I poisoned myself again, somethinâ in the orange
Tells me youâre never cominâ home
seen from Germany

seen from United States
seen from Germany
seen from TĂŒrkiye
seen from TĂŒrkiye

seen from United States

seen from United States
seen from Switzerland
seen from Brazil

seen from United States
seen from Italy
seen from China

seen from Australia
seen from China
seen from United States

seen from United States

seen from United States

seen from TĂŒrkiye

seen from Italy

seen from United States
I poisoned myself again, somethinâ in the orange
Tells me youâre never cominâ home
still cant believe dutch took bill to brontes party instead of john
the calm amidst all the chaos, sunny mornings in the april of 1883. some snippets from the daily life of the van der linde gang, back when they were younger, the sun was brighter and the bird songs sang a little louder over the valleys of the wild west
inspired by mitski- crack baby
after 6 hours I am allowed to die now
took me about 3 hours a piece but i like the high honor one more
MORE RDR2
a summerâs worth of sugar. (1)
arthur morgan x fem!reader
summary: Just a quiet collection of domestic moments shared in a remote forest cabin with a wanted man you happened to find bleeding in your kitchen. Somewhere between shared breakfasts, sketches in a worn journal, and the intimate hush of the woods, the dangerous stranger slowly begins to feel less like a guest and more like a husband you never planned on having.
status: complete
genre: 50% fluff, 50% smut, 100% Arthur is hot.
warnings: none (just small mentions of blood and stuff)
notes: Fulfilling your Arthur Morgan husband fantasy. Slow burn (patience is the longest yet most scenic road to smut.) Includes Arthurâs canonically perfect round ass naked in your kitchen. Includes Arthur enjoying a very ripe, very juicy, very pink peach in front of you. (Iâm serious)
other chapters: (2) | (3) | (4) | (5) | AO3 | masterlist
wc: 6.7k
It was a late winter day in the Aurora Basin, quiet, blessed with the kind of warmth that was rare this time of the year, the kind that you accepted like a gift after what felt like a lifetime of dark, snowy skies. Behind you, your little cabin seemed to share the sentiment, smoke curling lazily from the chimney as if sighing beneath the early noon sun. Its weathered timber, grayed by years of mountain storms, soaked up the golden light with gratitude, its reflection blurring across the glimmering surface of the Basin.
On the line, the laundry youâd washed earlier that morning stirred weakly and tiredlyâcotton drawers, plaid shirts, lacy chemisesâfluttering as if forced awake by the light. You glanced back at them as you strayed farther from the cabin, silently hoping that the sun would hold its strength long enough for the fabric to dry before the pine-scented chill of evening crept back into the forest.
Days like this were proof that winter was finally bidding its farewell, reluctant and slow, but loosening its bitter hold all the same.
Your boots crunched softly over dried twigs as you ventured toward the tree line, bending now and then to inspect the carpet of copper-colored pine needles. Nestled near the damp, mossy roots of a decaying trunk, you found your prizeâbay boletes, round and firm, a cluster of orange caps still unspoiled by frost. You knelt, smiling as you carefully twisted them free, brushing away the dirt with a thumb before tucking them into your basket. Good for stew, good for bait, and a treat for your horseâlittle rewards for another winter survived.
You straightened up, sunlight seeping through the dense canopy overhead. And you let it melt into your skin like warm honey, savoring the sensation as your eyes wandered over the clearing. The snow had finally retreated, and green had begun to claim back the landscape, lush and alive. You wouldnât have minded finding one of those flowers againâthe ones with the swollen purple bulb and speckled leaves youâd stumbled upon by sheer accident. You hadnât seen one since last year, but you kept an eye out anyway, more out of fondness than expectation. Perhaps they would bloom once spring set its roots more possessively into this place. They were so beautifulâshaped like little slippers, almost too pretty to belong out here. Too whimsical to exist anywhere outside the pages of a fairytale.
And that was the thing about Tall Trees, it felt whimsical. It had its perks, living out here. This bountiful land most folks deemed too hauntedâtoo wrongâto bother hunting, foraging, or fishing. Which meant the Basinâall its game, its fish, its untouched mushrooms pushing stubbornly through the cold earthâbelonged entirely to you.
But as generous as Tall Trees was, you werenât immune to its moods. The forest felt watchful, as though the leaves themselves were a million little eyes always paying attention. It didnât feel haunted, exactlyâjust occupied. That was why you only ever came out in the mornings, when the light was gentle and forgiving. The moment the sun crept past the middle of the sky, signaling early afternoon, you always traced your steps back toward the Basin, and the safety of your porch. There was always laundry to tend to, wood to split, sage to dry, or a snag in a skirt to mend anyway. So you didnât wander. You didnât stray far. Some places demanded a certain respectâand Tall Trees was one of them.
