Dark Paradise VI - The Final Chapter
Pairing: Low Honor Arthur Morgan x Female Reader
Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five - I suggest reading all parts before reading this final chapter.
Summary: As your relationship with Arthur grows, you find it harder and harder to trust him again. Especially when he gives you a million reasons not to.
!! Author's note at end + special announcement !!
Tags: Smut, pnv, angst, porn with plot, toxic relationship, low honor
(Trying to tag everyone this time, but some of you might have missed Part Five so check that out first!) @photo1030 @zae-heeyyy @themysticalcherrydragon @ibelyss @anklett3
Two years ago - Beecher's Hope
By the time the moon rose over the ranch, the celebration had all but ended.
The fire crackled low, casting soft, dancing shadows over the cattle ranch. A soft, warm breeze rolled in, tugging gently at loose strands of hair, carrying the faint tone of a gramaphone playing soft music across the grounds.
John Marston stood in the yard, his hands on Abigail's hips as they swayed beneath the stars. Just the two of them, moving in rhythm like the world had finally stopped spinning for once. Her head resting on his chest, eyes closed, and his chin lowered against her temple, like it was meant to be there.
On the other side of yard, where the fire glows brighter. Arthur Morgan sits on a log, just inches from the warm flames. Elbows on his knees, thumbs playing with each other, watching the newly married couple's intiment moment.
Jack had gone to bed hours ago. Uncle lays sprawled out on the porch like some forgotten relic; whiskey in one hand, banjo limp in the other. Charles Smith had wandered off into the dark. And Sadie - Sadie Adler was across the fire from the cowboy, slowly carving a stick with a knife Arthur hoped she'd never use on him.
It wasn’t that Arthur wasn’t happy for John.
But somewhere deep inside - where he kept things locked up tight, where no one could see - he couldn’t help but to ache. That quiet, gnawing ache that came from wanting something he’d convinced himself he didn’t deserve.
A young child with his eyes - maybe a few that ran around barfoot in the yard. A woman that he could protect, one he could look at with absolute certanity that she loved him.
But all he had was the fire. The ache. And the sound of Sadie Adler's knife carving into a stick.
His eyes focused on Abigail as she looked up at John, smiling at something he whispered. And then tucked her head back into his chest like she belonged nowhere else.
Arthur clenched his jaw. Looked down. Tried to make him feel not sorry for himself - but as he aged he wasn't as good at hiding his feelings as he once was.
She was never one to miss a thing. Glancing up at Arthur, she rudely snorts, breaking him from his spell.
Arthur blinks, looking up, caught off guard at her sudden sound. “What?”
Sadie smirks, raising a humorous brow at him. “You look like you’re five seconds from stranglin’ John in his sleep.”
Arthur lets out a dry, humorless laugh. “No I ain’t.”
She tilted her head at him, flicking her knife once more. “Look like he just walked off with the girl you were fixin’ to marry.”
Arthur shook his head, “Ain’t like that.”
“Then what is it?” she asks, sitting up straighter. Her tone shifting, no longer teasing. Quiet and curious.
Arthur’s gaze drifts back to the couple - the soft sway, the easy love between them. He watches them in silence before finally speaking.
“You ever think about gettin’ married again?”
Sadie froze at the question. Knife going still as she looks back up at him from across the fire. Then, with a bitter laugh, she leans back and looks up at the stars.
“Not in a million years.”
Arthur nods slowly, trying to understand what she meant. Then turns his eyes back to the fire.
Sadie looks at him. Then drops the half sharpened stick to the ground with a sigh, moving a few spaces closer, sitting down on the log next to him. She follows his gaze, watching the couple from afar.
“'Cause Jake... Jake was the only man to ever make my heart beat like it meant somethin’,” she says softly, eyes fixed on the happy couple. “And now that I know what it feels like....I don't want it if it ain't him."
Her gaze flickers to Arthur - wide eyed, lips pursed. As if she’d just laid her whole heart bare, which was something the old widow rarely did.
Arthur nods, not fully understanding what she meant - but trying. And in that brief, unguarded moment, he opens his mouth too.
“I wanna know how it feels,” he murmurs. “To have a wife. A woman that loves me.”
Sadie’s lips press tighter, then relaxes into something softer. She gives a slow shake of her head as she tries to comfort him the best way she knows how.
“Oh, honey,” she drawls, tone shifting lighter. “You ain't exactly had the best run with women.”
Arthur lets out a quiet snort, a crooked smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he scratches the back of his neck as he turns to her. “Don’t gotta tell me twice.”
Sadie points to him fully now, elbow on her knee, knife pointed at him as if she was using it to talk, half a smirk resting on her face. “Y’know… the only woman I think I ever saw you truly happy with was that one girl - what was her name? The one who left at Shady Belle.”
Arthur closes his eyes and exhales hard, jaw flexing.
“Serves her right for leavin’ you,” Sadie continues, voice softening now, “but for a minute there, I thought you were gonna buy a ring.”
Arthur’s eyes lift to meet hers, sourness twisting in his gut at the mention of you.
“I did,” he says roughly. “Day she left, I bought it. Gave it to John some odd years ago… told him to give it to Abigail. That’s the damn ring she’s got on her finger now.”
Sadie’s expression falls. She shakes her head slowly, the weight of his words settling between them.
“Shit, Arthur. I didn’t know…”
She hesitates for a moment, then asks gently, “You ever think about what it could have been?"
Arthur swallows thickly. The firelight dancing in his eyes, but he doesn't feel warm.
His voice lowers, breaking just a little.
“So when y’all gettin’ hitched?” Abigail asks bluntly, arms elbow deep in a lump of bread dough.
You nearly choke on your water, turning to her like she’d just accused you of murder. “Abigail!” you snap, heat rising in your cheeks, eyes widening in shock. Then softer, more flustered, you voice; “It… it ain’t like that.”
She snorts, not even glancing up, clearly unconvinced. “Sureee. That why you moved in with him? Started spendin’ more alone time together?” Her tone then shifts to something sharp and mischievous. “Why every time John and I get within a few yards of that cabin, it sounds like someone's stranglin’ a damn mountain lion?”
You nearly spit out your drink. You half consider walking right out the door. But the way she cocks her eyebrow at you - you know she’s not gonna let this one go. Not without some kind of confession.
You try not to smile. Try to play it off. But the heat crawling up your neck gives you away.
Not completely, at least.
Your relationship with Arthur these past few weeks - it was a lot of things.
Not as far as you knew anyway.
Sure, Arthur found his way into your bed nearly every night - mouth between your thighs like a man possessed, like he was trying to memorize you with his tongue. He’d eat you out with a kind of reverence that made your chest ache, made your toes curl, made your heart feel things you never knew you could feel again.
But every time your fingers so much as brushed that goddamn belt buckle of his - he’d pull back. Always with that same wicked, little grin, and that low, gravelly voice brushing against your ear: “Not 'til you’re my wife.”
If you weren't naked and splayed out in front of him, desperate for his touch - he'd never bring it up. Never got down on one knee. Never asked to court you proper. Never stayed the whole night with you - never held you until morning. He could whisper vows between your thighs, but never once asked how you felt about any of it. Never asked if you wanted him that way - never asked you to be his.
You were always left there, half naked and half claimed. Touched but untouched. Satisfied but confused.
It made you feel foolish.
And you hated that you so desperately wanted more from him.
Your throat tightens as you glance back at Abigail. She’s watching you still, eyebrow arched like she’s waiting for the truth to fall out of your mouth.
“Told you,” you mutter, eyes wide and defensive. “It… it ain’t like that with him.”
She snorts again, clearly unimpressed, and finally pulls her hands from the dough. She wipes her hands on her apron with a sigh before laying a damp towel over the dough to let it rise.
“Fine,” she says. “Don’t tell me. But I know damn well there ain’t no mountain lions ‘round here.”
That same evening, you cross the pasture with a fresh loaf of sourdough pressed to your chest, Arthur heavy on your mind.
The sky is low and gray, thick with a brewing storm. Wind whips your skirt, but you barely feel it. All you can think about is Abigail’s words and the question you were now asking yourself.
What even were you and Arthur?
At first, it hadn’t mattered.
You were grateful just to be touched again - kissed again - wanted. The way he touched you made you feel alive in ways you never knew you could feel again.
But the longer it went on, the more it gnawed at you.
The way he never stayed the night.
The way he kept you in this limbo - somewhere between a lover and friend.
You hated how unclear it all was. Hated the way it made you feel. Like some poor mouse, batted around by a bored cat.
Dangling the word, "wife," in front of you like it was all some cruel joke.
And yet… you knew he had changed.
There wasn’t a doubt in your mind that ten years apart had made him softer. You saw it in the way he touched you, the way the looked at you sometimes - like you were something holy, even if he'd never say it out loud.
But a look and a dangling statement wasn't enough.
You wanted something solid.
And you hated to admit it, if this were ten years ago, you wouldn’t have dared even think it.
You wanted to be his wife.
You wanted to sleep beside him. Wanted to bare his child, take his last name, wear his damn ring. You wanted a life with him. A true one. One like you had with Wyatt.
But no matter how many times he whispered, “Not 'til you’re my wife,” it felt like he'd never ask.
