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swan shaped heart — part four

arthur morgan x preacher’s daughter

a/n: so incredibly sorry that it’s taken me so long to continue this story I promise it won’t always be like this !!!!! there’s been a lot going on in my personal life that’s kept me from writing plus extremely bad writers block etc but that neither here nor there…i’m finally updating !!! thank u to all my sweet readers that have been so patient, words can’t express how grateful i am to you <3 once again i had to go back and reread EVERYTHING so apologies in advance if there’s any discrepancies !!! i must have scrapped this and rewrote it like 3 or 4 times but ultimately i’m very proud of it so AHHH let me know what u think xoxo

tags: lots of angst, lots of yearning, everyone is mean sorry lol, mentions of blood, brief violence, use of alcohol, arthur gets wasted babyyy, religious themes throughout, old fashioned ideas, no blasphemy bc i’m religious <3 i had to study a lot abt the late 1800s for this chapter, reader is in her twenties, no use of y/n. read at ur own risk.

wc: 7.4k

part one | part two | part three | part four — fractures

It had been six weeks since he had last seen her, and did he ever feel every excruciating minute without her. The day he got back to camp after his last visit was a whole other pain. He felt as if he left something behind by not having the preacher’s daughter by his side. The gang kept prodding around, wanting to know what held him up and what took him so long. Arthur would make some half-baked but believable excuse to avoid further discussion. There was nothing to hide really, but he didn’t want them to know about her—his love for her was real and pure, he didn’t want it to be watered down and tainted by being the punchline of every joke.

He sat outside by a nearby pond and wrote down some of his thoughts in his journal, detailing his feelings about her and the predicament he was in. He stopped, the pencil in his hand dead frozen in his tracks. He picks it up again but this time, started to doodle little swans all over the page, it made him think of her. He felt silly, like some lovestruck teenager—but he was irrevocably smitten and there was nothing he could do to stop that.

He made his way back to camp, when he saw little Jack sitting underneath a nearby tree, “Hey kiddo, whatcha got there?”

“A bird identification book, I’m learnin’ about birds,” Jack grinned.

Birds. How fitting. It was almost like the universe was trying to pull him back into the arms of the preacher’s daughter. An idea creeps into his head, one that plasters an absentminded grin to his face.

He crouches down to little Jack’s level, “Wow that’s real nice. They got waterbirds in there? Y’know like ducks, geese, swans?”

Jack turns to the section, “Yeah! They’re also called aquatic birds! See Uncle Arthur? Look how many there are!” Jack giggles.

“Well I’ll be, learnin’ somethin’ new every day,” Arthur looks over the page with him and smiles, “Say, you mind if I borrow this, son?”

“Okay Uncle Arthur..but bring it back! I wanna go birdwatchin’ real soon and I need my book.”

“Yes sir, gettin’ real bossy these days,” Arthur chuckled, “You sound more and more like your Mama.”

He flipped through the book as he trudged onwards to his horse, listening to the crunching of gravel under the heels of his boots, finding the illustrations of the swans in the upper corner of the book, “She’s gonna love this,” he thinks to himself as he smoothes out the tan page corner with his thumb.

As he passes Dutch’s tent, he closes the book and makes his presence known, “Hey Dutch uh— I’m heading out for a bit. Gonna go…case some more banks. Think I got a lead this time,” Arthur gesticulates his hands for emphasis.

Dutch looks up from the book of his own, a subtle yet proud grin on his face, “Y’know Arthur, you been so proactive these days, I admire your ambition,” he moves closer to Arthur and pats him on the shoulder, “See what I’m talkin’ about now? Even a little bit of faith goes a long way, I think you’re gettin’ the big picture now.”

Arthur couldn’t have cared less. Dutch was always going on about this tired and wrung out subject. Arthur found himself nodding, “Yep. Faith is…something special alright.”

Dutch was none the wiser that Arthur’s own little ball of faith was waiting for him back at the church.

“No no no, it’s a cattle ranch. He’s got a big cattle ranch not too far away from town,” the preacher’s daughter explains to the befuddled mail clerk that was behind the post office counter. He takes to his book of records and maps, trying to locate this elusive rancher.

“Do you happen to know the name of the ranch?” he asks.

“Unfortunately no. He never mentioned it.”

“Hm. I can’t really help unless you get some kind of identification. What was the gentleman’s name again?”

“Arthur Morgan.”

The mail clerk shuffled papers around and scoured throughout the book of records, “Hmm. I’m sorry Miss, there’s no one with that name listed in here.”

“Very peculiar,” she responds curiously.

“In fact…there are no cattle ranches listed nearby.”

She nodded, “Oh. I see. Thank you for time, sir.”