You had just spotted another orange cluster, glowing like embers in the shade a few feet ahead, when a loud bang tore through the forest. The echo drilled into your ears, splitting the midday quiet so cleanly it felt like a physical blow. Birds burst violently from the trees, a frantic cloud of wings thrashing against the branches as they fled for the sky.
You froze mid-step, the forest suddenly, unnaturally still, save for the painful hammering of your heart against your ribs as you waited for the follow-up.
A hunterâs second shot, perhaps?
No.
Two more shots rang out in quick succession, followed by the jagged edge of angry shoutingâat least three men, raised voices, overlapping in a cacophony of rage. This was no hunter.
Your breath hitched as the basket slipped from your numb fingers, mushrooms scattering across the forest floor like discarded coins. The realization hit you with the weight of a falling tree. You knew exactly where the noise was coming from. You knew the direction, the distance, and the perpetrators.
Damn Skinners.
âNo, no, no,â you muttered under your breath, already moving, boots skidding as you rushed toward the narrow trail leading back to your cabin. Not again
You shared this land with those sick bastardsâvicious, cruel butchers who turned the beauty of Tall Trees into a graveyard. They were everything that was wrong with humanity, patrolling the roads with cursed intentions, haunting them like demons who tortured anyone and anything unfortunate enough to cross their path, sometimes even wandering as far as the Basin. You knew the way they crept, the way they watched. Every time you heard their hollering, you dropped everything and ran to hide.
Your mind raced ahead of your feet, already mapping the quickest path inside, already picturing the heavy rug youâd yank back, the wooden mouth of the cellar waiting beneath the floorboards, the safety of the dark. You could be hidden in seconds. You had been before.
Another crack echoed, closer now, followed by a raw, guttural scream that died off into a wet choke. You pushed harder, your heart pounding in time with your footsteps as you leapt over a fallen trunk, lungs burning as branches clawed at your sleeves as if the forest itself was trying to hold you back.
Maybe you could reach the cellar before they noticed you. Godâyou hoped they hadnât touched your horse.
The cabin finally came into view through the trees, smoke still lifting gently from your chimney as though nothing had changed since you left. A cruel image of domestic peace that vanished when you smelled the sharp, metallic air, heavy with the scent of burnt powder.
And thatâs when the realization cut though the fear like ice water.
Skinners didnât use guns.
They hunted quiet. Arrows that hissed against flesh, knives that whispered against muscle, traps that doomed futures.
You ducked behind the thick trunk of an ancient pine, peering toward your home. A man wearing a hideous skunk-pelt hat was limping away from your porch, moving as fast as his mangled, bleeding leg would allow. He hissed a curse, trailing behind three other dark shapes that scattered back into the dense tree line.
To your left, your horse whinnied, ears pinned back and teeth bared in a defensive snarl, but he was still standing.
Unharmed.
Thank God.
But relief fractured within a heartbeat, because the silence that rushed back into the Basin was somehow worse than the gunshots. It pressed tight and suffocating, broken only by the rhythmic, indifferent slap of the water against your old wooden pier, and the fading rustle of the brush where the four Skinners had vanished.
You waited, counting your breaths until the forest felt empty again. Then crept toward the porch, following the wet, crimson trail the limping man and his companions had left behind.
The sight made your stomach churn, bile rising in your throat until your breakfast threatened to come back up. You hated blood. Always had. You hated the metallic tang of it in the air, the way it clung to everything, the heavy implication of pain and gore it carried. It was why youâd never taken work at the doctorâs office back home, no matter how steady the pay. Youâd preferred the chaos of the post office instead, even when the shifts ran long and loud.
You reached the porch steps, your eyes darting to the door. It was kicked halfway open, red footprints guiding you inside like a gruesome map leading to a nightmare. You swallowed thickly, your skin crawling and your fingers numb as you crossed the threshold.
Two bodies lay sprawled near the hearth, unmoving, their blood dark against your floorboards. Unmistakably Skinners.
A few feet away, in the shadow of your kitchen, slumped against the worn table was a man youâd never seen before. Very much alive, even as he pressed a blood-soaked hand to his side.
He lifted his head when he heard you, eyes blue and icy as the water of the Basin, sharp and assessing beneath the brim of his hat.
