Chapter Text
Valentine, 1899
Arthur
Arthur didn´t mean to do much of anything in Valentine.
Hell, he hadn’t even planned on riding into town today in the first place. But then Uncle had opened his damn mouth—like he always did—yammering on about how they could use an extra pair of hands, how the girls would enjoy the company, how the more the merrier or some such horseshit. And Sadie had looked at him like she’d rather see him thrown into a ditch than ride alongside her. Which, to be fair, wasn’t entirely undeserved. And Arthur—damn fool that he was—he had gone anyway.
All because of … curiosity, maybe.
Or something worse.
Not that it was any of his business, what she did in town. It wasn’t his place to ask, and it sure as hell wasn’t his right to expect anything from her. Not her time. Not her trust. And God knew, not any kind of explanation.
But she’d seemed off this morning—quieter than usual, tense and distant in a way that didn’t sit right with him. She hadn’t said a word the whole ride into Valentine, hadn’t laughed, hadn’t even looked sideways at the bickering going on around her—just kept her eyes fixed on the horizon like something out there mattered more to her than anything behind her.
And seeing her like that—after watching the light claw its way back into her eyes these past few weeks, and hearing her laugh again, even just once or twice—it damn near gutted him.
But again—it wasn’t his place.
It hadn’t been his place for a long damn time. And maybe, if there was even a scrap of decency left in him, it never would be again.
Because now that they were off that cursed mountain—now that the snow was melting behind them and the road stretched out wide and open—he had to start thinking about what came next. Not just for himself, but for her. About what was smart. What was right .
And the right thing—even if it made him sick to his stomach just thinking about it—was getting her as far away from all of this as possible. From the gang. From the running. And especially from him and the ruin that followed him like a shadow. She didn’t belong in the middle of his mess anymore—not with the law breathing down his neck and the hangman's noose only one wrong move away.
Sadie deserved better than that—than him. She always had. She deserved a life that didn’t stink of blood and smoke and broken promises. A life she could actually build on, not just survive inside of. And maybe, deep down, some part of him had always known that. Even back then, when he’d fooled himself into believing that he could offer her something solid, something worth staying for. That they could make a life somewhere, like normal people, whatever the hell that meant.
But that dream had died—like everything else he touched—and she´d suffered in the wake of it.
The only thing left now was making sure she got out clean. He owed her that much. Her, and the man who’d saved her life and given her everything Arthur could not—Jake.
He’d already taken enough from her, even if she never said it.
But the trouble was—he didn’t have the faintest idea how to make it happen.
Where the hell was she supposed to go?
She’d told him she hadn’t spoken to her family in five years. And judging from the way she’d said it, her voice all hollow and devoid of any emotion, it wasn’t a quiet falling-out. It was a burning bridge.
Arthur didn’t know much about her people—just the bits and pieces she’d let slip during those long, slow summer nights they’d spent beneath the stars. But what she’d shared with him—and what he’d seen with his own eyes—was more than enough to paint a picture he wished he could unsee.
Her mother and that snake of an uncle—Monroe—were the worst of the lot. Power-hungry and controlling to the marrow. The kind of folks who would sell their own blood if it bought them a seat a little closer to the governor’s table. He could hear their voices even now—smooth, clipped, precise. Velvet tones wrapped around poisoned words, smooth as glass and twice as cold.
And they had tried, hadn’t they? Tried to marry off both Sadie and her sister to any Braithwaite bastards who'd have them—preferably one with land, a fat inheritance, and enough skeletons in the family closet to keep the servants whispering for generations. Didn’t matter if Sadie wanted it or not. Didn’t matter if the Braithewaite boy could string two sentences together, or if he was a cruel bastard who´d raise his hand against his wife, or if he was twice her age. What mattered was the name. The alliance. The perception. Marry into old money. Breed power. That was the gospel they lived by.
Her sister—Clara, if he remembered right—wasn’t cruel, not exactly. But she was ambitious, and ambition could be its own kind of cruelty. She was the sort of woman who wanted what the world told her to want—lace collars, fine china, a husband with clean fingernails and pockets full of money. She hadn’t tried to force that life on Sadie—but she sure as hell hadn’t understood why Sadie wouldn’t want it, too.
And still—despite everything—Sadie had loved them.
Arthur had heard it in her voice, beneath the sharpness and the fury. She’d wanted to belong to them once. Wanted to be seen and accepted. And they’d shut her out the moment she stopped fitting the mold.
The only one Sadie had ever spoken of with genuine warmth was her father. A rancher, horse-breeder, plainspoken and decent—at least by Sadie’s telling. Arthur had never met the man, but he got the sense he was cut from a different cloth. The kind of man who didn’t give two shits about linen napkins or political connections. Who just wanted clean land, good horses, and a little peace.
