Chapter Text
Is it impossible, after nearly freezing to death, to ever feel warm again?
It certainly felt that way. The caravan had descended well beyond the Grizzly Mountains by now. Streams rushed with melted snow and the sun burned above with a hint of summer. Even so, I couldn’t rub my arms hard enough, convinced that ice still clutched at my bones.
But I knew the truth. It wasn’t the lingering winter that made me shiver. The past few weeks clung to me like death clung to a carcass. What hadn’t gone wrong? Blackwater looped perpetually in the back of my mind. I could still hear the barrage of gunfire, Jenny’s scream as the bullet split through her, and Davey’s groans as death slowly found him. That wasn’t even to mention Sean and Mac getting captured, nor that godforsaken camp in Colter. Was all that truly behind us? Could that much blood and trouble get lost within the wasteland of the Grizzlies?
Dutch van der Linde certainly seemed to think so.
“It’s just up ahead!” He yelled, thwacking the reins against the horses. He'd already stripped his fur coat, chucking it to the back of the wagon like a bad memory. “Hosea said this place is perfect for lyin’ low.”
I perched up in the wagon to get a better look, peering past Dutch and Mr. Pearson who sat atop the drivers bench. Dutch had driven at a breakneck pace out of the mountains, guiding the massive procession of wagons from the snow. The Van der Linde gang wasn’t small. We’d grown to more than twenty strong, the largest I’d seen since joining the gang fifteen years ago, but after Blackwater we’d never felt smaller.
Dutch cut off the main road and the wagon was instantly enveloped by expansive evergreens. The branches concealed the caravan as we spilled into the hidden nook, and after a moment of fumbling over fallen tree limbs and uneven terrain, the wagon pulled out from the tree line, revealing the edge of an expansive plateau. The area looked off-trail and hidden. Nothing like the camps in Colter or Blackwater. For the first time that day, I stopped rubbing my arms.
Beside me, little Jack Marston giggled, pointing towards the untouched field ahead. “Look, mama! Daisys!”
I smirked over at him.
Abigail smiled thinly and pulled his frame in closer. “Yes, sweet boy.”
The bags beneath her eyes were almost black against the descending sunlight, the past few weeks evidently tugging at her strength as much as it did mine. She looked exhausted. Not that that was much of a surprise.
She’d been through hell.
Our world wasn’t simple. It took a certain bravery or foolishness or both to live a life outside the law. Blackwater had made that fact abundantly clear. It was difficult enough trying to navigate our volatile lifestyle alone. Abigail, however, had to do that with a son, a boy no older than four.
That wasn’t even to mention John.
Bile twisted up my throat at the remembered blood and slashes across his skin from where the wolves clawed against his face. I could still smell the rot of death within his cabin and the sweat sheening his body in spite of the cold around him. Abigail had tended to him fervently, keeping him alive in spite of their growing disdain for one another. They hadn’t been lovers in years, and they hadn’t been friends for even longer than that. The threat of death, however, had evidently been enough to spark her last shred of empathy for the man. John likely would’ve been lost for good had she not stepped in.
I blinked back to the present, not willing to think of death and darkness any longer.
“This looks promising,” I said, more aloud than to anyone in particular. “Hosea’s got an eye for these things.”
“He certainly does,” Dutch agreed, pulling back the reins. The wagon glided to a halt, and he stretched his arms out in an expansive manner. “Now this is a paradise!”
On that, Dutch was right.
It was gorgeous.
The plateau peered over a plethora of lush green hills. Game trails traversed across the plains, and I made a mental note to investigate them later. In the distance, the Grizzlies rested, encased by their snowcapped peaks. The sun began to set behind them, casting a golden hue across the valley.
Ever the leader, Dutch’s feet were the first to hit the ground. “Everyone! Come take a look at your new home.”
A sharp finger poked against my side.
“You comin’?” Mary-Beth motioned from the back of the wagon. She’d been silent for most of the ride and I’d almost forgotten she was there.
“Yeah,” I huffed out an anxious breath. “Sorry.”
Abigail tugged Jack along until they both clamored off the wagon. I followed their lead, though I landed far less gracefully as the hours of sitting shot prickles up my legs and sent me tumbling forward against the wagon for support.
“Shit,” I squeaked. My ears turned red.
Mary-Beth giggled as she gently lowered herself after me, “Don’t let Grimshaw see you fall like that.”