The mail clerk nodded in response as she turned to leave the post office. She didn’t understand. She spent weeks on end trying to get in contact with Arthur and it was like she had dreamed him up, that no one outside her town knew of this cattle ranch or seemed to know Arthur himself.

No cattle ranches in the local area and no listing for Arthur in the records. It rattled her nerves a bit but she tried to think rationally; swatting away that gnawing feeling in her stomach that her father— might possibly, had been right about Arthur all along.

She reaches up and anxiously fidgets with her swan pendant necklace, deciding not to entertain the idea any longer. Obviously there must have been some sort of miscommunication between her and Arthur, that’s why she couldn’t find the information about his cattle ranch.

The preacher’s daughter waited around for Arthur to reappear. It would be the only thing that could quell her worries permanently.

Except he never showed.

The weeks burned away against the month and her heart ached every day that he wasn’t with her. During the day, she found herself lost in her mind, wondering what he was wearing, what he was eating, how he was feeling. During the lonely and still nights, she bundled his shirt that he gave her into face, inhaling his leftover scent on the collar of his work shirt. It still smelled like pine and smoke. Her days continued on and on in similar displays of yearning— and was she ever growing weary without him.

It was a beautiful day, the golden sun shone on the leaves and illuminated everything surrounding it, while the sky was a true blue decorated with ivory clouds. It was the kind of day an artist muses and a writer pens sonnets about.

It was unlike the preacher’s daughter to find herself completely apathetic towards its beauty. She curled up in her sitting chair, which was positioned towards her window, and longingly gazed out it. She wondered what her Arthur was doing out there, hoping he could be free of whatever it was that was barring him from seeing her again.

The reverberation of the preacher’s shoes scuffled down the hallway, before he himself peeks around the doorframe to ask his daughter a question. Although, her introspective trance intrigued him—he silently observed his daughter for a brief moment before announcing his presence.

”Everything okay my dear?” His loving disposition called her attention to him, “You seem pensive.”

The whole Arthur situation was still a sore subject between the two of them, so she attempted to deflect attention away from her problems.

“I’m okay Papa,” she responds, “Just had a lot on my mind.”

“Anything you wanna talk about?” he says as he takes a seat on the edge of her bed.

“Not particularly,” she smiles back at him, “Did you need something?”

“Not particularly,” he echoes her words before smiling, “You’ve been quite the recluse as of late. I was curious if you wanted to go into town with me.”

She shifts herself to face him, “What are you going to town for?”

Her father adjusts his sleeves and crosses his shin over his thigh, “I’m getting my suits mended and cleaned,” he replied, “But you can wander around town like you usually do.”

She stands up and walks to the window, looking over the scenery outside once more. Her father brought up a good point; she truthfully had lost desire to go out for weeks now, privately moping around over Arthur. The thought of going into town might not be a bad idea. At least it could get her mind off Arthur for a couple hours— if that was even possible, but she was willing to give it a try.

She thinks it over to herself, before her father’s voice breaks her train of thought, “I’ll even get you some lemon drops at the candy store, just like when you were a little girl,” he smiles.

She turns to face him, “As long as you don’t swipe one for yourself,” she teases, “Y’know like you also used to do when I was little?”

The preacher audibly laughs, “How about I buy an extra one for myself this time?”

“Deal!” she grins.

He finally stands and joins his daughter at the window before they make their way to the door.

“Alright my dear, my suit should be done soon,” the preacher announces to his daughter as he walks out the tailor shop entrance doors.

“That’s splendid, Papa,” she smiles and tilts her head at him, “Whatever shall we do while we wait?”

The preacher shook his head, already knowing what was churning inside her mind, “Let’s secure those lemon drops,” he chuckles, giving his daughter a gentle pat on the back.

They make their way down to the candy shop, glancing over the town bulletin, which happened to be nestled next to the front window of the store.

“Looks like Ms. Bedford is moving her literature club meeting to Wednesdays now,” she frowned, eyes scanning over the paper that was tacked on the bulletin, before looking over at her father, “What’s the chances of you allowing me to skip my attendance of our midweek service?”

Her father shakes his head, “I wouldn’t count on it. Unless you can persuade her to change it back to Tuesdays.”

His daughter opens her mouth for a rebuttal but is quickly interrupted by the presence of the town marshall, who was approaching the town bulletin board with a handful of papers of his own.

“Excuse me sir, let me get past you here—“

The preacher looks over his shoulder, “Oh!—Of course Marshall,” he smiles, “How do you do?”

“Just dandy,” the marshall returns a small smile while tacking the papers onto the bulletin, “How about yourself and the little lady here?”

”We’re fine,” the preacher replies, “Be sure to send our well-wishes to Joan and the baby.”

“Sure thing,” he nods, “Well, must be gettin’ a move on now,” the marshall kindly tips his hat at them and makes his exit.

Both father and daughter say their farewells to him, before turning to see the fresh and new paper that was posted on the bulletin.

