"hellcat" ch6. the long ride back
Arthur Morgan x female OC.
"In which he survives. In which they meet again and again and again. In which starcrossed lovers find redemption in a twisted way."
Arthur had spent the past week out in the wild, ever since he ran into Rose at the general store. Only way he’d found to chase off that strange knot sitting deep in his throat was to live like a damn wild beast—strip himself down to the raw, the primal, where he felt as far from the ways of men as he could get. He hadn’t hunted for gain, but for survival, honoring the land best he could. Every hare he felled with an arrow laced with mercy, he’d thanked. And when he ate, he did so with reverence, never dishonorin’ the fresh kill he’d taken with his own hands.
He’d let himself soak in the kind of wilderness that didn’t give a damn about no man—merciless, but maybe still kinder than he was. Less destructive, but just as vengeful toward any fool who thought himself above it. Arthur was a simple man before he was a complicated one. And he found peace in things that stayed far away from a world fixing to move too fast for his liking.
The only thing that ever grounded him was the vastness of the stars. Those nights, he’d lay there, staring up, reminded of just how damn small he was. He’d try to capture it in his journal, but these past few days, he just couldn’t. Maybe ‘cause a man with hands as stained as his had no business touching beauty, no right to put pen to paper and claim something as endless and deadly as the sky above him. A hand that only ever took, never gave, sure as hell wasn’t made for drawing anything worth a damn.
So he fished. Didn’t even keep what he caught. Once, the patience and the work of it had given him some sense of pride, some quiet satisfaction. But now? Nothing. He’d tried writing, too. Thought maybe if he put down all the tangled-up thoughts churning in his gut, it might ease something in him. But the words wouldn’t come. His hand wouldn’t move. Like some invisible weight had its grip on him, laughing in his damn face.
Trying to gather herbs for tonics hadn’t done a thing for him either. Neither had leaving the wild behind long enough to go fuck some whore at the nearest brothel.
Truth was, Arthur figured there was something real sick in him. A man broken, hollowed out by years of running and taking like any good-for-nothing gunslinger oughta be—he could handle that. What he wasn’t used to was the emptiness. That cold, gnawing thing lodged deep in his throat ever since Rose had spit at him, called him a damn stray dog without a leash.
He sure as hell wasn’t some mangy mutt left to rot by the roadside. He was a man of conviction—maybe not good ones, but convictions all the same. He made his own choices. And she was a damn fool to think otherwise. And he was even dumber for believing her, even for a second.
The days of lounging in the sun, dozing against some rock that did his back no favors, were over. Besides, he was running low on whiskey.
So after an hour or two riding Dust, he found himself in the nearest rundown town, taking up a job from a sheriff offerin’ good money for a bounty—alive.
“Alive’s extra,” Arthur muttered, lips quirking into half a smirk as the sheriff let out a weary sigh.
“His old crew’s after him too. Might get ugly,” was all the man said.
Arthur didn’t much care. Wasn’t like he had a reason to turn down a good distraction. That’s all this was—something to break up the goddamn boredom. He was sick of sitting ‘round stewing like some half-dead mutt.
He left the sheriff’s office with the bounty poster folded up in his satchel, stepping out into the fine mist of rain. His senses were sharp, honed like any good predator’s—he could smell the damp wood, the wet leather, that crispness in the air only winter brought, biting at his busted nose that’d been broken and set too many times to count.
Didn’t take him long to pick up a trail. He worked his way through town, digging up leads, prying words loose from folk who didn’t much like the weight of his gaze on them. But Arthur Morgan wasn’t the patient kind. And when he wanted something, he damn well got it.
Mud clung to his boots with every step toward his horse, the beast shivering under the saddle—impatience or just this damned cold? With a practiced motion, he swung himself up, giving the saddle a once-over before tapping the holster three times—tap...tap...tap. His head tilted, once to the right, once to the left, as Arthur nudged Dust into a steady, deliberate pace toward the frozen-looking hills ahead. The cold sharpened everything, the land bathed in a pale sun struggling against the thick gray clouds overhead. He let out a low grunt, but hell, least the cold kept him awake after a week of sleep playing coy.