Never asked you what you wanted, what you thought of him. And it had started to burn.
By the time you reached the cabin, your arms ached, and your heart did too. You pushed open the door and set the loaf on the kitchen table with a sigh.
Arthur and John had been gone two days now, off on a short cattle drive to a stockyard paying a decent price. He was supposed to be home by midday tomorrow, but the cabin had started to feel lonely without him. Even when you were so full of conflict.
Later that night, after reading a few chapters of a book you couldn't seem to focus on. You lay restless on your bed. Mind racing too fast for you to fall to a night's slumber.
Later than what you would have preferred, you get up and drag the old, battered, washtub that typically sat in the corner of the living room in to the glow of the warm hearth - hoping that a warm bath by a low fire would calm your nerves.
As the first raindrops tapped against the windows, you told yourself the timing was perfect. It takes nearly forty minutes to heat enough water. Not rushing as your mind wondered. The rhythm of the chore helped. Bucket. Water. Fire. Tub. It gave your hands something to do while your thoughts twisted themselves in knots.
By the time the tub was steaming, your arms were sore and your skin flushed from the fire’s heat. You strip slowly, eyes lingering on the empty room, then step into the bath, sinking beneath the water with a long exhale.
The pale light glowed across your bare skin, the raging storm pitter pattering against the windows, and for a few minutes, you let yourself feel it.
The crushing fear that maybe - just maybe - he was playing some cruel joke on you, getting you back for leaving him all those years ago.
The fire crackled gently, and the sound of rain tapping against the roof pulled you toward sleep. Steam curling up around your face, warm, blurring your vision. Your eyes start to give in to the comfort around you, slowly drifting off into calmness.
A gust of cold air rushes in, followed by the thud of boots and the unmistakable shape of a man framed in the doorway. Big. Broad. Like he owned the place.
The fire flared from the wind, casting his silhouette in gold hues before softening again with the shut of the door.
You barely open your eyes to greet him, too warm, too relaxed to move. The bath had melted most of your tension - but not all of it. Because now he stands there, soaking wet, eyes locked on you like he hadn't seen you in years.
Laid out in front of the fire, nude, bathed in the soft light from a small flame in the hearth. Water lapping over the edges of the tub, steam rising in curls around your shoulders. Your skin glowing in the light from the fire. Yet, you didn’t say a word.
Arthur shivered slightly as he steps inside, droplets dripping from the brim of his hat. He peals it off slowly and sets it down on the kitchen table, not taking his eyes off you for a second, just grinning like he'd won a game of poker.
You finally break the silence, your voice low, foggy with heat and sleep. You half yawn, “Thought you weren’t comin’ back ‘til tomorrow.”
Arthur smirks, already lazily kicking off his boots one by one, spurs jingling as he kicks them carelessly to the side. “John and I rode through the night. Got to the stockyard early this mornin’.”
He shrugs off his soaked jacket, draping it over a kitchen chair to dry as he courses his fingers through his damp hair.
“Cattle sold fairly quick, cided' just to ride all day home.” He pauses, his eyes drifting lower, fingers pealing away his suspenders; letting them drop at his hips as he smiles with a toothy grin. “Guessed we just missed our women too damn much.”
Your heart skips at the way he speaks to you, but also the way his fingers move to his shirt buttons so delicately, like he's picking ripe cherries off a tree. He doesn't look away as he takes his shirt off, rain slicked fabric clinging to his shoulders, light flickering off his bare, muscular chest as he drops his shirt the ground.
It all makes you feel some way.
His hand reaches for his gun belt, letting it drop with a subtle thud.
Your breath catches, eyes finally loosing the blurriness of sleep.
Arthur had seen you naked more times than you could count these past few weeks. He’d spent hours between your thighs, doing awful things that only a husband should be doing to his wife. But he’d never let you see him.
He’d always kept some piece of himself hidden.
But tonight, something was different. Maybe it was the rain. The fire. The ache of distance. The warm bath that looked awfully inviting with the woman he'd never stopped loving sitting it in.
Yet tonight, above everything else; he was done with modesty.
You follow his happy trail down to where his cock bobbed half hard, half soft. Wild and unkempt like the rest of him. His pubic hair sandy brown and coarse, his manhood thick and heavy, swinging slightly with each step he took toward you. Not at all any different from all those years ago, and just the thought had you already sore between your thighs.
And all those conflicted thoughts from earlier, the ones where you were second guessing his intentions seemed to have evaporated much like steam raising from the bath at that very moment.
All you could feel now was heat.
Arthur slowly approaches the tub, completely nude. He leans down, reaching out, letting his thumb brush over the crown of your head. Soft and warm, just like the bath. Just like he was blessing you.
“S’beautiful,” he murmurs, voice low and as rough as gravel.
You scoot forward instinctively, making room in the tub, water sloshing gently at the sides. He steps in one leg at a time: careful, like he was extra cautious making sure no water escaped the basin. He sinks in slowly behind you until his thighs surround your hips, his chest brushing against your back.
“Lean into me, girl,” he commands, voice thick in your ear.
You obey, settling yourself into the heat of him, your back pressed to his chest. His arms resting on either side of the tub, caging you in as you let the back of your head fall into his chest.
You feel his length harden against you backside, but he makes no moves. Just his breath in your ear, your bodies almost as close as they could be.
Just let him hold you, let him warm up against your body as the warm heat from the bath holds you two together like rope.
This wasn’t about lust anymore.
This was closeness. Comfort. The kind of quiet only people who ached for each other could share.
And as the fire quietely crackled as he held you close, you couldn't help to notice that you were closer to him than he'd let you in months.
Because now you were both bare.
When he finally makes a move, he drags his course thumb down your shoulder, goose pimples rising beneath his gentle touch.
"I been missin’ you, girl,” he admits as he trails that same thumb back upward, practicing the motion again and again. “Couldn’t stop thinkin’ ’bout you while I was gone.”
His words settle something in you, just for a moment. You smile to yourself and respond sweet and soft, “you only been gone two days.”
He leans in, his lips brushing your ear. “Two days since I’ve touched you.”
Your body shivers instantly.
You feel him smirk as his hand slips from your arm and trails to your breast. His thumb and forefinger gliding slowly over your nipple before cupping your breast fully. His other hand gathers your hair, pulling it over one shoulder as he presses his lips to the back of your neck. He slowly trails kisses down your spine, leaving swollen, purpled marks down you back like artwork.
You smile at it all, taking no time to lean further into him, his hard length nudging at your backside like it was begging to enter you. His left hand keeps to your breast, but his right hand slowly trails down the waterline to cup your cunt like it belonged to him.
His lips graze your ear again, voice thick and low. “Been dreamin’ ‘bout just touchin’ you.”
You gulp, body reacting before your mind can catch up. Your legs parting wider as his fingers find your seam.
“Gonna make you feel real good, girl,” he nearly growls in your ear.
Your breath stutters. His pointer finger finding your clit, circling it slow and meaningful. Your body melts into him - his wet chest against your back, his warm hands working you over: one still cradling your breast, the other teasing your most sensitive spot. His breath hot on your ear, lips brushing over your jaw like a secret.
The fire crackles quietly beside the tub as you let yourself fall deeper into him. Every touch of his is meaningful, like he wants you to know he cares, like he's practiced. Your legs gently shake, as he picks up the pace, fingers moving just right. His left thumb and forefinger lightly graze over your nipple as his other hands drawls circles over your sensitive nub.
You moan quietely, head falling deeper into his chest as you can feel heat start to burn deeper into your gut. Water starting to slosh more violently at the sides of the tub as his fingers work quicker - harder.
“Don’t gotta be quiet,” he demands, keeping rhythm.
"Arthur," you nearly yell as his fingers push closer to your release.
You can feel him smirk against your ear, "Tell me you missed me," he mutters. "Tell me I'm all you think about when I'm gone."
His voice alone, talking all those dirty words is enough to push you over the edge. Your legs spread even further apart than they once were, your back fully leaned into him, your chin just above the waters edge - only his chest keeping you from falling under.
It felt amazing for a few moments.
But right after the heat clears, your mind starts to race again. Because as intiment as you were right now you knew it wouldn't last.
Because no matter how close you had him right at this moment - he wouldn't be in your bed tonight.
He wouldn't be inside you.
No matter how badly you wanted him.
So as your breath slows, you flip yourself in the tub, straddling him. His hard member pokes at your inner thigh as you press your forhead to his, water sluicing off your upper body like a stream.
This takes Arthur by surprise, his hands reaching for the sides of the washtub, knuckles turning nearly white from his grip. His bottom lip between his teeth as if he was holding on for dear life.
"I want you” you beg, your voice nearly cracking as you thrust your hips at him. His hard cock gently gliding over your seam...so close, with one practiced move of your hips you could have him inside you
But just as you suspect, he swallows hard.
“Girl…” he says low, his voice thick. His hands gripping your hips tight as he pushes you off him, sliding you to the other side of the tub and onto your knees.
He almost looks at you with sympathy - a faint smile tugging at his lips like an unspoken apology as he rises from the washtub. Firelight dancing across the broad ripples of his chest, water sluicing down his skin in rivulets. One leg lifts from the tub with a heavy splash, while you remain there, breathless, kneeling in the water like you’ve just been left behind.
