed by that woman she had a capacity to hate that were matronly like centuries past.

Arthur turned to her with his vitriol he clearly did not like her either. “You saw jacksh*t, Susan! You’ll take any chance to call them girls loose.”

Now Travis could see there were a lot of history being mentioned he tried his best not to smirk though he found the whole melodrama v. entertaining.

“I let that girl stay here even after she tried to kill me twice! She wouldn’t be here if not for me and this is how you repay me?!” Dutch shouted “I saved her life in Silver City, Arthur! Where were you?!”

Arthur took a few steps back. He wiped the corner of his mouth with his thumb baring his four bloodied knuckles to everyone as his voice descended with a growl “You’d have never met her in the first place if I’d killed you like I should have the second I learned you shot her in Blackwater.”

Travis were shocked a silence fell over them all like a dark cloud there were clearly truth in his bombshell. Arthur were stalking back to his house like it were his cave he kept his cubs there. Siobhan had gone inside. He looked back at Dutch van der Linde and it made total sense now why there were such division of them vs. Dutch in this gang he had gone and shot one of them? Travis were amazed at what secrets he had found…

SIOBHAN

Siobhan hastily started to change her clothes. Getting drest in her riding clothes, it seemed. Arthur stood behind her, still fuming from his fight. He shook his hand free of the pain cracking open his knuckles. “What are you doin’?”

She grit her teeth. She needed to get away. She was gonna go to Griffin—no, f*ck Griffin. f*ck him and Arthur and Dutch and Paul f*cking Hallock and Susan Grimshaw—who was no better than any man herself and—

Her abdomen suddenly contracted with a rigid pain and she hissed, bending over. “Oh, f*ck!” She tried to hold her stomach but bending over seemed to only tighten the pain under her stomach. Slowly, she released her grip from the back of the sofa and got to her knees, spreading them as if to give birth as she held her thighs, breathing deeply. “Ohhh, creepmouse, I’m sorry for yelling. Go easy on me, please.”

She leaned her forehead against the back of the sofa, brushing her nose against the dusty old fabric as she whispered deep breaths through her pursed lips, still angry. She lifted the base of her stomach up, relieving some of the pressure with a huge, defeating sigh. “God, that really hurts.”

She groaned, “Ohhh my God, what are you doing in there?” She panted, her face twisted in pain only comparable to the worst kinds of menstrual cramps. She kneeled there against the couch, almost forgetting her anger, just to breathe through the pain.

He watched her shake her golden-haired head back and forth in dejection. As he tightened the knot over his hand—though it was carelessly tied and verged on coming loose—he squeezed it and walked calmly over. As calmly as he could, anyway. Arthur sat down on the couch next to her, “Are you ok?”

Siobhan blew a circular breath through her lips, her voice low and ragged, “The baby’s just hurting me again. I was on my way out.”

Arthur slowly wiped his face. The first words he could process were her last. And all he could think of, for that moment, was how begrudged he was to watch her leave the house. How unfair it was that she could be mad at him for this—for anything, for everything he did. But his reason returned to him and he swallowed, “I’ll get you somethin’ cold to drink.”

Siobhan dug her face from under her hand and watched, obscured by hair, out of the corner of her eye as Arthur got up and went back into the kitchen. This time, he moved slowly and quietly. Though he still huffed when he took a deep breath and made little noises of displeasure at the tiniest inconvenience. (His wrap untying, the cabinet not shutting correctly, the sink lagging behind his command, leaving him to wonder if the pipes had gotten backed up again). But when he came back to her, he eased. Somehow, he eased. “Thank you.” She muttered quietly, her voice a sad little bubble as if she were to cry.

He sat down beside her, closer now. Her breath was shaky between gulps and she held the precipitating glass to her forehead. “Is he feelin’ heavy again?” Arthur asked.

Siobhan put her hand on her forehead again, “You really beat the crap out of him.”

Arthur reserved a few corrections. One, that he did more than that, and two, for that, he was not sorry. But he kept quiet for the sake of her and just tried to ease her pain, and add no more to it. Then Siobhan started to laugh. At first, since her face was covered, Arthur only felt the trembling of her stomach and worried she was crying. But her hands dropped beside her and she gripped his wrist, staring up at the ceiling lost for breath. “Oh my God.” She wheezed, tears coming to her eyes. “They must think we’re so nuts.”

Arthur stared at her, half-confused, and chuckled. He didn’t want to confirm it, though it was probably true, because he knew Siobhan wasn’t happy about that. Despite how she laughed and laughed at the absurdity of it all. He was glad she was laughing, at least.

But Siobhan’s entertainment quickly dulled. “You shouldn’t have hit him.”

“He shouldn’t have put his hands on you.” Arthur argued. “Once was bad enough, and I really should’ve hit him then, too. The amount of sh*t he’s caused you…”

“Well, I shouldn’t have goaded him.” Siobhan said and stared at Arthur, “Don’t you think?”

He looked at her, bereft of any ounce of agreement and simply shrugged, “I thought it was funny.” He smirked and quickly cleared his throat as if to dispel it, “Probably wasn’t the best idea, though.”

Siobhan scratched her cheek, looking away. “Of all the things to be bothered by, it was May second that finally broke the camel’s back.”

“He’s a creep.” Arthur said. “And I wish I had realized sooner. Bill, Javier, Grimshaw, Sean and Karen. They can all go with him for all I care. Good riddance.”

Siobhan covered her face. “All because of me…”

“No.” Arthur leaned in, punctuating his dispute with insistence, “Because of Dutch. Because of their— I don’t know. Ignorance, or whatever it is. But not you.”

She wanted to think he was right. But Siobhan couldn’t be anything other than pissed off about it all. To not even be in charge of what was said about her, to not even be granted the ability to explain. To have the man closest to her making assumptions on what should be done about her feelings; and furthering those mislaid opinions with his unintelligible anger. For that, she still felt it all too unfair, and wondered if Arthur would ever really understand what she meant by it all. It all felt so hopeless she wanted to cry. But to cry in front of Arthur now, he would think it was all just because of the baby again and try to comfort her. She had to bite back her tears and keep her eyes closed, full to the brim.

And now, she could not be further from it.

Chapter 15: — I AM A POOR PILGRIM OF SORROW

Chapter Text

MAY 2, 1900

New Almaden, CA

Travis Hay were a man of few convictions. Chiefly among them was his belief that men were not to be led to virtue but they must be seduced into it. The only other way a man could do a thing of virtue were by the magnitude of offense gathered in assault against his pleasures. And of Travis Hay’s pleasures was his love of calm quiet and peace and of his offenses were bickering whining and a general state of cowardice in men.

The events that had recently transpired on his so called place of work was of offense to him for a number of reasons of which during the night he took upon himself to make list of—in his head—that he might be sure and convicted in them.

1. He were mighty fond of Arthur and Siobhan Morgan who seemed to him a caliber of the only kind of folks who ought to be out reproducing and did not so much appreciate the recent upheaval against their reputation.
2. To find a collection of folks with a similar passion for earthly pleasure and simple meandering without offering too much in the way of harming other peripheral societies were a rare thing and yet a thing he appreciated to be in the van der Linde gang.
3. Yet however it came about it seemed there was some disyoke of philosophy between Dutch van der Linde and the pleasure-seeking of the rest of his disciples of which Travis did not so much appreciate.
4. Dutch van der Linde were worth a whole heap of money.

Then there came to be a time of great pondering and self-reflection which Travis was not often accustomed to but which typically yielded him results of great worth on the rare occasion it did happen to him. And he were then faced with the fact that he had gotten mighty off-track and though lazed and wandered his fill he had become somewhat of a builder and though he made an awful blow of it he had actually installed tiles in the Morgan house which was rightfully absurd. He were never a builder nor a tiler and never meant to get so invested in such an act and yet here he was and worse than that he found himself happy and content to do it.

When were the last time he held a gun to a man’s throat and told him he were done for this world? And when were the last time the man deserved it?

He figgered—as he polished his apple on his breast pocket and looked across the yard of the Morgan property and Dutch van der Linde who were beginning to take his leave as Arthur Morgan so politely asked him to—that his time were gonna come once again. And never had a bounty been as big as this not even on Sean Macguire two years previous.

It were a score to make the Devil blush.

SIOBHAN

MAY 7, 1900
New Almaden, CA

The sky was gray that morning. The mine had been overactive. Smoke belched into the open mouth of the atmosphere all night. Siobhan woke up early that morning, too, had every opportunity to see that gray sky in all of daylight’s glory.

Arthur had gotten stung by a wasp or something on his ankle and so, even in his sleep, scratched at it with his foot and had been kicking Siobhan in the thighs and shins all night. She finally got up after a few hours of tortured sleep, staring at her husband’s peaceful face with love and irritation all in one. When she crawled over him he only slightly woke before falling back asleep. Siobhan pulled her clothes on.

The rest of the camp awoke just as slowly as Arthur. Some lethargy must’ve been carried through the air by that thick smoke. She went into the house’s kitchen and made some of her own coffee, separate from the pot that usually stayed outside for everyone to drink while they worked. She didn’t like how strong Pearson brewed that stuff normally, but today was different. She was exhausted and Pearson’s coffee, for the first time ever, was not strong enough for her.

Abigail came down the stairs of the house and, Siobhan,—not knowing who it was or whether Pearson was about to catch her in this act of culinary disrespect—hid the coffee cup behind her. But, seeing Abigail looking not only just as pregnant but just as tired as she, breathed a sigh of relief.

“Yeah, well…” Abigail rolled her eyes, “Don’t matter, anyway. I won’t be able to keep walking down there until the baby’s born. My feet keep swelling up something awful with this one. How about you?”

Siobhan tucked in her lips in negation, “I’ve hardly noticed being pregnant. I didn’t get sick as much as I thought I would and I really only get dizzy from time to time. But when he kicks, Goddamn!— he could knock out a horse!”

“You get any cravings?” Abigail said and rested her mug on her belly. “I’ve been craving soup. Just the saltiest soup I can get my hands on. I keep tellin’ John it's gonna be a boy, but he wants a girl.”

Abigail laughed. “Well, I reckon you know more about it than me.”

“Do we have any ice left?” Siobhan grimaced, searching around.

Abigail knew by the way Siobhan clenched her jaw that she wanted something to chew on, knew all about it herself. But she looked around unfortunately, “I haven’t seen Travis come back with any ice in a few days now.”

She looked out the window at the bitter, cold morning and frowned, “I haven’t seen him at all.”

As Abigail made a thoughtful sound on the other side of the room, sipping quietly her coffee, Siobhan realized she hadn’t really seen Dutch around either. Although that made sense before since Arthur had gone and kicked him out, it was strange that the two of them should go missing around the same time, wasn’t it?

Siobhan’s mind immediately went to the worst possibility. Would Dutch really have taken Travis out of spite? Siobhan grit her teeth, thinking it likely. Few people would probably have noticed Travis went missing. Fewer still would think it was anything other than him running out on the job.

Siobhan emptied the contents of her mug hastily into the sink and marched out, saying a quick goodbye to Abigail as she went back to her house. Arthur was still asleep, thank God, as she went to change her clothes and put her walking shoes on. She tried to be quiet—though it was unlikely he’d wake either way—as she really did not want him to know what she was up to. He’d insist she stay.

His brow furrowed. “No.” And he threw his legs over the side of the bed. “Where are you going?”

Siobhan pursed her lips. “Oh.” She said and set her boot down. “Well… Then… Let’s both go back to sleep.”

Arthur’s frown deepened as he watched her strip back down. He knew damn well she hadn’t forgiven him and was in no place to come lie down with him and spend the morning in bed. She placed her shoes back inside the wardrobe and shut it. He spoke up, “Did something happen?”

She shook her head and came to his side, trying to crawl into bed. Arthur put his hand on her arm, stopping her. He looked at her through his brow. “Shiv.” She looked down at him with wide eyes. She is such a terrible liar. “Whatever it is, I’m gonna find out either way.”

“No?” Arthur leaned closer into her, “No? This ain’t some trip into town, Shiv, they could be halfway to Arizona right now.” Siobhan started towards the door. Arthur right at her heels. “Shiv!”

Siobhan sat down. “Then kill him and be done with it! But I can’t stand your bickering like little girls.”

Siobhan got to her feet, staring at him. It had been a long time since she’d seen him with a rifle on his shoulder. “Oh noo, Siobhan is sooo mean to me!” She pouted, “She called me a little girl but I’m a big, big man. I’m such a BIG man!” She threw her shoulders up, arms out in a big masculine heave of muscle, underlining the word ‘big!’ “Look how big I am! Look at my big gun and my big arms and my big co—”

“You wanna sit here and talk about my big co*ck all day?” Arthur interrupted her, raising his eyebrows, “Let’s go.”

*

Paul Hallock was easily convinced to aid their search, though it seemed he and Arthur were of the same opinion that Siobhan was most likely overreacting but that it was best to humor her as she was the type of person to go off and do things on her own despite her state. Arthur knew it, Paul simply suspected it just knowing the nature of her lineage.

Not far east of San Jose, the three of them came across a valley overlooking the city. And on a far corner of the cliffside they could make out a rising stream of smoke that made a small cloud of black in the air. With his binoculars, Paul Hallock searched the little campsite, a few miles out. Even with the unimpressive aperture of his looking-glass, he could see a man who he was sure was Travis Hay. He was a man of medium stature but who had a very recognizable glow of perpetual sweat to his tanned skin.

And when they approached the campsite, Arthur left the wagon by the side of the road, kept his rifle shouldered as he and Paul Hallock got down. Travis was by the cliffside, pissing off the edge and he turned in great surprise at the sound of people approaching. Arthur and Paul Hallock were quickly disarmed to see him all on his lonesome by the edge of the cliff but as he shoved his junk into his pants he ran for his gun—they were shocked.

Arthur held his hands out, “sh*t, Travis, it’s just us!”

Travis’s eyes searched around and he were deeply disappointed to see Siobhan being pushed behind Arthur with his hand on her belly. He gestured behind them his face all corked in disgust “You brought Siobhan?”

Arthur’s confusion was clear. He looked over his shoulder at her, feeling suddenly very strange about the whole thing, and quickly looked around the campsite for sign of anything amiss. Paul seemed equally as disturbed and caustic.

Arthur put his hand behind him slightly, signaling for her to stay back. “She’s the one who brought us out here lookin’ for you. She was worried about you.”

Travis were clearly suspicious. He could see into the mouth of his tent where Dutch were hidden from their view and he started to wriggle around in haste hearing Arthur’s voice. His iron chains were clanging together and Travis were left no choice but to raise his gun. When they had heard Dutch move Paul Hallock was the first to go for his rifle and Arthur were a measure slower.

“Travis!” Arthur was shocked, drew his gun only a second behind Travis’s draw. Dutch was still hidden but as he shouted and groaned through his gag, Arthur could hear him and realized what was going on. Travis had tried to turn Dutch in. “Ahhh, Travis? What are you doing, man?”

Travis took a deep and stilling breath “I figgered you didn’t like him too much anymore.”

Arthur looked between Travis and the tent. Paul Hallock was clearly less affected by his sympathies. He shook his head at Travis, “I’m gonna beat the living sh*t out of you.”

Travis would of been amused but he were all torn up he thought he had been quick enough to get away with it. He didn’t wanna shoot either of them and he weren’t gonna shoot Siobhan. She peeked over her husband’s arm and looked at him all confused but he could see she were not exactly upset. “I were only intending to turn him in not the rest of you.”

“Just let him go, Travis.” Arthur said, scoffing, “This don’t need to get out of hand.”

“I ain’t in the business of turning over bounties Mr. Morgan.” He looked at Siobhan and again he were sad. “My men are coming up from New Verhalen they could be here any second.”

“What, your builders?” Arthur tried to remain unhastened by suspicion but he could sense something was not right about any of this and he was beginning to analyze his surroundings more sharply and critically than he needed to in a long time. Constantly over-aware of Siobhan behind him who he was thankful was staying quiet.

“Bounty hunters.” Sheriff Hallock said, eschewing any tact. He could see it now, why he had distrusted Travis so much. “That’s what Verhalen’s known for.”

Travis gestured at Paul “I were never serious about calling you a bull Mr. Hallock you know I were just prickling you.” He looked again at Arthur “And you knew I was no builder Mr. Morgan it were plain as day I could not read the notches on a ruler.”

“You’re a bounty hunter?!” Siobhan was shocked, “Since when?”

Travis hocked a loogie from his throat but he could not turn his head long enough to properly spit it out. He swallowed it back down. “Longer than you’ve lived Siobhan I have made a fortune of it. Now Mr. Morgan I do not want to be distasteful and insult your intelligence I would rather you didn’t pry any further into my background.”

“What is this f*cking nice guy act, you jackass? You’re pointing a gun at a pregnant girl!” Paul Hallock barked, his finger was feathering the trigger with impatience. If it wasn’t for Siobhan’s fondness for Travis and whatever misunderstanding it seemed this was, he’d have shot him in the neck the second his pants had been zipped.

Travis’s aim wavered slightly he made sure it were only on Arthur “I weren’t tryin’ to be nice I were tryin’ to be reasonable my men want their money and Dutch is ours.”

“What men?” Arthur was amazed, “You tellin’ me the other feller you brought to our house was a goddamn bounty hunter too? I pray, for your sake, that that ain’t true.”

“You know my men very well Mr. Morgan and I have forgiven you for it but you have killed them in the past and they would not hesitate to kill you.” He were giving it all up now there were too much at stake “They is all Skeldings. You know the name I am sure and its mine. You got their boss at gunpoint I suggest you don’t let them find you this way.”

There was a beat of silence. Only Arthur and Dutch knew the name. The sound of Arthur’s winding recoil was audible, “You’re telling me you’re Ike goddamn Skelding?” Arthur stared dumbfounded. He did not easily believe it. “The bastard that took Sean in Blackwater?”

At the mention of it it seemed clear to the three of them all at once why it were such an amusem*nt of his to mock Sean Macguire. He never recognized a line of Ike Skelding’s face his own abductor. “If you can recall how many of my men you killed that day Mr. Morgan you might be concerned about running into them again you is lucky I never been too fond of bounty hunters who is not myself.”

But Arthur couldn’t see the reason in any of it, all he could seem to understand was that he was facing a bounty hunter and not only did everyone he love have a price on their head but he had now taken two of them and Arthur was not the sort of person to tolerate a threat such as that.

“You just came for Dutch?” Siobhan asked, a lilt in her voice which sounded so optimistic it was clear she thought there was a very easy solution to all of this. Arthur put his hand on her arm defensively but Ike Skelding would not touch a hair on her head and even she knew it.

“Don’t, Shiv.” Arthur said sternly, grabbing her arm. “You ain’t having him, Trav—Ike, whoever the hell you are! I ought to kill you right now!”

Siobhan could feel the strain in his muscles. She recognized the anger in his voice. The terror he could inflict when he felt threatened. She hated to see it directed at someone she considered a friend. She could not reconcile that Travis meant the gang any harm, no matter what he intended with Dutch.

A stray shot was let loose as Dutch had quietly gotten to his feet and launched himself with his meager little footsteps out of the mouth of Ike’s tent and wrestled him to the ground with his chains. As soon as the others realized what was happening, Paul and Arthur moved swiftly into action. They had the same goal, each running toward Siobhan.

Paul guarded her back as Arthur kept his gun trained on the wrestling bodies and he shouted, “Get in the wagon, Shiv!”

But Siobhan shook her head, trying to run forward, “Stop him!”

Neither of them knew who she was referring to.

Ike had fought Dutch off of him fast enough to tear the chains from his neck and went after the gun he’d kicked toward the edge of the cliff. Dutch crawled after him, shouting horrible obscenities and straggled to his feet. With Ike at the edge, though, Siobhan screamed, “Dutch, stop!”

Dutch would not listen, he disarmed Ike whose gun went plummeting off the cliffside and just before Siobhan could repeat herself, Ike tumbled over the edge. Siobhan pushed out of their arms and ran toward the cliff edge herself but it was Arthur who kept her from getting too close. She shouted, “You bastard!”

Dutch turned to look at her and the way he stood seemed so specific, it was as if his surprise was pointing down at his feet. Siobhan looked at the edge and saw him digging his boot into a hand. Ike was grunting and straining below the edge.

Siobhan looked at Dutch but he could not say anything, there was still a gag in his mouth. She gripped Arthur’s arm desperately, “Please, Dutch, let him go!”

He dug his toe in deeper, repeating her request through the muffle of a gag, ‘Let him go?’ Ike lost his grip with that hand and clutched desperately at the cliff edge with his other.

Siobhan could hear pebbles and stones dislodged falling down and down. She could not hate Dutch more! “We were never gonna let him turn you in, you don’t have to kill him!” Arthur tried to pull her back. Tried to tell her it was over, Ike was an enemy. But she swore, “Please, Travis! Tell him you’ll surrender!”

Ike shouted as soon as she suggested it “I surrender! It were never worth—Jesus Christ please!” He were not ashamed to beg for his life. Dutch stared down at him and there were nothing crueler than those dark eyes and that bitten off ear he were far from a picture of mercy.

Dutch looked over his shoulder, he fought the gag from his mouth with his chained hands. “Arthur…” He took a hundred heaving breaths, his neck shining with sweat. His voice was gritty and wet with exhaustion, “What should I do with him?”

Siobhan looked up at her husband, a desperation in her eyes that pleaded for him to tell Dutch to let him go. But Arthur could only see the curve of Siobhan’s stomach and he knew she was too softhearted for a world this cruel. He knew Ike Skelding’s men, his reputation. He did not trust him for a second. He looked Dutch in the eye and grimly shook his head.

Siobhan’s face retracted in horror, she shouted his name and tugged on his shirt before trying to run after Dutch herself. But Arthur and Paul both held her back; they would not let her put herself in danger as foolishly as that. “Arthur?!” She beat at his arms, “Don’t let him! Please!”

Dutch stared at Siobhan for a second, he could not deny his surprise and delight to watch Arthur disappoint her. He could imagine it was not the first time. But he looked back down at Ike who didn’t see how Arthur had sentenced him to die and thought about it harder. They all waited for him to send Ike to his death but whatever compelled Dutch to act the way he did proved endlessly contradictory. He co*cked his head to the side and bent over to help Ike to his feet.

Arthur was betrayed to watch it as Siobhan gasped, pleading her appreciation to Dutch as Ike put his hands on his knees and caught his breath. Everything down to his posture signaled a complete vulnerability. It was no question he had surrendered. Dutch backed away from him and watched as Ike looked up at Siobhan, thanking her.

Siobhan were all in tears and Ike could not believe it were for his sake that she put her hand to her chest and bent over like she were in pain he thought she had a rare sort of kindness in her. “Thank you Siobhan. Thank you.” She were an angel for saving his life.

Arthur had no words for Dutch. He couldn’t say anything, Siobhan would hate him for it. He knew. She had said it before, and he realized his mistake as he watched Ike Skelding pant desperately for the fresh air of his spared life; ‘Since when do you give a sh*t about my conscience?’ She had said, ‘Killing people in front of me.’

“Thank you Arthur.” Ike said. He could of had no idea it were Arthur who posed the greatest threat to his life. He mistook Dutch’s mercy for Arthur’s demand. Everyone went silent at his misplaced gratitude nobody had the decency to inform him of it.

“Get your men out of New Almaden.” Arthur answered, “Be grateful you’re still alive.”

Paul Hallock felt like he was the only one there with a working head on his shoulders. He was amazed at Dutch and Arthur’s cowardice. He shouted, “What do your men know about the gang?” He aimed his gun at Ike’s feet, “Are they gonna come back for anyone else?”

Ike trembled he swore he were forgiven but it seemed he were not after all. To be back home in Blackwater never having got himself into this mess in the first place… He wiped his face it were covered in sweat and possibly a tear or two. He loved his life dearly. “Probably they will.”

“We gotta get back to the house.” Arthur realized. He looked down at Siobhan and wondered where in hell he could keep her that she would not be caught in any crossfire. Siobhan looked between Dutch and Ike. She was covered in sweat, turning pale. Arthur could not imagine she cared about Ike so much as that. He felt awful.

“You can’t pay your men.” Dutch argued, stopping any plans, “You need my bounty.”

It sounded like he were offering to turn himself in but everyone knew it could not be true, especially Ike. They would hang him in San Jose. “I can go out of pocket if I need to I have money.”

“Or you could keep your word.” Dutch stared him down. It seemed like he was referring to something specific. “You were gonna do a robbery, weren’t you, Ike?”

Ike paled he were in front of a lawman who did not seem to care whether he lived or died. “No. You know I were only spinning you a yarn to get you to come out here!”

“Rob who?” Paul demanded to know. He looked like he was two seconds from shooting either of them.

And like two guilty little boys, neither of them wanted to fess up to who was proposed to be robbed.

Siobhan interrupted them, it seemed she had something very important to say to Dutch. She was staring at him and when she took a step forward, saying, “You have to…” She was seeing double, “Go before…”

She almost tripped. Arthur got her by her arms and lifted her up. Suddenly everyone was staring at her their concern suspended all tension.

Arthur could see it was not simply her terror that arrested her so as she clutched her knees, she gagged. Her hand reached shakily out and she grabbed Arthur’s arm, for a second he thought she was going to puke. Then they could all see it, there was blood running down her leg and staining her dress. Arthur grabbed her arms, “Shiv!”

The entire confrontation was uprooted. Regardless of the varying degrees of sincerity and concern toward her, they could not have continued to argue with Siobhan as she was. Paul Hallock instantly guarded his gun, “Get her to the wagon.”

“Ah Christ almighty is she OK?” Travis were wiping his hair back his slanted eyes all wide.

“Shut the f*ck up.” Paul Hallock said, barring Travis from seeing her while she was picked up and Arthur ran her back to the wagon. He warned him with his gun. Travis’s hands went straight into the air. Dutch looked over Paul’s shoulder with a face that spelled only morbid curiosity.

Siobhan wasn’t even aware what happened, it seemed everyone else had noticed it before she did. Arthur shouldered his rifle and picked Siobhan right off her feet and she hated him for it. She wanted to thrash and get him off of her but she didn’t know what was happening. She could only sense that she was lightheaded and all of the sudden panic didn’t help her orient herself.

*

Arthur took her straight to Mary Calhoun’s house. The bleeding hadn’t stopped. Siobhan was delirious and feverish and could barely stay awake. Arthur’s fear nearly eclipsed his ability to compartmentalize and throw himself into action but despite how dizzy he felt with panic he found himself beating down on Mary Calhoun’s door.

She answered it quickly with her gun but as soon as she saw Siobhan hung on Arthur’s arms with her legs dripping blood down his side she let him run inside. By now Siobhan had passed out from the blood she had lost and Arthur felt his control slip away with the greatest sense of doom he prayed this was not the death of either of them… By God, he prayed it was not the death of Siobhan.

Mary stepped Siobhan into a skrim-covered bed and insisted Arthur stay outside but he refused. He told her he would not part from Siobhan and she was too delirious to tell him otherwise despite how his coldheartedness had made her panic so thoroughly. He stayed by her holding her hand as Mary did whatever it was she had to do between Siobhan’s legs.

She caught his attention when she pressed her stethoscope to Siobhan’s belly and after ten blindingly tense seconds she blinked, “The heartbeat is fine.”

Arthur took an enormous breath, his eyes were filled with tears, “The baby?”

She nodded once, “What happened?”

Arthur shook his head, “I-I don’t know… She…” He thought back and his eyes cleared with certain dread. God, was it his fault? He swallowed, “She was all freaked out. She looked exhausted all morning but… there was a lot goin’ on.”

“The bleeding seems to be coming from the placenta.” Mary explained, though she did not seem very confident. “I’ve encountered this with other women before, and it’s typically a sign of a delicate pregnancy.”

Arthur paled. “But she’s been eating everything you wro—”

Siobhan squeezed his hand. Mary was quick to bring her water, she skittered away. Arthur turned to her, putting his hand on her forehead, “Siobhan… Christ, you scared me, girl. Are you okay?”

She looked confused. “Where’s Travis and Mr. Hallock?”

Arthur was amazed. He sat up straighter, watching Mary as she came to Siobhan’s other side and instructed her to drink. He waited until she drank plenty before he continued, “You were bleedin’, but you’re okay.” He assured her, “Mary said the baby’s alright.”

Siobhan looked between the two of them and tried to sit up to look over the swell of her stomach but Mary stopped her, “You just lay back, darling. Let me concern myself with all that.”

Siobhan put her hands on her stomach and looked up at the ceiling as if thanking God. But she looked back at Arthur, “Where is Dutch?”

Her face was still pale and sweating and Arthur didn’t want her to think about any of that. He believed it must have been what stressed her out to the point of bleeding in the first place. He shook his head, “Don’t think about it right now, Shiv, plea—”

“Arthur.” She took a deep breath, her sternum and neck trembling. Her eyes were dark, “If Dutch is at our house right now, so help me God, I’ll kill him.”

“Shiv.” Arthur’s voice was high and pleading, “I’ll handle it, you don’t need to worry about that.”

“What about those bounty hunters?” She gripped the side of the bed, her face was dead serious. She would not take the Skelding threat lightly. “Ike’s men know where we live. If they try to come find Dutch, Arthur… he’d better not be at our Goddamn house.”

Arthur’s face was defeated, he squeezed her hand tightly. He swallowed, “I told Paul Hallock to bring the two of them back just in case something did break out. We need plenty of guns, Shiv.”

He could see her horror and he knew he shouldn’t have mentioned it. He felt so goddamn stupid for it, but what else could he say! He couldn’t lie. And he knew, from experience, when it came to enemies approaching your door, it was better safe than sorry. Siobhan, at least, would be safe here.

But she shook her head fervently, “Arthur, you can’t—!” She was exasperated with her disbelief and worry, “You’ll lead them straight there!”

Arthur shook his head, leaning closer, he kept her back against the bed carefully, “I’ll take care of it, Shiv, you know I will.”

Her eyes widened. She wanted to believe him, she truly did… But she couldn’t trust that he wasn’t simply reacting out of ingrained violence that was excessive and unnecessary. She wanted to be forgiving, she knew he was raised this way and knew she would be a hypocrite to deny she had married him knowing this. But she truly believed him when he said he was old enough and smart enough to change. This didn’t feel like changing.

She swallowed all of her pain and fear for her baby and herself and threw out of her heart her need to have him beside her. She thought only of the future and she swore she would not let Arthur make another grave mistake like this again. Her voice was level and stern, “Go take care of it then. Now.”

A part of Arthur shrunk into nothing to hear her distrust in him, another part of him rose up with frustration that she would not just listen to him. But all over, he felt the grief of realizing, either way, he would have to leave her side. He stared at her for a few moments more. His thumb grazed her hairline and he looked her face over with love. Everything he felt died away in those few swelling heartbeats except for the love he had for her.

And she raised her hand to his cheek, too. Because despite her anger and frustration, to hold it against him alone would be wrong and misplaced. Her worry was overwhelming, yes, but she still loved Arthur dearly. She kissed his mouth and squeezed his hand tightly—it was a plea.

Something about it felt ominous, the way they died away from their usual personalities and virtues. And the couplet of their shared adoration stopped them from saying anything other than, “I love you.”

*

"Is Siobhan ok?" Dutch asked as soon as Arthur approached on the back of Bess.

Arthur dismounted quickly. He shook his head but it was clear he was not answering Dutch's question. The firm disapproval in his face meant only that he did not want Dutch to ask him about it at all and that he would offer no answer to them. But Paul Hallock was much more insistent. He pulled Arthur to the side putting his hard hand clean in the center of Arthur's chest, he lowered his voice, "Is she okay?"

A part of Arthur that was still extremely irritated by the three of them didn't want to respond at all but he could see Paul was genuinely concerned and he knew him to be a man with Siobhan's best interest in mind so he explained, "She's got a fever, but she and the baby’ll make it."

Paul took a deep breath and dropped his hand. He seemed genuinely relieved to hear it. Arthur looked back at the other two. Bill and Javier had come over to talk to Dutch.

Dutch shook his head, his arms crossed. He seemed offended that Arthur was more willing to hear out a lawman than him. "You never had very good luck with your children, have you, Arthur?"

Everyone looked at Dutch then. Arthur could not believe the words that had just come from his mouth. Not long ago he never would have thought he'd hear anything as cruel as that from Dutch's mouth. Arthur's eye steeled with a cold glare that could freeze the soul right out of your body. “Get. Out. Get out of New Almaden and don’t you ever come back this Goddamn way, Dutch.”

"Do I need to remind you that Ike's men are looking for me?" Dutch stared Arthur right back down.

He roared, “I don’t give a goddamn who is hunting you down, Dutch!”

“Who made you the authority on who leads us?” Javier intruded, looking at Arthur as if he were a man unrecognizable.

Arthur turned his tough jaw toward Javier. “What?”

“You keep letting your wife make up your mind, Arthur. You shouldn’t be turning on your family for her.” Javier spoke with full confidence. Dutch stayed to listen, appreciating the loyalty in his friend, but he had nothing more to say.

Arthur’s body was still, blood speeding invisibly underneath his skin like lava. His anger rising like steam. He took a step toward Javier, “It was Siobhan’s idea to keep Dutch here. If it weren’t for her…”

He looked back at Dutch. Stepping back from Javier, he clenched his fist, “You get the hell out of here! Anybody who don’t like it can go with you.” He gripped the butt of his rifle, “I’m done arguin’ about it.”

Javier stared at Arthur in shock, Bill reacting the same. Neither of them could believe what Arthur was saying. Arthur Morgan, of all people, to be the one to turn on the gang. And with a Sheriff co*cking his gun defensively behind him, and a bounty hunter beside him, Arthur’d gone and made himself a friend of the law it seemed. All for some girl who hadn’t spent but a year in the gang and managed to turn it completely inside out from within.

Javier wordlessly stepped toward Dutch’s trail and Bill behind him. Wary eyes looking back in betrayal at Arthur who stood stalwart like a ship with proud hull. Words seeming to die on their tongues.

And somewhere between those unspoken words, a bullet shot through the air and whizzed straight past Arthur’s head. For a split second—shock— Did Dutch…?

“Get back!” Dutch shouted.

His gun was holstered, it was not him who had shot ant Arthur and missed. Everyone scrambled to the trees of the Morgan farm for cover as a new threat approached in a thunder of dozens of hoofbeats.

Chapter 16: — WITH GOD ON OUR SIDE

Chapter Text

MAY 7, 1900
New Almaden, CA

The course of a dotted line charted the path of the bullet that had torn through the untouched trees covering the farm. Everyone ran back toward the house; Dutch, Javier and Bill in a line with Arthur, Ike and Paul Hallock in retreat to the same place. Siobhan’s childhood home was rapidly perforated with bullet holes. Arthur shouted toward the house, “Everyone inside now!”

Arthur and Ike found cover behind their picnic table. Whatever was on it, they had no time to look at, it was all shattered and broken now. John came running out from the house with his gun, “What’s goin’ on?!”

The first horse made it past the trees. A black bowler hat with a red ribbon, he announced himself by that alone. Arthur knew these were Pinkertons. He reached for his gun and shot over the edge of the table, aiming for the bowler hat. He hit the rider’s horse in the neck and with a screaming neigh, it toppled to the ground and threw the Pinkerton from his back as a backline of extras came from the trees beyond the yard.

Ike shot just as ferociously as Arthur he had no loyalty to the law or to the Pinkertons he felt he were caught in a lead pipe cinch.

“John! Get back inside!” Arthur shouted. Gunpowder rained down on everything. Arthur couldn’t stop himself from scanning the yard between shots and searching for Dutch. “Make sure everyone’s accounted for!”

Paul Hallock came to their side as Arthur handed Ike a revolver. The Sheriff was quick sure. Even less anxious than Ike, “Get all the women and children out through the back. Take the Mockingbird trail.”

Arthur knew the trail. It was where John Beauchamp had been killed. It was where he kept his money in that old cabin. He quickly got to his feet and chased after John, hoping to catch him and tell him where to go.

Inside the house, he was relieved to find things were empty downstairs but he could hear screaming and struggling at the top of the flight. He didn’t think,—he hauled himself up those stairs he hadn’t been to in months and found himself barging into someone’s bedroom and there Karen and Sean had their hands all over each other, shouting and yelling. Arthur’s brow creased and he shouted loud enough to shake the walls, “Get your asses out of here! The hell are you doing?!”

Karen was all in tears and clutching a gun. Sean looked scared to death like something terrible had happened to her. As he finally wrenched the gun from Karen’s hand, he pulled her into a hug. “We’ll go far away.” He promised her.

Arthur held his hand out. He wasn’t exactly sure what had transpired but he had some notion as to the sadness of it as Sean lowered his voice reassuringly in a way Arthur did not often see a hooligan like him do. He wrapped his arm around her like a soft blanket though there were gunshots pitting the walls of the house around them.

“I’ll cover you, we’re heading out the back.” Arthur said and he tried to clothe his voice in some measure of sensitivity but he could not subtract from it the stress of their loitering around at a time like this.

He rushed them out of the back of the house and they snuck through the horse paddocks and out the other side of the barn where they could get lost in the trees and find their way up the mountainside. Not long into the trees, with Sean pulling Karen along, both in a half-huddle, they found the rest of them.— Almost.

Crouched against the shadow of trees and shaking between a winding trail that led back down into the town and another that led up into the mountains where they could not easily take any horses, Tilly, Hosea, Uncle, Abigail Jack and John were whispering in hushed debate. They went silent with the shuffling that approached from Arthur, Karen and Sean. “It’s just us.” Arthur warned in a stage-whisper.

He went foremost to John who immediately asked, “Where’s Siobhan?”

Arthur’s throat tightened for a split second to think of her before his heart reminded him she was safe with Mrs. Calhoun. “She’s fine, I’m going back for her.” He looked among them, “Go up the trail that leads the mountains. A couple of yards off the right on the third bend there’s an old cabin fallin’ to pieces. I got some money stashed in there. You take that money and go up north somewhere real far. I’ll come find you guys in a few days, alright?”

John looked surprised at how grimly Arthur had said all of it. It wasn’t exactly that they hadn’t been in this exact sort of situation a million times before,—they had—but something about the peace they had been afforded for the past few months hewed them from their immediate ability to sequester themselves from their home. But John quickly took Abigail’s hand. “Keep them off us, Arthur.”

He nodded sternly, there was no need to say it, he would.

Ike found himself lost in thought as he reloaded. He shuffled his bullets into his revolver quickly but his hands were shaking. It were not his men who had come to attack the house after all it were Pinkertons. He had no Earthly notion as to how they had gotten here it were many things keeping them east of California and he expected they would stay there until the Skeldings brought Dutch van der Linde to heel in San Jose and he were awaiting trial. He could not help but think that something must of gone wrong with his plan. That perhaps one of his men was not as honest as he thought and had let something slip to the feds. He felt mighty ashamed of himself.

Arthur, on the other hand, was fully compartmentalizing. As long as John was taking care of everyone escaping and nothing but Pinkerton blood was being spilled on their land, he was concentrated only on shooting and eliminating the threat. He ran to Dutch, “Get back to the house, you’re out in the open!”

Dutch chuckled, his voice was light and unconcerned as he reloaded against the shield of the tree. “Don’t worry about me, son, this ain’t my day yet.”

“That’s very romantic, Dutch, don’t be a dumbass!” Arthur shouted. There were bullets fracturing off pieces of bark around their heads and while Arthur flinched at each of them, Dutch remained still and calm.

Dutch leaned forward, patting Arthur on the chest. It made his eyes widen with fear, leaving his arm open to fire where the interstices between the trees did not cover his vulnerability. Dutch was unphased, “Go get your wife, Arthur, they’re coming from every direction.”

Arthur reminded himself she was with Mary on the other end of town, she was perfectly safe. He worried more about Jack and Abigail. They were still fleeing out the back.

Dutch reeled his hand back as another bullet whizzed between the two of them. He panted, exclaiming for the thrill, “Whoo!” He looked happy, “That’ll make you feel alive, huh son?!”

Arthur thought Dutch was full-tilt insane. He leaned over his shoulder to shoot again when, suddenly, Dutch pulled him back. Dragging him out of cover, in between the gap between trees where Arthur believed he was a blaring target, ready to be shot. And he was betrayed to feel Dutch’s hands grip his collar and drag him to his death but he was wrong.

A rider had crossed into the yard and was aiming at Arthur right as he passed and if it were not for Dutch, he’d have been shot in the head where he crouched. Dutch had saved his life.

Arthur was amazed for a few stalled seconds as Dutch killed the rider without ceremony. After everything Arthur had done and said to him, he half-expected dragging him into the line of fire was more characteristic of Dutch than saving his life. Arthur tried to thank him but he was speechless and Dutch could not be persuaded to stop from hollering and shouting with excitement.

Arthur quickly moved back into cover but he could hardly keep his head straight. There was more and more of them coming. Dutch wasn’t kidding, it seemed, when he said they were coming from every direction. They were raining down from the very clouds. “Dutch…” Arthur said, scanning where everyone fought from the yard. Charles, Lenny, Sadie, Paul Hallock… All dodging and exchanging bullets of their own, “We gotta leave.”

His voice was grim with the reality of it. Their home was being ripped to shreds with bullets. They were found, invaded. There was no stopping it now. “Dutch!” He shouted, “We gotta go!”

Dutch was hardly listening. He was in some kind of bloodlust fueled rage or stupor that had drowned his senses with bliss. He loved this. Arthur had to grab his shooting arm and lower his gun to the ground, shouting at him a final time. Dutch stared at Arthur. “No, my boy.” He said, his throat wet with sentimentality, “I ain’t going anywhere.”

Arthur was struck. He sounded all of a sudden like a goddamn martyr. “What you talkin’ about Dutch? Get the hell up and haul ass—!”

“I tried to tell you, Arthur.” Dutch spoked slowly, with the dark color to his voice that only came out when he tried to sound taken with serious emotion. “We should have left a long time ago… But it’s too late now, and they came for me.”

Arthur’s brow creased. He was sure Dutch did not mean to fight to the death? He tried to speak but Dutch wouldn’t hear it.

“They came for me.” He repeated, co*cking his revolver, “So now I guess they’ll just have to come get me.”

“Dutch.” Arthur said solemnly. He could already tell what Dutch was planning, he didn’t need to say any of it. He wasn’t sure how to feel about it, but his heart told him there was a better option. “Don’t…”

“I’m sorry for how I’ve treated you and Siobhan.” Dutch said abruptly. He leaned against the tree behind him and was overcome with sweat. Arthur almost believed there was something wrong with his health, there was no other explanation for how he was acting. “I care about her, I really do.” Arthur’s face dulled, “But I care about you more than anyone else. You are my son, Arthur.”

Arthur pushed Dutch’s hand off his shoulder, “You’re jealous, Dutch, it ain’t anything more than that.”

“I know I’ve been acting…” He shook his head, couldn’t look Arthur in his eye. His hand shook as he ran it through his hair. He looked like he was coming apart at the seams. “I haven’t been myself… for a long time, I know. But she made me realize it, perhaps most of all, she held a mirror to me where others were afraid to.”

It was clear Arthur didn’t agree with whatever twisted confession this was supposed to be, it sounded genuine, but he couldn’t imagine that it was.

“Lately… seeing her pregnant the way that—” He couldn’t say her name. It got lodged in his throat and he could not spit it out nor swallow it. “You know.” He said. Arthur knew her. “Siobhan reminds me so much of her, sometimes I feel like I’m young again. I was lost in that feeling, Arthur. I didn’t want to hurt you.”

He didn’t wait for Arthur to respond. It was not about convincing Arthur to believe him any longer. There was no greater plan in his heart than earnest confession. He stood up, “I’ll fix it, my boy.”

Arthur watched Dutch run into the clearing of the driveway, his gun raised in the air, taking out riders as much as he could but the horses swarmed him in an enclosing circle. And as he was covered on all side by riders, they shot him in the shoulder and he cried out, falling to his knee.

They took Dutch up to his feet though he walked crookedly, with one shoulder limp and pointing at the ground as they wrangled his arms behind his back. They took him up into a caged wagon and didn’t even bother to restrain him.

Arthur felt like he was dreaming, now all alone in that thicket of trees. He still hadn’t fully processed what Dutch had even said and now he was being carted away with the Pinkertons. The ambush seemed to pull away. They had gotten the one man they had been hunting primarily for the better part of three years. They had no commitments toward the chaos they had inflicted on everyone else, it seemed, they were content to leave but perhaps not forever.

It wasn’t deliberate the way he lingered in sightline of that puddle of blood that had come from Dutch’s collapsing injury. When the wagons were gone, the gunpowder settled, no gunshots rang out any further and the bodies of the Pinkertons that decorated the ground were going cold, Arthur turned back to look into the yard. Paul, Ike, Javier and Bill were going around kicking the bodies to make sure they were good and dead. Arthur wiped the sweat from his forehead and had only one thought.

SIOBHAN

The shootout could not be heard on the other end of town. Mountains separated Cape Horn Pass from Englishtown. The only people who’d have a chance to even know it was happening would be those standing around the mine and their neighbors in the Pass. Mary, Griffin and Siobhan were completely unaware of any of what had transpired until there was a knock on Mary Calhoun’s front door.

Even from upstairs where Siobhan held a cold rag to her forehead and slumped against Mary Calhoun’s birthing bed, Siobhan could hear that someone came over. She hoped it was Arthur coming back to tell her everything was okay. But she was sure it was not, it had only been thirty minutes since he had left.

The knocking soon became banging. It seemed Mary was being too slow to get to the door. Siobhan really hoped it was not someone in a medical emergency like herself.