But a father like that… if he was still alive, Arthur figured he’d have come lookin’ for her. Wasn't that what any decent father would have done? But he hadn’t, as far as Arthur knew. Which meant either he was gone—or Sadie had cut herself off for good reason.
Still.
Five years of silence? That stuck with him.
Had they found out about him—about what they were to each other? Had they turned on her because of the mess he made—because he wasn't strong enough to stay away from her when he should have? Was that why she’d vanished all those years ago, and buried herself up in those mountains with Adler, built a whole new life from the ruins of the one they tried to burn?
And now, with Jake gone… if she couldn’t go back to her people—if there was no home and no family waiting for her at the end of the road—then where the hell was she supposed to go?
That was what scared him the most. What crawled under his ribs and lodged there, tight and splintered. Because this time—after everything—he had to get it right. He had to make damn sure she was safe when they parted ways again. No ghosts left on her trail. No guns at her back. No more ruin clinging to her because of him.
Whatever it took—he’d make it happen.
Arthur exhaled hard through his nose, trying to shove the thoughts back down into the pit where they belonged, where they couldn’t claw at the edges of his skull—no point stewing over what he couldn’t fix today.
He was in Valentine—like it or not—and with everyone else scattered to wherever the hell they felt like being, he figured he might as well make himself useful. Give his hands and his mind something to do besides fidgeting with reins, fists, or the weight of the guns at his side.
Now that Boadicea was gone and the temporary horse he’d been riding had more nerves than good sense, the timing was as good as any to get a new one. He couldn’t keep dragging his feet forever.
So he left Uncle to his own devices and made his way toward the stables, boots kicking up dust as the racket of Valentine wrapped around him in the midday heat. Wagons groaned past and wheels protested under the weight of crates and barrels. Ranch hands bickered by the corral, their voices half-drowned by a barking dog chasing chickens down an alley. The clang of the blacksmith’s hammer rang sharp from behind the gunsmith’s shop, and the stink of horse dung, old ale, and fresh bread mingled in the air like a slap to the senses.
The shift from sunlight to shade when he stepped inside the stable was a welcome one. The air inside was cooler, thick with the smell of hay and sweat and old leather. Dust motes spun lazily in the narrow shafts of light slanting through the upper rafters, and somewhere deeper in the barn, hooves shifted, soft and steady.
“Help you with somethin’?” a voice called out, cutting through the quiet.
Arthur looked up as a broad-shouldered man stepped from one of the middle stalls, all sun-reddened skin and rolled-up sleeves streaked with grime and sweat. The brim of his hat shaded most of his face, but the way he moved told Arthur all he needed to know. This man knew horses the way most folks knew their own kin.
“I´m lookin’ to buy,” Arthur said, glancing down the row of stalls.
“Well,” the man replied, wiping his palms on a rag tucked into his belt, “you’re in the right place then. Got a couple new ones in from Rhodes the other day—spirited but sound. And we still got some steady stock if you’re lookin’ for somethin’ that won’t give you a lick of trouble.”
“What I need,” Arthur said, stepping further in, “is something fast and agile. Not skittish—but sturdy enough to carry saddle bags and maybe some game if it comes to it. A horse that’ll keep its head if things go sideways.”
The man gave a dry chuckle. “So you’re after the holy grail, then.”
“Just a horse that won’t get me killed.”
“Fair enough.” He tipped his head toward the back. “Come on. I’ll show you what we’ve got.”
They walked down the row, past empty stalls and scuffed feed buckets, until the man stopped in front of a pen where a Missouri Fox Trotter stood, tall and golden, her coat catching the light like sun off wheat. She lifted her head as they approached, flicked her ears, her gaze sharp and assessing—not jumpy, but aware. Her muscles moved smooth beneath her hide.
“Real beauty,” the man said, brushing a hand along her flank. “Moves like silk, stops on a dime. She’s got heart, too—stamina, good instincts. Only time she ever spooked was when some fool stablehand dropped a metal bucket—and to be fair, it startled me, too.”
Arthur reached out and ran his fingers along the mare’s neck. The muscle was solid under his palm, warm and calm. “Pretty thing. Got legs like she was born to run.”
“She’ll carry you from Strawberry to Annesburg and back without complainin’—long as you treat her decent.”
The man gestured to the next stall, where a tall, dark-coated Thoroughbred stood, lean as a whip and coiled like a spring. His eyes tracked them, sharp and suspicious. The tension in his frame was unmistakable.
“This one’s got fire,” he said. “Fast as hell, strong, but he’s high-strung. Wouldn’t recommend him unless you’ve got time to win his trust—and the grit to handle him until you do. But if you do, he´ll carry you through hell and back.”
