'All those special times,
you said that I'm your girl.
You made me feel,
like your whole world.'
~~
'Because I'm pretty when I cry'

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** warning: this chapter contains some themes of a stressful nature. If you are sensitive to content related to/suggestive of intended rape, please read this chapter with caution**

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Barely a soul was conscious as the four of you returned to camp, windswept and breathless from that last long gallop to clear the final stretch back to the safety of Horseshoe Overlook.

Sean had been chuckling to himself as he slowed his fine horse down to a trot, and there were obvious trinkets in his satchel chinking.

"We've really done it here, lads – Dutch is gonna be made up!" Sean whispered excitedly.

The lads had been rather awake, the adrenaline had an affect on them that hadn't quite sustained itself to you. You figured that may be because the boys were used to being skilled outlaws, and were used to the late nights and high-octane madness in the shallows of the night.

Where as you- you barely stayed up past 11 and had never been on a heist like this before. It was all very new, and very exhausting.

Hitching the horses and untacking them for the night, the band of outlaws were quick to gather by the dwindling flames of the fire, to count the riches raked in from the night's job.

Perching on a splintered wooden crate, your tired eyes sleepily studied the glamour glints of the jewellery that the boys passed over to one another; adding their takings into one big pile. By now you were stifling each yawn that slipped past your lips, and Arthur – who had been sat opposite you, had been watching you for a little while now.

"You don't have to stay up with us now," he started, looking at you tenderly through the calmer orange flames of the slow-dying fire. "Go to bed, get some rest, (name). You look exhausted." Arthur added, the smallest hint of a caring smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

Touched, you could not help but offer a tender smile back – it was sweet to know he had been watching and noticed how exhausted you looked.

"Alright then, that sounds really good to me." You replied to the gunslinger, lifting your achingly tired form from the sharp-splintered wood crate. Skirting around the fire, you went to Arthur's side where he was looking up at you almost in confusion – considering your tent was in the opposite direction.

"Good night." You offered in a small and soft tone of voice, leaning down to kiss your lover's cheek goodnight. As you did so, few strands of your (hair colour) hair drifted lightly into your face, causing your fingertips to sweep them back behind your ear.

His stubbled cheek was slightly scratchy and rough under your gentle lips, but you noted his skin was warm from his close seat by the fire. You loved the smell that emitted from him to, the smell of cold fresh air from the night's riding, with a potent mixture of smoky gunpowder that hung pleasantly about his person.

As you pulled away, Arthur displayed the smallest signs of a growing smile of gratitude, his hand reaching out for yours – a low and subtle gesture, as he took your dainty hand in his own weathered paw. A gentle squeeze around your fingers said the thank you he hadn't vocalised in front of the others.

"Ugh! Go on – get outta here-" Sean pretended to gag, pulling a face as if someone had just made him smell a pile of dog muck. "I can't bare to see it anymore – Arthur Morgan bein' all lovey-dovey."

"Ah-! Quit your yappin'." Arthur grumbled, letting go of your hand and leaving your grasp feeling rather empty and cold in the fresh night air. As you took your first few foot steps away from the campfire, your eyes trailed back a secretive glance across your shoulder – and you drew in the sweet and rather adorable sight of Arthur looking so bashful whilst the boys were ribbing him about the tender moment the pair of you had just said. You almost felt a little guilty, leaving him to fight out this playful banter whilst you went to bed.

You wished you could treasure the image of the boys all laughing together and ridiculing one another, it was rather odd to say – but they obviously didn't realise how wholesomely happy they all looked whilst they all sniggered away. It was just another indication to you of how much of a family this gang was – despite the occasional spats and the disagreements, at the end of the day – they all looked out for one another.

You were exceptionally proud to be apart of that.

Exalting a light sigh with a sleepy smile, your hot breath plumed out into the chilly night air – rising high and dispersing into the twinkling starlit canvas above you. The grass beneath your kid boots was almost crunchy, having stiffened a little with the cold temperature. The more time you spent in the cold the more you appreciated that your warm bed roll was merely a few seconds walk away.

By now, you had made it away from the crackling campfire and around the back of Pearson's wagon – and you could see your tent tucked in the near distance, looking as inviting as a sweet dessert.