Skeletal trees stretched their gnarled limbs toward one another, a thin layer of ice clinging to every thirsty, winter-worn branch. Arthur had hunted bounties through these hills before—wouldn’t be the last time, neither. His sharp, unyielding gaze tracked the ground like the dirt itself whispered secrets to him. A wanted man had but a handful of places to hide, led only by despair and desperation. Arthur knew the feeling well. He had that same drive, that same stubborn grit.
The damp scent of rotting flowers and rain-slicked bark guided him to muddy, half-frozen trails snaking along Little Creek River. His nose curled. A bird took flight somewhere ahead, its wings beating the silence just before a coyote let out a long, mournful howl. The sound carried through the lifeless trees, cutting through the bitter air like a knife. Dust moved steady beneath him, sure-footed despite the treacherous ground, his hooves crunching against frozen earth.
Arthur caught something then—his nose wrinkling sudden-like before settling again, as if mocking what he’d just found. A half-smirk ghosted over his cracked, blue lips. Boot prints. Deep. Fresh. Whoever made them hadn’t long since passed through. The frost hadn’t yet claimed them. Further ahead, his sharp eyes caught the remnants of a campfire, snuffed out in a hurry—likely at the first echo of Dust’s approach.
He dismounted, steady and sure, boots hitting the ground firm. No grace, just purpose. The makeshift camp was nothing much—a scrap of meat left behind, wasted. He clicked his tongue against his teeth. Wasteful bastard.
Silence isn't a good thing out here. Not when men like him were in the hunt. His fingers drifted toward the grip of his revolver, thumb stroking the cold steel. The chill grounded him, reminded him he was alive, that his own blood was still running hot through his veins, burning in anticipation. A shiver licked down his spine, nerves bristling in a way he knew all too well. That tight, familiar coil in his gut—adrenaline, the kind he chased more than he’d ever admit.
His steps slowed, cautious, as he moved toward the small drop in the land. Then— A branch snapped. Too sharp, too heavy for any critter.
His eyes narrowed, sweeping the trees. Took him a second, but there—a silhouette cutting through the bare woods, trailing the same tracks he was. Not his bounty. Someone else. The rifle slung over her..? back, the way she moved, smooth-like. And then there was that long cascade of hair, spilling down her back, just begging to be touched—or yanked.
It was her.
Arthur went rigid, breath caught in his chest like it’d been lassoed tight.
His throat turned dry, colder than the wind biting at his face. His vision blurred for half a second as he stared, watching her, focused, unaware of him. That goddamn sight of her from behind rooted him right to the spot. He swallowed hard, deep enough he feared she might hear it, even with the space between them.
Then, the clouds shifted. A sliver of pale light broke through, catching her hair, turning it a honeyed gold. His heart stopped—no, it raced. Hard to tell which, really.
Seconds stretched long enough to kill, and he damn near forgot to breathe. His grip faltered on his revolver, hand weak when it shoulda been steady.
Then, in a blink, her back became her profile, and then—
Big brown eyes, locked right on him.
Arthur felt his stomach twist, his body stuck in place like some spooked colt. She looked at him, and hell, it was like staring at a ghost he’d tried burying for a whole damn week. But he snapped out of it the second she lifted her gun at him. Instinct. A killer’s reflex, carved outta too many years of blood and survival.
He clicked his tongue, lifting his hands slow, feigned innocence painted all over him. But his voice? His voice dripped with arrogance, with that cocky little smirk that always got under her skin.
“Well now, ain’t you a jumpy little hellcat today.”
Her teeth grit, her hold on the rifle tightening. He could see it, the tension in her knuckles, the way her lips curled just slightly in frustration.
“What the hell you doin’ here, Morgan?” She was sharp, barbed wire wrapped in beauty.
Arthur shrugged, a chuckle dying in his throat. “Ain’t the air fresh out here? Can’t a man take a peaceful stroll without havin’ a goddamn gun pointed at ‘im?”