Arthur studied the animal in silence, arms crossed, brows furrowed. There was power there, no question—but not the kind that gave anything freely. No trust. No softness. Just raw edge, taut and coiled, waiting to snap. And he didn’t have the calm behind the eyes that Boadicea had.
He stepped back, rubbing the back of his neck, his gaze drifting once more to the Fox Trotter. “Don’t suppose either of ‘em come with a promise they won’t bolt when the shooting starts?”
The stablemaster chuckled. “Only guarantee I offer is that they’ll run fast. Whether you’re still in the saddle—that’s up to you.”
Arthur let out a short huff of a laugh, then fell silent again. He stood there a moment longer, just watching the mare as she shifted her weight, calm and unbothered by the low chorus of hooves and voices around her. Something about her—the steadiness, the alert eyes, the way she didn’t flinch from him—settled the restless feeling in his chest that had been gnawing at him since Boadicea.
“All right,” he said. “I’ll take the Fox Trotter.”
“Good pick,” the stablemaster said, already unhooking the reins. “She won’t give you trouble unless you give it first.” He paused, then added, like an afterthought, “That’ll be eight hundred dollars. For eight-fifty, I´ll throw in a saddle and a bridle.”
Arthur gave a slow nod and reached into his satchel, fingers brushing past loose cartridges and a folded scrap of paper before closing around the thick stack of bills—his full cut from the Cornwall job, still untouched, still sitting heavy like guilt. At least now something decent had come out of that blood-soaked mess. He handed over the money without a word.
The stablemaster counted it quickly, gave a curt nod of thanks, and ambled off with a parting, “Come back anytime if you need stabling or feed.”
Arthur turned back to the mare and took his time readying her—tightening the cinch, checking the bit, adjusting the stirrups more out of habit than need. She shifted once under the strap but didn’t huff or toss her head. He swung up into the saddle and nudged her into a slow trot, taking the long road around the outskirts of town to get a feel for his new companion.
Half an hour later, satisfied with the choice he’d made, he reined in just outside the general store, where Uncle sat slouched on a bench in the midday sun, one boot propped on the railing, a half-empty bottle of whiskey dangling from his hand like it belonged there.
Uncle squinted up at him through the glare, blinked once, then broke into a wide grin. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he drawled, lifting the bottle in salute. “Ain’t she a fine-lookin’ lady. Got yourself a real beauty there, Arthur.”
Arthur shrugged. “Bit more than I wanted to pay, though.”
Uncle let out a wheezy cackle and slapped his thigh. “Then why the hell didn’t you steal her?”
“Because Dutch told us not to cause any trouble in Valentine. Remember?”
Uncle waved that off with a lazy flick of the wrist. “Dutch says a lotta things, son. Mostly while puffin’ cigars bought with other people’s money.”
Arthur snorted under his breath, then shifted his weight in the saddle. His gaze drifted down the street—past the saloon, the sheriff’s office, further still toward the bend in the road and the churchyard beyond, where the town thinned out and gave way to wide open land.
“You seen the women?” he asked, nodding toward the center of town. “They back yet?”
Uncle leaned his head back against the wall. “They’re back. All except Mrs. Adler, that is.” He took another swig from the bottle, smacked his lips loudly, then went on—either oblivious or willfully ignorant of the tension that had settled sharply between Arthur’s shoulders the moment he heard Sadie hadn’t returned yet.
“Mary-Beth came back with some interestin’ news. She got to talkin’ with a couple folks out by the post office. Word is there’s a train comin’ through Scarlett Meadows in a few nights’ time. One of those high-society numbers—headin’ to Saint Denis, carryin’ rich folk from out west. Landowners. Oil men. Cattle barons. The kind that travel light on guards and heavy on jewelry. You know the type.”
“What’s the catch?”
“No catch, son.”
Arthur raised a brow. “There always is one, in my experience.”
Uncle gave a shrug and tipped the bottle again. “Apparently, they figure if no one knows it’s comin’, there’s no need for security. No payroll listed. No government shipments. Just a quiet, expensive ride through the dark.” He grinned. “Mary-Beth reckons it’s worth lookin’ into. Says it felt like a solid lead. Sounds like the kind of job Dutch would lose his damn mind over. Easy money, no fire.”
Arthur didn’t answer, just nodded once. If Mary-Beth said there was something worth looking into, he believed her. She had a sharp head beneath all that sweetness, saw things most folks didn’t. Maybe John’d be up to get something moving.
“What about Karen and Tilly?” he asked.