For a moment, you simply stared. Your mind scrambled uselessly between run and hit him with something, while your heart thundered painfully against your ribs.
You did neither.
âUhââ You cleared your throat, the sound far too loud in the quiet, your own voice too small, too polite to belong in a room that reeked of gunpowder and death. âYou ainât a Skinner.â
A sound escaped himâhalf-snort, half-wheezeâand you couldnât decide if it was incredulity or sheer indignation. If he rolled his eyes, it was subtle, but unmistakable.
âMost folk would be screaminâ,â he said, his voice a hoarse rumble edged with tired irritation, despite the alarming amount of blood soaking through his shirt. âAnd here I was, havinâ a dull day, until you walked in to enlighten me with the obvious.â
He was right. Up close, it was clear he was no butcher. No hideous pelt fashion. No human bone trinkets. No filth stitched together in mockery of clothing. He wore leather and denim, dust and road stitched into every seam.
And somehow, against all reason and despite the two bodies cooling on your floor, the realization made your knees go weak with relief.
âDear Godâthank you, good sir,â you gasped, a frantic, shaky smile tugging at your lips as you stepped closer. âYou saved my home! I was mostly worried they'd burnt the place down⊠or hurt my horse.â Your gaze dropped to the satchel at his side, hanging open where heâd likely been fumbling for a bandage, blood dripping down the leather. âAnd those are my peaches in that bag, mister.â
He let out a huff that might have been a laugh if he wasnât so pale. âIâve killed the two men in your kitchen, lady,â he said flatly, âand gave the rest a reason to stay clear. I reckon I earned a peach.â
You nodded quickly. Of course. Of course. A juicy peach was the least you could offer this gentleman, who seemed to be deteriorating with every breath he took. His face was the color of old parchment, and a fine sheen of sweat made his skin glint ghostlike in the firelight.
You leaned closer, and then you saw itâthe deep track of a blade carved through his hand from back to palm, and two arrows buried deep in the meat of his thigh, the shafts shivering slightly with every pained breath he took. Dark, heavy drops of crimson hit the floorboards like a ticking clock.
âNo, no, no, noâŠâ you whispered, more to yourself than to him, your head spinning. âI hate blood.â
The man looked down at his leg, then back up at you, his expression flat and unimpressed.
âWell, Iâm real sorry, maâam,â he grumbled. His free hand trembled, but still managed a mocking little wave. âIâll stop bleedinâ now.â
You spun around, eyes darting frantically in search of anything useful. But all you saw was your unmade bed. A jar of sugar cubes. Big Valley Canned Apricots. The two Skinners with clean bullet holes in their heads. Sloppy Mollyâs Salted Offal. The Schmitz Canned Salmon youâd picked up at Manzanita Post last weekâ
There it was. The moment of clarity you needed.
âWait here, good sir,â you said, voice certain like a promise. âIâll go find help.â
âNo,â he cut in sharply, as if youâd suggested a mercy killing. âNo doctorââ The words came too fast, breaking into a ragged cough that made him wince in pain. âNo doctor,â he repeated more quietly, voice dropping to a stubborn growl.
The audacity of such a request nearly took your breath away.
Who else would you bring if not a doctor? The undertaker? He was bleeding all over your scrubbed pine, slumped against your table with twoâpossibly poisonedâarrows in his leg and a knife wound to his ribs and hand, and somehow you were the unreasonable one for suggesting help.
âYou a wanted man, mister?â You asked, already snatching up your satchel and coat, shoving a clean rag into his hand. âJust stay put. I wonât be long.â
You were halfway down the porch steps when another thought struck youâsharp, unwelcome, and oddly specific.
Where was the box of Hedley Baking Companyâs Assorted Biscuits youâd also bought at Manzanita last week? The ones youâd been rationing carefully, knowing Saint Denis shipments didnât always make it as far as Tall Tress. They were supposed to be right above the canned salmon.
You turned back.
Why was he here in the first place?
âSir,â you retraced your steps into the cabin, âyou were lootinâ my home,â you announced. It wasnât an accusationâmore like commenting on the weather.
âI wasnât lootinâ âyourâ home,â he said, knuckles turning white as he pressed the rag to his side. âI didnât know you lived here.â
âWell, you were still robbinâ whoever you thought lived here.â
âI wasnât. I was inspectinâ.â His breath was shallow now, chest hitching with a wet, ragged sound.
âInspectinâ for what?â You challenged, folding your arms.