“Turn around. Walk away.”
“No can do, darlin’. Got business ‘round these parts first.”
“Bounty?” she asked, one brow raising as realization clicked.
His hand lowered a bit. “Maybe.”
She didn’t drop the gun right away, but he caught it—that slight shift, her pinky finger easing just a hair. She wasn’t ready to shoot him. Not yet. But those eyes still burned like they wanted to.
Her shoulders were up too high. He remembered what they felt like under his hands, under his teeth. That night. When he’d bitten down right where her neck met her shoulder. The memory felt too damn close now, so he shook it off.
“I wanted that bounty for myself,” she muttered, grip finally loosening as she holstered her weapon.
“And wouldn’t ya know it, I want it too,” he chuckled.
Her face looked easier than the rest of her—her cheeks red from the cold, standing stark against that soft skin of hers. He didn’t miss the dark kohl around her eyes, the way it made every damn thing she tried to hide all the more obvious. His gaze dropped, traced the sharp cut of her jaw, the tension there. Then, just as she opened that sharp tongue of hers to snap at him again—
Arthur watched those amber eyes of hers turn hard, cold steel in an instant. A weapon of their own. Like instinct, she moved closer to him, just as shadows flickered in the dead brush.
"Fuck…" He heard the brunette’s voice behind him.
His boots turned, not without effort, grinding into the dark soil beneath him. One step back, and he felt Rose’s back press against his, wrapped up in that long, dark winter coat. Arthur could damn near feel the tension running up her spine, the way her shoulders rose ever so slightly, stiff as a coiled spring. He didn’t need to see her to know her brows were furrowed, eyes narrowed, lips pressed tight as she took in the situation they’d landed themselves in.
He didn’t feel the rifle strapped to her back—had she already drawn it without him noticing? Strange. Arthur was a man who didn’t miss much. Every sound, every movement, every damn shift in the wind—his sharp eyes caught it all. But he didn’t dwell on it, just pulled his own iron from its worn leather holster in one smooth motion, the steel sliding free with a practiced ease.
The growls in the brush kept on—hungry, sharp-toothed predators, circling in, driven by one simple thing: starvation. Smart, quick, vicious, and too damn many of them. The beasts oozed saliva, slinking outta the bushes with eyes that screamed one thing—meal. Arthur counted at least five, just from a glance, and he could feel Rose shifting slightly, her boot digging deeper into the dirt.
A predator that kills for the thrill of it is dangerous. But a predator starving, desperate, pushed past the edge of survival? That’s the kind that don’t back down. Arthur knew that all too well. Two outlaws, caught out in the wilderness, far from the beaten path, chasing their own damn greed—and now they were paying for it.
His thoughts got cut short by the crack of a rifle behind him. Rose’s shot hit dead-on, a beast crumpling to the earth before it even knew what hit it. Good shot. Calculated, steady—she wasn’t just skilled, she was a survivor. Arthur’s trigger finger followed suit, sending a bullet straight into the skull of a wolf that’d started a dead run toward him. Two shots. Cold, precise, merciless. The dark fur turned crimson.
He swallowed, and then—Rose moved.
Her body left his, taking three quick steps toward cover behind a tree. The two carcasses on the ground weren’t a victory. They were just proof that three more massive beasts still circled, biding their time.
One came for Arthur fast.
He barely had time to shift before fangs tore into his forearm, sharp and relentless. A grunt ripped from his throat as he shook the damn thing off, the barrel of his gun finding the space between the wolf’s ears. One pull of the trigger, and it was over.
But Arthur was off balance now, knees digging into the dirt. He turned, sharp, and his stomach twisted at what he saw—
Two wolves on her. One lunged high, the other tearing at her thigh, sharp teeth ripping straight through dark denim. Her voice hit his ears, a pained sound before she bit it back.
He threw himself at the mutt trying to rip her face off, wrestling it down with a sharp, brutal struggle. A heartbeat passed—then a gunshot rang out. The beast went limp, dropping lifeless at his feet. A cleaner death than starving to the bone. Arthur didn’t waste a second—barrel up, three shots — boom-boom-boom into the last one, the one that had just left its mark on Rose.