Uncle barked out a laugh that rattled his chest. “Karen robbed some poor bastard blind at the hotel bar. Fella wandered in from the poker tables with more coin than sense—started braggin’ to the wrong girl, if you ask me. She took his hand, flashed that sweet smile, led him upstairs, and when he came back down, he didn’t even have the boots he walked in with. Swear to God, Arthur, she lifted him so clean he probably apologized on the way out.”
Arthur didn’t quite smile, but the corner of his mouth tugged upward, just enough to betray him. “Remind me to keep my satchel locked.”
“Good luck with that. Nothing´s save if our Karen sets her mind to it.”
“Where are they now?”
“In here,” Uncle said, tipping the neck of his bottle toward the general store door. “They are grabbin’ supplies for Pearson. Flour, lard, apples and carrots. Something about molasses. I stopped listenin’ after the third item. As soon as they get it all loaded and Mrs. Adler shows her pretty face, we’re ready to roll back to camp.”
Arthur nodded absently, but his gaze drifted already—past the storefront, down the sunbaked stretch of road where he’d last seen her disappear. His eyes snagged on that narrow side street just beyond the construction site, flanked by sagging porches and crooked fences. A few older buildings were tucked into the slope. Residential, most likely.
Was she visiting someone?
The thought caught and held, unshakable. She should’ve been back by now, shouldn’t she? The others were here. The wagon was nearly packed. It’d been over two hours since they rolled into town. And still—nothing.
Last time she ran off like that, she’d ended up in a gunfight with a pair of bounty hunters in the middle of the woods. But then again—this was Valentine. How much trouble could she really find in a town like this?
None of his damn business, he reminded himself for what felt like the hundredth time. Sadie could handle herself in just about any situation. She’d proven that. Again and again.
And yet.
And yet…
He shifted again, arms crossing tighter across his chest, jaw working behind his beard, that sharp tick in his temple pulsing just a little harder now.
“Christ, Arthur,” Uncle drawled. “You’re starin’ down that street like it owes you money—or worse... like a man watchin’ the last train leave the station with the woman he should’ve chased still sittin’ in the window. Sadie’s just fine, I’m sure.”
“I know she is.”
“You sure do. Not worried at all, are you?”
His gaze snapped toward him. “What the hell are you talkin’ about, old man?”
Uncle just grinned—slow, wolfish, like he’d been waiting to be asked. “I ain’t blind, son. Or deaf. You think I—or the rest of camp—ain’t noticed the way you and Mrs. Adler been orbitin’ each other like two drunks chasin’ the same bottle? Hell, folks been speculatin’ for weeks.”
“Jesus, Uncle. Don’t start.”
“I ain’t startin’ nothin’. Just sayin’ what everybody else is already whisperin’ behind their stew bowls. Some figure you two had a thing, back in the day. Some figure you still do. And someone might’ve started a little wager on when you’re finally gonna pull your head outta your ass.” He smirked. “Not me, of course.”
Arthur shot him a glare sharp enough to split stone. This was the last thing he needed right about now—half the damn camp whisperin’ about him and Sadie like it was anyone’s business. She’d been a widow for barely two months. Christ. Not that he thought anyone would speak ill of her—but gossip had a way of crawling into the wrong ears, twisting into something it wasn’t. And he’d be damned if he made the same mistakes he’d made five years ago.
“It’s nobody’s goddamn business.”
Uncle held up both hands, grin wide and unapologetic. “Didn’t say it was. Just sayin’—folks got eyes. And mouths. And they tend to use both.”
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees like he was settling into a punchline. “So what now? We wait here for Mrs. Adler to finish whatever mysterious errand’s keepin’ her? Or…”
Arthur didn’t answer, just folded his arms tighter, daring Uncle to push it.
And dare, he did.
“Or,” Uncle went on, “me and the girls finish loadin’ the wagon and head on back to camp, and you take a little ride down that road. See what’s keepin’ her. Catch up. Ride back together. Take the scenic route. You know. Like a gentleman.”
“For the love of God, old man, will you stop with this horseshit? You sound like Mary-Beth.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Uncle ginned “Now—what’s it gonna be? I ain’t sittin’ here all afternoon while you have a damn stare-down with a ghost.”
~ * ~
In the end—and to Uncle’s eternal delight—Arthur sent him and the girls ahead with the wagon, making a mental note to shut down any gossip the moment it reached his ears. He stood in the dust and watched them rattle off in a chorus of laughter and squeaking wheels. Mary-Beth waved once from the back, smiling like she knew exactly what he was about to do—and why.
He didn’t wave back. Just sighed, then gave the Fox Trotter’s reins a gentle tug and turned her toward the quieter side of town.