The banging stopped. Through the muffle of the walls, Siobhan heard Mary speaking as she opened the front door. There were masculine voices coming through. Mary’s voice heightened like she was afraid. Siobhan was disturbed to hear it. Slowly, she hoisted her stomach up like it were simply an apron she wore and got to her shaking feet to close the door.

She tried to look down the hall as she got up to it, but couldn’t see downstairs. The man spoke very sternly as the door shut. Behind the door, Siobhan breathed through her gritted teeth, holding the base of her stomach tightly through the pain. She whispered to her belly, “Come on, creepmouse, go easy on me.”

Mary howled with laughter that was tangential and out-of-place. Siobhan pressed her ear to the door, trying to make out what was being said. “A doctor.— pregnant and—well, where…”

Then, clear as morning even through the door, the man announced himself, interrupting Mary completely. “Pinkerton Detective Agency.”

Everything went still around her and her chest went hollow. She strained her ears within her own bodily silence as her heart raced. She backed away from the door as if it were made of metal and full of a static charge that had shocked her. She stared at it as the men came into the house. She heard their boots hit the ground. Fear mounted her shoulders and weighed her chest down—her panic caused her to make a small whine. She slapped her hand over mouth and quickly moved away from the door.

She ran to the other side of the room, tensing the arches of her feet in an attempt to pad the sound of her scurrying. Her palms hit the window frame and she scrabbled at it, searching up and down for a latch. Footsteps climbed the staircase and Siobhan whipped her head around to check the door, yanking at the window with her fingernails until they bent back far enough to peel off,—she withheld a whimper.

Finally, as the footsteps reached the landing, she pushed the window up and looked out at the roof of the little porch jutting out of the side of the house. About four feet below her, as she pulled her skirt over the windowsill, she eyed the spot of her landing. Trying to quell her fear that this would hurt her baby, she straightened herself as quickly as she could against the wall and dropped down onto her feet. Buckling over as she hit the roof with a dull thud, she bit down on her bottom lip, trying not to scream. The pain hit her ankle directly, a splitting, hot pain that felt as if it cut right to the bone.

And the little baby, roiled by her misstep, kicked and fussed enough to bring tears to her eyes. She curled up against her bent knees on that roof, skirt still stained with blood and drenched in sweat, and carefully drug her legs out from under her. Her face contorted in pain as she swallowed her many desperate aches of pain, bellowing, she threw her legs over the side of the porch and prepared herself for the second drop. With her uninjured foot hanging slightly lower than the other, she dropped the exact same way, slightly farther, and cried out as she hit the ground with a crack.

“Ohhhh, ffff*ck!” She tried to whisper but whined like a pup, curling up on the ground. She gripped her ankle in the grass, surrounded by bushes and looked around her. Her eyes blurred with tears, though. Whatever she had done was not a pain she could push through so easily. It was nearly the same pain she had suffered back when she got bitten by that snake, burning, splitting. But this time it ached, pulsing.

She looked down at her ankle where it was rapidly turning red the way a griddle heats with flame from within. Her stomach dropped at the sight of the discoloration blooming rapidly over her swelling ankle. Her teeth clenched together as her face twisted upward in concern at how badly she had landed and what she had done to herself.

Though she was relatively well hidden, she could hear the men talking louder and louder inside. Their footsteps rapid as Mary began to yell. She quickly forced herself to her limping and bruised feet, clutching her overripe stomach as she scurried out of the yard. She cried out each time her foot landed with pressure on that flat ground, barefoot and cracking. Louder than she liked she nearly screamed for the horrible, ripping pain of it.

It felt like each step cracked her bones further and further into displacement, pinching a nerve that threatened to snap. She stuffed the collar of her dress into her mouth, trying to run. But, that slipping of bone over cracked bone—or what felt like it—caused her to collapse from the weakness of her step and fell to the ground.

She could hear shouting behind her and clawed desperately at the ground, trying to make it to her feet without screaming bloody Hellfire in agony. She made it to her foot again and couldn’t bite it back—another shearing crack rattled her leg and she fell immediately back into the dirt. Her head filled with air and she couldn’t hear through her screaming.

A, “Got you!” She couldn’t hear from a man who was now grabbing her by her hands.

“Let me go!!!” Her face was covered with hot tears and torn down the center with her scream.

She was dragged up to her feet and screamed again for the pain, collapsing into her abductor’s arms in such a surrender he couldn’t have expected and therefore recognized her injury. He looked down at her leg and winced for how badly it had bruised and swollen and he had every confidence she had broken it falling from that window. He called for his partner and tried to hold her off of it while she screamed and protested and wrenched away from him weakly.

“Let me go! Let me go!”

“I can’t do that!” He looked over his shoulder, relieved as his other four partners advanced, two-by-two, eyeing her as if she were an animal caught in a trap. “Get her leg, Boker. Be careful with it.”

“I’ll get the wagon.” Another said, and in their minds, they all wondered about the nature of the girl and whether she was as brainwashed as they had been told. And it never felt right to assume that they should treat such a young girl—especially not a pregnant one—the same as any other prisoner.

But she was a prisoner.

She was loaded onto their wagon and corralled into it by two men who held her down and saw to her ankle. And Siobhan could hear the town lit up with gunshots that rang like fireworks through the echo of the buildings as they left, quicker than she could realize.

Her hopeless protests came out drowned by utter anguish of body and heart. Not a word could be understood except, ‘No!’

And all of the men grimaced for the sound was so foreign to the sort of lamentations they were used to in their line of work. “Stop crying, Princess, I can’t understand a word you’re saying.”

Siobhan opened her red eyes wide at the man who held her hands down. She couldn’t see over her stomach at what was being done to her ankle, but she could see the face of the man who tended to it. She looked between the both of them, swallowing her spit and tears with her bitten tongue, “They—The-h… They’re going to k-k-hill you! Arthur M-Morg-han is going to k-kill you!”

The Pinkerton’s face darkened and he was no longer sure of the pity he felt for her.

Chapter 17: — AIN'T NO SUNSHINE

Chapter Text

MAY 24, 1900

San Jose State Penitentiary, CA

San Jose had its reputation for a reason. A great city with a population of twenty-some-odd-thousand now, it was a beacon of America’s future. In the bright year of 1900, the turn of the century it stood proud, innovative, rich. The largest building in the city was its bank, the second largest was its prison.

Weeks before, they rode Dutch and Arthur through the city. Three wagons apart to keep them from any sort of company. The bars were wide enough and the carriages slow enough that the crowds that gathered around them as they brought the condemned through the flea-ridden streets, were able to reach in and grope and punch, scratch and claw at their skin and clothes. And throw through the gaps rocks or bricks if they so chose; hoping, probably, to kill them in their cages. And as the Pinkertons announced to them all from their horses what Dutch and Arthur had purportedly done, there came this feeling among the people of concomitant vitality; they bleed just the same as any man. Not so dangerous now, are you?

Arthur had never seen such hatred among people directed completely toward him. And as he tried to push their hands out of his cage, he was hit in the head with a child’s wooden toy and looked down into the crowd to see even the children seething with anger at him. He, half-naked, his bare skin covered in scratches and bruises, covered in muck and starved—the only blood on his clothes was from Siobhan two days before—with a child of his own out in the world growing in his wife’s belly. What inspired such hatred?

Through the blinding sun that painted pockets of greasy black, ringed with purple and orange in the corners of his vision, Arthur could only remember glimpses of the things that were thrown at him and who was doing the throwing. But the looming gray stone and concrete of the San Jose Penitentiary was so massive and imposing that it overtook his entire field of view as they carted him through the gates.

And there, Arthur Morgan was being held prisoner.

They kept him in a fancy little cell. Secluded from the rest of penitents, he had a dirt floor, four concrete walls and one little window providing all the light to himself. A quiet place to starve to death.

They never fed him. Never let him sleep. Never gave him silence for too long before they banged on his bars, staring through those metal rods with seething hatred, these strangers who didn’t even know his name, just the numbers on his chest and the crimes put against him.

And then the Pinkertons came. Every day they marched themselves up the tower of the penitentiary to Arthur’s special little cell and questioned him. Sitting on the other side of the bars, “Where’re the others? Where’s all the money? We’ll let you go if you tell us where they are. Hosea Matthews, Javier Esquella, Bill Williamson, John Marston, Sean Macguire, Charles Smith, Micah Bell.”

Those were the names they wanted most. Apparently none of them got the message that Siobhan had carved Micah Bell’s eyes out months ago. Still, Arthur answered none of these questions. He never budged an inch.

And then one day it wasn’t a Pinkerton or a prison guard who came to see him. It was someone entirely different. A man in white—blinding, pristine white. Golden buckles around his belt like he belonged to Queen Victoria. Arthur looked up at him and the man in white looked right back and smiled. “Do you know why you’re here?”

Arthur didn’t answer, though he had a pretty good idea.

The royal guard answered for him. “You’re here because of Reed Belden.”

“Reed Belden?” Arthur spat. His voice was tired and croaked. “That’s one stupid goddamn name.”

The man in white laughed, “Mr. Belden owns this city and everyone in it. He doesn’t like criminals in his city.”

“I ain’t ever been in this city before.” Arthur said right back. “You can go ahead and tell Mr. Belden I’d be more than obliged to leave.”

“You’re in this city now, aren’t you?” The man said and then crouched to get a better look at Arthur who was sitting on the ground, leaned against the wall. Sweat dripped down his face and neck, dirt lining every wrinkle in his skin. His eyes sagged with exhaustion, dark and pitted. His lips were cracked and dry. “And you’re a criminal, Mr. Morgan.”

Arthur’s eyelids felt heavy. “Sure. I am painted as such a criminal, but I haven’t actually done anything wrong.”

“You’ve done more robbing and killing since before most boys lay with their first woman. Fifteen, right?” The man said it with such thinly veiled sentimentality that Arthur could be sure he held much disgust for him.

“Is that the trade, then?” Arthur scoffed, “You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about. I never did none of that.”

“Pinkertons say otherwise.” He tapped his chin, “Are you aware how much money the Pinkertons have? Pretty much, what they say goes. So as far as us getting their paychecks is concerned, you’re guilty of all they say.”

There was very little exaggeration in that declaration and Arthur knew it.

He also knew that if it were a year prior, the gang would have come and got him out. More likely that he’d never have ended up in prison in the first place, but even if he did, they’d have gotten him out. But now there was no gang. Not like it used to be.

So it went for the next eighteen days. Arthur never gave them an answer. He never asked after Dutch, he never mentioned anything even peripherally related to Siobhan, though he thought of her every night. Even as he was starved and neglected and mistreated, every thought of his wife was his greatest agony. How badly he worried for her could kill him, he swore, and the wish to see her again was the only thing that kept him from going completely mad in that dark cell.

*

Once they realized the strength Arthur had which they could use to their advantage, even when they kept him starved, they put him to work just the same as any other prisoner who was not Dutch van der Linde. Even when Arthur worked so hard the blisters from his tools burst and split with their puss-filled dehiscence, he could not help but look up at those dark and looming towers and wonder where Dutch was locked away in his cold seclusion. He could not imagine Dutch was treated any better.

And the work was horrible. Arthur had not seen, from the day of his birth in 1863, and across dozens of states in America throughout all of that time until now, such cruelty. Such inhospitality, such racism, such inhumanity inflicted from one man to another. He was shocked to hear of slavery in Saint-Denis in 1899. Whatever went on behind penitentiary walls was of a cruelty all on its own and had been happening right underneath everyone’s noses the entire time. Because he could not imagine what crimes a person would have to commit to be treated so, he could not find it in his heart to feel too bad for himself compared to others.

But on one particularly unlucky day of his he learned no matter how white his skin or how much he kept his eyes down from guards, walked straight and did not talk back, he couldn’t escape the wrath of their power either. He had been building wooden platforms, let off the chain gang for the afternoon to get up to the top of a tower which was under construction. It was a rickety thing and whatever cheap wood they had given him was not enough to hold his weight and as he went higher and higher on the staddle, his footing became more unstable. And just as he voiced his concern to himself that he should get down, a piece of the thin wood bowed beneath his step and he fell clean through.

His leg cleft the next platform down and the wood cracked, cutting right into the side of his thigh. The prison guards were quick to climb up and get him down but the cut was so bad he couldn’t walk. He was dragged to the infirmary on the shoulders of two guards.

In the infirmary, the bristling, crinkled seam of his drawers were still intact beneath the tear of his jumpsuit, though only barely. Its black band around his waist clutched to his hardest furls of muscle like a belt, but only where he was otherwise bare. Smudged like a painting with bright bloody fingerprints and busy fingers.

Arthur gripped the sticky leather of the seat beneath his leg. His grip was weak, affected so by his distress. He could feel his pulse tense as far up as his knuckles, his wet palm slipping up from his rushing blood. It coursed in a rounded flow around the bend of the seat and leaked freely down the side, soaking in between where the metal of the frame met the cushion.— Pooling in a puddle of red on the tile.

His sad button-up shirt had torn almost up to his stomach, but was otherwise out of the way of the nurse’s diligent, milky-white and red hands. Her eyes crossed over each detail of Arthur’s hip, searching every inch for splinters which might stick and snap in Arthur’s leg as he moved. Her eyes moved in surgical patterns, centimeter-by-centimeter and filed the icy metal of her tweezers into Arthur’s searing-wet nerves.

Under the hands of this woman—under the eyes of these men standing over her shoulder like hungry vultures, gawking at the articulating rivulets of blood streaming down his leg and talking amongst themselves—his panging stomach growled for food. He’d skipped breakfast, the bricks of breaded sawdust the skullions churned out for the prisoners failed to appetize him so utterly that he convinced himself that he didn’t need it at all. But it was painful now, the hunger.

The nurse’s head inched forward slowly each time that she worked the tweezers back between his cuts. Always getting closer to Arthur’s hip and then easing back, flowing as if guided by a system of strings. Though his legs were all bare and splayed out wide before her, her eyes did not stray from her surgery. Not at the most delicate part.

She warned him that she was after a particularly deep one and with an arcing jolt backward, air scoured Arthur's vocal chords as he withheld a painful scream. His brows swelled inward as he winced, and his eyes closed with an erasing vice grip of white wrinkles. The rolling muscles tenoning his neck tensed, twitching. He could feel it like a foreign clod, hard and marbled, silted underneath his skin and burrowing, stuck within the imbrication of his muscles.

The sacrosanctity of the surgery was interrupted by the return of the prison guards. From the swinging metal door they said something he couldn’t hear. Something about their presence seemed to set his nurse on edge. Her fingers stiffened in her work and she nipped at him like a bird. Her fingers pinched at the tweezers, which she worked as if it were a pick.

Arthur looked down at her jabbing, his face contorted in pain again, as she pulled at a nerve that came out like a little pin-white string from his leg. Tender and raw, he roared with pain, tensing his thigh up and rising from the chair. The nurse pushed his leg back down, “Stay still!”

Arthur’s voice was hoarse, he tried not to look down at the mutilation, but his survival instincts demanded he look, intercept, stop. He gripped the sides of the leather chair, “It hurts like hell, woman!”

The guards watched by the door, crossing their arms and shrugging their shoulders in their wide, unconcerned stance. Something about his pain seemed to draw their attention away from their conversation where they paused to witness before going back to their hushed discussion. Looking at him out of the corner of their eyes every few seconds. Arthur was relieved when they finally left again the way they came.

A single gritty nick had torn his drawers by the splintered wood. Below it, the heat of his wounds soaked into what remained of his threadbare and torn drawers.— It was nothing more than shredded, jumbled strings which now held up the fabric nestled between his legs.

The humid heat in the room was enough to make him lightheaded, though that was probably also due to his dehydration. His feet swelled and itched in his mangy, worn sandals. The sticky, rubbery cushion of leather between his legs stuck to him like a suffocating lacquer.

In a silent retreat the nurse’s hand feigned away from Arthur’s hip, dragging along with it a shard of soaked wood between the peaks of her instrument. Arthur’s eyes had been pasted to the ceiling; dark, unsaturated green light soaked the infirmary from its stained glass window. But at the woman’s nudge, he looked down from the corner of his eye incidentally as the tweezers left his hip. It slid out and away from his body as if birthed,—with a surprising lack of pain, calcified—a great shard of wood.

The nurse worked carefully but she didn’t seem to spare him much unnecessary sympathy. Arthur looked down, defeated, and took a deep, hissing breath, “Can I get something for the pain?”

Quietly, the nurse mumbled, eyes trained on his torn open leg, “No.”

Behind his eyes, a delirious sort of headache was sweeping in. Tingling and aching like a bad sickness. Arthur’s half-lidded eyes glared about the room, pain rising up and washing over his leg from within. Deep in his sinuses, he could feel a glowing static shaking the inside of his head. He was beginning to feel a little sorry for himself.

Their lights ain’t workin’ right. His hazy mind joked to him half ironically, as it seemed that the deep cerulean green of the room dissolved into shadows so quickly.

As much as he tried, he couldn’t get his eyes to focus on the changing of the guard. More men came in, and if he could see straight, he’d know they were Pinkertons. They stood over the nurse but he could not keep his eyes open long enough to perceive them there behind the woman seizing his leg in the first place. The previous two guards stood out in the hall by the door.

This was the second time he’d been in a doctor’s office in a year… And the hazy cobbled streets stole his breath as he came in. It all rolled back in so passively.

All at once, a swell of blood swarmed his heart, welled up in a tidal wave and rushing in. His heartbeat crescendoed to an anxious pinnacle, vibrating his chest. The cold air consumed the clinic, consumed his lungs.

He tried to get up and leave it all there, move on with the rest of his ill-fated life, but his leg stung and seared. He looked down at the doctor, whose surprisingly light voice hissed in agitation, as it gripped his legs and pushed his leg down.

Arthur’s eyes widened. It wasn’t normally a doctor’s provenance to express such carceral authority. “Feller, please, please. Listen, my—”

“Feller?” The nurse replied, most clearly offended. Looking around her at the Pinkertons who’d come in.

Arthur’s throat rasping. His head lolled slightly like he were drugged by these spiders. “I got someone waiting for me, mister. I need to go home.”

The Pinkertons laughed, even the nurse laughed. But she seemed to take her job more seriously than the others and, at her wit’s end, snapped at them, asking what in God’s name they were crowding the infirmary for.

The three of them looked at him in confusion. The nurse answered with the truth, though it seemed to go over Arthur’s head. “New Almaden.”

For a brief second, at the mention of it, Arthur’s better sense returned to him and he felt a sense of brief but overwhelming panic at the realization that he was losing his mind to memories slipping in and out of reality which did not come from the medicine he was denied but from blood loss. He had no idea what was actually going on around him.

No notion, anymore, of how the prison guards had gotten the Pinkertons and the Pinkertons had gone snickering and sniveling to Reed Belden’s men who now came in with an air of opportune cruelty at the self-inflicted mutilation they’d found on this very famous little prisoner of theirs. A prisoner who was under much scrutiny by the public, and was therefore protected more by them than most prisoners would be. But now that he had wounded himself in an accident…

Under Arthur’s howling, he could not hear more men entering the infirmary, asking all sorts of things of his delicate nurse. Her entire mood seemed to change as they told her who he was and what he had done. It became clear to her that she had in her hands one of their more lucrative prisoners.

She stepped away from Arthur who was now slumped into the chair, bleeding out and gasping blindly in pain. She went to her cabinet and took away more tools than she had needed for mending his injuries, the sort that were used to open injuries further. She put on a great big apron heavy with rubber. And informing the men as she lifted her hair up, “He can’t die?”

“He’s awaiting trial, doctor.” The prison guard said most politely. “Mr. Belden won’t be happy if he died.”

She had a twisted grin, “Okay.”

She sat back down next to Arthur and smacked his thigh as if he were a friend of hers she was joking around with. He jolted awake for the agony of it as she smiled at him all crooked, “I’m gonna stitch you up, now, Mr. Morgan.”

His hip reflexively cut back into the seat as the nurse’s needle curved clean through his muscle; digging, rotating, and grinding. The prison guard whispered in her ear. Her voice softened sweetly, “Where is Hosea Matthews?”

Arthur opened his eyes though he still could not see. There was only a great glint of shining metal in her hand and Arthur was sure it was too large to be a sewing needle. “H-Hosea…?” He stumbled over the words. A great pressure was building at the base of his neck. “I don’t know.”

Something dug into his thigh which felt like a rod shooting straight through the surface of his skin to the bone and just as quickly as it ripped apart his thigh, it exited his body and a great smother of pressure replaced it. He cried out in pain, his neck straining with every muscle he had as he turned his head away in rejection of the godawful infliction.

His nurse’s voice moved as she stood, forcing all of the strength of her arm into Arthur’s wound. It was so painful it passed the threshold of torture, he was beginning to fall into numb unconsciousness. “Where is Bill Williamson?”

Arthur’s head lolled to his shoulder and then slumped forward, he could not have answered even if he heard her. The nurse grabbed his chin and forced his head back as she barked an order at someone. With the tearing of his clothing he was suddenly stabbed in his other leg.

As the doctor put the needle into Arthur’s leg, it was like the very blood in his veins could breathe again. His rasping throat gasped for air. There was blood on the back of his tongue. The injection site was all clean and cutless. Sweat-stained and nothing more. Arthur hated the surge of medicine that pleased his veins; a cold rush seeping, deep pleasure down to the menthol rush in his inner groin. It felt too good, too much… too fast, blurring up through his hips. His blood felt like syrup in his veins, like it was vibrating the intersections and highways of his veins as slid through his body in a torrential current. His eyes lifted back, and to the ceiling, toes curling.

Chills crept up behind his ears and scalp like someone had pried his skull open and was pouring a cold glass of water down his spine. His nurse’s voice was cold and saccharine, “Where is Javier Esquella?”

Arthur realized now what was happening to him. He was being tortured. He could see the gaping hole the nurse had torn into his wound. Where there were still splinters stippling his trembling thighs, she tore his thigh open nearly to the bone. Through all of the brawn that thickened his thighs to their enormous size, she cut mercilessly through.

And the fact of the matter, he realized with doom, was that he genuinely didn’t know where any of them had gone. “I don’t know!” He cried out with cleaving desperation.

The nurse’s punishment for his denial was immediate. She repeated herself under Arthur’s screaming, raising her head to his where he fought with his drugged strength to lift himself Heavenward. “John Marston?!”

Tears streamed down his face, he could not stop it, the pain was unimaginable there is no point in describing it even if one could find the words. “I don’t know!”

“They’ll hang you, Arthur Morgan. Right next to Dutch.” Her warning was blissful on her own tongue, she showed no compassion.

Arthur could not imagine how the strength was summoned, his entire body was wet with blood, his leg was torn apart before his very eyes. “I don’t know where they are.” He panted, drooling from the mouth for his inability to control the movement of his straining jaw or his trembling lips, “If I did, I’d ne-never tell you.”

He did not realize how stupid it was. He should have told them he knew exactly where they were, form the best possible lie and buy himself some time. He had to live. He could not die here with his woman out there pregnant, in the world alone without him, he could not do it twice. With an image of her in his mind—though it was imperfect and obscured, he had not enough clarity of mind to perfectly picture her—he lost too much oxygen to his brain from all of his bleeding out and fell unconscious.

“The Pinkertons and Mr. Belden seem to agree that the U.S Marshall and the General Attorney have been much too lenient on criminals like you and Mr. van der Linde. Until Mr. Belden stepped in on this matter, you were safe from torture. But now…” He was too out of it to properly hear how he was being spoken to. He could not comprehend what they meant.

They meant it would continue. And it did.

The voices shifted around him day-in and day-out. He was tortured there for the length of it once he had been injured sufficiently enough that whatever marks they inflicted on his flesh could be excused away with reasonable doubt.

“And what about the girl?”

For the first time in all of it, Arthur eyed his tormentor. He immediately looked away, his entire body tensing and then slackening in a split second where his body swelled with panic, as soon as he realized he meant Siobhan, and tore himself down muscle by muscle to not let his love be known. He did not even picture it in his head. He blocked the knowledge of her completely out of his mind. He would never let himself put her in danger no matter what pain was inflicted on him. He would take it all.

He could think of nothing greater than denial. He did not dare to picture her beautiful face again. Not while it was so dangerous for her to exist in his knowledge.

“I don’t know any girl.”

And when he was thrown back in his cell, limp and dogged with blood like a spider drowning in water, he had only the dim candlelight from beyond his bars to light his inspection of himself. He stared at all of his wounds and tried, with what strength he had, to tighten the linaments they had wrapped him in. And as he pulled at his clothing, searching his wounds, his hand came away with the distinct sensation of a taught hair woven through his fingers. He looked down as he brought it against the light, a fine filament of shining, golden hair, longer than his forearm.

Arthur’s face twisted as he inspected the hair, his heart wrenching for the sheer absurdity of it. Where did you come from? How in the world did one of Siobhan’s hairs stick to him for this long that well after they had stripped him of his possessions, clothed him in a prisoner’s uniform, tore it off of him and tortured him, he could still pick her off of the surface of his skin? He laughed aloud. It was the first time he had laughed in a month.

“What…?” He muttered underneath his laughter. He could not wrap his head around it. It perplexed him how she had the power to stick to him like that, physically and mentally.

But then, it dawned on him that she was not, actually with him. His body ached all over with mistreatment, he had not washed himself in weeks, he had not eaten. He was imprisoned.

All of the countless times he had found Siobhan’s hair on him he found it at times mildly amusing and other times irritating for the sheer amount of it, stuck to the strangest parts of him. How he wished to go back to any of those moments now…

Chapter 18: — FOTHERINGAY

Chapter Text

“We’ll charge her uncle for her crimes. She’ll hang if he can’t pay up, so we’ll make the price real high.”

Siobhan looked down at her belly in shame. It was not that she wished to harm her baby, and the realization that she had made her deeply ashamed, but she found it hard to pay attention to the needs of her body when her mind was occupied so deeply in the self-sustaining pit of her guilt.

Siobhan shuddered, “I’m not sure I should have to hear about it.”

“What do you know about who I married?” She said bitterly, looking down at her soup.

Callander set his spoon to the side of his bowl, looking at her directly. “Very little, as it turns out. You didn’t file that marriage of yours with any banks, did you?”

Siobhan tried to hide her surprise. But she could not help how her brow furrowed immediately to hear it. She was not often in the position of concealing her facial expressions. She quickly lied, “I wouldn’t know. He took care of it.”

“And who is ‘he?’” Callander prodded cheekily as if it was a subject of lighthearted debate.

Siobhan stared at him, “I’d sooner let you all hang me before I admitted his name. He’d treat me worse than any rope for leading you all to him.”

Callander’s brow twitched at the mention of her being hanged. He must have been surprised that she knew they planned on it. “So he was an evil bastard. Women in your position are often forgiven for their bad marriage decisions, Miss Davenport.”

“I really don’t care what your views on women are, Agent Callander. It’s too easy for you to judge me when you’ve all convinced yourselves it was the lawful thing to take me from my doctor and put my baby at risk.” Siobhan put her bowl on the wood and kicked it away. “Only God can judge me, Agent Callander, and I know that He will.”

He rolled halfway on his side and looked at her, “And it would just be a shame to stab me anyway, even if you just wanted to do it cause I’m a dick. Maybe I deserve it, but I’d definitely hold a grudge about it. And I kind of like you, Miss Davenport.” He turned back around, wriggling to get more comfortable. “It would just be a shame.”

Siobhan scoffed, “To think I’d kill you right now…” She shook her head, squeezing her spoon, “You don’t know the first thing about me.”

Callander chuckled, his brow furrowed deeply and he bared only the edge of his white canine with his crooked smile. He shook his head, “I’ll learn.”

Siobhan could not spare any more thought to his vainglorious and proud behavior. She thought over everything she had told them, and regret badly that she had ever named Arthur specifically to any of them, no matter how terrified she had been. No matter how sure she was that he would be there to save her… Even now when she desperately ached to scream and cry and beg them that he was still alive...

Her heart twisted and she swallowed the lump that formed in her throat, of course he was. He had to be. If he wasn’t, then she wasn’t. She couldn’t live without him on this Earth, somewhere out there, with her.

Her baby kicked. She was instantly reminded where her deepest concerns must lie, she had to protect not herself, but this little baby. She could not let them hang her…

*

“You said the same thing yesterday.” Agent Callander pointed out, “What makes you think we’re here to judge you, Miss Davenport?”

She thought of the night in Shady Belle with Arthur. And she cried. She could so vividly remember and imagine the heart of that night, beating in her chest and her wrists. Being grabbed by her wrists—the smell of him. The gunpowder, the swampy air coming through the busted window, Arthur’s sweat. The smell of his sheets. The way he panted against her face and the exact temperature of his breath. She would not utter his name. She pushed it from her mind, it was not Arthur. This is not Arthur—

Hearts fell, not least her own, when she finally managed the words, “He raped me.”

And both of the men looked down at her belly and no longer saw a pregnant woman but a poor little girl. Innocence perverted and a flower soiled. Agent Quincy was particularly affected by this confession, and made a small noise of disgust as he offered her a handkerchief.

With a shaking hand and clear deliberation, Siobhan reached forward and accepted, with delicate hands, the soft white cloth of her kidnapper’s sympathy. She patted her eye as he asked her; “Was it Arthur Morgan?”

Siobhan swallowed and looked between the two men. Her heart dropped and the first thing she did was shake her head. She rejected it so wholeheartedly she could puke. “It wasn’t just him, sir. I was the only virgin in the camp surrounded by twenty men. You understand what happens for girls like me in situations like that.”

Agent Quincy watched her pale cheeks redden with the touch of his cotton handkerchief.

“I don’t know who the father is.” She said, looking down at her stomach. She looked back at Agent Quincy, who seemed the softer of the two men. “No matter what happens to me, I’m glad my baby will be away from those men. They will wait to put me on trial until after the baby is born, right?”

Agent Quincy spoke up, “There ain’t gonna be a trial, Miss Davenport. There was never going to be a trial.”

Callander put his hand on Quincy’s arm. It seemed even he was surprised by Quincy’s lie. Siobhan had overheard them herself. She knew they planned a trial, she was not stupid.

But she upheld her act and looked between the two with tears drying, a blooming yet confused optimism on her face, bringing her to the edge of her seat. Quincy changed the subject, “You said they ‘forced you to do it.’ Do you mean killing Agent Milton?”

Siobhan nodded and another tear fell quickly down her cheek. She didn’t immediately wipe it away, or cover her sullen pout with the white cloth that drew Agent Quincy’s pleasure-seeking eye. “Yes, sir. Agent Milton had called out my name and he put a gun in my hand and forced me to shoot.”

“How did he force you?” Callander asked. Siobhan was pleased that he didn’t ask ‘who?’ Her statement was so inflammatory, it seemed, that they had greater concerns than pinning blame on one man.

Siobhan shifted her eyes to him, “The same way they force me to do everything, sir. Without needing to remind me what would happen if I didn’t. I had already been taught that disobeying them would end only one way for me. Bound and naked or with broken bones, cuts and bruises.”

Siobhan suddenly put her hands forward, and showed them the scars across her palms, aiding her bald-faced lie and her girlish crocodile tears, “They lashed my hands. They cut me in places I could never mention. They hit me, burned me, marked me, starved me.”

Agent Quincy’s stomach turned on him and his face retreated into a soured grimace. He winced with a quiet hiss, looking away. The two men were utterly bewitched by her lies.

Siobhan’s eyes returned to him and she sat further back, returning her hands to her stomach. She lowered her eyes in shame, “I’m sorry. I know I’m hideously maimed now. And my sins stain me everywhere. I shouldn’t have described so much. I’m sorry, sir.”

Agent Quincy reached forward a few inches to extend his hand, but the sudden movement made Siobhan flinch. He held his palms out, “No, Siobhan, you have nothing to apologize for. You have only been honest with us, which is what we asked of you.”

Callander wiped his mouth, looking her over in thought. His lips smacked when he cleared his throat to speak, “Perhaps we’ll leave you alone now, Miss Davenport. I can see you’re exhausted.”

But Siobhan stopped him before he could go, “But, sir,” Callander looked at her, “Before you go, can I ask what’s going to happen to me? You said there won’t be a trial… then why did you take me? Why am I tied up?”

Agent Callander and Quincy both exchanged looks. After a beat of uneasy silence, Quincy looked at her red wrists and was the first to respond. “Your uncle Richard has asked us to find you, didn’t you know?”

Siobhan’s eyes lit up, “My uncle?” She said breathlessly, “He has?”

Quincy nodded assuredly, “We’ve been searching for you for a long time. Since Blackwater, Miss.”

And again they darkened… “Since…?” She went pale. Her voice was so solemn, it instilled nothing but the sharpest sense of sincere guilt into the hearts of the Agents, “For that long, sir?”

Quincy’s mouth formed an elegiac line. He lowered his eyes, “I’m sorry it took us so long, Miss Davenport. You didn’t deserve any of this.”

He reached forward and took Siobhan’s wrist by the ropes. With a darkened eye lowered he looked at her softly, “This is what we do, Miss Davenport. We help people like you. That’s why I do it, anyway.”

The ropes slid off of her reddened wrists and she weakly pulled them back, soothing her burned skin.

Callander, too, assured her, “We’ll get you back to your uncle, safe and sound, Miss Davenport. You got our word on that.”

And as Quincy wrapped the rope around his forearm and he and Callander left the wagon, Siobhan stared at their blank absence and he’d mind narrowed only to Salinas. The corners of her vision darkened in pulses with each quickening breath. Her mind ran through every event of the dirtiest humiliation, sharpest pain, the dullest neglect. Scratching at her door, locked from the outside, screaming for her aunt who was the closest thing to sympathy she could get in that Hellhole.

And Siobhan could still imagine her face, the one she always gave over her uncle’s shoulder. Uncomfortable pity, reluctant sympathy, discontent and acceptance in one. Her aunt was a coward foremost, no matter how much her heart disagreed with her husband.

Siobhan prayed her uncle had gotten sicker or older, or in some way weaker. Though he had never been a particularly strong man, and she had certainly fought tougher and won, to stand up to him was to stand up to every previous blow he inflicted on her. Every previous insult, every scream, every laugh. He knew Siobhan was weak. He knew her at her lowest and abused her even then. She couldn’t hide that from him even if she tried to hit back. He would only laugh in her face.

If he was sick and small she could do anything to him. If he had lost his mind and forgotten who she was she could remind him—reframe herself the way she wanted to—and then put him out of his misery.

But if he was just the same… then she would have to be strong. She would have to feel every single ounce of rage and fear in her shaking nerves and summon it up into instinct. She would have to put herself, vividly, into her most terrifying and dark moments and let that be all she was. She’d have to abandon her body, forget her baby, forget her weaknesses and her fears and be nothing but uncontainable anger. And if she could put herself into a state of complete vulnerability—a cornered wild animal—she could kill him the same as she killed everyone else who intended harm against her. She could rip him apart. She could tear his skin from his bones. She could crush his soft skull. He would be no different from a Braithwaite or a Pinkerton or Micah Bell.

This was the only way.

Chapter 19: — STRANDED LULLABY

Chapter Text

JUNE 10, 1900

San Jose State Penitentiary, CA

At night, the creaking of cell doors reverberating throughout the tower was common. The squeaking of mice and metal, the rattling of chains. Arthur wasted away in his cell and all of the noise made no difference to him. Any change in the atmosphere went unnoticed by him. Hours stretched on like days. He had no idea if he’d ever make it out of that cell. He thought often of Dutch, ironically. It was now just the two of them behind bars, wherever in this Byzantine complex he was. They both awaited the same fate.

Arthur had fallen into a deep, blood-soaked stupor, ebbing with a dark fever that had been brewing for days. Each time he had complained of it, the prison guards told him that it did not matter, he was set to hang the next day.

Now, urging Arthur out of his half-death, he could hear someone calling. He never paid any mind to the prison guards who rattled his cage just to disarm him. He had well forgotten to bear his arms. But the calling was frantic, concerned even; almost friendly in its frustration.

Arthur cracked his eyes open from where he lay on the ground. He could see someone on the other side of the bars throwing around a ring of keys, yanking on the door. It occurred to him without ceremony—he was given to his agony completely—that it was John. He was here to do what Arthur had long given up the possibility of. He had come to break him out.

But Arthur did not move. Even as the door was thrown open, Arthur was still on the ground. His breathing labored and wheezing. John saw a glimpse of what it must have been like for he and Siobhan up in those mountains when they were sick. But this,—he could see spots of red-brown blooming underneath gauze all over him—John realized, was almost worse.

He called to someone beyond Arthur’s sight line and tried carefully to grab Arthur where he was not cut up—though, he imagined, that would be nearly impossible. And regardless, Arthur was obstinate, he would not move if even he wanted to. He had surpassed the threshold of suffering he was capable of overcoming. It was easier now just to lie and give up and die. Better, now, that he could do it in the company of his brother.

But John began to turn aggressive against his passive contrition. He grabbed at Arthur and vaulted his leaden arm over his shoulders and promptly, Sean was at his other side doing the same. John assured him he could stand, and though Sean was clearly disturbed by the sight of him, he still cracked jokes at the expense of Arthur’s state. Trying to taunt him back to himself. But Arthur’s head slumped forward and they had nearly dropped him, he was willfully irresolute and too heavy to carry.

But finally, after they had tried everything to get him to move, what penetrated his torpor was John,— “Come on, Arthur, we gotta get you back to Siobhan.”

It was not immediate, the sound of her name did not snap him back to reality; in fact it made him limpen immediately. They dropped him to the ground. But when his mind blared with the pressure of sudden movement, John’s words repeated in his head and he realized, after a moment, that he must know where she was. She must be with him.

He allowed them to pick him up again and tried, this time, to help himself. He could almost stand and began to move. Though his torn leg throbbed and ached, he tried his best to walk.

When he could understand that they had miraculously managed to get up to the top of that tower and risked their lives to save him, he forced himself through it. They helped him limp out of the room and down the steps running out the back of the penitentiary, one-by-one.

When they made it to the bottom of the tower it leveled into a complex and wide set of hallways, in two directions. But at the curved edge of the room, below the prison stairs, was a door held slightly open with a brick. Trelawny poked his head through to stare at them, but he was only a lightened shadow in the shape of a circle to Arthur. John left them at the wall, “Stay here for a second, I gotta check the hall.”

In his absence, Arthur could barely speak. It was a whisper simply for his lack of strength, “What the—what the hell are you doing here, Sean?” He panted, “Eh? Breaking— heh. Breaking me out…?” He could not manage the breath to finish his sentence.

But Sean understood that he was needling him, enticing another proud rant from the Irishman. He chortled, half-whispering, “Ah, don’t be so bullocky. Yew saved me back in Blackwater,” He squeezed Arthur’s shoulder, “Been waiting for a chance to return the favor.”

Arthur wiped his mouth of sweat, beads of it slicking his fingers. His breath was a big shudder, he couldn’t keep up any illusion of strength. “Thank you…”

Though he’d been a little disarmed by Arthur’s attempt at playfulness, the gravity of their situation returned to Sean and he went serious again. “Those bastards are crawling all over this place.”

From the corner of the hall, John poked his head around the corner and urged them to go. Trelawny removed the brick and held the door open for them and at last, with Arthur limping and Sean holding his torn side upright, they made it to the other side of the prison walls.

Once they were outside the prison walls, John and the stranger let Arthur take a second to regain his breath, he badly needed it. The stranger held a flask to Arthur’s lips hastily. He still had no idea who this man was or why he was here, and he hadn’t the strength or patience to ask. He did not hear him speak, and he never learned his name.

John gave Arthur his hat. It seemed he had gotten it from one of the guards. And then, after Arthur put it on his head, hissing as he took another drink of water, John turned his hand out to him. “Bastard had this, too.” He held out Arthur’s pocketwatch.

Arthur’s fingers twitched with the sudden, involuntary need to take it. And he squeezed it in his hand, wishing to ask John about Siobhan.

After drinking the rest of his water, Arthur gasped for air, wiping his wet lips as he looked out at the city, clouded with smoke, brightened by moonlight. It seemed like the buildings went on forever. The smokestacks covered them. He put the pocketwatch away, and with it his longing to feel Siobhan in his arms again. “How do you get out of a city this goddamn… big?”

“We’re not leaving the city. We’re hiding in it.” Trelawny answered. He led them along the edges of the prison walls, far from the guard tower. “Come on.”

Arthur looked between John and Trelawny with worry. “Is—where is… D-Dutch?”

“Bill is getting Dutch.” John said, looking around the corner of the guard tower. He shook his head as he scouted, “I told him it was suicide. Dutch is surrounded by at least fifty guards in that damn tower.”

Arthur’s face was grim.

Trelawny kept his eyes up, looking at where they held their rifles to their chests, watching the perimeter of the walls. He hushed them, “Quiet now, boys, there’s someone coming.”

Arthur’s ears co*cked up to listen for any sound and he tried to crane his neck around the corner to see, but didn’t have enough strength to remove himself from the wall so he couldn’t see anything. He leaned back against it as John stood with every hair on end, in caustic patience, “Grimshaw is out there.”

“Y’all brought Susan?” Arthur questioned in haste, though he could not raise his voice beyond a stage-whisper. He grunted, heaving as John let him lean against the wall. He did not sound happy. “For me?”

John threw his hand back to tell him to shut up and as he watched, whispered, “They came for Dutch, we came for you.”

Arthur looked between John’s back and Trelawny. He still couldn’t understand how Telawny came to be involved in all of this. “I thought you was in New York?” He said. His vision was swimming.

“I was.” Trelawny spoke with pride. “There’s quite a demand for opium there, which, fortunately for you, brought me here. Fates converge, eh, old friend?”

“What are we gonna do?” John argued and looked down at Arthur, “Look at you. You can’t walk, you can’t speak. Trelawny can’t shoot, Sean and I can’t take them all on our own.”

Arthur hated to leave it. He was not overly fond of Susan Grimshaw but still, he knew how bad this prison was. If she were lucky, they’d send her elsewhere. Some sort of prison for women. But none of them had been too lucky in a while. Sean scanned around, “Where did Bill go? The fat oaf…”

John pushed his hand back and Arthur got behind him. “Let’s get out of here while they take her in. They won’t be looking for us.”

He turned around. “Trelawny, you keep an eye on the guards up top and stay with me. Sean, watch our left.” He pointed at the three of them, Sean, Arthur and the stranger, “Y’all three go first, I’ll go after you two make it to the treeline over there.”

“Are you s-sure you shouldn’t go first?” Arthur argued, looking out as he circled his jaw in thought. Aside from the treeline to the left, they had no other cover to run to. It was either that or down those big open hills that you could see every bare inch of in the moonlight.

“You need to get out of here. If anything goes sideways, I’ll lead them in the other direction.” John stated, fully confident. As Arthur thought it over in his head, he couldn’t argue that it’s what he’d do if he were in John’s position. But to be the one needing saving… Arthur hated.

“You ready?” John looked over his shoulder and inspected Arthur, bent over with his mouth agape almost in the shape of a hiss, like each breath he took burned. But it was not his lungs or his throat that burned. It was his damned leg.

Better to get it over with, he figured, and gave John one quick, affirmative nod. Everyone got to their respective jobs, scouting every angle they could. But Trelawny’s was the most integral, and he muttered that the coast was clear. After Arthur and John did the same, he tucked his hand tightly under Arthur’s arm and drug him along as he half-jogged along with Arthur’s half-jumping, one-legged and grunting.

Arthur had rarely felt as vulnerable as he did crossing that expanse into the trees. He was sure they’d be seen. The moon beamed down on them like a spotlight. Even with his terrible vision, he could make out the very color of Sean’s shoes. But, somehow, they managed to cross it.

In a little belted copse that paralleled the forest, they quickly came across a guard. As Sean and the stranger brought Arthur in, the guard had his back turned, smoking a cigarette. He turned the second he heard a leaf rustle behind him but it was to his chagrin that they were already a foot or two behind him. Sean raised his gun a second before the guard could. He stuck his hands up in the air, his eyes darting from Sean’s gun, to the stranger’s, to Arthur who was strung limply between them, his prisoner’s uniform, and the wound in his leg.

“P-please, I’m just having a smoke!” His voice shook with fear, he didn’t seem to be too old. Barely any hair on his chin.

Sean shrugged Arthur off of him, “Drop the gun, yew co*cksucker!” He shoved his gun nearly against the kid’s forehead.

The gun was thrown across the forest floor, farther than necessary, but the kid was clearly scared to death. “There’s no reason to… kill him, Sean.” Arthur said, squinting for how he grit his teeth.

“What are you saying my name for, Morgan?” Sean shot his wicked eyes back at Arthur. He did not realize his oxymoron. “He’s gonna go back to those other fellas and they’ll be on us before the sun comes up.”

The kid trembled, “I-I won’t, I swear it on my moth—”

“Shutup about your f*cking mother, I’ll kill you right here!” Sean shouted. His hands were shaking.

Arthur side-eyed the stranger beside him as he shifted his weight onto his own leg, leaning jaggedly forward. “He’s just a kid.” He looked at Sean, struck by how panicked he seemed. “Just tie him up.”

Sean looked only briefly over his shoulder at Arthur. He kept his gun forward, staring down at the shaking little dog of a man with some deeply unsettled fear. “You said my name, Morgan!” Sean shook his head, “I don’t need them coming after me,” his next words were a death sentence, “I should already be in Los Angeles by now, Karen’s waiting for me.”

Arthur looked at Sean darkly, “C’mon, Sean you don’t have to—”

Sean whipped his gun across the kids face. He cried out, hitting the mud. A spray of blood shot across the dirt with two marble-white teeth. Sean crouched over him with his arms around the kid’s neck in a rear naked choke. “Sean!” Arthur barked, trying to take a step forward. He nearly fell, but the stranger kept him up.