Gathering the blue skirts of your dress in your hand, you picked your little pace up to a jog – bound for your bed.

However, your stomach dropped like you had just fallen down a steep flight of steps, when a rough hand ragged your wrist to the side, between the trees that fenced the outer perimeter of the camp.

You had wanted to scream, to call for help – but the hand had clapped over your mouth. You hated the feeling of this cold unwanted touch on you, and so your body writhed and wriggled desperately to break free.

The hand suddenly lurched away from your mouth – and you had been scarcely able to draw breath through your now-chapped lips before your body was unceremoniously thrown around, your back slammed harshly into the thick and coarse trunk of the tree behind you.

"Don't. You. Dare. Scream." That poisonous and maniacal voice hissed, your eyes now adjusted to take in his repulsive face with that malevolent stare. Micah.

A furious frown appeared on your brow, and you struggled roughly – but getting nowhere considering you were caught between and tree and Micah himself. His closeness had you wanting to throw up with the sickened feeling in your stomach.

"What the fuck are you doing?" you spat, uttering that heavy curse word you never usually said. You had very much saved it for the more dark and turbulent times in your life.

Sneering like a crafty creature, Micah cocked his head at you. His eyes spelled this highly disconcerting look that reminded you of a cat when it toyed with a mouse – right before it would kill the poor thing. He was making this into a game for his own entertainment.

"Hey now, little lady – ain't no reason for words like that." He condescended, before a dark chuckle rang through, "Or is it cause you went runnin' with them boys that you now think you're some goddamn tough-talkin' gunslinger?" he tried you, annunciating some of his words by pushing his body against you – each time the gesture made your stomach knot a bit further.

"So what if I went out with them?" you responded, eager to not let yourself bottle under the pressure of Micah's crazed nature. "I am doing my part. Earning my keep. As much as you don't like me getting along in this camp – I do." You spat, getting up in his face a little. "These people are my family."

Micah's laugh was over-dramatic in your face, and he shoved you once more; hard, your back clashing against the tree and sending an agonising pain through your spine.

He was so twisted, the way he looked at you with those dilated eyes, his poised and tensed form lingered in front of you like a wolf ready to snap left you with a feeling of terror that you did not want to express in front of him. If you showed any signs of weakness, Micah would be sure to lap it up like a cat with a saucer of cream.

"It ain't that I didn't like you in this camp-" he started, swaggering in a little closer with an ego that far preceded the kind of awful man he was. Before you could protest further, his knee darted roughly straight between your legs, forcing them apart so fast that they almost buckled beneath you. Mr Bell snickered with a wild and wolfish manner, his breathing heavy and ragged.

"I just don't like the way you think you could deny me..." he was so close now he was practically crushing you, and you were beginning to feel the worst thing ever was about to happen. "So I'm afraid, little lady – that I'm gonna have to teach you, that you ain't allowed to deny me what I want..." his low possessive growls uttered into your ear. Your heart was sitting heavy in the back of your throat it seemed for how much you felt it's panicky beats across your body. In this moment of pure terror and blind panic, you figured and ran madly over any possible opportunity that might save your skin in this seemingly already decided game.

Mind fogged, you still managed to remember the Cattleman Revolver that had remained tucked in the suspender on your thigh. Hand shaking and lurching out fast to grab it, you felt a shadowy sense of harrowing disappointment when Micah's hand grabbed your own and pinned it against your thigh, against the pistol.

"You take me for an idiot, (name)?" he scorned you with a wild and terrifying sarcasm, cocking his head like some demented bird. "I seen that trick many times before." His smirk curled up into a cocky grin.

"I must admit, I didn't think you were the type for things like that..." he whispered into your ear, the feeling of his whispering words tickling against your skin was disgusting.

The more he pinned you, restrained you and growled away with his vile words – it revolted you so much so it was edging you more towards finding the courage to break free – rather than wilt under his toxic presence.

The feeling brewed and brewed, boiling away under the very layers of your skin – forced to listen to every one of Micah's words whilst he amused himself with thinking he had you quashed. Well, he was so very wrong.

From the very ashes, your phoenix came to rise. Lashing out, you shoved the man from your body and soon found yourself in a tangle – Micah's arms around you in a smothering fashion as he tried to smite any of your attempts to fight back.

