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cowboydisaster · 1 year

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The Fire In Your Eyes

part IV: colter

originally posted on 8 march 2023

pairing: Arthur Morgan x fem!reader

word count: 14k

summary: you and the others ascend into the mountains with the law hot on your tails. A nasty storm picks up, making matters worse for everyone. You're bed ridden and ill, trying to heal both your physical ailments and your mental ones.

a/n: this chapter is huge, and important! Firstly you all voted and decided that reader should have a nickname given by Arthur that all the gang members call her, and that comes up in this chapter. Plus we get some really good fluff between reader and Arthur. Thank you to margowritesthings for always rising up to the massive chapters I've been throwing at her.

warning: wounds, gore, mentions of past trauma and post traumatic stress

SERIES MASTERPOST

The wind whips through the air, chilling everyone to the point of numbness as you all ascend the mountains in hope of some form of sanctuary. John and Micah are still out scouting ahead, and Arthur’s now been sent out too, in search of a place to hole up. Everyone is hungry, frozen and afraid. Who knows how close the rest of the Pinkertons are, or if they were bold enough to follow you up into this hellstorm. You have no idea how many days you’ve been traveling, two or three? To be fair, it's been hard to keep track in your state.

Your back is resting against the wooden slats of the wagon, curled up to fend from the whipping blizzard. The canvas on the conestoga-style wagon provides little defense from the storm. With everything going on, the girls are huddled around you, keeping you covered in blankets while fighting your protests. Your skin is icy to the touch, but youre so hot. Cold sweat runs down your forehead, covering you in a sheen. Your eyes are red and sunken in as you shiver and groan. The sewn up shot in your thigh is swollen, red and oozing. It's infected, and if Grimshaw doesn’t get you some help soon… Well, you’ll be on the pile with Jenny and Davey.

You peel a blanket off of yourself, groaning, mind foggy from your body fighting to stop the infection. You’re so hot, it's torturous. Immediately, Tilly covers you back up with the blanket.

“Please- I'm so hot.” You moan, whimpering at the throbbing pain that is shooting down your entire left leg.

“I know, I do, but if you take this off you’ll freeze to death.” Tilly argues, and you know she’s right.

The wind is loud, but even through it you can hear Dutch yelling. He’s driving the wagon with Hosea, and both are praying for some shelter.

“Arthur! Any luck?” Dutch hollers over the wind, and you perk up at the familiar name. All the girls, wrapped in blankets and coats, huddling around Jack and you, glance in the direction of Dutch.

“I found a place where we can get some shelter. An old mining town, abandoned. It ain’t far. c’mon!” Arthur yells back before spurring Taima in the direction of your sanctuary. Everyone in the caravan lets out a breath, relieved at any kind of hope.

The wagon continues on while you fade in and out of consciousness, the fever too much for your body to handle at times. The closer you all creep towards the mining town, the more Grimshaw’s anxiety grows. She doesn’t know if you’re gonna make it much further, but by god she won’t let anything happen to you. They’ve lost too much. The wagon comes to a stop, and you blink your eyes open, watching as everyone files out of the wagon.

“Miss?”

It’s Dutch, he’s come around to the back of the wagon, extending a hand out to help the women and Jack get into a building. Despite your best efforts, you can’t bring yourself to move. Your muscles strain, but the pile of blankets is too heavy and you’re too weak.

“I can’t-” You whisper, pissed off that you’re incapable of handling your own at the minute. Asking for help isn’t exactly your specialty, but the cold sweat running down your forehead combined with your heavy, flushed and swollen eyelids prove enough that you’re unwell.

Dutch places his hand on the floor of the wagon, pushing himself up into the back. He peels the blankets away from you to find your once white shirt from however many days ago drenched in sweat and dried blood. You’re practically gasping for breath, panting in the frozen air, it doesn’t appear that you’re winning the battle against your body.

“Oh, miss… Here, let’s get you down.” Dutch whispers before taking your arms and helping you to climb down. It hurts like hell, climbing out of the wagon. Every muscle in your body twitches and aches, and the wound in your thigh throbs and oozes, it’s awful. Eventually, with Dutch’s help, you manage to stand in the calf-deep snow. He supports all of your weight, which you’re begrudgingly thankful for. Truthfully, he’s the last person you want help from right now, but without it, you’d be dead in the snow already. Slowly, you both shuffle through the damp, icy snow, trying to ignore the way it soaks your pants and freezes onto your eyelashes. You can see, foggily, the lantern lights of other gang members that are filing into a large, abandoned wooden building. You whimper at the idea of shelter, shuddering and tripping as the frozen air wars with your fever.

“Almost there..” Dutch whispers to you before yelling towards the building, “Miss Grimshaw, Mister Pearson! We need help!”

Dutch’s arm is tight around your waist, and the other holds a lantern in the air as he guides you through the door of the building. You’re struggling to stay awake, vision blurring as Dutch guides you to an old, makeshift cot off the main room. The warmth is immediate. There's no fire in the keeper yet, but the protection from the wind alone is noticeable. You’re not sure if you should be thankful for the shelter, or upset that the warmth worsens your fever. A few people rush over, standing around you as he lays you down.

“I am not losing anyone else! You get her patched up. I don't care what it takes!” Dutch hollers, pointing to you for emphasis as he glances at the miserable, frozen faces around the room.

You hear the slip of a knife, the shred of denim as Susan cuts away the patch of denim from your thigh to get a better view. She makes a noise of distaste, one that worries you. The skin around your stitches is red, and hot to the touch, with pus leaking from the suture holes. You arch your back against the wooden cot, gritting your teeth and groaning as she prods at your leg.

“We’re gonna have to redo these, I'm afraid, and you need dressings for this once I'm done. Abigail! Bandages!” Grimshaw orders around. You nod, a tear slipping down your cheek.

“Am I- You think I’m gonna be alright, or…?” Your voice is barely audible, like a breath on the wind. You’re not ready to die, not before you’ve even lived.

“You’re gonna be just fine.” Grimshaw says with a tight lipped smile, grabbing Strauss’ medical kit once again. She’s lying, both for her sake and your own. She has no idea if you’ll pull through this. Infections are bad, and in these conditions, with no supplies? Well, your chances aren’t good. Jack is quietly crying in the corner, wrapped up in his momma’s arms, and next to his cries you hear large boots thumping against the wood, someone has entered the building. The footfalls grow quicker, rushing into a light jog approaching you. You force your eyelids to part, providing a thin view.

“Shit, Grimshaw? What’s going on?! She okay?!” Arthur growls, skidding to his knees at your bedside to help. He’s covered in snow, cheeks bright pink from wind whip, and his black hat is covered in a thick white dusting of ice. He’s suddenly more awake than he’s been for the last three or so days, and despite his lack of sleep, there is nothing but clarity and fear on his face when he sees the state you’re in. You look so small on the bed, so frail.

“I’m fine, Arthur.” You whisper, hand snaking down the mattress to rest on top of Arthur’s. Your lie doesn’t faze him at all, and he runs his eyes down your hip and thigh to where Grimshaw is cutting open your stitches, squeezing your hand as he does. Your nose wrinkles at the pressure and pull of Grimmshaw’s hands on your thigh.

“Mr. Morgan, she needs medicine and she needs it now. Got a bad infection. I’m afraid she can’t wait much longer.” Grimshaw states, looking up to your pale, sickly face. Arthur rests the back of his hand against your forehead, and you grimace, head pounding from everything that's going on.

“You’re burnin’ up real bad,” Arthur’s stomach turns with anxiety as he glances between your eyes and Grimshaw’s hands, “I’ll find some medicine. I will.” He growls, as if making himself a promise.

You know he may not be able to keep it. It took days to find this place, and he won’t make it far in the storm. John and Micah haven’t returned yet, and the chances of him finding medicine is low. If he leaves now, he might as well sign his death certificate along with yours.

“No- please don’t go out there, Arthur. The storms too bad.” You protest, hanging onto Arthur’s hand with every bit of strength you have in you, little as it may be. Arthur squeezes your hand, kneeling down to look into your eyes.