The echoes still rang in his ears, slow and distant, like a reminder, like some damn punishment for taking down a creature just trying to survive same as them.
Rose was breathing heavy, her chest rising fast beneath that winter coat, rifle still warm in her hands. She was on the ground, still, and Arthur didn’t even think before stepping over the bodies, kneeling in front of her.
Gloved hands rough, no softness in them as he took her face in his grip, tilting it up to get a good look. No wounds there. He moved lower, checking her neck, then her leg. Rose propped herself up on her elbows, breathing quieter now, steadier, though the cold still left white puffs in the night air between them. He eyed the tear in her jeans, the shallow but present wound underneath.
"I’m fine, Arthur." Her voice cut through.
Still checking, still frowning at that torn-up denim, at the blood there. Weren’t nothing deep, but it was still there. He grunted, annoyed at the sight of even a scratch on her. His hands pulled back, running over his own torn-up forearm instead. But his eyes—his damn eyes—they traced her, every line, every breath she took, until they finally locked on hers.
Golden-brown eyes met blue, and Arthur swore Rose’s breath hitched just a little. And maybe… maybe his did too.
Her cheeks were red, nose pink from the cold, but she wasn’t looking away. She didn’t care about the wound on her leg. Just him. Looking at him like he was something worth staring at. And him—well, he was looking at her like she was carved from the earth itself. The way her eyes reminded him of old oak bark, of the antlers he spent too many quiet nights sketching in his journal.
He swallowed. Hard. Then, finally, shrugged.
"If we both got business out here, might as well stick together. Hate to find you half-eaten by some flea-bitten bastard without me." His voice came out low, rough.
Rose huffed a soft laugh, shaking her head just a little.
"What a generous man you are, Arthur."
And hell if she didn’t say it softer than before. If he didn’t catch the ghost of a damn smile curling at the edges of those wind-chapped lips.
Arthur folded his arms, tilting his head.
After surviving the wolf attack, they’d put some distance between themselves and the bloody mess, like they could somehow leave behind that strange, vicious fight—and those glances that lasted a little too long to be ignored. Rose had taken the time to patch up her thigh, cursing all the while, while Arthur, stubborn as ever, just shrugged off the scrape on his forearm. The silence between them wasn’t heavy. Hell, if anything, it felt like some kind of unspoken understanding. Maybe they both found a strange comfort in not blessing the other with the sound of their voice. Or maybe they were just running from whatever the hell had just passed between them.
But Arthur—Arthur had been thinking. Again. And again. For a man who figured there wasn’t much intelligence or meaning in his own actions, he sure did spend a hell of a lot of time in his own head. Finding Rose after all this time, on the same damn bounty, when she hadn’t taken a job since their… disagreement—now that was one hell of a coincidence. And yet, running into that sharp-jawed, fire-eyed woman in the kind of places men abandoned out of fear? Well. That didn’t surprise him much at all.
Ever since the gang had left him for dead—since he had left him for dead—Arthur had made damn sure not to cross paths with anyone tied to his past. Not ‘cause he was running, no. Just… careful. Maybe even free. But hell, can a man haunted by ghosts ever really be free? And yet, despite all those years spent in the shadows, she was back. A storm that didn’t just pass—it stayed. Messed up everything in its wake. And strangest thing? Arthur didn’t mind. Not as much as he should’ve, anyway. But he’d never admit it. Not in a million years.
Maybe it was ‘cause she’d been smarter than him. She got out before everything turned to a goddamn symphony of disasters, before the echoes of all their mistakes started haunting his nights. He gave her hell for running all the time, but deep down, he respected it. Respected the way she never looked back, never let ghosts claw their way into her skin like he did. She hadn’t turned down the job this time. Strange, that. And Arthur, for once, hadn’t teased her about it.