I frowned and shot her a look. Miss Grimshaw, the self-appointed camp manager, had a temper that exploded about as abruptly as a stick of dynamite, though nothing lit her up faster than the fact I was “clumsier than a newborn deer.” Normally Grimshaw’s jabs wouldn’t bother me. I’d heard far worse from far crueler people, but Blackwater had wrecked my nerves in a way that had my head spinning. Everyone had grown more bitter and callous. Grimshaw was just the worst at hiding it.
I grabbed Mary-Beth’s arm and pulled her in conspiratorially. “Think she’ll calm down now that we’re out of the snow?”
Not even a moment passed before we got our answer.
“Ladies! Time to get off your asses and get to work!” Grimshaw was already heaving crates from one of the wagons. She snapped a wrinkled finger in the air. “Miss Jones? Help me with the supplies here. Miss Jackson? Get to work on those tents there. Miss. . .”
“Guess we got our answer,” Mary-Beth sighed.
She unwrapped her arm from mine and sauntered towards Grimshaw to help. I, however, couldn’t bring my feet to move. The unboxing, the erecting of tents, the hope? All of it felt futile. Useless. How many more times would we have to pretend? How many more camps would we raise only to tear them down and run again?
It made my stomach turn and my heart ache. Absent-mindedly, I started rubbing warmth into my arms again.
“Cold?”
Javier approached beside me. His own coat was lost to the wagons, and his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. His guitar was strapped across his back like a weapon, and an ease I hadn’t seen from the man in days bled from his features.
I shrugged and furrowed my brow, “I don’t think I’ll ever get warm again.”
“Well, you might want to unfreeze yourself quick, Rosa,” he chuckled, jutting his chin to the right. “Seems Miss Grimshaw is about to do it for you.”
My eyes darted towards where he looked and dread settled in my gut.
Oh, shit. She was.
Her face burned red from yelling as she stormed in closer, fists clenched like she might wallop them at the first sign of trouble. I took a step back, scanning the camp for some form of cover, but as my gaze drank in the bustle of crates and wagons, a spark of nervousness had me nudging Javier’s side.
“Where’s Arthur?” I asked, frowning up at him. “I thought he was with you.”
Javier shrugged, “Their wagon got held up.”
Held up? What did that mean?
I tried to stifle my confusion and disappointment by kicking a pebble across the dirt. “Oh.”
“Miss Clarke! I’ve seen three-legged mules work harder than you! Get to work!”
Grimshaw seized the root of my arm and dragged me away from Javier. My eyes were wide and pleading as they found his, but Javier’s remained amused and unbothered as he moved towards where Dutch conversed with a few of the men.
I grimaced at his indifference. Bastard.
Then, like the mule Miss Grimshaw was convinced I was, I got to work.
By the time camp was set, sweat trickled along the back of my neck. The dark curls of my hair had unraveled from their bun and clung to the moisture peppering my cheeks. I wiped at the strands hastily, feeling particularly sticky and grimy as the sun draped over the plateau and my dress trapped the heat beneath its layers.
Shit, I really, really needed a bath.
Though exhaustion pulled at my muscles, I couldn’t deny that camp had come together nicely. The tents were set far enough apart to give the semblance of privacy. Pearson’s provision wagon nestled in the middle of it all with a fresh pot of stew boiling over the spit. Turned over logs rested around the campfire’s perimeter, and the horses grazed across the field with devotion. It looked good. It looked like a place one could call home.
Especially since Grimshaw had finally piped down. Some of the girls retreated to their tent for rest, while others nursed a coffee by Pearson’s wagon. I, however, stared out at the tree line, memorizing the way the branches bent and trembled against the wind.
“I’mma murder that woman, Rosalind,” Abigail said, letting out a huff as she stopped beside me. Though her eyes remained wrought with exhaustion, that tension in her shoulders had dissipated slightly.
I chuckled and gestured a sharp hand, “Get in line. I’ve wanted that honor far longer than you.”
“So she’s always been this way?”
Memories of the past filtered through my mind, and recollections of Dutch and Grimshaw’s interesting romantic fallout had me wincing. Their relationship died slowly, like leaves in the fall, until all at once it was over. Grimshaw had grown too old, or at least that’s how John had explained it to me, and the moment Dutch found a new woman was the moment their relationship ended.
Thanks to Annabelle.