“I'm not just gonna sit around and watch you die. I'm goin’ to find you medicine.” There’s no room for debate in Arthur’s eyes. Begrudgingly, you nod your head, terrified that your illness is going to get more people killed. Once you nod, he leaves go of your hand. You wince, gripping the corner of the cot till your knuckles turn white as Grimshaw pulls the ruined sutures out of your infected thigh.

“I’m going too. Anywhere that has medicine could have food or supplies too. And maybe we’ll run into John or Micah on the road. Who knows where they are in this storm, I just hope they’re okay.” Dutch says, cracking his knuckles through his thick black gloves as he steps over to you.

You don’t try to protest as they head out the door, and you're thankful for Grimshaw’s stitching, as the pain keeps your mind off the fact that four of the gang members are out in the storm of the century, two are buried outside, and two are missing.

—

You drift in and out of sleep, eyes fluttering open and closed as the girls take shifts holding cool rags over your forehead, helping you sip cool water and changing your bandages. You have no idea how long you’re out, but at some point you wake up, once again surrounded by the frozen wind.

“W-what?” You whimper, eyelashes fluttering in the snow as you attempt to come to your senses, despite the pain that radiates through your entire body, and the fog that clouds your mind. There's a solid strength under your knees and your neck that you can't place. But it's warm, soft and strong. The chilly wind feels ethereal, and you want to cover yourself in its blissful coolness that soothes the fire blazing through your body.

“Takin’ you to your cabin. Miss Grimshaw got it fixed up. There's a real bed in there, it’s warmer, be better for you to heal.” A familiar, gruff, voice says. Despite the freezing, howling wind, there is a warmth against your side, radiating and wrapping around you. You want to push away from the heat, already too hot from your fever, but as you weakly pull away it only wraps around you tighter. You're too weak to fully protest, fighting to stay awake as your head becomes light and your senses begin to slip away to darkness again. You succumb to the blackness, and the howling, screaming wind grows further away as you lose yourself to sleep once again.

—

A cold, red hand shakes your shoulder lightly, rousing you a little as you groan.

"Hey… hey can you sit up a little for me? It's Arthur."

You squint, eyes fluttering open once again. Your surroundings are unfamiliar, a wooden cabin similar to the one you were in previously, but this one is smaller, cozier. You're laying in a real bed now, a decent sized one, with a thick pillow under your head and a heap of faded serape blankets pulled up over your shoulders.

"Mmmm.." You moan, wincing as your head pounds and your skin boils with a heat that you can't seem to shake. Your hair is soaked through with sweat, and your clothes cling uncomfortably around your body in their wet state. The hand on your shoulder shakes you a little harder now, coaxing you to sit up.

"I- I don't feel good, Arthur." You whimper, feeling unusually weak and vulnerable, but knowing you're not strong enough to do anything about it, "God, everything hurts and I'm so hot." You whisper, tears forming in your eyes at the unbridled misery that you're feeling. Every bone in your body aches, your muscles twitch and cramp from both a lack of food and the infection and it's miserable.

"I know… I know, here. I'll make it better, I'll make it go away, just please- sit up for me, alright?" Arthur pleads with you.

You nod, doing your best to sit up, wincing at the pain it sends through your body. Arthur helps you, placing his hand on your back to help you adjust as you lean up a little and rest your head against the old cracked headboard.

"Good girl… real good. Here." You finally manage to open your eyes and see Arthur holding a little metal cup up to your lips. It's the one that he keeps in his satchel for coffee, but the smell that's arising from the little silver cup is god awful. You're too weak to fight Arthur's cold hand as he presses the metal cup to your lips, tilting it so that the majority of the liquid slides down your throat. You cough lightly, as some of the medicine travels down the wrong pipe, and Arthur uses his thumb to wipe away the tonic that has dribbled down your chin. After a few coughs, and a whimper of misery, the tonic is all down.

"You got me medicine…" You mumble, partially a question and partially a statement. You glance up to Arthur with red, bloodshot eyes and see the worry that lines his face.

"Course I did. I told you I would." Arthur whispers back, placing the metal cup onto the dusty wooden floor. He's kneeling on the hard floor, knees digging uncomfortably into the wood. There's no chairs in the room, but he's not leaving you here alone.

"Scooch over, I'm comin in. Floors tearin' up these old knees." Arthur chuckles, helping you adjust closer to the wall under the heavy mass of blankets. After he's situated you, leaving just enough space for him to squeeze in, he sits down on the bed. He doesn't bother to kick his boots off, resting his feet up on the lower side of the mattress.

"There." He whispers, looking after you with concern, although he's less worried now that you've managed to drink down some tonic.

Your eyes have slipped closed once again, but you aren't sleeping, just resting as your fever has you by the neck. Arthur's body is solid beside you, gentlemanly of course. He brings his black hat down over his eyes in hopes of getting some sleep.

It only takes a few seconds for you both to succumb to sleep. For Arthur, it's the first he's gotten in days. And for you? All you've done is sleep. You'd be irritated with yourself if you weren't too sick to care. Quiet snores and slow breaths pass through the room as the two of you catch up on sleep and heal beside another.

Many things begin to change tonight, shifting the course as they do. The snow turns from a heavy downpour of ice, carried by the raging wind, to a slow sprinkling of fat, light snowflakes. They land on the roof, melting together and dripping chilly water down through the cracks until they splash against the wooden floor just feet away from you and Arthur. The snow and ice outside begins to melt away, just a bit, but it's an improvement from the blizzard.

Your fever breaks, and the red hot blaze that was dragging you closer to the brink of death with its fiery grasps turns to an even, cool temperature. The tonic spreads through your veins, starting the process of mending your leg back together. There will be a scar, a constant reminder of what happened here, but gone will be the pain. As the fever breaks, your sleeping body becomes more aware of the cold, subconsciously wrapping the blankets tighter around your small frame, begging the inanimate comforter to provide you with warmth that it doesn't hold.

And the last change; the one between you and Arthur. Something settles between you two, like two magnets feeling the first waves of force pulling them together. There's something there. There's hope with Arthur, there's friendship and compassion, companionship, and something more, you both just have to find it.

Your eyes flicker back and forth beneath their lids as you sleep, mind lost on a world of stars and flowers. The smell of fresh lilies and wildflowers surround you as you laugh, biting into fresh strawberries under the moon in a field of tall grass. The stars shine so brightly that you're sure they could fall out of the sky and land in your lap. The night is young, the world is beautiful. It's familiar, it's safe and it's good.

…and then you wake up.

Gone are the lillies, the warm night and the breeze. They are replaced by a cold cabin, by a chilly wind that howls outside and water that drips down from the ceiling. You roll onto your back, looking up to see Arthur still beside you. His hat is still resting over his eyes and nose, protecting him from any distractions that may prevent sleep. Your eyes linger on him for just a moment longer, taking note of the slow, rhythmic rise and fall of his broad shoulders, and his beard that has grown a bit since you've fled Blackwater. You sigh, feeling the residual ache in your thigh. Reaching down, you lift the blankets to peek at the wound. You peel back your bandage some, wincing as you assess the damage.

The red ring around it has gone away, and Grimshaw did a nice job on her stitch work. It no longer oozes, but it's still a messy wound. You sigh out of frustration, fixing the bandage and pulling the blankets back over yourself. With the fever now gone, you've gone from one extreme to the other, shifting from an unbearable heat to a terrible chill, and you can't shake it. After a few moments of your teeth chattering, the solid mass of a man beside you begins to stir.

"You alright over there?" Arthur asks, ever the light sleeper. His voice is deep and gravelly from sleep as he takes his hat off of his eyes and places it onto the floor below. He notices your teeth clacking together, and the light shake of your shoulders as you curl into yourself under the blankets.

"Y-yeah, fevers c-comin' down is all." You stutter, trying to restrain your jaw from shaking in the cold night.

Arthur leans in towards you to press the back of his hand over your forehead. His hand is so warm, and you lean into his touch, chasing after the heat that never seems to leave his body. He assesses that your fever is gone, and his worry shifts from you dying of infection to you dying of hypothermia. Your skin is like ice as you shiver and writhe under the blankets, searching for any kind of warmth you can grasp onto.

"Shit, you're freezin'. C'mere."

Arthur snakes his hands under the blankets, pulling you into the crook of his side so that you're partially laying against him, and partially on top of him. Immediately, his body heat wraps around you, as his hands run up and down your arms to create warmth. You shudder, leaning into him as much as possible to chase after the ever giving fountain of warmth that he gives off.