They’d tracked the bounty, relying on Arthur’s sharp instincts, and just a few hundred yards ahead, they found a still-smoking cigarette abandoned near a tree. The footprints beside it had stretched further apart—whoever they were after had picked up the pace. Maybe even run.
The land around them was lifeless. Not a damn sound, not a damn soul. Winter had swallowed everything, left nothing behind but a cold, frozen canvas. For a second, Arthur wondered if he could’ve painted the way the bare branches caught the weak sunlight, turning gold against the pale sky. But a broken branch—torn fabric caught on its edge—shoved him right back into reality.
He jerked his chin toward Rose.
“Reckon he heard us dealin’ with the wolves.”
“Yeah, well, we weren’t about to just sit there and get torn apart.” She shot back, chin high, eyes fierce like always.
Arthur huffed a quiet laugh. Damn woman had more bite than a damn rattlesnake.
Rose stepped ahead, eyes scanning the ground, nose scrunching the way it always did when she was focused. Arthur smirked, just a little.
“Didn’t know you were a damn bloodhound, Hellcat. Maybe I oughta rethink my own nickname.”
“Shut the hell up and move, Morgan. We ain’t got all day.”
He snorted but didn’t argue, though he slowed his pace, letting her walk ahead.
Then, at the base of a tree, gnarled and stripped bare by the cold, Arthur pulled out his hunting knife. He knelt, pressing the blade against the rough bark, carving into the wood with slow, deliberate strokes. A.M. Deep, unpolished, almost too rough. Then, beside it—R.C.
It’d stay there long after they were gone. Maybe long after the tree itself had fallen.
He rose, satisfied, before catching up to Rose in a few long strides.
She had turned around, her silhouette outlined by the pale winter sun. Those big, deer-like eyes of hers held that same feigned indifference—curious, but acting like she wasn’t.
“You takin’ a piss?” she asked, casual as can be.
“Nah. Just markin’ my territory. Keep the other mangy mutts from touchin’ my damn gun.”
Rose rolls her eyes, and he don’t correct her; just keeps pressing deeper into a wilderness that had already tried to rip the life outta them—natural and cruel as it was. She walks like she’s sure of herself, even though her thigh’s gotta be hurting something fierce. But not once does her ankle give on the uneven stones, not once does she slip on the cold, slick ground. She just keeps moving, head high.
And that thought makes Arthur laugh. After near ten minutes of trekking through the cold, dark dirt, they finally spot a hidden clearing ahead—fire looks like it’s been put out not too long ago. Classic. A rough breath rattles in his throat, the cold air biting deep. He exhales slow, watching his breath coil and disappear into the dark.
Near the firepit, still warm, a busted bottle’s lying on its side. A cut rope, sliced in a hurry. Footprints—fresh ones.
Arthur’s getting real tired of this, even though tracking a man down, hunting him like a predator, usually gets his blood running. Hell, he loves it. But he can’t ignore the way Rose’s lips press tight at his side, her pride keeping her from showing even a flicker of pain. Anyone else would’ve been shaken for life after what she just went through. So, he drops down by the firepit, kneeling as he drags his fingers through the warm ash. Inside him, something burns. A deep, steady ache. He wants to find whoever’s running from him. Needs to. And as his mind starts wandering, his thoughts grow darker, twisting with what he’ll do when he gets his hands on the bastard.
Rose, meanwhile, is already working. She starts searching the area, and soon enough, she finds something—a torn satchel, a crumpled scrap of paper. She moves quick, tucking it into her own satchel before Arthur can catch sight of it.
Then he hears it—soft, steady footsteps. The sound of boots pressing against the frozen dirt as she moves toward him. His sick, restless thoughts cut off when he finally sees her in his field of view—Hellcat, standing there, the firelight catching sharp in her eyes.
“This pisses me the fuck off,” she growls, voice thick with frustration. “We coulda caught that son of a bitch if it weren’t for those damn fleabags—”
Arthur tenses. Instinct kicks in, sharp and immediate, and he whistles—loud, clear—calling for Dust and Stella, who ain’t far off in the trees.heears Dust’s hooves poundingtoward him, but not fast enough. He clicks his tongue, curses under his breath. Time's running out. No thinking. Just moving. The second he spots his stallion, he takes off in a sprint. Rose is right beside him, keeping up without a hitch.
