Summary: Abigail Roberts joins the gang. Your relationship with John is changed, maybe forever.
Warnings: Pregnancy mention, hunting animals, brief mention of dead animals, canon-typical alcohol use, jealousy
Word count: 1,385
A/N: First of all I need to specify that Ghost is jealous of Abigail and thinks badly of her rn, but this story will not vilify Abigail’s character in any way!!! I love her!!!! Second of all it’s not terribly long but I hope you all find this chapter as juicy as I did bc I’ve been looking forward to this one pretty much from the start. Also this chap is 2/3 in a series, the first being ‘cloudburst’. The last one will be ‘thunderstruck’ - I’ll let you do with that info what you will 👀
Series masterlist • AO3
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When Abigail Roberts joins up with the gang everyone clamors for her attention. The women help with her chores and mend her dresses and pet her long, dark hair. The men make excuses to come by her tent and help her onto wagons and touch her hand by the campfire. It’s obvious why; she’s a beautiful young woman.
You’re not sure you’ll ever forgive her for that.
Of course, you might not have minded at all if it wasn’t for John. He’s smitten. Every moment he used to spend riding or robbing or roaming with you is now spent at her beck and call. You tell yourself it’s not jealousy that crawls up your throat and colors his name green in your mouth when you call across camp, knowing who he’s with. You tell yourself it’s a coincidence when you wake up next to a pretty, painted whore with dusky blue eyes and brown hair just like hers the next time you’re in town. You even tell yourself that it doesn’t hurt to watch the grey of John’s eyes shine stormcloud bright when they turn toward the object of his affections. When that object isn’t you.
Like some storybook romance he courts her. It’s clumsy - it’s John - but he brings her half-crushed flowers, and tries to read her some of Dutch’s poetry, and eventually he stops paying for the privilege of a night with her because they cut out the middleman and start sharing a tent.
Arthur notices your sulkiness. Hosea, too, though neither say anything outright. Instead they break your heart further with sad, understanding smiles and warm hands clasped on your shoulder in passing. Sometimes you wish they’d spill your secrets for the whole camp to see, just to put you out of your misery.
The days you aren’t out hunting you’re fencing horses or robbing farmers - anything to keep far from camp. Once a week you come back with cash to add to the box and a few new stories to trade around the campfire. Dutch is appeased by the money and the odd tip you bring home, and John—
You wait for him to say something about how distant you’ve been.
He doesn’t.
—
The sky is clear when Abigail announces her pregnancy in front of the whole camp a few months later, but you smell a storm on the horizon.
She’s so goddamn happy, and everyone cheers and shouts and rushes to hug her, and you think Ms. Grimshaw’s eyes gloss with tears at the promise of new life and young love, but John’s smile catches at the corners. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes. The panic does, and as much as your heart is already broken and you’ve given up hope, there’s some savage satisfaction you get from knowing he might be miserable now, too.
Dutch calls for a celebration. Everyone clamors to break out cases of beer and Hosea even proffers the good whiskey he’s been saving for a rainy day. Top shelf, according to the man he stole it from. Pearson sweats himself into a frenzy to have a good, hearty meal prepared in time. Ms. Grimshaw has the camp cleared and clean with military precision. Javier settles next to the campfire with a song just waiting to sing off the strings of his guitar with each joyful strum.
You slink away and pack your gear for a hunting trip.
After a feast like this the camp will need game, and you’ve always found the most success right before weather hits, when the animals are out getting the last bit of sustenance they can before hunkering down in the brush. You clasp Abigail’s hands and congratulate her, trying not to make the words sound like a curse before you fade into firelight shadows. While the others dance and sing, you nurse a bottle that does nothing to dull the ache in your heart.
You’re gone before first light.
—
The grassy plain is wide open and endless before you. Tall grass rises up to the stirrups of your saddle, and thunder rumbles its electric intent in the distance. Overcast clouds promise rain on the breeze as the sky gets darker and darker. It’s a cobalt blue sort of storm, one that paints the grass greyish and strikes your silhouette onto the American frontier for anyone in the distance to see.
A herd of pronghorn graze the prairie grass. You’ve been tracking them for a few miles now. Downwind. A safe enough distance away that they’re worried more about the oncoming storm than potential predators.
Two does, you think, ought to be enough.
You’re shit with a bow and arrow, so you rely entirely on being quick on the draw of your hunting rifle. Perks of spending the better part of your life as a gunslinger.
Your horse tenses beneath you as you raise your rifle up, muscles coiled and ready to spring into action. You let out a slow, steady breath. Bang, bang, in quick succession on the trigger has your horse leaping forward. You let his momentum carry you while the rest of the herd scatters in frantic leaps and bounds.
Two clean shots await your inspection when you crouch to tie the bodies and sling them behind the saddle. Rain begins to fall. The wind carries hoofbeats your way, and you turn with your rifle raised on the off chance some fool hunter is coming to try and steal your quarry.
“Ghost, there you are!”
Not a fool hunter, but a fool.
“John,” you say past the anger and jealousy burrowed deep in your chest. “What are you doing here?”
He shakes his head. “I was gonna ask you the same thing. You left without sayin’ a word.”
“Surprised you noticed,” you scoff.
“You wanna tell me why you been actin’ so funny lately?”
You fold your arms. “You followed me all the way out here just to tell me I don’t act right?”
“Everyone else is happy,” he says. “Guess I’m just wonderin’ why you ain’t.”
There are a thousand things you could say to that. I’ve been in love with you since before I knew what that warm feeling was in my chest. We were best friends and then you chose a stranger over me, and now that stranger is going to have your baby. Sometimes, when I dream, I dream of us getting old on a farm out West where the law won’t ever touch us. I think of you every time it storms. You say none of it.
The rain falls harder.
“I know you, John Marston,” is what comes out your mouth instead. “You look more scared than happy to me.”
“I ain’t scared,” he says, snappish and too-fast.
“I am.” The smile on your face is sad, and it stops the defensive snarl trying to form across his face. “Guess that’s why I came out here, away from it all.”
Lightning strikes in the not-far distance. The flash lights your surroundings in an eerie daytime glow for a heartbeat and a half. The thunder that rolls across the plain not long after makes you feel even smaller than you did already.You pull your coat tighter around your shoulders.
“I’m camping here tonight. Room in the tent for two if you want.”
It’s even flimsier than your usual peace offerings, but he takes it. On the edge of the prairie you strike the tent while he pickets the horses. The rain is coming down in sheets, now, and you’re both forced to strip to your underthings because your clothes are entirely soaked through. The blankets and bedrolls are damp, but drier than the two of you. As you settle into sleep to the sound of pelting rain against canvass, John’s roll tucked up against yours, you hear a raspy voice speak up.
“You were right,” John says. “I’m scared of— well, all of it. Raisin’ this kid. Disappointing Abigail. But I’m more scared of losing you, Ghost. We’re best friends, ain’t we?”
Your chest constricts. “‘Course we’re best friends. You won’t lose me.”
Then, so quiet you almost miss it, “Haven’t I already?”
The tears that run down your face are silent, and dark as it is you pray he can’t see them. Thunder and rain drown out your shuddering sigh.