âThe idiot.â
âWhat idiot?â
âThe one,â he wheezed, his blue eyes narrowing, âwho decided to live in a cabin in the middle of Skinner territory.â
You scoffed, feeling a flush of offense crawl up your neck. You knew, however, that his reasoning carried a stinging amount of truth.
You took a steadying breath, doing your best to ignore the way the cabin smelled like a butcherâs shop.
âJust donât bleed to death while Iâm gone,â you said firmly. âYouâve got a lot of explaininâ to do, mister.â
You turned to leaveâthen stopped halfway through the doorway.
âOne more thingââ
âWhat now?â he muttered. The edge in his voice was sharp with pain, and you understood the urgency, but if those devils came back and found him wounded and alone, theyâd torture this poor man to shreds.
âI donât know how wise it is for you to move in that condition, or if you even can, mister,â you said, already crossing the room, âbut those bastards might be thinkinâ of cominâ back as we speak.â With a soft grunt, you hauled the heavy, hand-woven rug aside, revealing the wooden latch set into the floorboards. âSo please, hide here.â
He stared at the dark opening in the floor, then slowly lifted his gaze to yours.
âJesus,â he muttered, studying your face as if trying to decide whether heâd misjudged you entirely. "Is that where you hide the bodies?"
âWhat bodies, mister?â
âIâm just sayinâ,â he half-grunted, each word sounding like it cost him precious breath, though that didnât stop the snark. âA lady livinâ all by herself in the middle of the most cursed woods in the country. I ainât accusinâ you of nothinâ, but it is suspicious.â
You rolled your eyes, leaving the latch open in case he decided he needed it, and grabbed your coat.
âJust hide if you can, please,â you said shortly, heading for the door for good this time.
-
The gentle firelight spilled across the cabin walls in dusty orange slants, catching in the steam rising from a basin of warm water on your bedside table. It was that fragile hour before dawn, a moment of absolute stillness, when the birds hadnât yet stirred, and the only sound was the soft, rhythmic lap of the lake against the pier outside. It was a hauntingly peaceful contrast to the red chaos of the day before.
Your lower back and neck throbbed from hours of scrubbing, and your hands felt like cracked rubber from the harsh lye and all the water it had taken to scour the blood and brain matter from your porous floorboards. You hadnât been able to stomach a single bite of dinner after that. And when youâd finally been ready to collapse for the night, the realization had hit you like a splash of icy water: youâd be spending the night in the rocking chair.
Your bed was already claimed.
You wrung out a clean cloth, water dripping back into the basin with a soft plop. Your eyes drifted to the man currently resting against your lacy pillows.
He was still out cold, his breathing deep and slightly raspy, but steadier than it had been when youâd hauled the doctor through the front door. Youâd found the physician exactly where youâd hopedâperched on the porch of the general store at Manzanita Post, spectacles slipping down his nose as he turned a page of the Blackwater Ledger.
Heâd been a godsend, though heâd grumbled incessantly about being dragged into Skinner territory and the bodies cooling on your kitchen floor.
Youâd found the stranger sprawled in a heap of denim and leather right next to the cellar door heâd been too stubborn to enter. For a terrifying moment, youâd thought he was a third corpse. But no, he wasnât cold like the Skinners lying beside him. Instead, his skin had been burning.
Between the doctorâs grunts and your own aching muscles, youâd managed to get the arrows out and the man into your bed.
Now, as you pulled the quilt down to reach the bandage on his side, you couldnât help but stare.
Youâd handled the laundry of half the men in your hometown since you were old enough to workâthe mayorâs soft, expensive shirts; the store clerkâs and his sonsâ spindly long johns; the butcherâs oversized, blood-stiffened apronsâbut youâd never seen a man built like this.
Even in repose, he looked powerful. Dangerous.
His shoulders were broad and unyielding, sinking into your mattress as if forged from iron. His chest was a rugged, hairy map of old scars and hard-earned muscleâa landscape of a life lived violently. But the mark on his left shoulder was different: a gnarled, puckered mess of twisted tissue that broke the rhythm of his skin. It was shiny and distorted, a scorched patch of history that looked like it had been sealed by fire and grit rather than a doctorâs hand. There was a weathered strength to him that made your small cabin feel suddenly, startlingly cramped.
You carefully began to dab dried blood away from the edges of his bandage, shuddering at the sight of the red staining the white. And yet, your fingers couldnât help but linger just a second too long against the warm, solid skin of his ribs.
âYouâre a lot of work for a man who tried to loot my home, mister,â you whispered, the words barely more than breath.