The kid was gone in seconds. Sean backed up, shaking viciously all over. “I told her I wasn’t gonna do this f*cking sh*t anymore, Morgan. I came here to save your ass because I owed yew, so leave it! I have a bounty too.”

Arthur kept his mouth shut, but his jaw twitched as he stared at Sean with some vicious disapproval.

The stranger spoke up. This would be the only time Arthur would hear him speak. He had an English accent too, talking into the trees, “Trelawny’s returning now with John.”

Arthur and Sean turned to look in that direction and they saw him. Arthur turned back to Sean, giving him one last look of disapproval.

The two men returned panting. They had run far, but their fear seemed to have carried them further. John shouted, “They got Bill!” He said, “Run!”

The stranger and Sean quickly grabbed Arthur’s arms, but he was more deeply unsettled. “Bill?” He asked, “Christ, John!”

For a while Arthur rushed himself as far as he could, nearly tripping over his dropping leg just to make it another foot or so. But once it was clear they were not being followed, Arthur was allowed to stop and regain himself for a few minutes. In panting silence, everyone scouted upright while he bent against a tree to keep himself from puking, passing out or falling over.

After they made it out of the forest, Trelawny rushed them through alleyways along the main street of San Jose where the bright electric light tower loomed overhead with its alien glow, instilling a cold sense of unnatural oppression over every inch of gray stone below.

Arthur was disturbed with how quickly they had abandoned Bill and Grimshaw, if even there was nothing left to be done. And that John implied they had not planned to save Dutch? He could not wrap his head around it. That they had come just for him, damn the rest of them? It didn’t feel right.

Trelawny found him a place to hide in the city. With a family he apparently had business dealings with. People with dirty money who wouldn’t mind taking in an outlaw—although now, Arthur figured, and in this paragon of modernity, he’d be called a felon.

It was a small and unpopulated courtyard, wonderfully equipped with a set of stairs Arthur was required to climb up and down to get from the outhouse to the apartment in which they kept him secretly housed. The first trip up the stairs was his hardest. And the flat itself was furnished only with a stove, a few cabinets, and a bed that was perilously low to the ground on its swayback metal frame.

Arthur laid down on it immédiately. Hoisting his leg up where it would not need to be moved. Sean spoke with Trelawny outside. John inspected Arthur’s wound. “You gotta be careful with this thing, man, you’ll lose the leg.”

Arthur looked down at it without sitting up. He could barely make it out in the candlelight, but he was sure it was not pretty. “These friends of Trelawny’s know any doctors?”

John sat back with a sigh, which was all his answer. After a pause, John figured he might as well tell Arthur where everyone went. “I’m with the others in Oregon. A place called Coo’s Bay.” John explained. “I’ll bring you up there as soon as you’re well enough to ride—”

“Missing?” Arthur searched John’s face. “No, no, I left her with Mary Calhoun. That doctor woman has her.”

John could see it, too. “Listen…” he leaned forward somewhat solemnly, “I’m gonna stay here with you for a little while.—”

“No, you’ve got a family, Marston, you need to—”

John raised his voice over him, “Why don’t you let me decide what I need to do for once in my life, Arthur.” There was a pause in which it seemed Arthur couldn’t muster the energy to argue. “They’re with a ranch woman up there, they’re safe for now.”

And it seemed that was that.

Arthur thought of Siobhan again. It was all he could really think about. And he figured it like this, “If the Pinkertons wanted her they’d have found her by now and there’s only one place they’d take her. Back to her uncle.”

He looked at John directly, “And then they’re gonna hang her.”

John looked at his brother right back, each of them understanding the gravity of the cruelty of the Pinkertons. “If they try to hang her, you’ll have to fight.”

John wasn’t content to let it lie there, though. He had gotten Trelawny, Sean, Bill and Grimshaw together well enough to come break Arthur out, he was sure he could get someone to help Siobhan. But who? Trelawny had no ties in Salinas, Sean was headed back to Los Angeles. The others were scattered all over, with problems of their own.

“That Sheriff went out looking for her.” John suddenly said. “The second she went missing.”

“Hallock?” Arthur asked. He shouldn’t have been surprised. It was the slightest relief to know that she was being looked after in some way. “Christ,” He wiped his face. “She was sick when I left her…”

John’s brow furrowed. He waited for Arthur to elaborate, as it was clear there was a lot on his mind, but John had had absolutely no notion of it.

“Something was makin’ her bleed,—I don’t know. She had a fever.” Arthur held much distaste for himself in his gruff speech, “I should have stayed… Why in hell I left her side like that I…—”

John watched him trail off into deeper thought. But he took a deep breath, “If she managed to run away like they said, she was probably fine. And… the Pinkertons won’t,” he cleared his throat, struggling to say it. “Even they won't hang a pregnant girl.”

Arthur looked John in the eye. And never had he felt so powerless as he did in that terrible moment, searching for reassurance in his brother’s eye; praying, in his Godless heart, that John was right.

SIOBHAN

In the heat of the desert, where there was no sound but the stridulation of constant crickets, locusts and grasshoppers, Siobhan slept in a haze. As sudden as a gunshot, she woke up when a hand slapped itself over her mouth. Beneath it she screamed,—

“SHH!”

Her voice was muffled underneath Agent Callander’s sweaty palm, who was crouched over her, shushing. His eyes were wide and he gestured to the front of the wagon behind her. He whispered, “Are you okay?”

Siobhan looked between his eyes in utter confusion and strained her ears, looking around them. It was clearly morning, no wind to rustle a bush. Agent Callander let go of her and ran out of the wagon, dropping to the ground. He looked around the camp and covered his mouth, “Oh my God.”

Siobhan smacked her hand over the edge of the latch and called, “Wait!” She searched his face, “Is it just us?!”

“Boker’s alive, thank Christ.” Callander knocked his hands against the latch, “Now go on back in there, Miss Davenport. Keep your eyes closed until we get out of the desert.”

Siobhan ducked back down beneath the latch until the wagon started to move again and she bumped against the back of it. As they rolled away, leaving the other wagons behind, Siobhan looked out in horror as all of the other agents were dead on the ground. Amory, Kean, Howe, and Quincy; all dead. Bright crimson crowns for scalps, all meat and skin.

She skittered all the way back against the front of the wagon and panted in fear. All of them were dead… How?

In such silence she never heard it while she slept and they were slaughtered around her? And they left her? She couldn’t wrap her head around it.

She looked up over her shoulder and saw the four legs of Callander and Boker leading the wagon away. A cold shiver crawled up her spine as they left. She could not think of any reservations nearby that might’ve even been left alive to go out and kill like that…

Nothing about it felt so simple as that. Why the two agents seemed so calm and sure of what to do. Why they were so comfortable carrying on as the rest of them lay all slaughtered and mutilated in their wake.

Even as they talked of hanging her in the night, she had never distrusted the Pinkertons more than she did in that moment…

Chapter 20: — CAN I TAKE MY HOUNDS TO HEAVEN?

Chapter Text

JUNE 11, 1900

Salinas, TX

Siobhan stared blankly ahead at the house in complete surrender. Entirely still, but her mind ran timorously around, throwing stones down into her stomach. Agent Callander patted her knee, “I’ll go ahead and let him know you’re here.”

Siobhan watched, paralyzed, anhedonic, as Callander climbed over the side of the wagon and strolled unceremoniously to the door of her house. Some nightmare she had had, years ago, when she first found herself hypnotized over the curve of a felten green poker table, now came back to her, real.— Of being hauled up by some surly bounty hunter or promenading hick, with a colt bigger than hers, to this exact place. With the lonely cavity she once had in her heart before meeting Arthur, and all of the fear that could fit there…

Here she was, after all.

Callander knocked on the door. In Siobhan’s mind, some caricature of her uncle stepped out and greeted him with his gnomelike stature and terrorizing voice. She could hardly remember what he ever looked like. In stark contrast, Ethel, her aunt, was as clear and as bright as the morning in her memory. It was shocking to see her, in such an exact and real, gilt-edged form, come to the door and stare at Callander before looking over his shoulder and meeting Siobhan’s hostage eye.

She gasped, and ran clean out of the doorway, exclaiming, “Siobhan?!”

Siobhan didn’t move as she tracked Ethel’s movement, detached for a second in her bewilderment. Boker nudged her, concerned, almost, like she was trapped somewhere in her head. She summoned a simulacrum of life to her face and smiled for the sake of Boker and Callander watching her so carefully.

Boker got off of the wagon and guided her down. From the doorway, Siobhan could hear Callander speaking again, and though his voice was quiet and far away enough to be muted, she recognized the low vibration of her uncle’s voice; Richard. She stuck next to the wagon side as if it protected her from anything other than being seen by him. As if it forestalled the inevitability that she would have to go into that house and face that man again. There was no way around it anymore.

Ethel anxiously came to her side, and her aunt was almost as shocking as the rest of it. Siobhan lightly flinched when her aunt put her hand on her shoulder and her eyes were stabbed with worry. “Oh, Siobhan! You’re…” She looked at Siobhan’s belly with a face that couldn’t make up its mind. Was she disgusted? Proud? Concerned? Her voice trailed off, “Pregnant…”

Siobhan’s mind was running with a thesaurus of words, a text, a play… At a thousand words per second she tried, hopelessly, to process everything that was happening. But not a single word came out. She couldn’t have, in any possible way—no matter how she would force herself into the act of it—speak.

“Darling, what happened?” Ethel worried, “Where did you go?”

And then, like a distant cannon being fired, her uncle Richard raised his voice for only the first time that evening. “Ethel, get Siobhan inside. I need to pay these men.”

Siobhan could hear his footsteps crunching the gravel underfoot. Ethel guided her by her arms and as she passed the side of the wagon she saw him. They caught each other’s glance in their opposite passing and he was the first to turn away. Tortured, Siobhan couldn’t hear any of what Ethel was telling her as she walked her into the house. Siobhan stood stagnant in the foyer, shaking, clutching her stomach protectively.

Ethel came in and out of the kitchen, rambling, fussing, fawning, crying. All in cycles. Then the Pinkertons rode away.

Siobhan looked around her. The house looked exactly the same. Everything quiet and inconsequential happened in her absence. She had no business knowing. There was a large white dog in the corner of the sitting room, staring at her. A pet, she reflected later on, which she was never allowed to have as a child. A year to two-year old Russian Wolfhound.

Siobhan tried to speak, calling weakly for her aunt. A near-whisper, “Ethel…”

It was too quiet to be heard.

She repeated, louder, though her voice cracked. “Ethel.” And, finally, her aunt came from around the kitchen corner and looked at Siobhan. Her eyes were wide as the moon as she looked in complete concern at her niece. A shadow rose against the glass door behind Siobhan. “Please, let me leav—”

The door opened.

Her response was like a whip, “You wanna play the name game?”

She grabbed his jaw, “Open your eyes. Look at me.”

Siobhan’s path upstairs was rote. It didn’t matter how long she’d been away from that house, she’d know her way to her bedroom by heart. She wanted to cry aloud without the fear of sounding weak, vulnerable, ready to be broken down. But she could do nothing but come into the bedroom—blind to all that had changed and all the dust that now lived there—and drip with despair into the wood of the floor, puddling on the ground with her tears.

For hours Siobhan sat like that. There was nothing else to be done.

*

She took a step back instinctively. Eyed his every movement against Bunya’s nuzzle carefully, “What are you doing here?”

“He’s alive.” He said. “That’s all I know.”

Siobhan let loose a deep, ocean-wide breath of cool air. Thank God, thank God! She didn't need to know where his conviction found its source, it was enough just to trust he, a Pinkerton, would know.

“I actually believed you.” Callander said, scoffing. “That you were so innocent. So special.”

Siobhan didn’t care in the least, “I’m so f*cking sorry to disappoint.”

“Oh, I’m not disappointed, sugar.” Agent Callander smiled with more of his arrogant aplomb. “You’re even more special than I thought.”

Siobhan grit her teeth, pressing the barrel harder into his forehead until his head pressed painfully into the hay-dirty barn floor. “I could shoot you right now and you’re trying to flirt with me?”

“Why? What would you gain from killing me, sugar? I could help you. I could protect you.” He was bargaining, Siobhan knew, but it still irritated her that he spoke as casually as if picking her up in a saloon. As if this wasn’t a matter of life or death for either of them.

And still, she had the upper hand. “I am eighteen years old, one hundred and thirty pounds, six months pregnant, and I have a gun to your head. Your ‘protection’ is not very impressive to me right now.”

He smirked. “I can kill your uncle and bring you back to your husband.”

Siobhan shook her head, “And lose the chance to kill him myself? You’re doing a bad job advocating for yourself right now, Agent Callander.”

This, now that her safety had been secured with this gun, was a question she would gladly put to rest. Having never wanted to say such a thing in the first place.

Siobhan had already spotted a rake in the corner she would make a run for the second he attempted to get to his feet. He cleared his throat, “There were no Indians, Siobhan, you’re exactly right. The men I hired to make it look like there was were there purely to convince you and Boker.”

She was shaking her head, “You will never find my husband. He will find you.”

Siobhan could trust Agent Callander even less than she could trust her own uncle.

So biting back the scream in her throat, she planted her anxious-stamping feet in the dirt of that barn and watched Callander leave with all of that money and her last hope of leaving this place. She covered her face suddenly, trying not to cry, though the thing broke at the center of her chest and threatened its cracking way upward. She started to pant, holding herself perfectly still in the center of the barn…

I have to stay. For the baby… I have to say those things about Arthur for the baby. I have to be smart. I have to live.

She had to be smart, and pray she had not just dashed her best chance of seeing Arthur again right there in that very moment.

Chapter 21: — WHISTLING PAST THE GRAVEYARD

Chapter Text

JUNE 22, 1900

San Jose, CA

Sunrise; Arthur walked the perimeter of the courtyard all night, where the roadside was marked by howling,—howling of wind and of dogs all throughout the city watching the sun come up. A sun he couldn’t see in this paddock of thick cement walls. He was trying to get used to walking again, his leg still stiff and aching with pain. Parts of the surface of his skin numb from nerve damage.

The little courtyard was dirty and dilapidated. Every wall stained under drainpipes, a sickly green patina to compliment the gray-washed stone. There were a few plants, dying or calcified in their little cracked pots.— Arthur’s circuit was passionless, nothing more than a bodily stimulation while his mind occupied itself with some loveless delirium. Even though his leg was hot with pain each time he walked on it, it was beginning to ease in increments, day-by-day, so he found himself content that it was not as bad as the day before and kept walking.

The clothesline in the alley was soggy and cold, had just been put out. Arthur wasn’t sure who put them out, there were lots of apartments like theirs connected to this little dreary courtyard.

Arthur’d passed it twenty minutes before, but the cold mist from those dogged clothes clung to him for the entirety of his desultory pace. To describe his displacement would be hackneyed,—inherent. It was Arthur’s birthday. He never celebrated it, really, but there is always a feeling of cosmic injustice when one’s birthday falls on a particularly bad day, celebratory or not. Arthur was now thirty-seven years old.

He tortured himself with pictures of her. With her letter. With the inscription in his pocketwatch, ‘Yours through the rest of my life—Siobhan.’

He laid in that achingly quiet apartment bed without her. Without her soft voice against his chest, warming his ears with the sound of some sweet or aggravated or silly words that could only come from Siobhan. That night he had rolled over sighing, eyes still closed, half-awake, “It’s been a rough few days, Shiv.”

And reached for her before he realized she had only been there as a phantom in a dream. Nothing to touch, nothing to hold. He squeezed his pillow instead, and tried to fall back asleep and dream of her again.

Was she safe? Was she healthy? Was she lonely? Nothing felt more wrong than not knowing, and doing nothing to change any of it.

He would leave today, he decided days ago. His gut tore at him some nagging conviction that if he were a man at all, if he loved her at all, he would already be with her. He would be there to make sure the mother of his goddamn child was okay. It had already been too long.

The apartment door atop the balcony cornering their little dark alley creaked open. All dressed and battle-ready, John came jogging down the stairs. Arthur went to him. “You leavin’?”

“Yeah.” John had his rifle strung over his shoulder, holding a few carrots in his hand, probably for his horse. “It’s a long ride to Oregon.”

“I’m leavin’ too.” Arthur nodded and they both looked out at the light coming through the alley archway. Blue light from that godawful electric light tower they had baring down over everything. Hideous, harrowing thing. A testament to technology and all of its static, snowy lifelessness.

“The train goes to Los Angeles.” Arthur added.

“You got money for a horse once you’re down there?” John squinted at him despite the fact that it was still early enough in the morning that the sun couldn’t really be seen.

Arthur nodded. “I’m all set, don’t worry about it.” He took a deep breath, “Where are we gonna go after all this, Marston? Stay on the run forever? Go back? I mean, hell, all that work we did…”

John raised his brows, looking at the ground, “I don’t know.” He thought it over, “It don’t seem right to just abandon everything. Way I see it… if the Pinkertons are satisfied with having Dutch and don’t show up at the house lookin’ for you…”

Arthur anticipated it uncomfortably.

“We could go back.” John finished. “They let Kieran and Mary-Beth stay there. There’s apparently some folks in New Almaden that started a militia.”

“A militia?” Arthur scoffed, “What the hell for?”

John shrugged, “Tearing up the town like they did. They have some odd name. ‘Free Men,’ or something. They’re keeping a close eye on the Pinkertons after everything that happened.”

Arthur remained unenthusiastic about the likelihood of them ever returning home. He could remember how distasteful the New Almaden bar in Englishtown had turned against Arthur’s presence as an outlaw all those months ago with Joseph Beauchamp. “Well… Go ahead and give me that ranch woman’s address. I’ll send a telegram when I find Siobhan. We’ll figure it out from there.”

John started to rummage his pockets for a paper. Arthur watched him, “And if you don’t get a telegram…” Arthur caught his attention for how grim his voice had turned, “Don’t wait up for me.”

John was sure he knew what Arthur meant to convey by that, and his mood darkened to understand it.

*

The train from San Jose stopped en route to Los Angeles instead on the outskirts of New Verhalen and was about as old as Arthur. The train station smelled of something that hadn’t been alive in at least that amount of time. Arthur sat on a bench overlooking—with nearly immediate proximity to the edge of the platform—the rusted old rails and then, for miles and miles out, nothing but an empty, vault-like expanse of baby-blue sky and dusty air. There were only mountains on the very very edge of the horizon which looked like low-hanging storm clouds. And it may well have been for the storm rolling in over his head, slowly encroaching from behind.—

Arthur looked at him strangely from the corner of his eye but didn’t say anything in response. He sat there going back to his map of train routes and thinking only of his destination and what waited for him there.

“Arthur Morgan?”

The voice came from behind him. Arthur did not recognize it. His hand was immediately on his gun.

He turned around to face a kid, no older than nineteen or twenty, standing above him with those great stormclouds rolling in overhead. He didn’t recognize the kid, but the kid sure as sh*t recognized him. He didn’t seem hostile, but Arthur was still cautious, “Who are you?”

The kid was shaking, the apple of his throat bobbing and he swallowed as if to gather strength. His face twitched, “You don’t remember me?”

Arthur could tell by his tone that this kid was in a state and he slowly stood up, preparing himself for anything. He eyed him and his answer was gruff and unforgiving, “No.”

He straightened his posture as his chin raised to meet Arthur’s regained stature. His shoulders reaching out as he braced himself. “My name is Archie Downes. You killed my father.”

The color of Arthur’s expression changed as he looked Archie over anew, and there he could spot recognition. The air around them stilled to hear his statement and it seemed both of them waited for the other to make a move. Clearly, Arthur believed, he was here for revenge. His hand did not stop hovering over his sidearm.

“I came here to avenge my father.” Archie proclaimed with little more confidence than a child.

Arthur’s head turned ever so slightly, his eyes narrower beneath his dark brow. He took a deep breath, “Avenge? You’re just a kid.” Arthur looked pained. He was. “You don’t want this.”

Archie’s eyes were black as night. His stern brow, sharp cheekbones, and heavy brow marked his determination. “You don’t know what I want. You have no idea what you did to my family. I know you, I read about you.”

“You read about me.” Arthur’s voice was inflated with air, building in his lungs, ready for a fight he did not want.

Archie swallowed again. “I know you’re a robber, I was there when you robbed that bank in Saint-Denis. My mother was there too. She was hit with shrapnel from that explosion. She read about what you people did to that girl. Kidnapping her and raping her.”

“My father hated men like you.” Archie said, and pulled a knife from his pocket. Arthur’s eyes darted briefly down in time to see it, but as he looked into the eyes of this poor forsaken kid, he could not but pity him for his stupidity. “My father was a good man and I’d die before I let you get away with killing him.”

“Put. The knife. Away, kid. This ain’t a fight you’re gonna win and I don’t want to hurt you.” Arthur held the holster of his gun now, illustrating plainly to the damned idiot how overwhelmed he was for a fight. “I regret what I did to your family every day of my life. I paid for it, too.”

Archie was trembling and it seemed those words set him a cut more raw and unpredictable. He cried out, “You ain’t paid enough!”

Archie’s eyes widened at Arthur’s mercy, but even under the steel of Arthur’s brow, he could not reconcile that deep, murthering loss that tore him in two. His eyes scanned Arthur’s body in a flash of a second and with a tight grunt he punched the side of Arthur’s leg. To his own surprise, Arthur cried out in a feral roar of pain and fell to his side. The gun clattered out of his hand but, gritting his teeth through the pain, he reached out for it again. Archie kicked it away and now the both of them were disarmed. He got over Arthur and punched him with more force than Arthur believed a kid of his mettle capable of.

But Arthur punched right back and the two of them went tumbling across the platform. They dropped off the edge and hit the ground as the rain started to pour. Archie managed to overpower him and pushed his face into the muddying dirt as he held his hand to his throat. Arthur’s hands grabbed at the ground and threw a scattering of pebbles into the kid’s face and used those few seconds of blinded recoil to kick him off.

He punched Archie across the jaw and when he hit the ground, got him by the collar, raising his fist exactly as he had once done to Thomas Downes. He warned, “Listen to me kid!” Archie kicked and kicked, Arthur had no choice but to hit him again, “I have a wife and child waiting for me! If it weren’t for them I’d let you take your revenge, I grieve what I did to your family.”

Archie dug his nails into Arthur’s wrists, his face all torn up with fury and grief. Covered in dirt, wetting slowly with rain.

“But if you make me choose between you or my wife, I will kill you. And unlike your father,” Arthur grit his teeth, staring menacingly between Archie’s eyes. He had never felt such rage, “I won’t feel bad about it afterwards.”

But spelling it out for Archie did him no good, as Arthur turned foul against the realization that if he let this kid kill him, Siobhan would be forsaken as he had promised her, body and soul, she never would be. Archie was keeping him from her. He was threatening, with each twist against Arthur's detainment, to take Siobhan from him. This, Arthur could not have mercy for...

Jackson Braithwaite was not hard to find. Arthur had never told Siobhan what he did to that man. How he shot the grip of his firearm clean off his wrist. How he collapsed perfectly to the ground in agony at his mutilation and Arthur kicked him over and over again until he threatened to break his own ankle, got over him and punched and punched until there was not a feature to scorn, shouting her name though Jackson was hardly alive to hear it. And when he backed away from the soul he'd maimed from its body, he heard her perfect voice in his head,—

The fury that overcame him as he remembered the murder of Jackson Braithwaite was almost too powerful to separate from reason. He nearly killed Archie Downes, his own victim who had never in his life met, touched, or hurt Siobhan in any capacity. He had to remind himself—aching and trembling as he withheld another punch, pulling his hand back as if from a flame, and grimacing cruelly—that Archie Downes did not hurt Siobhan. Though he was keeping Arthur from her, he was not hurting her; not knowingly.

Arthur had the kid laid over the tracks, his neck to the rail. They could both hear and feel the train coming, though it was not an immediate threat, but Archie could see clearly that he was defeated.

“Kill me, then! Just do it.” He cried.

Arthur’s ire almost completely dimmed. “What?!” He barked in some sort of confused anger, but he had heard Archie correctly the first time. He wanted Arthur to kill him.

And that made it impossible.

He wrenched Archie by the collar, “Pull yourself together, boy!” Archie held onto him in desperate confusion. Arthur still held his fists closed, ready to punch.

“I failed him!” Archie’s eyes welled with tears and they fell as freely as if he were a little girl. “I shamed his memory!”

Arthur stared at the kid in complete confusion. His vulnerability at the edge of his own death only made Arthur that much more angry. It infuriated him how badly this kid had gone about his grief, how stupidly he had tried to punish Arthur’s sin. He grabbed Archid by the arm and pulled him up to his feet, “Get up, boy! Stop crying!”

Archie was pie-eyed with wonder as he stumbled up to his feet.

Arthur pushed him back, “Get the hell off the tracks and go home!”

But Archie stood there floundering, his heart betrayed by sudden mercy. He swore Arthur would kill him just as he killed his father and yet… he was letting him go.

“I said— Go!” Arthur was fed up with Archie’s blubbering obstinacy. Staring walleyed like a doe. He dug into his pockets, taking out his travel money. “Take this… take it b-back to your mother.”

Archie looked down at the money Arthur had filled his palm with. It was at least two-hundred dollars.

Arthur wiped sweat from his lip, panting. “Take that…” he blinked, “Take care of your mother and don’t you ever come back for… me. You—you… try to find…”

Arthur looked down at a sudden pulse of pain in his leg and realized, just before his vision went dim, that he was bleeding out from what must have been torn stitches.

As he looked back at Archie, a blaring, airless wall of noise knocked him to the ground. The train passed them at full speed and the last thing Arthur saw was Archie Downes staring down at him with the sun breaking through the storm clouds above.

Chapter 22: — AIN'T MISBEHAVIN'

Chapter Text

JUNE 13, 1900

Salinas, TX

“She works here?” Siobhan wondered if Journey was related to the Blythe family, who she knew had always lived in that little house off the side of the property.

Siobhan figured maybe she was right, but it wasn’t like she’d have any idea either way. She watched Journey bat away fleas from her ankles as she asked, “What kind of name is Journey, anyway?”

“Well, my names not really Journey. They just call me that ‘cause I can bring anybody on a Journey they’ve never been on before.” She smiled proudly. She had perfect, pearlescent teeth, oval-shaped and neatly arrayed.

Siobhan was a little nervous to smile as fully with her slightly crooked row of ice-cube teeth, especially knowing there were a few in the back (clear as day when she smiled all wide and open-mouthed the way she does) that had gotten knocked out by Micah. “Is that a euphemism?”

Journey wagged her head like she didn’t understand, “A what?”

Siobhan clarified bluntly, with little concern for manners, “A sex joke.”

“Ha-ha!” Journey seemed a little surprised by the way Siobhan spoke so casually to her, “No, but why not? I can take you on a journey in bed too. Even you.”

“Me?” Siobhan blushed… “Are you a sapphic or something?”

Journey showed no recognition for the word. “What is that, a bulldyke? No! It doesn’t count if it’s just for fun.”

Siobhan’s face twisted in negation. “That’s not how that works.”

“Why not? We’re girls, girls always fool around with each other for fun. Doesn’t mean anything. Even my beau says so.” Journey started digging at her nails. Siobhan found her a bit strange—not simply for the fact that she spoke as if sexually loose whereas Siobhan perhaps simply had a loose tongue—but she had a real disarming attitude that anyone could relax in.

Still, Siobhan raised a brow, “But if we screwed around with men the same way it’s different? That doesn’t make any sense. If you like girls the way you like men then you’re a sapphic.”

Journey protested, “I am not!”

“What, I’m not ribbing on you, or anything.” Siobhan laughed, “There’s nothing wrong with it unless you listen to people named Leviticus.”

Journey grinned, a stringy piece of the sugarcane stuck out of her teeth. The sun was bright behind her, and made the bushes they sat in front of bright, neon green. “I don’t often.”

Siobhan shrugged, “Then what’s the problem?”

“Are you tryna seduce me, Siobhan?” Journey squinted at her.

“Pshh.” Siobhan scoffed with a smile, “I don’t even know you. And I am not a sapphic. Not that you aren’t very pretty,” she felt obligated to add, “But I’m very happily married.”

Journey didn’t seem too dissuaded by that. “It don’t count if it’s just for fun. Your husband’ll probably agree, too. Men like that sort of stuff.”

Siobhan grimaced, “Doesn’t matter if he likes it or not; I don’t. I only like him.”

“So who is he?”

“I don’t know if I really wanna talk about him.” Siobhan explained, she felt much dread when she deigned to think about him too deeply.

Journey huffed, “So he’s an asshole, is he?” She clicked her tongue, “I have a husband, too.”

Siobhan furrowed her brow, “You just said you had a beau.”

Journey scratched her head, patting it with her fingers through her braids, “I do. You see, my husband and I, we ain’t exactly together anymore in the sense that most betrothed are. I got pregnant and… well, I don’t know if I should say. You might could be sensitive to the sort of stuff I have to say about that.”

Siobhan’s mouth formed a tight line. She clutched her stomach though she sighed, “You might be surprised… I apparently have an extremely modern view on motherhood myself.” She looked down at her feet.

“Well.” Journey threw her hands up, “I’m the most open of books you can find and I pride myself on it. See, my husband left me because he’s a good man and I am not such a good woman—well, now, that ain’t right.” She laughed at herself, “I’m a great woman. Just a woman, though, and not much else. So when I got pregnant,” She sighed, her eyebrows all raised as she stared at her knees, pulling threads from the hem of her pinafore, “I was just about the worst mother there is.”

Siobhan was surprised to hear that but she did not let it show on her face. She did not want it to be misconstrued as judgment, not now when she was so fascinated to hear another woman call herself a bad mother… How suddenly she felt she was no longer alone.

“I don’t know what it was.” Journey tutted, her jocundity suddenly dying in her face and leaving behind a shadow of seriousness. “I looked at her and I just saw something I was missing. I don’t know what exactly, but I felt she had robbed something from me and when I looked down at her I would get so angry. I didn’t even feel like she was my daughter, though I sure as Hell remember pushing her out.” She looked at Siobhan, whose eyes were wide with understanding, but not exactly relatability, “She would cry and cry and I would get so angry, I just wanted to hit her! Just a little baby!”

Siobhan was horrified and she covered her mouth but immediately dropped it, trying not to show how she had shifted against Journey’s confession and tried her hardest not to judge her for it.

“So I told my husband I couldn’t do it and if I were left alone with her I might abandon her or worse, there’s no telling with me. When I get taken with ideas I let them run away with me. And he left me and told me I was cruel and a heartless woman and I couldn’t exactly tell him otherwise. So he’s up in Wichita taking care of her and I come by sometimes to visit.” Journey shrugged, “I’m glad he’s not a bad man. I don’t always pick them so well.”

Siobhan was amazed to hear it. “He didn’t divorce you? He didn’t kill you?”

“Kill me? Goddamn, girl, what year do you think it is? Of course he didn’t kill me and if he had tried, my daddy’d have strung him up from those great big Davenport oak trees.” Journey shook her head, “I wanted a divorce but he told me I’d shame myself if I did and it was bad enough what I made of myself throwing my daughter aside the way I did. He said the least I could do for her was to give her two married parents, you know, give a little black girl some fighting chance in this world. And I figured no matter how I like to sleep around, he was probably right. And I don’t hate the poor girl, I just wasn’t meant to have her.” Journey nodded, “I’m more careful about it now. I won’t go and have another kid, that’s for sure.”

Siobhan was amazed to hear it and she felt she could understand a little bit of where Journey was coming from. Her acrimony toward her daughter startled her slightly but the rest of it, she could understand. And she admitted to Journey how she had almost gotten rid of the little baby she carried now and Journey’s eyes were all wide on her.

“Well, I’ll be Goddamned, you fancy white girls always have some dirty secrets now don’t ya?” She leaned in all grinning cheeks and bumping elbows, “I’m playing. That’s real brave of you. I’m glad you made it. You know, I hear stories about my ancestors in Africa and how they used to kill their children all the time. I know it sounds grim but… sometimes it’s for the better.”

Siobhan was startled once again but she let Journey explain herself.

“If you gather food everyday, carrying around six kids, two already weaning and you go and have another, what can you do but kill it? You can’t carry them all, you’d get less food. You can’t wean two children and feed the newborn. You’d all starve, you know? It’s sad,” She looked down at her feet again, taking a deep breath, “Being a woman is sad. But my people are strong. I like those stories. They make me feel human again when I sometimes feel like something else.”

Siobhan sat in silence for a second. There was so much for her to wrap her head around in all that Journey had said and she was utterly surprised that such a disarming and playful woman held such thoughtful perspectives on something nearly every woman in Siobhan’s life had gone through and yet spoke of things she had heard from none of them. Was Siobhan just one of only few women who held these feelings and fears in her heart, or did the people around her just neglect to speak of them? Did some sense of propriety keep them from it, or was Journey just a rarity among women for her singular honesty?

Journey didn't argue with that, it was true enough, "They do, but they also absorb their babies when they need to. When they know their kittens are unhealthy or are going to be born into bad circ*mstances, they can take their unborn babies back into their body and keep them there forever." Journey nodded very confidently, "I think about that all the time. How much simpler life would be for women if we could do the same."

Siobhan stared at Journey blankly, silent with her discontentment, she felt sudden injustice provoked inside her heart that she could not make heads or tails of, nor could she verbalize any of it. No words came to mind except the privilege it would be. Would be.

At a sudden shout from across the yard, both Siobhan and Journey looked at where her mother had been chopping the sugarcane and laying it in sheafed bales. Journey groaned loudly, upset, apparently, that her mother had started to call for her. Siobhan offered quietly, “Wanna go for a ride?” She was very fond of Journey now.

Journey grinned, slapping the mud around her heels, “I shouldn’t. My mama’ll really kill me if I do that. And anyway, you don’t look dressed for anything less than a recital.”

Siobhan looked down at her dress and shrugged, “I don’t care much for this dress anyway. I had a bad day in it.”

“Yeah? What happened?” Journey sat a little straighter.

“It’s a long story…” Siobhan sighed, “If you really wanted to know.”

“Does it got to do with those scars on your hands?” Journey suggested, “If it does, I’d be real interested to know. Plus, I told you a big long story, ain’t I owed one in return?”

Siobhan shrugged, “Well, I guess that’s fair. Today I went to Abercrombie with my aunt and uncle.”

Journey inspected her for a cloud of gnats around her head or leeches on her ankles, but she was perfectly land-locked and clean. Didn’t look like she’d been swimming in the river so she said, “The reporters?”

“Yeah, to tell them all about my story. I haven’t been in Texas for a while. And they wanted me to talk about all that I did while I was away.” Siobhan explained, scratching her knee. One of Journey’s fleas seemed to have hopped off onto her. She pinched it off of her and looked up at the sugarcane, “So I guess I’ll start there.”

To talk of Blackwater, in a sense, would have been impossible for Siobhan. She could remember none of the joy or the fun of that day, all of it was buried under the violence. To start at the beginning, Siobhan couldn’t have been able to recite every detail. It’d have been easier to leave it to a third party entirely…

—May 2, 1898

One morning in May, Blackwater was full of life. Lining the rails of the Blackwater ferry, people looked on at the waterside in relative tranquility. Most people were returning to their families, others were just on their daily work circuit. In the belly of the ferry, down a flight of white stairs draped with flags, was a bar and a few poker tables. The lower levels, now, were less populated as Blackwater grew in size on the shore and the ferry slowed its approach to the town.

Siobhan had been going back and forth all day. From Blackwater to Lavaca and back, Blackwater to Armadillo and back, and at some point, they had stopped near a place called Galveston. During the whole of it, a few men came and went from the poker tables, but these four she sat around were constants. They played a mean game for her. All day, they let her watch as they shuttled money back and forth across the green felt, never noticing when she slid a few dollars off their pot.

“There was an old tinker in Arizona used to make these glasses you could see through folks’ cards with if you had ’em on.” Seat one, to Siobhan’s left, had one ear. He passed around everyone’s cards.

“I bet he’s rich now.” Seat four was a man named Roy Olsen. He always covered his cards with both hands, looked over at Siobhan every few rounds and asked if she was sure she didn’t want to play. He waited until everyone had their cards before he checked his, raised his brows and looked up across the table, “You sure you don’t wanna play, girl?”

Siobhan kept her mouth shut in a tight line and shook her head. She was much too good at poker to play it. She’d end up dead if she did.

The betting round began.

“How old are you, anyway?” Olsen said and folded. He lit up another cigarette.

Seat two, “Check.”

“Sixteen.” Siobhan said, eyeing the money getting pushed around.

Roy shook his head, “Dunno what in the world interests a little girl like you watchin’ some cowboys gamble their life away.”

Siobhan shrugged as if she didn’t know and said nothing more. She had learned it was best to stay quiet or seat one would end up telling her to be quiet and seat five, which was an old man with a graying beard, would say for the hundredth time that she ought to go find her parents. But if she was quiet they ignored her, nearly forgot she was there, and wouldn’t bother asking her to leave. “Well, we ain’t gamblin’ all of it away, are we fellas?” Seat one said, “I’m sure we’re all responsible men concerned with our families at home.”

The old graybeard in seat five raised the bet by a dollar, with an ironic twist in his mouth, “My kids are old as me by now, with families of their own. I got all the money in the world to gamble away.”

Someone came down the stairs and into the room, scoping it out. Siobhan noticed him out of the corner of her eye. He was tall, thin, and wore a bowler hat. He saw Siobhan and frowned, “What are you doing down here, girl?”

Siobhan watched him walk over to her but remained quiet. He inspected her carefully, “You look a little familiar.”

“I’ve been here all day.” She said quietly. Her ears burned with the nerves of confrontation. She felt more shy than she had all month.

He eyed the men, “I should hope one of you is her father?”

Short glances passed between the men where there was some general consensus. If not a dislike for authority, then some solidarity between player and audience where they valued Siobhan’s study too much to let her get dragged up to the deck simply because some old plug-hat said so. Or maybe it was the way her ears burned so red they could’ve smoldered into ash, pity. But they all muttered something along the lines of ‘yes.’

“All of you’re her father?” The plug-hat reiterated with narrow eyes.

Then seat one, the dealer, turned around, “Have you got a problem or somethin’, sir? You’re holdin’ up the game, and we paid good money to be here.”

Then the bowler-hatted man shook his head and walked off, casting one glance back at the empty chip counter. Siobhan meekly smiled, “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it, kid.” Seat one said, “Now, grab us another bottle of whiskey before we start the next round.”

Siobhan rolled her eyes, picking her crossed legs off the seat of the chair and lumbering up, grumbling, “Get any more oiled up and you’ll slip right out of the chair.”

And though Siobhan got up and went to the bar as she was asked, and the table laughed at her joke, she knew they had not fully welcomed her into the fold. Seat one dealt the cards, “Lord willing and the creek don’t rise, kid.”

Olsen asked, “Where is your father, anyhow?”

“Upstairs.” She lied. It was an easier lie between the five or six men at the poker table than one simple man standing in a fancier suit than the rest of them.

“And he’s letting you hang out down here with a bunch of degenerates and philistines?” He slid a buck across the table as Siobhan brought the whiskey over from the alcohol cabinet. Siobhan hadn’t seen him bet so much in at least eight rounds, so she was pretty certain he was going to lose his money.

She set the whiskey down and said, “He’s a degenerate himself,” She felt half-intimidated to say the word ‘philistine’ which was a little too weighted biblically to say so casually, she thought. And though ‘degenerate’ came out a little bit clunky for it’s many syllables and her nerves, she felt confident it came out well enough not to make her seem too young and stupid. “I don’t think he’d be too jealous.”

“You’re a funny girl.” Roy smoked, “Stay out of trouble, it’d be a shame to see you get hurt.” Their eyes met for just a moment as he looked back down to his cards, an affirming smile broke through his lips which were otherwise straight and still, fully engaged in his blank poker face. He folded. She felt a little bad. She’d been rooting for him.

As the game continued without him, Siobhan took her time to study the room—the dry, sweet scent of cigarettes languishing in an astray, trailing smoke bothered her tobacco-sensitive nose. Spilt droplets of whisky, adrift with the musk of saltwater; staling money soaking it all in. A fancy, loud, electric light swayed overhead, nodding against the currents that carried the vessel—with it’s glow, Siobhan could see how the pewter walls dripped with sweat like stained seafoam.

Across the room, behind thick metal bars, sat the ferry’s giant safe. As big as a ship itself, it looked like a heart, or an organ just as integral. She dreamed of a way she might ever be able to sneak in and steal from a vault as massive as that, rather than a few stray dollars crumpled over baize.

There was no encore; no transition. It was calm and quiet, and then in seconds it was not.

When the first gunshot sounded, the men at the table didn’t know what to make of it. Those first immediate seconds were stalled and hesitant. But at the second one, with a sheafing scream, they all abandoned the cards, the bets; the pot slid off the table as they all backed away from it and turned it on it’s side. The greybeard got Siobhan by the shoulders and corralled her behind the table, shouting for her to get down and stay down.

Siobhan had never even been near a firing gun. She shook something terrible, crying in fear. The men all had guns of their own out, suddenly. She hadn’t even seen them on their hips. Hanging onto the greybeard’s arm, she stared up at him, begging, “What’s going on?!”

He put his hand on her head, pulling her down, “Just stay down. Where the Hell did all those plug-hats go?”

“They said they was going up when we docked.” Chair three said. “Guess we’re in Blackwater now.”

Siobhan heard nothing but screaming and running feet pounding across the floor above her head. Muted, but waiting to get closer. And underneath the thrumming of feet, crashing, like bodies, dozens at a time, hitting the floor. She trembled in the arms of this stranger who looked only around at the men leveling their guns toward the door.

Siobhan stared down in shock, shuddering, gasping at the body that rolled weakly beside her. The greybeard was shot in the neck. Every beat of his heart sent blood pouring out and out like a mudhole in the ground. Thick and wet, her stuttering breath formed little gasping words. ‘God, God, oh my God…’

“What is a little girl doing down here with these mopokes?”

Siobhan could see his bulging eyes staring at her, pleading. His hands reached weakly out and she couldn’t sit there and do nothing. She reached forward despite the urgent stepping forward of the outlaws and clamped her hands over the man’s neck, trying to reduce the bloodflow. They stopped walking towards her as her hand was filled with the iron of blood and not of Samuel Colt’s iron.

“Get your hands up, girl.” Micah said. Siobhan looked up at him, shaking in disabuse at his cruelty.

Siobhan stared at the gun and back into the dark, unfeeling eyes of the outlaw. She realized there was nothing she could do to keep this man from shooting her in the head and ending her life right before her eyes. No matter how horribly she felt for the man as she held his bleeding neck closed. She inhaled with all her might and as quickly as she could, dug, tearing through her pockets to get out all of that Godforsaken money and threw it into the blood marking the outlaw’s feet and returned her bloody hands to the greybeards neck.

But within those terrible seconds,—she could feel it—his neck had limpened, his eyes dried over, and his hand fell to his side. She was not quick enough, and only stuck her hands against the dead draining of blood going cold.

In horror, she crawled backwards. On the other side of the room, Dutch was piling money into his pockets, throwing sacks over his shoulder. Micah came to his side, dripping with pride and self satisfaction and it seemed the war was over. And then they were faced with her, who had witnessed this awful deed. The eyes of a young girl who knew their faces, knew the smell of their bodies, the make of their guns, the sounds of their voices, and the deeds they had done. Trembling there amongst their conquest.

Perhaps that was why Dutch could so easily listen to the cruelty whispered into his ear. For the shame it left behind to allow a witness to live in all her young innocence, knowing a crime this badly done this intimately. Micah told him she would talk, and Siobhan could not protest for her silence. She couldn’t face them at all.

And when Dutch agreed that she should be shot, it was John who saved her, incidentally, as he clambered in, nearly falling. Clutching the wound in his arm to tell them they’d been overrun and needed to escape, that the Pinkertons were pouring forth from the city like rats in the sewers. His sudden alarm misaligned Dutch’s shot which landed lower than its target and instead of burying his bullet into one of the green eyes of the girl that had witnessed his shame, Dutch van der Linde’s bullet buried itself in Siobhan’s hip.

As they ran up the stairs, Siobhan gasped, writhing back against the wall, looking down at the blooming of crimson red that tore apart what she swore was her stomach. The heat of her blood searing the tear that cut her in half. She screamed out, echoing through the room her agony, but it was buried under all of the other screams. She screamed down at the wound like it would crawl away from her with its sensitive ears. But it only burrowed deeper with all of her gasping and writhing, crawling back against the wall in mindless fear. A fear uncalculating, that would cause her only to bleed out faster.

It seemed no-one was left untouched by the arrival of those men. Even the plug-hatted Pinkertons were dead or screaming. Like a tide, all of their agonies reacted to each other, respective and self-concerned, but acknowledging one another. Each gored cry lending itself to the next in resounding knells of death’s slow, digging, debasing sickle.

Her last thought before she blacked out was of home, and then of her mother.

SIOBHAN

“And tomorrow I’m going back.” Siobhan said, finishing the story. Though she hadn’t told it exactly that way, Journey got the idea.

Horrified, she said, “Back to Blackwater? Why in Hell would you wanna go back there?”

Siobhan’s eyes were sad, “There’s something there that I need to find.”

Journey’s face contorted into confusion and then, like water swishing in a jug, morphed into a mixture of wonder and curiosity. “That sounds like a journey, for sure.” She leaned in, “What is it?”

Siobhan pursed her lips, “We’ll call it a treasure hunt.”

