Chapter Text
Despite being born and raised in a godless city like Saint Denis, you were a God-fearing woman. You went to Mass every Sunday, you helped the poor when you could and you volunteered at the church soup kitchen. Unlike some of your more close-minded peers, you believed deep down everyone had good within them. No matter what atrocities or sins they had committed, people were ultimately good and capable of showing it.
You had been out soliciting for funds in Sister Calderón's stead as the poor dear had suddenly come down ill. You'd all but jumped at the chance to help out. It was true that you had grown up rich and pampered and while some of your high society friends let it go to their heads and looked down their noses at the impoverished, you saw it as a way to give back to your community.
You rang the bell and called out for donations. Most people passed you by but some approached to give money or canned goods. You thanked them all with a dazzling smile and a pamphlet advertising the church. The unforgiving Lemoyne sun beat down on you, the layers of clothing you wore doing nothing to ease your plight. You were wiping sweat off your brow with a gloved hand when you saw him.
Atop a fine-looking horse sat a rugged-looking man. His face was tanned and scarred but there was something boyishly handsome about him despite the fact he was at least a decade your senior. His expression was set in a hard scowl — as if he was looking for a fight. Perhaps he was, considering the amount of weaponry on him. There was a long gun holstered in his saddle, a rifle strapped across his back and revolvers strapped at each hip. Your mother would have admonished you for even thinking about interacting with him but in your charitable work, you'd learned that sometimes the roughest looking people were the kindest. And so you called out to him.
“Sir, would you like to donate to the poor?”
You almost thought he would ignore you as many others had but he turned his head and seemed to study you for a moment. Suddenly, you felt much hotter than the sun could ever make you. He looked at you in a way that made you feel like prey and him the predator, but nonetheless you kept the smile that you'd had plastered on your face for hours in place.
Your eyes widened as he dismounted swiftly and began to stride towards you, digging in his satchel. As he reached you, he held out a five dollar bill. Your hand trembled as you moved to take it — you surely hadn't expected that kind of sum from a man like him. Your smile grew earnestly as you thanked him.
“Th-thank you, sir,” you stammered. “This will surely help out a lot.”
He tipped his hat at you, offering the faintest hint of a smile and then turned on his heel. Some foolish part of you wanted him to linger.
“Wait, sir!” you called out and he paused, turning around and appraising you with the slightest bit of annoyance.
You blustered for a moment, unsure of why you had gotten his attention without a plan of what to actually say.
“Wh-what's your name?” You blurted. “So I can put it in the donation ledger.”
You watched as he scoffed, though he still walked back over. You thanked the Lord that technically it was customary to write the names of those who had donated in the ledger to thank them properly in the church bulletin, but you had shirked your duties a bit and not bothered to write down a single one thus far. Most of the people who had donated to you seemed to only do so to get you to shut up so you hadn't considered them worth the ink. Truthfully, you just wanted an excuse to know his name. You grabbed the ledger and opened it, ready to scrawl down his name.
On second glance, he was even more handsome than you'd originally thought, as if he was plucked straight from one of those romance novels you read behind your mother's back. She had always said they inspired nothing but obscenity and perhaps she was right because your thoughts were anything but chaste right now.
He seemed to hesitate for a moment before he gave you his name.
“Arthur,” he finally rasped out. “Arthur Morgan.”
“Arthur Morgan,” you murmured as you dutifully wrote it down.
You looked back up at him, beaming as he regarded you with practiced indifference.
“Well, I thank you for your donation, Mr. Morgan,” you said. “Your name will be in the bulletin as well.”
You watched as his eyes traced along your collarbone, lingering on the cross that adorned your neck and then down to the fabric that covered the swell of your breasts before moving back up to meet your gaze. You felt a blush cross your cheeks but said nothing.
“You out here often?” he asked.
No, you weren’t…but you weren’t about to tell him that. Some naive little part of you told you that he wanted to see you again.
“Yes,” you lied quickly. “I’m out here every week at this time.”
The faint smile tugged at his lips again before dissipating.
“Well, if I’m in the area, I’ll stop on by,” he said. “See if I got anythin’ more to donate.”
You nodded eagerly, mind already racing to find a way to be where you’d told him you would be next week.
Your fingertips brushed the cross at your throat as you watched him remount his horse and disappear into the crowd. You were not entirely certain why the memory of his gaze upon it made your stomach flutter.
The rest of the day burned away like watching wax drip from a candle. You half-heartedly solicited for donations, garnering a few but not as many as Sister Calderón surely would have. Besides, with Mr. Morgan's generous contribution, the soup kitchen was sure to be able to feed many people.
Your mind lingered on the man until the day came to an end. Your feet ached as you trudged back towards the parish — it was not a far walk but standing around and trying to get the folk of Saint Denis to care about those in need was exhausting.
When you arrived and handed over what you'd collected, you all but begged Sister Calderón to let you do her bout of fundraising the next week. She looked at you with a twinkle in her eye that suggested she knew your intentions were not entirely charitable, but nevertheless she agreed. She teasingly thanked you for allowing an old woman to rest her feet. You nodded at her words, a flush spreading across your cheeks as you promised yourself you would go to confession that weekend.
After all, you were a woman of age. Some of your friends were even getting married and in due time, you would be too. Looking at and being attracted to a handsome man wasn't wrong but lying was. Perhaps the Lord would overlook your transgression for the good deed it was making you perform.