But as the conversation with Abigail plays slowly in your head, you finally speak up. “Then when?” you snap, anger and heartbreak caught up in your voice, a line forming between your brows.
He looks down at you, a sad little smile pulling at his mouth.
“I told you… not ‘til you’re my wif-”
“No!” you interrupt, voice sharper than you meant it to be as he freezes.
He raises a brow, other leg halfway pulled out of the water.
“When you gonna ask me?” you demand, lip quivering, face flushed. "When you gonna ask me to be your wife?" Your heart is racing. Head spinning. A million feelings all fighting for space in this moment.
But Arthur pauses - caught off guard as he stands nearly soaking wet on the wood floor. His soft smile drops to something sad, his eyes locked on your left hand. “When I ain’t have to compete with a ghost no more."
You don't understand as he stares at you for a few long moments. Sighing as he steals the towel you had left for yourself, drying off his manhood with it, and then throwing it over his shoulder. Walking back to his bedroom, leaving a trail of water behind him as he enters his bedroom without another word.
It's not until you look at your silver wedding band glistening in the firelight that you understood what he meant about competing with a ghost.
Your silver wedding band, the one you never quite took off. Still clinging to your finger like a memory.
Not because you weren’t over Wyatt.
You’d let him go the first night Arthur laid beside you - not just in body, but in spirit. When your grief finally made space for something new. Something warm and breathing.
No, you didn’t wear it out of mourning. You wore it because taking it off felt like pretending the life you had with Wyatt never happened. And you couldn’t do that - wouldn’t. That small silver band had been there through so much. Through the silence after the funeral. Through nights when you thought the pain would swallow you whole. Through every sunrise that came whether you wanted it to or not.
Over time, it stopped meaning marriage. It stopped meaning Wyatt.
It jus became part of you. Like a scar. Like a birthmark. You’d nearly forgotten it was there.
But the weight of what it once meant? That had faded.
That little silver band you wore like it still meant something. Like it was still holding space on your body, and in your heart. It ruined him more than he’d ever let on.
He wanted to replace it. God, did he want to. With something real. Something new. He had a gold band tucked away. One with a little sapphire he bought damn near the day you moved in.
But that ring. That ghost of a man you used to love. It never came off.
Every morning, Arthur watched. Whether you were pouring coffee or brushing back your hair at the kitchen table. You’d smile at him like nothing was wrong, and of course he’d smile back. But each day, resentment grew - for a man he never even knew.
He couldn’t ask you to take it off. Not like this. Not when you wore that thing like Wyatt wasn’t dead - just away. He didn’t want to beg you to move on. He didn't want to get down on one knee to ask you to marry him, having to ask you to take off one ring to put on another.
He wanted you to choose him.
Water still clung to his skin as he dropped onto his bed. He had been so close tonight. You, wrapped up in him. His chest pressed to your back. His hands on your body. His heart damn near bursting. The way you wrapped your hips around him had him almost jutting into you like he was starved for your touch.
But he wanted to prove to you so badly that he's changed.
He wanted you to take off that goddamn ring.
The next morning, your footsteps are soft against the floorboards as you leave the bedroom, hair swept into a loose, low bun. The kitchen smelling faintly of firewood and coffee, and Arthur’s already there, leaning against the table, eyes on you the second you enter.
As soon as you walk out, they fall low and heavy when they catch your left hand.
He draws in a slow, steady breath through his nose, the kind that tightens his chest more than it calms it. He wants to understand. Needs to. But all he can see is that band of silver and how it clings to you like a ghost.
And yet... how could he fault you?
For God sakes he had been no better.
Mary had strung him along for years with memories and maybes, and he had hurt you more times he could count because of that woman. Maybe all this now was his penance. His karma.
“Mornin’,” he says, voice low and rough as weathered leather.
You glance over your shoulder with a tired smile, pouring yourself a cup of black coffee, steam rising over the cup.
But there’s something behind the word. That dull smile - thin as a fracture. He sees it, clear as anything.
He doesn’t like this new tension, this sudden space between you like he hadn't gone through hell and back just to fill it. He wasn't who he was eight years ago, he wasn't stubborn, didn't thrive on conflict anymore. And more than anything he hated how you greeted him this morning, like something had shifted.
“I wanna say sorry,” Arthur quickly says, sitting forward in his chair as you slice into the fresh loaf on the table.
You pause, eyes meeting his across the worn wood table.
“Take your time takin’ that thing off,” he murmurs. “I’ll wait. I’ll wait however long you need.”
And the words - they hit something deep. Gentle and steady. Like a river.
You nod, softly without speaking.
His voice, his face, the way he meant it - soothed something in you.
But then, as the comfort of his words settled in your chest, something colder stirred deep in your gut.
You didn’t need more time.
Keeping the ring on...It wasn’t about Wyatt anymore. Hadn't been. Not since that first night you let Arthur touch you with his hands, his mouth, with the beat of his heart.
It was never about holding on.
It was just hard to know how to let go.
Because part of you already had.
Arthur dropped you off at the schoolhouse that morning with a quiet smile. The ride into town had been mostly silent, just small talk that didn't mean very much to either of you.
And you knew he wasn’t mad at you either.
But still… something had been left hanging between the two of you, like a thread pulled that neither of you knew how to tie or cut.
More than anything, you wanted him.
And the truth sat like a brick in your gut all morning.
By midday, your mind had wandered far more than it should’ve. You sat behind your desk as the children took turns at the chalkboard, copying down their penmanship drills. You were supposed to be watching for dotted I’s and crossed T’s. But instead, your leg wouldn’t stop bouncing, your jaw ached from chewing the inside of your cheek, and your eyes kept falling to your left hand.
It had been there for six, maybe seven years now. So long, it had become weightless at this point. Unnoticeable. Like it was part of your skin.
But now it felt like a stone.
Your thumb rubbed over the silver again and again, each pass making it feel more foreign. More wrong.
In the distance, thunder rolled low over the plain
It was storm season in the Great Plains, the weather lately had been unforgiving.
The kind of thunder that doesn’t crack but crawls.
Your nerves were already on edge, and every scrape of chalk crossing the board sent ripples down your spine.
The thought pressed itself in again, unrelenting.
It thunders again, closer now.
Little Elizabeth carefully dotted her i.
Your thumb curled tight under your desk, fidgeting with the ring as your knee jostled restlessly. You weren’t here. Not really. Not in this schoolhouse, not with these children, not in this day.
You were somewhere else completely.
And when the next thunder cracked, sharp and fast this time, it broke something loose.
Without thinking, you slid the ring from your finger.
You dropped it into your skirt pocket like it was nothing. Like it hadn’t lived there for over half a decade.
Clapping your hands loud enough to make the room jump.
“Children,” you say, trying to steady your voice. “That storm’s rollin’ in strong. Why don’t we wrap up early, get home before it starts rainin’ cats and dogs, huh?”
Not a single complaint from the bunch and within minutes, books were shut, satchels packed, and children were filing out of the schoolhouse without another thought.
You look down at your hand.
But it's shadow remained.
Years of sun had darkened your skin everywhere but that one thin circle, leaving behind a pale band where it used to live. Proof of where it had been. Where he had been. A ghost of something that had once meant forever.
Now it sat in your pocket. Cold and final.
You thought maybe you'd hang it on a chain around your neck. You knew some widows did that. Others moved it to their right hand, but that didn’t feel quite right either. Maybe you’d tuck it into the drawer beside your bed, the one with your wedding photo, but that seemed too much like trying to forget him.
And you never wanted to forget Wyatt.
But you didn’t want to keep Arthur waiting in the dark either.
And more than that, that you were ready to open your heart again.
It was nearly two hours before Arthur was supposed to pick you up from the schoolhouse. After cleaning up, stacking books, wiping down boards, you wandered out for a stroll toward the main drag of town. You had errands to run anyway, ones you’d meant to do months ago but never found the time for.
But as you neared the general store, you couldn’t help but notice the familiar looking Arabian tied to the hitching post outside the saloon.
You walked up to the sweet mare, pulling a couple sugar cubes from her saddlebag where you knew he kept them, offering them to her with a coy smile. She accepted them delightfully, nuzzling into your hand like she was glad to see you.
You stroked her mane gently, smiling as she pushed her muzzle into your chest, excited. “Where’s your owner, huh?” you asked with a soft laugh, patting her shoulder firmly.
And after a few more gentle strokes, you turn your body towards the saloon's window, peaking through the glass windows in hopes of finding her owner.
Stomach immediately dropping at what you saw.
Vomit rises in your throat.
Through the glass, you see Arthur, leaned deep in his barstool. His hands at his sides, a beautiful woman perched on his lap. His chin dipped low, pointed right at her chest - one that, of course, you couldn’t help but notice were several sizes bigger than yours. His hat sat crooked on her head. He whispered something in her ear, and she just laughed in return, grinding her hips on him like they should be somewhere much more private.
Half of you felt physically sick, your stomach twisting itself into impossible knots. You had trusted him again. Dreamed about him taking you as his wife, carrying his child. You believed him when he said he’d changed. Thought he'd done everything he could to make things right.
Now you felt like a fool. Played like one.
But even more than the sick feeling curling in your gut, it was rage that lit your veins aflame. You weren’t gonna let that son of a bitch sit there all high and mighty.