Journey was infatuated with her story now. She shook her head, “Well, let me come.”

Siobhan laughed, “I don’t know how in the world I could convince my uncle to let you come with us.”

“You don’t have to, I’ll convince him myself. I’m persuasive.” Journey was most confident in that, no matter that she had no idea who the uncle was. Siobhan just watched her curiously and shook her head in amusem*nt. Then Journey hopped up, totally overwhelmed with her manners, “Come have supper with us tonight!”

Siobhan looked up at Journey as she extended her hand and took it, getting to her feet. She squinted out at the bright sugarcane fields and could see from where the tops of them shivered and fell in clusters where her mother was clearing the rows. She looked back at Journey, “If your mom’s willing, I’m willing.”

Journey was extra pleased, and marched Siobhan down to her house just as her mother had finished up. She looked over at the two girls approaching and wiped the sweat off her forehead with her arm. “Harper, who is this?”

Siobhan made a light hum between confirmation and enlightenment, having no idea whether that was true or not. Journey sat her down at the table. She leaned in, “Everywhere that ain’t here is rich to her.”

Mrs. Blythe looked out the skillion window and smiled, “There’s my husband.” She turned back around and set the table with four full bowls, “Just in time.”

Journey sat on her haunches, waiting anxiously as she stared into her bowl, practically salivating. Siobhan assumed she waited for Grace. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d sat at a table and said Grace. Mr. Blythe came in through the front door and promptly kicked off his boots. He looked like he was Arthur’s age, and the way he moved into the house, respectful of its cleanliness, further reminded her of him.

He wiped his hands together, “Hello, Journey.” He kissed his daughter on the head and then, leaning against the back of her chair, looked beside her at Siobhan, “Well who do we have here?”

Mrs. Blythe turned around to explain.

“Harper,” She corrected him carefully like she disapproved of the way her husband authorized Journey’s nickname. “Brought her to have supper with us. She’s a very nice girl.”

Journey hopped up, “I’ll bring her home!” She brushed her skirt down politely. “I wanna see that house.”

“Harper and I will take you home, darling.” Mrs. Blythe offered and got to her feet.

Siobhan chirked for Bunya as soon as she came outside and Mr. Blythe pulled the door closed behind her. She listened quietly to the conversation as they walked, footsteps and hoofbeats, to the path through the sugarcane. Heading against dusk toward Siobhan’s house.

“Siobhan should come and sleep over sometime. I can take her by seminary and we can have a picnic afterwards and play croquet.” Journey said, almost skipping.

“Ethel and Richard are Catholic.” Siobhan said with a measure of shame. If she didn’t dislike them so much, she’d be plain embarrassed.

Siobhan slapped her hands away, “Get off,” She gave Journey a parsimonious face, “You’re so dramatic.”

“Sheesh.” Siobhan said, “You must not have liked him too much.”

“I love him, but why the Hell he ain’t show up for my birthday I’ll never know! He’s dead to me.” Journey said.

Mrs. Blythe wagged her finger at Journey, “That girl is straight lyin’ through her teeth. If that man dropped dead, she’d be all a mess for weeks.”

Siobhan gave Journey an awkward look, as if her mom had revealed some terrible secret that would embarrass the pants off the girl. But Journey just grinned. Siobhan wasn’t sure which one was right and before she could lean over and ask Journey what was going on exactly, they were on the piazza of her house. Ethel answered the door.

“Hello Mrs. Davenport, we just came to walk your niece home.” Mrs. Blythe put her hand on Siobhan’s shoulder. “Seems she was out wanderin’ around and wanted to come have supper but we figured we ought to bring her home before you folks got too worried about her.”

“Oh.” Ethel looked at Siobhan in surprise. Surprised, mostly, that she actually came home. She had run up and down the yard with Richard trying to calm him down for the past three hours before giving him his pills and laying him down for a nap. All the while preparing herself for the inevitability that Siobhan would not return. “Well, thank you. That’s very considerate.”

“She was all dirty like this and, of course, I never met the girl until today, so I didn’t realize she was a Davenport ‘til my husband came home and says, ‘Don’t you remember me?’” Mrs. Blythe laughed, “Pulled the wool clean over my eyes.”

Ethel smiled and ushered Siobhan in, moving to open the door further. “Come inside, Siobhan.”

Mrs. Blythe watched politely as Siobhan waved a small goodbye to her daughter and went inside, standing behind Ethel. “She said nothing to the detriment of our little house and was really just as polite as can be. Her and my girl Harper get on just fine. She’s really too sweet a girl. Shame what happened to her.”

Ethel smiled, “Well, thank you for looking after her, Mrs. Blythe. It’s true, she’s been having a hard time adjusting now that she’s spent so much time out in the country. Would you like to come in for some tea?”

“Oh, no, that’s alright.” Mrs. Blythe said, “Supper’ll get cold back at my house. But goodnight to you and Mr. Davenport. Goodnight Siobhan.”

Siobhan waved again, “Goodnight Mrs. Blythe, bye Journey.”

Journey gave a co*cked, slightly disappointed little smirk. She had really wanted to be invited in and see that big house. Just the dark parlor was not enough. “Bye Fawn.”

After shutting the door, Ethel raised a brow at Siobhan. She held a slight trace of amusem*nt in her wizened face and almost smiled, “‘Fawn?’”

“It rhymes.” Siobhan said simply. She rubbed her belly, “I’m starving.”

Tutting, Ethel did smile. “Oh, Siobhan, whatever will I do with you? Go bathe before Richie comes down. He took his pills so he won’t be too present tonight, but you’re all caked in mud… Supper will be ready in an hour.”

“Okay.”

“And this morning I laid out your clothes for the Blackwater trip. You just go over them and pack what you’d like to wear. Enough for three or four days.” Ethel instructed and patted Siobhan’s arm as she went back in the kitchen.

Siobhan said and started to go up the stairs. And as she reached the middle, a few steps up, she stalled. She heard Ethel go into the kitchen and heard her close the dampers on the stove, shuttling around the co*ke in its belly—could practically smell the stuff. And she sat down on the steps and her heart fell. For a second there, everything was as it was before. She could have been fifteen again, when all of her problems amounted to one thing.

Never meeting Arthur. Never knowing he was even out there. And he was out there. He was just not here.

He was not here.

Chapter 23: — HARES ON THE MOUNTAIN

Chapter Text

APRIL 21, 1900

Fifteen days before the Pinkertons raided New Almaden.

The Morgan farm in Cape Horn Pass, NA

“Colm. Colm O’Driscoll.” He said with careening distaste which swept from the center of his chest in the form of his dark and gargling voice, to smear his face and mark all of his features.

He was so distracted by his maudlin lament that he didn’t question why Siobhan was shoving more alcohol his way. He simply stared off in a daze, “Though, I did kill his brother…” Dutch wheezed, “I still haven’t decided if it was a fair trade, after all.”

“He killed Annabelle because you killed his brother?” Siobhan clarified, holding her beer as if she was going to drink it and not simply hand it right over to him as soon as he finished his own.

“Killing, Siobhan, is a terrible sickness. It’s wrong to admonish a man for that sin, because what other choice did he have?” Dutch shook his head, “But Colm was not a man. He was a beast,—in better clothing.”

After another lengthy pause, where Siobhan had nothing to say, and couldn’t imagine what she could ask of Dutch, he wiped his face again. And after knocking back another long swig of his drink, hissed, and said, “The one thing my mother always told me that was true;” he pointed, underlining every word, “‘Don’t trust love.’ Course I had said she was terrible and mean and had never loved me.— But that was her response, rest her soul, ‘Don’t trust love.’”

Dutch looked at her coldly. His eyes were like needles, direct and without delusion or misunderstanding. Siobhan was sure he would get angry. Maybe he would snap at her. But he only laughed, “Of course, I would tell you.”

The bitterness in his voice was clear, whatever she had needled so close to the heart of with her question was too big a secret to share. Siobhan could only imagine exactly what it was.

“Siobhan Morgan.” His head slumped into his drunken hand. What a state he was in. “Did you ever really forgive me?”

Siobhan almost took pity on him. Now she could see what sadness lay behind all of that arrogance. What mistreatment had corrupted him—were she to listen to the mad ranting of a drunk—she could begin to understand. But her hand gripped the bottle in her fist tighter at the mere thought of what he meant, did you forgive me?

For Blackwater, Dutch van der Linde? Her voice was heavy as she set the bottle down. “Never.”

He faced her, suddenly revived in her hatred toward him. And she wondered if she could ever trust the sadness that seemed to dampen his eyes. Could it ever have been remorse?

JUNE 24, 1900

Blackwater, WE

The ride to Blackwater was a tiresome one. First was the stagecoach to Dallas and from there was the train. It took six hours, which was the least exhausting thing about it. During which, Siobhan could not have hoped for Richard to be drugged—not surrounded by so many people, though he clutched his pills, carved into his cane—and which she could do little but stare out the window and try not to think about the ferry.

Ethel sat next to her, talking all day. “I think it’s wonderful that he wants to meet you. I haven’t ever met a mayor before.”

“You’re more excited than me.” Siobhan mumbled against her hand. She stared out at the passing landscapes as everything grew greener and hillier than where they lived. Little peat bogs surrounded the railroad tracks fresher and brighter, though at times no deeper, than the sorts of bayous that surrounded them in Shady Belle. She spoke without looking away from it.

“I remember him.” She said, referring to the Blackwater mayor, “He came to the hospital and spoke to some of the people who were well enough.”

“Did he speak to you?” Ethel asked with sympathy.

Siobhan shook her head, “I was locked away on the other side of the room with a bunch of people who were so injured I couldn’t even tell what was wrong with them ‘cause they never moved.”

Ethel’s face darkened grimly. “Oh, that’s terrible.”

“If it’s even true.” Richard butted in.

Siobhan gave him a brief glance over her shoulder and then looked back out the window. Ethel strung her arm through Siobhan’s then, leaning her head against her shoulder, “You’re too good for going, dear. I don’t know that I could.”

Siobhan felt slightly warmed by her aunt’s sympathy, and though a part of her wanted to nuzzle her head against her aunt’s and sleep for the rest of the ride, she could not for the life of her displace her discomfort enough to. Instead, the two remained as quiet and divided as they had before until they stepped off the train into Blackwater.

He introduced himself in the brick-and-mortar steps of his drive. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Davenport. I am apparently the mayor.—” Pausing to laugh at his own joke, “Archibald Atkinson, at your service.”

Siobhan had been staring at his golden-buckled pilgrim shoes. Much too distracted by them to hear what he was saying. “And you must be Siobhan Davenport.” His voice swooped down low enough to take her hand. She finally looked up at him once he had suddenly kissed her knuckles, “It’s lovely to meet you.”

“Hello.” Siobhan’s face was flat with discomfort but her voice sounded meeker than she intended.

“Oh, don’t be shy, Siobhan.” Ethel said, smiling, “It was so kind of you to invite us here, Mr. Mayor.”

“My servants will take your bags in.” He waved his hand a few times and they all moved swiftly to the carriage, unloading their things.

The mayor filed them singly into the house. It was of an interesting interior, though Siobhan would have no name for it. The limewash plaster of the yellowed walls and the sparseness of the sitting furniture bookended, here and there, with giant potted weeping figs marked it a measure Moorish or Spanish traditional. The tiles, which were solid and glossy beneath Siobhan’s feet, were chocolatey red. They matched the dark and thick wood of the staircase that was presented to them immediately upon entering the foyer.

Siobhan was shown upstairs to her room where the house remained as big and impressive of its tasteful design as downstairs. It was not a simple cottage nor a run down cabin nor a plantation. It was refreshingly exotic to her.

The mayor offered the girls a tour of Blackwater, to which Siobhan declined. And despite how it was not exactly a most polite rejection, no-one—other than her uncle, naturally—could really blame her for it. They had all read her Abercrombie interview. They all knew her dreadful story.

Ethel went alone.

And while she was gone, Siobhan roamed the halls of the enormous house alone, eavesdropping here and there over servants and, of course, her uncle. The door was large and, left open just a crack, led into a library where her uncle sat with the mayor. It was in the middle of this conversation that she began to listen;

“No sir, I am a widower. It’s been about six years now since Mrs. Atkinson passed.” Archibald said. There was a lengthy pause in which Richard mumbled his little uncaring sympathies and Archibald likely felt the needles at the end of her uncle’s sentences which poked holes in his attempt to sound sincere.

“May I inquire as to the marital status of your niece, Mr. Davenport? I read the paper, of course, but I do hope you have a suitor in line for her. At her age, really, despite the child, she would make a wonderful wife.”

Siobhan was disgusted to hear such a thing. ‘Despite the child,’ she repeated in her head, I ought to stab you in the eye, you arrogant bastard.

Her Uncle’s response was almost worse; “I have yet to consider a marital arrangement for Siobhan. It’s one of my faults; I’m very attached to her.”

Lie number one.

“There are few men I can imagine that I think would be deserving of her hand. No man can match the Davenport fortune, for instance. Her dowry alone would be worth more than the average bachelor in Salinas makes in a lifetime.” Richard said, puffing his cigar, though Siobhan could not see it, “I want her to have a reliable husband. Someone not marrying her for her money per se, but I’m not averse to a marriage of convenience or mutual benefit.”

“That sounds like a difficult situation.” The mayor eyed Richard carefully. “I don’t mean to sound forward, Mr. Davenport, but I imagine, given her circ*mstances, it would be even more difficult to find a man willing to marry her now.”

Good riddance, Siobhan thought.

Richard sighed, “Yes, she’s been deflowered—”

Mayor Atkinson wheezed, interrupting Richard suddenly with the surprise of a laugh. The mayor waved his hand in front of his face and beat his chest with a smoky cough. “That’s not quite what I meant, Mr. Davenport. I meant that she’s with a child out of wedlock.”

Even Siobhan had to cover her mouth not to laugh. See, she agreed with him internally, do you see how my uncle is deranged?

“Of course, that too.” Richard said, somewhat irritated below the skin. Siobhan could hear it in his voice and it made her snicker with amusem*nt.

The mayor continued casually, “I personally don’t understand certain men’s unwillingness to raise a child that is not their own. Siobhan is a beautiful girl. Still young and lively. Free of all of the dampers pregnancy can cause a young woman. I’d marry her in a heartbeat.”

Good luck trying. Siobhan’s face was retracted in utter disgust.

“Really?” Richard huffed, “And raise her child?”

“Oh, in a heartbeat.” The mayor said, “I’ve always been sterile, that’s why I haven’t got children of my own. Though me and the missus did try for many years. It would be my honor to marry a woman with a child. And the poor kid wouldn’t have to know who his real father was—chances are she doesn’t even know who he is.”

“Well, you didn’t mean to sound forward.” Richard remarked.

“Think on it, Mr. Davenport, and we can discuss the other investments tomorrow.” The mayor put out his cigar and laughed, wheezing as he stood up and buttoned his suit, “It’ll be much less exciting than discussing beautiful young girls, I promise.”

Siobhan quickly flattened herself behind the wall as she heard the two of them stand up to leave. When the mayor exited, for a split second she came up with a terrible lie to explain why she had been eavesdropping and prepared herself for the awkwardness to ensue, but Archibald went down the other side of the hall. Her uncle stopped just outside the doorway and when he turned to look down the hall, he saw her.

Instantly, his eye darkened. He grabbed her by the arm and took her into the library, “You nosy brat. What were you doing?”

Siobhan threw him off her arm. “Listening.” She spat, “You must be full-tilt delusional if you think you can sell me into a marriage.— I have a husband!”

“Shut your Goddamned mouth!” He snapped, taking a step forward. He spoke in a rushed whisper, nearly yelling, and took her by the jaw. “If you mention that bastard one more time, so help me God, I’ll sic the entire Pinkerton agency on him, wherever he may be!”

Siobhan threw his hand off her but kept silent, staring at him with a terrible fury.

Her uncle wiped his forehead, sitting down. “Get me a scotch.”

Siobhan gawked, “Get it yourself, you lazy—”

“Now!” He roared, “Or I’ll sign the marriage off right here, so help me God. You bring me enough grief, you should be thankful I hadn’t sold you already.”

Siobhan took a deep breath. She had to get the job done that night or she swore she would kill her Godforsaken uncle. She turned to the liquor decanters and poured him a scotch the way she knew, from her horrible childhood, he drank it. She hoped he’d mix it with his pills and die.

“He’s a Latter Day Saint.” Richard groaned.

Siobhan could’ve roared with laughter for how ridiculous that was. Knowing he, as a Catholic, terrified of ghosts and stigmatas and countless superstitions, had no room to talk. She tipped her head forward and spat in Richard’s scotch while her back was turned to him.

He had no notion of it, “There are few people who disgust me more than Mormons.”

Siobhan returned the drink to him reluctantly. “At least this one is sterile.” She remarked for her pleasure alone.

Richard laughed, taking his drink. He immediately looked displeased to have laughed at his niece, the bane of his existence. “The irony of that.” He pinched his brow, “If you married him, you’d not be the only one with other spouses.”

Siobhan grimaced.

Richard’s tone shifted. He looked at his niece and spoke in a way he rarely did with her, like she was an investor interested in Sweetprairie or something. “You need to gain some sense. Business sense. Think of the money.” He drank his scotch greedily. Each sip made her more and more satisfied with her bitterness. “How can I have any pride in the last of my bloodline having no sense?”

Siobhan’s face was dull with his conundrum. “My lack of business sense is the least of your problems.”

Richard took a deep and disappointed breath. “And how am I to leave you anything?” He swirled his scotch, scoffing, “If I left you the company, it’d bankrupt in a week. I shudder to imagine what frivolous things you’d buy if I left you any sum at all.”

Siobhan’s voice was stentorian and annoyed, “I don’t want your money or your company. Keep it all, I’ll sleep just fine.”

“I pray you have a son, Siobhan.” He shook his head. “I’d rather you didn’t marry Archibald at all. Give your son the Davenport name and I will leave him everything.”

Siobhan’s face betrayed her utter confusion.

“Are you serious?” She didn’t need to ask that, her uncle was not funny and therefore rarely made jokes. Of course he would do that. She stormed up to her feet, staring down at him, “You will never learn the name of my son.” She swore, “He’ll have his father’s name. You can sic the Pinkertons on whoever you like,—you don’t know my husband and you never will.”

In his offense, Siobhan stormed off to her room.

She waited until nighttime fell over Blackwater when she would finish what she had returned for and leave the damned city for good. Siobhan went into the night alone and without protection as she had long before. She knew Blackwater, knew its people,—before and after the massacre—and if there was ever a time when Siobhan should be afraid of going out alone at night, it was not now. Clutching the base of her stomach, she meandered quietly through the street and into the church burial.

The knowledge of what she was about to do—how dirty a sin, how terrible a deed—nearly caused her to turn back. And furthermore, her doubts! What if it was a lie? What if it was just one of the many lies Dutch van der Linde perpetuated, and perhaps only one of his better-performed lies? Oh, but to doubt such a treasure was not easy.

She entered the graveyard and with her tiny lantern, illuminated, quickly, every headstone she passed. Until eventually she came upon it. She held her lantern at shoulder height and looked down on Greta van der Linde’s headstone and figured she had found it. But she checked around to ensure there were no other van der Linde’s to have found their final resting place here before she did her terrible deed.

It could only have been this one.

Is this it? Did I find it? Is this IT?!

She dug around its edges, scratching it like a cat scratches litter, and finally yanked it out from its square-shaped nestle. It was a box two feet long x three feet wide and a foot deep. Heavy as Hell with a big fat lock on it.

*

“I found it.” She proclaimed, dropping the box to the carpet at everyone’s feet. She had screamed and hollered and shouted for everyone to come down and they stared at her, five feet tall and covered head to toe in muck, hair all destroyed and holding a wooden box as big as her pregnant belly in the parlor at midnight.

The Mayor stepped forward first and bent over to open the lid and look down at it. As he poked and prodded, Siobhan panted from her running, pushing her hair out of her face and shook her head with joy, “We can give it back to the families that lost people.”

The Mayor looked up. Siobhan watched them all stare at her, starry-eyed and shocked. “There must be… at least a hundred thousand dollars in here.”

Siobhan’s face corked, “I thought they stole five-hundred thousand?”

The Mayor laughed, his face lightened in amazement, “You found it?!” He got to his feet and shook his head at her, “I daresay I shouldn’t ask how but…”

Siobhan stared at him, “We can give it back to the families, right? All those people who were in the clinic with me?” Her heart welled up with hope. “There’s enough for all of them, right?”

“Oh, Siobhan.” Ethel wiped her tearing eyes. She looked completely taken with pride. She ran into Siobhan’s arms and hugged her tightly.

And over Ethel’s shoulder, Siobhan could see how her uncle stared at her with his face all skewered in complete ire. She could imagine what was going through his head. She knew he would think she had done it just to spite him and his disgusting talk of ‘business-sense.’ She would let him think it and it would only please her more to.

The rest of the night was blurry as Archibald’s maids came in to pick up all of the money and clean all of the dirt she’d shoveled into the foyer. And Ethel took Siobhan upstairs while the mayor and her uncle said their awestruck praises, murmuring intermittently about the scandal in which she must have found it.

It was necessary to wash herself.

So Siobhan laid in the tub, full to the gunwale with foaming bubbles. The bathroom was dimly lit with candlelight—she had turned off all the electric light as soon as she came in to avoid the headache it was sure to give her—and the windowpanes glittered with the flicker of orange light. The water was still hot and tingled on the surface of her skin. Still hot enough to warm her face with the rising steam, smothered with aromatic bubbles. Camphor white and with the same lung-opening smell of fresh mint, the bath water was full of clean-smelling things that made Siobhan calm to the verge of sleepiness.

But as she took a deep breath and her chest raised above the cut of water into the glittering candlelight, she saw her little jade necklace catch a golden reflection and paused. Instinctually, her hand reached up and lifted the beautiful little stone high enough that Siobhan could stare into it, thinking only of the man that gave it to her.— And how her heart clenched to do so! She shut her eyes and tried to imagine that day in Santa Fe again. Tried to feel the hot, dusty air coming in from the open window while Arthur knelt at her feet and blew his breath across her bare skin with his kisses. And what he said to her… ‘You shame the broad daylight, Miss Magda.’

Even after the amorous things they did there in that yellow hotel room, just to sleep in that bed with Arthur,—the first time they ever slept in a real bed together that wasn’t three palms wide or covered in sickness—wrapped up in clean, warm sheets, sleeping through the boisterous music-filled nights of that gorgeous city…

The windows were open, the curtains luffed and harps were tuned, the hallway outside creaked with traffic, and Arthur held her tightly to his warm and bare chest, tracing her bones with his fingertips. Looking her over with a love in his eyes that could not compare to the softest eiderdown. To hear his rich voice again and feel his breath on her skin,—she would run across the desert barefoot if she just knew where he was. To have been blessed with the privilege of loving that man and being loved by that man—so intimately!—she could never underestimate the value of. But still, to be without it was a heartbreak rippling, progressive and cumulative, each day they were apart.

There was a kick in her stomach, vicious enough to cause a little wave in the water. Siobhan yelped, more surprised by it than hurt, and looked down—though her stomach was buried by miles of Castile-down bubbles—and laughed, “Too warm, little creepmouse? Alright, I’m done anyway.”

ARTHUR

Arthur woke up in a place unrecognizable. He looked up around him to see unfamiliar faces, all women. A dozen scattered women, staring at him. Confused and disoriented, he tried to sit up.

“What the hell…” He muttered to himself, looking at them all, wondering if this was a dream. The women surrounded the bed he laid in—an unfamiliar bed which did not smell like him. Women all around, staring at him quietly, like they’d never seen a man before. But judging by the way they were dressed—scant clothing and much skin, just as much makeup, and the furniture in the room around him; soft edges all over, everything covered by rich colors and eclectic patterns—he could pretty much assume they had done more than just seen men.

“Where am I?” He slurred slightly, but only out of exhaustion.

Then, from the other side of the room, a door opened, and Archie Downes moved absurdly in. He had a bowl in his hands. “Oh, he’s awake.”

Arthur blinked sternly at the kid. He reasoned it must have been because of Archie that he had ended up here. Though, why in the hell he chose what was clearly a whor*house, and why he stayed, Arthur could not figure out on his own accord. “Why did you bring me to a brothel?”

Archie looked awkwardly around at the women surrounding him. “You had a big old gash in your leg and your stitches were all torn up.” He held the bowl in his hand though it was empty, and stared into it like it held some mystery inside it. “I figured since you’re such a…” He cleared his throat, “Famous figure.”

Arthur would thank him for his discretion if he had any to begin with at all rather than this bizarre and backwards attempt at it. “So you bring me here?”

“What, sweetheart? You don’t like women?” One of the whor*s said. Arthur looked at her and grimaced at the misunderstanding. But she was not offended and simply laughed.

“I brought you here for their midwife.” Archie explained, “She was the only doctor I could think of that would treat you without… you know. Gossiping about it.”

Arthur sat up straighter, “And how is it you know about this midwife, boy?”

Archie blushed bright red. He still held that goddamn empty bowl in his hands like a blubbering halfwit. Arthur was full-pelt irritated now. Archie cleared his throat to finally answer Arthur’s question but one of the whor*s interrupted him, “His mother works here with us. Edith.”

Arthur’s irritation died right along with any amusem*nt he might’ve briefly had and the guilt he had returned. However narrowed it had been yesterday, after the fight when it had widened and grew to cover his heart, it remained open. He looked, then, at Archie, who lowered his head in shame. Arthur swung his legs over the side of the bed and at once three or four of the women all moved in concern.

“S-should you be moving, Mr. Morgan?” Archie said, bending at the knee slightly to watch Arthur’s face. He still would not put the bowl down.

Archie blushed again. Arthur shook his head, gritting his teeth. He took a deep breath. “Where is this midwife, anyway?”

“She went to get something for the stitches.” Archie said, gesturing around helplessly. “So it doesn’t get angry.”

“Is it angry now?” He asked in all seriousness, though he realized then that it didn’t hurt, which meant he was probably dosed up on something.

Archie seemed to understand through his sarcasm, somehow, that, though he didn’t know Arthur much at all, he intended to leave if his wound wasn’t infected. But Archie knew that was a foolish idea. “You shouldn’t leave, Mr. Morgan. The midwife said as much herself.”

One of the whor*s confirmed it, “She said you should stay for a day or two.”

Arthur looked around at the women who still all gathered like a murder of crows, staring, appraising. He thought it was strange and it made him slightly uncomfortable, but he wasn’t sure how to mention it without sounding rude and offending a room of at least six women all at once.

Then, from the same door that Archie came through, another woman appeared. She, though, was mostly clothed. She went straight for Arthur. The midwife, apparently. “Good afternoon!”

She stuck her big hands right on Arthur’s thigh and pulled his skrim aside. He moved her hand off of him. “What did you give me?”

The midwife looked at him, unenthused. “You’re a wanted man in one of the biggest opium dynasties in California and you’re afraid of a little codeine?”

“Codeine?” He swallowed his thick spit, looking around. He had made up his mind on that, no matter the caliber of pain he’d be in without it. “I don’t want any more of it.”

“Those stitches are gonna hurt.” She said, “And we specialize in pleasure here, sir. Don’t be afraid of it.”

Arthur looked at Archie then and wondered if this were not all some big joke that he had planned to play on him as revenge. He felt a little lightheaded, though, as he tried to get to his feet. The midwife sat him right back down. He was not going anywhere, that much was evident. She leaned back, “What do you do for a living?”

Arthur raised a brow. He figured they all knew damn well what he did for a living. But they’d be wrong. “I’m an illustrator.” He gruffly answered.

“An illustrator?” One of the whor*s behind him piped up, “Can I show you some of my illustrations?”

Arthur turned around and a girl of maybe twenty-five or twenty-six with blonde hair and brown eyes jumped to her feet. Arthur didn’t even get an answer in before she skipped out of the room and went down the hallway presumably to grab her sketches.

Arthur looked at the Downes kid. His brow was heavy, his jaw locked absentmindedly with his headache. “How is it your mother works here, boy? You two were heading to—what was it, Annesburg?—the last time I saw you,” and he scoffed for how much had happened since then, “Barely a year ago now.”

Archie still held his head low as if shamed by the depths his mother had gone to to make ends meet, him here all compliant with it. “I told her I was coming to California to find a job… I suppose I lied to her. I knew I came here to kill you.”

“So you sold your mother to a pleasure house, is that it?” Arthur squinted, his drawl lazy with distaste.

“No!” Archie stood straighter, full-indignant, “I told her she didn’t need to do it. I made some money back in Saint-Denis. I was going to buy her a room there and leave but… I was robbed.”

Arthur tried to release some of his tension. He was wrongfully aggrieved by this sorry kid, who’d really done nothing wrong. And if it were not for the circ*mstances between himself and Siobhan—which, he was entirely aware, Archie had no knowledge of—he was sure he’d have acted with more compassion.

“Listen, Mr. Morgan…” Archie said, and interrupted him to sigh as if disappointed with how agreeable he was now compelled to act. “Before, you said you were sorry. And I’d like to believe you on account of taking mercy on me though I threatened your life. But I know you’re a killer.”

Arthur felt it would be wrong to correct him.

“And… I’m starting to understand that maybe killing ain’t always as bad as the Good Book says it is. Sometimes…” he looked off at the door, “Your neighbor is someone like this brothel owner. He treats my mama real bad, worse than any of the others. All of the women say as much, he’s evil.”

Arthur leaned against his uninjured knee, covering his face. He could already anticipate where this was headed.

“Now, I know you’re in a precarious position, Mr. Morgan, and I appreciate you giving me your money and everything, but the fact is that it won’t do me or mama any good. We can’t go home unless that man is dead and gone.— He’d only send people after her.” Archie explained.

“So kill him.” Arthur was slightly exasperated as he tossed his hand up, “That’s what you’re gettin’ at, right? You want him dead? Kill him.”

“You saw yourself I ain’t much of a fighter, Mr. Morgan.” He fingered the bruise around his eye, “And he has men around him. Even if I could take on one man, I can’t take on three.”

“I told you I have a wife and child out there waiting for me, boy.” Arthur said sternly, “What makes you think I have time to spare helping you?”

Archie’s hands fell, his face steeled with disappointment. “I don’t know.” He looked at Arthur like he’d finally got to see his character clearly, “I guess I believed you when you said you grieved what happened…”

He turned to walk out of the room, all life had gone from him as if he had killed him, too. Arthur tried to stand up, but faltered and hit the bed with a creak. He groaned for the melodrama of it, displeased with how his heart wrenched badly like he’d done something terrible. “Archie! Wait a min’.”

Archie shuffled reluctantly back. He didn’t fully enter the room, he didn’t expect Arthur to have changed his mind.

But now Arthur asked, gruffly, and with so much resistance his voice creaked like cracking wood, “What’s the man’s name?”

Archie sighed, “Well, I got to go now.” He said, and extended his hand to the midwife, shaking it. “Thank you for your help.” And then to Arthur, “And your money.”

Arthur waved his hand dismissively.

“I do truly hope you get better.” Archie said in farewell to Arthur, who looked about ready to pass out again. Arthur hoped the best for him too, though he didn’t voice it. He never thought he’d have seen that kid again and in a way he never wanted to, but in another way, he was nearly glad they had run into each other again. If he could rectify any small piece of that situation he’d caused for those poor Downeses, all the better.

And if not, at least to help one of them out a little, he hoped, even if it was all he could do, would be worth the effort a thousandfold.

Chapter 24: — ON DOING AN EVIL DEED BLUES

Chapter Text

JULY 2, 1900
Coos Bay, OR

Hosea was glad to hear that John had gotten Arthur safely out of prison. He made no mention of Dutch. He knew there was little to be done about that and figured it was better to save them all the drama of an argument and not ask at all.

“I wasn’t illiterate.” John corrected once again.

“Yeah, well, he’s got a curious way of showing it.” John huffed, although he wasn’t particularly aggrieved about it. Over the past year or so, he figured, there had been some convergence of understanding between the two. Like with Abigail and Jack, it seemed once he opened his heart—though narrowly, and still with as much masculinity he could salvage—to one of them, he had opened his heart to all of them.

And perhaps, he figured, something similar had happened in Arthur’s own life. He hoped the best for him in return.

ARTHUR

New Verhalen, CA

Arthur had everything he needed in order to leave. He counted his money over for the millionth time, hoping there were no more Archie Downeses coming to strike vengeance down on him so that he might finally be able to leave. He had gone completely out of pocket to pay Archie Downes what little he could give him. And to make up for it, he had to pawn his pocketwatch, which hurt him bad to do. Trelawny arrived shortly after Arthur got his things together, and came to the door which Arthur had been occupying in that brothel for the past week.

Arthur stared at him, brows furrowed, “What the hell are you doing here? I thought you had skipped town.”

“Ah, you know me.” Trelawny was awfully comfortable at neglecting to explain himself. From his lapel, he pulled out a newspaper and his attitude had turned grim. “I think you should know…”

Arthur looked between Trelawny’s dark eye and the paper he held. “What?”

Trelawny said nothing, pursing his lips, he only extended the paper out to Arthur that he should read it himself. Arthur took the newspaper from Trelawny’s hand and read the front page. One of the biggest headlines he’d ever read;

DUTCH VAN DER LINDE EXECUTED!

Arthur stared at those words. He looked back up at Trelawny. And back down again. Dutch van der Linde executed. He read it again. He scratched his face, “Is this real?”

Trelawny thought that was an odd question. He didn’t think it needed to be answered. Of course, it was real, everyone knew this was going to happen. Arthur looked back at Trelawny in his silence and tossed the newspaper away, sighing as he picked up his gun and his oil rag, ready to clean it. “Goddamn fool…”

Trelawny took the newspaper back in his hand and looked at it solemnly for the sake of his friend. “There’s more in here that I think you should know about.”

Arthur stubbornly shook his head. “It don’t make no difference to me how it happened or what his last words was. I imagine he was hanged and he told them all they couldn’t fight nature or some such…” He found it difficult to keep talking.

Trelawny figured he was right, but he couldn’t let his friend brood and do nothing. He cleared his throat, “It concerns your wife.”

Arthur instantly looked up. His hands stalled, “What about Siobhan?”

Trelawny then saw more fear in Arthur’s eyes than he ever had. He cleared his throat and began to read, “The Blackwater fortune of $150,000 has been found and returned to the town bank by Siobhan Davenport who recently escaped from the gang, the same day Dutch van der Linde was executed near her hometown in California.”

Trelawny looked up at Arthur, who was frozen solid as ice. He blinked, setting the gun down. “What? You musta read that wrong.”

Trelawny shook his head, staring down at the paper, “It says it here again, ‘Siobhan Davenport found the money by chance when she stumbled across Dutch van der Linde’s mother’s grave.’”

“She returned it?” Arthur said, his face cinched in complete confusion, “That don’t make sense, she wouldn’t do that.”

Trelawny’s head waved from side-to-side as if he were weighing the likelihood of it, “Now, I can’t claim to know her better than you, of course, but I see no reason why she wouldn’t. She’s young and I seem to recall her being overly generous. Even you once said so.”

Arthur’s face was all torn up with conflicting thoughts, Trelawny could see. “However, that wasn’t her money to return.” Trelawny debated with himself, “I’m sure she would’ve known that.”

Now Arthur scoffed, “Well it didn’t belong to us any more than it did her… But that don’t mean she’d just give it away like that.”

“I wonder how she found it.” Trelawny questioned, somehow finding himself feeling more amused than robbed.

Arthur thought that was strange too. Siobhan never even asked Arthur if he knew where it was. She never brought it up at all! “I don’t believe any of that ‘stumbling on it by chance’ nonsense, it was sitting there for two years!”

Trelawny considered it further, and with slight amusem*nt, he was easily charmed by a good scheme, “Well, perhaps she may be young and overly generous but she’s also been smarter than she lets on. His mother’s grave…” He shook his head in acclaim, “Smart.”

Arthur was completely turned around, “I don’t think she was involved at all. None of this sounds like her,” He looked around, “We got a child on the way. She wouldn’t have given away that money.”

“It’s possible she had been visiting the grave of someone she knew on the boat,” Trelawny supposed casually, “Apparently she had been on the ferry all day.”

Arthur went silent, looking at Trelawny who had hardly said two words about the event since it happened.

“But to do it on the very same day that Dutch is hanged…” Trelawny pointed out darkly. “The two of them never got along well. It’s possible she did it on purpose. Just to spite him one last time.”

“Shiv ain’t spiteful.” Arthur said, defensive now. “This is just… None of this makes any sense.” Arthur tapped his foot rapidly. “Why is she in Blackwater in the first place? I know Shiv, she wouldn’t have wanted to go back there.”

“Not unless she knew about the money.” Trelawny suggested.

“It doesn’t matter if she knew about the money or not.” Arthur said, getting impatient, “I know my goddamn wife and this ain’t her. She wouldn’t go back to Blackwater just to turn the money over to anyone else.”

“Maybe she got caught with it.” Trelawny added delicately, trying to calm Arthur down. But his friend was irate. Turning almost red in the face with his frustration.

Arthur’s nostrils flared. Trelawny could practically see the cogs turning behind his eyes.

“I’m afraid I’ve concealed something more from you, for the sake of your nerves.” Trelawny spoke pointedly and patted Arthur on the shoulder. Arthur looked at Trelawny with full-pelt distrust, as if he were a silver-tongued serpent on his shoulder. “This one, though, you should read yourself. I found it… concerning.”

Arthur looked down at the paper and unfolded it hastily. Trelawny backed away to give him space as he read, but he did not leave the room…

David Ficket, Abercrombie River Post

In Salinas, Texas today, at the Abercrombie River Post, we were given insight into the Davenport family kidnapping by none other than Richard Davenport’s niece, Siobhan Davenport, who was recently rescued by the Pinkerton Detective Agency. The Pinkertons- who have been hired by the Sweetprairie Sugar Co. owner- have been searching for the girl for two years after she went missing in the aftermath of the Blackwater Massacre of 1898, in which many lost their families. Now, we get the happy ending to one of the state’s most heartbreaking cases.

At the time of her kidnapping in Blackwater, Siobhan Davenport was sixteen years old. She had run away from home after her dog, ‘Minnow’ died. Siobhan describes herself as an overly emotional girl after the tragedy of her childhood left her permanently marked by sorrow. The death of her beloved dog made her ‘hysterically sad and foolish’ she says she believed she had ‘nothing else to live for.’

T his was how Siobhan Davenport found herself on the ferry in Blackwater, hundreds of miles away from her home in Salinas. Unfortunately, she could not have predicted that she would be caught up in the biggest massacre the state had ever seen since the battle of the Alamo. When I asked her about what happened, she insisted not to use the names of the gang members, fearing that those who disbanded after Dutch van der Linde’s arrest, might read about it and come after her, enraged that she implicated them in further crimes. At this time, we are abiding by her request.

Now Siobhan sits across from me in a white lace dress, covered modestly and sits gracefully. She is of petite stature although clearly taken with pregnancy, and is of a slight and frail form. Her features are enchanting and evocative, always expressive. She has large, tender green eyes that sparkle beautifully, clearly given to a tender nature. Although she remains calm and composed in an elegance you would not expect from a girl with her story, her plush lips reveal a line of steady determination. She is gentle but resolute, humble, but sure. She has risen to meet the occasion that has brought her in today. She tells me she is twenty-seven weeks pregnant and her age is given as eighteen. She remarks that she has picked up the moniker ‘creepmouse’ for her unnamed baby. A lingering vestige of her time amongst cowboys and outlaws, apparently.

The picture they provided of Siobhan made his heart swell. He found the description of her accurate in a way the picture couldn’t portray—he thought, you’d have to meet her. She was gorgeous and healthy looking, not a mark on her body. Her belly was large and round, bigger than how he’d last seen her. Deep inside of him, the crocus of fatherhood that had been shaded by the fear of uncertainty regarding how he left her—worried that he had left her and the baby inside of her harmed—bloomed a little bit brighter with a grain of hope.— But the man beside her, her uncle as it was, darkened his mood instantly. He realized what, perhaps, Trelawny did not. She did not simply go back to Blackwater on her own volition, she must have been brought there by the Pinkertons. First back to her uncle, then back to the source of it all…

[David] Let’s start with the day you were kidnapped, is that all right?

[Siobhan] Alright.

[David] Where were you when the fighting began?

[Siobhan] In the belly of the ferry, watching strangers play poker.

She says that poker was always a game she had never been allowed to play as a girl, and though the men on the Blackwater ferry equally did not want her to intrude on their game, she says ‘They smelled like the soap my uncle used to use, and being around so many men smoking, which my uncle never allowed, made me feel very free. I felt safe, even though I didn’t know these men.’

She spoke of her uncle as if she cared about him, which disturbed Arthur, knowing the exact opposite to be true. The fact that her uncle was there suggested to him that she was pressured into lying, and he realized the whole thing had been orchestrated by her uncle and that she were going to have to lie; spinning some fairytale about her return to Salinas in order to satisfy him, the Pinkertons, and the infamy and money that had been spent in wake of her leaving.

[Dav.] You were shot on the ferry, correct?

[Sio.] Yes, Dutch was the one who shot me.

[Dav.] And what happened after that?

[Sio.] I passed out and woke up in the hospital. Well, it was a doctor’s office, but it was very big.

The doctor’s office she is referring to is the office of Dr. Warren Pfeiffer in Blackwater, who has dedicated an entire building across from the Blackwater saloon to housing patients. This practice began for him in the wake of the massacre, and with donations, he has been able to keep the office running well. He recalls Siobhan, in a letter to the Abercrombie River Post, in which we asked after her, saying, ‘She was exceptionally quiet. I had never dealt with a gunshot wound on a girl as young as her, and I expected her to die. But it was obvious she had experienced fatal injuries before, evident from the scar on her stomach, and I felt exceptionally bad for her.’

Siobhan, on the other hand, remembers very little of his office. ‘I spent most of my time there on medicine for the pain. I remember the doctor calling it ‘poppy milk’ to make me laugh. He really did make me feel better during one of the scariest moments of my life.’

[Dav.] How did the van der Linde gang find you after the Massacre?

[Sio.] They had come back for one of their friends who was taken by a bounty-hunting group. They found me while I was leaving the city, trying to go east.

[Dav.] Was it Dutch?

[Sio.] I don’t know. I never saw their faces. They were wearing masks. It could have been Dutch. I don’t know. I’m sure one of them recognized me.

Her story of how she joined the gang, she and Arthur would both know intimately, was a blatant lie.— He corrected himself, a coverup was how it read. There was no other explanation for it, in Arthur’s mind, than Siobhan trying to keep Arthur out of it. Cover up his involvement. Vindicate him of the ‘kidnapping of Siobhan Magda.’ To protect him.


Siobhan Davenport is a name known to many papers. In the past two years, her name- sometimes under the pseudonym ‘Siobhan Magda’ which she takes from her distaff side- has appeared in five known papers. In all of which, she has been described as short, skinny, teenaged, and with long, golden hair. It is no exaggeration to call her recognizable.

[Dav.] And once you were with them, how did they treat you?

[Sio.] A lot of them didn’t bother me at all. Most of the women were in similar situations to me, and some of the men I could tell were sort of destitute.

[Dav.] What sort of men?

[Sio.] There was this old Reverend who was with us for a while. He had a very docile nature but had an opium problem. I recognized it almost as soon as I met him because my mother had the same issue before she died.

Her mother is of another famous name, Caoimhe Davenport, who was murdered by her husband when Siobhan was young. Oliver Davenport, the brother of Richard Davenport, planned to kill himself after the murder of his wife. But instead attacked Siobhan, twelve at the time, who had come home from school early. After stabbing Siobhan, Oliver was killed by his daughter, who used the same knife. The story gained fame in its hometown, New Almaden California, and later, here in Salinas.

[Dav.] You came to live here with your aunt and uncle after your parents died, correct?

[Sio.] Yes.

[Dav.] Was your uncle reluctant to take you in, or did he seem remorseful for what his brother did to you?

[Sio.] My aunt and uncle were extremely kind to me. He felt horribly for what happened, almost worse than I did. I used to break down crying for days on end after it happened, but he always assured me it wasn’t my fault.

[Dav.] You must love your uncle a great deal.

[Sio.] I do. He always protected me. If it wasn’t for him, I’d likely still be with the van der Linde gang.

[Dav.] You were found in your hometown, New Almaden. What was the gang doing there?

[Sio.] As the gang started to retreat west from the law, I had mentioned to one of the girls who was with us in the gang that I had a home there left for me in my father’s will and that I would go there. Somehow word got up to Dutch who made me tell him where it was and he took over my house.

[Dav.] Did you know your uncle was looking for you?

[Sio.] No. Dutch was very careful to keep me from finding out about that. If I was hopeless, I wouldn’t run away. I would have nowhere to go.

[Dav.] And when you were in New Almaden, you eloped with a man, correct?

[Sio.] Yes, though our marriage was never legally finalized. I don’t take his name.

[Dav.] Tell me about him. How did he treat you?

[Sio.] He was one of the more powerful men in the gang. He was mean and singled me out from the start. He took liberties with me and he was cruel and brutish.

[Dav.] Did he ask you to marry him?

[Sio.] No. I asked him because he was the strongest of all of the men and I believed that if I was his wife, he would protect me from being passed around with all of the others.

[Dav.] Did he?

[Sio.] No. [Dav.] Did he take advantage of you sexually?

[Sio.] Yes. He raped me repeatedly before and after we were married.

[Dav.] Is that how you got pregnant?