Up ahead, their target is already riding hard, trying to disappear into the trees. A grin carves itself onto Arthur’s face—sharp, mean. Then, with one fluid motion, he swings up into the saddle. e turns his head, ready to bark something at Rose—but she’s already ahead of him.
She’s on Stella, ridin’ like a goddamn hurricane, tearing through the trees with effortless speed.
Arthur snarls, spurs Dust forward. The ground’s treacherous—frozen mud, tangled roots—but he don’t glance down. Just trusts his instincts. The chase is all that matters now.
The cold wind slashes across his face, branches whip at his coat and hat, but he don’t feel it. His whole world narrows to one thing: the bastard fleeing ahead of them.
He reaches for his rifle, steady despite the speed. The son of a bitch up ahead has gotten a lead, but Arthur ain't worried. He licks his lips, lines up the shot, breath slow, measured—
And then Rose slams into him.
His aim veers off, the shot misses by a hair. Rage explodes in his chest.
He turns on her, voice ripping outta him in a furious snarl, gravel-rough and burned through with anger—
“What the fuck d’you think you’re doin’, goddammit?!”
“Ain’t lettin’ you steal my goddamn bounty!” she shoots back, not even sparinghim a glance, eyes locked on the treacherous path ahead.
"Goddamn fool!" Arthur seethes with rage at Rose's stupidity and kicks Dust harder towards the fugitive.
The distance closes; their wild chase through the trees begins to fade as the man reaches an old, rickety bridge over a fast-moving river. As the man tries to cross, the pace slows – his horse is scared – the wood creaks, forcing him to dismount. In the distance, Arthur’s smile turns dangerous, amused, as the man scrambles, trying to gain distance, but the wood cracks beneath him. Arthur and Rose arrive a few seconds later, quickly abandoning their horses to chase down the bastard, who’s drawing his weapon. The man is rough-looking, and his behavior is desperate and twitchy; he knows his freedom’s running out.
"Go rot in hell, goddamn it!" the man's voice cracks above the steel he holds in his hands.
Arthur doesn’t think. Arthur just acts. Arthur draws.
The bullet grazes the fugitive’s ear, making him stiffen as if shaken by pure terror. Arthur Morgan was a big man, and anyone who’d try to have him as their executioner would soon be begging for a quick, merciful death rather than the kind of slow torment Arthur could dish out. Arthur feels it – like a predator – the fear that radiates from the man’s body, the realization that he’s in the hungry hands of Arthur. Arthur grins as the fugitive raises his hands, frozen.
"Good. Now, how ‘bout you drop that iron before I stop missin’ every damn shot?" his voice almost mocking.
Rose steps closer to the man, her own revolver aimed at his temple as her firm, soft voice cuts through the air, sharp as ever.
Arthur bursts out laughing.
"Well, looks like he surrendered to me first, sweetheart."
As Rose turns to Arthur to protest, the man takes his chance and tries to run. But Rose’s speed grabs him, and she knocks him out with a well-placed butt of her revolver. He’s now sprawled out on the ground, legs bent, while Arthur explodes into a hearty laugh at the absurdity of the scene. A dry, genuine laugh that shows off all his teeth.
"Well, sweetheart, remind me not to owe you money, huh?"
Rose flashed him a simple smile, one that made Arthur swallow hard, before she knelt down beside the man who’d slammed face-first into the dirt to tie him up. Arthur slid his steel back into its worn holster, the leather creaking under the strain as he watched the brunette tighten the ropes around the unconscious feller. He crossed his arms, sizing her up from head to toe, not paying any mind to how the light seemed to make her eyes glint. Or maybe it was the fire in her?
"That ain't right, Rose," he muttered. He didn’t call her that much, but when he did, she glanced up, her eyes sharp as she shot back.
"Life ain't fair, Morgan. We just make do."