The doctor had left you with two bottles of tonic and a stern warning:
âYour husbandâs got a constitution like an ox, but heâs lost a lot of blood. Keep him warm, keep him clean.â
A tiny, involuntary giggle bubbled in your throat at the sight of your rough âhusbandâ tucked into dainty floral bedsheets. You still couldnât believe the lie had worked, but instinct told you that a man who refused a doctor was a man with ugly secrets. You didnât want to know who he was running from; you just knew that âhusbandâ was an easier explanation than âarmed looter who saved my life.â
You moved the cloth over the curve of his bruised bicep. It felt like tempered steel beneath your palm. Youâd never touched muscle like this before. What kind of life carved a body like his? Besides looting homesteads, that is. You doubted any ordinary life could produce a build like that.
You studied his sleeping face, searching for an answer in the sharp jaw, and the golden stubble catching firelight. Without his hat, he looked less like a threat and more like a man. A very tired, very wounded man who currently had your favorite quilt pulled to his waist and a battered satchel, still holding your peaches, sitting brazenly on your vanity.
You dipped the cloth back into the water, your mind wandering through a forest of unanswered questions. You didnât even know his name.
Pulling the quilt down further, you moved to the stitched mess on his thigh. The doctor had been forced to cut away much of his denim and drawers to let the wounds breathe, leaving thick, corded muscle exposed to the cool morning air.
As you moved the rag over the skin, something pressed against your hand from his remaining pocket. Driven by a mix of curiosity and the need to clear any debris, you reached in, pulling out a crumpled box of Millicentâs Premium Cigarettes and a sturdy folding pocketknife.
âYou loot many strange men, maâam, or just me?â
The low, gravelly rumble vibrated through the mattress, making you jolt so violently you nearly fell off your chair.
âJesus!â you gasped, the rag dropping to your lap as you clutched your heaving chest. âDonât do that again, mister. I ainât used to hearinâ other voices âround the house.â
He didnât move muchâcouldnâtâbut his eyes tracked you with a sharp, heavy intensity. âYou live out here alone?â
âWellâyes. Mostly,â you answered, your heart still hammering too hard for you to think clearly. âI mean⊠except when I donât.â
There was a long, skeptical silence.
ââŠThat ainât exactly reassurinâ,â he said, shifting his head slightly, the rough gold of his stubble scraping against your lacy pillowcase.
Seeing him like thatâawake and observant, gears turning inside his head in God knows which directionâit suddenly hit you: you didnât know him at all. He was helpless now, sure, but what about tomorrow? Or next week? When he was all healed and towering over you? He was so broad, so dangerously strong. Heâd stood against at least five Skinners all by himself and came out alive. What could you do against a man like him? What if he decided he liked your cabin for his permanent home? What if he decided he didnât want a witness to his âinspectingâ?
âI mean, except when my husbandâs here, of course,â you added quickly, the lie slipping off your tongue with alarming ease for the second time in twenty four hours.
âYour husband?â he asked, sounding surprised though not entirely incredulous.
âYes. Why?â You busied yourself with the cloth again, hands trembling.
âWhat kind of worthless piece of shit leaves his lady alone to fend for herself in a cabin and in the middle of Tall Trees, of all places?â he grunted, his breath catching as your gentle touch met the wound on his thigh. âIf it was meââ
âHeâŠheâs travelinâ,â You blurted, staring at the tender wound, your stomach churning at the sight and your mind scrambling for an explanation at the same time. âFor work,â you cleared your throat, âhe travels a lot.â
When there was only silence for an answer, you glanced up to meet his gaze.
And there it was. His blue eyes were clouded with fever, but there was still a spark of that dry, defiant wit behind them.
âHe works forâŠâ you averted his inquisitive gaze, desperate for a detail. Your eyes darted to the vanity, landing right on his satchel where your biscuits still remained taken. âThe Hedley Baking Company.â
He cocked one sandy eyebrow.
âYou know⊠the biscuit factory,â you added weakly.
âSaint Denis?â he asked. You nodded fervently.
He let out a long, pained huff of air that might have been a scoff under other circumstances.
âWell, if it was me, Iâd take my lady to the city. Buy her a floor somewhere nice and make sure she was safe every time I came home from... makin' cookies. Wouldn't leave her to her luck, only to come back and find a rottin' body in this cabin. Just sayinâ.â
âAnd I'm just sayinâ,â you countered, fingers careful as you cleaned the edge of his wound, âfor a man who was stealinâ peaches and biscuits from my kitchen just yesterday, youâre awfully rude to my good husbandâconsiderinâ he ainât even here to defend himself.â
âOr you,â he murmured.