"If I'm makin' you uncomfortable, just say the word and I'll move. Just don't want you freezin' is all." Arthur whispers. He tells himself that this is solely to warm you up, that he would do this for any of the girls. But as much as he tries to convince himself, he knows it's a lie. The feeling of your small, cold hands gripping onto his shirt is one he never wants to forget. Having you so close, he knows he'll likely never get this chance again and he wants to soak up every moment.

"No- no, this is nice." You whisper against him, truthfully. He pulls the blankets over you both, and you're surrounded by his scent under the confines of the blanket. You focus on keeping warm, on getting better, trying not to think about being pressed this close to Arthur. Already you can feel his body defrosting your own, melting away the ice that resides in your fingertips and the chill that shivers up your spine.

You want to distract yourself, to get away from this vulnerable feeling because it's dangerous. You think about what happened with Lenny and Jenny, what happened to the good people who let their guards down and what they lost. You won't allow yourself this, and as soon as you're warm enough, you plan to move back to your side of the bed. He's only in here because there's not enough space in the other cabins anyways, you lie to yourself.

Desperate for a distraction, you think of a topic to bring up. Arthur's hand running up and down your back is far too consuming and you have to find something else to focus on.

"What happened while you were off lookin' for medicine anyway? You were gone a long while." You whisper against his chest, listening to the rhythm of his heart beating against your ear. It's beating a bit quick, and you try not to think about why that is.

"Well we ran into Micah. He got separated from John and we still haven't found him…" Arthur pauses for a moment, concern tracing his words although he would never admit to worrying over his bastard little brother, "We found a big farm up north from here. Seemed like a good place to look but it was overrun with O'driscolls. They started threatenin' us so we took em out and-"

You interject Arthur with a furrow in your brows, confused by the mention of a name you haven't heard before.

"O'driscolls?" You ask, thinking back and deducting that you've not heard of these folks before.

"Guess you ain't been with us long enough to run into them yet -well we've been out further west than them for a while too- They're another gang, big bunch of cruel bastards run by Colm O'driscoll. He and Dutch go way back in a proper blood feud. Bad business…" Arthur says the last line with a particularly dark edge, and you make a note to ask about it at some point in the future. A breeze shakes the little cabin, and you burrow in tighter against Arthur, shivering lightly.

"They had a woman holed up in the basement, it was her and her husband's house. I can't imagine what they did to her. We found her husband shot outside, and then Micah got the goddamn house burned down. It was a right mess." Arthur says quietly, lightly shaking his head as if recounting the day with distaste. You rest your chin on his chest, looking up to see the remorse on his face, knowing he is punishing himself for an act he's not responsible for.

"And the woman…? What happened to her?" You inquire, fearing the worst for this girl. If the O'driscolls are as big and nasty a group as Arthur described, then you can only hope that she's okay.

"We brought her back with us, just till she gets on her feet again… y'know Dutch weren't too happy about finding O'driscolls up in these parts. He wants to hit them first thing in the morning."

You nod, resting your head back on Arthur's chest, glancing up through the cracks of the roof to get an estimate for the time. Your watch, the one you stole off of your current pillow and personal heater, was abandoned in Blackwater. The moon filters through the broken down roof, signaling that it's very early in the morning. You sigh, tracing the moonlight that trickles through until you see a few flickers of light. It's the stars, shining brightly now that the fog of a storm has passed. Arthur is seemingly eyeing them as well, as he speaks.

"Y’know you're like my little star." Arthur whispers, voice gravelly against your ear. You crane your neck to look up at him, pulling your eyebrows together. He doesn't look down to you, feeling too vulnerable to make eye contact.

"Everything that's goin' on, all the chaos, and you're still burnin'." His thumb rubs slow circles on your back as he talks.

"Shinin', bright, beautiful, but'll burn your ass faster than you can blink." Arthur chuckles, not even realizing what he's just said until he feels your breath hitch against his neck. You move your eyes away from the stars to rest your chin on his chest, looking up to him once more.

"You think I'm beautiful…?" You whisper, trying to hide your smile at Arthur's flustered state. His cheeks turn pink and his jaw falls slack as he stutters and avoids your eyes.

"I- I didn't mean nothin' by it, I was just- didn't mean to say- I shouldn't have said that. I'm sorry-" Arthur rambles, cursing his damn big mouth and his thoughts for getting him in this situation that he's digging himself deeper into. You laugh at Arthur's quick embarrassment and self reprimandation. You move to lay on your back so you can better see the stars, still nuzzled tightly against Arthur, with his arm under your head, and his thumb tracing back and forth over your shoulder.

"Y'know my momma used to call me Star before she passed." You whisper, pushing down the emotions as you think of your sweet mother and her all too early fate.

Arthur squeezes you just a bit tighter in a show of comfort when he hears your sniffle. He lost his momma at a young age too. No matter how old you get, or how long it's been, the ache is still there.

"Well I think it's a fittin' nickname for you, considerin' how much time you spend lookin' at em." Arthur smiles, glancing between you lying beside him, cuddled into the crook of his arm, and the twinkling stars that are peeking through the abandoned cabin's splintered roof.

"Star… I think that's gonna stick." Arthur adds, adjusting himself a little and crossing an ankle over the other at the bottom of the bed.

"God Arthur, isn't it just beautiful?" You whisper, awestruck by the stunning, shimmering lights in the sky. They peek down through the cabin's cracks, causing your eyes to fill with them and sparkle as well.

"So beautiful…" Arthur whispers, but his eyes are not looking up. No, Arthur's eyes are fixated on you at his side, until he forces them to pull away on account of decency. He pulls you closer to him, savoring every second and cursing himself for being selfish enough to allow himself this moment.

"You warmer now? Comfortable?" He whispers, so close that you can feel his warm breath on your ear. You try to convince yourself that this is normal, that snuggling tightly in a bed with your best friend is normal.

"Toasty warm, mister." You reply, looking away from the stars to lay back on Arthur's chest. He holds his hand out in the air, waiting for you to situate yourself before resting it on your back, swallowing thickly at your actions.

"Try to get some sleep." He says. It takes only minutes for you to slip into slumber. Arthur on the other hand? He doesn't sleep the rest of the night.

—

"Honey?" A voice calls to you through your sleep. It's far away, beckoning you to join the realm of the living as you come to.

"Hmm?" You respond, too tired to form a coherent answer.

"I brought you some bandages, figure those are gonna need to be switched by tonight."

It's Abigail, and once you realize it's her, you finally perk up. She's standing beside your bed, placing a little roll of fresh bandages on the broken bedside table. You watch her hand release the roll, and notice the little fluttering paper beside it that is being held down by a glass bottle of tonic.

Arthur is already gone, he's been swept away by Dutch to go raid the O'driscolls. It's a foolish move. The gang is barely on its feet. The miniscule supply of food that had been brought from Blackwater has already dwindled, and while people here starve and freeze to death, Dutch is off with the strongest boys on a merry chase. When Arthur had woken up, only a few hours after he'd held you back to sleep, he had brushed a hair out of your face, pulled the blankets up for you, tucked you in and left you a note on the table. Unfortunately for you, when Arthur left he also took his warmth with him.

"Abigail? Could you help me get to the main cabin? It's mighty cold in here and I'm afraid my leg ain't lettin' me put much weight on it."

Abigail turns back to you, smiling.

"Course', c'mere."

She takes your hands, helping to pull you up to your feet. The weight on your leg aches something fierce, but at least the fever is gone.

You step towards the little table, eyeing the paper and tonic. You recognize the paper, the texture and torn edges tell you that Arthur has ripped it out of his journal, scribbling to you with his beloved charcoal.

Star, I've gone after these O'driscolls with some of the boys, should be back by nightfall. Drink the rest of this tonic to keep from getting sick again- Arthur

You pick up the delicate paper, smiling at Arthur's nickname for you. Folding it, you place it in your pocket before reaching for the medicine.

"Star?" Abigail questions, peeking over your shoulder, curious of the note you've been left.