Their glares met for a split second, temptation and chaos swirling like they were both trying to weaken the other. But Arthur, being the reasonable man he was, wasn’t about to fall for it. He was gonna let her have the bounty, but he wanted to let that tension hang in the air for a moment—just to let it crackle—before he finally shrugged and sighed.
"Fine, but next time, you ain't gettin' it so easy."
"Oh, I’d love to see that, Morgan. Looks like I always win with you." She grinned, then tried to heave the man up.
She didn’t quite manage it, and Arthur stood back, watching for a beat. The dead weight of a knocked-out feller was heavy, even for a big man like him. So, outta some mix of pity, mercy, or just plain kindness, Arthur took a few steps closer, knelt down, and helped her hoist the bounty onto the mare. She still had that smile, but this time, it wasn’t empty—it was like she was thanking him. They both got the man settled on the horse, and Arthur felt reality bite at his fingertips as he mounted Dust, double-checking Rose’s saddle was tight. She’d likely be riding off again. And though he knew she’d leave—damn fool, he thought—he couldn’t help but glance sideways at her as the horses’ hooves clicked together in the cold, perfectly in sync. He watched her face, the reactions there as the bounty still slept soundly behind her white mare.
"I’ll buy you a drink if you’re nice, Morgan. With the bounty money," she said, breaking the silence, pleased with herself.
Arthur kept his jaw tight, not saying a word; the cold air bit through their clothes as the ride home stretched long and quiet. The world around them passed slow, the dead silence of nature the only witness to the strange feeling that was eating at Arthur from the inside. It was like something gnawing at his gut, burning slow, and he hated not knowing what was driving him to let her win all the damn time. Frustration simmered inside him, and he spent the rest of the ride muttering insults to himself. The road was twisty, roots sticking up outta the dirt, but over time, it cleared. Still cold, but now the path was easier, the horses moving in time with each other, steady and sure.
The prisoner finally came to a few moments later, groaning in pain, cursing the two outlaws who both ignored him, too deep in their own thoughts to care. The silence settled in, the awkward tension stretching on for what felt like hours until the poor man finally realized his fate. He was probably headed for a cell, maybe even a noose, depending on his crimes. Arthur didn’t give a damn anymore. It could’ve been him.
"Ya always this sore when you lose, Morgan, or did you lose your tongue?" she finally broke the quiet.
"I ain't lost, I let you win. I call it playin' the long game," he grunted.
Before she could shoot back, puff her chest, or throw more sass his way, Arthur tossed her the harmonica. She barely caught it, almost dropping it before her fingers found the right grip. Her face scrunched in confusion, those amber eyes asking without words, but Arthur wasn’t having it. He stared straight ahead, his gaze locked on the road ahead, no shame in it, and finally gave her an answer.
"Play, instead of runnin' your mouth."
She did as told, her lips pressing against the cold metal the moment Arthur told her to hush, and her favorite tune filled the air a second later. Oh My Darling. The corner of Arthur’s lips twitched slightly—not a smile, but something rougher, something primal, as the raw sound of the harmonica floated through the stillness like damnation itself.
And so, she kept playing her tunes, each one just as appreciated in silence by Arthur, until they finally reached the sheriff's office. The exchange was quiet, the curious gaze of the old man with the weathered face watching as Arthur stood by Hellcat to collect their bounty after the fugitive was thrown in a cell. The sheriff shot them a dirty look but didn't ask no questions about Rose taking the money. In the end, a man was locked up, and the old man seemed satisfied, though he had a grin on his face.
Rose counted the money slowly in front of Arthur, adding each bill out loud, the numbers ticking off with a rhythm that almost made the outlaw chuckle. Her smile shone bright as the midday sun. Arthur couldn’t care less about the bounty, and for someone who looked like she was dressing in silk and satin, she sure didn’t seem ashamed to pocket the cash. Rose was a contradiction in boots, but hell, so was Arthur.
"You were real sweet on the way back," she remarked to Arthur. "Maybe you deserve that drink."