For a while, he rode without much direction through the residential streets—past crooked fences and sagging porches, through a part of Valentine where the noise thinned to a hum. Windchimes made from old spoons whispered in the breeze, and a line of laundry flapped in the wind between two splintered poles. A dog lifted its head, blinked at him, then dropped it again. He moved slow, scanning porches, alleyways, and windows. Nothing. No sign of her.
And maybe that was for the best. Gave him time to figure out what the hell he was even doing.
She wouldn’t be happy to see him, that much he was sure of. Even less so when she realized the others had already left and she’d have to ride back to camp with him. Just the two of them and the silence they hadn’t figured out how to fill yet.
Still… maybe it’d give him a moment. A chance to ask the kind of questions he hadn’t yet found the time—or the courage—to ask.
Just to find out if there was someone—anyone—left in her life that she could turn to, if it came to that. A distant cousin. An old friend. Somebody who owed her father a favor, or her husband a debt. Hell, even a name scrawled on a slip of paper would be something. Maybe someone to send a letter to, ask for help, in case things went south, the way they always seemed to.
Arthur let out a slow breath, ran a hand down the mare’s neck, and pulled her to a stop beneath a wide-limbed sycamore tree. Its bark was pale and smooth in the light, its shadow long and dappled across the brittle grass. An old bench sat beneath it, weathered but still holding together.
He dismounted and tied the mare to the rail, let her nose through the weeds, then sank down onto the bench with a quiet grunt. It creaked beneath him but didn’t give.
From here, he had a clear view of almost the whole town, all the way back to Main Street—past the stables and the corner where the hotel stood, past the post office at the train station, and beyond. If Sadie was still around, she’d come down this road.
And if not… well. He’d wait a while.
Just in case.
He leaned back, folded his arms, and kept his eyes on the shimmering heat rising off the street, the crooked rooftops, the distant drift of chimney smoke curling into the sky like a slow breath—
Then came the laughter.
It cut through the stillness, sharp and sudden. Arthur’s gaze flicked toward a porch a few houses down, where two little girls had been playing earlier. Now, three older boys had wandered up from around the corner. One of them lunged forward and snatched something from one of the girls—a doll, worn and threadbare but clearly loved. He held it high, just out of reach, with a triumphant whoop before tearing off down the road, his friends right behind him, hooting and kicking up dust as they went.
One of the girls burst into tears.
The other—did not.
A fierce, furious little cry cut through the air like a whipcrack, followed by the rapid slap of bare feet on hard-packed dirt. Arthur straightened a little farther, just as the blonde girl—tiny thing, no more than three, maybe four years old, and in a tattered blue dress—came tearing after them, wild as a summer storm. Her golden curls streamed behind her like fire caught in the wind, and she was cussing so loudly, a passing old man stopped mid-step, wide-eyed.
But she didn’t slow. Didn’t hesitate. Just barreled after the boys like she had no sense of fear—or maybe just didn’t give a damn.
The boys skidded to a stop halfway down the road, still laughing and too breathless to keep running. But whatever victory they thought they’d earned vanished the second she caught up. Arthur watched, half in disbelief, as the girl plowed straight into the biggest one—the thief—and shoved him hard enough to drop him flat on his back. He hit the ground with a yelp and a cloud of dust, the doll tumbling from his hand and landing face-down in the road.
Arthur blinked. “Well I’ll be damned.”
But she wasn’t done. Not even close.
She snatched up two fat clumps of mud from the roadside and hurled them one after the other with a sharp, practiced aim. The first hit the other boy square in the chest with a wet smack. The second clipped his friend clean across the temple. Their laughter dried up real fast after that. A few more clumps of mud flew, while the little girl shouted curses that would’ve made Uncle proud.
Under the relentless onslaught, the boys turned and ran, tripping over their own feet and yelping like kicked dogs as they disappeared around the corner.
The blonde girl stood there for a beat, then stooped and picked up the doll. She brushed it off with careful hands, cradled it against her side, and with a toss of her head like none of it had touched her, turned and walked back toward the porch.
Arthur watched her go, and something strange caught low in his chest. That fire. That spine. That unshakable defiance, so bright it could cut through anything.
“Jesus,” he muttered, still staring. He knew one just like her.
Back on the porch, the girl handed the doll back to her friend and patted her gently on the shoulder, like she was making sure her friend was all right. The other girl gave a quiet thank you, still shaken. She clutched the doll to her chest, eyes darting down the street like she half-expected the boys to come back.
The blonde didn’t press. Just gave a small nod—like that was that—and the two of them exchanged a wave before the dark-haired girl disappeared inside. The screen door creaked open, then snapped shut behind her.
Left alone, the blonde girl lingered only a second more. Then she turned and tore back down the path the same way she’d come, curls flying, bare feet kicking up dust like she hadn’t just declared war and won it.