Before your mind could catch up, your body was already moving, busting through the saloon doors like an angry bull in a China shop. Face red hot, breath shallow, nose flared. You grab a half empty beer bottle off an abandoned table and storm towards him, unbothered by any curious onlookers.
Without hesitation and second thought, you dump the drink straight over Arthur’s head.
He didn’t notice at first. Just flinched, confused, like someone had dropped a bucket of rainwater on him. He turned slowly, posture tensing like he was about to swing on whoever had the the guts to pour something over the sizable man that he was.
But the second his eyes landed on you...
They widened. With something between fear, guilt, and shame.
He pushed the woman off his lap in a single grunt, snatched his hat from her head like she owed him something, and stood, wobbling.
“You son of a bitch,” you snap, your voice cracking as you force back the tears clawing up your throat. He doesn't say anything. Doesn't even reach for you. Just stands there with his mouth parted, like he was surpised he had gotten caught.
You didn’t wait for him to speak. You turn on your heel and bolt out the saloon, face burning, tears now spilling freely.
You didn’t know where to go. Didn’t want to see him. Didn’t want to be seen at all.
Behind you, Arthur clumsily bumps into a table, scrambling after you like man crazed. You hear him shout, "Wait!" but you don't.
But this was Arthur Morgan.
And if he wanted you to wait, you would. Because he wouldn’t give you a choice either way.
He catches up fast, grabbing your wrist hard and yanking you into an alley just beside the saloon. You yelp as he spins you to face him, his fingers still clamped around your arm.
You pull back, trying to rip yourself free - but his grip doesn't budge. Instead he stares down at you, jaw tight, nostrils flaring, eyes wide.
“I need you to know, girl,” he starts, breathless, voice full of something you couldn't quite tell. “That - that ain’t what it looked like-”
But you didn’t hear the rest.
Your hand flies across his face. A slap, full force, with every bit of strength you had left in you. His head stays firm, as if your slap had done nothing.
But still - he doesn't set you free.
Instead he looks back at you with wide eyes and a dumbfounded smile. Like he was proud you had hit him. Like he was in awe.
“You sure ain’t the same woman I fell in love with all those years ago,” he says softly, almost as if he liked it.
But you don't hesitate to spit poison. “Well, you're the exact same man!” You spit. His smile falters, your eyes burning holes through him with anger deep and low in your gut. “Won’t make love to me,” you half seethe, half cry. The pain starting to choke you. “Should've known better that you were gettin' your fix somewhere else."
That same look from years ago - standing in another alley, after another fight behind a bar.
Maybe nothing had changed.
“Why you gotta act like that?” he growls, tired.
His grip tightens just a little, voice faultering as he frowns, eyes watering. “Like my heart don’t god damn beat for you.”
You bite at your lip, head shaking back and forth as your lip quivers.
“I told you,” he says again, “It ain’t what it looked like, please,you gotta believe me darlin-”
“I don’t wanna hear it,” you hiss, tears streaming. “Just… just take me home Arthur. Take me home so I can pack. Get outta' you hair for good."
Arthur hadn’t planned on going to the saloon that day.
Hadn’t planned on arguing.
Hadn't planned on his heart breaking all over again.
That morning, after dropping you off at the schoolhouse, he’d ridden back to Beecher’s Hope. Fed the cows. Fixed a fence post or two. Repainted the chicken coop for what felt like the millionth time. And when the storm started to gently roll in, he figured there wasn’t any harm in riding into town a few hours early and getting some much needed errands ran.
He'd promised months ago he’d fix that goddamn cottage of yours. Of course he had no intention of you moving back to that cursed place.
But he’d still replace the roof.
But for the next poor soul whom the church decided to put up there.
Either way, it was a promise he had yet to keep. And today seemed like the perfect day to stop by the lumber yard and order the supplies at the very least. And when that was taken care of, he mounted his horse and headed to the flowershop just the next block over to retrieve your daily boquet.
Unfortunately for the ex outlaw, he wasn't more than a few hundred feet away from the store that a gravelly drawl screetched his name in protest.
The cowboy sighs, shifting his body in the saddle. “What do you want?”
Uncle wabbles up to him with a mischevious grin. “That how you gonna greet an old man?”
Arthur rolls his eyes before hopping down from his Arabian, landing with heavy thud and jingle of his spurs.
“Old, sureee. Man, though? ...debatable,” the outlaw mutters, pulling out a ciggarette from his satchel and lighting it from the bottom of his boot.
Uncle chuckles, patting Arthur’s shoulder as if he were proud. “Say" He drawls. " I got an idea - one that could actually make us some easy money up at the ranch.”
Arthur raises a skeptical brow, exhaling a puff of smoke as he responds cautiously. “Really now?”
The old man chuckles. “How bout' we go chat about it over a drink?"
Arthur snorts, shaking his head. Knowing that the conversation was just some scheme to get him to pay for a few drinks. "Fine," Arthur growls. "But I ain't paying for more than one for ya'."
Uncle shuffles over to Arthur, patting him on the back with a crooked, proud laugh. "That's my boy!" Uncle chuckles.
Arthur rolls his eyes, grabbing his Arbian by her reigns and tying her outside the Blackwater Saloon. Slowly following Uncle inside the bar. It was barely one o'clock, still quiet. Too early for the after work rush. But hell, he really didn't mind. He hadn't gotten a drink in a saloon for what felt like ages now - let alone with Uncle of all people. But their was something about the old drunks eagerness that had pulled Arthur under easily.
One drink had quickly turned into two as thunder slowly rumbled the building. Uncle laughing at if the noise was coming from outside or his stomach, but with another burst of laughter.
That’s when she approached.
A working girl. One Arthur had been too familiar with in his past. Long, soft black hair, fox like eyes, the type of woman that knew she could have any man she pleased. With a small moan, she leans against the bar top next to him, twirling her dark hair in her fingertips.
“Lookin’ for any fun today, Arthur?” She says, lips plump and full. Voice seductive and heavy with lust.
Before the cowboy could even acknowledge the woman, Uncle lets out a drunken cackle, slapping Arthur on the back as if he was proud.
But the outlaw, not amused, rolls his eyes at her, focusing his gaze on the last few drops of the whiskey swirling in his cup. Already regretting saying yes to the second drink.
But she doesn't need permission.
She slides right into his lap, almost too casually. Her chest heavy in his face, hands on his chest as she bites her lip.
Arthur leans back in his chair, making sure to keep his hands at his sides. Jaw set tight in anger and surprise.
“You know I been missin’ you, Mr. Morgan,” she purs, walking her fingers up his arm. “How ’bout you quit playin’ hard to get and take me upstairs where we both know we'll have a good time?”
Arthur's eyes flick to her heavy chest. Sure - she was easy on the eyes. But he'd already ad her before - nothing special.
God she could never be you.
Arthur keeps his hands at his sides, leaning toward her ear. “I got a lovely woman at home. Ain’t fixin’ to get in trouble Miss.”
She pulls back, laughing in his face, and stealing his hat right off the top of his head. Quickly settling the leather atop her own.
Her fists ball up in his shirt as she leans down further, "I ain't see no ring Arthur, and you sure had no problem the first few times."
Arthur’s jaw clenches - no longer finding the interaction humorous by any means.
But just as he was just about to stand, slide the woman off of him like he should have done minutes ago.
Warm liquid, gushing down his head.
For a few seconds he pause in surprise. Anger igniting him as he turns - ready to fight whoever dared to dump an old beer over his head.
But thats when he saw you.
Crushed and furious all at once - how could he even blame you?
His chest tightens anyway.
He panics. Shoving the girl off his lap, grabbing his hat from her head. Racing towards you like it was already too late.
Arthur tries to stay silent as you sit behind him on his mare, but it’s hard. Hard knowing that tears still streamed down your face, hard knowing that this might be his last ride with you. And worse - the way you wouldn't lean into him. Instead of your arms wrapped around his chest like always, you’ve got them braced stiff on the back of the saddle, doing everything in your power not to accidently graze against him.
He wants to tell you what really happened.
How the woman sat herself on his lap. How he told her no. How he didn't want any woman that wasn't you. But no matter how many times he replayed the situation in his head, he couldn't stop thinking about what he could’ve done differently.
He should have pushed her off his lap the second she had the audacity to sit down or should have gotten up the second she leaned against the bar. Better yet - should have denied Uncle a drink in the first place, he should have known better. Uncle had always had a gift of getting him in unnecesarry trouble.
Seen the way he whispered in her ear. Seen the way his eyes dipped to her chest just for a few moments.
But now… with you refusing to listen to him. There was nothing he could say to defend himself, nothing but the truth.
But you didn't want to listen.
His heart felt like it was breaking all over again.
The ride to Beecher’s Hope was slow, dragging under the weight of pouring rain. He wanted to ride faster, to get you both out of the cold, out of this storm. To take you back to his cozy little cabin. Light a warm fire, pull you into bed and hold you. He wanted to press his forehead against yours, feel you breath against him. Try to fix what little might still be left.
But right now - he wouldn't dare.
Not when you wouldn't even hold on to him. Not when this rain soaked ride back to Beecher's Hope felt like it could be the last.