"Yeah, little nickname Arthur came up with. Well, my momma used to call me Star too. Been a nickname since I was a girl, but I haven't heard it in awhile. It's nice." You explain, grimacing before you drink down the few swigs of tonic that are still left in the dark glass bottle.

The note stays tucked in your pocket as Abigail tosses your arm around her shoulders so that she can take some weight off your leg.

"Arthur told me about John last night… I can't imagine what you must be goin' through. I'm sorry Abigail. John is tough though, he'll be okay and we will find him."

Abigail is quiet, nodding her head lightly with a slight wobble to her lip.

"I hope so, Jack would be- what would he do without John?"

You know she's projecting a bit, as Jack is surely not the only one who would be lost without John. There's tension in Abigail and Johns relationship, something likely happened before you joined the gang, but it doesn't change that Abigail loves him. No, love isn't conditional like that.

That's all that is said, all that needs to be said as Abigail helps you to limp outside. Your leg is getting a little stronger but it still hurts like a son of a bitch to fully support yourself, something you'll have to get used to sooner or later because you'll be damned if you have to be helped along everywhere.

The snow is still thick on the ground, but the heavy downpour of snow and ice has stopped almost completely. Instead, the sun shines, finally having escaped the confines of the clouds. Eventually, after some struggling, you both make it to the main cabin where most of the gang is residing.

When you push the door open, the relief is immediate. It's much warmer inside, and you notice that someone already has a fire going in the fireplace.

"Just set me down over here, I'll be fine." You whisper to Abigail, nodding towards an empty bench on the left side of the wall. She gets you situated down on the bench, checking that you're comfortable before heading over towards Jack.

It's a boring day, and you're frustrated on account of your uselessness. Soft cries can be heard throughout the cabin, of friends and lovers who have lost their other halves. You crane your neck to glance out the broken window, sighing and wincing at the sight of two freshly dug graves that are marked with wooden crosses. The one closer to you, separated only by the cold, foggy glass, is marked with a 'J'. You've been repressing the emotion, repressing the memory, not allowing yourself to feel or to grieve. For just a moment, your mask slips down and a pain stabs your heart from the loss that you endured just a few days ago. But quickly you pull yourself together, wiping away the unshed tears and forcing yourself to bottle up like you always do.

You need a distraction, a vent to keep your mind busy so that it can't pull you down into the dark thoughts that threaten to eat you alive. You've been sitting here, not busy for far too long and it's starting to eat away at you, slowly creeping into your mind. You need to do something.

Charles enters the cabin with a pail filled with chunks of meat, and you stand up, putting most of the weight on your right leg as you walk over to him. He sets the pail on a wooden table off the center of the room, next to a decent sized stove.

"Charles, let me." You say, wiping your hands on your coat before taking in the ingredients in front of you. The pail of meat is fresh, likely just butchered. It appears to be venison, and it'll make a nice, gamey stew.

He rests against the table, eyeing you up and down quickly before cocking his head, as if unsure.

“You sure it's good for you to be standing for so long? Why don’t you go sit, its no trouble for me to-” Charles starts to rebuttal before you interrupt him.

“Please- all I've done since we got here is sit, and I need to do somethin’, I need to keep busy. What's good for me isn't sittin’ down and thinkin’ over all the shit that just happened.” You plead. There is understanding in Charles’ eyes, he knows exactly how you feel. Your eyes then travel to his hand, and you remember that he’d been hurt too. You’d seen the burn on his hand when he and Jenny carried Davey out of the boat. Now it's wrapped in clean gauze, pale against his skin.

“Sides’, you’re hurt too. What happened to your hand? Looked like a burn when I saw you on the boat...” You whisper, taking the meat out of the bucket and putting it into a pot, even though Charles never explicitly told you that it was okay for you to take over.

Out of reflex he stretches his hand a little, putting some pressure on the throbbing pain.

“When that oil barrel got shot I was standing too close, had my hand on a metal rail when everything went up in flames, burned me pretty good, but I’ll be fine.” Charles explains, glancing towards the sound of whimpering sobs. You follow his gaze to a woman you’ve never seen before, presumably Mrs. Adler. She’s wearing nothing but a chemise and a coat, her blonde hair is dirty and her freckled face is red and puffy from her cries that haven’t ceased since arriving. Slowly, you bring your eyes back to Charles, checking inside the stove to make sure the fire was still lit and hot. You poke the burning coals and wood with an iron prod that was sitting beside the stove.

“Charles when I went in there… everyone was-” You pause, looking around at all the miserable faces in the room, pausing on Jack and deciding to choose your words carefully, “I saw all the people, what the hell happened?” You ask, thinking back to the passengers on the floor, dead, and the ones cowering in the corner. Charles purses his lips as you take the pail of water that he’d brought in earlier and pour it into the pot. Steam rises from the simmering pot, along with the first mouth watering scents of real food.

“Dutch, it's like he lost his mind in there. Once the boat caught on fire, he was gone, he started yelling, he shot a girl in a bad way. I haven’t been with him long but… it was unlike him.” Charles whispers, distaste coloring his face, and a scowl that matches your own. You nod, thinking over the hell that has been the last few weeks. Nothing can really be said about it, what is there to say? The silence is comfortable as you stir the pot.

“Thank you, Charles. I’ve got this from here, why don’t you go rest, you’ve done plenty.” You thank him, and he dips his head lightly, resting his hand on your shoulder as he steps past you.

The meat simmers in the pot, and the water begins to boil lightly. Amongst your ingredients on the table are a carrot, salted offal, two apples, an onion, rosemary, thyme and a whole lotta rum. It's apparent that Pearson’s priorities were not with grabbing the gang food, but rather fueling his own addictions. You sigh, taking the carrot and pulling your knife out of its sheath. You chop it into slices and add it to the pot, just as you do with the onion and herbs. It's a simple stew, but it's still going to be delicious. The savory aroma begins to fill the room, and soon the hungry bellies of the gang begin to rumble.

After some more stirring, and some additions of more herbs thrown into the pot, you deem the stew done. There are enough metal bowls on the table for everyone in the room, and you fill them almost halfway. As much as you’d like to hand everyone a full bowl, there isn’t enough and you need to ration it. The boys will be hungry when they get back, and you make sure there is enough for everyone.

“Alright everyone, stews ready!” You holler, wiping your hands on your coat once more and watching as a huddle of cold faces light up at the mention of warm food.

Karen and Tilly come up together, arms linked to stay warm. Both are swaddled in coats, and Tilly has a scarf wrapped over her head to protect her ears.

“It smells so good, this’ll be the first meal any of us have eaten since Blackwater.” Tilly sighs, excited and hungry. Karen nods, taking two bowls, one for her and one for Mary-beth who is reading on a bench by the door.

“Thanks for cooking, Star!” Marybeth giggles from across the room and your jaw drops with a chuckle.

“Y'know gossip spreads around this place faster than the goddamn plague.” You laugh. Apparently, Abigail had told the girls about your note from Arthur, and the nickname that he had signed onto the top of the paper.

You sigh, shaking your head and handing out stew bowls to the people waiting in line. You thank Grimshaw for all her help with her leg as you hand her a bowl. Reverend Swanson, who is mostly unfamiliar to you, mentions that he’d expected you to have coins on your eyes when he’d seen you coming out of the wagon. Miss O’shea takes a bowl with a wicked scowl on her face, and Hosea thanks you, wishing you well with your leg before taking his bowl and resigning back to his cabin. Everyone who is there comes up, except for Abigail because Jack is sleeping in her lap.

Once everyone has gone through you turn around and see that Mrs. Adler hasn’t gotten a bowl. You bite your lip, toying with it while deciding to take some to her. Maybe she’ll want nothing to do with you. Maybe she’ll see your place in this gang as no different than the O’driscolls who took everything from her. But you won’t know until you try. Throwing caution to the wind, to take a bowl in hand and carry it over towards her. Her knees are brought up to her chest, and her arms are wrapped around them as she sobs into herself. Once you are in front of her, you hesitate. She hasn’t noticed you in front of her yet.

“Mrs? Do you- Are you hungry…?” You ask, extending the bowl of stew towards her.

Her head snaps up at you, and the glare she sends your way is ice cold.

“Could you eat if you were in my situation?” She hisses with a thick Texan accent. You nod your head, pursing your lips as you begin to turn on your heels to head back to the table.