I’d thought that would’ve been the end of seeing Miss Grimshaw since Dutch had essentially traded her for a younger woman, but Susan was nothing if not an anomaly. She’d remained, loyal and austere as ever, and never said a word about Dutch’s new fling.
Now Annabelle was dead, but Grimshaw was still here.
I shrugged, “She ain’t ever been easy, if that’s what you’re meanin’.”
“Figures,” Abigail muttered, lighting a cigarette and bringing it to her lips.
I nodded and resumed my quiet examination of the camp, but it didn’t take long for my eyes to fix back on the tree line. Even after an hour, he still wasn’t here. The sun had begun to set and the world would soon grow dark. The thought made my blood run cold.
How the hell did they get held up? Had something horrible happened? Had those goddamn O’Driscoll’s caught wind of our travels? Or had those money-crazed bounty hunters stumbled across their path? Or had. . .
“He’ll be here.”
The amusement in Abigail's tone ripped me from my thoughts and had me frowning.
“Huh?” I asked.
She blew the smoke from her lungs, smiling impishly as her eyes leveled with mine. “Arthur.”
My cheeks flushed with a deep shade of pink.
“Oh, no, that weren’t. . .” I stammered, averting my gaze to the ground. “I was just. . . I want everyone to be safe.”
“Mhm,” Abigail hummed, tossing her cigarette to the dirt and squishing it beneath her boot. “I’m sure.”
I gnawed on my bottom lip, feeling like a child caught. I needed to be careful. Arthur and I had always been close, sure. Being raised together would do that to a person. Though I was ten years younger than Arthur when Hosea found me, Arthur was quick to take me under his wing. Spending time with him wasn't unusual. For us, it was expected.
But lately. . .
Lately had been complicated.
It was that goddamn conversation in that goddamn meadow. Before Blackwater and the horror of the past few weeks.
If I closed my eyes, I could still feel the wind sweltering between us and the smell of the grass. I could see Arthur standing there, eyebrows furrowed over his cerulean eyes as I stupidly confessed the one desire we both knew would change the gang forever. I shivered at the memory, feeling just as foolish now as I did in that meadow.
“See?” Abigail nudged me with her hip before walking away. “Told you he’d be back.”
My head whipped towards the trees entirely too quickly, but the relief that split through me trumped the embarrassment of my enthusiasm. Arthur pulled back the reins and halted his wagon, still buried beneath the layers of his blue winter coat as he looked about the area.
Nothing had happened to him. Thank goodness.
“You weren’t wrong, Hosea!” Dutch emerged from his tent. His voice seemed to boom across the entire valley. “This place is perfect.”
Hosea, who looked just as tired as Arthur, slowly climbed off the wagon. “I hope so.”
Though I was immensely relieved to see them, that familiar haze in Hosea’s eyes had me crossing my arms. I remained planted a few paces back, already sensing the argument blooming between the two men who’d raised me.
Arthur, however, didn’t seem to catch the shift in demeanor. He climbed off the drivers bench and tossed back the reins with practiced ease, approaching Dutch and Hosea like they were about to talk about the weather.
In the mess of getting camp ready, I hadn’t seen Dutch change. He dressed in his black vest and had fastened that silver pocket watch to his chest. A thick cigar jammed between his fingers, and his dark eyes gleamed with unbridled elation, “Gentlemen, we have survived.”
Hosea seemed less enthusiastic. “For now.”
“Now is the time to prosper,” Dutch countered, waving a casual hand.
I bristled at that. The only thing we’d prospered in the past few weeks was bloodshed.
“Arthur and I were about to prosper in Blackwater. We were onto something big, then Micah got you all excited about that ferry and. . .” Hosea scoffed and gestured about camp. “Here we are.”
I located a nearby rag and started scrubbing the mud from the dining table, suddenly desperate to do something with my hands and keep my mind half-distracted from the arguing.
Dutch leaned back like the comment struck him. “We have all made mistakes over the years, Hosea. Every last one of us, but I kept us together. I kept us alive. Kept the nooses off our necks.”
I scrubbed harder and harder until the wood creaked beneath my touch. Sure, it might not’ve been nooses, but our past reeked of death. I could smell it every time I clipped my gun belt to my hip.
Dutch, of course, was already itching to dismiss the notion. He walked away from them. Hosea and Arthur followed. The sight was so familiar it pained me.
“I guess I’m just worried," Hosea muttered, picking up his pace. "I ain’t got that long, Dutch. I want folks safe before I go.”
Dutch scoffed, “Me too.”