"You stole my bounty, woman. Payin' me a drink’s the least you could do," he said, rolling his eyes at her comment.
"Feelin' poor, little cowboy?"
They had mindlessly taken the path to the nearest saloon as the sun sank slow-like between the wooden buildings. Arthur could hear Rose's laughter ring out over the bustle of the noisy streets, the golden and pink rays of the sunset catching on her long hair that hung over a black coat like some dark shadow.
"Well then, the first round’s on me, I reckon."
The golden wooden saloon was lively but not packed, just like every place where sin ruled; the air was thick with the smell of tobacco and cheap rotgut. A few men were busy playing cards at the round tables near the entrance; at the far end, the bar where two folks leaned in close, and further still, a man busy kissing a lady of the night in a chair too fancy for a saloon that had no business with such airs. Rose and Arthur slid onto stools at the bar, elbows on the worn wood, and an old toothless barkeep poured them two drinks at Rose’s dark request—the kind of voice that always seemed to get darker in saloons, like it was there to prove she was alive, and biting, and that them revolvers strapped to her thighs weren’t just for show.
After she paid for the drinks, Arthur took his glass in his gloved hand, swirling it slow, watching the liquid shift in time with his movements.
"If that ain't romantic, I don’t know what is," he said, sarcasm thick in his voice.
He hears her chuckle, proud-like, as she leans in closer, her perfume hitting Arthur’s senses hard. He stiffens, lifts his glass with hers.
"To my victory," she whispers, almost breathless.
"To my patience," he finishes, his voice low.
The liquor burns down Arthur's dry throat, and he realizes his whole damn day’s been spent in the biting cold of winter. He closes his eyes for a moment, time seeming to stop as he’s finally warm, finally away from the wolves and Rose’s wounded thigh. The silence that falls between them ain't uncomfortable, just there. He feels her gaze burning into him, inspecting him, studying him, and he grunts, cracks open an eye, just in time to see her lose herself in her drink again. Her soft jaw, pretty and angular, now tight with tension. She hesitates, her mouth opens, then closes, then opens again.
"Ever felt… tired of this life, Morgan?"
The question hangs in the air for a moment before he takes another swallow, thinking on his answer. His gloved hand rubs at his beard, revealing a few scars to the sharp eye—hers.
"It ain't about bein’ tired, Rose. It’s about not havin' a choice."
She furrows her brow, seeming to chew on that, then she starts twirling her glass between her fingers—long, delicate fingers, like they could kill just as easy as they could caress.
"We always have a choice," she counters after a beat.
"Not always the right one." The silence settles back in.
He watches, outta the corner of his eye, as Rose’s rosy lips move again—first pressed tight, then parted, then closed, bitten... pressed again. Strange thoughts slip into his mind at that moment; his cock would look real nice between those two lips.
He raises an eyebrow, the whiskey softening him, and a half-laugh slips out from Arthur’s lips.
"That’s a first, Hellcat."
Then he watches her again; she looked odd—less happy than when she’d pocketed the bounty. Was she regretting it? Too late for that. Like two people like them had any choice but to survive, to take jobs like this. Like the world outside would give a damn about their feelings or the morals of what they do. A world where if they don’t bite, they’ll get chewed up slow, tortured by the law’s so-called decency. He don’t understand, not anymore. Arthur used to share Rose’s doubts, but since his life went up in smoke, all he sees now is survival, and there ain’t no redemption for a man who’s spilled more blood than he’s planted smiles. Something gnaws at him when he sees the scowl on her face, something dark stirs inside him, taunts him, knots his throat. He finishes his drink, and suddenly stands up.
"You’ll buy the next round too, Hellcat. ‘Cause I’m still so sore from that bounty."
She raises her hands, the doubt long gone from her face as that crystal-clear laugh rings out again from lips he’s tasted before.
And with that, he turns on his heel, leaving his glass behind. Wondering if she’s gonna run off again, if that next drink even exists, or if he’ll be walking those lonely roads again, feeling like the whole world’s falling in on him. But he does not care, she's just some chick.