[Sio.] I try not to think of my baby that way. I think getting pregnant, no matter how violently it happened, was a gift. Everything I do is for my baby. I don’t think I’d be here otherwise.

Her story became twisted and dark—far from the truth. As soon as the reporter mentioned her husband, Arthur sat a little straighter—and it couldn’t have been anyone but Arthur. He read the word ‘rape’ and his stomach turned. He read it three times over to ensure he had read it correctly. Nowhere was his name mentioned, but he was her husband. Rape?

Arthur was stunned. Everything Archie had said suddenly made sense and yet, at the same time, nothing made sense at all. Arthur had a hard time believing that Siobhan had said any of it now. But it did sound like her. Arthur had lit with joy for how much it sounded like her. And there was so much underlying truth to the article that it was just as hard to believe that it wasn’t her.

He felt sick.

Arthur had never hurt Siobhan in his life—not like that. Never had he wanted to or thought to or attempted to.— He tore at himself; why was he behaving as if it had any truth to it? She had blatantly lied about her uncle and about Dutch, what difference were the lies about Arthur? The Pinkertons made her say these things, he knew, blow the whole thing up and—

But he wasn’t named. What use did the Pinkertons have in turning Arthur into that if they could not get a manhunt out of it? There was no face and no name except ‘husband’ and ‘rape.’ No-one would ever know that she meant Arthur had hurt her.— But that didn’t change how badly it hurt him to read such a thing. Only confused him more and more.
Why? What was the point? Why would she?

The room shifts a little bit to hear her words. The atmosphere had gone very quiet during Siobhan’s testimony. Much of what she detailed about her husband’s abuse was too graphic to be published in the paper, and a very solemn silence passed over everyone in the room- particularly Siobhan’s aunt, Ethel Davenport, who had blanched and left the room briefly during it. But Siobhan's motherly instincts towards her unborn child, and the hope that returns to her eyes when she speaks of her baby heals some of the coldness in the room. We are all glad to change the subject, it seems.

[Dav.] How did you feel when the Pinkertons found you?

[Sio.] At first, I was terrified because I had no idea who they were. And when they said they were lawmen, I thought they intended to hang me for being in the gang. Then they told me they were only bringing me back home and that I wasn’t going to be tried for anything I did while I was with Dutch considering my age and the fact that I had been kidnapped and forced to do things against my will and out of fear for my safety.

[Dav.] How did you feel then?

[Sio.] I was so relieved, it almost didn’t even feel real. I couldn’t speak for thirty minutes when I first saw my aunt again. I was so overwhelmed with relief. It was something I never thought would happen. I had grown so used to my life with the gang that I never thought I would return to my own family and be safe ever again.

Siobhan then turns the conversation. She asks me if she can tell a joke before she goes, to lighten the mood. I say that would be delightful and she holds out her hand- marked with more scars than I could count- and illustrates for me some imaginative story that she’s holding three little women in her palm. But the rest of the joke was too crude for a Sunday morning paper. The kind of joke you’d hear about in the Pall Mall Gazette, rather, and criticized ruthlessly for its licentiousness. It made her aunt blush and her uncle shake his head in despair. He insisted I not include the joke in my paper and I assured him, I’d be fired if I did.

Arthur didn’t say how his intimate knowledge of how twisted his early relationship with Siobhan had turned his stomach against what he read, but Trelawny could see how he’d turned pale and quiet and knew that he found it equally disturbing.

“You’d better find her soon.” Trelawny suggested quietly, breaking the ice-cold tension that had filled the room.

He shook his head, irritated with himself. “I know. Every second I’m away from her is a second too long. Goddamn leg.” He blew a frustrated breath through his pinched mouth. “But if she’s in Blackwater?”

Trelawny and Arthur looked at each other grimly, knowing that meant there was no way Arthur would have any hope of getting to her. Arthur changed the subject, that didn’t matter. If he got to Texas, that was enough. “If I get a horse in Los Angeles and haul ass it shouldn’t take more than… two weeks.”

Trelawny figured that was an overly generous estimation. But he had no reason to doubt Arthur Morgan’s determination. If anyone could make that trip in two weeks, it’d be him. “Then I do believe you’d like to speak to my associate as soon as possible.”

Arthur’s face soured. He had no idea what sort of ordeal Trelawny was going to get him into now. “And who would that be?”

Trelawny found it a rather uncomfortable conversation to have to broach to him, but such was the nature of the business he was in. And that business was what got Arthur out of prison and on the other side of metal bars this entire time. “The man responsible for getting you out of prison.”

“I thought you said that debt was paid.” Arthur’s voice was stern. He didn’t appreciate Trelawny’s way of doing business,—springing this on him last minute—never had.

Trelawny looked uncomfortable. And he was, in all fairness. He never intended to mislead his friend. “Well, that debt was paid, but then you went and stayed here. Incidentally, my associate owns this establishment as well and it’s been a strain on his business having you here.”

“Why?” Arthur’s voice was loud and irritated.

Trelawny paused. “He can’t serve prison guards here, and you’re taking up a whole room to yourself.” He chuckled, “Level with me, here, dear boy. You understand how this works, don’t you?”

“Well…” He put his hands up, “What does he want from me?” Arthur finally humored him, putting his hands on his belt.

“I don’t know yet.” Trelawny admitted. “That is to be decided between you and him. First… He has to meet you.”

Arthur sighed, shaking his head. He grit his teeth. “What’s the feller’s name?”

“Agelenidez.” Trelawny said.

Arthur paused, staring at him. And he realized, within that moment, either Archie Downes, or Josiah Trelawny were going to be shortly very disappointed in whatever Arthur was about to decide to do about his generous host.

Angelenidez was an arrogant bastard who went on and on about his opium and prostitution monopoly, working so crooked right underneath the nose of the biggest jackass in San Jose, Reed Belden, who’d convinced himself and everyone else that he somehow worked on the side of the law. He treated his breaking Arthur out of jail—and it was indeed the stranger who’d helped Sean carry him out—as if it were nothing more than a game for his own amusem*nt, undercutting the law.

When Trelawny brought Arthur to Angelenidez’s mansion at the far end of New Verhalen where the sagebrush was plowing intoward them and the arid landscape of the desert lie quietly beyond the yard, they were taken quickly inside. Up marble stairs and past Greek colonnades, into a small, dark room with lacquered floors, sat a man bound to a wooden chair, gagged and bloody.

Arthur recoiled to see him, shoved into the room after Angelenidez and his men. The door shut behind him.

“This little peckerwood right here’s a prison guard, no doubt you can tell.” He got behind the man, lowering his hands against the man’s lapel on each side and patting the patch on his torn breast pocket which marked him a guard of the San Jose Penitentiary. “And his brother ran off with our best whor*.”

Arthur tried not to look the man in the eye, it was much too disturbing a scene to acknowledge, but he couldn’t help but do exactly that. He wished to know whether he recognized the guard. Whether he knew him to be one of his tormentors.

He was not. Like the guard Sean had killed the night of Arthur’s escape, this kid was hardly twenty years old, if he had even left his teens.

“We need to know where they went and little Benjamin here knows, don’t you boy?” Angelenidez slapped the kid’s cheeks. He started to shake and squirm, pleading through the gag.

Arthur didn’t understand what exactly he was brought here to do or witness.

Angelenidez looked up at Arthur, standing straight, “And since you just got out of there yourself, I figure you must have plenty of rage to spend on this piece of sh*t. On account of what they did to you and your friend. They hanged him, didn’t they?”

“You want me to beat a confession out of him?” Arthur clarified, looking down at Angelenidez who moved to sit down, in caned wicker furniture smoking a cigar like an oil baron. The kid started to cry and wail.

Angelenidez nodded wisely, “In return for your freedom, yes.”

“And if I say no?” Arthur narrowed his eyes. There were three men behind him, guarding his back, but Arthur was comfortable playing with fire.

Arthur swallowed and looked at the kid, and then at the men surrounding him. He began to wonder whether it would even be worth trying to escape. Whether Angelenidez’s men would come after him or if his bounty would catch up to him again before he could get to Siobhan.

“‘Course,” Angelenidez’s voice suddenly snapped him out of his quandary. “Trelawny’s business remains unfinished. And what a mess he’s gotten himself into, eh?” He chuckled, and so did the three guards who seemed to know something about Trelawny’s business with Angelenidez that Arthur did not.

He was greatly unnerved.

“Well, get to it.” He waved his cigar at Arthur, “Ask him where the brother is. Oh, and, use his name, too,— Clyde.”

Arthur grit his teeth, hesitating. He looked down at the kid and felt his blood boil for how terrible everything felt. He should have no sympathy for this kid, he was one of his captors, knowingly or not. But he could not shake that he seemed to Arthur just too damn young. He felt he’d be hitting a child.

Then he thought of Siobhan. Roughly the kid’s same age if not younger. And then he remembered her interview—and the destination this line of thought brought him to was obvious. The probity that forced him to recognize, and accept, what truth may have been in those terrible lies he’d read.

And then he thought himself a monster, as he always had, though he’d pushed it down and forgotten about it for so long. It was slowly crawling up the back of his throat day-by-day, as he thought more and more about the past, the future, and everything he’d done in between. And he was so angry…

Siobhan, Dutch, the prison guard, Archie, Angelenidez, Trelawny. All of it—too many things to count—made him overwhelmingly furious with all of the injustice of it all.— So he punched and shouted.

He demanded to know where the brother had gone. Where he had taken Angelenidez’s whor*. He hit the kid for crying instead of answering. He broke his nose underneath his fist. The kid cried out even more. Arthur was reminded of his own torture a few weeks before. How he had cried out, swore up and down that he didn’t know anything about Siobhan. Concealed how he had twisted her, seduced her, kidnapped her. But he knew everything about her.

He hit the kid again and again, he shouted things only he would understand would break the kid’s defense. He’d hit him so hard his blood splattered across Arthur’s face and he hit him again. He shouted the brother’s name.

He hit him so hard his blood shot across the side of the room and a tooth landed at Angelenidez’s feet. He hit him hard enough even the guards winced. He hit him so hard the chair broke beneath him and Arthur reached down and grabbed the kid by the collar and roared with an ungodly evil that would strike fear even in those who did not believe in a devil. And finally, he broke the kid’s will and he sputtered, with bitten tongue, an address.

Arthur immediately let go and stepped four paces back, his chest heaving, his knuckles torn open. He wiped his face of the kid’s blood and watched him writhe and spume all bloody on the floor. Angelenidez began to clap, sending two of his guards out to the address. He stepped over the kid’s body toward Arthur, patting him on the shoulder.

Arthur asked if he was done.

Angelenidez looked almost like he wanted to say no. Impressed with Arthur’s cruelty, he felt he had appealed to his hatred of the prison guards so appropriately he had managed the perfect dogsbody. But he admitted Arthur had done his task faithfully so as not to enrage the brute and Arthur turned and left the room.

Trelawny found him in the hallway, shocked and disturbed to see how he was covered in gore. “Is it done?”

At first, Arthur wondered if Trelawny knew what it was he was sent in there to do. And it enraged him that Trelawny would set him on such a path when he could have escaped halfway to Texas not knowing his father had been hanged and his wife had been kidnapped. But he could see a fear in Trelawny’s eye that said he, too, only wanted to escape, and despite how he thought Josiah to be the most slippery, underhanded, and misleading man in the gang,—he was a friend. It broke his heart to see him in fear.

And whatever Angelenidez meant to imply when he said Trelawny’s business was not concluded… well, that uncertainty didn’t sit right with him.

Arthur turned back into the room without answering Trelawny. His anger blinded him completely. He stormed in, even to the alarm of the one guard left with Angelenidez and the kid on the floor. He grabbed a jagged piece of the broken chair from the ground and with cleaving force, drove it upward into Angelenidez’s stomach. And as he ran him back against the wall, he reached for the gun on his hip and drew before the guard had time to react. He shot him down in the opposite corner of the room, sheared the wooden stake out of Angelenidez’s body to bleed out, and dropped it to the ground.

The whor*monger yelped and screamed and cried in pain like a whimpering dog.

He looked at the kid he had mangled and, without stepping closer, could see he was dead. The stillness he saw in that poor kid was terrifying. There was nothing left of his face but blood, and it was Arthur’s fault entirely.

He turned back to kick Angelenidez once in his wound for good measure. Debriding his foot from the gash, and shouting wordlessly in fury.

He went back out into the hall where Trelawny stood dumbfounded for what he had seen.

Arthur didn’t acknowledge it. “Whatever your business with these people was, Josiah, I suggest you leave it and never come back.” Arthur holstered the gun in the back of his pants. “Do me a favor, now.”

Trelawny looked terrified, like he didn’t recognize Arthur at all.

“Are you listenin’ to me?” Arthur snapped angrily, “You go back to that whor*house and tell Archie Downes his mama’s safe from this bastard. You tell him that, and then all of you need to leave. You might as well go back to the house. But you make sure they get out of New Verhalen, too.”

Arthur left. There was nothing more he could say.

He was relieved to quickly put some distance between him and what he had done, returning to the train station where he’d originally been found by Archie.

And by the tracks, an old man sat in a rocking chair strumming on his banjo singing, ‘Satan, your kingdom must come down.’ And the coarse fragility of his enervated voice, coming from a vacuum of choked air inside his body of brittle bones and old skin haunted. The gauntness of his features—eye sockets sunk so deep you could not see if he had any eyes to gaze back,—spoke of sight not physical but prophetic and daunting. ‘I heard the voice of Jesus say, Satan your kingdom must come down.’

Arthur kept his eyes down as he walked past the old man and strained his ears past the singing with the hope of finding a moment soon free of the sound of it.

Arthur came onto the train, lumbering and flinty now that he was left to cogitate on his terrible deed. He boxed his way into the car that he’d paid for and prepared himself for the inevitably painstaking journey of sitting with his accursed thoughts. He unfurled the paper he squeezed in his ham fist, what read of Dutch’s demise, and tried to feel his grief more than he felt his anger.

And once he had stopped checking out of the corner of his eye into the aisle, he could begin to accept that he was finally alone.

Chapter 25: — BABY BIRCH

Chapter Text

JUNE 26, 1900

Blackwater, WE

‘Siobhan Davenport in Blackwater’ has always been a sentence evocative of one thing; violence. ‘Siobhan Davenport in Blackwater’ meant blood, open wounds, screaming, and death around her. The Blackwater doctor knew her well. He knew the typical rhythm of her heart and how it sounded with blood loss. He knew the opacity of her skin with it, and how her veins—suddenly visible—protruded. He knew how much opium he could give a girl of her size and weight without killing her. He knew her threshold of pain tolerance.

He knew, from reading her paper, that she was pregnant, and he knew that she was now in Blackwater, though he did not go to see her where the Mayor was dragging her around the docks to have her speak to a crowd of families. He knew that she had found the money and returned it to people—even he had gotten a small sum of it from the bank—and he thought it very noble. But the situation regarding her was much too sad for him to willingly face.

In the streets of Blackwater, Archibald Atkinson walked Siobhan along, gently guiding her by her elbow. He was going on and on about the planned improvements to the city beyond what buildings were already under construction. Construction, by the way, that could be heard from every corner of every street. The loud knocking of hammers, braying of wood, and chattering of men that irritated Siobhan’s fraying nerves. She never felt comfortable in Blackwater, let alone with the sun baring down on her and crowds of people staring as she walked beside the Mayor, a famous name herself now.

They were walking along the coastal edge of the town, along a street which was leading them slowly toward the ferry docks. That, she could see, was where the majority of the crowd pooled, standing around a stage that had been brought up, apparently, for Mayor Atkinson to speak from. But as they passed a little bench, Siobhan took a pause, trying to pace herself.

Siobhan blew a sudden hiss of breath, gripping the bench, “Oof…”

Mayor Atkinson raised a brow, “Are you alright?”

Archibald laughed at the coarseness of her joke. It seemed he, despite his formality of stature and occupation, could weather such jokes as grave-robbing, and didn’t mind the image of it.

But Siobhan’s face showed no ounce of amusem*nt as Archibald looked down at her, she had actually stopped dead in her tracks. Tharning by the benchside, wide-eyed and pale as a pearl, he followed her line of sight to the butcher on the streetside. He figured, at first, she must be sensitive to gore, but there was none to be found. No, the butcher was simply stringing up dead rabbits.

Archibald heard a dull thud scatter the cobblestones and he looked to his side to see Siobhan had collapsed, fainted clean away. He went to pick her back up and she was perfectly limp. He called for help.

The people quickly gathered around her like a storm swarming and smothering the air around her with a sickness. They tried to pick her up until the Mayor yelled for them not to. Women waved their handkerchiefs. A man ran into the shallow edge of the lake and returned with a wetted hanky of his own, pressing the water to her forehead to cool her.

The Mayor ran quickly away to fetch the doctor and left Siobhan stranded in the service of a dozen strangers who all argued over one another as to what should be done to help her. For minutes the strangers all waved hankies and pooled water against her forehead and to her lips, foreign hands all over her body as she lay unconscious. But eventually, Siobhan opened her eyes, panting, looking around her for any sign of a familiar face—fighting against hands that reached out, groping, to help her to her feet.

But when she arrived at the Doctor’s office, and he took her into the birthing ward, a nurse came to bring her a skrim. And as Siobhan undressed, bending over to get her skirts down, a piercing pain shot through her pelvis to her very throat and she cried out. The nurse came quickly to her side, neglecting to stay behind the privacy screen, and helped stable her with a hand against the bed. Siobhan could barely register how her limbs were being moved by the nurse, getting her undressed. She was so dizzy and blind.

Eventually she was dressed in the loose skrim and the nurse helped her onto the birthing bed. Siobhan felt confused. Everything was so silent and lonely, she did not know where the doctor had gone. She was with a stranger and no family. She almost asked the nurse where Arthur was.

But of course, Arthur was gone…

With another burst of pain, the doctor came back. Doctor Pfeiffer wore a mask and his hands were glistening wet, cleaned with water. He asked the nurse a question to which she grimly shook her head. Siobhan didn’t know what was happening.

Regardless of the fact that she should be, Siobhan was not happy. She was terrified, betrayed, confused. She reached out for Ethel desperately. For some touch of familiarity. “Ethel, what is happening?”

“You’re going into labor,” her yarrow-colored teeth smiled brightly, “Your baby is coming, Siobhan!”

Oh, Siobhan could have screamed for her frustration. She was not stupid! But she did scream, for another reason entirely. A contraction rattled her entire body and left her gritting her teeth and squeezing Ethel’s arm tightly. When it passed, nothing was explained to her about what was happening. She looked around at everyone, panting, and the did very little but hold onto her pulse and look between her legs. She cried, “Should I push?!”

“Under no circ*mstances should you push until I say so. Not yet, Siobhan.” Dr. Pfeiffer said, “You’re not dilated enough.”

God, still, she did not understand what that meant, and could not imagine why in the world it hurt so badly if the baby was not ready to come out. She could practically feel the weight lowering further and further between her pelvis and she knew, as a woman knows her body, that she must push. She began to wonder if something was wrong.

Raucous screams amplified in intensity with each contraction that passed. Dr. Pfeiffer tried to ask her to relax, that it was important in getting to the right dilation, but it was no use. Even he could see, grimacing with sympathy, that the pain was too much. He had no choice but to give her chloroform, and had the nurse take Ethel away as he administered it.

At the same time, the nurse stood between Siobhan’s legs, then, and took from beside the bed great metal stirrups which screeched and caught Siobhan’s attention. She opened her eyes to see her legs being stuck into the stirrups. She clutched at Ethel’s hand, slurring for the weight of the drugs, “W-what… what’re they… Ethel?” Her eyes watered, “What are they doing?”

Wiping sweat from her forehead, Ethel soothed her. Though she had no idea what was going on, had never given birth herself, she trusted the doctors. She realized she had been wrong about the chloroform, for Siobhan was no longer screaming.

“Alright, Siobhan, you’re gonna have to start pushing.” Pfeiffer returned.

Yellowed skin marked points of pressure as she looked down between her legs, all hoisted up on cold metal, muscles straining. She tested a small push, as innocuous as if she were urinating, and found it, alone, overwhelming.

But the doctor repeated himself, “Take a deep breath and push for me, now. Ok, Miss Davenport? It’s time to push.”

Unsure and frozen by her fear, Siobhan tensed up, sucking in a quick breath and looked at her aunt. Ethel still stroked her hand, telling her softly that it was okay. Siobhan tried to imagine it was Arthur here with her instead. She tried to think of him.

In increments, she pushed as he asked, and the dizziness returned tenfold when she stopped. And again and again until she could barely see. And somewhere along the way, a cry broke through the drugged stupor and Siobhan looked quizzically down. The doctor raised up between her knees a naked body all covered in blood with guts coiled and unspooling,—he held up a dead rabbit all skinned and limp.

Wanly hallucination betrayed her. Siobhan screamed in horror and tried to claw herself away but Ethel and the nurse held her down as the doctor covered the rabbit in cloth. The crying that came from the rabbit was shrill and colicky, and Siobhan was encouraged to breathe in those twenty or so seconds it took for her reason to return.

In that time, the doctor wiped her baby clean and lifted it up into her arms, soft and calmly. He soothed, “It’s a girl.”

Lambent in sweat from the labor, Siobhan did not even realize her mistake. Her horror was so quickly eclipsed by her wonder and awe as she was handed her little daughter, that she could barely remember the omen and the augury of her repeated sighting of rabbits. The baby was briefly healthy. Siobhan held her and cried for joy, and named her immediately,—the name came from her mouth before she realized it—Elizabeth.

Life sprung out from her hands, Siobhan’s joy was whole to hold her daughter for the first time. She did not see how her skin was slowly turning blue. She held her forehead to Elizabeth’s and shook her little hand and rocked her in her arms and nothing in the world could steal Siobhan away from the love that overwhelmed her so completely. She never expected it would be so instant, her unequivocal love, but for some mothers, it is just so.

For those last few seconds on Earth, Elizabeth did not cry or squall as healthy babies do. Only, when she touched her mother’s skin as Siobhan scooped her into her arms, she made a little sound of confused sorrow. The heart’s way—like a baby who has no grasp on language—of pleading wordlessly, ‘Why?’

Immobilized by her heart, then, Elizabeth did not move at all. Everything backed away from Siobhan and her daughter as her little white-blue body went cold in her arms. It took much longer for Siobhan to realize what had happened as she tried to get her little daughter to stir with life as she had just a second before. Smiling, thinking she had fallen asleep, and then wailing with the hopelessness of realizing she had not.

“No…?” Siobhan looked to her aunt for answers, for she was the woman she trusted most in that room. Then to the doctor who had saved her life, who had no answer. And heavenward, rendering Siobhan silent. She cried against her newborn’s creased little forehead, “Why?”

Defeated, her aunt shook her head. A terrible grimace grew over their faces as they watched Siobhan clutch at her baby who was limpid and slack, barely any bigger than her mother’s palm. She begged the doctor, but it seemed even she knew there was nothing left to be done. “Please?” She begged.

Until her enervated gasps slowly subsided after the placenta was delivered, Siobhan’s weeping was enough to keep her awake. Then kicked in all of the drugs she had been given after Elizabeth died. They took from her—drowsy and unable to fight it—her little baby from her arms, wrapped her up and prepared to lay her away. The morphine made Siobhan’s tears untangle over her cheeks as her eyes slowly shut. Her consciousness fell, layer by layer, into surrender.

Chapter 26: — FIRE ON THE MOUNTAIN

Chapter Text

JULY 4, 1900

Rosewood, NM

26 days to Salinas, TX.

Rosewood was a tiny town on the eastern border of New Mexico with bright red dirt and small little mountains and hillsides. Some patches of the land so sun-scorched they were nearly white. There, Arthur found the first small town he had come across for two days.

It consisted of four little buildings. A post office and a general store in one, a small livery, a doctor’s office, and an assay office. It was clear that wherever the people of this town lived, it was far away, off winding trails into the mountains or down so far into the vast expanse of empty land that you couldn’t even make them out on the horizon with the naked eye. Arthur passed through slowly, and pulled his horse to a stop at the general store.

The air was hot and rising when his feet hit the dirt. There was not a sound in the whole town except the creaking of the assay sign a door or two down. His weight bowed the creaking wood as he stepped onto the porch. A tinny bell announced his entrance into the little dusty-smelling room.

The store was tiny but packed. Every wall had three horizontally stacked shelves running along them, packed with all sorts of things. All of it caked in layers of dust. An old woman sat in a rocking chair behind a table with a little lockbox which must have been the register. Arthur came over to her, clearing his throat. He spoke quietly. Everything else was quiet. “Got any water?”

“Water’s free, young man.” The woman croaked. She had heavy arms, sagging skin leathery and almost yellow.

Arthur could see a well out in the distance through a little window over her shoulder. The glass was pitted with dirt and sand. He looked back at the woman, blinking for the light spots that remained in his vision, adjusting for the darkness of the room. “I think I’ll just get some cans then.”

“We got green beans, string beans, squash, peaches, baked beans, sweetcorn—,” she still rocked back and forth as she listed it all off. Arthur was perusing the shelves, “The corn’s alls we’ll have for a while, those fields down the way is all burnin’ up in that fire.”

Arthur was deep in thought and had practically stopped listening to her as soon as she started listing off what he could clearly read himself. He brought three cans of sweetcorn to the table and a few others of baked beans. And he squinted at her, “Fire, you said? Where?”

“Had a big old quake the other day, so big what could rock the crows off the trees. Burst those farmer’s gas lines and, phew!” She threw up her hands all wrinkles and overgrown nails, “Corn went up like that. Turned into a big old wild thing, spreadin’ across the border into Texas.”

Arthur looked concerned as the woman took his cans, inspecting their corners for their price and figuring them up on her little sheet of paper. He tried to peer out of the window a little further, from edge to edge, past the aperture, to see if he could spot a sign of the fire she referred to.

The woman watched him carefully as he dug into his pockets before she answered him, making sure he was going for his cash. “Just outside the city limits, leadin’ over into Amarillo. Why? Fixin’ to take yourself to Texas, cowpoke? I reckon you’ll ain’t make it but two miles before you’ll have to turn south and run it to the Mexican border.”

Arthur frowned, setting down a dollar, five quarters, two dimes and a nickel. “You can’t just go around it up north?” He frowned, “How goddamn big is it?”

“Goddamn yourself, young man!” The woman barked, “Ain’t you learnt any manners? Talkin’ like that before the crucifix…”

Arthur peered overhead at it, hadn’t noticed it until she pointed it out, and waved at her with his hand, “Thank you, ma’am.” Dismissing himself with what manners he had.

He set out for the Texan border after packing away his cans into his saddlebag. It took him about two miles, as the woman had predicted, before he saw any indication of a fire. And there it was.

First, a blanket of smoke that looked like a curling tsunami wave crossing over a deep and wide valley. Empty as far as the eye could see from corner to corner of the careening horizon. Empty aside from, of course, the combing smoke burning black as night. And somewhere beneath it poked little teething spots of blazing red.

Arthur could not see a way around it on either side, though he could see that it was blowing southeast. It blocked his route to the Texan panhandle completely.

He stared at it for a few moments, just taking in the breadth of the sulfur that blew over, in furling coils, into itself. Tendrils weaving in and out through the atmosphere as it spread across the valley. He could smell it from there, the thick and piercing smoky pine.

It didn’t stop him immediately. When Arthur Morgan told himself he’d cross through hell to find his wife, he apparently meant to put it to the test.

He crossed the valley, heading around it to the north. He prayed that monstrous thing didn’t change directions with the wind. He’d be careful to pay attention to that.

As he got closer and closer to its retreat at the northern cape of it, there was a small neighborhood of houses that grew into view. An isolated little spattering of buildings all fenced in with flame.

When he passed through, though he swore it had been noon, the sun seemed to start to dim. He only realized as he got closer to the houses that the smoke was clouding the sky so thickly it looked almost like it was turning to night. The people of the neighborhood were crowding onto the trail with their horses saddled and wagons hitched, taking buckets of water to the edge of the fence.

Arthur stopped by their well,—in the center of the trail—for just a second, taking his bandana into his hand and dunking it into the water. Everyone was so panicked with saving their houses from the fire that they paid absolutely no attention to him. Did not see how he sized the thing up as he plastered the wet bandana to his face and tied it around the back of his head.

The lingering tendrils of crawling flames that had reached this side of the valley were blowing south still. He quickly got back on his horse. Going south around this thing would add an extra two or three weeks to the trip, and he couldn’t in his heart spare that kind of patience. He would not be stopped.

He charged with his little nag through the neighborhood and rounded the fire’s head for miles. Always just on the edge of it. He rode until the sun wasactually beginning to set.

The air was hot and filled with smoke that hugged, cloying, itself to his bandana. And eventually when it had gathered so much smoke the pattern was soot-stained and black, and had dried up completely, Arthur could taste the ash in the back of his throat.

He pulled his horse to a quick stop as he searched around himself for his waterskin to douse the bandana again. And in those few moments the air was so thick with smoke he hoarsely choked on every starved inhalation. He did not realize how the wind had started to churn and swirl around him as if something were getting closer. He was distracted by tying the thing around his mouth and nose again.

But then the nag started to dance anxiously beneath him and Arthur looked down to see little sparks starting flames around her feet. For just a hair of a second he startled frozen, thinking he was going to be thrown from the horse and trapped in the fire as the wind changed and overtook him completely. He dug his spurs into her side then, charging forward as the wind changed direction.

It seemed he had no choice, once he got started and kicked the horse into motion, but to go forward. No matter how he urged, the horse would not turn and lunge to the left. He soared through an oncoming thicket of trees as they caught the blaze, his impatience damning him.

The horse whinnied with anxiety as Arthur tried to take her straight through the thicket, at the very least getting out of the trees, but she was unfettered. He hissed at himself, “Christ, Morgan, the hell have you gotten yourself into now?! Yah!”

Another burst of speed sent the horse galloping faster but as he went deeper into the trees the fire only thickened. It seemed he was quickly surrounded on all sides. Smoke smothered his eyes and he tried his damndest to blink away the burning tears to see straight. The noise was overwhelming; a furnace roaring all around him on all sides, taking down tree branches, the wind teeming with hot sparks.

For a minute or so, the forest broke up into an open dell, enclosed on all sides; a circle of wood. Arthur stopped for just a second to allow the horse to breathe in the air less packed with smoke, and looked around him in full disbelief at the sight of it.

Around the dell, a perfect ring of fire smoked upward into the sky from the burning copse. Like an engine sputtering and roaring the wind fanned the lapping flames. Their fiery wings cutting through the air and bursting at the pinnacle of whatever it had clawed itself to. Then,—from somewhere in the pines, a ball of flame shot forth, screeching. A dove had caught fire and took flight, frantically flapping its wings as it dipped further and further and rolled mid-air and hit the ground beside Arthur’s horse. It fluttered and struggled in the grass for a few moments before it curled up under the flame, charring its white feathers black, and died. Dying slowly—like sickness creeps into bones—and drowning in the embrace of the fire, nearly maternal. After which, she made no noise.

While Arthur was still struck by the sight of such a thing, he heard the rumbling, cracking sound of a tree splitting down its center. And just before he could find it, the tree crashed down in front of the horse who reared up and threw Arthur off of her.

Arthur hit the ground shouting as the morgan horse ran off in a thunder of hooves and left him stranded in a ring that enclosed like a shutter as the fire grew larger. He quickly got to his feet and pulled his bandana right which had slipped off his face. He wiped his eyes and when he got to his feet, cried out. A little lip of fire had caught the edge of his jeans and now burned his ankle. The pain was instantly familiar, like the cauterization of his wounds in the prison. He could feel beneath the sear the taught pull of wire inside his skin as stitches were torn through as pulleys. He hurriedly patted it out with his hand and looked off in the direction his horse had gone, hoping to find her before either of them burned to death.

And somewhere in the shaping oeuvre of the amber-yellow light, a figure formed as perfectly as if her body were made of flames and her hair made of water; he could see Siobhan.

And he could not tell whether she was coming toward him or he was going toward her, but he froze within the astonishment of that damascene second that made him punch himself in the chest to quell—terrified of his impulse!—the sudden desire to run forward into the flame. He looked frantically around him, throwing himself into a nearly truculent analysis of his surroundings. He could see clearly, once his sense returned to him, a clear path to run through after his horse. And he seized the briefly enclosing moment where the fire colonnaded around the path.

It was so hot, the air seemed to burn the moisture clean out of his body and he swore the swelter would cause him to black out. But he ran with everything he had because he knew he was trapped. There was nothing else to do but run.

The forest was fully alight. He could make out every trunk of every tree, and no light came through the canopy of smoke above him. Sparks flew at him with the same formation of rain, stinging his skin before dying. The sulfur choked the oxygen from the air, and stole breath from his very lungs.

And through his lightheadedness he ran, following the dim outline of hoof marks in the dirt, praying he could find his horse before it was too late. His mind was suddenly plagued with thoughts he could not trace the source of. And he actively tried, for the sake of his survival, to push them out of his brain as he ran for his life. He imagined the exact moment Dutch must have fell, like a wooden boxful tumbles to the ground, and hit resistance as he hanged. He’d seen it before.

He remembered how he had told Siobhan about Copper’s death—and to think of that now?— and that he didn’t know any funeral prayers. It occurred to him now, why that was. He had never been to a funeral; and not for any lack of death around him. He had only seen hangings and sudden deaths abandoned. No ceremony.

He could see Dutch’s death right there before him, it took little power of the imagination.

He could sense, like a hot calenture suffocating his head with stuffy dreams, that someone had died. But he was not the type to believe in augury or omen. He could have laughed at himself for how stupidly he was acting. He was going to end up dead one day if he kept acting like this. But then,—through the firestorm, he heard the ringing of a bell. Distant and foggy, as the smoke blinded him, he could still source the sound.

So he followed it. There was little else he could do but follow it. It was all he could hear underneath the howling wind that evaporated all sense of orientation from his body.

“Ahhh, I’m sorry girl…” He covered his bandana with his hand, his face all torn up with guilt, if it could have been seen underneath the blackened smoke that marked his face. He had no choice but to push on, and followed the bell blindly.

He followed it until he could begin to hear shouting, inside every pause in which the bell stopped, a man warned, yelling, “Fire! Fire!”

But he realized why he had done it, why he had crossed through the fire so stupidly, seemingly without thought. It was obvious. Without Siobhan, he was nothing. He was hardly more than just flesh and bone; no soul, no heart. If he had burned up in those flames with nothing left of him but his bones, it would be no different.

SIOBHAN

SEPTEMBER 10, 1895

Salinas, TX

2 years, 3 months, and 8 days before the Blackwater Massacre

Siobhan listened to the wind gently blow into her window and luff her pink curtains. The birds sat right outside, hopping from branch to branch and hanging on the edges of her windowsill. But she was rather oblivious to them. She sat on the floor beside her door, as she often did, with a book in her lap. Bored out of her mind, she stared at the pages of text and grew more and more infuriated with the nature of the main protagonist for whom the book was named, the Count of Monte Cristo.

She could not rightly understand his lust for revenge. She couldn’t fathom how he could steal away with his fortune and insert himself needlessly in the lives of those who, more or less, put him on the path toward his wealth. She didn’t understand his heartbreak over Mercédès and furthermore, could not understand how in Hell Haydée ever came to love the man who’d bought her as a slave no matter how he insisted on allowing her her freedom. She imagined, were she in the Count’s shoes, she’d have moved on with her life and gotten over it.

And if she were in Haydée’s shoes (which was easy to imagine considering they were both thirteen and imprisoned to some degree), she’d probably have killed the Count and the book would’ve been over a lot sooner. Though she couldn’t deny the excitement of the drama.

“Oh, now. Lots of girls your age wear dresses like this.” Ethel rolled her eyes at Siobhan’s exaggeration and held the dress up to her. “You look very pretty. It compliments your hair.”

“And…” Ethel then laid it on the bed. “I have a surprise for you.”

Ethel brought in a corset. Corded and boned with stiff baleen, clearly brand new. Siobhan’s chest constricted just looking at it. She shook her head, “I don’t want to be all trussed up like a turkey, either!”

Ethel rolled her eyes at Siobhan, pursing her lips, “Don’t be dramatic, now. Come here.”

Siobhan watched her aunt fan the corset between her arms in a motion that summoned her forward, but she still had to convince herself it was safe. She figured she might as well try it and see. She approached it warily, like a cat sniffing out a little green object on the floor. Ethel swiftly turned her by her shoulder and wrapped the baleen around Siobhan’s shift, walking her up to the mirror.

“This’ll draw attention to your new curves.” Ethel said proudly. “It won’t make any difference, you’re too young to go gallivanting with men,” She chuckled, “But it should make you feel pretty. You should get used to the feeling of the whalebone...”

At the end of it, Siobhan tore the bones off her. “I hate it!” She cried. “It feels awful.”

Ethel wasn’t as adamant about it as all that. If it were up to her, better not to force the girl into wearing it until she was more comfortable with it. But Richard had come knocking on the door when he heard Siobhan protest as she had,—and that would not stand. He let himself into her bedroom and stared at his niece in her shift, “What’s going on?”

Siobhan crossed her arms.

“Oh, Richie,” Ethel batted him away, “It’s nothing for you to concern yourself with. She just doesn’t want to wear the corset.”

Richard looked at Siobhan then. “‘Doesn’t want to?’ I just bought that for you, young lady, and it wasn’t cheap.” He raised his voice, “Now you had better put it on and make yourself look nice, I won’t have you looking like a little street urchin at my fundraiser.”

Siobhan stamped her feet, “Why?!” She looked disgusted, “So I can look attractive enough to marry off?”

“Now!” Richard co*cked his head sideways, taking a step forward.

And Siobhan stupidly went on, roaring with the might of her small voice, “So you can marry me yourself?”

Richard slapped her clean across the face. “You disgusting little brat.” He grabbed her by the forearm, ready to drag her out of the room. “You’ll show me some respect.”

Siobhan yanked herself so coarsely from his arm, baring to him her red-stinging cheek as she lost her footing and crashed into the wall. She picked up her book from the ground and hauled it at his head, shrieking, “Go to Hell!”

Ethel and Richard both instantly moved, though the former tried to intervene, while Richard had more sinister ambitions. He quickly overcame Siobhan though she scratched and punched and kicked and bit. He was all bleeding scratches and red bite marks by the time he got Siobhan downstairs, kicking her down the last two steps, and pulling her back up by her bicep.

She was crying and crying when he threw her to the ground in the kitchen and while she soothed her aching knees and forming bruises, she heard the familiar shaking rattle of rice in a bowl.

He muttered in a rage, “Scratching me up before the fundraiser. A gash across my cheek! I should tear the nails out of your fingers you little bitch.”

Ethel was telling him to calm down shrill as a harpy, had already ran across the hall and got his pills the second she saw Richard kick Siobhan down the stairs.

He scattered the rice on the tiles. “Get over here, now. On your knees!”

Siobhan had done it too many times before, would not do it again. Feel him leering over her from behind as she kneeled on rice for hours, staring at nothing but a blank cabinet, bruised already everywhere else.

She got up to her feet though she had hit her ankle badly on the edge of the stairs. And she quickly bolted for the kitchen door. Knocking into it as the lock and bolt resisted. She could feel her uncle stomping after her but her quick and frantic fingers unlocked the door just in time. She slipped out so quickly she crushed his fingers in the doorway on her way out,—and that small little satisfaction of revenge gave her the fuel she needed to run fast, though she dreaded how badly she’d be punished when she got back. He hollered after her.

Next time, she truly believed, he’ll kill me for certain.

And the only reason it hadn’t happened yet, she reasoned, was that she’d only lived with him a year. But it was only a matter of time. So she ran as fast as she could and figured, once she got far enough away, she’d start to consider leaving for good.

Siobhan ran into the sugarcane fields crying, desperate to run away from them as they yelled and screamed for her from the house. The sugarfront went on for miles and miles and she was sure if she got good and lost they’d never wait for her and she could miss the whole event. So she ran so far into it, through the sugar-splinters that seared her footsoles, that she could no longer see which way she had come or which way to go. And the air was so condensed, she couldn’t even make out the sky above her.

She went a little further in for good measure, just in case he sent anyone after her, and finally, found herself a spot to lay down. She kicked away the torn sheafs of sugar stalk that littered the ground until it was a bald patch of hard dirt and laid down. Now her biggest worry was simply not to be bit by any snakes.

And she thought up any number of ways she could run away. It scared her, the thought of heading out there alone. She knew the world was a dangerous place in 1895, and she’d be likely to get kidnapped or killed. Hell, Richard still found it easy to take her down no matter how much she twisted and grimaced against him. She could kick and flail but she could not grow any larger or stronger. That would simply take time.

And suddenly, as she sat in the center of that field, staring up at the sky, she heard a roaring of air that was not wind. It confused her, the sound. How it creaked and popped and crackled. And her nose was filled with the scent of smoky grasses. What she saw carried over her were clouds so black and so full of sparks she couldn’t have mistaken it for anything but smoke.

And she realized, (How had she forgotten?!), that it was the start of the burning season and that within minutes the whole field would be set ablaze. She hauled up to her feet in a jumping second as a tiny spark hit the pile of sugarcane sheafs she had made and started a little fire at her feet.

She panicked and ran. She couldn’t see where she was. She couldn’t see anything but a maze of sugarcane that surrounded her everywhere. So she ran in the other direction of the smoke and prayed the wind had not sent it swirling from someplace else.

Sugarcane whirred past her in a blur of burnt green as she ran as fast as her legs could take her, choking on smoke that wafted through the stalks. Every row was at least ten feet tall, some higher, and corralled her on all sides. She was completely blind. She panted as she ran, beginning to cry for how scared she was that she’d burn alive out here,—the flames were getting closer.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Mr. Blythe suddenly grabbed her by the shoulders, “What are you doing in the fields, little girl, don’t you see they’re burnin’?”

Siobhan stared up at him with her glassy eyes all afraid and tepid. She wiped her smoke-stained cheek of tears.

“And no shoes on, neither.” He tutted. “Let’s get you on back home, now.”

Siobhan all but screamed, jerking against his hand. “No!”

Mr. Blythe frowned at her, surprised by her reaction. Upon closer inspection, he could see a little bruise on her cheek that was not just a mark of dirt or soot. He wasn’t an ignorant man. He knew her uncle was cruel and had likely done something cruel again and made her try to run away. And he felt bad for her. Awful bad. But he couldn’t just take her back home with him. Not with his daughter all touched in the head as she was. He sighed. “Well, let’s get out of the field at least.”

Siobhan recognized that he understood why she didn’t want to go back home, and for that reason alone did she follow him away from the crawling flames.

He took her down the path in the opposite direction from which she had came and it was this detour that made her realize she would have burned alive if she hadn’t ran away as quickly as she had. She was trembling afraid.

Mr. Blythe brought her a mile or so away from his house and sat her down on a rock aside the street. “Now, what were you doing out there, huh?” He sat down next to her. She was covered in smoke.

He packed his cheek and Siobhan looked down at her lap, ashamed of herself.

“Ya lucky you wasn't caught in those flames. And any further you’d have gone, lawd knows who mighta’ picked you up. You’re too young to be runnin’ away.” Mr. Blythe suggested.

“But I can’t live with him!” She wailed, “He hurts me! I feel trapped. I’d rather burn in those damn fields, I swear i—”

Mr. Blythe patted her shoulder. “Shhh, now, child.” He shook his head, “I know all about what you’re goin’ through. I wish I could take you from that man or let you stay with me or somethin’ but it’s out of my control.”

He let go of her, letting her wipe her cheeks clear. “Let me tell you this, now.” He squinted back at his little house on the hill, “You wait ‘til you’re a little older before you try runnin’ off like that again. Eighteen, at least. And when you do, come over to my house there,” he pointed at it, “And we’ll give you some food and some money to start ya on your way. Ok, suga’? But don’t you go tellin’ ya aunt or uncle o’yours, ya hear me?”

Siobhan took a deep breath, looking off at his house and imagining herself coming in the middle of the night like a princess in a fairytale setting off to run away. She nodded at Mr. Blythe, though she did not truly believe it would ever happen for her. Eighteen? She repeated in her head, I can’t imagine I’d make it that long.

Chapter 27: — IF THE POISON WON'T TAKE YOU MY DOGS WILL

Chapter Text

JULY 4, 1900
Salinas, TX

There was no response. Her niece leaned her chin over the armrest of the couch and warmed her face to the golden light. Her breasts were sore from days of expressing milk into jars and then solemnly tossing the contents down the bathroom drain. It was the sort of pain that made her feel completely apart from her body. The kind of sensation which drops like a brick of lead into your stomach, pitting it with a dysphoric guilt and displacing your soul.

Ethel sat beside her and put her hand gently on Siobhan’s head, stroking her hair. “I know it’s hard, Siobhan, I do.”

She had been calloused to the sensation of her own pain by the time Ethel came back to her. Had no intention to start crying again until she heard those words.

“But you must know it isn’t your fault, honey.” Ethel was trying to be reassuring by speaking from her own experience with infertility and child loss.

But Siobhan had no notion of Ethel’s experiences and felt, for her to say something so specific as that, it must have meant that she knew it was somehow Siobhan’s fault, and was simply trying to make her feel better. Her aunt always had an extreme discomfort with the prospect of Siobhan not being happy. And she had spent days wailing aloud and trembling silently to think of all she had done to lose her daughter.

Siobhan clawed at her skin, “He’ll never forgive me.” She muttered.

“Who will never forgive you, honey? The father?” Ethel looked down at her niece who nodded. “Oh, you silly thing. You don’t want to see him again. Why would you ever want to see that monster again?”