The preacher squints at the picture of the man on the poster, “Is that—?” his question tapers out as he pulls the tan paper down for further inspection, his daughter craning her neck to look at the paper alongside him:

WANTED: DEAD OR ALIVE

Arthur Morgan.

Infamous enforcer of the Van Der Linde Gang and outlaw. Wanted for murder, robbery, kidnapping. $5000 reward for capture.

DO NOT APPROACH.

If spotted, contact Pinkerton detective agency immediately.

“Cattle ranch, my foot!” her father exclaimed in disgust, he turned to his daughter, whose expression was akin to seeing a ghost, “Oh my dear, aren’t you glad you listened to your Pa? Woulda had you strung up or runnin’ from the law too. Cryin’ shame.” He continues, trying to be sympathetic but she doesn’t hear any of his lecture; her head was too busy swimming, and her throat ached as she swallowed thickly.

Robbery. Kidnapping. Murder. She felt her stomach drop and chills erupted down her spine, her hands felt frigid and limp. There had to have been some misunderstanding, not her Arthur.

Not the Arthur that gently fed sugar cubes to her beloved childhood horse.

Not the Arthur that gingerly cradled her face when he gave her first kiss.

Not the Arthur that went out his way to return her swan pendant necklace. It couldn’t be true.

She didn’t even realize that she was showing such a public display of emotion until she heard her father’s voice. “Don’t cry honey, all we can do is pray for him. Hm? The Lord will sort it out.”

“Papa…I feel unwell,” she whimpers out.

Her father kisses her softly on the top of the head, “Now, now. Don’t fret dear. Sometimes good people can just go rotten,” he soothes as he walks her back to their stagecoach, “You’ll find a good man. Even better man than Mr. Morgan.”

That was the issue. She didn’t want another man. She wanted Arthur. And unfortunately the law wanted him too.

It was making sense—the bullet wounds in the shoulder, his cattle ranch ceasing to exist, the hints of something that he was keeping from her in hush tones. The more she thought about it, the sicker she felt. It was enough to make her blood run cold.

Sunday morning reached around the corner before Arthur even knew it, and with Jack’s bird identification book tucked away safely in his satchel, he was excited and hopeful even— to sneak the preacher’s daughter away on a little excursion. He felt like it was only fair to treat her to something a little special, to try and make up for how long it had been since he’d seen her last.

He knew that she was most likely in the church, preparing for service before it began. He had been around her enough times to note that her father was keen on wrapping up the last touches to his sermons at the very last minute. Now was the perfect time as ever to be alone with her.

The preacher's daughter was indeed inside, dusting off the pulpit and fluffing the white lilies for display. She started to fetch a glass of water to tuck behind her father’s pulpit. Even though he consistently made a fuss that he didn’t need it; his throat would always end up dry from talking—so she made it a habit to place it there for him.

The doors of the church creaked open and the weighted thud of Arthur’s boots echoed in the empty hall. The sound startles her—as she suddenly shrieks and drops the glass she was holding, broken glass shattering and ricocheting across the wooden floorboards.

He rushes towards her to help her pick up the shards, “Woah darlin’ didn’t mean to frighten you—”

She swats his hand away, “I don’t need your help, it's fine.”

He shakes his head, “Well that’s one hell of a way to greet your man,” he smirks.

She refuses to meet his eyes, continuing to gather the shards of glass, being mindful of her hand placement so she doesn’t cut herself.

“You’re all mad I ain’t come see you, huh?” Arthur questioned softly, still crouching down to her level, “Darlin’ I know it’s been some time since we last saw each other but don’t get all cross with me now—“

She didn’t know whether to be angry or cry in his presence. Typically, the sight of him would warm her up all over and a smile would grace her face without her even realizing it, but now all it did was chill the blood in her veins.

“Mr. Morgan. What do you need,” she says flatly, wrapping the glass up in a handkerchief she found next to her in the pulpit, her tone warbled in uncertainty.

Arthur’s sense of danger heightened. He couldn’t quite place it, but something was off. Really off.

He shifts his weight on one hip, “Somethin’ the matter?”

She takes the folded wanted poster out from her skirt pocket, “I don’t know you tell me–” her hands quiver as she shows him the evidence of his betrayal, “You've been up to a lot, huh?”

He traces the brown paper along the edge, stomach dropping at the sight of his wanted poster in her presence. Everything he wanted to tell her, explain to her, reassure her about— was gone. Instead, the inklings of words on the page tattled on him. He pressed his lips into a fine line, wanting nothing more than to explain the whole situation, but the words were heavy as lead in his mouth, so he could only nod in affirmation.

“How could you? Robbery? Murder?…I mean–” she stammers, “W-what was- was it an accident or–”

“It wasn’t an accident.” he cuts her off abruptly, looking back down at his boots.