You opted for silence. He was impossible. You pretended to focus on the task at hand, but your mind couldnât help but wander to that absurd image: a version of you living in bustling Saint Denis, wearing a perfectly starched apron and pristine hair, baking cookies all day while the trolley rattled by your window. It couldnât be further from the reality of your raw, scrubbed hands and the smell of pine and smoke you woke up to every morning. You almost chuckled at the sheer ridiculousness of it.
âSorry,â he added suddenly. The word was so quiet, so unexpected, it took the breath right out of you. âDidnât plan on gettinâ stabbed yesterday.â
âThatâs all right.â You offered him a small, genuine smile, pulling the quilt back over his broad chest to keep the morning chill at bay. âI ainât done yet, mister. Still gotta clean that nasty cut on your hand. But I figured you must be hungry. Doctor said youâll likely sleep for days, but not before you eat. Canât take your medicine on an empty stomach.â
You turned toward the kitchen counter, aware of his gaze lingering.
âAnd no, before you ask, I didnât tell him your nameâwhich I donât even knowânor did I mention you were a stranger who just happened to beâŠâ you reached for a spare bowl you kept on the top cabinet, ââŠinspectinâ my home when those Skinners arrived.â
You glanced back, mischief flickering on your lips.
âRest, assured mister. I told him you was my husband.â
Youâd expected a scowl or a grunt. Instead, you found the corners of his mouth twitching, his cheeks pulling back to return the smile. It transformed his face, smoothing out the hard edges of the bleeding man youâd met on the kitchen last afternoon.
âThank you,â he murmured. His voice was so weak and heavy with exhaustion that you knew heâd be back in the dark of sleep within minutes. You needed to get some broth into him, and fast.
âItâs Arthur,â he said, the sound of his name stopping you mid-step.
You turned around, wooden spoon in your hand. He was watching you from the pillows, his eyes half-closed.
âArthur Morgan.â
-
You woke before the sun had fully crested the treeline, the world still caught in that pale, breath-held quiet between night and morning. The Basin lay glassy and still, mist curling low over the water as you knelt at its edge, sleeves rolled tight, fingers aching as the cold bit into your skin. The water was bitter this early, but youâd never minded. You liked to work before the day truly beganâan old habit learned back home, when the hours were long and the laundry had to be finished and folded before the town ever noticed you were there.
The past four days had been uneventfulâabout as uneventful as having a wounded stranger occupying your bed could possibly be.
Heâd spent most of it sleeping, just as the doctor had warned. The first two days, heâd burned with fever, stirring only when you pressed a careful hand to his shoulder and coaxed him awake to drink broth. He hadnât complained about the soup itself, only about being âtreated like a baby,â his voice hoarse and obstinate even through the haze of pain.
The two days after that, heâd improved enough to sit up on his own. Heâd remained stubbornly grumpy, but his stomach had managed solid food at lastâstarting with the very peaches heâd looted from you, now soft and ripe and disappearing faster than youâd expected.
And now, it was the fifth day.
You twisted the heavy fabric of his shirt once more, your eyes flicking toward the cabin without meaning to. A man like him wasnât built for stillness. You could see it even in his sleep, in the tension that never quite left his frame. Five days confined to a bed would drive a man like him to the brink of madnessâof that you were certain.
You only hoped he wouldnât decide to prove you right by tearing open his half-healed stitches.
You wrung the shirt between your hands, watching the water cloud faintly pink before running clear again. It had taken four days of patient scrubbing and soaking in your carefully guarded âmagic solutionââa mix of lemon, salt, and secretsâto get the blood out completely, but youâd done it. The fabric was finally clean, saved from ruin.
You huffed a quiet breath through your nose, more satisfied than you cared to admit.
âHow could I ever have called myself a laundress if I couldnât rescue you, Mr. Shirt?â you murmured, speaking to the fabric more than to yourselfâa habit youâd picked up living alone in the woods, just to keep you from going insane in the silence.
âNow we just have to get you dried, and then I can stitch you up,â you explained to the shirt, giving it one last soak for good measure. âYouâll look even newer than when your grumpy owner first ordered you from that catalogue.â
âYou always this talkative or did the Skinners rattle your brain loose?â A voice, husky with a morning rasp, drawled behind you.
You let out a small shriek, spinning around with your heart jumping straight into your throat. No, you would never get used to hearing another voice in this clearing.
âMr. Morgan,â you said, half-greeting, half-scolding.