Siobhan sat up a little straighter, faced with the lingering consequence of another one of her horrible mistakes. Lying about Arthur, and for what? She could not protect Elizabeth from herself anyway… “He never raped me, Ethel.” She bayed, her voice stuffy and ugly, “I loved him and he loved me. From the start.”

Ethel blanched, “Don’t talk like that, honey. I know you’re upset but that man, that—that… outlaw ruined you. Look at your hands!”

Siobhan turned away, shaking her head. She pronounced it solemnly. As one laments the memory of love lost, never to return. “We loved each other truly. He saved my life and I saved his. I wanted his child. I wanted it with all my heart.” Ethel pulled her into a hug, disturbed by what she believed was twisted melancholy, “I only lied so the Pinkertons wouldn’t hang me for killing Milton and being part of the robbery.”

She felt Ethel go stiff but she continued to speak. “And I know it’s all my fault. I’d have let them hang me if I wasn’t pregnant, and I should have. She’s dead and I’m all alone and even if I ever saw Arthur again, he knows about the abortion. He knows I killed her.”

“Abortion?” Ethel all but screamed, “What abortion, dear? You’re making no sense!”

Siobhan was so fragile to her grief that she had no sense to remind her who she was speaking to. Who, she knew, would throw her out for what she had done. Or, perhaps, she was so turned over with self-loathing that she wished Ethel woulddisown her.

“I was so stupid. I thought he wouldn’t want her. I thought we weren’t ready. I thought she would kill me.” Siobhan’s sentence broke off into another sob and Ethel sat slightly further from her.

“What in God’s name do you mean, Siobhan?” Ethel spat, “You tried to get rid of her? What a sin—what a! How could you waste such a privilege like that? Do you know how many lost children I have prayed nightly over for God to spare? Of course that’s why she’s gone!”

Siobhan could hardly meet her aunt’s eye. She could only imagine such pain. She buried her face in her hands. Her mind swirled with guilt and hatred. Of course that’s why she’s gone. “I hate myself!” She screamed into her hands, “I don’t want to live…”

Now Ethel’s discomfort made her stutter. She stared at her poor niece who spoke of countless grievous sins and began to feel some pity. She leaned forward and took Siobhan into her arms once more. “Now, now.” She stroked her head though she was perturbed in her heart to hear what a terrible thing Siobhan had done. She felt she was holding sin itself. She was almost reassuring herself more than Siobhan, “You need only repent, honey. Repent and maybe God will forgive you.”

Siobhan broke away at the thought and, as she looked at the fireplace, recalled how she had so selfishly renounced God all those nights ago with Arthur. Saying that she didn’t believe in Hell. It was almost laughable how directly God punished her for it. How selfish she thought herself then. How she loathed to think of what excess, what pride, arrogance, and Godlessness.

What happened to her?

The flames crackled and her aunt wiped her nose, still shaking her head. What exactly did she have to live for at this point…? And the question hit her with its suddenness.

I don’t have my daughter… I am alone.

Siobhan couldn’t bear to hear any more of her uncle, but could not move and sunk even lower in the presence of his weighted belittlement.

Siobhan wheezed, “Kill me… I’ll come b-hack and h-haunt you u-uhntil you go ma-ad.”

Siobhan almost laughed to see such a thing. Nothing had ever changed. Everything with Arthur and the gang was pure facsimile. A fairytale. A brief interlude in between the truth of her fate in life. She was doomed from the start by her bloodline. It was always going to end like this. She wished he would kill her.

“Oh, God!” She tore her hand away from the dog and looked at Richard’s body. Only really seeing what she had done for the first time. What she swore to herself she’d never do.

Her dread withdrew her from the terrible scene and she stared at Ethel through her tears. Watching her aunt’s gazeless horror, Siobhan’s body sunk into the depths of her soul with the weight of her guilt, and she sobbed and sobbed. It was the only noise in the room; the murderer’s lament.— Ethel was silent.

Siobhan’s stomach dropped and turned inside out. She felt sick and began to heave dry, choked cries. Clutching her stomach, she fell to the ground and shielded her body from the sight of her uncle’s body and the smell of his unbeating blood. She gagged each time she inhaled, trying to guard herself from the scent. But it was futile, she was covered in it. She tried to wipe the blood off of her, scouring her skin with scratches, sobbing. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”

Siobhan pulled at her clothes, tearing them as she desperately clawed. Trying to scratch herself out of her own body. “I didn’t mean to—I’m sorry!”

And then came the eclipse of glee. The release of maddening pleasure. The sudden glory of his blood and how she felt his awful presence wash away under it. She could do nothing but smile as the image flashed before her eyes of his decerebrate body wanly and blood-soaked as if he were a spider that fell from the ceiling. His skull empty of anything good, broken to the open air. She was of his blood and his flesh and still she grinned in her crying madness, in that whirling gyre of memories and voices, din and resounding. The knife dropped between them and separated their flesh at last.

*

The roadside of the town of Clematis was covered with flowers. Purple and blooming, outstretching their petals into little hugs for all the creatures that could fit inside.

A willow beauty flew frenetic and full of life over Siobhan’s head and landed on the traveller’s joy. Her hair was matted and tangled, so covered in dirt it was no longer gold. Her skin was dry, her lips cracking. Her feet covered so vastly in blisters they bled wherever she walked. But the blood that covered her head-to-toe kept her identity hidden and kept any passerbys well away. And were she to find—in her toilsome wandering—a river, it was more likely she'd drown in it than drink from it or wash herself clean of the sin that stained her.

She’d drank barely any water in a day and a half and now under the violence of the molten July sun, in its cracking air, Siobhan was getting light-headed and her vision dimmed so quickly—spinning and spinning—that she fell down into the dirt in the center of that crowded street and fainted. From across the street, the newspaper boy watched her fall and dropped his paper and pointed.

And the man in front of him buying a paper, who had not seen her approach, turned at the newspaper boy’s concern and saw her lying face-down in the dirt. His eyes widened at the sight of a girl all covered in blood and limp and he went to her side. When he brought her up to her feet, halting carriages on each side of the road, she could begin to see again though only dimly. Only to faint once again. So, once she was all passed out and gone again, he threw her over his shoulder and brought her to his wagon as the other women started to pile in. He smacked the side of the wagon and off everyone went. Nobody in Clematis ever asked any questions.

Siobhan woke up hours later in a tent of striped colors, surrounded by music and noise and bodies all dressed up. Everything smelled like sweat and popcorn. Her kidnapper holding her head up spoke against her face, “What happened to you? Are you thirsty?”

Siobhan smacked his hand away, “Who are you?”

“Bring her some water, Cleopatra.” He said and a woman half-naked behind him did as he asked. She was wearing purple silk over her breasts and her privates, and everything hung with clinking gold coins. She had a black bob with bangs and beads in her hair, all evidently a poorly researched costume of Cleopatra.

Siobhan looked around her with her half-closed eyes, exhausted and blinded. She was in a large, round tent. Marked with the colors, sounds, and smells of a carnival. It explained the costumes. When Cleopatra came back her legs were all wet and her hands glistening with a tin of water. The carny gave it to Siobhan and as the water dripped down her face and neck from her desperate gulping, it washed away some of the dirt and he could tell underneath it all she was a very pretty girl.

Siobhan could see that he was fairly dirty himself, dressed up in all manner of vibrant colors and strange patterns and wearing pockets full of pamphlets and gazettes. “Where did you bring me?”

Then Cleopatra behind him laughed and asked, “Is that how you got blood all over you?” Her accent was thick, a poor imitation of an Egyptian accent. “Shot someone in the spine?”

Siobhan raised her bitter eyes to the woman. “Want to find out?”

Siobhan was reluctant to answer any of these questions. The music of a calliope shifted around her like breathing lungs, wheezy accordions and zydecos. Harpsichords, clavichords and drums. She had never been to a carnival before but she never imagined those working in its tents would be as rough and dirty as this. She raised her eyes again to Cleopatra and shut her mouth tightly.

She raised a brow, tutting, “Then you’re even luckier to be here. Law doesn’t come here. Nobody powerful does. We move around too much for anyone to remember us anyway.”

Siobhan looked between the two, then. “You’re on the road? Are you heading west?”

Andrew nodded, “‘Til we hit the coast.”

Her eyes widened. She wasn’t even thinking straight. She thought only of Arthur,—and very little of what she’d have to admit to him. “Can I stay with you, then? You won’t even notice I’m here, I can—”

Andrew laughed. Cleopatra scoffed.

“If you’re eating our food, filling our bedrolls and drinking our booze, we’ll notice you’re here.” He put his hand on his knee, inspecting Siobhan’s opportunistic panic. “If you wanna stay, you’ll have to earn your keep.”

Cleopatra moved toward the other side of the tent, opening a trunk. Andrew moved his head so as to keep Siobhan’s eyes on him. “You look like you can do a little bit of work, right?”

Siobhan took a deep breath. “What kind of work?”

“Whatever you can.” He looked her over, “If you got a talent, we’ll find it. Entertainment, amusem*nt. This is a carnival.”

Siobhan looked down at her hands, “I can play the piano.”

He and Cleopatra laughed again. “You think we lug those big things around?” He picked up her hands and before Siobhan could pull them back and hide them, he saw her scars. He looked up at her face as she pulled them against her chest protectively. “You killed lots of people ain’t you?”

Siobhan kept her mouth shut. She saw over Andrew’s shoulder how Cleopatra pulled out costumes and perfumes and props, all in opportunity for her, apparently. Then Cleopatra came over and underneath Andrew’s inspection, started to clean Siobhan off with a wet rag.

Siobhan looked between the hands running slowly down her arms with that cool rag and at Andrew, who pursed his lips against his fingers, thinking. Cleopatra cooed as she wiped Siobhan’s face, “She’s terribly pretty for a fighter.”

Andrew corked up his brow, “A pretty fighter and an ugly fighter.” Andrew said. Siobhan didn’t understand. He chuckled, “Could be a show.”

Cleopatra co*cked her head to the side in slight agreement. Siobhan looked up to her, “A fighter?”

“Shh, shh.” Cleopatra said and put her finger to Siobhan’s mouth. Siobhan was taken aback by the sudden movement and looked up into Cleo’s wide, gorgeous eyes in submission. She smiled, “You’ll be the main attraction.”

Andrew tapped his foot, “But your hair.” He said. Siobhan’s eyes snapped to his. “I’m sure you’ve been recognized for that hair a hundred times.”

Cleopatra looked it over and nodded, “The girl with the golden hair. I know her.”

“You know me?” Siobhan said, staring up at her.

Again, Cleo shushed her, “Now, now. Let’s not let your reputation be known.” She looked at Andrew, “Famous golden-headed man-killing girl. Davenport.”

Andrew’s eyebrows raised in surprise. “Well, well, well. The girl from Texas? Even here in New Mexico, you have a reputation.”

“New Mexico? I walked that far?”

“No.” Andrew shook his head. “You walked far, but we brought you farther.” He suddenly sat forward, “And your hair is very recognizable.”

Siobhan shook her head, could already sense where this was going. She looked up at Cleopatra who had a fistful of it in her hand, and back at Andrew. “No, please. I won’t cut it.”

Andrew chirked and chivvied, “You have to. If someone knew we had the Davenport girl… We dealt with Pinkertons once before, do you know what happened?”

Siobhan shook her head, trembling. Cleopatra ran her fingers through Siobhan’s hair.

“They came in and shot half of us. Screaming ‘kill the freaks, kill the freaks.’” He whispered, “That was hardly four years ago, now. We still mourn those we lost.”

Cleopatra then had shears in her palm, softly brushing Siobhan’s hair, making little sounds of delight at its softness and its beauty.

Siobhan started to cry, “Please. My mama—”

“Oh,” Cleopatra tutted mockingly, “Andy, her mother!”

Though she hated it, Siobhan couldn’t imagine a way her despondence could be surpassed nor contributed to. It was already vacuous with its grasp on her heart. So she didn’t fight—was tapped of all her energy—and let them do what they would. Then she heard the first snip of the shears and as she shuddered, closing her eyes and bracing herself cut-by-cut, Andrew watched and said, “It must be done, man-killing girl. Cut our little Murderess free, now.”

Chapter 28: — ポルターガイスト (POLTERGEISTS)

Chapter Text

JULY 10, 1900
Clematis, NM

It was the day of Siobhan’s first performance. The tents had all been set up, the lights strung, the curtains drawn, everyone in their places. Siobhan spoke to no-one, even those who tried to speak to her. She slept at night beside Cleopatra and stared at the back of her head, black hair shiny and loose, and scorned them both for the things women could do to each other. And in the night when she was occasionally alone, in the darkness of the tent where the only light bled through artificial and pink through the colored fabric of the luffing walls—where she could not see the stars—she would think of Arthur. He would come to her so real in the darkness that she could feel the air part around his body. She could feel his breath on her skin. The vibration of his voice in her ribcage. In the darkness she was Psyche and he was Eros; invisible, but physical. Always leaving before she could know him again.

And then the sun would come up and she would realize he was never there at all.

That morning was quiet. The music hadn’t begun, the voices were low and quiet. All she could hear was the squelching of mud underfoot and under hooves. Cleopatra woke her as she did every morning and today got Siobhan dressed. She handed her a two-piece costume like the one Cleopatra herself wore and fervently, Siobhan shook her head. “I won’t show my stomach.”

Cleopatra raised her brow, “Don’t worry. Fiona is uglier than sin itself. The audience won’t be concerned with a little pudgy girl.”

Siobhan guarded herself, backing away and shaking her head. “I won’t.”

“Fine.” Cleo rolled her eyes, “You will be Persephone, then.”

She pulled from the long trunk a Grecian wrapped chiton. Flowing white fabric from the top of Cleo’s head to the floor. Siobhan stared at it, “It’s too long.”

Cleo smacked her lips, snapping, “Stop complaining, girl.” She sighed, looking the dress over, “I will cut it. It will only get ruined anyway.”

Siobhan hated this woman. With every fiber of her being, she could not stand being told what to do by someone so self-congratulating and self-concerned as this fraudulent Cleopatra. Siobhan frustratedly blew her breath upward, trying to nag the tickling bangs of hair out of her eyes. She still didn’t know what they were going to make her do.

Cleopatra handed her a banana. “Eat this before you go. Good for your heart.”

Siobhan gagged, backing away from it. “I hate bananas.”

Cleo smacked her clean across the face, amused at Siobhan’s shock, “Stop being such a spoiled brat. You’re no princess.”

Siobhan gaped, looking back at her. Cleopatra turned away from Siobhan's offense, cavalier and pleased with herself. Siobhan grabbed the banana, peeled it and took it into her hand. She clawed at Cleopatra by the back of her head, forced her hand against her mouth, “You eat it!”

And Cleopatra shrieked and wailed and threw her hands around, slapping and smacking at Siobhan as she did the same. Banana flying everywhere as the two swatted like cats.

“Training her for the show, Cleopatra?”

Instantly, Cleo let go of Siobhan and as Siobhan swung her fist, caught her by the arm and held her still, facing Andrew as if he were a king to curtsy and greet. Siobhan turned around to see him and wagged her head, “I’ll kill this dog-faced bitch before she calls me a princess again!”

“So angry, little Murderess.” Andrew tutted, walking toward her. He eyed her, “You must’ve killed someone important. Word is, people are looking for you.”

Siobhan stiffened and pulled her arm from Cleopatra’s grip. Her voice wavered slightly, “For murder?”

Andrew raised a brow. His eyes met Cleopatra’s, sharp and clandestine. He looked back at Siobhan, “Yes. For murder. Who did you kill, anyway? To warrant such a reaction.”

Siobhan swallowed, lowering her eyes. Christ, she thought, wanted for murder… Her heart ached to think she might not make it back to Arthur before she was found by some Sheriff or Pinkerton and hanged again. And what would save her then?

She held her tongue, would not incriminate herself to strangers nor someone as hideous of personality as Cleopatra, who’d probably turn Siobhan in the second she got the chance. So she lied, sort of, “My father. My mother.” She looked back at Cleopatra, “And you’re next if you touch me again!”

Andrew chuckled, “You always fight with the new girls, don’t you, Cleo? You hate any girl who’s prettier than you.”

Siobhan and Cleopatra both stared at him then, one for the sting of truth and the other for the disgust of his lecherous comment. For the first time, Siobhan did not mind being on the same side of the tent as Cleopatra, not while that man stood on the other side of it. “Get ready. The tent is filling up.” He said, and swiftly turned out.

In his quiet absence, Siobhan and Cleopatra looked at each other. Siobhan still hated the sight of that woman, but she felt a slight sensitivity now toward her situation, which she was beginning to realize was probably not much better than Siobhan’s herself. Then, with a bitter twist in her stomach, she realized that was not true and that nothing underneath God’s great sky could hurt that woman more than Siobhan had been hurt. That kind of pain comes only from within and crawls its way out.

“Get dressed.” Cleopatra mumbled angrily and tossed the dress at Siobhan.

*

The tent roared with life from within. A crowd the size of an ocean bellowing and beckoning while over it, a man evangelized; “Our beloved, hideous fighter, Fiona! A knight, a saint, blessed not of beauty but of brawn!”

The audience could not love her more as she was brought out before them, screaming and hollering. The cheering rocked the very earth.

“And to match her in battle?” All was silent in those apprehensive seconds. “We welcome a new champion! Found wandering the graveyards of Saint-Denis, our dangerous Murderess, a beauty deceiving and conniving!”

Cleopatra leaned into Siobhan’s ear, “Don’t let her get you on your back.”

And then pushed her into the tent and there, on the other side, a light bright as the sun shone directly on her, lighting a direct path before her where the crowds cut apart and emptied space for her to cross into an arena in the center. She looked up and all around at the masses of people lining the tent and how it rose in swirling colors to a hole in the center that coned heavenward into darkness. Pushed again, Siobhan was forced to walk into the ring, deafened by cheering.

“Take a good look at our champions and place your bets! But remember; looks can be deceiving. Our Murderess has killed dozens in her few years on this Earth.”

Siobhan looked around her as mean-faced men cawed out from every corner of each crowd, circling and pecking at her in their frenzy. She slowly began to realize why they had been calling her a fighter and when she looked across the arena at her opponent, her heart stopped.

Fiona was a girl massive. Though Andrew was telling the crowd they were the same age, Siobhan could not imagine a woman so large being eighteen. She was towering, at least Arthur’s height, stacked with muscle upon muscle, larger than any man she’d ever seen. Her fists looked to be the size of milk tins. And her legs were so toned with muscle Siobhan was sure she’d cause an earthquake to walk.

Siobhan’s fear skyrocketed. She couldn’t brawl with someone! Let alone a girl as big as Fiona. And maybe she had killed in her time, but never with her fists.

She started to shake her head, backing away how she had come but the crowds had closed in and when she bumped into someone, he scratched at her and pulled at her dress so hard he tore it clean down the side. The others around him pushed her back into the ring and she turned in shock to look at their faces. Normal, working-class men. The sort of people you'd pass by, inconspicuous or urbane, now thrown apart with ferocious irascibility.

Siobhan realized, then, it wasn’t simply a game, either. These people were hungry, starving. She knew that look in a man well by now. They wanted to see blood.

She was urged to Fiona in the center of the ring as she stood hovering, bent slightly forward in a position ready to lunge. If Andrew was up there informing the crowd how this game was supposed to be played, Siobhan could not hear it. Her heartbeat was loud in her ears and she could hardly see straight for the immensity of her fear that made her head spin. All she could do was stare ahead, unseeing, at her opponent. Heaving and staring right back with her eyes alight with the elation of being allowed to rip Siobhan to shreds.

Andrew started to count down and Siobhan finally twitched into movement, blinking with the realization that she had to fight. As the crowd got down to one, a gong was hit and with it, Fiona charged forward.For a second, Siobhan stalled like an animal caught on train tracks. She could not move until Fiona was a foot in front of her and too quickly did she throw her arm out and lock it over Siobhan’s neck. She took her to the ground, knocking her onto her back.

Siobhan was terrified. She writhed and punched and squirmed, trying to get her off as she was pinned down in a chokehold. She screamed and cried out, scratching, fearing the final second when Fiona would squeeze her arm tightly and suck the breath from Siobhan's throat. But it, strangely, never came. She simply held Siobhan roughly down. She realized only after Fiona let go that the crowd had been counting again. She backed away from Siobhan as she sat up, guarding her neck, and caught her breath in the mud.

“Fiona!” Andrew shouted, his voice echoing from a place unseen. Everyone roared. She had won.

It seemed that there was some sort of a strategy to what was happening. Perhaps inconsequential. The goal was not to kill Siobhan. It was to get her on her back, she recalled Cleopatra’s advice. She wasn’t sure what would happen if she lost this game, though.

As they counted again, she trudged back to the center of the ring and tried to mimic Fiona’s posture. Leaning forward like a lunge. The gong was hit and both of them ran for each other.

"Fiona!"

Siobhan never thought she’d be so happy to hear that girl’s name, called out into winning. She let go of Siobhan and walked around the ring shouting, strutting, beating her chest. Siobhan got to her hands and knees and spat out all of the mud and blood choking her mouth, gagging and heaving. She wiped the wet, muddy hair out of her face and tried to see through the blur of popped blood vessels that destroyed her eyesight.

The gong was hit again and Fiona, from the other side of the ring, set her sights back on Siobhan and charged. Siobhan wrenched herself back up to her feet, swaying from exhaustion, and put all of her strength into her legs, ready to lunge into Fiona’s attack.

They collided again headfirst and Siobhan tried to get her arm around Fiona’s neck the way she had done, but Fiona was faster. Her torso torqued sideways as she tried to flip Siobhan onto her back and get her to the ground, but Siobhan’s planted feet saved her and the effort made Fiona’s feet start to slip in the mud. Once she lost her footing, Siobhan threw her knee forward and slammed it directly into Fiona’s sternum, knocking the breath clean out of her as she fell to one knee.

With a grunting scream so animalistic and feral, it sounded as if a bear had growled inside her chest, Fiona grabbed Siobhan’s thigh and flipped her over into the mud onto her back. Siobhan tried to keep her shoulders off the ground and planted her hands in the dirt over her head, arching her back so high it strained every muscle in her arms painfully, screaming with the effort. Fiona had her arms wrapped around Siobhan’s waist, pushing her head into her stomach and the pressure there was so sensitive and sore from childbirth that Siobhan instantly gave and fell to her back. She pinned her down into the mud until she couldn’t breathe. Siobhan could only squirm for air above her head, gasping, kicking her legs. Again, Fiona’s name was called and Siobhan was free once more.

Siobhan laid there this time, swearing she had nothing left in her to fight. And all around her was cheering, cheering for Fiona; laughter for Siobhan’s defeat. Her dress all torn and bruises all exposed, her hair nothing but a dogged mop of brown mud, short and varmint. She tried to get to her feet but her muscles trembled and ached and she couldn’t see or orient herself at all. And all the noise came crashing down on her. Defeat was overpowering.

“FIONA! FIONA! FIONA!” Their voices all clashed like armies of steel around her.

And then Andrew’s voice broke through again, “Drop the kendo!”

And with the loud unfurling of a curtain, a tightrope was leveled across the top of the tent and Siobhan looked up as Cleopatra tip-toed across the thin expanse to the center of the cornucopia and with the stick in her hands, jumped, twisted around and hung from her thighs until she was upside down, suspended over the whole crowd. She dropped a huge staff of bamboo into the center of the ring. It landed perfectly upright and Siobhan could see, as the crowd roared with bloodlust, its jagged, sharpened edge. It was a weapon.

“Bloody the ring, girls! On my count!”

As she stared wide-eyed at the weapon, Fiona the same, she scrambled to her feet in rising adrenaline. Siobhan’s chest started to pant, each breath faster and deeper in her chest as she realized what was about to happen. Her dress barely clung on, torn all over, stained with mud and blood and sweat and tears. Exposing her legs, her backside, half of her chest. And though the mud coated her modesty, she had no armor.

And Fiona on the other side of the ring was full of vigor and strength and all but roared with excitement at the idea of running Siobhan clean through with that huge stick of bamboo. For a second, Siobhan’s mind reeled to think she could stop and let it happen… If she just gave up, it would all be over. Why keep fighting?

But men were screaming all around. Screaming for them to kill each other. Reveling in it. f*ck this game. She thought as the crowd began counting, running down the seconds before they’d be allowed to fight to the death. f*ck all of this. She ran straight for it.

The crowd turned and howled with boos and dissent as Siobhan got a running start, but Fiona was not short behind Siobhan’s unfair advantage. The counting stopped at six. Andrew announced that the Murderess had cheated and it was a game fowled, but Siobhan ignored it, and so did her opponent.

Siobhan got to the stick first and grabbed it with both hands, tucking it under her arm to wrench it back with all of her strength but it was sunk deep and Fiona was gaining on her.

She pulled and pulled with all her strength until her feet were sliding toward it in the mud and she nearly collapsed.

And Fiona made it, grabbed it with her own two hands and pulled it from the mud. They wrestled for grip. Siobhan tugged and tugged with her whole body, and Fiona barely nudged an inch. She swore, as she looked up into those monstrous eyes, that Fiona would kill her.

But as the stick sprang free from the mud, both of them saw that the end pointed toward Siobhan was dull as a rock. Flat and blunt. And as they frantically looked back at each other, Siobhan was quicker to act. She dug the heel of her palm into the blunt end of the stick and with all her force drove her body against it until it went, piercing with splintering wood, through Fiona’s stomach. The gore of splitting organs squelched and burst around the edge of the stick and Fiona staggered back.

Siobhan pushed and pushed, her face wrought with fear and followed Fiona back until she tripped and fell. And still, standing over her, Siobhan drove the bamboo as far as it would go into Fiona’s body until she was spitting and sputtering more blood than Siobhan had ever seen, convulsing and screaming. Siobhan pinned her down to the ground to die like an insect framed for centuries to come.

The crowd roared with life, cheering her name, “Murderess! Murderess, Murderess!”

All sides closed in, marching for her. Siobhan looked around in horror as men surrounded her, trampling Fiona’s warm body. Suddenly, hands grabbed at her from all over and she was lifted into the air on her back. She looked down and all around her and underneath the groping hands that squeezed and prodded and offended her modesty all over, the faces of men cheering with utmost joy, screaming, “Murderess, Murderess, Murderess!” And lifted her with their hands like a Queen on a palanquin.

She was at once horrified and relieved, confused with her whole body that she would be deified for her cruel murder. They swam her toward the edge of the tent where a platform stood high and there, she realized, was where Andrew awaited the winner. He reached out his hand and she took it, lifted with hands all over her legs and thighs, to step up to the platform. He took her wrist and held it up above the crowd where she looked out over all the men who seemed infatuated with the false glory of her kill. Siobhan had never been so confused in her life. In some dull way it was like—and yet also the complete opposite of—her hanging in Rhodes. And her body trembled for the horrific memory of it, but her mind was overcome with a joy so total, so relieved and warm and overbearing that she could not help but laugh aloud for the absurdity of it all as they praised her.

“Dim the lights for our champion!” Andrew shouted beside her, making Siobhan grimace and inch her head away. The lights dimmed then, and only the twinkling orbs of stringed lanterns around the edges of the circled tent could be seen until again that great beaming spotlight shone on Siobhan.

Her legs were all out for everyone to see, streaked with mud. The side of her torso exposed from the twisting of the muddy sheet that barely covered her. The lights began to swirl and make shapes over her body and music from below and within—though she could not see where from—began to churn and breathe, growing.

Then Cleopatra returned overhead and everyone looked up, the lights aimed at her. In the darkness he was provided, Andrew grabbed Siobhan tightly by the elbow and tugged her back, “You stupid whor*!” He hit her across the jaw, “You weren’t supposed to kill her!”

Siobhan guarded her cheek, horrified.

Andrew pushed her shoulders toward the back of the platform and out the other side of the tent, leading her into the sunlight. “She was going to make you yield with it! You f*cking killed her!”

Siobhan stumbled away from him and turned back, “Your people are cheering, you psycho! You put me in there and told me to fight, what was I supposed to do?!”

Andrew shook his head. Siobhan could see he was shaking. She was sure they must be in deep sh*t now. Cleopatra was coming around the corner of the tent, her face wickedly angry, “What the f*ck, girl?! You killed Fiona!”

Andrew turned to her, his face all torqued with a shocked rictus, “Are you actually wanted for murder?” He wiped his face, “You’re f*cking crazy!”

Siobhan was completely turned around with confusion. She looked between these two people she had expected to be as insane as she had heard all carnies were and yet they turned on her as if she were the wild animal here? Siobhan started to pant, “Y-you told me to fight!”

“It was a goddamn game, you crazy bitch!” Cleopatra screamed and as she raised her eyes past them she could see a man running past the tents and screaming for help. “Oh, sh*t. Andrew!”

He turned around. The man was shouting for the police. He turned back to Cleopatra, “Get your sh*t, we have to run.”

Siobhan looked around them in crystalline confusion. She realized what was happening a few seconds before everyone else, apparently. A few seconds long enough to only be spurred into running until she saw a cadre of police rushing into the tents. She picked up and ran. Running through the miniature city of carnival tents until the arena tent was far, far behind her. She didn't attempt to go after Cleopatra or Andrew, was sure they'd turn her in if they had the chance. She only wanted to leave.

As she ran through the tent yards, holding her torn dress up high to run, she looked for any sign of an exit. The place was a Goddamn maze! She crossed a little wooden platform that jutted out from one of the tents, from which droves of dancing girls escaped, half-dressed, and crouched down to hide behind them for a moment and catch her breath. As more and more of them filed out, she realized some of them were naked inside, in a tent full of men. They were prostitutes.

Siobhan looked frantically around the platform and found at the foot of it a toolbox. She fumbled anxiously with its latches until finally she threw it open. An array of sharpened tools were available to her but she only grabbed a hammer and ran. It was protection enough. But as she took off again, turning corners rapidly, she ran straight into Cleopatra. Siobhan stopped as Cleo fell to the ground and immediately tried to push herself back up. And for a second she would have run away herself, but she still shook with the adrenaline of murder that made her clutch the hammer tighter and knew it was Cleopatra's fault.

Siobhan held the hammer in the air, “Stop!” She screamed.

Cleo stared up at her, speechless.

“You made me kill that girl!” Siobhan screamed, panting. Her breath leaving and entering her body so quickly it burned.

Cleopatra’s face twisted in indignation, “You weren’t supposed to!”

Siobhan raised the hammer higher again until Cleo was flat on her back, “You cut my hair!”

“Don’t kill me!” Cleopatra begged, “I can get you out of here. I have a horse! You’re going to California, right?”

Siobhan was heaving with so much anger she could barely stand to reason with this woman.

She panted, “I’ll take you. I know the way. There’s a fire west of here, you shouldn’t go alone.”

“I don’t care about a Goddamn fire! I’ll walk through Hell to get back to him. I’ll kill you and drag your body there just to keep me company, you awful bitch!” Siobhan screamed.

“They’re coming!” Cleo screamed, squirming back and scrambling to her feet. Both of them ran, then. Revenge had been dashed.

Siobhan followed Cleopatra, she had no idea where to go on her own. Cleo looked back and saw her following and grit her teeth, “Go the other way!”

Siobhan’s face was marked cruelly, “I’ll kill you!”

Cleopatra suddenly stopped then, as they dipped between two tents, and pushed Siobhan to the ground. As soon as Siobhan fell, she took off running so fast Siobhan would have no hope of finding her except to follow her footprints.

Siobhan got to her feet, yanking her skirt back up. “Stop there!” Someone called from behind her.

She turned around. It was an officer. He inspected her, hand holstering his gun. He held it out, “I’m not here to hurt you.”

Siobhan couldn’t imagine he meant he was going to save her from these people? He must not have recognized her. All the mud in her hair made her look like a brunette. The moles on her face multiplied tenfold with splatters of mud. She pointed behind him, “Watch out!” She screamed.

And as soon as he ducked, turning, she bolted in the other direction. She ran and ran and ran until she made it out of the labyrinth of carnival tents and nearly ran face-first into a run-down old wooden fence. She scrambled over it, climbing with her mud-pruned fingers and getting splinters all in her feet. And as she dropped off the other side, her dress tore even more. She couldn’t even fear running away half-naked. She could only run away.

The street of this town was wide and empty. There were few trees, and you could see everything you might pass for fifteen miles out. But at the edge of the saloon where a large oak bowed overhead, was a little alley. She ran for it.

“Siobhan!” Her name was called under the uproar behind her and though she could tell this voice was masculine—not Cleopatra—and not the officer either, she kept running.

“Siobhan! Come here!” He called again.

Quickly, Siobhan looked over her shoulder and could see a big black horse coming toward her, but she ran all the more, sure it was someone come to jail her again. She made it quickly out of the other side of the alley and scanned everything before her as quickly as she could.

She ducked to the left into an off-road thicket and through the lashing thistlebrush, running as fast as her lungs could take her. But the man flew down from his horse and chased after her, “Siobhan, stop! It’s me!”

It’s me?

She stopped dead in her tracks and turned around. She could have fainted for the sight of a familiar face, a millisecond before she realized who it was; Paul Hallock.

She wiped her eyes, swearing the blood or the dirt had gotten into them. But when she opened her eyes he was upon her, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her tightly to his chest. His voice cracked, “Are you okay?!”

She could not understand it. Pushed him back, not out of hostility, but utterly deconstructing confusion. “Mr. Hallock?”

“It’s me. It’s me.” He panted, putting his hands on her shoulders. She’d never seen him look so overwhelmed with relief.

She looked at him as if the whole of New Almaden had grown legs and spoken to her, “How did you find me here?”

“The paper. Are you okay?” He said, crouching before her. He tugged the side of her dress up to her shoulder where it threatened to expose her completely to him. “My God, you look like Hell. What did they do to you?”

Siobhan swallowed, searching his face. “B-but… if you came from—Oh, Mr. Hallock, where’s Arthur?” She pleaded, clutching his collar, “Is he alive? Is he okay?!”

“No!” She shouted, covering her mouth, squirming back away from Paul. Her dress came loose again but she did not care in the slightest. She would die here if something happened to him. “No, no, no. Please!”

Paul reached out and took her hand back, “He escaped, Siobhan. He’s alive!” He said finally, his tone heavy and sure. “I just don’t know where he is.”

The breath that came from her was so harsh and shaking it sounded like a tree being axed down the center and felled, splitting air, or a window shattering. Her body deflated with relief, “Oh, thank God!” She said, “Oh thank God! Thank God! Thank you!”

Paul shook his head and tugged her dress back up sternly. “Don’t thank me yet, I have to get you out of here.”

Siobhan was shaking in his hands, could barely stay upright. She had never—not since the moment that Pinkerton Nicholas Callander left her barn—been so close to getting back to Arthur. Siobhan tugged at his collar, “Bring me back to California! Please take me home!”

Paul held her wrists, trying his hardest to still her anxious grabbing. “I can’t, Siobhan.” She grabbed and pulled, “Siobhan, I can’t! I have to bring you back to Ethel!”

Siobhan’s eyes went wide. “No! They’ll hang me!” She shrieked, “Mr. Hallock, I swear on my soul, they’ll hang me!”

Paul yanked her hands away from his collar and his voice was louder and more stern than she’d ever heard him. “Siobhan! Listen to me!” He bit, “We covered it up. They won’t hang you for a heart attack.”

“A heart attack?!” Siobhan shook her head, “But his body!”

“He was buried!” He said. “You have to come back.”

“No… Arthur! I can’t leave him!” She argued desperately. “I have to find him!”

Paul shook his head and pulled her into a hug. “We’ll find him.” He promised, though he hated to. He squeezed her with all of his love, no matter how he hated Arthur Morgan. He promised her anyway. “We’ll find him, Siobhan. Come with me.”

Though she wept and wept, she surrendered to his sweet hug and softened into acceptance; what else could she do?

ARTHUR

JULY 11, 1900
Clematis, NM

19 days to Salinas, TX

Arthur had been weeks gone from New Verhalen and now found himself crossing through a town in New Mexico called Clematis, almost at the border of Texas. It was surprisingly crowded for such a small, secluded place in a state equally secluded. There were only a few small brick buildings which made up about one little block which was the entire town.On the flank of the town was a lot of cleared land, fenced with age-old wood. Where, within it, there were many top-crowned tents being deconstructed and taken down. It seemed the carnival must have gotten news of the coming fire.

It had taken him some time to heal from his burn and for a few days after the fire, he was sick with some kind of hay fever which made it difficult to breathe. He was still reeling from his incredible impulsivity. He had become so focused only on getting to Salinas that he thought of little else and showed only minimal concern for his well-being. That sort of self-abandoning loyalty was not new to him, but such a degree of it, almost maddening, was.

As he continued further into the little block of the town, looking for a place to buy another horse, he could see a crowd forming around the gallows. Arthur’s mood turned grim to realize he’d be passing a hanging.And as he did, he could hear the crowd shouting horrible things at the condemned. Arthur stopped out of grim curiosity. He wondered what the man had done.

He was a scrawny bastard dressed up all strange and covered in dry mud. They announced his name as Andrew Warnes. He was charged with three counts of murder, countless more of kidnapping, animal cruelty, something called 'white slavery,' which Arthur had never heard of before, and a whole heap of other crimes Arthur could not keep count of. He watched the man hang and his gut twisted darkly, for it immediately reminded him of Dutch. He averted his tired eyes from the storm and went away from it.

Grief still lingered in the back of his throat like a pill he could not swallow. He counted down the days until he would arrive in Salinas and finally meet his love again.

Chapter 29: — BLOODY MOTHER f*ckING ASSHOLE

Chapter Text

The ride from Clematis to Salinas could be made in a week if you had the determination, but Siobhan was torn up with grief, Paul could see, and plain exhausted. It felt wrong to subject her to such a ride. So he took her out to a hotel just past the border into Texas and if she had any complaints about it, she never voiced them.

In the night, Paul Hallock slept on the floor with his gun and his belt and his cigarettes and his boots all laid out before him in an organized line. Siobhan watched vigilantly as he fell asleep down there with his back turned to them.

So Paul Hallock be damned, she snuck to her feet and swooped down to take his gun. The weight of it, loaded with ammo, clicked in her palm. But she moved ever so slowly, taking his belt to her hip and holstering his gun. She picked up his boots and crept out of the room. Down the hall, she went the back way out of the hotel so as to avoid questions and prevent anyone from telling Paul which way she’d gone were he to wake up.

She felt a little guilty stealing his horse. But only a little.

All she wished—as she rode away toward the west—was that she knew the horse’s name and swore, in her soul, that she’d do right by the nag for as long as they were in each other’s service. Paul Hallock would just have to forgive her.

And she made it pretty far. Several hours into the night, when the sun was beginning to come up over the horizon, Siobhan was nearly back at the border. At a small little town that marked the five-mile point from the border of New Mexico, Siobhan heard the clodding of hooves behind her and looked over her shoulder to see a man all dressed in brown on a horse of white coming up behind her. She wouldn’t have mistaken him for Paul Hallock until she saw that his chest was shining with a golden star and for a split second she did until he lifted his head in the moonlight and he was significantly younger.

“Hello, Miss…” He said somewhat apprehensively, looking her over as his horse started to match speed with hers and both of them slowed down to meet the other. “Are you lost?”

Siobhan’s eye shifted more in caution than she had intended. Flicking back like a horse’s tail between the back of the road and her periphery, showing herself to be clearly alert. Her cheeks shifted as she swallowed, “No.”

The Sheriff looked her over again, tipping his head this way and that to look at her from all angles. “Is that blood you’re covered in? Are you running from someone?”

He looked behind him as if she had instilled him with an equal fear of being followed. But Siobhan was not so stupid as to fall for that, she did not trust him for a second. She did not answer him.

“Where’d you get the horse, miss?” He asked it nicely as if it were the most harmless question on the planet and not completely unnecessary and more suspicious than Siobhan could ever face with an honest answer.

“It’s my horse.” She told him, her eyebrows corked up indignantly. “What makes you think I ‘got’ it anywhere?”

The Sheriff’s head retreated with a smile, “Well, I do admire your almighty lie, young lady, but I can see plain as day that’s a Sheriff’s horse. I can see the brand on the saddle right there.”

He pointed at the nag’s side and Siobhan looked back to see, sure enough, the saddle was branded. She had never noticed.

Their eyes met. “Come on down from there and let’s get this horse back to his owner before someone finds out. Some of the sheriffs ‘round here would like you hanged for a theft like that.”

Siobhan’s grip tightened over the reins as if she were going to slow the mare down but she didn’t. She simply stared at him distrustfully and looked forward at the road as if contemplating taking off at full gallop.

“Come on, now. Don’t make this more difficult than it needs to be.” He could tell what she was thinking.

Except he could have no notion of the horrible ideas running through her head about taking Paul Hallock’s gun from his saddle bag and shooting the man in the leg. Or taking off as she seemed to want to do, and how he might get her with his lasso anyway… In which case she’d have to shoot him, and probably want to kill him.

So she suddenly reigned the horse into a stop and her shaking hands stilled as she planted them on the seat of the saddle and lifted her leg over the edge. The Sheriff had dismounted also, and came around the front of his gelding to take the reins of Mr. Hallock’s horse. But during that brief second where his eyes were obscured by the side of his gelding, Siobhan took from his saddle his lasso.

She held it behind her back as the sheriff took the gelding’s reins and looked down at her. “Where’d you get the horse?”

Siobhan looked up at him with innocent doe-eyes, though the effect was somewhat lost for the fact that she was covered, gruesomely, in blood and her dress was so torn she offered little to his imagination as to what shape her body took beneath the coat of mud she was covered in. “Amarillo.”

“Alright, let’s get there double-fast, then, ‘fore somebody gets mad.” And when he turned his back to grab his horse’s reins, Siobhan quickly raised the lasso over his head and tightened it with the zipping sound of a rope cinching closed.

She kicked him in the back of the knee as his hands fought at once to grab the rope and the other flew back to grab her. Failing at both, he fell to his knees, gasping and wheezing for air. Siobhan got him onto his stomach as he choked and wrestled with his legs, getting them tied. She couldn’t manage to hogtie him in time as she’d been taught, though, had pulled the rope too tightly around his neck and could hear that he could not breathe. So with his legs tied, she cut the rope from around his neck and as he coughed and sputtered and swore, she got his hands behind his back.

“You nearly killed me!” He hoarsely choked, wriggling underneath her.

Siobhan shouted in his ear, “You shouldn’t have stopped me!”

She got up from his back as the tie was complete and quickly re-saddled Paul Hallock’s horse. The Sheriff pleaded, “You—! Now, come on! Get me out of here, young la— Get back here! This is a big mistake, little girl!”

PAUL

Paul Hallock had no idea how long Siobhan had been gone, but his panic was immeasurable when he realized that she was. And leaving nothing for him; not his gun, his matches, his belt—she even took his Goddamned shoes! “What kind of person takes a man’s shoes?” He muttered to himself as he searched around the room, plain exhausted.

And by the time he had replaced those, he came to find Violet, his horse, was gone as well. He would have been more irritated if it were not Siobhan who had done it and if he did not worry for her greatly in the state she was in.

He ran across the other side of the town wearing some other man’s shoes, and flashed his badge at a half-asleep stableboy to borrow a horse and quickly took off, following after Violet’s hoofmarks.

He could remember nights spent like this in an unraveling mess of nerves at Caoimhe’s impulsivity,—on the frequent occasions she would get wild notions into her head and take off in the night to get away from those who cared about her. Siobhan took right after her mother, that was certain. But now he was precisely eighteen years older than he was then, and much too old to chase after another Goddamned Magda all night.

And every minute he did not catch sight of her, and wondered how far she had gone or if she’d been stopped by someone and taken again, his riding became more frantic, more careless, more annoyed. And he quipped to himself sarcastically, frequently, about this and that just to keep himself from getting furious at himself that he had let her run away like that.— Had taken it upon himself, by bloodright, to protect her!

Until he found the green little local sheriff all tied up and squirming on the ground beside his bored horse who hooved at him helplessly and strolled away to graze on wild alfalfa. Paul Hallock dismounted on the side of the road where he was curled up, trying to nibble away at his ropes with gravel in his eye. He could not help but laugh, “Well wipe my ass and butter my balls, what happened to you?”

The sheriff looked up and spat, “‘Scuse me? L-listen, friend, help me out of these will ‘ya? I’m trailing a thief!”

Paul Hallock shrugged, “I don’t have a knife, sport. I can’t much do anything. Who’s the thief?”

“I have a knife in my saddlebag, just—! Look,—” He squirmed to look over his shoulder, struggling with his stiff and inflexible muscles all trussed up. He clicked his tongue, “Here Bronze, come here.”

His horse turned walleyed at the sound of his name but the gelding did not move. Hallock would have enjoyed staying and being a jackass, mocking the man, but he felt he had little time. He went over to the horse to get the knife, “Who’s the thief?” He repeated himself.

“A girl.” The sheriff struggled, “God almighty knows I ain’t proud to admit it, she was a sneaky thing. Got up behind me with my own lasso.”

Paul Hallock was slightly amused.

“Why?” The sheriff looked Paul over as he came over to cut him free. He spotted the badge that Paul wore, “Are you the sheriff she stole from? The one with the black horse?”

Once the rope fell slack Paul helped him up. “Her name’s Siobhan.” Paul handed the knife back to the sheriff, patting him on the shoulder diminutively. And lied, “She’s my daughter.”

“O-oh.” The sheriff’s eyes widened with sudden reverence for the father-daughter spat he must have suddenly involved himself in. “So you’re looking for her, too? W-well, you can be sure I did nothing to harm her, more like she was the one doing the harming, as you can plainly see.”