Your elbow flew backwards when the disgusting excuse for a man clearly thought he had you down on your knees and under his control, and it made a sharp contact straight in the centre of his crotch.

He soon crumbled, groaning out as it was his turn now to fall to the cold dirt beneath his feet. Whilst he was busy gravitating on the painful feeling, you scrabbled upwards to your feet and attempted to make off back to the camp to get the others – violently alarmed when you felt the distinctive iron grip of Micah's hand – this time on your ankle. He had yanked you with every ounce of his might to pull you down, grunting and snarling like some wild beast.

This was turning into such a savage scuffle, as your body met with the crumbling earth on the forest floor. The knock of your head connecting with the ground had made your brain feel as if it was reverberating against the inside of your head, and a ringing sounded loudly in your ears.

Micah used this as his chance to gain his victory, crawling rapidly over the top of your body – pinning your wrists into the ground beneath you.

"You should've just stayed quiet, you goddamn stupid whore-" he reviled you, his tone filled with angry disgust. However you weren't in any mood to let him finish his statement, as you snapped your knee up to connect with his ribs, sending him onto his back.

Quick as a swift fox, you were over him, and the cattleman was snatched from your suspender and ended up gripped firmly in your hand.

Knees in the soil either side of his chest, you scowled down at Micah who looked up at you in surprised alarm.

What a state you were, hair a tangled mess and decorated inelegantly with bits of broken twig and dry leaves. Your usually sweet face was set into a deep scowl of animosity, mud smeared across your temple and right cheekbone, not mention your dress was caked in dirt.

There was an eerie moment of silence where you just knelt there, revolver pointed dead-set at the centre of Micah's forehead. The rodent eyed man beneath you bore an expression of shock, which after a few moments, melded into a dirty laugh. That was rather unfortunate, as you had been hoping he would be silent.

"I had imagined you on top, sweetness-" his tone dripped with twisted chicanery, licking his lips a little. "But not like this- I admit."

Even looking directly down the barrel of a gun – this man seemed unmoved and unphased. Was he that broken that death was no longer any sort of worry?

Your jaw shifted in pure hatred for the man underneath you, you wanted to shoot him right there and then – but you had the feeling Dutch would make sure you met the same fate.

You hated the way Dutch was so overly trusting of Micah. The man seemed no good at all to you.

"You are the most disgusting, dishonest and distasteful man I have ever met." You hissed down at Micah, who was still sneering up at you like this was all some big joke. He either was ignoring the contempt in your voice, or he was that corrupt that it amused him.

"And I'm sure they'll be plenty more jus' like me in this world." Micah replied, gritting his teeth as he narrowed his bluey-green eyes at you.

"But mark my words, you tart," he disgraced you. "You crossed the wrong guy too many times."

You studied the level of anger in his eyes – this was a man you had denied attention, and it had grown to this extreme. Any other guy would move on from the small rejection, but not Micah. He held it close to his chest and then used it to fuel his ever-burning angry fire.

"So don't get too comfortable, because your time here is comin' to an end. And fast." He cautioned you, each word was dripping with a revengeful tone. His toxic projection made you stand up, and step over him, clutching the gun in your hand still with an undying tightness – in case he tried something funny.

You didn't want to argue with this anymore, wind him up further and keep you on here for the rest of the night.

The last glance you took of Micah Bell on that chilling night was the view of him pulling himself up from the dirty, and dusting himself down – the crumbs of clay-like earth flying from his black leather coat.

With the incident happening so close to your tent, and considering you were in a rather isolated position towards the back of the camp – you didn't take your chances – and walked back over to where Arthur's wagon was situated.

With a thunk, you placed the revolver down on the small table beside his bed – listening intently now to still hear his chatter with John, Sean and Javier. In that forest, alone and out of the way – they hadn't been able to hear your scuffles and restraints against the awful Mr Bell. It saddened you a little that you had to go through with all that, because you knew if Arthur had the slightest idea – he would've punched Micah into next week.

You stripped your dirtied dress off and immediately deposited it in with the rest of the washing soaking in that large barrel not too far from where Arthur's little setup was.