âMâlady,â he replied, tipping his head as if doffing a hat that wasnât there.
He stood on the porch, chest bare save for the clean bandages youâd wrapped snug around his torso the night before. He was clutching his satchelâs strap in his hand. And you didnât care how good he thought he felt or how strong he believed himself to beâit was too early for this. Too cold.
âWhy are you upright?â you demanded, crossing back toward the line.
âCause I got two legs?â
âYou had two arrowheads deep in one of those legs,â you reminded him, pinning his freshly cleaned shirt to the line with unnecessary force. âI didnât spend the last five days of my life cleaninâ and re-wrappinâ bandages just for you to tear âem open again âcause you âgot two legsâ, mister.â
He let out a long, heavy breath, shoulders dipping.
âMaâam,â he said quietly, the edge leaving his voice. âI really do appreciate what youâre doinâ. I do.â He paused, a ghost of a rueful smile playing on his lips. âBut if I gotta stare at that ceiling one more day, I swear Iâm liable to lose what little sense I got left.â
You shook your head, opting for silence instead of an argument, and turned back toward the water. There were still bloody rags to wash. If he was determined to ignore common sense, you werenât going to exhaust yourself trying to provide it for him.
The Basin was beginning to wake with you. The sun crept higher, pale gold spilling through the ancient trees and catching on the waterâs surface, breaking it into a thousand scattered coins of light. You knelt at the edge, skirts gathered, and dipped the rags into the cold. The soap bloomed white between your fingers, sharp and clean against the iron tang that still lingered in the fabric.
The water numbed your hands first, then coaxed them awake, just as it always did. You worked on instinct, movements smooth and practiced, muscle memory guiding you where thought wasnât needed. Bubbles rose where small fish darted near the shore, quick silver flashes disappearing the moment your shadow shifted. Somewhere deeper in the trees, a bird began to singâthen anotherâthe woods slowly filling with melody.
Behind you, the porch boards creaked softly.
âYou⊠do this for a livinâ?â he asked after a moment. His tone careful, as if testing the waters of your temper.
âUsed to,â you replied, wringing out a rag and watching the red bleed into nothing. âBack in Strawberry.â
âStrawberry?â he echoed.
You nodded, not looking at him.
âBeen there, mister?â
âA few times,â he said. âPretty little town.â
âThat it is.â You smiled despite yourself, the memory bubbling up easy and warm inside your chest, a stark contrast to the icy lake water. You could almost hear the river running straight through the heart of town, the steady melody of the waterfall singing by your window day and night. You remembered the way mist clung to the flower baskets on the bridges in the early mornings, the petals heavy with pearls of dew.
He was quiet for a moment.
âYou donât miss it? Up there?â
âI do,â you admitted. âMost beautiful town in the whole country.â You paused, scrubbing gently, thoughtfully. âMiss ridinâ out to Big Valley. Campinâ there. Pickinâ lavender so the clothesâd smell nice after.â A small smile curved your lips. âHeard thereâs a ranch up there now.â
You hadnât been back in years. Too many to count.
âLooks like there ainât a stain stubborn enough for you,â he said, his voice closer now. And you could hear the rustle of the floral blanket heâd wrapped around his waist.
You shrugged, dunking the cloth once more into the water. âSome things just stick with you, Mr. Morgan.â
The words settled between you, soft as the morning mist.
From the corner of your eye, you saw him shift on the porch, head turned in your direction.
âSay, maâam,â he drawled, âhowâd a hardworking woman like yourself leave the quaint little capital of Big Valley just to end up livinâ in a graveyard?â He asked gently, not like a man judging or measuring, but like someone trying to place himself into a life that wasnât his.
A quiet chuckle slipped out of you. Some days, you wondered the same thingâwhether there was an explanation that didnât sound like good olâ lunacy.
âI was workinâ a shift at the general store back in Strawberry,â you began, wringing out a rag until only a couple lonely drops fell. âCustomer comes in to buy a newspaper. Wellâhe eyes it. Doesnât buy it. Mr. Cooper got real mad. Didnât say nothinâ, but I could tell.â
You smiled faintly at the memory. âAnyway, the man starts readinâ the headlines out loud. Then he mentions an advertisementâcheap property, right here in the Aurora. Iâd been here once as a cub. Remembered how alive it felt. Thought⊠how bad could it be?â
He listened without interrupting. The only sounds were your voice, the gentle creak of porch boards beneath his bare feet, and two does grazing along the far shore, heads lifting now and again as if listening to your story.