But halfway down the road, she slowed. Stopped.
Arthur caught the exact moment her eyes landed on him.
She squinted, blue eyes narrowed in suspicion—like she thought he might be planning to steal from her, too. “Who are you?”
He let out a low chuckle, a little taken aback by her boldness. “No one important.”
She looked him over—took in the patched-up clothes, the dust-worn boots, the revolvers at his sides, the weathered old hat with a bullet hole punched clean through the brim. What she made of him, he had no idea. Her face gave nothing away.
“Haven’t seen you around before.”
Arthur leaned back on the bench, the corner of his mouth twitching. Sharp kid. Sharp as they came. “Just passin’ through,” he said. “That’s all.”
“Hmmm.”
Then her gaze shifted—to the Fox Trotter.
And just like that, everything changed.
Whatever caution she’d been carrying fell away in an instant, replaced by something brighter. Her eyes lit up like someone had struck a match behind them—blue and clear and wide with wonder as they fixed not on him, but on his horse standing calmly at the post.
“Is this your horse, mister?”
“It is,” Arthur said. “Bought her today. She’s a—”
“Missouri Fox Trotter,” the girl cut in. “I know! She’s been in the stable for weeks. I seen her lots of times. She’s the prettiest one there. I figured someone’d take her home soon.”
“That so?”
“Yep. She came with the Thoroughbred. Have you seen him too? The one with the chestnut coat?”
“I did.” Arthur chuckled. “I almost bought him.”
The girl’s eyes went wide. “Good thing you didn’t, mister. The Thoroughbred’s real pretty too, but he’s got a temperament. He spooked last week and kicked the stall so hard he bent the latch. Scared poor Hank so bad he dropped his lunch.” She shook her head, disapproving. “He does that kind of thing a lot. But I think he´s just unhappy, you know? Some horses simply aren´t meant for ridin´ or stablin´. They are meant to run free.”
Arthur leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, studying her—barefoot and fierce and utterly self-assured, wild blonde hair spilling around her ears in sun-bleached curls, a scrape on one shin, and a whole world burning bright behind those blue eyes.
“You seem to know a whole lot about horses.”
“I do,” she said, matter-of-fact. “My pa taught me. He only has one horse, but he knows everything. Says horses are smarter than most folks think—and if you treat ’em right, they’ll tell you what they need.” She turned back to the mare, gaze soft with admiration. “This one’s gentle. You can tell. She don’t flinch. She watches people. That’s how you know.”
Arthur followed her gaze to the Fox Trotter, calm and steady at the post, like the world couldn’t trouble her if it tried.
“You’re not wrong,” he murmured.
“Can I pet her?”
Arthur raised a brow, letting the moment stretch a little. “Well,” he said, “that depends. Think she’ll let you?”
“I think she will,” the girl said, already stepping forward. “And I’m not afraid.”
No. Arthur didn’t think she was. If anything, afraid was the last damn thing this girl was.
He found himself smiling again. “All right then. Go ahead. Just be gentle.”
She didn’t need telling twice.
With the kind of reverence reserved for altars or baby birds, the girl stepped up to the horse and stretched out a hand—fingers loose, palm steady, like someone who knew exactly what she was doing. Arthur didn’t move, but his gaze stayed on the mare, just in case—ready to step in if she spooked, though she gave no sign of distress.
“You’re real pretty, aren’t you?” the girl murmured, her voice soft with awe. She reached up and brushed her fingers along the mare’s chest—just as high as she could reach—and with the lightest touch. “I’d like to have one just like you someday. One that runs as fast as the wind.”
Arthur’s mouth twitched. Something eased in his chest as he watched the horse lean—just slightly—into the girl’s hand.
“She likes you,” he said.
The girl beamed, nose crinkling, then gave the Fox Trotter a final pat before turning back toward him. But instead of running off, like he half expected her to do, she plopped herself down beside him like she’d been invited—bare knees, sun-dusted shoulders, and not a care in the world.
“So,” she said, swinging her legs idly above the dirt, “what’s your name?”
Arthur gave her a sideways glance. “You sure you should be talkin’ to a stranger, kid?”
She shrugged. “Ain’t worried. Folks around here look out for each other. And if you were bad, you wouldn’t get far.”
That got a faint twitch of his brow, but she wasn’t finished.
“Besides,” she added, tipping her chin toward a nearby porch, “my mommy and Mrs. Whitlow are right in that house over there. And my mommy can be real scary if she wants to be. You would not want to anger her, mister.”
Arthur chuckled, low and genuine. “I consider myself warned.”
“So?” she asked, and when he just looked at her, she added, “What’s your name?”