Her mouth fell open in shock at his admission, although it was all she needed to hear to make her decision. There was a beat of painful stillness between the two of them before she broke her silence again, “I think it would be best if you make your leave now Mr. Morgan— or I'll get the marshall.” she says flatly, turning her gaze from him.

He shakes his head with an edge of force, “Not any of that ‘Mr. Morgan’ bullshit again! I ain’t leavin’ ‘til we talk about this!” he grasps her wrist and forces her to look at him, “Say somethin’ dammit!” he yelled.

Her jaw opened slightly, “Are you serious?! What do you possibly want me to say?! That this little acknowledgement of your misfortunes are stapled all over town—making a fool out of me?!” she squeaked.

She was hoping it was a misunderstanding, a classic case of the wrong person at the wrong place at the wrong time. If not, she was praying in her mind it was in self defense. She shakes her head at him and looks down, “Oh Arthur. Why’d you go do such a thing?” her eyes brimmed with tears.

He wanted nothing more than to reach out and touch her, to wipe the tears from her weary eyes. Although, he knew it would just make matters worse. Instead, he exhales a troubled sigh, face contorting into an uncomfortable grimace.

“It ain’t ever been somethin’ I'm proud of,” he responds lowly, trying to explain himself, “but it was for protection,”

“—That’s what lawmen are for!” she exclaims.

Something about her comment irks him to his core. As if she all people knew the harsh realities of life at all. Arthur had seen and experienced more pain and torment in his life than she ever would in her padded and sheltered world.

“Now you listen to me! The only difference between outlaws and lawmen is one wears a badge while they’re killin’ and maimin’,” he lectures, “Ain’t like you’d ever understand that lawmen don’t protect people like me, who have lived the life I been forced into.”

She exhales an exasperated sigh and turns away from Arthur once more. Something about her demeanor upset Arthur even further. It could have been her flippant attitude or her refusal to comment— but it made him feel like he was lower than dirt, a feeling he never had when she was around. In fact, she made him feel like he was worth more than the bluest of diamonds.

“What is it? You think you're better than me or anyone else for that matter?!” he snaps, the words shoot out like a poison arrow, “It could happen to you too! Anyone can get caught on the other side of the law!”

She exhales a humorless laugh, “Speak for yourself.”

He didn’t like what he was hearing. Not one bit. Somehow, someway, Arthur always imagined that she was going to be unlike the others. She would be the one to look past his faults and see him for something more than a ruthless, brutish, coldblooded killer. But a human—with a heart and emotions that burned brighter than daylight and remorse that haunted him like a plague. In a way, he was right. She really did view him differently, for the entirely wrong reasons—and it hurt him more than the old bullet wound in his shoulder.

The silence between the two was thicker and heavier than steel.

Arthur, in all his silent agony, managed to choke out a response, “Is that what you think I am? Some monster?”

Of course she didn’t. The pain in Arthur’s voice grieved her– but she was upset. In her mind, Arthur went and ruined a perfect thing, a delicate and beautiful thing, and he was going to pay for the pain he caused her.

“Well you’re certainly no saint,” she chirps.

Arthur exhales a pained breath and averts his gaze from her.

“You said I was your girl…was that a lie too?” she murmured.

He moved closer to her, reaching out to cradle her hands, as if his body was moving on instinct alone.

“Darlin’ everythin’ I’ve ever felt about you was never a lie.”

“—No! You did lie to me Arthur,” her voice trembles, “Our connection was built on a total fabrication. There’s no justifying that! How could I ever trust you again if you felt so comfortable feeding me and my family all these lies?—Oh let’s face it Mr. Morgan, the man I knew might as well never have existed at all.”

The phrase clawed its way down Arthur’s ribs. He knew he wasn’t perfect, his past filled with pain and choices that should have never happened. His previous firm grasp of her hands suddenly went limp and her voice quickly felt like nails on a blackboard.

He wanted her to stop talking. He would do anything to make her stop talking.

“Well what’s a spinster like you supposed to know about the real world anyway? Last time I checked I ain’t seen a ring on either of our fingers,” he spits the words at her like they’re venom.

Ouch.

She recoils back and lets out a soft gasp, “That’s a cruel thing to say, even for you Arthur,” her voice warbled, fighting back tears, “Maybe I was wrong…maybe you are a terrible, rotten, man.”

Something was bubbling up in Arthur, and it was ugly. That familiar friend of wrath was creeping up from the pit of his stomach, and before he could control it, it fell right out, “And maybe you’re just the same as any of them other religious folk, little miss high and mighty. Preachin’ about forgiveness and love— when in reality you just like any other staunch and judgmental ol’ prude.”