“Take that as a no then…” You mumble under your breath. You only make it a step away before she calls out to you, gripping your wrist and pulling you lightly so that you face her again.

“I, wait- Im sorry.” She says, feeling regret from pushing you away so rudely just moments ago.

“Please, sit.” The woman offers, gesturing towards the open area on the bench next to her. You extend the stew out to her, and this time she smiles before you sit next to her. You wince as it pulls at your healing thigh, but the pain is already getting better. Mrs. Adler notices, and then thinks back to when the man that had brought her in, Arthur, had asked for medicine from her cabinet.

“You were sick when I got here right?” She asks, eyebrows pulling together slightly as she takes a bite of the stew. Her eyes slip closed for a second as she relishes the flavor. Instinctually, you run your hand down to your thigh, tracing over the bandaged wound.

“Bullet to the leg, I’m afraid… Nasty business.” You all but whisper, once again fighting your memory in an attempt to repress them. Your eyes flicker around the room, and for the first time in a while you see a few smiles. The food has brought some hope.

“Yeah. I'm glad to see you back on your feet then. I… I wasn’t doin’ so well last night. Couldn’t hear much other than my own cryin’, but from what I did hear, you weren’t doing so hot either.”

You’re at a loss for words, not sure whether or not to respond on the matter of her grieving her husband. After a little debating in your head, you decide on the former. If something happened to the love of your life you would probably want to talk about it.

“Mrs. Adler-” You start, but she holds her hand up quickly and interjects.

“Please, call me Sadie.”

“Sadie, I’m sorry for what they’ve done to you. I know how it feels to have someone you love taken from you for nothing other than selfish greed.” You offer, thinking about your Pa. A few tears form in your eyes as you think about him. He was a bastard towards the end of his all too short life, but he was still your Papa.

She smiles, seemingly remembering something, but it falters, and forms into a deep frown with tears rimming her eyes. Watching Sadie remember her husband is like the sun being driven out by a thunderstorm. The good memories flash over her face for a moment before she realizes that they will never be anything but memories. There is no chance for making new ones now.

“I- we…” Sadie starts, tears dripping silently down her cheeks, falling into her bowl of stew. She can’t find the words to express her heartache, or her gratitude towards you. But how could she? How can one put emotions so vast and contrasting into words?

“Jake and I, our farm-” She starts again, unable to put her grief into words. You place your hand on her knee, and she stops to look up at you.

“Hey, it's alright. Don't gotta talk about it now, just eat somethin, yeah?” You whisper, hoping that you haven’t made her feel worse. She looks up at you with a nod, and a sincerity.

“Thank you. You’re the first person who's actually talked to me since I got here. But I guess what could people even say…?” Sadie thanks you, taking another bite of stew.

“It’s no problem at all, Sadie.” You go to stand, but stop when she speaks once again, embarrassed that she didn’t ask your name.

“I didn’t catch your name.” She says, and you noticed the tears have stopped trailing down her cheeks.

“Well,” you chuckle, and tell her your real name, “but the new running nickname is Star, so why don’t you just call me that?”

“Thank you, Star…” Sadie offers sincerely, before letting you go. You smile at her once more before heading back to the table. Jack is still asleep, and you want to get some soup to Abigail. She hasn’t eaten either, but isn’t going to move the poor kid. He’s so young, too young to be going through all this. You pity Abigail, and how hard it must be for her to explain to her son what's going on.

Just as you go to grab the bowl off the table, a hand gently touches your elbow. You turn to see who it may be, needing some food or to give you an empty bowl. To your surprise the person in front of you is Lenny. Your jaw falls slack a little, and your eyes start to water before you stop them. You’ve been avoiding him, because what can you even say?

“Lenny…” You whisper, and there is so much pity and heartbreak in your voice that it sounds foreign to your ears.

He smiles at you, as if everything is going to be okay before he pulls you a little aside, away from the ears of others. It’s then that you see the unkempt look about him, his red eyes and the haunting grief that hasn’t left him since those few days ago.

“You were a good friend to Jenny… and I thank you for that.” Lenny says, glistening tears in his eyes that match your own. You hastily wipe them away, before glancing across the room, out the window to the fresh grave that is haunting you. You haven’t allowed yourself to feel it, to grieve it. You only knew Jenny a short time but in that time she was your friend and she’s gone. It took just a half-second for her life to be erased. Just a moment. If the shot had been off by a foot it would be you in that grave instead of her, and you wonder if it would be better off that way.

“She told me about your plans, about going to Tumbleweed. Lenny, I’m so sorry.” You whimper, asking yourself if Jenny’s death is your fault. They should be in Tumbleweed getting married by now. But Lenny is here with you, with tears in his eyes and a broken heart, and Jenny is buried outside.

“She- that never should have happened.” You pause, thinking over Jenny’s dying wish that she had whispered to you with the last breath of air that ever left her lungs.

“Jenny asked me to tell her how much she loves you… I was there with her, the whole time until she- until she…” You can’t bring yourself to finish the sentence, but Lenny understands, nodding with a smile that holds so much pain.

“I thank you for that, for staying with her. We dont get many chances for love in this life. Im glad for the time we spent together. God I miss her so much already, my sweet Jenny…” Lenny mutters, before pulling you into a hug. He’s so young, just barely an adult, and he’s already lost so much. The grief in the room is almost unbearable. Everyone has lost something, and yet you're the only one who won’t allow yourself to feel. Every time the emotion bubbles up, you stomp it back down. Lenny’s arms are tight around you in a show of friendship and heartache before he pulls away.

“Thanks for all you did for her, even in the end.”

“She would have done the same for me.” You smile, although there is no joy behind it.

“I'm sure she would have, miss.” Lenny adds before tipping his head to you and walking out of the room back to his cabin.

As soon as the door swings back into place, and Lenny’s figure disappears behind it, you let out a breath that you didn’t know you were holding. A few tears and one quiet sob escape from you, but you quickly put yourself back together, wiping away your tears and avoiding the window that gives view to her grave. Just as you’ve finished collecting yourself, a little hand tugs on the bottom of your coat. When you look down, slightly startled, you see little Jack, cheeks pink from the cold as he looks up to you with tired eyes, despite the sleep he's gotten. He tugs on your coat until you give him your full attention.

“Are you okay? When I was with Mama I saw you crying. Is Lenny okay too?” Jack says, his little high pitched voice a light in the dark. You kneel down onto the ground beside him, ignoring your thigh, and once you're on the ground, he holds on to the lapels of your coat. His little chubby features are so worried. Jack’s too sweet for this life, too innocent.

“Yes, we’re just fine, little mister, I promise.” You chuckle, looking into Jack’s sparkling eyes that haven’t yet lost their childlike wonder.

“I was meaning to ask since you woke up, you hungry?” You ask, stretching from the ground to grab a bowl of stew from the table at your back. Jack lights up, looking forwards to his first meal in days.

“Oh yes, please! My tummy has been growling since we got here.”

You smile, handing him the bowl of stew and leaning your back against the wooden wall, still sitting on the floor. Much to your surprise, Jack settles himself right in your lap, scarfing down the soup as politely as he can. You tense for a moment, not expecting him to have sat in your lap. But after a few seconds you relax, resting back against the wall to let him be comforted, the poor boy just wants to be coddled, which is understandable.

“You are a very good cook! Better than Mister Pearson!” Jack says, excitedly. His bowl is almost half gone as he uses his sleeve to wipe away the broth dripping down his lip.

“Well thank you, Jack. Maybe I'll have to cook more often.” You respond. You enjoyed cooking for the gang, even though it's quite different from your usual line of work.

“Oh, please do!”

“Can I call you my aunt?” Jack blurts out, setting his empty bowl on the floor. Abigail overhears her sometimes overbearing son and chuckles knowingly.

“Uh, I- what?” You stutter, at a loss for words. Of everything he could have said, you didn’t expect him to say that.

“Well there's Uncle Dutch, Uncle Hosea and Uncle Arthur. I have aunt Tilly and aunt Karen… so are you my aunt now too? I asked if I could call Micah my uncle, but papa got mad…” Jack whispers, looking up to you with anticipation for your answer. With a little tap to his cherry red nose you respond.