âNext day, I went to the bank with all my savings,â you finished, heading for the clothesline. âAnd the rest is history, Mr. Morgan.â
âSo,â he said at last, his voice a low rumble, âyou hear one strange conversation and decide to move into the woods?â
âI thought it sounded⊠affordable,â you replied, pinning a damp rag to the line beside his shirt.
âThat ainât usually a good sign, maâam.â
âWell,â you said lightly, âI havenât been eaten or tortured yet.â
âYet,â he echoed, the word heavy with the weight of experience.
âYouâll laugh at me,â you added, hanging another rag, âbut I thought bears would be my biggest problem.â
He let out a low chuckle that vibrated in the morning air. âAnd? Are they?â
âSometimes.â You sighed, finally turning to face him, clutching a clean, wet rag to your chest. âI figured folks just⊠exaggerated.â
âThey usually do,â he said, glancing around the treeline. âJust not out here.â He leaned a shoulder against the porch post, the blanket around his waist shifting. âThat husband of yours oughta have done more research. Ask âround or somethinâ. Man canât just drop his wife in a den of wolves and go back to sellinâ cookies.â
You winced inwardly. Right. You had completely forgotten about your âhusbandâ from Saint Denis. Now you had no way of fitting a biscuit-maker into this story of a woman buying land on a whim. You would have to come up with something later, because your imaginary husband was starting to tangle with your reality like unbrushed hair, and you had the distinct feeling that Mr. Morgan was far more observant than youâd given him credit for.
âAre you goinâ somewhere, Mr. Morgan?â you asked, eyeing the satchel clutched in his hand, desperate to divert attention from the crumbling logic of your âmarriage.â
âLike this? No, maâam,â he said with a huff of amusement. âJust waitinâ on a friend.â
A friend? How did heâ
Before you could ask, he lifted two fingers to his mouth and whistledâsharp, clear, and commanding. It echoed off the surface of the Basin and died into the trees.
A heartbeat later, you heard it. The heavy, rhythmic thud of hooves drumming against the damp earth. The frantic rustle of brush on the opposite shore.
Your breath caught in your throat when you saw it.
The largest stallion youâd ever seen burst from the treeline on the far side of the water, raven-black and gleaming, mane streaming like silk as he rounded the waterâs edge to reach the porch. His reflection rippled alongside him, dark and imposing against the gold-lit surface.
âCâmere,â he murmured as the horse slowed to a snorting halt. âYou alright there, boy?â His voice droppedâa softer, gentle registerâas he reached up to ruffle the animalâs thick mane. âIâm sorry, boy.â
âThat your friend, mister?â you asked, stepping closer, helplessly drawn in by the sheer, raw power of the beast.
He nodded, reaching into his satchel. âSent him off when âem damn Skinners showed up,â he explained, offering the horse a handful of oats. âDidnât want no arrow findinâ him.â
You watched the animal as he ate happily from his ownerâs palm. Youâd seen far too many horses on the roads near Tall Trees with Skinner arrows buried in their flanks, still hitched to carriages driven by corpses. To see this one whole, healthy, and loved felt like a small miracle.
âAnd he waited for you all this time?â
âFigured heâd manage,â he said, his eyes never leaving the horse. âPlenty to eat out here. Heâs smart.â He gave the stallion a firm pat with his wounded hand. âAinât you, boy?â
The animal snorted, a deep, vibrating sound of contentment, clearly pleased to be back at his riderâs side.
âHe a Shire, mister?â you asked, your hand already reaching out. He nodded as the horse leaned his velvet-soft nose into your palm.
âHeâs massive,â you continued, your voice breathless. âAnd beautiful. You shouldâve told me sooner. I wouldâve gone lookinâ for him. Couldâve stayed in the lean-to. My horse couldâve used the company, and this handsome boy wouldnât have been out in the cold all alone.â
He smirked faintly, the expression reaching his eyes and making the "stranger" look remarkably human. âHear that, boy? Lady hereâs sweet on you already. Youâre quite the charmer, ainât you?â
You laughed softly, the sound warm and ticklish like the horseâs nose under your palm.
And then he tipped his head back, the early sunlight catching his faceâfive days worth of stubble glowing like gold, eyes shifting from cold blue to a warm, honeyed hazel under the morning sky. You realized, distantly, that this was the first time youâd seen him properly in the full honesty of daylight.
The next thought hit you before you could stop it.
This âstrangerâ in your cabinâthis wounded, stubborn man with blood on his hands and your biscuits in his satchelâwas actually quite handsome when he wasnât covered in Skinner gore.
â
next chapter