He chuckled again, quieter this time. He wasn’t usually in the habit of giving out his real name—too many reasons not to—but there was something about this fierce little girl, something that disarmed him without even trying. And truth be told, he was enjoying the company more than he’d expected. “Name´s Arthur.”
She nodded once, as if filing it away for future reference. “Ar-thur,” she repeated slowly, testing the syllables on her tongue. “Like the one from the stories?”
“The stories?”
“Yeah! The one with the magic sword in the stone.” Her eyes lit up briefly with the memory. “Mrs. Whitlow read it to me once. But that was a looong time ago. I don’t remember much.” She paused, then added with a small shrug, “I’m Bee, by the way.”
Arthur turned his head slightly, one brow raised. “Bee? Like the insect?”
“Uh-huh. Like the one that buzzes. My mommy gave me that name. She says it’s special.”
“Well now,” he said, “I didn’t say it wasn’t. Just think it’s curious, is all.”
Bee wrinkled her nose, clearly unimpressed. “It is special,” she said again—firmer this time, like she was daring him to argue.
“I believe you,” Arthur replied, holding up a hand in surrender. “Didn’t mean nothin’ by it.”
“And… it’s not my real name. It’s my nickname. But everyone calls me that.”
“Oh, then what’s your real name?”
She scoffed, crossed her arms, and rolled her eyes at him. “I’m not gonna tell you now. You’ll only think it’s funny, too.”
“All right, all right. I apologize.”
She let that sit for a beat, sizing him up again like she was deciding whether he meant it. Then she gave a small nod—like a queen granting mercy. “Fine. You're forgiven.”
Arthur hid a smile behind a shift in his posture, leaning back against the bench.
“I’ve never seen you before,” Bee said after a moment, swinging her legs again, kicking at the dust.
“That´s because I just got here,” he said. “Only been in the area a few days.”
Bee tilted her head, watching him with narrowed eyes “What for?”
“Oh … nothing special.” Arthur hesitated, just for a beat, before he added. “Waitin’. For a… friend. You don´t happen to have seen her?”
Bee scrunched her nose, thoughtful now, eyes flicking up the road like she might spot the answer in the heat shimmer. “No, I haven’t seen any other strangers,” she said after a pause. “But I know what waiting feels like.”
“Do you, now?”
She nodded, slow and solemn. “I waited for my mommy. For a loooong time, all winter.”
“Why wasn’t she with you?”
"Don't really know" Bee shrugged—small shoulders rising and falling like it didn’t matter anymore. "But mommy says where we live, it’s not safe for kids in winter. Too cold. Too high up. So I stayed with Mrs. Whitlow.”
Arthur glanced toward the house she’d pointed to earlier—the porch slouched under the weight of time, paint worn down to a soft, weathered gray. “That must’ve been tough,” he said quietly.
Bee didn’t answer right away. Just dug her toe into the dirt, then said, with a shrug that tried too hard to be casual, “But I didn’t cry or nothin’. I was brave.”
Oh, he bet she was. Brave, fearless, and fiercer than a thunderstorm.
“But I like Mrs. Whitlow,” she went on. “She bakes cookies sometimes and makes soup from scratch. Lets me sit on the porch if I don’t track in mud. She got a cat named Dog.” She grinned at that, proud of the joke. “Says it keeps folks from gettin’ too clever.”
Arthur huffed a quiet laugh through his nose.
“But she’s movin’ away soon,” Bee added after a moment, quieter now. “I don’t think I’m gonna see her for a long time.”
For a moment, Bee fell quiet, and her gaze drifted out across the street. She looked older than she was—her expression thoughtful, drawn in, like she was puzzling out something that didn’t have an easy answer. Then she turned back to him.
“Hey, can I tell you a secret?”
Arthur raised a brow. “Sure.”
She leaned in a little, conspiratorial. “I like it down here in Valentine.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. I mean—I like my home too. And my mommy. And my pa.” She paused and tugged at a loose thread on her dress. “But we live so far away from everything. Barely anyone ever comes around, and we hardly ever go anywhere. It’s all trees and snow and quiet.”
Arthur listened, but said nothing.
“I like it better here,” she said finally. “Down in Valentine. There’s people. Things to see. Stuff to explore.”
“Still,” he said, “it must be nice to have a home. A place that´s just yours.”
She looked up at him quick, sharp as ever. “Don’t you have one?”
Arthur hesitated, then gave a small shrug. “Not really. I… travel a lot.”
“That must be excitin’. Like always being on an adventure.”
Arthur gave a faint smile. “Yeah. Somethin’ like that.”
The truth was, it wasn’t all bad, the life he chose—at least not when the law wasn’t breathing down his neck, not when the days were quiet and the road stretched open and far ahead. But still... there were moments—quiet ones, like this—when he couldn’t help but wonder what his life would look like today if things had turned out differently five years ago. If a life like that—simple, rooted, good—was ever within his reach.