But eventually, like everything else, time passes. And the two of you arrived with clenched jaws.
He led the mare up to the cabin, where a low fire still burned. You didn’t wait for him to help you down from the animal. Just made the short jump yourself, boots splashing into the wet earth.
His eyes followed you, face empty besides a quivered lip.
But he hitched his mare to the nearest tree anyway and hurried after you, boots squelching in the mud as you walked straight inside without a word, straight to the room he let you stay. You reach underneath the bed, pulling out your old suitcase like it was muscle memory.
He stands in your doorway, watching you.
“Don’t go,” he says, voice soft. Desperate.
You turn to meet his gaze. You were both drenched with rain water.
But you’d never seen him like this.
Arthur Morgan - the man ho never had a problem killing someone in cold blood - was wearing his heart on his sleeve.
He wasn’t crying. But he was close. Glassly eyed, nose flared, bottom lip wiggling between his two front teeth.
“I’ll let Father know I’m resigning tomorrow,” you say flatly, grabbing a dress from your closet and folding into your suitcase. “Catch a train back to Virginia sometime later this week, no longer be in your hair.”
Like you were holding everything in.
Yet, you didn't want Arthur to know. To know that you were dying inside. You didn't want him to have the satisfaction of getting under your skin.m
A line formed between his brows, something between disbelief and anger.
He steps closer, “Don’t go.” His voice cracks as he reaches out, hand gently falling to your shoulder.
But you shove it off instantly, angry that he even had the audacity to touch you.
He steps back with a furrowed brow and clenched jaw, opening his mouth again. “I told you, that ain’t what it looked like - ”
“Arthur, stop,” you snap, turning away as you grab the photo of Wyatt from your bedside drawer and stuff it into your bag. “I don’t want to hear it.”
“STOP!” you shout, voice trembling, turning back to him, emotions once again breaking loose. Tears and snot streaming down your face like you've been holding it all in. “Please go.”
Arthur takes a step back, lip once again quivering like he knew he was loosing you.
But you open your mouth again, looking him firmly in the eye. “My heart has broken more times than needed by you in a lifetime.”
It felt like a shot to his chest.
He stares at you like he’d never seen you before - like all the times he hurt you were flashing before his eyes.
“I’ll go,” he finally whispers as he turns around.
Only turning back for a second, “Please… please darlin'.... don’t leave me again.”
He turns fully towards the door, taking a step outside your room, then outside the cabin.
You barely let him leave before bolting to you washbasin and vomiting.
You were sick to your stomach, sick from a heartbreak so bad you didn't know if you'd ever recover.
And when you were done gagging, you didn’t keep packing.
You throw yourself face first into your bed, burying your face into your pillow, crying from a deep, guttural place in your chest as you replay the memory of her on his lap. The kind of sobbing that comes when something on the inside is dies.
Arthur paces the porch of John and Abigail’s home, lit cigarette clenched in his hand as rain beats down on the overhang above. His heart felt like it’d been crushed under a goddamn horse’s hoof. His hands shaky from a mix of uncertainness and anger.
Barely breathe. Lighting another cigarette before his first one was even done.
That’s when Uncle came riding up - half drunk and grinning, soaked from head to toe, laughing like this was some joke.
“Can’t help but think there’s trouble in paradise Arthur,” Uncle wheezes out with a chuckle.
Arthur doesn't find it funny.
Not when the love his life is packing her bag right across the property, refusing to listen to anything he says.
Arthur storms across the porch in two strides, grabbing Uncle by the collar and slamming him into the wall of the house. His cigarette drops, fist raised like he was about to knock the old bastard’s teeth out.
“You were tryin’ to get me in trouble, weren’t you?” he shouted, spit flying from his lips.
Uncle raises his hands like he was surrendering. “I know you ain’t blamin’ me, boy!”
Years’ worth of pain and guilt boiling to the surface like steam off a kettle. He pulls his fist back, ready to take the swing at the man.
But John Marston makes it to his porch with perfect timing, grabbing Arthur by the arm, holding him back with both hands.
“Arthur!” Abigail’s voice yells, busting through the front door like a furious mother. She storms out onto the porch, eyes blazing, stepping between the men, turning to Arthur and getting into his face. “What the hell is your goddamn problem?!”
Arthur rips his arm from John’s grip and steps back, breath ragged and torn. Voice coming out sharp and strangled.
“She’s leavin’ me, Abigail,” he snaps, before barking back at Uncle. “Leavin’ me because he got me into trouble!”
Uncle threw his hands up again. “I didn’t do nothin’ but bring you into the saloon!”
Arthur snarls, stepping toward him as John holds him back once again. “A saloon I wouldn’t’ve even been in if you hadn’t dragged me there-”
“Alright!” Abigail shouts, cutting between them again. “Both of you shut your goddamn mouths before I put you through the floorboards. Somebody best start talkin'.”
The woman drags all of them inside. Slamming the door with a clenched jaw. Poured the two of them hot tea like it might solve whatever was lingering in the air.
He sits at the kitchen table, jaw cocked, fists tight by his sides.
And with one kind look from Abigail. He breaks.
He tells them everything.
Abigail’s arms cross tight over her chest, her eyes locked on Arthur like a hawk. Her stare is all iron - sharp and unbreaking.
“I ain’t do -” Arthur starts again, voice low and defensive.
“Oh, shut it,” Abigail snaps, her chair scraping harshly against the wood floor as she rises to her feet.
Across the table, Uncle lets out a wheezing chuckle, like all of this was funny. But Abigail’s glare whips towards the old man fast as lightning, and whatever humor he had dies in his throat. “And you - don’t even start,” she barks. "Least he got a damn woman."
This shuts Uncle up immediately.
Abigail turns again, gaze flicking to John now, who leans back in his chair like he was tired of drama.
“Both of you out now." She snorts. "Me n' Arthur gonna have a chat.”
John rolls his eyes, grumbling something under his breath as he gets to his feet without a word, disseapearing down the hallway without protest.
Uncle throws his hands up in surrender, grunting as he shuffles toward the ladder. “Y’all are just luckyI ain't in my prime, I could've dropped him in one hit,” he mumbles, climbing one rung at a time to the attic while Abigail rolls her eyes.
And when the room is quiet again, Abigail exhales through her nose and turns toward Arthur, still sitting at the end of the table, hunched over like a man who hasn’t slept in days.
She walks over to him, propping herself up against the table.
“You may be the dumbest goddamn man I’ve ever met, Arthur Morgan,” she says, lips quirking into the barest, saddest smile. “But you ain’t a bad one.”
Arthur doesn’t answer right away. His head hangs low, shoulders drawing up. His lip twitches and his voice cracks like he's one hairline fracture from falling apart.
“She’s gonna leave me, Abigail,” he mutters, eyes glassy. “Already made up her mind.”
She watches him carefully. Watches the way his jaw clenches, the way he swallows hard like it hurts just to breathe. like he's become an absolute mess. In all the years she’s known him, she’s never seen him look like this - like he’s barely holding himself together.
“She won’t even look at me. Won’t let me say nothin’.”
Abigail softens, just slightly. Her hand reaches out and rests against his cheek, warm and grounding like a mother to son. “I’ll talk to her.” she says quietly, brushing her thumb against the raise of his cheek bone.
Arthur nods as she pull away, but his eyes don’t lift. He’s still somewhere else. Drenched in guilt. Torn open.
“I wanna see you happy, Arthur,” she says, firm but not unkind. “But more than anything, I wanna see her happy. And I know how she feels about you. Even if she don’t say it out loud. Even if she’s tryin’ real damn hard to forget it.”
Arthur finally looks up at her, throat bobbing as he swallows back the ache of loosing you.
Abigail knocks softly before nudging the door open, the warm creak of old wood breaking the silence of the cabin. She finds you curled beneath layers of quilts and sheets, bundled so tight like you’re trying to disappear. Your head rests gently against the pillow, eyes swollen and distant. And at the foot of the bed, your half packed suitcase sits like a threat.
Abigail’s face softens. Her lips purse. She lets out the smallest breath and steps forward.
“Honey,” she says gently, easing down next to you on the bed. Her hand reaches out, brushing over the crown of your head like a mother soothing a fevered child.
You break again. A sob spilling from your chest like it’s been waiting just under your ribs, hot tears rolling down your cheeks all over again. “I-I should’ve never come back, A-Abigail,” you choke out, words warbled and thick with pain. “He ain’t change, not one damn bit.”
She keeps stroking your hair, thumb brushing behind your ear. “Girl…” she exhales slowly. “Arthur Morgan might be the dumbest goddamn man walking this earth, but if there’s one thing I know for certain - he loves you."
You sit up, pain sharpening into anger. “I saw him, Abigail,” you snap, jaw trembling. “I saw her in his lap - head right in her chest just how I know he likes it." Your voice shakes.
Abigail just sighs, shaking her head. Eyes flicking toward the window as she remembers all the pain John put her through years ago - not any much different at all . “I heard,” she mutters. “Got the whole story outta him and Uncle. Right after Arthur nearly beat the man’s drunk ass into the ground.”
You blink for a moment, brow raised. “Uncle?” you ask, nose scrunching, confusion creeping in through the cracks.