Her lip quivers and silent tears fall, “Go to hell Arthur,” she grits her teeth and walks away. She didn’t mean it, she regretted it as soon as it left her mouth. But she couldn’t do anything about it except turn away and burden the words with him.

His blood boiled as he watched her walk away, clenching his jaw so hard that his teeth could crack. A wave of grief overcame him, he lost his chance of true love again. It rode away on a palomino horse, not knowing if he'd ever see it again. Although Arthur wasn’t alone in that moment, he’d always have his other familiar friend, regret, to dwell within him.

Arthur found himself staring blankly at the closed doors of Maple Valley Chapel. He should've gotten a clue by getting the hell out of this cramped town and closing this chapter of his life. Although he just couldn’t—he couldn’t move away from the entrance of the church even if he tried. He loitered around, waiting for service to be over, wanting to apologize to her and explain everything. So he passed the time by picking the skin around his calloused cuticles and smoking cigarettes only to snuff them out— fearing that he’d somehow offend one of the congregation members if they happened to see him.

He couldn’t believe what he had done— weaponizing her beliefs against her and belittling her hesitancy to marriage. What was he thinking? He wished he could be one of those people who thought first and spoke later, but his sharp tongue continued to get him in loads upon loads of trouble.

He grew bored of leaning against the wall and picking at his fingertips, he had to do something. As he glanced down he noticed the doors were slightly ajar. He peered through the small opening, only to see the preacher passionately ministering to his congregation. It took no time at all for Arthur to find his girl, studying her side profile from the front pew— his heart swelling in his chest.

God was he ever tired of pining, was he ever bored of yearning. It seemed like that's all he ever did. Right person wrong time— it always seemed to work out that way for him. He always had to be logical, work in reality, but she was truly his breath of fresh air. She let him rest in an imaginary world where things would be perfect, but ever since hours ago, when those venomous words were exchanged with one another; it turned that world into his own personal hell. It was beyond apologies at that point, they had both said things that they couldn’t take back.

Suddenly, looking at her made him feel sick, “It’s useless. To hell with it,” he muttered under his breath as he threw his cigarette to the ground. Stamping it out with his boot, mindlessly grinding it into the dirt with as much force as he could, boring one last glance at her before returning to his horse and making his permanent journey back to camp.

It was an excruciating ride back, Arthur’s ears still burned from the falling out between the preacher’s daughter and himself. Waves of pain and disbelief washed up on his mental shore. It hurt to swallow, it hurt to breathe. He thought to himself how could something so beautiful and pure end up so mangled? Was all the years of pain he inflicted upon other people finally catching up with him? It certainly felt like it. As he arrived to camp, he came to terms with the fact that this was his cruel and unusual punishment— and he deserved it.

Before securing his horse, he gave it a gentle pat, his mind wandering back to when he helped the preacher’s daughter with Butterscotch and their adrenaline fueled exit out of her house without neighbors seeing him. The thought made him smile for a few seconds before dissolving into the pit of his stomach, where the rest of his regrets congregated.

He just wanted to go to back to his tent and go to bed. He didn’t want to see anyone, didn’t want to talk to anyone—he just wanted to sleep—

“Arthur!” He hears Dutch’s baritone voice call out to him.

Arthur looks over his shoulder to see Dutch hurriedly making his way toward him, “What is this, the fourth trip you been on? But certainly nothin’ much you been bringin’ back. Any reason why?”

Arthur huffs to himself, “Just tryin’ to spite you specifically Dutch,” he says sarcastically before walking to his tent.

Dutch follows him, not letting him off that easy, “Now we all got a role to play here Arthur, you’re wasting time by going on these ridiculous wild goose chases.”

Arthur had tuned Dutch out around fifteen exhausted steps ago, but Dutch was still talking, “I have reason to believe you’re not takin’ any of this seriously.”

Arthur had all he could handle, “What about that faith you had in me before I left? Or do I gotta lose faith in you too?”

Dutch squints in confusion, “Now what in the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“—Nothing. I just—I don’t know Dutch! I can’t do this right now!”

“Well there’s a lot of things in life we don’t wanna do but it’s necessary to discuss!”

“Like I’d get anywhere talkin’ to you,” Arthur mumbled to himself.

Dutch cocks his head at Arthur, “Y’know I’m sick of your attitude lately,” he grimaces, “You’ve had somethin’ in your craw ever since you got back. The hell is wrong with you son?”

Arthur didn’t say anything in return, only stopping in his tracks. Dutch observed him for a moment before becoming to the realization that it wasn’t something in his craw, but someone.

“Oh I see,” Dutch smugly nods, “It’s a woman.”

Arthur whips his head to look at him, “The hell are you talkin’ ‘bout?”

”It is! This is about some girl ain’t it?” Dutch exhales a laugh, “I should have realized it sooner. All these trips are just…social calls, huh?