“Well of course I’ll be your aunt, silly.” You smile at the pure joy radiating from Jack as he squeezes you into the tightest hug his little arms can manage.

“Okay so you’re my aunt Star!” He yells out, and your jaw drops with a laugh.

“You too? Has everyone picked this nickname up now?” You chuckle, surprised.

“Sure have!” Jack responds, cuddling back down into your lap.

—

A few hours later you wake up to yelling. You startle awake, gasping and out of instinct you pull your knife out before your eyes are even fully open. It's a habit you’re working on stopping. When you feel that unfamiliar weight in your lap, you pause to realize Jack is still sitting on you, nuzzled into your coat. He’s still asleep, and by the dark night outside, you presume he won’t be waking up soon.

“Abigail?” You whisper, not wanting to wake up the boy.

“I can take him now. Thank you. I didn’t wanna wake you either.” Abigail smiles, coming over from her makeshift bed on a bench. The yelling outside ceases for a moment before it continues again, but it's muffled. Abigail’s eyebrows pull together in worry before she gently picks up her sleeping boy and carries him over to his spot. She settles him down, and you move to stand but the ache in your leg has grown tenfold and is stiff as a board.

“Goddamnit.” You curse, realizing that you’d neglected to take the tonic that Arthur had left you that morning, and had spent all day walking on the bad leg. The lack of medicine combined with the sudden use has swollen your leg up and made it unbearable to put weight on.

Simply put, you can’t get up.

Anxiety suffocates you for a moment as you feel vulnerable and stuck. And yet you’re too proud to ask for help. You desperately want to investigate the noise outside, but you can't even stand on your own two legs. It’s the most frustrated you’ve been in your entire life. With a sigh, you give up, slinking back against the wall. After a while of internal struggle, you begin to drift to sleep again. It seems to be all you can do as of late, but your body is still fighting the latter end of an infection, and has been completely wracked by the trauma you’ve endured.

Your eyes are heavy, winning the battle as you fight to stay awake. That is until a large boot nudges your own on the ground.

“Hey you alright? Why you sleepin’ on the floor?” Arthur asks, standing above you. He looks exhausted, dark circles underline his eyes and purple bruises line his fists, which you choose to ignore.

“Just got tired and decided to stay here is all.” You lie, not wanting to ask another favor from Arthur. All he's done is help you, and you have nothing to give him in return. Asking him for more help would be just another debt to the man whom you can’t repay. He eyes you for a moment, hands resting on his gun belt before speaking.

“I'm goin’ back to the cabin. You headin’ over too?” He asks, gesturing towards the door.Your pride will not allow you this, and so you lie again.

“Yeah, I’ll go over in a few.”

Arthur chews on his lip, thinking for a moment before he dips his head and turns towards the door. His hands rest in the pockets of his large blue coat as he walks past the array of people who are sleeping, sprawled around the large room. He reaches the door and places his hand on the knob, but he doesn’t open it. With a small chuckle, and a shake of his head, he turns around and struts straight back over to you.

“What?” you ask, raising your eyebrow at the cowboy and pulling your coat tighter around your shoulders. One hand lightly massages the sore, tender flesh of your shot thigh.

“You can’t get up, can ya?” Arthur asks, all too amused by your scowl.

“I can get up just fine. Just choosin’ not to…” You mumble, avoiding Arthur’s eye contact. With a sigh, he leans down, wrapping his arm around your waist and helping you to stand. He’s on the same side as your bad leg, and he holds your arm tightly to help you along.

“I said I was fine-” You hiss, wincing when you take the first step.

“Yeah and I’m a dancin’ girl, now let me help you. C’mon.” Arthur jokes, taking his time to help you across the room. He goes at your pace, and you force yourself not to think about his hand on your waist. Slowly but surely you make it outside, across the road, and into the cabin.

As soon as Arthur sits you down on the bed he sighs.

“You are so goddamn stubborn, woman, you know that?” He chastises lightly, grabbing the tonic and bandages that you were supposed to use about… twelve hours ago.

“Been told once or twice.” You rebuttal.

Arthur kneels on the ground in front of the bed, right between your knees to grant him easier access to your wound. He’s careful, slow and patient as he peel back some of the cut denim to take the gauze off of your leg. It’s quiet as he wipes away some old poultice from your wound, apologizing quietly when you wince or tense up. In those moments, when you gasp or tense, his hand immediately leaves your thigh. He doesn’t want to cause you pain.

“Real good…” Arthur says, putting new bandages in place of the old. He glances up to your eyes every now and again to make sure he’s not hurting you, and there’s something so intimate about it. Him kneeling on the ground between your knees, his hand on your thigh as he helps you to heal makes your heart ache in an unfamiliar way and it’s so overwhelming that you have to look away and change the subject.

“So… What was all that yellin’ about before you came in?” You ask, referring to the commotion that had woken you up earlier.

Arthur nods, carefully wrapping the gauze around your thigh.

“That would be an O’Driscoll.” Arthur says, irritated.

You have to do a double take to make sure your ears are working.

“A-an O’Driscoll?! You lot brought an O’Driscoll to the camp where we sleep? Where Jack sleeps??” You bite, eyes wide with shock and confusion. Arthur had just told you last night about this dangerous, cold gang with no morals and a leader that is as sneaky as a serpent.

“Weren’t my idea, Star, trust me.” Arthur says, seemingly as surprised about it as you.

“He’s a harmless feller. Dutch wants to question him for information, that’s all.” Arthur adds, trying to ease your upset.

You nod, accepting his response for what is rather than what should be. One thing about your decision to run with a gang is that you signed up to follow Dutch. You live with his shots, that was your choice. So even though you strongly disapprove of this move, it isn’t your call.

“Okay…” You whisper. The wind howls loudly in the distance, and as you glance out the window you see the graveyard across the way that you've been desperately trying to avoid. Of course, Arthur notices this. He finishes bandaging your thigh before he speaks up.

“How you feelin’?” He asks, squeezing your knee a little. You know what he’s asking. He’s asking how you’re holding up after everything that you’ve gone through. And yet, you have a feeling that he already knows without you ever having to speak a word. You can’t bring yourself to open up, not even to him. You’ve built walls for a reason and taking them down is hard.

“It hurts, but I'll be fine. Grimshaw says the infections already gone down, just gotta keep it that way now..” You say, feigning ignorance to the depth behind Arthur’s question.

You rub at the tender skin around the gun wound in an attempt to ease the ache. By the look on Arthur’s face, he’s not fooled, and you frown deeply, avoiding his gaze. To your surprise, he stands up and sits on the bed beside you. Even as you avoid his eye contact, you can feel him staring at you. When you refuse to look at him, afraid that the tears will start falling, he places his index finger under your chin and pulls your gaze to his own.

“Star…you ain’t gotta lie to me, y’know. Not with me.” He whispers.

Your eyes flutter shut and you try your damndest to hold it in, but a single tear falls down your cheek, and your lip quivers. The conversation with Lenny today was almost too much. It brought back every memory of Blackwater that you had been trying so hard to repress. Arthur wipes the sole tear away with his thumb, smearing it across your cheek before taking both your hands and placing them in his own.

“You’re tough. You’re strong for everyone around you, and you’ve always got this damn wall up. You’re-” Arthur pauses for a second, looking down to his lap in thought before looking back up.

“You’re my friend. You ain’t gotta hide around me, alright?” He whispers, bright green eyes looking straight through your tough facade and boring into your soul.

The tears just start falling and you can’t stop them. For the first time in your adult life, you don’t try to. You bring your hands away from Arthur’s, and up to your face as you sob into your palms. Immediately, Arthur pulls your hands away from your face and wraps his arms around your small frame, swaying you gently on the bed and shushing you. You cling to his blue coat with every bit of strength you have, dampening the wool as you cry.

“I- I can’t believe they’re gone, Arthur.” You sob. All of the passengers that died on the boat, then Sean, Davey and Mac, possibly John. Jenny and Boadicea…You gasp for air, lungs shaking as you release all the emotions that have been building up for far too long.

“I know, I know…” Arthur whispers into your hair, running his hand up and down your back to comfort you. You’ve not been looked after like this in a long time. It's nice to know you have someone to bear your soul too, but right now all you can think of is the ones you lost.