She nods, a humorless smile tugging her lips. “Oh honey… you were too busy seein’ red to notice. Uncle was sittin’ right next to him at the saloon - watchin’ the whole damn thing. Drinkin’ his weight in whiskey and doin’ not a damn thing, naturally.”
Your brows furrow again, but you don’t say anything. Abigail just half smiles.
“I ain’t sayin’ Arthur don’t deserve a good beatin’. Hell, I’d throw the first punch myself if it’d knock some sense into him.” Her voice lowers. “But that woman?" Abigails brow furrows. "As stupid as it sounds, saw a lonesome man and figured she could wring a few dollars outta him. Arthur didn’t go lookin’ for it. He just sat down, and she climbed into his lap. That’s what you walked in on.”
You shake your head, stubborn. Stiff.
Abigail doesn’t flinch. “And I know what I heard,” she fires back. “From both of ‘em. Uncle said the girl straddled him, and Arthur told her to get off. She wouldn’t. Didn’t care who saw it and you got two men telling the same exact story if you'd just listen.”
Still, you shake your head. Because none of it makes the image go away. The way Arthur looked at her. The tension in his jaw. The stupid softness in his eyes.
“I know,” Abigail says, voice gentler now. “I know you saw it happen. And I can’t tell you a damn thing about it. But he’s outside right now pacing like a damn dog in a thunderstorm, lookin’ like he’s about to lose the love of his goddamn life.”
“If this were Arthur ten years ago?” Abigail scoffs. “Hell, even five - I wouldn’t believe a word he said. I’d tell you to pack that case and run fast and far and never look back.”
She pauses, placing a steady hand on your knee.
“But this version of him? The one out there damn near drownin’ in the rain, chain smokin’ cigarettes like they’re the only thing keeping him alive?” Her voice breaks, just a little. “Well," she stutters. "I can promise you that idiot don't want no one but you."
She squeezes your knee once, then pulls her hand away. "And honey...that man, maybe for once in his god damn life give him a break."
You exhale slowly, the sound shaky in the quiet room. You can barely process all she’s just thrown at you, but every word sinks in deep. If it came from Abigail’s mouth, well, you trusted what she said.
And yet… the past still sits heavy in your chest, like a bruise that refused to fade. The now felt tangled up in all those old wounds, the echoes of every time he’d left you for Mary, every time he’d made you feel like an after thought. Everytime he lied through his teeth. How could you trust his story now if he'd shown you time after time who he really was?
Your mind screams at you to go. To put distance between yourself and him before the ache gets any worse. But your heart - your stupid, stubborn heart, beat out a different rhythm entirely, one that whispered to trust him.
It’s not long after Abigail leaves that you hear him.
The slow, deliberate thud of his boots against the floorboards. The faint jingle of his spurs with each step.
Just opens the door quietly, like he's afraid it might creak too loud.
Arthur’s eyes scan the room - the dying fire, the soft glow casting long shadows. Your packed bag at the edge of the bed hit something deep and painful in his gut. And you; curled beneath the quilt like it's the only thing tethering you to his cabin.
“Girl,” he calls softly, stepping gently across the floor.
He sits on the edge of your bed, careful not to jostle you, just close enough to see your face.
Your tear streaked, swollen, silent face.
He places a hand on your waist, thumb brushing against your hip in a slow, nervous rhythm. Like he’s hoping to soothe the last bit of you he had left.
Even through the blur of tears, you see it. His eyes are wide and pained.
The fire crackles in the silence as you shift, lying on your back, propping yourself up on your elbows.
He just looks at you - like you’re something he doesn’t deserve to be this close to. Like he’s taking you in for the last time.
Your soft features, the curve of your jaw, the long line of your neck, your bare collarbone visible above your chemise. Your soft arms.
The ugly, haunted band no longer circling your skin.
He blinks twice, a breath hitching in his chest. His brows raise, the ghost of a smile twitching at his lips.
“You took it off?” he asks, voice a rasp like he has some hope to just cling to.
You glance at your hand like you’d almost forgotten. The firelight dances across your skin, and there’s still a pale indentation where the ring used to be.
“Took it off early in the afternoon,” you murmur, eyes flicking to his face.
His smile disappears like it was never there. His whole body tenses before he lets out a loud exhale, shaking his head up and down like he understood.
“That’s what I came to talk about,” he says, turning to you.
“I know Abigail told you it was a misunderstanding,” he starts, “and I know you probably don’t wanna hear it from me..”
“I don't,” you snap, harsher than probably deserved but Arthur nods anyway, like he expected it.
“But you gotta believe me...Believe her...Hell, I’ll drag Uncle in here too if it means you’ll let me explain.”
But you already knew the truth.
Abigail had told you everything
But your tense feelings were no longer about the woman on his lap.
They were about everything else.
All the memories you’d shoved down so deep you thought they couldn’t resurface. All the times he left you behind. For Mary. For Dutch. All the times where he made it damn clear you'd always be the second choice.
All of it bled together. One long fever dream of heartbreak and aching silence. A lifetime with him of never feeling like enough.
And even now, knowing the truth.
He reads you instantly, like he’s peeling your thoughts straight out of your head. Glassy eyed, lips pressed tight, he knows exactly what you were thinking.
“Why you lookin’ at me like that?” he murmurs, low and almost dangerous, though you can tell he already knows.
“Like I ain’t changed. Like you still think I’m the same man I was all those years ago.”
Your throat tightens. You swallow hard.
“Arthur,” you breathe, “I’m not even sure what all this is-”
“You’re my girl,” he cuts in, firm. “That’s what this is.”
You exhale, sharp. “A relationship is built on trust - ”
“You don’t.” Your voice snaps, cracking the air between you. The tears come fast again. “You don’t, because all you’ve ever done is hurt me.”
He opens his mouth like he's going to defend himself, but nothing comes out.
“How can I trust you when you’ve told me more than once I’d never be her? And because you couldn’t have her, you’re just… settling for me. Hell, can’t even do that. You've made it damn clear you prefer them saloon girls anyway, who knows what you been doin' behind my back.”
Arthur’s stomach churns. No excuses. No whiskey or past to hide behind.
“This bout' Mary?” His nostrils flare, lips pushing into a line, voice rising just enough to cut through your crying. “Can’t trust me because of somethin’ I did a damn decade ago?”
“You told me I’d never be her!” you shout back.
“’Cause you aren't!” he snaps, the words loud and sharp like a whip.
Your gut sinks, tears running hotter as you look up at him breathless.
“You’ll never be her,” he growls, stepping forward, “Never be her because I don’t want you to be her. Goddamnit, woman, I only want you and only you.”
“I know I wasn’t a good man all them years ago,” he says, voice low, rough. “Didn't deserve you then, don't deserve you now. Probably deserve to be dead.” His hand finds your shoulder as his face finally softens. Thumb gently brushing over your collarbone, eyes locked on you and not straying for a single second. “It took years for me to change who I am…who I was. No amount of prayer can make up for the horrible things that I have done."
Arthur shakes his head, "But you need to know I am not that same man that you once knew. I - I thought you knew that. But I also understan' why you don' trust what I say. I really ain't given' you a good reason to trust me."
His eyes are wide, pained as his thumb moves to a stray hair hanging down your forhead, twisting it in his fingertips. A deep line forming above his nose. “I need you to know that I ain't want Mary - haven't in forever. Don't want no saloon girl either...I want you. Only you. Every single part of you, even the part that slaps me when i've been bein' stupid."
You still say nothing, but your heart starts to feel suddenly lighter.
“What can I do to make this - us -better?”
You swallow hard. Tangled in feelings that say a million things.
Not to hit him. Or beat him to pulp.
But to hold him. Crashing into his chest like he’s the only thing holding you there. He doesn't really understand the sudden change in heart, but it didn't matter that he didn't understand. Instead he wraps his arms around you, crushing you to him like a promise he'd never let go.
Of course, you’re still angry.
Part of you will always feel the deep wound he carved into you all those years ago. A wound you wish you could bury.
But that wound had turned into a scar, healed but a constant reminder, one you knew was impossible to forget. But right there in his arms, with his right hand tugging at the back of hair tips he breaths into your neck.
“I'll be the man you deserve."
Weeks pass after that night you crawled into his arms, both of you laying your truths completely bare.
Things shifted after that night.
Without you asking, without him needing to be told.
He stops coming to your bed every night. You stop calling for him. Instead of his mouth buried between your thighs for hours, he sits and sketches you as you brush your hair. Drawing endless portraits of you doing mundane tasks. You sew his torn shirts while he sits beside you, watching every pass of the needle while you attempt to teach him. You watch him fail, poke his fingers one too many times. He starts to takes you out on long rides, swimming with you in the river or whatever body of whatever body of water the two of you could stumble upon.
And for the first time with Arthur, you share something you never thought you’d have with him.
The kind that makes silence comfortable. The kind that survives and understands mistakes. Love built on something more than just lust or heat, built completely on trust.
Arthur had never had a relationship with a woman like it, and every little thing had just been stepping stones. Stepping stones that eventually turned into stairs.
He builds a few more swings outside the schoolhouse, then surprises you with brand new chalkboards for your classroom. Before long, he’s a familiar figure there - rarely letting a week pass without stopping by the bakery for a box of treats to hand out to the children. They adore him, hanging off his every word. And the older ones, sharp eyed and smart asses as they were, started asking outright when the wedding would be.