Arthur’s heart rate started to pick up, this was one the of the exact reasons he kept her to himself. The teasing, the jokes, the crude elusions—he just couldn’t stand it. His blood pressure was starting to rise again.

“Listen son, I know us men have needs but you can’t be running around for any piece of tail out there and jeopardizing—“

“—Do you ever know when to quit?!” Arthur gritted his teeth, he was so furious that the cruel words he wanted to sling at Dutch simply never came, he was completely rendered speechless. He opened his mouth to speak before closing them into a deep frown.

All he could manage was to aggressively wave Dutch off, “It’s pointless. It’s all pointless. You’d never understand,” Arthur murmured before angrily storming off into the nearby forest that surrounded the camp.

He wanted to cry— God did he ever want to break down into violent sobs, but couldn’t even if he tried. The tears wouldn’t even peak around the corner and grace him with their presence. He stopped to rub his eyes, exhaling an enormous breath he was holding and continued walking deep into the forest.

The seasons aged the world significantly in seven months' time, the air gained its chilly and smoky atmosphere, the trees were finally turning in striking displays of ferocious crimson and tender amber, and Arthur Morgan seemed to have put the preacher’s daughter behind him—for the most part.

The ghost of her memory would only haunt his mind when he ate peaches or heard a joke she would laugh at, how her swan pendant necklace twinkled in the western sun. It was sweet in the moment, but the bitter memories of their argument would always swirl around them—tainting them with a sour flavor.

He hated her for what she did to him and he’d always resent her for it— all he wished for was to stop missing her.

Luckily for Arthur, Dutch always had plenty of work for him to do to keep his mind occupied. Dutch assigned Arthur to a very promising case. Rumor had it that two very affluent oil giants in St. Denis had just closed on a huge deal; it was up to Arthur to find what bank was holding the money, so the gang could set up a robbery and make a monumental score.

The journey was the same as it ever was, Arthur felt like he’d done this commitment a thousand times over and then some. Although, there was a chance that Dutch actually could be right this time, he audibly laughed at that idea.

Just about that time, Arthur’s horse stumbled on the rocky terrain. He noticed how her hooves were slipping on the rocks and her knees bucked underneath her weight—continuously neighing and lifting her head up to the side.

Arthur pets her mane, “Aw, what’s wrong girl? You’ve seen worse trails,” he soothes, before ushering her to go. Despite his attempts to comfort her, the horse halted altogether, refusing to budge. He sighs and lowers himself off his horse, “What’s got you so temperamental?” He softly petted her knee, causing her to lift her hoof off the ground.

Arthur sighs deeply, “Yeah. That’ll do it alright.”

Arthur found himself back in Maple Valley again—the notion that this town, out of all towns, was the only nearest one that had a blacksmith, felt like a punishment for all his grievances he committed. He was determined to make this evening short and sweet. All he needed was to get his horse’s shoes changed, then swiftly move onto the next town as if he was never there to begin with.

He made a mental note to avoid any place that he could accidentally stumble into the preacher’s daughter at. She was the last person on earth he wanted to see at the moment—or frankly ever. His eyes wandered over and fixed onto the bustling bar nestled in the distance. Of course, the bar would be his safe haven.

Arthur saunters inside and leans on his forearms against the counter, rolling his broad shoulders in an attempt to try and relax.

Just one whiskey. That’s all he’d order and then be on his way. The bartender slips it in Arthur’s direction, he would swig it down as fast as it came into his line of sight.

He remembered the first time he walked into this bar, it was shortly before he was going to rob the town—or at least that was the original plan. That was before the preacher’s daughter would beg and plead him outside the bar for help— those dreadful Montgomery boys were stealing town cattle and vandalizing her and her father’s church. Even though she never stepped foot in this bar, Arthur seemed to see her everywhere. He ordered another shot of whiskey to try and forget. He drummed his fingers on the bar counter as a pattern began to emerge.

Another shot of whiskey was for the biscuits and gravy breakfast on that Sunday morning. The next one was for the town picnic.

A shot for the canned peaches they shared.

A shot for the passionate kiss they had shortly after.

One for the muddied shirt he gave her.

One for their goodbye kiss.

Soon enough, he had a shot for every moment. Arthur quickly consumed all the memories he and the preacher’s daughter shared together.

The room started to spin and he felt warm all over, he stood up and tried to move about the room. The sense of time and his vision started to blur into a nauseating pool. The jingling of ivory notes resounding from the bar piano swirled with his racing memories. He drank to forget but all it seemed to do was help him remember. Arthur trudged toward the exit, when his shoulder collided with another patron, spilling the man’s beer and soaking the wooden floorboards.

“Hey! Watch it!” the man shouts.

Arthur waves him off.

“Look buddy, I hope you intend on paying for another! I jus’ bought that!”