You just hoped he didn't mind, as you climbed into his bed that night having stolen a large off-white shirt to sleep in, from his trunk of clothing. Pulling the thin quilt over you, you relished the sense of safety you got from being in his bed At least here, Micah would not try to strike again – knowing the boys were so close by.

You tried to put the night's trauma to the back of your mind, as you closed your eyes and wriggled over to the far side of the bed, leaving enough space for Arthur for when he eventually made his way to bed.

But what troubled you still were Micah's words, that swirled around in your sleepy brain like murky whirlpool...

Was your time really almost up here?

--

Bright chatter and laughter from nearby stirred you from your sleep and you slowly peeled yourself up from the bedroll in your tent. Your rightful bed, which you had moved back into as of 2 days ago.

There had been, so far, four interrupted days of perfect tranquillity and undisturbed happiness. Micah was nowhere to be seen, and you had by now just guessed the words he had spat at you on that night were simply there to frighten you.

A light-hearted joy about your person, you pulled yourself out of bed and dressed in your pretty lilac summer dress to face this wonderful summer's day. From the centre of camp, you could hear elated chattering and sweet laughter. You were keen to get dressed quick to inspect why everyone was laughing and talking so happily.

Wrapped in your lilac dress, you emerged to the centre of the camp with a friendly smile – your eyes immediately drawn to the wide spread of sweet pastries and treats on a table Pearson had brought out from by the wagon. A gentle and subtle frown played on your brows, as you approached the wood-top table to pick yourself out a jam pastry of some kind.

"Those are so good, I think I've eaten about three." Abigail's elated tones sounded from over your shoulder, as you looked back at her with a confused look.

"Do you know exactly why this is here? I mean... we've never had pastries before when I've been here." You asked, peeling a piece of the beautiful golden pastry off and popping it into your mouth. Abigail settled her blue eyes on you, as she leaned her hip against the side of the table idly.

"Oh well... it's little Jack's birthday." She smiled softly, with a quiet tone. Your eyes were wide and flashed over to the sweet Marston boy, who was sat laughing on his Uncle Hosea's lap. You felt dreadful then. "Since we got such a good pay-out from the good's the boys collected from that job the other day, Dutch said it's only right that I get some good stuff in so Jack can celebrate properly."

With a sad expression, you laid your hand on Abigail's shoulder apologetically.

"Abigail... I'm so sorry, I didn't even realise it was Jack's birthday today." You said with a sad tone, glancing back over again at the wonderful little boy – with a heart of gold and a smile with the shine of a huge diamond.

"Hey, don't worry about it. You're here, that's all that matters (name)." Abigail reassured you with the kindest smile. "Jack will just be happy to get a hug from his favourite aunty (name)." her smile settled the bed of worries in the pit of your stomach, and you quickly broke into a smile.

Taking a sweeping glance around the gathering of gang member's for jack's birthday, your heart melted at all the smiles and chuckles that filled the air around you. This almost felt too good to be true, the way that you now felt you had absorbed into the very fibres of the camp like it had always been your home. It sent a pleasant warming straight to the bottom of your stomach.

However, as you looked around, there was one face missing. One your heart searched most for.

"Where is Mr Morgan?" you then asked Abigail with a smile, and her gaze back at you caused you to smirk. "What!?"

"He's out doing his stint watching for anyone comin' through." Abigail advised you, and then covered her smiling mouth with her hand. "And don't play dumb – I heard that you slept in his bed the other night." Her brows cocked up at you teasingly.

Sighing innocently, you collected up an extra pastry, licking the fresh cream from your fingertips.

"It wasn't anything untoward, I just didn't feel safe in my own bed... I had a nightmare about wolves." You dismissed with a nonchalant tone that wouldn't give anything away of what went down with a certain poisonous Micah Bell.

With that, you felt Abigail's smirking gaze on you whilst you wandered off from the thick of the group and down towards the trail that led out of the camp, through the summery patch of forest.

The birds sounded loudly with their sweet summertime songs, and the sun kissed every inch of your skin with welcomed rays – blue sky above as pretty as a picture and as blue as the brightest sapphire. These dreamy thoughts carried your little feet as you wandered into the shade of the green-leafed canopy- the trees standing tall like great, wise giants.