“But now we are stuck,” Hosea said, desperate. “East of the Grizzlies and out of money and a long way from our dream of virgin land in the west.”
God, the franticness in his voice had my head spinning.
“I know, my brother,” Dutch placed his hand on Hosea’s shoulder, “but we are safe. We make a bit of money here, then we move again, head out around them, be west of Uncle Sam, and in a few months buy some land.”
I nearly split my knuckles with how severely I started scrubbing. That sounded wonderful, but that was Dutch’s specialty. He'd been saying grandiose statements since I’d met him, and his words had weighed on me less and less over the years.
Hosea seemed just as doubtful. “I hope so.”
Suddenly, conviction seemed to seize Dutch’s heart, for he stepped away from the pair and motioned dramatically out to the land before us. “Would you just look around you! This world has its consolations.”
I wanted to disagree with him. I didn’t want to let any false hope stir in my chest, but it was difficult to deny the beauty of the hills and the trees and grass. Even if it was misguided, I let the idea of opportunity and a future settle in my veins.
Especially as a small smile tugged at Arthur’s lips.
“Everyone!” Dutch shouted. “Put your tools down if you have a moment. Gather around. Quickly now.”
All at once, the camp woke from its haze and moved in towards Dutch as he dutifully regarded them. I dropped the rag in annoyance but followed suit. Instinctively, my eyes flickered towards Arthur who leaned tiredly against a wagon.
Dutch let out a deep, long sigh. “I know things have been tough, but we are safe now. We are far too poor, so it is time for everyone to get to work.”
“Get to work,” Hosea chimed in, “but stay out of trouble. Remember, we are itinerant workers. . .”
“. . . Laid off,” Dutch continued, “when they shut down our factory to the North. Now get out there and see what you can find. That means Uncle, Reverend Swanson, no more passengers.”
Cruel chuckles swarmed about the makeshift circle from the jab. Though the two reddened in surprise, I found myself smirking too.
Dutch took another puff of his cigar before continuing, “It is time for everyone to earn their keep!”
Hosea stepped forward in front of him. “There’s a town little way down the track. Name of Valentine. It’s a livestock town, all mud and morons if I remember right. That seems a decent place to start.”
Valentine. Hosea had mentioned that town before, back when he was younger and robbing folk came simpler.
Beside me, Pearson took a hesitant step forward. “Uh, we need food,” he muttered. “Real food. That means every day. One of you.”
My mind was fresh on those game trails within the valley.
“And remember, whatever it is that you find,” Dutch thunked that godforsaken wooden chest down atop an upturned barrel, “make sure that camp gets its slice.”
That annoyance was brewing once again. As if any of us could forget. Dutch would have us splitting pennies if it were possible.
Would you quit, I scolded myself. You ain’t bein’ fair. You’re tired. Tired and bitter.
I puffed the air from my lungs like I was trying to force the agitation clear from my body. For a moment, I worried it wouldn’t work, until the crowd began to disperse and Miss Grimshaw burst through the disorder.
“Mr. Morgan. We have your tent set up.” Grimshaw wheeled around, and her eyes landed on me. “Miss Clarke will show you to it.”
Arthur’s head lifted. Our eyes locked, and all the world seemed to melt away. All the stress and worry drifted to the wind, and a small smile reached his lips as he regarded me. We hadn’t had a moment to speak since him and the boys went robbing that train in Ambarino, and that all too familiar flutter in my chest returned as he approached and adjusted the hat over his eyes.
“Hey Rose,” Arthur said, his voice rough and coarse.
I muscled down the sudden onslaught of nerves as I pointed towards the edge of camp and started us in that direction. “You’re over this way,” I murmured. “Luckily, most your stuff was saved in Blackwater.”
Thanks to me, I almost said, but the statement fell flat on my tongue. Wasn't his fault he'd been so preoccupied during our flee east, and it wasn't his idea for me to prioritize snatching up every keepsake or item he had. That was just me. Me and my stupid, ridiculous need to protect him.
Arthur grumbled and shook his head, “Except my money.”
“Don’t remind me,” I grimaced, crossing my arms over my frame as we approached his tent.
Everything had been set to his liking. His family pictures were pinned to the adjoining wagon. His mother’s vase and favorite newspaper clippings rested at his bedside, and his freshly made cot was blanketed with quilts and that flat pillow of his. At the foot of the bed, his chest and weapons locker were set, and a bundle of ammunition rested in the wagon bed.