“I ain’t payin’ for shit,” Arthur drawls, “Ain’t my fault you’re blind as a bat.”

The patron shoves Arthur, “What’re you tryin’ to pull?”

Arthur pushes the man back and the man counters by swinging at him, Arthur barely dodging the blow, returns the favor by slugging him back.

After a couple minutes of brawling back and forth with drinking glasses being broken and chairs being thrown— the two burst outside, swinging at each other. Some punches landed and others not so much, mainly due to the alcohol. The man was no longer a person to Arthur, but rather everything he had been dealing with personified. To a very intoxicated Arthur— this man was just someone to take his aggression out on.

The scuffle catches the wandering eye of two young women, who happened to be walking with each other back to their stagecoaches after their weekly literature club session.

“Ugh! Shameful behavior, isn’t it?” her friend chirps, “It’s probably Mr. Colby. Heard he’s a bit of a bar fly these days anyway.”

The preacher’s daughter nods and winces at the sight, “Yes, but we musn’t gossip, it’s his own business and—“

A wave of familiarity washed over the preacher’s daughter. That black gambler’s hat— looked awfully similar to one she knew once. She studies the man wearing it for a beat longer.

“Oh my stars. Arthur?” her voice cracked.

She says her apologies and partings to her friend before rushing over to try and break up the fight, when the patron knocks Arthur to the ground, the wind that knocked out of him eases into a wheeze and soon enough into a drunken laugh.

Arthur sits up finally, spitting blood from the fight to his left side, before looking up to the woman looming over him. He gets a twinkle in his eye before phrasing her name into a question.

She’s not happy to see him, in fact— rather the opposite. Not only did Arthur break her heart all that time ago, but now was causing a humiliating display of drunkenness in front of friends, neighbors, and her father’s congregation. Hadn’t he done enough to mortify her?

“What are you doing here Mr. Morgan?” she asked sternly.

“Drinkin’,” he mumbled.

“I can see that,” she blankly looked him over, a pang of discomfort washed over her as she noted his bloody lip, nose, and knuckles.

What was he even doing in Maple Valley again? She closed this chapter of her life as soon as Arthur betrayed her trust and demeaned her more than mortal enemies could. Her mind was cluttered with racing thoughts and bitter memories, her ears turned beet red, mild sweat cascading on her forehead.

“And maybe you’re just the same as any of them other religious folk, little miss high and mighty.”

“In reality you just like any other staunch and judgmental ol’ prude.”

“What’s a spinster like you supposed to know anyway? Last time I checked I don’t see a ring on either of our fingers.”

She reminded herself that nothing changed the fact that Arthur was still a wanted man with a heavy bounty on his name. The crowd that was forming to observe such a crude spectacle on a Tuesday evening, were bound to catch on to the fact that this was the enforcer of the Van Der Linde Gang, and make a report themselves.

The thought that someone would turn her first love— a gentleman that once took care of her and her family, who lovingly combed her horse’s mane, that made a special trip to return her swan pendant necklace to her, into the Pinkertons to collect a plentiful reward while Arthur would be gruesomely hanged, made the pit of stomach lurch.

Nothing about that was right, nothing about that was fair.

So, despite all the resentment she still felt, despite all the terrible mistakes Arthur made—she found herself extending a hand to help his bruised body from off the ground. Arthur looks at her soft hand, dainty moonlight gently glowing against the ring decorating her index finger.

He exhales at the sight and smirks, “Ain’t you worried ‘bout crawling down in the mud with a dirty sinner?” he slurred before erupting in thunderous laughter, eliciting a laugh from some of the crowd that were still watching as well.

Her extended arm drops to her side in a disappointed frown. She let that comment slide, she knew that he wasn’t in his right mind. All she was focused on was getting Arthur to safety. Once again, she reached out to help him.

“Do I gotta ask for forgiveness first ‘fore I touch your hand?” he snidely remarked.

It was useless, he was combative and obnoxiously cruel just as she remembered him being the last time they spoke. She remained emotionless, keeping composure until she could get to a place where she could break down freely.

“Fine! Wallow around in the mud like some pig for all I care!” she turns away to leave and storms off back to her stagecoach. There was no use saving someone that didn’t want to be saved in the first place.

“Fine! Just fine! Go on ahead and run off like you did last time!” he bitterly shouts to her as he tries to stand up; but all he manages to accomplish is to stumble around, before clumsily finding his footing.

Arthur’s bitter jab causes her to stop in her contempt-filled tracks. She looks over her shoulder back at him in disbelief— he had a lot of gall to throw such an accusation her way.

She storms back to where he was standing, “You know you have some nerve showing up here, I ought to slap the daylight outta you,” she lectures.

“Would that make you feel better?” He says, before moving in closer to her, scanning her features over like he once did so many times before, last time he was this close to her they ended up sharing an embrace. He hated her—but did he ever miss her lips on his. He leans in to drunkenly kiss her but is interrupted by a strike from her palm.