“Jenny- Jenny was my friend!” You half cry, half gasp into Arthur’s coat, clenching your fists so tight onto his coat that your hands are on the verge of shattering.

“She was- she was talkin’ to me about Lenny. They was- They were gonna-” You sob, hiccuping and snotting against him. It's not an aesthetic visual, but it's raw.

“I know sweetheart, I know they was, c’mere.” He mumbles, pulling you against his chest to hold you even tighter.

You don’t correct him for the pet name like you did in Tumbleweed. Maybe you’re too emotionally drained to care, maybe you don’t mind it. Your sobs turn to cries, that turn to whimpers, until after a long while of crying, you're just breathing against Arthur’s chest. His grip on you hasn’t let up, but neither of you have said anything, just swaying and shushing. Your eyes begin to feel heavy again, but you push out one last whisper before they close.

“Arthur… I'm so sorry about Boadicea…”

Arthur sucks in a deep breath, fighting the emotion that bubbles up from the mention of his former horse.

“That wasn’t your fault. You hear me? That’s not on you.” He growls, holding you even tighter. His heart breaks to know that you’ve been carrying that weight. None of this is your fault.

Before long, you’re asleep in his arms. Even after he hears your breathing settle, and the light snores that you make, he doesn't go. He rests his back against the wooden wall and falls asleep with you in his arms. He can’t bring himself to let go of you, even for a second. Terrified that you’ll disappear from his arms or feel the need to close yourself off or be alone again. Because you're not alone, not anymore.

—

You wake up slowly. Underneath you is a slow rise and fall, accompanied by light snoring. You smile warmly before even opening your eyes. Arthur’s arms are still wrapped around your waist tightly.

When your eyes open, you are met with Arthur’s sleeping face. His eyes are peacefully shut, and his lips are parted to allow his little snores to fall from his lips. Besides his absolutely killer morning breath, he looks as snug as a bug. You chuckle, slowly prying yourself from his grip, trying not to wake him. He needs the sleep. You crawl over him, yelping as he snores particularly loudly, shaking you with his rumbles. Eventually you make it out of the bed alive. Arthur is still sleeping, and you pull the blankets up over him.

You want to leave him a note, and pull your leather bound journal out of your satchel. You haven’t opened it since everything went to shit, and you run your hand over the cover before flipping through the pages. The last entry was from a few weeks ago, the night that you had laid under the stars and picked wildflowers. Before venturing out you had written about meeting Jenny. It was also the same day Arthur bought his journal. Oh, how quickly things change.

You eye your last entry for a moment before turning the page, and tearing the next section out. You take your pencil and scribble onto the paper before setting it on the table next to Arthur’s hat. You go to sign your name at the bottom, signing the first letter before pausing for a moment and changing it.

Thank you for last night, really. -Star

It's short and sweet. Once it’s secured on the table, you glance back at Arthur one more time before heading to the door. Maybe it’s from the tender care he had shown you yesterday, or maybe it’s coincidence, but your leg feels much better today. You’re confident enough to head to the main cabin yourself. Your thigh is sore, but not the burning pain that had torn through you yesterday. You walk past the stables, glancing in pity towards the wails of the O’Driscoll being held captive. Some of the snow has melted from the sun, which you're grateful for, as it’s easier to navigate across the road. Still it takes you a bit longer than usual, and you curse whatever may be out there that you’re stuck in this position.

Before you’ve even breached the door, you can hear the arguing, the crying. God, what now? The gang seems to be falling apart at the seams and everyone is shattering. Once you pull open the door, the muffled voices become clear.

“Dutch van der Linde, it has been two days! He ain’t been seen in two days!” Abigail yells, storming after Dutch who is glaring at a very worried Hosea.

“Abigail, your John is just fine. Lost in the storm, he's probably on his way back from wherever he is right now.” Dutch rebuttals, causing Hosea to grow irritated.

“The girl is right, Dutch. He could very well be dead out there. We barely survived here and we have walls, who knows where the poor boy ended up.” Hosea states, worried over the state of the closest relationship he’ll ever have to a son. Dutch turns, glaring daggers at Hosea, but he's met with a glare just as strong.

“I’ll go get him.” You state, and all eyes in the room shift to you. Abigail practically whimpers, uttering out her thanks as you pull your coat back over your shoulders. Hosea steps forward, a look of pity on his face.

“Dear girl, your leg… You’re barely back on your feet, you can’t venture into this mess.” Hosea says, gesturing to the freshly wrapped bandages around your thigh.

You pull your revolver out of its holster, squinting and looking down the barrel to make sure it's clean and fully loaded before you reholster it.

“I have to. For Jack, for Abigail. If he's out there I gotta find him. Sides’ my leg is fine, really.” It’s a bit of a white lie that your leg is fine, but you need to find John.

“I’ll bring him back, Abigail. I will.” You promise, hugging her tightly before heading towards the door.

“Estrella! I'm coming too.” Javier calls out, pulling a patterned poncho over his coat and grabbing a sawed off shotgun from his items. You nod, chuckling as Javier approaches.

“Estrella? I even wanna know what that means?” You laugh, gearing up with Javier.

“It’s nothing,” he laughs, “You think we can handle this? Just the two of us?” Javier asks, holstering his gun before holding the door for you. You walk towards the barn while you think. You’re not even sure who to ask, but you’re not waking Arthur up, he needs the sleep. You chew on your lip for a second, thinking it over before you come to a decision.

“Yeah, just us. We can handle it.”

When you push the barn doors open, you see Charles, sitting in a wooden chair about ten feet in front of the tied up O’driscoll. He’s sharpening a knife, barely paying attention to the smaller man’s cries.

You dip your head to Charles in greeting before going through the open stalls. Boadicea isnt here, and it causes that dull ache to grow a little stronger. You do see however, right next to your still unnamed buckskin, an unfamiliar horse.

“Where’d this guy come from?” You ask, petting the skittish tobiano.

“Oh. Arthur found him when they raided those O’Driscolls. He’s keeping him for now.” Javier says before grabbing the reins to his paint, Boaz. He leads the stallion outside, and you grab the buckskin to chase after him.

“Can you track?” Javier asks, mounting up on Boaz in time with you. He starts off at a trot, leading you towards the main road.

“Yeah, my Pa taught me when I was just a girl. If he was through, I’ll see. I just hope his tracks aren’t covered with snow…” You say, retaining hope that John is alive and well.

“Good. we’ll go back to the main road, try to find where he broke off.” Javier calls back to you, pushing Boaz into a canter. You run after him, pulling your coat up over your nose to protect it from the cold.

You cut across the river, and it isn’t long before you find a few sets of tracks.

“Hey is John’s horse shod?” You yell up to Javier, who chuckles.

“No. That horse is the most sure-footed bastard you’ll ever ride. Carajo, he’s more like a mule than a horse.” Javier jokes. One set of hoof tracks resembles a shod horse, and one an unshod, so you start following the latter trail.

“It cuts across the crick here.” You yell, running across the little creek and picking up the trail on the other side. Javier and Boaz fall behind you, following as you lead the way.

After following the trail for a bit, you come upon a gorge. It causes your limbs to tingle with anxiety, and you try not to look down and see how deep it goes.

“Shit, be careful. There's a hell of a drop here.” You say, navigating your horse around the fault. John was more reckless, his tracks prove that his horse cantered around the gorge, cutting deep as if running from something. After some more following, splatters and drips of blood are evident against the crisp white snow.

“Javier…” You whisper, following the trail that shows evidence of the horse spooking, and jumping around, like there was a fight. More blood is spilled in the snow the further you travel along.

“I see it too…” He whispers, and both of you are less sure that John is okay.

“Oh no.” You mutter under your breath as a large body comes into view. You gallop towards it, sliding your buckskin into a stop as you jump down.

“It’s John’s horse. He must have went on foot from here.” You say, glancing between the initials “JM” that have been tooled into the leather, and the disappearing trail of footprints in front of you.

You take in the poor horse before jumping onto your own. It was brought down and partially eaten by something, either a bear or a wolf, most likely the latter.

“His tracks disappear, but we gotta keep goin’!” You holler over the wind. The cold is almost unbearable as you ascend higher up the mountains, and the snow grows deeper, making it harder for the horses to climb.