And if someone like him even deserved it.
But he knew better.
You don’t get to live a bad life and have good things happen to you. That was a lesson he’d learned a long time ago—first from Eliza and Isaac, and then, if he was honest, all over again with Sadie. And every time, someone he loved had paid the price for his foolishness.
“I wish I could travel more,” Bee said suddenly, her voice full of quiet wonder, not knowing how far he’d strayed inside his own head. “Go far away. Like past the mountains or across the Heartlands. Maybe even past the ocean. Or maybe to the place where my mommy is from.”
Arthur glanced at her, pulled gently back to the moment. “Wouldn’t you miss your folks?”
Bee considered that, legs swinging idly beneath the bench. “Yeah… I guess I would.” She paused. “But they could come with me.” Then she shook her head. “No, wait—my pa wouldn’t. He likes the ranch too much. Says he has everything he´ll ever need right there.”
Arthur gave a soft hum, eyes steady on the road ahead.
“But my mommy…” Bee lowered her voice, like she was telling him something important. “I think sometimes she doesn’t like it there. Not always. She pretends real good, and she smiles when pa’s around, but I’ve seen her sit out on the porch sometimes, lookin’ real quiet. Like she’s someplace else in her head.”
Arthur, again, said nothing, but something in his chest tugged.
“She’s from a place far away,” Bee added. “Says there’s woods and wide-open land, and lakes and rivers that stretch on forever. I think she misses it.”
Arthur turned his head to look at her as the breeze lifted a strand of her hair. “Sounds like your ma’s got a whole world in her, too.”
Bee smiled at that—soft and proud. “She does.”
They sat in silence for a beat, and then another, the afternoon heat thick and steady, the kind of stillness that invited thought—but Bee, it seemed, wasn’t one to linger too long in one place, not even in her own mind.
Her eyes shifted—and locked onto the revolvers at his hips.
Her whole face lit up. “Hey—are those real?”
Arthur followed her gaze to his holsters, then back to her. “They are.”
“Can I see one?” she asked, nearly bouncing in place.
Arthur chuckled. “Probably not a good idea.”
Bee pouted, then brightened again. “Well, are you a good shot?”
“Good enough to get by.”
Her eyes went wide with excitement. “Will you show me?”
Arthur blinked. “Show you?”
She nodded, enthusiastic now. “Yeah! Like—how to shoot! Please?”
Arthur stared at her, caught between amusement and disbelief. Then he let out a low chuckle and shook his head. “I ain’t ever met your ma,” he said, “but she sounds like the kind of woman who’d shoot me if I tried.”
“My mommy is—”
But whatever her mommy was or wasn’t, he never found out.
Arthur turned his head toward the house across the street just as Bee did. Just as the screen door creaked open, hinges groaning faintly against the stillness of the afternoon. And there she was—Sadie—stepping out onto the porch with two heavy satchels slung over her shoulders.
And then she stopped dead in her tracks.
Her eyes found him first—and went wide. Like she couldn’t quite believe what she was seeing. Then they dropped to Bee sitting beside him, and something in her expression shifted, broke.
Her breath caught—he could see it, even from afar—and her face, flushed from the sun, drained pale in an instant. One hand shot out and gripped the porch railing, knuckles white. She opened her mouth—just barely—like she meant to speak. Like she had a hundred things to say, and none of them could find their way out.
And then—for the briefest, sharpest heartbeat—the mask she’d been wearing for weeks cracked wide open.
And there it was.
Surprise. Shock. Guilt. Panic. Awe. Dread. And beneath all of it—God help him—maybe even love.
For a second, it was like five years ago, like he could read her face again, plain as a page from a book written only for him. Like nothing had ever come between them. But just as quickly, she pulled it all back. Slammed the door shut behind her eyes. Composed herself in a blink, like none of it had ever happened.
Then, without warning, Bee shot up from the bench beside him.
One second she was swinging her legs, grinning up at him—the next, she was airborne. She leapt from the bench in one fluid motion, barefoot and flying across the dirt road before Arthur could move or speak or even blink. Arms outstretched, curls bouncing in the breeze, her laughter rang out loud and bright as she barreled straight toward the porch like a wild thing unleashed.
“Mommy!”
Arthur froze.
Didn´t breathe, one arm still draped along the back of the bench, the sun burning against his shoulders, the air gone thick with dust and the weight of something he hadn’t meant to break open.
He didn’t know what the hell to do.
All he knew was that the look on Sadie’s face, when Bee launched herself into her mother’s arms, would haunt him for the rest of his life.