You didn't have to walk for much longer, earth and twigs cracking under foot as you spotted Arthur's figure stood there, armed with his Lancaster rifle, his back to you currently as his eyes were set to the vast landscape on the other side of your secluded camp.

"Good morning." You called out once you were close enough, watching as Arthur's head turned quickly. He looked a little stone-faced at first – but when he saw it was you, a smile instantly appeared on his face, capturing your heart with it's every essence.

"Hey there," he replied, as you wandered to his side, He looked down at you with fond eyes, moving his hand to tenderly cup your face. "You okay?" He asked singularly, an inviting smile on his handsomely rugged features.

Nodding, you handed Arthur the jam and cream filled pastry with a bashful smile. The gunslinger looked at the tasty treat as if it was a piece of unfathomable technology, clearly he was shocked too - the camp never had delicacies like that.

"For Jack's birthday. Seeing as you're out here I figured I'd bring you some so you don't miss out." You added, laying your hand softly to Arthur's arm for a moment. The feather light touch made Arthur smile, and he happily started to tuck into the pastry now it had been explained.

"Jack's birthday, huh? I ain't gonna lie, I forgot." Arthur had sighed, and he sounded disappointed with himself even with a mouthful of food. You cringed a little and resisted the urge to tell him off for talking with his mouth full. Instead you looked out, enjoying the serenity of the patch of forest, peeking through the broad tree trunks and gaining the slightest view of the grounds in the distance.

Nothing was needed to be said, you felt – this was the kind of placid perfection you had dreamed of with such a turbulent start to your life in this country.

Except it seemed it was too idealistic to last...

"Mr Morgan-?" came a voice... through the other side of the trees. "I was told I could find you here..."

The pair of you immediately lashed your gaze around, and Artur immediately dragged you behind himself in a protective fashion, and grabbed his rifle again after having it slung over his shoulder when he'd been enjoying the pastry.

This chap on the other side of the trees was dressed decadently, in a colour scheme of red and black. He was a bald man wearing a black bowler hat, with cold and unemotional dark eyes set deep into his head.

"I am Agent Milton, with the Pinkerton National Detective Agency." The man proclaimed in a factual tone. "And I was wondering whether you may have seen Mr Dutch Van Der Linde recently?" he asked, and you immediately swallowed. You hoped to god this man didn't figure Dutch was literally a few feet away beyond the trees.

Arthur was a rather convincing actor, shrugging as he adjusted his grip on the Lancaster rifle.

"Dutch? No – ain't seen him for months. He ain't been in touch." Arthur replied to the stranger nonchalantly. "We been doin' our own things. I'm just out here tryin' to teach my woman to hunt." He added, and you were glad he was doing the talking – you would've just fallen to pieces if this man had started questioning you.

The man called Milton cocked his brow suspiciously, clocking you stood behind Arthur's broad shoulders.

You were all of a sudden locked in this man's brutal stare, hearing crunches of movement in the forest behind yourself but you didn't focus due to the intensity of this criticising gaze from the Pinkerton chap.

The man cocked his head, a sceptical and musing look – like he was sizing you up. Either way, or he had recollected you. Both scenarios made you tremble a little in your boots.

"Say... didn't you used to ride with those O Driscoll's?" Mr Milton asked you suddenly, to which you quickly declined, stammering over your words.

"No! No – I never – they had taken me-"

It was lucky Arthur was there, as he very quickly stepped in to stop your spilling any details to this Pinkerton out of sheer panic.

"Dutch ain't here. Now you better get lost." Arthur stated, taking a few steps forwards and making a point of clutching the rifle tighter. The pressing look in Arthur's eyes was not to be argued with, and it seemed this time that the Pinkerton didn't fancy getting into a fight he knew he could not win on his own.

"Very well. I expect you will see me again." Milton responded, still level-headed in his tone as he made his way back over to his appaloosa horse. Arthur didn't dare turn his back until he saw the Pinkerton had ridden off over the hill, and disappeared into the distance.

The ordeal had rather shook you up – feeling so interrogated by that man. You didn't know why it set you into such unease... something just didn't feel right, like that heavy oppressing darkness in the air before a storm.

"It all makes sense now!" A dramatic voice boomed from behind you, causing both yourself and Arthur to turn around fast. Lounging casually against the tree trunk, leg propped up and hands in his pockets – Micah.