Paul was a little concerned by how suddenly trepidatious the man turned upon hearing Siobhan was his daughter. “Did you see which way she went?”

“Yeah.” He turned and pointed, “She followed the road for a bit and broke off to the west just at the turnpike. I can help you find her. It’s better to have two men looking than one.”

Paul Hallock kept his hand on the man’s shoulder, smiling at him all toothy and stupid. “You are just as chivalrous as a dog, aren’t you, bucko?”

“Yes sir.” The sheriff said, instantly recognizing Paul’s overt disdain and nervously sought after his horse fast.

Paul went after Siobhan alone.

He took off after her now that she was within sight and chased her down fast. Too quickly did he see her head whip around and once she realized she had been found, kicked Paul Hallock’s own boots and spurs into Violet’s flanks and rode forward-saddle with all her might. And Paul could not help but be impressed at what a rider she was, fast and secure on that Goddamned horse who he had lovingly chosen for her exact speed.

He called after her though it could not be heard under the thundering hooves as the came closer together. Though Siobhan was a good rider, Paul Hallock couldn’t blame her for not being able to outrun himself. He was even better. “Siobhan!” He shouted.

She didn’t respond or look back and took off from the path, swerving to the right and jumping over some old wooden fence into a great big farmyard of short, hock-level crops. Paul Hallock reared his horse to jump over after her and they went trampling madly through someone’s crops. “Siobhan, this is not very nice!” He raised his voice even louder, “Leave the farmers out of it!”

And still she did not respond, but kept her eyes determinedly ahead as she darted through the farmyard fence and broke through the other side. Finally, when the plain flattened out and there were no longer carrots or gourds to confuse the horse’s feet, Paul caught up to her and grabbed his saddle and yanked on it, forcing Violet to heel, “Slow up, Vi!” He shouted.

Siobhan smacked at his hands and pushed at him but the horse would only obey him now. She faced him with a wicked anger, cussing loud, “You want your f*cking horse back?!”

Paul Hallock recoiled, “Don’t you say ‘f*ck' to me, Siobhan Magda!” He shouted, something protective and locked away kicking into overdrive as his anxieties all came rushing forth, “You stole my f*cking horse and you could have died or been kidnapped by some f*cking asshole like that sheriff and it would have been on my f*cking head! Now, I didn’t want to yell at you but you scared me out of my f*cking mind. I just found you safe and the first thing you do is run off into the f*cking desert.”

Siobhan was speechless.

“Nothing—!” He shouted. Then, interrupting himself, lowered his voice, “Nothing would make me happier than to bring you back to California, Siobhan. But your uncle is dead, do you understand what that means?”

Siobhan shut her mouth. He knew she probably had no recollection of his days as an attorney when her mother was alive and even if she did, he understood that she would have little to no idea what it entailed or why his first thought would be of this, but it concerned her future, and therefore also concerned him,—greatly.

“His fortune has to go somewhere, and you’re his niece, Siobhan. You’re entitled to an inheritance.” Paul explained, looking between her eyes, “Don’t you want that money?”

Siobhan thought of it and some little part inside of her heart screamed at the idea that she could have some of her uncle’s money which was less about the sum of it all, but the sheer desire she’d always had of robbing him of what he would never in his life give to her. She shook her head, though, “Not in exchange for seeing Arthur.”

Paul sighed. The Magdas were stubborn women. “Did you ever tell Arthur about Richard? How he was paying those Pinkertons to look for you?”

Siobhan’s brow furrowed, “Of course I did.”

“Then he’ll know.” Paul said darkly. Siobhan was clearly confused. It seemed there was something blocking her from the realization of what he meant to imply and Paul could not blame her for it. There were further implications beneath that. He reiterated clearer for her, “He knows where you are, Siobhan.”

Which left her to wonder, sadly, why wasn’t he already here?

He didn’t want her to dwell too much on it. “Stay where he can find you before you end up going in two opposite directions.” Paul said, “Trust me, your mother nearly did the same thing.”

Siobhan’s confusion blossomed in her shiny face even further, like a dog turns its head to the side and pouts, “What do you mean?”

Paul took Violet’s reins, “I’ll tell you on the way back to Amarillo. Will you come back with me?”

Siobhan’s heart was somewhat broken by the realization that what Paul had said about Arthur was most likely true. And she had no notion of what could have possibly kept him away for so long. So she returned to Amarillo with a fettered little heart that wept for the realization—which she pushed down and pushed down, hardly facing it consciously—that Arthur had known where she was the whole time.

She was not lost or sequestered at all, she was forsaken.

*

It had been so long since Siobhan had ridden at all that she was saddle sore and couldn’t walk by the time he brought her back to the hotel. The next morning she laid on the bed facedown on her belly, cheek to the pillow, staring at the corner of the room. Paul Hallock was awake on the other side of the room where he had slept on the floor. But he kept waking up in the night with worry, getting up just to watch her sleep for a minute or two, anxious to make sure she was breathing alright. He knew she was awake now, though she didn’t move or speak. A sneeze betrayed her.

Paul ached to smoke his nerves away. He was always nervous around Siobhan simply because he’d gotten a track record for saying the wrong things to her. But now that anxiety was manifest tenfold by the likelihood of him saying the wrong thing again, now with her in the most fragile state a girl could be in. He’d hate himself to trespass against her now. Still ashamed of himself for how he’d gotten away with yelling at the girl simply because he had gone and broken her heart to make her realize the possibility that he was very aware of himself; that Arthur Morgan may never come back for her.

He eyed the back of her head anxiously where she lay. Swallowing, he squinted, “Are you hungry?”

Siobhan shook her head.

Paul’s brow creased only further for another of her needs he could not meet. He wasn't sure he had seen her eat in days. “You can sleep in if you want. Are you tired?”

Siobhan’s eyes were dry, she’d been staring at the wall mindlessly for longer than she could track. Her voice was quiet, “Not really.”

These were terrible signs.

“Well… In that case, we’ll have to get going pretty soon.” He softly ushered, just trying to get her to move.

After a few beats, Siobhan raised herself from the bed and pathetically hunched to her feet. She shuffled over, still in that torn up old dress that barely covered her. But she held it so that it would. Her eyes always scanning the ground. She slumped cross-legged to the ground in front of him where he had laid out his shoes and his gun and his cigarettes.

Paul lowered his eyes to his hands where he toyed with his matchbox. His teeth bared slightly as he admitted, shuffling his stuff slowly back into his pockets. He wanted to show, through his body language, that they didn’t need to talk about it if she was not ready. “Ethel told me what happened to your baby.”

Siobhan kept her eyes down, though they welled with unspilled tears.

“I want you to know that…” He inhaled deeply, eyeing her quickly in his periphery and then darting his eyes apprehensively away. “I know what it’s like to lose a child like that. I’m here if you ever want my support.”

Siobhan’s downturned jowls made her cheeks hurt and her chin trembled and quaked. She held her breath as she tried to hold back a sob, searing her throat. And she gasped for air as her tears suddenly fell and she quickly tried to wipe them away. Though she had barely begun to cry, her throat felt so tight and heavy and sore all at once. She weakly tried to hold it and still make room for air.

Paul scooted over as soon as she made a sound and put his arms around her. And for once, though he had not thought twice about it, he seemed to have made the right decision as she instantly melted into his arms and pulled him closer.

He could never have known how badly she needed to hear that. To know that there was someone in the world who looked at her and did not see a Murderess, nor someone who would be so heartless as to try and cause what had happened to Elizabeth…

“I don’t know what I’m doing anymore, Mr. Hallock! I feel so broken. What is my purpose? What good am I to anyone?” Siobhan bayed, “I want to go back to him, but I don’t think he wants to come back to me.”

Paul’s face twisted in slight discomfort over her shoulder. He was glad she could not see how he struggled to muster a vulnerability that could match hers, no matter how badly he felt for her or how much he loved her. He tried to comfort her, though he hated how he did not even believe the words that came out of his mouth, “Now I know Arthur Morgan isn’t the most impressive specimen in the world, but he has sense. He loves you.”

“Would he still love me if he knew?” She asked, muffled into his shoulder.

Paul’s conviction descended on him darkly that if Arthur did not, he would kill that greedy bastard. But she was too gentle to need to hear it, and he would not say it to her. He consoled her, “Yes, Siobhan.”

After a few moments of silent embrace, he pushed Siobhan back to wipe the tears off her cheeks. She was exhausted and dirty and wracked with so much sorrow he could hardly imagine she was the same girl he met back in January when they reunited in New Almaden. “I’m sure I have never told you about my children, have I?”

She shook her head, her eyes red and watery.

“My daughter was my first. Mazy was her name. I had her a few years before you—” He cleared his throat. It did not seem unnatural to her. He had been choked up the entire time. “Before your parents had you. She was born with a weak heart but she was the light of my life from the second I held her hand. I would watch her and her brother play in our yard every day. She was like a lab playing fetch, she had so much energy, even her brother couldn’t keep up with her.

“Then one day I looked away for just a second and I turn around and she’s on the ground. I ran over to her as fast as I could, she was all out of breath and couldn’t move.” He turned his head from Siobhan, covering his face as his voice cracked. He cried, “And she just died. Right there in my arms.”

Siobhan’s face fell. She could not think of a time she had ever seen Mr. Hallock cry except when Siobhan was brought out of her house after the death of her mother and father. But everyone was crying that day. Paul suddenly reached for her hand, holding it tightly on the crown of her crossed knee. Siobhan could not think of a thing to say, she was so overwhelmed by his heartwarming sincerity.

“But you know what, Siobhan?” He shook his head at her, his chin trembling beneath his fuzzy beard, “She wasn’t alone. She was looking up at me and I was holding her telling her how much I loved her.” He conveyed complete empathy to Siobhan’s circ*mstances in his wide, tearful brown eyes. “It happened in just a second, there was nothing else I could do. But she knew… She knew she was loved and she was not alone, God rest her soul.”

Paul Hallock’s head dropped against his chest as he sobbed, his shoulders shaking. And Siobhan felt a deep pit in her stomach as she squeezed his hand, but she didn’t know what to say to him. She felt the utmost sympathy and a feeling of solidarity passed between them as she realized they shared a similar grief, but she could not comfort a man she hardly knew, even if she wished to know him better.

JULY 30, 1900
Salinas, TX

The two of them traveled for a long time together and Siobhan had begun to trust Paul Hallock more and more. She no longer understood what exactly it was that had distanced her from him so severely when they first met again in New Almaden. But she had long come to realize what a fool she had been during all of that time.

Still, Siobhan was markedly afraid to be returning to Salinas, no matter how Paul Hallock assured her. He understood, anyway, that she did not know his nature as well as he’d have liked and so didn’t blame her for not trusting him completely, though it made him sad. He helped her to feet off the back of his horse and dismounted himself afterward.

He patted his horse’s side and looked at Siobhan softly, “I hate to tell you, but I brought Griffin along. Thought he might keep you company.”

Siobhan’s heart melted. Her face was fluid with relief. Few things would be better than a familiar face for her now. She dourly nodded, “Thank you.”

“I don’t know if he’s here now.” Paul explained, “He could be in town.”

Siobhan stayed quiet as she looked up at Paul. She didn’t want to go inside alone, that much was clear though, she did not have to say it. He put his hand on her shoulder and gently squeezed, let go and walked her up the stairs to the verandah. He knocked on the door and when it opened and Ethel stuck her skinny face out, Siobhan swore she would look out and be horrified at the sight of Siobhan. But despite all the dirt covering her, Ethel saw her and threw the door wide, running into Siobhan with a hug.

Ethel let go of her again and tugged her by her hand, “Come wash up, my poor girl.”

Before she could protest she was inside the house with the two of them. The door shut behind her. There were no Pinkertons yet. None that she could see, anyway. Everything felt so bizarre. How long had it been now since life felt anything other than completely overwhelmingly surreal?

“Mr. Hallock, would you be a dear and fix up some tea?” Ethel said to him as she took Siobhan slowly upstairs. “We’ll be down again soon. And if you need your deputy, he’s in the billiard room with Flora.”

Siobhan looked down over the banister as Paul nodded politely and gave Siobhan a small smile, scratching his chin. She looked at Ethel’s graceful, stressless hands as she gently took Siobhan’s arm and led her to the second-floor bathroom.

Is this real? It did not feel real.

The bathroom was exactly as it was last she was there. Ethel left the door open as she pulled the pumps and allowed the water to flow into the bathtub. “Would you like it hot or cold?”

Siobhan shuddered, her brow low and afraid. Ethel answered for her, “I’ll make sure it’s warm.”

“Are we going to talk about it?” Siobhan blurted, begrudged to do so. But it felt impossible not to.

Ethel halted in the doorway. Slowly, she turned to face Siobhan. Her eyes wide as a guilty little dog. “Alright.”

Ethel moved back into the bathroom and sat on the edge of the bathtub.

Siobhan stood there in silence waiting. What could she say? Ethel was silent too. Did neither of them have anything to say for it all? Siobhan couldn’t imagine it. If she had a niece who had killed Arthur, Siobhan was not sure she’d have such a calm reaction. But then again, those two men could not be farther apart in character.

“We buried him that night.” Ethel broke the air.

“‘We?’” Siobhan asked, knowing Ethel could not do that all alone.

Ethel licked her lips to explain, “It was confusing to me too. According to him, he came here while we were in Blackwater. He’d been waiting for us to come back. He came for you.”

“And you just asked him to help you hide a body?” Siobhan stated bluntly, almost sarcastic if not for the peace she was afforded, rather than the scorn she deserved.

Ethel shook her head, “He came to the door and saw me all covered in blood and I thought it was over. He came in and asked what happened, but I think he already knew.”

Siobhan hated that. She averted her eyes in shame from her aunt to think that Paul could tell just by looking at the man that it was Siobhan who had killed him. What awfully violent things he must’ve thought of her. She prayed Griffin wasn’t there to see it all.

“I didn’t ask him to cover it up. I was willing to take responsibility for it. But he started moving the furniture and rolled him up into the carpet and told me what to do.” Ethel explained sadly. “I didn’t have a choice after that. Then he went up to go see you in your room but we realized you were gone the whole time. He went right after you.”

Siobhan took a few disoriented steps back. She looked down at her hands, shaking her head. “I don’t understand that man. Isn’t he a sheriff?” She swore, “Why does he help me?”

Ethel crossed her arms, “Well, he loved your mother.” She was shaking her head, “Everyone knew they were more than just friends, no matter how they tried to write it off as such. I imagine if Caoimhe had lived, he’d have been your step-father.”

Siobhan’s face twisted in disturbance. She looked down at her feet and felt slightly sick to her stomach. It was not that he had acted unfatherly toward her. What disturbed her was that he had. From the very moment she met him and every moment since. She didn’t know what to do with that. And why now? Why not before? Long before she met Arthur? Why did Paul choose to go out of his way and chase Siobhan down and help her now and not then, when she needed it most?

“I’ll get your clothes.” Ethel interrupted her and stood from the side of the bathtub. She shut off the water and left the bath still and steaming. But as she was on the way out, Siobhan grabbed her wrist, stopping her.

Siobhan’s eyes were wide. As were Ethel’s. She looked almost scared, which shamed Siobhan. How could she be afraid of her niece? Siobhan would never hurt her. She lowered her voice, “Do you hate me for it?”

Ethel turned her head to the side. “Oh, Siobhan.” She pouted, “I don’t. I can only hate myself for it. I should never have brought the two of you under the same roof again. Especially not after you lost your baby girl.”

Siobhan was speechless as Ethel faced her with an almost overwhelming serenity of forgiveness and sympathy. She put her thumb on Siobhan’s cheekbone, making her flinch slightly. But she warmed under Ethel's gentle touch and soft assurance, “Give it time, dear.”

Siobhan was not entirely sure, as Ethel walked out of the bathroom and left her alone, what she was supposed to give time to. The death of Richard? The death of Elizabeth? The loss of Ethel’s love? The loss of Arthur? She could give her time to all of it and still come out a narrower, reduced version of herself, eaten away at by all of this grief.

Siobhan moved like a golem. Her shoulder’s hunched and grating as she undressed and stepped into the tub. She gave her time to the water and let it soak the sin right off of her. But the bruises that littered her body from the fight she was forced into could not have been washed off so easily. And the murder of her uncle and all of the others she had killed… would stain her for the rest of her life.

Chapter 30: — JUST LIKE U SAID IT WOULD B

Chapter Text

JULY 31, 1900
Salinas, TX

He had been running and hitching rides for days as fast as he could through stitches and bruises and third-degree burns to get back to her. But now as he followed the little yellow light that seeped out from the piazza, he slowed down to a lumber. He thought over everything he could possibly be faced with when he entered the house. What Siobhan would say to him, how large her belly would have gotten, whether she would blame him for being away so long. Whether she had been hurt. Whether her uncle would be there first to greet him. He tried to prepare himself for any of it and still have something to say that wouldn’t be completely, soul-shatteringly desperate and inarticulate.

Paul Hallock’s curl-framed face.

Arthur froze. This was not one of the outcomes he had considered.

The distaste in his voice could not be masked, regardless of whether or not he was in the presence of the man’s wife, who he had never met. He knew enough of the both of them to judge.— Paul turned his eyes to the aunt, who cleared her throat, “He passed away.”

“Er—” Paul stopped him, lowering his voice as he stepped closer. He warned, “She’s been through a lot. She just got home from a real bad place…”

Arthur’s eyes remained still and calm, though his heart somewhat quickened at the thought. He stared, “A bad place?”

Paul looked at Ethel, who he’d only just explained it to an hour or so before, and they both looked just as displeased at the idea. But Arthur looked between them all almost despairing to be told what they let happen to her. Paul put his hand on Arthur’s shoulder, lowering his voice as he took him closer to the staircase, “She ran away and got taken by some carnies who went and made her kill a girl.”

Arthur looked at Paul and he immediately realized what that meant. “The carnies in New Mexico?”

Paul looked at him sideways. He clearly wanted to know what Arthur had to do with any of that but he had gone silent.

Arthur’s stomach turned to think Siobhan was one of the girls he had heard about while he was there. He looked up at the top of the staircase and his heart started to pound with sudden adrenaline—not any that he had while running to get here in the first place, or at any stage between leaving New Almaden and stepping off that train.

Now he was only steps away from Siobhan. Sleeping, apparently, just above him. He moved with haste to get to the stairs, until halfway up them where he slowed himself with fear rising…

Siobhan is here… Here…

I’m going to see her again…

SIOBHAN

Siobhan’s legs were heavy and numb with the warmth of her bed. Half of her face was buried into her pillow like the prow of a sinking ship. And her eyes cracked with the dry feeling of waking up; she didn’t want to. She was drowned in sleep and her blankets were so snug that everything around her was a buzzing warmth she hadn’t felt the serenity of in a long, long time. But Flora was shifting at her heels, making the whole bed shake and squeak as she got onto her paws and trembled with a growl. Her white fur making shapes at the bottom of Siobhan’s bed.

Siobhan fell back asleep.

There was some noise at the end of the hall. Flora recognized the creaking of the top step. If Paul Hallock or Griffin Calhoun made his way into the hall with his heavy footing, he’d regret it. This was Siobhan’s territory, and Flora had become her watchful sentinel.

But the intruder did not stop. Trespassing step-by-step, his footsteps got closer until the doorknob of Siobhan’s bedroom clicked and turned. The big crystal on this side of the door glittered with the tiny trace of moonlight over Siobhan’s head and Flora jumped up to her feet, shaking the mattress.

As the door opened and Flora growled and nipped, Siobhan grumbled, “Easy, girl. It’s just the wind.”

The figure in Siobhan’s doorway was frozen still. Only his fingers flexed and twitched. Whether it was Siobhan’s voice that stopped him or the huge dog at the end of her bed warning him with the whites of her eyes, it wasn’t clear; he was silent. But when Flora barked, echoing rough through the entire house, Siobhan sat up.

She reached over her side as she curled her legs and put her hand on Flora’s side, groaning with the strain in her muscles all down her side. “Shhh.”

She saw, as her eyes adjusted to the dark, her doorway. She blinked as he took a step forward. Siobhan pulled at Flora’s collar protectively as he came closer,—and only then could she hear him sniffling. He reached the edge of her bed and Siobhan could see his face clearly in the moonlight.

It startled her so suddenly to see Arthur’s face in perfect detail, washed in blue light, that she literally recoiled backward, her heart racing.

“Siobhan…” He said. And his voice was so real she could choke on it.

Arthur squeezed her so tightly it would have woken her if it were a dream. “Yes, Shiv.”

Christ, he had never felt anything like this. His arms tightened around her, his brow furrowing into the crook of her neck. Her warmth overwhelmed him, the weight of her body, the smell of her, the sound of her voice… He dug his nose deeper into her shoulder, tears squeezed from the corner of his eyes.

I’m holding her. She’s here. It’s OK now.

It’s all ok.

In some anesthetized touch, he could dimly feel some difference between the space where their bodies enclosed. Somewhere between the surface of his chest and the width of Siobhan that his arms so easily encircled, there was a change. It was not a conscious difference to him, and only lingered as present as the voices downstairs in the kitchen.

Siobhan circled her hands around Arthur’s neck and pulled him into a curling hug. On her tiptoes, she could just manage to keep him down to her level, desperate to. She felt tears on his cheeks but she couldn’t tell if they were his or her own. “Oh—! I thought I imagined you! I missed you so much. Arthur! Oh, I love you.” She kissed his cheeks over and over, “I love you, I love you!— You’re here!”

He swaddled her from side to side, holding his breath. His eyes squeezed shut. His lungs finally released a painful wheeze, a release of everything locked away inside of him, untouched, unsung, for three months in one aching groan that formed her name, “ Siobhaan… I’m here, my girl. I found you. I’m here Shiv.”

“God, I am so happy to see you.” He put his hand on her waist, “I missed you like Hell. I love you.”

Siobhan snuggled against his touch for a second longer before—without her control or consent—her sorrow returned to her.— Tragedy. The deep, abiding agony that had been building up inside of her, that she had been trying to let go of. The loss of Arthur leaving her, of being brought here, of having to see these people when Arthur had promised her she would never go back to them. The hopelessness of hearing ‘he’s not coming back for you’ and ‘he doesn’t want you’ and ‘you were never meant for him.’ And Arthur not being there to disprove it—what could Siobhan do but believe it?

How heartbroken that made her. To stand over her uncle’s maimed body and still not be able to say he was wrong about it all…

‘Just one more day…’ Siobhan had told herself.

Arthur looked up at Siobhan’s face, his mouth agape, a confusion written across his face that desperately wished for an explanation that was not what his heart feared. But Siobhan was sick at the sight. She gagged, pushing him back further.

But in Arthur’s sudden absence, she felt entirely hollow, completely bereft of every halving emotion that attached itself to her love. The father of her daughter (she could hear him talking frantically inside), who must now blame her for their daughter’s death… The love of her life (the front door of the house opened), who she loved more than her own life… She had done this to them.

“Shiv!” He shouted, and ran down the stairs. Before she knew it, Arthur was kneeling beside her, with his hands on her shoulders as she gagged and retched. Arthur had made this mistake before. — He tried not to cry but failed with each individual tear. “I should have been here, I’m sorry, Shiv. I’m so goddamn sorry.”

Hearing him apologize for it only made her even more sick with herself. She heaved, but there was nothing left for her to throw up. She choked on her own spit, tears streaming down her face. Arthur pulled her up into his arms, he couldn’t stop himself. He had to hold her.

Siobhan stared at him and all she saw was his heaving chest, deep breaths broken up by his wide eyes blinking in the dark. The sound of his breathing burned in her ears, intense and burrowing,—sudden grief.

His voice croaked with a wet gag, this was all too much to swallow.

Arthur shook his head, “It’s ok.” He understood how alone she must have felt. How unfair it was, how angry she must have been. And with Ethel, the woman who’d watched her be abused for so long, doing nothing. She must have felt so completely forsaken. He knew that, and it killed him.

But Siobhan insisted, curling into his arms irremediably. “It’s not okay. I feel so horrible.”

“Shhh,” Arthur pulled her legs into his lap and continued to rock her, “I know, sweetheart. It’s not your fault.”

Siobhan’s glassy eyes were as bright as the moon and just as wide when she finally looked up at him. Her jowls curved inwards with a terrible grimace as her voice cracked, “I missed you so much I thought I was gonna die.”

“Oh, Shiv…” Arthur’s face was an exact replica of hers in their mirrored grief. He held her face in his hands and wiped her tears individually away with each of his thumbs, “These past few months have been Hell without you. Any longer and there’d have been nothin’ left of me.”

“All that time…” Siobhan felt it all like a gap violently ripped open between them, as sudden as those three months parted them. She searched his face, “Where were you?”

He swallowed, “I was.” Arthur shook his head, his thumb rubbing against her cheek, “I-I was in prison, Shiv. For a month. They had me locked up, I couldn’t leave.”

Siobhan looked up, staring down at him. Her eyes were all wet and terrified, “In prison?” She swallowed, thinking of her interview. Oh God, she prayed, please tell me it was not because of that… She stared at him, devastated, “Because of me?”

Arthur’s face contorted and he shook his head, “No.” He didn’t understand. “No, Shiv, why would you…?”

“I said that you raped me.” She blurted, gracelessly and blunt. “I told the Pinkertons you abused me.”

Arthur’s chest hollowed to hear such things straight from his mouth and his gut twisted in utter self-disgust. He blinked, “It was before that.” Was all he said.

Siobhan realized he meant that it was in New Almaden. That’s why he never came back for her… Not then, and not ever until now. And she realized, as Arthur stared uncomfortably at her lap like he couldn’t meet her eye, what a horrible thing she had admitted and never explained.

He put his hand on her knee before she could even explain. Gently running his finger over the surface of her bruises, he shook his head, “You’re covered in marks… You’re hurt.”

Her confusion was overwhelming. There was too much running through her head—a head that ached and was fuzzy with a concussion—for her to make sense of any of it. So many things she wanted to say and yet nothing came out right without the bitter stabbing of grief she still couldn’t sort through. Her voice was utterly destroyed. Just speaking hurt like daggers running up the sides of her throat, a soreness that cut into her ear canal. She didn’t even fully register what he said. “Arthur, when you left, I—oh, God, I should never have told you to leave. I hate myself for it. I had no right! It’s all my fault, If you—”

Siobhan smiled fully. A smile of relief that nearly held no sadness within it. She was so happy to hear him say it. But she remembered what Paul had said and she inhaled deeply, “I don’t mind staying. Just for a few more days. Mr. Hallock is helping with…”

Siobhan blinked another tear away, she wanted to explain but she couldn't find the words. For the life of her, she couldn’t convince her heart to do as he commanded. But she tried to assure herself, “It’s okay. You’re here now. Everything’s gonna be okay now.” She looked into his eyes, “I love you.”

Arthur hugged her again, “Oh, I love you too, Shiv. I love you so goddamn much.”

“I’m so sorry for running away. I ruined it, didn’t I?” She sniffled, feeling him hold her tighter, “I imagined it so many times… I didn’t know you were real until you touched my hand.”

Arthur awkwardly cleared his throat as he shut the door behind them. “Uh…” He looked down at her, wiping another tear from her cheek, and spoke quietly, “I’m a little thirsty, I guess.”

And Siobhan sprung right out of his arm, though he reached out for her—thinking he was going to get it himself—but she had already made it straight into the kitchen where the others still talked. Arthur followed after her and eyed the floor where there became a trail of little red half-footprints. He looked at Siobhan’s feet as he came into the kitchen, ignoring the moving figures to his right where Paul and Ethel were seated at the table, she was pouring him a glass from the pitcher on the counter. “Shiv, your foot is bleeding.”

Siobhan lifted her foot to see a small gash right at the curve of her heel, and grimaced, “Oh…”

Paul Hallock stood up and grabbed the glass from her hand, setting it down on the table, “Do you want me to—”

Siobhan interrupted, hopping on one foot to turn around, “Can Arthur and I have the room for a little while?” She looked at him, “You can help me with this, can’t you?”

Arthur didn’t say anything as the others started to shuffle their way out. He and Siobhan just looked at each other from across the room, with soft eyes, whereby—just looking at him—Siobhan could understand Arthur to be saying, ‘You know I can.’

He always did…

When the room was clear, Siobhan hobbled over to the table and sat down in a seat warmed by Paul already. Arthur watched her quietly, almost shyly. Now in the light he could see all of her hair was short, not just the bangs. It made her look so young and girlish,—more than usual—he almost didn’t recognize her. As he moved slowly to the sink. “Where’re the rags?”

Siobhan pointed to a cabinet beside him in which he began to dig. She watched him bend over with one hand planted on the counter and the other curved into the shelves, snatching the white towel and shutting the cabinet with a flick of his wrist. Something in his back or knee—or perhaps his hip, she couldn’t rightly tell which—popped as he straightened up and ran it underneath the water. Her heart was warmed just watching him. So domestic, so unassuming, so completely real and solid, and here…

Arthur pulled a chair over to sit across from her and asked permission with his face before he touched her. And Siobhan looked down, blushing as she extended her leg at his silliness. He laid her ankle across his thigh and wiped her cut clean. “Didn’t feel it?” He asked.

“Not until you pointed it out… You know how I am.” She said with a light tone of self-mockery. “So high-strung I can’t feel anything.”

“Shouldn’t have run out like that barefoot.” His tone was soft. Not even remotely scolding or disapproving. Concerned, maybe, but only slightly.

Siobhan eyed his face, soft and concentrated. Clearly exhausted, but his beard had grown so long and fluffy, it made him look a little more long-faced than he might have been otherwise. Her voice was small, “You’ve got an animal on your face.”

Arthur chuckled, just looking at her foot, “I know. And you…” he looked up at her through his brow, “Your hair is short now.”

Siobhan showed no pride of it, and lowered her voice solemnly, “It was cut.” She said bluntly, implying it was not her decision. She trailed off, “At the carnival…”

And now Arthur eyed it a bit closer and the jaggedness of the cuts, uneven and choppy, made more sense. It was not done by a barber. Siobhan then suddenly met his eye again, realizing, apparently, that she hadn’t told him about that herself.

“Paul told me.” He said, in an effort to soothe the sudden displacement that took over her face. His brow creased, “What happened?”

Siobhan was almost reluctant to admit it. But a part of her knew that Arthur was the only person in the world who she could trust to understand. “I had to fight a girl. She was my age but she was massive. I thought the fighting was bad, but then I…” She grit her teeth, looking away. She shuddered to think of killing that poor girl.

Arthur looked up at her. He could tell by the way she kept her eyes down and her chin trembled that she did not want to say that she had killed the girl. He put his hand on her chin, “Hey.” He said softly, meeting her eye, “You had no choice.”

Siobhan’s eyes were sparkling with tears and when she blinked at Arthur’s loving sincerity, a tear fell down her cheek. As she wiped it, wincing at the salt that mixed into the little cut on her cheekbone, Arthur dropped his hand. He set the rag aside and patted her ankle, “It’s not too deep, but I wouldn’t put too much pressure on it. Might hurt.”

Siobhan hadn’t even looked at her foot, and kept it in place on his lap. She was entranced simply by the sight of him. She nudged his glass a little closer to his edge of the table. “When did you read the paper?”

Arthur swallowed, reaching for the glass, “Err—uh, well, a few weeks ago.”

“Oh.” Siobhan was surprised. She took a deep breath. “It’s older than that. I haven’t read it, but…”

Siobhan could tell by the strange ways he moved—even as he drank from his glass, though it had nothing to do with their crural contact—how he avoided touching her foot again. And the leg which she laid it over remained completely still, while his other moved anxiously around.

She quickly tried to salvage her reassurance, “I was careful not to name you. I hoped that if they ever tried to charge you for those lies, I would say it wasn’t you.”

Arthur nodded, keeping his eye on the shivering water, “Yeah…”

Some sadness passed over Siobhan as she looked at him. She hated it, all of it… “It’s just,—if they had even the slightest idea that I did all of this willingly, they could’ve hanged me.”

“I know.” Arthur said assuredly, though with the slightest touch of trailing off.

Siobhan swallowed, “And I had to publish it publicly so that if they tried it anyway… People would stop them.”

Arthur looked at her for the first time, then, and her eyes were wide and scared. She held her hand on the table where he could easily have reached for it. He looked at it, swallowed, and ran his thumb along her knuckles, “I know, Shiv.” His voice was soft, “I just had this thought… for a minute there… that it was true the whole time. Everythin’ I feared when we first got together. That you’d wake up one day and realize it was all different than how you thought it was.”

Siobhan grabbed his hand tightly, “You didn’t hurt me, Arthur.” She swore, “I’ve never felt that way.”

Arthur nodded once. Tiny, firm, but resolute.— Assuring, “I know that now. I know when you’re telling the truth, Shiv… Don’t worry about me, I know.” He looked at her shyly, through his eyelashes, “It’s the way your eyebrows turn up like that.”

Siobhan tucked her lips in, gliding her teeth along them until they scratched. Arthur was terribly sweet, but so solemn it broke her heart. What more could she say? There was nothing she could do to remedy the time he had spent thinking of her that way, or to lessen it. No matter how it made her heart ache… “Are you tired?” Siobhan asked meekly.

Arthur nodded, his eyelids dry and head pounding, “Yeah… pretty exhausted.”

“Do you want to…” Siobhan bit her lip nervously, “Sleep with me? ‘Cause we have another spare room if you wanna—”

Arthur finally acknowledged the connection between their bodies and his hand warmly slid, encircling her ankle while he looked directly at her. His voice gravelly and wiry, “Yes, Shiv. That’s all I’ve wanted for months.”

Siobhan blinked under her reddening cheeks and her eyes flicked to his hand. She kept her eyes down, softly smiling. Her voice round and small, “Okay.”

But then neither of them moved. Siobhan lifted her eyes to Arthur’s who were steady-trained on her. She felt her heart leap for how suddenly intimate everything became. All of their shyness was still there, as if they didn’t know each other at all and were meeting for the first time. But there also came to be the differences in one another, saying ‘hi’ to each other through their curious features.

Siobhan gently moved her hand up to Arthur’s jaw, tracing the bristling border of his ducktail beard while his eyes lowered to the natural parting of her thighs which were noticeably fuller and wider than how he’d last seen her. Hi. And between them, at the sedentary ease of her stomach, her belly still round and downy in a little dove-soft pouch. Hi.

How Arthur seemed so much sharper and sterner than she could recall him—his muscles leaner, his abdomen tenser, his shoulders all run through with knots of stress. Hi. How Siobhan seemed so much stiller, quieter, her diffidence moving beneath her—under every sluffing bit of meat on her bones where her body had shifted and outspread with the gentleness of motherhood. Hi.

She saw the scar on the edge of his cheekbone and grazed it with her thumb, “Where’d you come by this?”

Arthur swallowed. Her skin was pinker than before, perhaps slightly tanned or just less pale from the cold mountain air. Her cheeks were slightly fuller but her pouting lips still overcame her face just the same. He hated to tell her of San Jose or New Verhalen—or any of it. He couldn’t imagine what he’d say when she inevitably saw the gash down his thigh.

His answer was more gruff and blunt than he intended. “Story for another time.”

But Siobhan’s ease barely shifted at his omission. She only moved her eyes further down, scratching his beard and eyeing his lips. Arthur, meanwhile, was half-breath taken by the sight of her. He swallowed, “You look… real, err—healthy.”

“Healthy?” Siobhan repeated shyly, a twinkle in her eye that told him she knew exactly what he was really trying to say. And despite his awkwardness, she still gave him her starlight smile. “I’m all banged up.”

Arthur’s voice was a little deeper. “You’re beautiful, Shiv.” His thumb moved in circles over her ankle, “You’ve changed a lot. Still so beautiful.”

His eyes roamed over the frame of her face, his jaw clenching, “I never thought of such a haircut on you. Makes you look so much younger.”

“Younger?” Siobhan scoffed lightly with a smile, “It doesn’t suit me, then.”

“It suits you.” Arthur insisted. Anything would. “Just never thought you could look much younger than you are.”

Siobhan lowered her eyes meekly, her hand gliding down casually as if she were to pull away from him completely. But Arthur caught her hand as it slid down his chest and held it tightly to his heart. She looked back up at him and his eyes were so intense she could’ve been sucked up into them and disappeared.

Finally, for the first time all night, that spark between them seemed to return—if even for a flicker of a second—and when Siobhan’s eyes lowered to his lips, Arthur gently inclined his head. Looking between her eyes for any sign of hesitation, Siobhan’s breath went shallow and he watched her keep her eyes steady trained on his mouth, ghosting a touch on his thigh.

“…Can I kiss you?” His soft voice caressed her cheek.

She looked up into his eyes again, her head moving in the tiniest little motion, as if afraid to accidentally brush against him. Her lips were parted nervously, her eyes glittering wet. “I’m afraid I’ll die if you do.”

Arthur’s lips twitched around the corners with a tiny little smile and his hand lowered to her thigh. From the top of her knee to the curve of her thigh, his hand fully enveloped its width. “I’m afraid I’ll die if I don’t.”

And when Siobhan’s blushing cheeks cracked with an equally small little smile, with a strained sigh of relief, the spell was broken and Arthur knew she had returned to him. He leaned slightly forward and Siobhan softly reciprocated. In silence, their lips enclosed and hands intruded on each other’s bodies with greed, moving quietly over the fabric of their clothing.

The capacity of the kiss seemed to have been full the second Arthur’s mouth opened slightly until Siobhan reached into his long hair and the threshold weakened and something grew. It paused for a just a second, Arthur pressing his forehead to hers as he whispered, “This is real…”

Siobhan smiled, nodding against his head, “This is real.”

A hunger opened up and their mouths were wider, jaws tenser, tongues closer. Arthur kept opening his eyes for a few flickering seconds in between just to be sure he was awake and it was real, groaning every second his reality was assured to him. And Siobhan grabbed at him eagerly. Her hands twisted so viciously into his clothes they could have torn. And Arthur’s hand was getting more and more comfortable gripping the overexplored surface of her thigh—as his fingers started to pull absently at her shift, as if to undress her, he pulled away.

And Siobhan’s face was a burning denial. Unaware for a few blank seconds what had even gone on to make Arthur stop. All she could see was their kiss-bruised lips panting and their clothes looking very out-of-place and unnatural.

Until a few seconds of charged silence passed and it occurred to them both why it stopped. Why it would have reached a point of such painful discomfort for the both of them that it would have ended either way.

“Sorry.” Siobhan quietly muttered, patting down his twisted shirt. Arthur just laughed and rubbed his hand along her thigh soothingly.

“It’s ok.” His response was awkward and muted. But there was the tiniest smile on the corner of his mouth.

Siobhan tucked in her bottom lip as Arthur’s thumb met her jaw. She traced the angle of his beard again to the corner of his cheekbone where a new scar had been placed. “Have you got any more?”

Arthur’s mouth skewed, “A few.”

After a heavy breath, Siobhan pushed his hand off of her face and leaned into him, grabbing him by the chest. Arthur hugged her back naturally, but as he stroked her back and she sunk lower and lower into his lap, he realized she was crying again. Arthur tried to wipe her hair out of her face and get her to sit up but she was obstinate and inconsolable. He had no idea what to say or what to think of it. But it broke his heart to hear her cry so fully.

“It’s ok, Shiv.” He said, trying to soothe her. But she just shook her head. From the muffled cavity of his waist she whined, ‘you were hurt.’ And Arthur shook his head, looking down at her curved spine, “It wasn’t nearly as bad as bein’ without you, Shiv, don’t worry.”

He pulled at her arms and pushed them over his shoulders, hugging her. “Let’s go to bed. I woke you up.”

Siobhan squeezed him tightly and kissed his neck, rubbing her face all over him as if to transfer the smell of him onto her. Which wouldn’t have been difficult considering how dirty he was. Then she pulled away and wiped her face. “I’m sorry, I know I cry too much.”

Arthur chuckled and wiped her cheek, she’d always been sensitive like that. A part of him was relieved that she stayed the same in that respect, at least. Then, taking her hand, he started to lead her upstairs. She walked behind him as they went up, the staircase creaking irremediably with their weight. Arthur went back into her bedroom and saw that it had begun to rain outside against the glaring window above the bed. Filling the room with the little pitter-pattering sound. Siobhan went to the closet first, sniffling, “The bed’s kind of small. Let me get you a pillow.”

“It’s bigger than my cot was.” He said, placing his hand on the end of the mattress to test its weight.

“Heh-heh,” Siobhan’s laugh was round and a little wheezy for all the crying she had done, “That’s true.”

After tossing him a pillow, Siobhan gestured for him to sit down and came over, kneeling at his feet more suddenly than Arthur expected. As if to pray at his feet, she looked up at him wide eyed. And she started to take off his boots, running her hands underneath the confines of his trouser-ends. “I bet your feet hurt.”

Arthur’s brows were knit, looking down at her. Sometimes he hated how sweet and loving she could be. Taking his boots off for him now, where he should be doing everything under the sun for her. He sighed, “Yeah… you don’t have to—”

And there she started to rub his feet.

She smiled at him, “What?” Tossed her hair from her face and giggled, “I like it. You got nice feet.”

“You’re so strange.” He snorted, couldn’t help it. But he sat stiffly watching her, apprehensive as her finger gently grazed the gauze that still covered the burn on his ankle. Siobhan looked up at him, didn’t have to voice her worry. Arthur sighed, explaining minimally. “There was a fire.”

“A fire?” Her brow furrowed. For some reason, it sounded familiar. She racked her brain for a few moments, caressing his feet, as she tried to remember why it sounded familiar. And then she remembered; there’s a fire west of here, Cleopatra had said. Siobhan looked up, “The one in New Mexico?”

Arthur nodded.

She scoffed, baffled. Her face still cinched in confusion, “You were there?”

“I got caught in it trying to get here faster.” Arthur admitted. “It was the dumbest goddamned thing I’ve ever done but… I had to find you. Any longer sitting and waiting and I might’ve died anyway.”

Siobhan lowered her eyes and laid her forehead against his knee. She shook her head. Her heart was so full she was on the verge of tears again and she desperately did not want to break into hysteria again. But she could not imagine such devotion burning for her alone. After all she had done?

Arthur touched her hair, gently combing his fingers through it, “You don’t know how happy I am to be with you again, Shiv.”

She looked up at him, resting her chin on his knee. She looked so tired, but at once so content and full of love. Something she had been cruelly deprived of this whole time. “I don’t know how I’ll sleep with you next to me.”

Arthur’s eyes were soft as he led her back up to her feet. She sat beside him and rested her cheek on his shoulder and he wrapped his arms around her. Just trying to get used to the feeling of one another again.

Siobhan closed her eyes, content to hold and be held for now. Savor this touch of his that she had needed and been so long apart from. It didn’t matter that she was at this house, or this state. It didn’t matter that she had been brought there against her will. She had Arthur now, so it would all be okay.

She realized how slowly they were moving, though, and knew how tired he must’ve been, and couldn’t help but tug for Arthur to take off his shirt. When her hands went to his belt, Arthur stopped her, awkwardly chuckling though he did not really find it funny. He tried badly to reassure her with that painfully forced laugh, “I know you hate when I sleep in my pants but, I can’t be bothered to take them off.” He lied, wrapping his arms around her. “Forgive me.”

Instantly warmed, Siobhan was a little concerned, but she made room for Arthur. The bed squeaked and the springs grated metallic, the sheets swarmed them like muted bees. She worried he was concealing something from her, but she’d allow him that, as she was hiding a great deal of things herself.

And once they were nestled under the sheets, they were faced with the silence and the promise of one another, locked here into bed with each other now. Arthur pushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “Feels like we’re in Shady Belle again.”

Siobhan smiled, “Yeah. Isn’t that weird?”

“We should be used to each other.” Arthur said, “Why’s it feel like we just met?”

Siobhan’s teeth tugged at her lip and caught Arthur’s eye. He looked back up to her eyes, tracing a triangle between the three in a rote little chart. Siobhan blushed, “I dunno…”

Arthur’s hand slid around her waist and he watched her neck strain with a nervous and deep inhale. “Been a long time since you had a man in your bed, huh?”

Siobhan’s eyes widened, sparkling. Her voice was breathless. “…Yes.”

“Putting his hands on you.” Arthur raised a brow. “Kissin’ you.”

Siobhan yipped suddenly as Arthur pulled her tightly against his chest. And giggling slightly into the kiss, both of them struggled to stop smiling. But just as suddenly, Flora jumped onto the bed again and shook the two of them apart with the suddenness. But she simply curled up at the end of the bed after stepping on Arthur’s ankles, and huffed herself asleep.

Siobhan looked down at her, “That’s Flora.” She said to Arthur, “She kept me safe while you were gone.”

Arthur eyed the dog with a funny look, “She almost bit me when I came in.”

Siobhan giggled, pulling herself up against Arthur’s neck, “I know.” She kissed his neck softly and then his jaw. “You’re so warm. You smell so good.”

“I stink. I ain’t bathed in days.” He said, closing his eyes.

“You smell like you. I missed this smell.” She rubbed against his body with everything she had,—Arthur was now sure she was trying to transfer his scent onto her.

Arthur knew what she meant, he hadn’t smelled Siobhan in so long. Not anything other than phantom scents in the desperation of his dreams. To smell her now, real and physically before him, was almost dizzying. Like flowers, which she always preferred over fruits—but not roses, he remembered, which smelled too strong for her liking—and a little bit of hay for all the time she liked to spend with her horses. (And maybe, here, a trace of all that sugarcane, which coated miles and miles of the property around this plantation).