He hisses and places a hand up to his cheek to soothe the sting, “Ow! You greet all your lovers like that?”

She scoffs, “Wouldn’t know nothin’ about that,” she grimaces into a humorless smile, “However I have had drunken fools that humiliate themselves in the town square before. C’mon.”

Now that he was standing, she could get him somewhere more inconspicuous. She tried to push him away from the crowd, but it was hard to move him— he was like solid muscle.

Although it didn’t stop her from shoving him away from the attention, steering his heavy uneven footsteps to her stagecoach.

“D’they get punished? ‘Cause I want you to be the one to punish me,” he wheezed into a raspy laugh.

There was nothing that she wanted to do more than to laugh at his delirium but successfully stayed somber, “Oh you’ll get your punishment alright, Mr. Morgan.”

“Promise?” he leaned against the stagecoach.

His hangover was going to be a hell of punishment in itself in the morning.

The preacher’s daughter didn’t know where to go with Arthur, all she knew was that she couldn’t bear to watch him him make a fool of himself in front of everyone, and he was so drunk she worried of his safety. She might have been filled with animosity towards Arthur, but there was a small flicker of care that still burn deep within her.

The rapid movement of the spruce and pine skyline whooshing by and the jostling of the stagecoach made Arthur nauseous. He didn’t even think to ask the preacher’s daughter where they were going, he just sunk into himself—trying to make the world stop spinning.

The way Arthur presented himself tonight was—different. His thoughts seemed more jumbled, she once again, desired to know what was truly clunking around in that very brain of his. Despite his level headed exterior, his mind was loud and overwhelming.

“What are you doin’ here, Mr. Morgan?” her pensive tone broke Arthur out of his thoughts.

“I got a better question. What the hell business you got takin’ me anywhere?” he gestures to his surroundings, “I mean ya already know I’m a outlaw,” Arthur grumbles, “What’s stoppin’ you from callin’ Pinkertons? Collect a big reward. Donate it. Whatever.”

“I don’t care about money,” she sternly responds.

“That’s right—‘cause you're all pious,” he teases harshly, “Well how you doin’ now little miss high and mighty? You married yet?” he grins sarcastically but there’s no humor behind it, only hurt.

She grows quiet, whatever drunken comment didn’t elicit a serious response, she just focuses on steering the horses.

He puts a cigarette between his lips and lights it while he waits for a response that would never come, “Figured,” he murmured between the cigarette, waving the lit match out, “It’s ‘cause no other man is gonna do it for you like I did.”

Of course not. Arthur was her first love and that wound was too fresh. She hated him for throwing it up in her face and rubbing salt into it. She tried to swallow the lump in her throat and the tears that were brimming, but it was too late. Arthur happened to see them pooling in her waterline. He looked away as soon as he saw them.

She still had feelings for him, just as he did for her. As it be, the two parties involved were both too stubborn and too proud to admit it.

Slowly, Arthur was silently regretting all of the hurtful and flat out asinine comments he made all night. All the things he said before, the argument, the silent curses and grudges—left him feeling unwell again. The swimming in his head was pulsing harder, he closes his eyes for a moment, focusing on the gravel and dirt crunching under the wheels and the horses' hooves.

It was a stunning night—and oddly romantic despite the circumstances. The autumn evening had a chill with the smell of smoke from chimneys in the distance lingering in the air. His heavily lidded eyes studied her side profile again, just as he did when she was sat in the front pew during Sunday service.

He tried to stay awake as long as he could, so he could burn the image of her into his mind forever, “Y’know, you still prettier than a picture,” he whispered, as the sounds of the night lulled him to dream.

Her heart jumped at the unexpected compliment, flattered beyond what she was willing to let Arthur in on, “Well I can’t say the same for you Mr. Morgan, you’ve definitely seen better days,” a small grin forced its way on her face.

She looks over to Arthur; eager to see his reaction, only to find him passed out asleep beside her.

She eased into a small and curious smile, “You have a way of showing up in my life in the most unexpectant of ways, Mr. Morgan,” she says softly to herself.

i hope you all enjoyed this chapter, i’m so excited to be writing again after so long !!!! i know theme to this one was quite a bit different to what i have been doing but i hope you all liked it nonetheless 💖 once again i really can’t thank you all enough for reading !!!!

taglist is still open if you want to be added or removed just let me know !!!

taglist 🏷️ @kisses4yuuta @mezzaninebeetle55 @5t4rcyph3r @arthurmorganist @blueskies664 @dinorick @i-will-give-you-love @ttznlett @demon-dm-22 @dhsksjsj @dauhtrofsevnthshe @rhaenassance @joelsprettyprincess @babygirlarthur

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