“Home sweet home," I simpered, motioning to the setup. "For now, that is.”
He grunted, “Looks good.”
Arthur took a step closer, and I swear my heart skipped a beat. Even with how drained he was, his handsomeness was undeniable. Those cerulean eyes sparkled, even now, and he kept his light brown beard trimmed to a respectable length. He was always broad shouldered, but with the winter coat still over him, he looked massive. I blinked away before he could catch me staring.
“How you fairin’ with all this?” He murmured, giving my bicep a gentle pat.
How could he always do that? I’d known him for years, yet I still got butterflies or moths or whatever it was that made my stomach flip like it did now around him.
“Just fine,” I shrugged. “Happy we got a decent place to live now.”
His eyes traveled over my face and then down my mud-stained dress quizzically. The side of his mouth curled into a smile. A slight chuckle reverberated from his chest.
“Well, it certainly looks like Grimshaw put you to work,” Arthur shook his head incredulously. “The hell she make you do? Wrestle a mule on the ride over here?”
Heat flooded to my cheeks, and I quickly went to gather my hair back up. “Oh, I must be a sight.”
Again, the painful understanding of just how badly I needed a bath had my ears ringing and skin crawling in embarrassment.
But Arthur merely smirked down at me, grazing one of his gloved fingers against my temple to help me brush the curls back. “I think ya’ are.”
Unsure what to make of that, I turned my face away from him, certain I was already cherry red from his comment.
He ain’t meant nothin’ by it, I scolded myself. Quit bein’ silly.
I coughed out my caught breath, “Heard you had trouble gettin’ in.”
Arthur sighed and finally pulled the coat from his shoulders once he got beneath his tent. “Was nothin’,” he shrugged. “Just broke the goddamn wheel.”
I shook my head, feigning disappointment. “Still can’t steer for shit, huh?”
Arthur frowned and gestured an exasperated hand towards me, “You think you can do better?”
“I did do better,” I jested, leaning a lazy hip against his wagon. “Between the two of us, who’s the one who got here without a fuss?”
“Last I checked, you were in the back of the wagon,” he quirked a brow. “Right next to little Jack Marston, if I remember right.”
“And I got here without a fuss.”
Arthur smirked at that. It made my heart leap watching those deep set frown lines on his face cease and the light return to his eyes, especially since his brooding nature had become so prominent after Blackwater.
“I see you got everything straightened out here," Arthur stared out at the plateau. "Camp looks good.”
“Yeah,” I chuckled, darkly. “Anything is better than that shit hole in Colter.”
The frown lines returned. He nodded curtly. “Sure.”
The sudden loss of light in his eyes had me crinkling my face and leaning towards him. He was being short. Shorter than usual.
“Are you okay?”
His eyes lifted and locked on mine, and hell, he looked exhausted.
“Sure. Sorry,” he grunted as he wiped a hand down his face. “Think I’m more tired than I realized.”
Guilt funneled through my veins and turned my blood to ice again. I was somehow both desperate to comfort but also trapped in my propriety. I wanted to brush a hand over his face. I wanted to coax the strain from his muscles. I wanted to reassure him that no matter what he did, I’d love him just the same.
But I didn’t. I never did.
And fifteen years of friendship meant I never could. So instead, I fidgeted with the skin on my hands and shifted in my boots.
“What if we go do somethin’ tomorrow?” I asked, once the silence stretched and his shoulders hunched. “Take your mind off things.”
He took a hefty seat on his cot and grunted, “Whatcha have in mind?”
“Hosea mentioned that nearby town. Valentine? We could scope it out? Pick a few pockets?”
Arthur chuckled, “Pickin’ pockets is your job.”
“Then you can stand guard while I do it,” I cocked my head to the side. “I bet there’s even a saloon. Think you’ve earned a drink or two.”
“Or three.”
“Five?” I offered.
Those lines left his face again and the wonderful sight had my heart longing for him as though he were states away.
“That sounds fine, Rose,” he laughed lightly. “Be ready in the mornin’, alright?”
I smiled and pushed myself off the wood. “You be ready, Arthur Morgan.”
Joy spread through my veins like a poisonous snake bite. I should’ve fought it. After all, it would be plain stupid to think anything would change for the better.
But as Arthur passed me a final smile as he laid back against the cot, I let that joy linger.
Perhaps Dutch was right. This world did have its consolations.