And in a strange way, Arthur begins to feel less like the man you met ten years ago - more like a new suitor. Not in a way that reopens old grief, but in a way that makes him a good man. The kind of man that you could really marry.
A few months later, Arthur suggests a trip to Strawberry for the weekend. You scrunch your nose at the name, though you’ve never been.
He buys two train tickets, even pays the extra twenty dollars to board his mare in the livestock car. The ride north is smooth; you fall asleep on his shoulder, his arm tight around you for the entire ride.
When you arrive, he’s rents a clean, kind room at the visitor’s center. You eat dinner at a small café at the edge of town before he tells you he wants to take you somewhere special.
An hour later, he leads you to a meadow north of town - a wide field of purple wildflowers, a stream running clear through the center, mountains rising in the distance. Not another soul in sight besides countless small game hopping throught the flowers.
“What’s this?” you ask as your turn to him, helping you off the back of his mare.
You land with a soft thud, as he pulls a blanket from his saddlebag. “Found this place when we were still holed up at Horseshoe Overlook,” he says quietly, smoothing the blanket before gesturing for you to sit. “Not too long after that awful fight we had." He scratches the back of his head.
That night - those words - You remember it like it was yesterday.
“Well,” he drawls interupting the memory. “Used to come here just to get away. Clear my head for a few days.” He tucks a stray hair behind your ear, eyes lingering. “Always wanted to bring you here. Thought you’d like it.”
You grin as you shake you head, cheeks warm as the wildflowers dance in the breeze. Birds sing as the stream hums. “It’s..it's beautiful,” you say.
You turn your gaze to the snow capped peak in the distance, then back to him. First to his eyes, then to where his own are fixed - on his palm.
Where a thin gold ring with a sapphire in the center lays silently.
“Marry me,” he asks as his eyes lock with yours.
And yet - you knew your answer right away. You nod, quick and certain, heart pounding.
With a smile he slides the ring onto your left hand, his face alight as you admire it. But your attention quickly drifts.
One that had landed right on his chest, right over his heart.
“You like it?” he asks, still holding your hand in his.
“Arthur,” you chuckle softly, “you’ve got a butterfly on you.”
He glances down at it, smiling faintly.
And then he remembers - his mother’s old words from long ago.
He doesn’t brush it away. Just looks at you, voice low.
You wanted to elope right then and there, let the priest in Strawberry marry the two of you in some quiet, hurried ceremony. But Arthur Morgan hadn’t waited nearly his whole life to find a wife just to throw it away on a backwater wedding with no celebration. No - he wanted more for you.
He wanted you in a real wedding dress, him in a proper suit, so there’d be no mistaking it for anything less than the most important day of his life.
When the two of you rode back into Blackwater, the happy news spread fast, and Arthur wasted no time sending invitations to Charles Smith and Sadie Adler.
You waited a month for the day to come. Abigail helping you choose a simple white dress from the tailor weeks earlier, and Arthur buying himself a fancy new suit that fit him almost too well. The morning of the wedding, Abigail braided your hair neat and lovely, and Jack Marston surprised you with a flower crown of daisies for you to wear down the aisle.
Everything about it felt surreal. Soft. Innocent. Kind.
Arthur was adamant that tradition held that morning. That he couldn't see you until you were walking towards him - down the aisle. And when you finally did, with Abigail and Uncle standing as your witnesses, his eyes went wide and glassy, brimming with a thousand unspoken things. It didn’t matter that John stayed back to tend the cattle; the moment was already perfect.
Father Anthony married the two of you in the small chapel, the ceremony short and humble. But when Arthur looked at you, it was like the whole world had been reset - like every mistake, every bad thing, had led him here, to this. To you, at his side as his wife. The second you both signed the marriage license, Arthur tugged you down the road to the photographer. “Something to commemorate the day,” he had murmured, slipping his arm around your waist as the two of you smiled - warm and unguarded in a way no photograph had ever caught him before.
And once that was done, he could finally breathe, finally grin wide and boyish, because you were finally his wife and it was time to celebrate.
It was late into the night. After far too much food had been eaten, and too many beers had been drunk, when Arthur pulls you into his arms, right beneath the night sky. He holds you close, rocking back and forth to the tune of some old music Abigail had spinning on the gramophone.
“My wife,” is all he says as he looks down at you.
“Sorry,” he laughs. “Just like the way it sounds… my wife.” He repeats again, as if it were a mantra.
You shake your head in disbelief, heart boiling over as you lean into his chest, letting the night carry both of you away. But as Arthur rests his chin on top of your head, his eyes drift toward the glowing fire just a few yards away.
Where Sadie Adler sits. Bored. Tossing sharp knives awfully too close to Uncle, who’s passed out against a log a few feet away. The young widow feels him staring; she lifts her head, nodding at Arthur in acknowledgement. Because it didn’t seem too long ago when he was sitting with her by the fire, a night much like this one, talking about his own future, the choices he’s made. And with a single wink, Sadie tells him she remembers too - remembers the conversation they once had. He smiles at her before she turns back, sending another knife into the dirt just an inch from Uncle’s boot.
The embers burn low when Arthur finally leans down, voice soft, asking if you’d like to retire for the night. You shake your head tiredly, as his hand creeps to the arch of your back, gently guiding you toward the cabin across the property.
The walk back is slow, comfortably quiet. The only sound the crunch of dirt beneath your shoes, the warmth of your hands tangled together, and the silver glow of moonlight guiding your way.
Before you reach the porch, Arthur stops short, turning to you with a glint in his eye, his calloused fingers pulling a strand of hair behind your ear.
You let out a tired snort as if he was being foolish. “Husband,” you tease.
“Wife,” he counters with grin, and before you can even react he sweeps you up into his arms, bridal style, a mischievous smirk tugging at his mouth.
You roll your eyes, though your chest aches with warmth only he could give, as he carries you up onto the porch, kicking the door open gently with the toe of his boot. He doesn’t set you down until you’re in his room - your room now - the very one you share with him now.
And your jaw nearly drops at the sight.
“Moved all your things in here earlier today,” he says, lowering you gently to your feet. “Figured it was only proper for a husband and wife to share a bed.”
You look up at him, eyes wide, throat tight as though you could cry. But then your heart swells even more when you notice the rest - the room filled with candles, dozens of them, all shapes, sizes, and colors. Waiting to be lit.
Arthur’s face flushes red as he fumbles with a match from the bedside drawer, striking it to life. His big hands shake just enough to betray him as he goes from wick to wick awkwardly, lighting them one by one until the room glows gold. “Thought this would…” He clears his throat. “Thought this would be something ya'd like.”
For the second time tonight, you want to cry.
Not for any other reason than being happier in this moment than you have been in what felt like forever.
A few moments later, the room is drenched in candlelight, the fire in the hearth burning low. Arthur turns slowly, his boots heavy on the floorboards, and begins to cross the room toward you. With deliberate ease, he slips the tie from around his neck and lets it fall, forgotten, to the floor. The collar of his shirt hangs loose, open just enough for the tips of his chest hair to peek through.
You can’t help but to stare. He’s impossibly handsome in this light. Bathed in gold from the flames and candles. His hair, once neatly pomaded this morning, was now unruly, a touch wild even. His jaw carries the weight of a heavy five o’clock shadow, one that was not there when you said your I do's. Now In his mid forties, he never looked better. Back then he stood with nothing but sheer dominance - unyielding, sharp as a blade, terrifying even. But time had softened all that, leaving behind something deeper and kinder.
Yet, his glowing skin tells the story of his life, scattered with scars. Veins push against the surface of his arms, muscles cut and powerful, even now at his age. The sight of him glistening in the low firelight makes your breath catch, your body ache. You feel thirstier for him than you ever thought you could be - a painful ache that only now has a cure.
Because now he is your husband.
For almost a year now, Arthur had been chasing after you - begging to call you his wife. He wouldn't take you into his bed until you were his under the eyes of God and the law - two things he never imagined himself saying ten years ago. Yet, here you stood. Baptized in firelight, still in that beautiful white dress, looking every bit the angel, the bride, he knew he didn’t deserve.
He steps closer anyway, a crooked smirk tugging at his mouth as his large, calloused hand finds your hip, pulling you flush against him.
“Humor me,” he murmurs, leaning down until his breath grazes your ear. “Always fantasized about takin’ my wife on our weddin’ night… while she’s still wearin’ her dress.”
You swallow hard, heat coiling low in your stomach.
There was no denying it. Your love for Arthur over the past year had been many things. Tender. Fierce. Messy. But nothing came close to the raw tension and aching hunger that was burning between the two of you now.
You lean into him, taking no time to crush your mouth against his like he was the sweetest apple in the garden. Your fingers tangle in his hair, wrecking what little slick pomade still clung to his dark locks.
Wanted him more in this moment - as husband and wife - than you ever had before. Because now everything felt changed. This wasn’t like that first time back in Blackwater, when you followed him into that hotel room, where he fucked you like a man crazed - not knowing that it was your first time until he saw the blood on the sheets the morning after.
This was a new Arthur Morgan - the one you were glad to call your husband.
And tonight, he was going to make you his wife in every way he knew how.