But ultimately, it was still Siobhan in his arms. The same Siobhan he met a couple hundred miles away from this city, here in the state of Texas, just outside of Valentine. The same girl with a big glittering colt and the same shifting emerald eyes. The same sweet little voice and flat Californian accent. So much of her was just the same. Everything he could never stop himself from falling desperately in love with. Time away from her had only magnified how much he wanted her. And yet, so much of it was different, too.

Arthur traced her brow with his thumb, “I’m sorry it took so long.”

She gently held his wrist, stroking his pulse with her fingers. She couldn’t express how relieved she was to hear it. “There’s nothing we could’ve done.”

“I don’t know how I made it.” He said, his eyes darting all across her face, “Not seeing you in the morning, or hearing your voice outside my tent. Just not knowing where you were or if you were ok.”

Siobhan tucked in her lips, biting at them from inside her mouth. She sniffled, “Telling myself you’d be here tomorrow. ‘Just one more day,’ every day, again and again. That's how I made it.”

Arthur took a deep breath. He could not imagine how painful it must have been for her. Simply because he knew how much it hurt to be without her, and to have the grief of death lingering above that… He could not subtract that grief from himself now, or stock it to his pain before… he just couldn’t imagine it.

Siobhan kissed him. And after feeling Arthur close his eyes and decompress somewhere in his body, she whispered, “Let’s sleep now, yeah?”

“Alright. I love you, Shiv.” He said and pulled her closer against him.

“I love you too.” She smiled. But Siobhan found she could not fall asleep.

Though Arthur admitted he too found it hard not to keep his eyes open taking in the fact that Siobhan was finally next to him, he was so completely exhausted—in more ways than Siobhan could physically see—that he couldn’t keep himself awake even through his elation. And she, on the other hand, worried herself in knots.

She tried laying next to him. Held him for about thirty minutes as he fell asleep. And when he started to snore, she scooted away from him and laid on her back just to try and get her heart to slow down. Everytime she tried to close her eyes, within a few minutes they were open, watching him breathe peacefully. But he did not sleep as soundly as he once did. He frequently twitched, mumbled incoherently or fully woke up. Siobhan would pretend to be asleep when he did, trying not to disturb him though she, herself, was disturbed. She had not seen him sleep so poorly since they were sick.

Her hands were wringing together, she ate at her lips, scratched at her neck. She tried to sleep with her back to him. Then tried to move in closer. Then got up altogether and quietly paced the room. Flora sat under the bed staring up at her in her dog-confusion. In intervals she had bouts of quiet tears.

She bit at her nails, could not for the life of her make sense of all the emotion coursing through her at once. Her relief, her love, her amazement, her fear, her regret, her anxiety, her grief above all. How could she just sleep?!

She had been pacing for nearly thirty minutes when Arthur rolled over and reached out for her so suddenly it stopped her in her tracks. She watched as he was firstly asleep on his side, silent and unmoving, to immediately turning around and extending his arm over her absence. As if he had been briefly awake and simply sensed that she was not there.

He blinked up at her in the darkness, “Shiv?” His voice croaked.

She moved toward the bed, revealing herself in the moonlight. “I’m sorry, did I wake you up?”

“No…” He smacked his dry lips, turning onto his back. He took a deep, sleepy intake of breath, adjusting his neck on the pillow, “What are you doin’?”

She shook her hands in a motion to say, ‘I don’t know!’ And whispered, “I just can’t sleep. Not for the life of me.”

Arthur cleared his throat, which was hoarse and dry. Siobhan quickly sat on the edge of the bed, leaning toward him, “Can I get you some water?” She gave him a hasty smile, “I’d really like go walk off some of this energy.”

Arthur blinked, nodding slightly, “Alright… Thank you.”

Siobhan was pleased to stand up and finally let herself out of the room. Flora shot up to her feet and ran after Siobhan as she went downstairs, leaving the door open. Arthur could see the sun candlelight leaking in front the hall and heard the rushing of the tap from the kitchen. He sat up a little straighter, though he was still so exhausted.

She quickly came back, Flora arriving just before her. Siobhan shut the door behind them and padded over on her socked feet to bring him his water. She sat on his side of the bed, just on the edge.

After he drank, inhaling with his wet lips, he joked, “I guess I should have let you sleep and come to you in the morning, huh?”

Siobhan pursed her lips in a little smile, looking at her lap. She raised her eyes to him as he finished the glass, setting it on the bedside table and looking at her softly. She took a deep breath, “You know, the last time we slept together I couldn’t get any sleep either. You had a bite on your ankle, do you remember?”

Arthur snorted, wiping his eyes. “I don’t think so, but, you’ve told me I’ve kicked you before.”

She smiled, “Only a few times.”

He reached for her hand. “I keep dreaming that I’m awake with you right here and we’re telling each other what went on while we were apart. Weird dreams.”

Siobhan kept her eyes down though she held his hand back. “I hate dreams like that. I can never tell when I’m really awake.”

“It ain’t so bad.” Arthur reasoned, “Just cause I’m finally with you even when I wake up.”

Siobhan’s heart warmed. “That’s exactly why I can’t sleep. I feel like this is a dream now.”

He squeezed her hand, “You ain’t dreaming, Shiv, I promise. I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

She looked at him softly, her eyes wide and spangled with gentle light. She leaned forward and hugged herself to him tightly, just had to feel herself wrapped up in his warmth. To be so full of the sensation of him that she could not mistake it for a dream.

“Come up here,” Arthur pulled the sheets up and scooted over slightly so she could lay next to him. She pulled away only to get her feet up onto the bed and turn over into his chest. He closed the blanket over them. “That’s better.”

Siobhan kept her head on his shoulder and the room looked a little bit lighter. She breathed a sigh of relief, “The sun’s coming up.”

Arthur looked up and could see that she was right. He closed his eyes, “We’ll be sleeping all day, I’m sure.”

And though he was only half-serious, he was right. Arthur slept until nine o’clock, and Siobhan slept well into noon.

Chapter 31: — LET ME SLEEP

Chapter Text

AUGUST 1, 1900

The morning was marked by pouring eaves. Rain rattled against the windowpanes and made strange little lines of half-shadows over Arthur and Siobhan's sleeping figures. Flora groomed at the foot of the bed in the early morning light. But by the time the sun had turned the room a peachy golden-pink, she was jumping up and pawing at the door, scratching.

He looked around the bed for the dog’s owner and saw that Siobhan was fast asleep. For a second, his heart compelled him to reach out and touch her, but his fingers hesitated, inches from her cheek, and he retracted his hand. Half of her face was buried in her pillow and she slept so soundly, he’d hate to wake her up. A part of him wasn’t even ready to.

He pulled the sheets off himself and swung his feet over the edge. And as they touched the cold hardwood floor and he was faced with his skin in the sunlight through the window, bare to Siobhan’s childhood bedroom, he slumped his head in his hands, the events of the night before running through his head all at once.

The whiplash he felt from it all, the shock and the heartbreak; all of it felt so sudden and undealt with. He felt torn between two completely overbearing emotions at once any second he was faced with her,—which made the revelations of that night so much harder to comprehend—utter and complete gratitude to see her and hold her and be near her, and the murdering grief of the loss of their daughter in every glance at Siobhan’s flattened stomach.

Every time he closed his eyes his mind attacked him with a flash of the second Siobhan choked on her tears and wept, ‘why did you come back?’ And each time his heart fell further and further into his twisting gut like spiders washing down a drain and he swore there was no way he could look Siobhan in the eye and forgive himself for not being there. If he hadn’t helped Archie Downes and had taken that train and beat the fire to Texas and got there a few weeks sooner…

The dog was baying and whining against the door and Arthur turned to see her scratching at it with her paw, looking back at Arthur with a look in her eye that was completely lacking in sympathy for his brooding. He still refused to get up immediately. He worried either of them might wake Siobhan up and then he’d have to face her again. All-alive and heartbroken before him. And though the deepest well of his heart froze over with longing to do exactly that, another part of him could barely bring himself to think of seeing her beautiful, grieving face again.

He looked around the room. It was spacious and airy. The walls were white-yellow with some delicate floral wallpaper. And the only furniture consisted of the white metal-frame bed he sat on, the little wooden table beside it, the basin beside the door, and a wardrobe. It was somehow less decorated than her bedroom in New Almaden. The only picture on the wall was a medium-sized portrait of Siobhan, Ethel, and a man who Arthur assumed to be Siobhan’s uncle by the way his face had been carved out of the picture with a knife. Siobhan looked much younger in the portrait, from what he could see at this distance, and he would guess her to have been no older than thirteen.

On the wall beside the door he could see rough little carvings of horses scratched into the molding all along the wall. And in that corner of the room was a stack of books that explained everything about her. The Count of Monte Cristo, The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, The Tale of Tom Kitten, The Jungle Book, My Brilliant Career…

Perhaps with a very forgiving exception of the last, not a single romance to be seen. They all seemed to be tales of leaving home, of being exiled or finding a new family. Things he had come to understand were the exact reasons he found her in the first place. And it dawned on him that this unimpressive little room with decades old furniture creaking under every movement, scratchy cotton blankets and stale air was nothing at all like the bonafide castle he’d imagined she must have come from when they first met. When she was not yet Siobhan Magda to him nor Siobhan Morgan but simply

SIOBHAN DAVENPORT

MISSING

REWARD OF $10,000 RETURNED SAFELY

And Arthur Morgan hated that she had ever been brought back here while he still walked the Earth and still drew breath.

Flora barked, catching Arthur’s attention, and when he saw her staring at him, he finally stood up. Flora raised her snout to the air and got to her feet as he came over, tracking him as he went. He opened the door and she slithered out before it was open more than just a crack and went running down the hall. He turned around and was relieved to see Siobhan still asleep.

He crept back over to her and sat down on the bed. He’d never seen her so drowned in sleep that so much noise would not wake her up. He finally leaned forward and stole a kiss from her cheek, holding his lips there for a moment, sinking into the sweetness of an innocent kiss. For a second, there was nothing but the hopeful bliss of fast-assured love.

But then he had to leave the room or she might drive him crazy with exactly that. To have her next to him was everything he wanted, and also heartbreakingly inaccurate. There was some sharpness missing between them. Some comfort they had grown accustomed to that was now a gap.

Arthur knew what it was, but giving it—giving her— a name, didn’t change it. It was just not right.

He found his way down the hall to the bathroom and poked around to understand their plumbing. He took a deep breath of relief to see the bathtub fill with steaming hot water and undressed himself safely knowing Siobhan was not awake to see his scars. And it felt an odd, out of place, and slightly embarrassing thing to clean himself up and shave his face, knowing in the back of his mind he wanted Siobhan to still find him attractive. Having no idea what awful things he'd done in her absence, what conditions he'd been dredging in, and what scars he hid beneath his clothes. Still, he tried to clean himself quickly.

SIOBHAN

Siobhan came downstairs at half past noon when Arthur was still bathing. And she knew that he was because she had knocked nervously on the door and he called out to tell her he was just getting dressed. So she went zombie-like down the stairs to wait for him. Paul and Ethel were in the kitchen talking. Griffin sat beside Paul, squeezed against the wall. He stood up as soon as he saw her. “Siobhan!”

He barreled into her arms faster than she could react and squeezed her into a hug so tight she’d have woken up if it were a dream. “Griffin!” Paul reprimanded.

Siobhan smiled as Griffin did not let go. For once disobeying his Sheriff. She squeezed his shoulders just as tightly and said, muted by her smushed cheeks, “I missed you.”

He gently swaddled her, “I missed you too.” And finally let her go. “I wanted to see you last night but Paul said you were tired.”

Siobhan didn’t know what to say about that, and the others could pretty much tell just by looking at her that she was a little bit overwhelmed by everything that had happened in the past day. Griffin backed away and got her a chair and their voices all lowered soothingly.

“I brought you some things. A shirt of his and that Godawful belt you always wear.” Paul gestured to them where they were on the table, leaning over the back of his chair to look up at her. Siobhan picked up Arthur’s shirt foremost, “Mary-Beth figured you’d like to have those back. Guess you don’t need it now, though.”

“Mary-Beth?” Siobhan asked, piping up with sudden hope, “She’s okay?”

“Yeah.” Paul said, nodding seriously, “She and Kieran are at the house. They’re just fine. Why don’t you sit down?”

“We can catch up.” Griffin suggested from behind Paul.

It took her a second to respond. She had to blink and remind herself quickly that he was just upstairs. “He’s—” she cleared her throat, “He’s upstairs. Bathing.”

It was strange. She imagined Arthur’s return would feel so much different than it did. She imagined it would be nothing short of complete, overwhelming joy that she could feel to see him again. Though, she imagined it that way before Elizabeth had died. And not only did she immediately break down in the presence of him, but she felt completely bereft of emotion the morning after they had slept side-by-side for the first time in months. And now she could hardly even recognize the most beloved faces before her and remember that the night before had even happened. Nothing felt entirely real. It was possible she was dreaming again, but she was fairly certain she wasn’t.

Ethel wiped her hands clean from where she had been washing dishes. “Well, I imagine the two of you will want to spend the day together. You can take the carriage into town if you like, but you and I have some things to discuss about the will.”

Siobhan’s brow furrowed, “The will?” She had no idea, for a few seconds, what Ethel was talking about. And then it dawned on her, “Oh.” Her brain was so overwhelmed with a million thoughts at once that she had forgotten, “Richard’s will. Right… Okay.”

The dull reminder of Richard’s murder made Siobhan shiver, looking down into her lap. Her mind numbed and eyes unfocused with dark thoughts. She did not hear footsteps descending the staircase and did not realize how Griffin and Ethel awkwardly took themselves away until Paul patted her on the shoulder and she looked up to see why everyone was leaving so suddenly.

Then, there he was. Full and tall before her. As soon as she saw him, she stood up. Arthur’s hair was a little damp and he had shaved his face clean of the fuzzy animal that lived there before. He still found himself surprised by the sight of bangs on her head, but she looked gorgeous in the sunlight as always and her eyes were wide with love.

There were a few seconds of charged silence like he had overheard something he wasn’t supposed to hear. The air was poisoned with trepidation and neither of them knew who should be the first to speak.— And say what?

Arthur took a step closer, lowering his eyes to the table and glancing at her beneath his heavy brow. His fingers grazed the edge of Griffin’s seat before he gestured at her. He seemed to have a gift for making conversation of nothing. “You’re wearin’ one of my shirts.”

“Oh.” Siobhan looked down at herself, quickly grabbing at it and letting it fall. “Mr. Hallock just brought it.”

He nodded thoughtfully, though Siobhan was sure he was not thinking about something as insignificant as a shirt, and watched him scratch his jaw. She wondered why he wasn’t sitting down and gestured at the kitchen, “Are you hungry or something? I think Ethel made—”

“Shiv.” He suddenly interrupted her and then immediately covered his mouth, shaking his head. Siobhan shut her mouth, waiting for him to speak and when he didn’t finish his sentence, her brow furrowed almost in offense. Like she was mad he had interrupted her only to say nothing.

He laughed awkwardly and she looked concerned by his weird behavior. He didn’t know why he laughed, there was nothing funny about any of it, hardly an ounce of amusem*nt in his body. His hand slid from his mouth and he leveled his eyes on her, so intense she swore he intended to eat her.

Siobhan’s brow furrowed again. “What?” She said grimly.

And he suddenly took three steps towards her and closed all space between them until her chest was pressed up against his and his hand held her back arched up to him and his opposite forearm kept her shoulders tucked against his chest. He held her close enough to kiss but simply looked into her eyes, pinched with his own confusion. He wanted to kiss her so badly it almost didn't occur to him that she might not like it until he had her against him. “I’m sorry…” He said curiously, as if he didn’t know what he was apologizing for.

Siobhan’s eyes were wide and she looked over his face with wonder. She didn’t need to know what he was sorry for at all, “Don’t be.”

He shut his mouth, blinking at her like a sick dog. She raised her hand to his cheek though it was difficult to squeeze between his encasing arms. She looked over his pinkish-red skin, sun-burnt and spotty, with bright red bands across his cheekbones and white lines across his forehead where his wrinkles never met the sun. His hooded eyes still piercing blue-green beneath his heavy brow, asserting themselves sternly as he took her in. He was gorgeous.

He shook his head like it was the dumbest thing he’d ever said, “Can I kiss you again?”

Her eyes lifted with concern and love and cleared into some form of confusion. “Yes.”

His joy to hold her overtook his entire face with a languid smirk. He closed his eyes as he kissed her. Siobhan was dwarfed against his chest, a little cloven pygmy with her knobby arms tangling into his and full of a fuzzy warmth that eased her completely passive. Never had she felt safer in her life than held by Arthur. Even now she felt safe. Even if she did not feel alive in the way that one would knowing full-well they were awake and completely alert. But slowly, kiss by kiss, she could begin to melt into the understanding that he was physically there before her and that she, too, was physical enough to touch and to hold.

Arthur was the first to pull away, worried his heart would get the better of him and skip clean out of his chest with how fast it was now beating. Siobhan backed away and pressed her finger to the corner of her mouth bashfully, and eyed the table where her belt lay with his name on it. Arthur scoffed when he saw it, "Did Hallock bring that ugly thing, too?"

Siobhan smiled as she sat down with Arthur. She crossed her arms warmly, her mouth crooked, "I love that ugly thing."

Arthur watched her lovingly, happy just to see that little apprehensive smile paint her cautious lips. He wished she was not so stiff and shy around him, but he could not rightly fault her for it, he was a great deal displaced himself. He wasn't sure he'd be any calmer if they were in New Almaden, Shady Belle, or New Hanover itself.

She added, tracing the belt with her finger, "I didn't have anything of my own except my ring and I had to hide that until I left Blackwater..."

Arthur nodded in understanding and a few more seconds of silence passed. He was not attuned to the sadness with which she trailed off from it. His mood had turned a measure more serious at the mention of Blackwater, and he was sure he did not have an accurate picture of the timeline of events in his head as he thought of it. How long was she there? Why did she go there in the first place? What would she have to say about it all? At first, it was curiosity. He looked at her carefully, “I meant to ask you about Blackwater.”

“Oh.” She could only think of one thing regarding Blackwater now…

“I heard about the money.” Arthur pointed out.

“Oh.” Siobhan’s face cleared with realization as she repeated herself pensively, as if she had forgotten all about it. Although Arthur found that hard to believe. Not that much money. “Right…”

It became very tense all of a sudden.

Siobhan cleared her throat, “I guess you’re wondering how I knew where to find it.”

“No,” Arthur said, frowning. Siobhan looked at him in surprise. “Well, that too, I guess. But… I was more concerned as to how it ended up back with the bank instead of with you.”

Siobhan recoiled slightly. She was genuinely taken by surprise. “With me? What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean.” Arthur restated flatly. “With the gang.”

Siobhan looked at him in confusion. How he searched her face with disappointment. She blinked, “I…” She shook her head, “I gave it to them.”

Arthur looked between her eyes as if he didn’t hear her correctly. “You gave it to them?” He repeated, “Willingly?”

Siobhan was lost for words. Was he angry with her? She breathed a little faster, “What do you mean? Of course I gave it to them willingly. What else was I gonna do with it?”

Arthur pinched his brow, “A hundred and fifty thousand dollars, Shiv? All of it?” He sat back, his face washed in terrible amazement, “Why would you do that?”

Arthur watched her carefully as she stared at him. She felt slightly betrayed, “Because it should never have been stolen in the first place.” She looked at Arthur narrowly, “And I don’t believe it should ever have ended up in Dutch’s hands.”

Arthur stiffened to hear her mention Dutch so bitterly. He looked at her like she was a different person, “What are you talkin’ about? You know why we stole that money. It’s the same reason we robbed Cornwall and the Saint-Denis bank and all those people… You know that, Shiv.”

Siobhan shook her head, her shoulders raising in defense of herself, “We didn’t kill anybody for that money. Those were robberies not massacres.”

“Shiv…” Arthur lowered his voice sympathetically, “Most of that money belonged to rich investors, not the folks who was killed. And… that was a lot of money. The gang would never have to work again. Did you think before deciding—”

“Did I think?” Siobhan snapped. She didn’t mean to. But she felt defensive, suddenly guilty. Something she thought was good, Arthur now blamed her for? One of the only things she had done in the past year that didn’t feel like the worst Goddamn mistake of her life?“Did I think about where the Blackwater money should go before I turned it over to those people?” Siobhan raised her voice for how patronizing he was being. “You don’t think that was all I thought about for years of my life?”

“You know I don’t mean it like that.” Arthur’s face nulled, screwing up like she had misunderstood him. “What I’m sayin’ is it shouldn't have been up to you. Everyone in the gang put their life on the line for that money. It wasn’t just Dutch. We’ve all been paying for it ever since.”

Siobhan sat back, genuinely hurt. “I’m sorry? I think I had more of a say in it than you did, Arthur. As far as I can remember, I was the only one in the gang to end up bleeding out and nearly dead from that robbery.”

“Well, you weren’t, actually.” Arthur bitterly interjected, though if he could see himself then… He’d liked to have ripped his head off for saying that to her. There was some deep discomfort inside of him with what he was saying. And he was aware of it but he did not realize he was saying things he didn’t mean. He didn’t realize it was grief, not anger. He felt bad about every word that came out of his mouth but he could not stop himself!

Siobhan’s mouth formed a tight line. There was a lump in her throat that she desperately ignored. She was not going to cry about this. She would not let Arthur change her mind. It was a good thing, what she had done.

It was a good thing.

Right?

Oh, but now she doubted herself. She had done so many things so terribly wrong, how could she trust herself? The abortion, Dutch, pushing Arthur away that last day they were together, the paper, Richard, Fiona… She pinched her wrist tightly.

“You weren’t even there.” Siobhan said cruelly. She had no intention of being venomous, no, the cruelty in her voice came only from the sting of truth. “If you had, maybe you could have done better, but you weren’t.”

Arthur’s eyes widened at her in disbelief.

She stood up the second a tear fell from her eye and hastily wiped it away. “A thousand dollars went to each family who lost a loved one in the massacre when I returned the money to the town. So regardless of which ‘rich investors’ that money belonged to, it went to the people who actually needed it.”

Arthur stood up too, “We needed that money, Shiv. The gang was just torn apart for Christ’s sake!”

Siobhan hugged herself, “Our family was Elizabeth, Arthur. All I cared about was her. What else did I have? I was alone, you were gone. What good was that money to me?”

Arthur took a deep breath, his wide eyes clearing as he watched Siobhan stare up at him. He lowered his voice solemnly, “You knew I was coming back for you, Shiv. You knew I would never leave you like that.”

“How would I know that, Arthur?” Siobhan cried, staring up at him. “After what you did at the sanatorium? I tried to believe it but how could I know for certain?”

Arthur was clearly shocked to hear her say that. He took a step back in shame, in disbelief, betrayal. All of it. He thought she had forgiven him for that. He thought he had made it clear how badly he regret that moment. He didn’t know what to say to that at all.

But Siobhan could see how hurt he looked and she immediately reeled, “I—” She looked at him desperately as he turned from her, “I didn’t mean that.” She put her hand out, “I don’t know why I said that, Arthur, I’m sorry. I just… I was scared. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

Arthur wiped his face, and all he could muster was, “We lost people in that fight too, Shiv.”

Siobhan’s face fell again. She blinked at him for a few seconds, giving him time to explain himself. But he left it at that. Left her feeling like she had done something horrible. Like she had betrayed the gang and they all sat waiting somewhere, gritting their teeth at the thought of Siobhan’s disloyalty. Her voice was low, and slowly gained more ire. “You guys started the Goddamn fight, Arthur!” She backed away, “Who are you right now?”

Arthur looked her over as her eyes started to water and he felt completely displaced by the comparison… The memory of himself in that tent felt like a different person entirely and all of a sudden, that scared him. Had he really changed that much?

She shook her head, swallowing down tears. And her conviction was strong, “If you had told me then that I had no right to the money your people tried to kill me for, I’d never have stayed with you. I’d have run away and never spared you a second Goddamn thought.”

Arthur took a step back between awe and disquiet as he processed what she meant and gave him no time to respond before she stormed off. He shook his head as he turned away from her retreat, circling his jaw. He grunted, smacking the back of his chair so that it hit the table and clattered on the floor loudly. He didn’t understand himself. He didn’t understand her.

Why did he have such a hard time understanding that it was charity, returning that money? She was not trying to get even with Dutch. She was not spiting him in his grave. And even if she was, didn’t she have that right after what he did to her? To both of them? He still had to remind himself what Dutch had done. Dutch’s death did not change what he had done…

It was charity, she wanted to help those people. It was no different to Arthur giving all of his money to Archie Downes for what he had done to his father. So why was he so upset?

Arthur heard a noise from outside and, quickly, a rush of hoofbeats underlined the singing of horses. He took himself out onto the porch just as Siobhan passed, guiding the carriage away from the house with Griffin beside her. He stood there and watched them leave, his blood boiling.

He wished he had his journal so he could sort out his thoughts even slightly. He quickly sat down on the steps, burying his face in his hands. “What the Hell was that, Morgan? You goddamned idiot…” He butted his palm dully into his temple, “Why did you say that to her?”

The door opened behind him and Arthur looked over his shoulder to see Paul Hallock strutting out. He gruffly turned his head back around, displeased.

“Where’re they going?” Paul asked as he squinted out at the sugar fields.

Arthur huffed, “I don’t know.”

Paul sat down next to him on the other end of the stairs, not too close. They hated each other, remember? Paul offered him a cigarette as he pulled one out for himself.

Arthur eyed it, his instinct telling him no. But his irritation was so complete. His mind and soul torn up with more emotions than he’d felt in a long, long time, that he gave in. He took the cigarette and lit his match off the bottom of his boot.

There was a long and uncomfortable silence in which Arthur’s thoughts felt so rapid within his own head he was sure Paul Hallock could hear them already. So he started talking. It was all he could do.

“I didn’t think it would be this hard coming back.” Arthur started.

Paul looked at him for a second, trying to gauge whether this was regret or not.

“I thought I could make everything right again.” He took a drag from the cigarette, shaking his head. “But I’ve rarely been able to make anything right in my life. I didn't expect—”

He stopped himself. He would not talk about Elizabeth like that. Like she was an inconvenience to his idealistic expectations of his and Siobhan's reunion. She was a grief he had yet to fully understand or reach the depths of.

Paul was sure he wasn’t lying. But he figured his advice here was important. Siobhan was in a fragile state. He didn’t want to see Arthur leave her now, no matter how he hated the man’s guts. If he tried to, Paul would kill him. So he reluctantly advised, to the best of his ability. “It’s only been a day. Give it some time.”

Arthur looked out. “I know.” And looked down at his hands where they hung together over his knees. “I know, but… I seem to… I don’t know. I always screw it up with her. She’s too…” He gestured vaguely, “She’s too good. I can’t wrap my head around her. I love her to death, I mean,—I’d be dead without her. If she left me, I don’t know what I’d do with myself.”

“She had just started to forgive me.” Arthur crossed his arms, keeping his eyes down. “And I didn’t deserve that. Now? Christ,” He looked up at the sky. “I don’t know how she’ll ever forgive me for not being there. Doesn’t matter how much I hate myself for it.”

“You’re an idiot.” Paul said, smoking casually. Arthur didn’t even turn in offense, he couldn’t argue. But Paul could see how he co*cked his head to the side and grit his teeth and took a deep, irritated breath. “I haven’t seen a girl love someone as much as Siobhan loves you. Anybody could see she’s sick in love with you. Why doubt it? Why sit around and brood? You’ve got something you don’t even remotely deserve.”

“I know that.” Arthur declared, nodding irritatedly, “That’s the whole goddamn issue in one. I don’t deserve her. She’s a goddamned Angel. She’s perfect. What the Hell am I?”

Arthur stared at the cigarette in his hand, then, after another drag, and realized he really didn’t care for tobacco anymore. And it wasn’t even worth what mild relief it gave him if Siobhan would plug her nose uncomfortably to smell it on him. He threw it down into the muddy ground and butted it out under his boot. He looked up at the fields.

Paul rolled his eyes, putting out his own cigarette. “Siobhan is not perfect.” He chuckled, “She’s impulsive and irritable and naive and doesn’t know when to stop.”

Arthur looked at Paul. His surprise was evident.

“I love her.” Paul said, “Don’t think for a second I don’t love her. But you can’t sit there and torture yourself thinking you married someone you’ll never possibly match up to. She’s a Goddamned teenager. She’s got lessons to learn same as us. More than us, even. We’ve already made most of our mistakes. She’s probably making a few as we speak.”

Arthur looked off at where the carriage went and figured, knowing how Siobhan could be when she was angry, that Paul was right.

“She doesn’t think she’s perfect.” Paul sighed, “She clearly blames herself for a lot of what happened to her and that isn’t it either. You and I failed her just the same with Dutch. I should have arrested him myself but I didn’t want to disappoint her. That was stupid. You have to make sacrifices.”

Arthur was somewhat relieved by what Paul said. It was hard for him to imagine that Siobhan was perfect, and why shouldn’t it be? He had no right to such a blessing in his life. But it did ease some of his anxiety, for just a second, to think that he was not the only one who had to grow and change and do better. He just never considered Siobhan might feel the same way.

Arthur wasn’t sure about any of it. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I’ve gone about it all wrong but,” He hissed, “I hate to tell her what to think. She’s young and impressionable and I don’t want to control her. I want her to make decisions for herself.”

Paul bitterly laughed, “Maybe you should have thought about that before you married her. You went and got her pregnant and took her house and made her fall in love with you. You already control her.”

Arthur’s face twisted in disgust. “I don’t.”

“You do.” Paul insisted, “Makes you feel dirty doesn’t it? It should.” He gave Arthur a nasty look through the corner of his eye, and then quickly set aside his acrimony, “But you have her now and the worst thing you could do is leave her. If you’re gonna control her, do right by her. Keep her safe. Tell her no when she tries to do something stupid. Stay with her when she needs you.”

Arthur was grateful to hear Paul’s opinion on things and it was not lost on him how the Sheriff seemed to surrender himself to respecting Arthur for a brief second, for Siobhan’s sake. It made him feel a little less of a maniacal brute as he had been seeing himself for the past three months. He began to think of all the ways he would apologize to Siobhan when she returned. What he should have done as soon as Siobhan gave him that terribly heart-wrenching face of confusion when he asked her about the money.

And Christ, why did he not take her for her sincerity? What anger was surmounting his reason and rationality so entirely and where did it come from? If Arthur Morgan had a little more practice in the field of introspection, perhaps he could draw a conclusion between his irrationality and the turmoil of a grief repressed and unacknowledged…

Chapter 32: — SKIN & BONES

Chapter Text

August 1, 1900

On the road back, cutting through the dry fields, Griffin and Siobhan were talking again about New Almaden and how much they’d like to return. Griffin had never seen this part of Texas and liked it well enough but Siobhan had warned him that in the next few weeks, they’d start burning the sugarcane and it would be smoke for days on end and always made her horribly sick. Griffin believed her and told her how much he missed home anyway and that he’d never traveled without his mother before.

Siobhan grinned suddenly with laughter, looking at Griffin incredulously. “She what? Oh my God!” She imagined young little Griffin staring down at his cherry in the mud and Mary Calhoun beside him nodding proudly at what he had been deprived. She wheezed, “‘You can’t get your cherry back?’ What?”

Griffin looked desperate to not be laughed at. “She was talking about women’s virginity.” He stared, wide-eyed, “But I was twelve! So I just sat there crying and trying to eat the rest of my sundae before it melted but I’ve always loved cherries. It was so messed up.”

Siobhan patted him on the shoulder, tucking in her lips. They were approaching the house now. She tried not to let it overwhelm her as she clicked her tongue, signaling the horses to slow as she gently tugged the reins. “Your mom can be really funny. I don’t know if she means to be, though.”

Shortly, Arthur stepped out onto the verandah to watch as she blatantly ignored him and began bringing in boxes and little ribbon-tied bags of colored paper off of the carriage.

Ethel stood with her hands clasped together, “Goodness, Siobhan, you went on quite the shopping trip.”

Siobhan smiled and extended one of the bags to Ethel, “I got you something.” And then raised her hand over her eyes as she squinted over at Paul, “And for you, Mr. Hallock, in the little red box.”

“Siobhan.” Arthur addressed her neutrally from behind. He was not angry with her, but found it amusing how she ignored him.

“Arthur.” She said with equal disenchantment, walking past him with a bag on her arm that spelled Chantelle.

Arthur followed after her as she went inside. “What’s Chantelle?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Siobhan said sarcastically and started to take her things upstairs.

“She’s been reading the Harper’s Bazar.” Ethel said, coming in behind him and admiring the necklace Siobhan bought her. She looked up to see Arthur’s confusion, “It’s a women’s magazine. If you ever want to know what to get Siobhan, read the Bazar.”

Arthur watched Siobhan tramp upstairs and shut the door behind her and looked at her aunt who was proudly smiling at her gift. “Good to know.”

*

“Here’s mud in your eye!” Siobhan shouted, clinking glasses with Ethel. The two gathered in the kitchen once the sun had gone down. Siobhan was careful to align herself with someone at all times so that Arthur could not get her alone. Had she any idea he meant to apologize to her, though, she’d be less inclined to her anxious cowering. Arthur, on the other hand, would let her take her space if she wished for it.

But he had no idea that she had gone into town to buy herself alcohol of all kinds and brought them home to sample, knowing it was a tradition of her family’s to drown their sorrows in booze.— And what did she have anymore to hold her to a higher standard than that? Certainly not any children.

Siobhan was surprised by how quickly the alcohol dulled her senses and made her head swim.

“When I gave you that money, I meant for you to get some things for yourself. You've been going without for too long." Ethel explained, giving her niece sweet eyes. She drank happily, polishing her drinks off much quicker than Siobhan ever could. “And you went and got everyone a gift! Not that I'm complaining, of course. And alcohol? I thought you were a teetotaller like your mother."

Siobhan kept her eyes down and forced back another acidic, burning mouthful of her absinthe. “I got myself something, too. But I didn't really want much."

Ethel smiled proudly, “I saw." She looked off at the corner of the room where the kitchen met the staircase and looked knowingly back at her niece, “But nothing for your husband?"

Siobhan shut her mouth tightly and drank more. Her amusem*nt died when she thought of Arthur again, just as it had in the store in town. She didn't want to talk about him at all, and raised her eyes with renewed vitality to Ethel, “You and Paul are getting along real well, aren't you?"

Ethel scoffed, “Now, Siobhan, don't get ahead of yourself." She poured herself another glass. It seemed the alcohol took much longer to affect her than it did Siobhan, “He's not too fond of me, I can tell. He's gotten short with me a few times."

Siobhan laughed, “He gets short with everyone, that's how he is."

Ethel withheld a few thoughts about the man for herself. Namely so that she quite liked him and found him intelligent, handy, quick to act, and funny. But he also reminded her quite a lot of Siobhan's mother, and Siobhan herself for that matter. She trailed off, thinking of Richard again. In a way, missing him. And she held her head up with her fingers on her chin, “Well, it's quite nice to have men in the house again, anyway. I always feel safe with men in the house."

Siobhan could only relate because sheknewthese men and loved each of them singly. But Ethel, who hardly knew them, Siobhan could only find ignorant and sheltered to think so.

“Richie would kill us if he were here now.” Ethel said, swirling her finger blankly over the rim of her glass. Siobhan’s stomach immediately turned to think of her uncle now. But she could not fault Ethel that he would be her first thought in her maudlin drunkenness. “You two were destined to hate each other, you know? You’re a fighter… all Richie needed was obedience.”

Siobhan hated to hear herself described as a ‘fighter.’ Not least of which for the memories it stirred up within her of the carnival and the monster they made her out to be. She knew she could be stubborn and stupid and half-crazy, but she did not ever intend any harm… Not in her soul. “I’m only what he made me.”

Ethel studied her with the perspicacity in her doe-eyes and stern lips. “You antagonized him, Siobhan, and you knew it.” Her lament was a drunken weep, “And if he did react you just kept fighting back… You never learned that you were only making it worse.”

Siobhan’s throat was hot with the searing fumes of alcohol and she felt slightly dizzy in the head, but she understood every word Ethel said to her, and heartily disagreed with all of it. “I was thirteen.” She argued, referring to the beginning of it all.

“You weren’t stupid then and you’re not now.” Ethel’s head swayed from side-to-side. She was clearly drunk too. “You hated him from the beginning just for being your father’s brother.”

Siobhan’s face was tightly knit with injustice. “I-I didn’t hate my dad!? Not until he…” She stopped herself, her face cinching up with conviction, “I wanted to die for killing him.”

Ethel wailed, “So you killed Richie too?” She slammed her drink down against the table and with her heavy hands waving, knocked it over. Though she had faced her niece with forgiveness before, it appeared her lack of inhibitions let her true emotions reign free. “Are you proud of that, Siobhan? You finally killed him. I know you wanted to from the start.”

“I never wanted that!” Siobhan yelled back, “He hated me!”

Footsteps quickly entered the kitchen behind her and Siobhan remembered, all of a sudden, that they were not alone. She didn’t realize, though, that it was their shouting that had summoned anyone. She had no concept of her volume.

It was Arthur who came in with concern and upon seeing Siobhan’s alcohol red cheeks all splotchy and shiny, he looked between her and Ethel to see many bottles of alcohol assorted and opened for their pleasure. “Are you alright, Shiv?”

Siobhan seemed utterly displeased to see Arthur and he felt out of place interrupting something so personal as this. And he knew he had placed himself in the center of a confession he was not meant to hear, but he hoped Siobhan knew—drunk or not—that he did not judge her for killing her uncle as she had apparently done.

Siobhan shook her head, not answering Arthur’s question—which was clear by the way she threw her hand up at him dismissively,—he was the last person she wanted to be seen by now. She sought after the bottle in the hopes that if she drowned out her sense the way men do, she’d forget how awful it felt to be judged by Arthur so harshly.

Arthur watched her as she turned away from him without an answer and knocked back more alcohol than he’d ever seen grace her lips. Perhaps the only time she’d ever really drank. And she winced and hissed and gagged and coughed but as Ethel laughed at her, she drank another and coughed and gagged all the more.

Arthur caught her by the elbow, stopping her in her tracks. “Shiv, you’re gonna get sh*tfaced.”

She slithered away from his touch and set her glass down, “What does it matter to you, Arthur?”

Paul came into the room behind them and was suddenly confused as to why Ethel was giggling morosely and Siobhan was staring something evil up at her husband.

She poked his chest, “It’s fiiiine if I get shot in the neck—shot in the stomach, so long as I don’t…” she squinted, “f*ck with your score. Right?”

“Whoa, Shiv.” Paul eyed her, looking between her and her husband. He’d never get used to hearing her cuss like that. “What’s going on?”

“She’s drunk!” Ethel laughed. She thought it was a joke.

Arthur watched as Siobhan very quickly reeled from how suddenly the alcohol hit her. She swayed and braced herself against the counter, she looked at Ethel. “Screw you, Ethel!” She was on the verge of tears.

Arthur took their bottle into his hand and inspected it. He looked at Ethel, “You let her drink vodka?”

Ethel shrugged, throwing her palm up at Siobhan, “She swears she’s a grown woman!”

“Vodka, Mrs. Davenport?” Paul had to agree, “I don’t think she’s touched a drink in her life.”

“I can’t stand any of you!” Siobhan swore, staring at them all, “You and Blackwater!” She threw her hand up at Arthur. And then Ethel, “You and Richard! Whatever the f*ck is going on with Mr. Hallock! All of you!” She looked between their amazed faces, “I can’t help it! I never wanted to be this way! You made me this way!”

Arthur tried to shake his head and take her hand, “Siobhan, please…”

“No!” She stared up at him, her face all soaked with tears, “I told you in Shady Belle, Arthur. I’m evil. You knew I was terrible. You knew I was stupid and evil and crazy and you married me and let me believe it was all okay!”

She looked at Paul next, “And you! You hid his body!” She accused, revealing the whole sordid ordeal to Arthur in its entirety, though he did not know how much to believe given her state. “You saw what I did to him and you came after me anyway! You act like I’m just like my mama, but I’m nothing like her. Why do you care?! I did that to him! You should have turned me in!”

And in his wordlessness, she stared at Ethel. “Why would you even take me in the first place? Why would you think I would ever be your daughter? I was ruined from the start! You knew I was a murderer! There was never anything good in me!”

She covered her face, lost to her dreadful heart, “That’s why she couldn’t live—”

Arthur couldn’t listen to any more of it. His heart was broken. He forced her into his arms and for only a second did she fight it before his strength overwhelmed her drunken weakness and she sobbed into his chest.

Siobhan cried and cried and swore against herself, all muffled by Arthur’s hug. He looked over his shoulder at the other two and it seemed the both of them were speechless. Paul’s eyes were low with pity, “I’ll make her some coffee.”

Arthur nodded, looking back down, wide-eyed, at the top of Siobhan’s head. He kissed her hair, mumbling, “Shh, it’s alright.”

And she was relieved that his arms were so large over her, that they covered her from being seen by anybody else. He took her gently by the shoulders, “You should come sit down, Shiv.”

Arthur felt horrible as he led her out of the kitchen and into the livingroom. He sat her down on the couch. She kept her head down, tucked against his chest, and cried the entire time.

He sat down, holding her where she was the entire time. “You know none of that’s true, Shiv. You ain’t evil.” Arthur rubbed her shoulders, trying to soothe her, but he worried nothing was getting through. “You’ve just been through Hell, girl.”

Siobhan couldn’t speak. She couldn’t stop herself from crying even long after Arthur had sat her down. Long after Paul Hallock returned with some coffee to sober her up. It took much effort to get her to drink it, and by the time she could swallow her hiccoughs and drink, it was cold.

When Ethel tried to come in and sit down, poking her nose meekly forward at Siobhan like she wanted to say something, Arthur sat straighter and eyed her sternly. And with much distaste, chided, “She don’t need an intervention right now, Miss.”

At first, Ethel was indignant to be asked away from her own livingroom, but Paul Hallock came and swept her away more politely and she, in her drunkenness, forgot what exactly Arthur had said.

In the quiet seclusion of the room, where the kitchen lived on without them, Siobhan looked up at Arthur slowly. She put her hand in his beard, her voice a nasally bubble, “You’re so angry.”

Arthur’s eyes cleared when he looked down at her. “I’m not angry.” He said, and seemed to mean more than he let on.

“Can I have more?” She looked past Arthur into the kitchen and raised her voice, “Can I have more Ethel? I don’t think I’m drunk yet.”

“You’re drunk, Siobhan!” She yelled back.

“You’re drunk, Shiv.” Arthur tried to push her back slightly but she just rested her head on his chest.

“You smell so good, Arthur,” she nuzzled into him, “I love the way you smell.”

Arthur took a deep breath, looking up at the ceiling. He was glad she stopped crying but… now her mood seemed to have switched to something else.

She listened to his heart and her body went hot with love and awe. To hear the healthy beating of his blood pumping, quickly, hard,—that wild and savage sound of love. She wanted, in the deepest part of her soul, to tear with her nails her way through his skin and hold his heart in her hands and kiss it bloody. She couldn’t stop herself before she did it—opened her mouth over his skin and grazed him with her teeth, an oval of wet breath as she closed her lips into a kiss.

Arthur’s hands rushed into her hair and pulled her back as she tried to bite him again. The first bite, she realized as her jaw ached with pressure, was harder than she meant it. She looked up at him exactly like a dog who’d been caught doing something she shouldn’t have. But Arthur, on the other hand, could no longer hide his amusem*nt. Smiling absurdly, “You bit me.”

Sheepishly, Siobhan shuddered under his grip on her scalp, “Sorry…”

“Why’d you start drinking, Shiv? Why’d you leave the house and get alcohol?” He brushed her hair over her ear.

“Revenge.” She admitted, and threw her fist into the air, “Equality! You got drunk, I get drunk. It makes peace.”

Arthur didn’t understand a word she meant. He clarified, “You mean because I got drunk and caused us trouble, you gotta do the same?”

Siobhan’s eyes widened, “I’m not causing any trouble. I’m not going up mountains and killing random guy—”

Arthur smacked her slightly when his palm hastily covered her mouth, pushing her back against the couch.

Her eyes were wide with fear.

“sh*t, Shiv?!” Arthur whispered, looking her over in concern. And perhaps a little more than concern, having his hands on her; having her so close to his face and subdued under his hands. All relaxed and uninhibited and vulnerable to him. But he had to actively push down whatever spring of hot emotion that realization caused to course through him as he warned her with the task at hand, “Don’t talk about that here.”

Siobhan whimpered like she didn’t understand what she did wrong. She went completely still.

Arthur still held his hand over her mouth and he felt somewhat bad. “Paul or Griffin could hear you, sweetheart. Do you understand?”

Underneath his palm, her wide eyes looking between his, she nodded slowly.

“You’re not gonna say anything?” He reiterated seriously.

Now she shook her head side-to-side and Arthur was relieved she understood him. He took his hand from her mouth. She swallowed as he let go and sat up straighter and she stared at him still lying on her back. She broke out into tears suddenly, and cried aloud, “I’m SORRY!!”

Arthur straightened up a peg, staring down at her, “Oh, goddamn it, Shiv.”

Paul came into the room suddenly and saw how Siobhan laid on her back with her legs across Arthur’s lap, sobbing. And he sat board-straight looking at her like she’d lost her mind.

Paul tried to come to her side but Siobhan pushed him away and got to her feet. Kicking and punching, she tried to stand and ended up taking two faulty steps and barrelling into Paul anyway. He caught her by the shoulders and Arthur quickly stood and pulled her back by her waist and her arm.