“Estrella, the horses are getting tired.” Javier calls up, unsure of when to stop following the lost trail.

You feel your horse’s gait getting sluggish, and feel his breaths become hot and heavy.

“So we’ll go on foot.” You rebuttal, refusing to give up just yet.

After cantering to the top of the hill, you hop down, grabbing a springfield rifle and enough ammo to kill whatever may be prowling.

“JOHN!!” You scream into the wind, receiving no reply except your own echo and the whipping wind. You can barely stand the wind, but you push on anyway.

“I don’t- we dont even know he’s up here.” Javier tries to reason, but you continue to walk away, sliding down a small slope before coming to a ridge that youll have to jump up to. Its taller than you, and you sigh in frustration. Javier notices your hesitation, and he jumps up, grabbing the rock platform and pulling himself up before extending his hand down to you.

"I'll help you, come on." He calls down and you hesitate to take his hand, a scowl formin on your lips.

"I don't need your help." You hiss, knowing fully that you absolutely do need his help. The platform is way taller than you.

"Easy there tigra, I'm just trying to help." Javier placates, and you feel bad for snapping at him. You jump up as high as you can manage, gripping onto his hand and allowing him to pull you up by your arms.

"I'm sorry. Just tired of sittin' down and askin' for help all the t-time." You explain, standing up and dusting the snow off your legs while shivering heavily.

"I understand that." Javier smiles, leading you towards a crack in between the rocks. It's big enough for you to walk through, and you squeeze in, feeling both frozen to death and terrified by the altitude you’re at. Javier is quick to slip in after you, noticing the chills that wrack your body.

“Here this should warm you up.” He extends a bottle of bourbon out to you. The cap is already popped off, and you down a swig before handing it back. The bourbon burns down your throat, warming you as it does.

“Thanks.”

Just as Javier takes the bottle back, you hear a voice. You can't make out what it says, but it's raspy and familiar. You and Javier share a glance before you start running to the other side of the tunnel.

"John!! Keep talkin' so we can follow your voice!" You beg, jogging after the initial sound.

"Help!" John yells, and you dart to the left in the snow until you come upon a dip. Your leg aches, but it doesn't matter. This is too important. You run to the edge of the little cliff and look down.

Down the cliff, John looks up at you, frozen and exhausted. There are bloody gashes in his face, markers of a wolf attack. Blood trickles down his chin, staining the snow white. Really, it's a miracle he didn't bleed to death.

"John, you look like shit." You say before whistling to the horses. Javier is only a few steps behind you, and he hops down into the hole. John groans in pain as Javier tosses him over his shoulder.

"Good to see you both too." John says with a small laugh despite his bleak situation.

"Brother, we were worried about you." Javier says, waiting as Boaz canters up the hill alongside your buckskin.

Once the horses reach you, Javier helps John mount up behind his saddle. You both get on and start cantering down the hill towards Colter.

"Your woman's been worried sick about you, y'know." You holler over the wind towards John who looks far too close to sleep for your liking.

"Oh there will be hell to pay when I get back."

The three of you grow quiet, too concerned with getting John back to really chat. You make it about halfway, pushing the horses as hard as you can through the snow before you hear them.

Howls sound out from the top of the mountain, and you whip around on your horse to see five snow white wolves running down the bank towards you.

"Shit, John looks like your buddies came back to finish their meal!" You yell, pulling your rifle from the holster on your saddle. You flip the safety off, load a bullet into the chamber, aim right for the closest wolf's chest and fire.

The first wolf goes down, and as the shot rings out, the other four falter for a moment before returning to their chase.

You aim for the next closest wolf, but right as you squeeze the trigger, your buckskin trips on a rock hidden under the snow and you miss. The horses are galloping so fast down the mountain, and turning around makes it difficult to aim. The wolves are getting far too close for your liking, and anxiety causes you to have tunnel vision.

You take a deep breath, and as you exhale time seems to slow down. You aim, squeezing the trigger four times and taking down all four wolves. When the last one hits the ground, your vision returns to normal and time seems to resume.

"Fine shootin, lady." John says as you come out of your trance. It's unlike anything you've ever experienced before, and you have to shake your head.

"Thanks." You say, tossing your rifle strap over your shoulder and spurring your horse across the river.

Colter has come into view now, and you see the few people loading up wagons outside. So we're leaving then?

You slow down your horses, coming into the town.

"We need help!" You call out, dismounting and jogging to Javier's horse.

Abigail runs out the main cabin door, and the relief that washes over her face is clear as day. But as she takes in his poor state, it is replaced by concern.

"John Marston where in the hell have you been?!" She yells, rushing over to where Javier is lifting John down.

"Oh you know, up on the mountains gettin' eaten by damn wolves. I missed you too, dear." John jokes, wincing as they carry him inside.

You are left alone outside the cabin, and you take the horses by their reins and lead them the a hitching post. After tying their reins up, you offer both horses an outtake from your satchel, which they greedily accept.

Just as you're about to head back to the main cabin, the door swings open.

"Why didn't you wake me up? I was worried sick." Arthur says, walking hastily towards you before, to your surprise, wrapping you in a hug. It lasts only a few moments, and you exhale, releasing the day's tension as he hugs you. When he lets you go, he leans down to inspect your thigh.

"You okay? It hurt? You shoulda got me up, that was a dangerous trip." Arthur says, worry evident on his face. You raise one eyebrow at him, giggling at his 'mother hen’ state.

"Haven't you learned that I can handle my own yet, Arthur?" You ask, a little offended that he's suggesting you needed help. You know he means nothing by it, but still.

"Oh, I know, trust me I do. But you shouldn't have to do everything alone."

The air grows too serious for your comfort, and you nod towards the main cabin before heading over to the door. Arthur is by your side as you open the door.

"Further East?" Uncle says, getting up out of his chair, "Why don't we just run down to the city and turn ourselves in? How you mean we're going further east?"

"The west is blocked off, we have no choice! We go east, lay low for a little while. We can hide out and lick our wounds. And then my friends, once they have long forgotten our troop, we seek absolution out west, as far as we can go." Dutch says, addressing everyone in the middle of the room.

You and Arthur give each other a look, not too sure about heading further east. Hosea steps up beside Dutch and looks around at his family.

"I don't like it, but he's right. We have nowhere else to go." Hosea adds.

"And where will we go? Do we have a spot picked out? Twenty people ain't exactly easy to hide, Hosea." Tilly points out, and as you look around the room, everyone seems to be at a loss.

"I don't know, dear girl. We'll find it when we come across it I suppose…

An idea sparks in your head, and you step forward from Arthur a bit.

"Actually I may know a place." You interject, and everyone's eyes land on you.

"My daddy was a gunsmith, and every year he took us to this trade fair in Valentine. It's just down the mountain." You say, and Hosea nods, thinking.

"Valentine… I know it, little livestock town, our kinda place." Hosea thinks out loud.

"Just off the town is an open space, hidden in the woods that overlooks the valley. It's well hidden and big enough for all of us. We used to set up camp there every year when I was a girl.

"And it's safe? Well hidden?" Arthur asks, stepping up towards you. You nod, craning your neck to look at him.

"Yeah. There's trees around all sides except for the overlook. Plenty of good spots for lookouts, it's not too close to the road. And we'll have a pretty view too."

"And this place, it have a name?" Dutch asks, stepping forward.

"Horseshoe Overlook."

Dutch and Hosea share a look, thinking it over, before Hosea comes forward and places a hand on your shoulder.

"Thank you miss- what are they callin' you now? Star?" Hosea cuts himself off.

"Apparently." You chuckle, quickly glancing back to Arthur.

"Well it's fitting. You're a bright girl, my dear and you may have just saved our sorry asses." Hosea pats your shoulder for good measure before turning to the rest of the room.

"As soon as Johns back on his feet we are heading out!"

You sink back beside Arthur, looking up at him for a few moments. He knows that look. You're worried. Here you all are, heading towards yet another unknown, another situation that may hold death for everyone. But Arthur will be by your side through it all. And if even just for a little while… that makes it all okay.

#arthur morgan #arthur morgan x female reader #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x you #arthur morgan x y/n #rdr2 #red dead redemption two #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 fanfic

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