He kisses down your neck as you slowly back toward the bed, knees buckling as you let yourself fall into the plush quilts and sheets that adorn it. Candlelight flickers against the walls, casting restless shadows across the ceiling as he looms over you, mouth hot and desperate as he kisses and nips along your throat. He doesn’t bother with your collar, doesn’t push lower -because he prefers you like this: still wrapped in your wedding dress.
But his hunger shows in the way his lips crash against yours again and agan, harder this time, while his rough hands gather the skirts of your dress and shove them up over your waist. Beneath are your bloomers - already soaked - are the only thing left shielding your modesty.
Arthur braces himself on his forearms, gaze burning down into yours as if silently asking permission to take them off. But you’re already shaking your head, breathless, desperate - telling him not to ask, just to do it.
Arthur Morgan always knew what a woman liked.
With one thick finger, he hooks into the hem, sliding your bloomers down one leg before flicking them carelessly across the room. His breath catches when his eyes fall to you - bare, glistening, aching for him. His jaw slackens, a low sound rumbling in his throat as he takes in the sight of your cunt, slick and shining even before his touch.
He smiles like a man who’s never seen a woman's vulva before, dragging his pointer finger slowly down your folds, grinning as he watches you shiver. And before you can even catch your breath, he leans down, mouth enveloping you - tongue rolling precious circles around your clit, hot breath spilling against your skin.
He lifts his head. “I’ve missed how you taste, darlin’,” he groans into you, his words vibrating against your bare flesh.
You shiver hard, your hands tangling in his locks, tugging desperately as he works you deep. His tongue moves slow at first, deliberate, his eyes locked on yours even as his chin drags up and down, beard scratching into the tender inside of your thighs. Each scrape leaves its own mark - his claim.
It doesn’t take long before your hips are writhing helplessly against his mouth, your breath stuttering, breaking, until you finish quick and reverent, body shaking under the weight of his mouth.
For a few moments you collapse deep into the sheets, lifeless, the only sound your uneven breathing. But you weren’t done yet.
This time, Arthur had no reason to stop.
When he’s certain you’ve been properly undone, he pulls himself to his knees. Kneeling between your thighs. His hands move with urgency, unbuckling his belt, yanking it free before tossing it aside. His eyes never leaving the softness of your face.
“How’d I get so lucky?” he murmurs, almost in disbelief, as he strips his shirt off in one swift motion. His muscles gleam under the low firelight, carved and scarred, all man, all yours.
You can’t help but laugh, breathless, as you drink him in - his gaze on you saw tender, it almost hurts.
He finally moves after a few moments. Slowly pushing his pants down over his hips, his cock already hard, thick, swollen, swinging free as he kicks the rest of his clothes carelessly to the floor.
Then he leans back onto his palms, lowering to you, mouth finding yours again. He kisses you hungry, desperate - laced with something deeper.
“Arthur,” you whisper in his ear, more of a pleading cry than anything else. You ache for him, desperate for the thick weight of his manhood to stretch you open, to fuck you powerfully and reverently, until hot tears streak down your cheeks.
He bites his lip, understanding exactly what you want. His breathing grows shaky, chest rising and falling as he shifts back onto his knees, shadows dancing over his bare, scarred body. His hand finds his cock, gripping it firmly, stroking himself a few times as he stares down at your dripping cunt like it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.
Slowly, reverently, he lines himself up with your core. His eyes glaze over immediately, dark with need, as he pushes inside you, inch by inch, as if this moment carries all the weight in the world. Halfway in, he drops down to his palms again, leaning close, lips pressing against yours in a heated, desperate kiss that speaks everything he cannot say.
You feel his thick girth slide into you, the first time in years you’ve had a man, and you wouldn’t want it any other way. It’s almost painful how good it feels as he slowly bottoms out within that first, slow thrust. His jaw slackens.
“Feel so goddamn perfect,” he moans, eyes locked on yours, still buried deep. Your white dress is bunched over your hips, the flower crown you’d worn earlier now disheveled, petals flaking into your hair. Arthur lets himself feel it all - the tightness, the wetness of his wife’s cunt gripping him with every inch.
Nothing could ever feel better.
He pulls back slightly, then thrusts into you again. Faster this time. Harder.
In that same beat, his eyes roll to the back of his head, a low whimper escaping him as he bottoms out once more. And then you feel it - his seed flooding you on the second thrust, finishing prematurely, his orgasm spilling inside you.
You nearly laugh at the sight of him. The way his jaw hangs slack, mouth open as if he’s seen God himself, completely consumed by pleasure, not realizing what he’s done.
But as the waves of sensation fade, his eyes widen, a flush of embarrassment creeps up his neck as he realizes what had happened. For godsakes, he’s finished just two pumps into his wife on his wedding night. Not at all how he had imagined it.
His gaze darts to your face, searching for any hint of disapproval. Finding none, he still feels completely mortified, buried deep inside you, utterly exposed, vulnerable, and embarrassed.
"I-I can go again," he murmurs almost awkwardly and with a toothy grin. Making sure you knew that his premature release was just some flook. That he had a higher libedo than whatever that had been, that he could indeed fuck you good and proper just how he knew you deserved.
He doesn’t even pause to clean the mess already left between your thighs, letting it coat you both as he slowly starts gyrating inside you again. Every movement presses him deeper, and it's not long before you feel the familiar thickness of him swelling inside your core. His embarassed blush fades, replaced by a dark, needy hunger, the kind you were all too familiar with.
“Let’s get you outta this damn thing,” he growls, reaching under your wedding dress. His fingers hook the hem, pulling it up and over your head while still buried deep, the warmth of him filling you completely. Now the two of you are naked; bare and animalistic, skin slick against skin.
Arthur finally pulls out fully, then thrusting back into you, hard and relentless, as if he’s making up for whatever just happened during the first round. Every inch of him presses deep, the messy mixture of your slick, his first release, and spit lubricating each heavythrust. So goddamn dirty, yet it feels like Heaven.
One large hand clamps over your breast, gripping, kneading, as he drives into you with force. His pubic hair brushes your clit with each powerful movement, teasing, pressing, drawing sharp shivers up your spine. His gaze roams hungrily - your perfect face, your trembling breasts, the way your core spreads perfectly around him. Every inch of you belongs to him in that moment, every shudder, gasp, and moan.
He leans closer, chest brushing yours, mouth ghosting over your shoulder as he moans into your ear between thrusts. The sensation of him filling you again and again, so impossibly hard and tight, has your knees quivering, your fingers digging into his back.
Deep and low in your gut, you already feel it - the warm, burning sensation of your own release blooming as he hits you deep and perfect every single time. Like he hadn’t forgotten how to fuck you right after all these years apart. Like he still knew your cunt as well as the back of his own hand.
Your jaw slackens as he drives into you again, grunting at the sensation. "My wife gonna cum for me?" he growls, almost like a demand, almost like the sound of calling you his wife alone is enough to send him over the edge.
Your bottom lip finds its way between your teeth, a line forming between your brows as your body shudders, finishing for the second time, moaning loudly as he slips in and out of you with the kind of reverence only a husband could show his wife. "That’s it, girl," he growls low, keeping up his relentless pace, leaning upward onto his knees, taking your calves into his hands and driving deeper, harder.
He makes sure he sees every single inch of you as he buries himself inside again, finishing straight into you. His lips tremble as he looks down at you, the two of you pressed together, bodies melding like a puzzle piece he’d been missing his entire life. So perfect.
It’s a few moments before he fully pulls out, taking his time to savor the last lingering sensation. Exhaustion slowly creeps in as he collapses onto the bed beside you. Without missing a beat, he wraps his large arm around you, pulling your body close to his side, so you can rest your head against his shoulder.
It all feels so different.
Not like it had been in Colter, when he wouldn’t even let you warm up next to him. Not like Horseshoe Overlook, where he treated you no differently than a plaything. Not like Clemens Point, when he was all skin and bone, dying. And sure as hell not like Shady Belle, when he’d left you for Mary.
Done the trick. Arthur had undeniably changed. The years spent apart had softened him in ways that years together never could, and now… everything felt right.
He turns on his side to face you, resting his chin on your shoulder. "What’re you thinkin’ about?" he asks, gliding his pointer finger down your stomach, sending goosebumps racing beneath his touch.
You shake your head, pressing closer into him.
Author's note: I don't even know what to say really. This fic has been an absolute wild ride for me to write, and has grown my page drastically. What started with a dark/yearning Colter one shot, turned into something I had spent countless hours planning and writing. HELL - these last two chapters took me forever to write. I probably have six different drafts of it alone. While this is the official end of this story - I will be writing a bonus chapter! (That's the special announcement.) HOWEVER, before anyone comes to me asking why it's a bonus chapter and not just the end of this series is because the bonus chapter will not be low honor Arthur, and will have a different type of formatting. Don't worry - there will still be plenty of angst - but I think it's time to put low honor Arthur on the back burner for a little bit.
For future stories, I do have a few one shots coming out probably in the next little bit (Little bit?? What does that even mean to me lol.) And I will be finishing a few requests that are half written too - and depending where I'm at in the next month I may just open them back up.
FINALLY, I'm most excited to share the title of my next series - coming out...eventually.
The Untold Story of Eliza Bloom - coming soon