Where had he even come from? You were certain he'd all but disappeared from camp these past few days! Either that, or he had been biding his time out of your way – like a snake, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

Before either yourself or Arthur could find a perfect retaliation, Micah strode forwards and snatched your arm roughly – the sharpness and heavy-handedness took you by painful surprise and you let out a yell. Unsurprisingly, Arthur was infuriated by Micah's move.

"Goddamnit – you let go of her now, Micah!" Arthur shouted, but Micah was already dragging you up the natural slant of the forest ground up to camp. Next thing you knew, Micah's other arm extended out past your face, and he was clutching his gun – aiming straight at Arthur – clearly warding him off.

"Don't be dumb, Cowpoke." Micah snarled like a mangey dog, lip curling savagely. "I think your lady needs to have a chat with Dutch about what her real intentions here are."

Crying out loudly, you struggled like a fish out of water whilst Micah dragged you into the centre of camp like some bloody animal. This was so horrible, you felt like a speculation – and how dare Micah make such a scene at young Jack's little birthday party.

Everyone at camp gasped loudly the moment Micah tossed your body to the floor. Arthur hadn't been very far behind him, trying to work out a way he could grab you without getting shot. Your sweetheart looked down at you with frightened, childlike eyes. A look you had never seen on Arthur, and something that sent a harrowing pang of realisation through your chest. It was a look that seemed to spell the pain of a man who saw that he couldn't protect you from everything.

The sun-bleached grass under your hands was slightly prickly against your skin, as you attempted to pull yourself up. Looking around, you searched the faces of the camp members who looked on in utterly confused awe.

"Micah – what the hell?" Lenny boomed, stepping forwards to offer you his hand, to pull you up. Oh Lenny... darling Lenny. You always had respect for him, a real man of integrity... as far as outlaws went.

Before your shaking arm could reach out to grasp Lenny's hand, Micah stood in front of you- shoving Lenny hard in the chest.

"You all chose not to believe me!" the deranged idiot cried, "I just seen a Pinkerton turn up... recognised this harlot as an O Driscoll." There was such menace in his nasally voice that made you cry out in frustration.

"I am not a fucking O Driscoll!" you cried out, trying to pull yourself up again but Micah put a boot on your back. From this angle, the side of your face pressed into the grass – you looked up desperately to Arthur, who was looking at you with an urgency.

"She ain't no O Driscoll, Micah. You know it. Let her up." Arthur's voice was reasonably calm, probably because he of all people knew not to give Micah a reason to explode.

However Mr Bell only shoved his boot harder in your back, and you whimpered loudly at the pressure. Arthur's face now crumpled into a hateful snarl.

"Oh Arthur, I wish I could ignore the truth like you." Micah cooed patronizingly, pouting sarcastically in an irritating manner as he cocked his head at Arthur. "But I ain't blinded by her whorish ways."

Kicking you harshly, you rolled onto your side whilst your ears listened faintly over the sound of your thudding heart, to Micah's heavy-footed steps as he paced slowly about the group.

"Just think, Dutch." Micah started, with an annoying factual tone about his voice that almost always won Dutch over. Your heart tremored in your chest, knowing you really were in danger.

"Ever since this girl got here, there's been O Driscoll's almost every other day skulkin' around camp." Micah started, and you watched on in horror at the expression on faces you had so not wanted to see.

Everyone looked as if they were piecing sense together... on Micah's convenient lies.

"She comes here... befriends the easiest guy..." Micah scoffed, and you saw Arthur's fists ball tightly. You weren't sure how he had not shot Micah yet, probably because he was fearful of what Dutch would do.

Arthur was almost too loyal to Dutch, as it seemed even when you were under persecution – he was waiting it out for as long as possible so as to rule out upsetting the mighty Dutch.

"... Learns about our plans, all our jobs... knows where we keep our money." Micah tailed off, by now you had your eyes tightly shut in hopes it would take you far away from the terror of this reality.

"Don't you see? I warned you all. She's been playin' us like a fiddle. All this will be reported back to Colm, Dutch." Micah's tone was horribly hopeful, and you could tell by the look on Dutch's face – that he had taken this bait and was hooked on Micah's every syllable.

"I..." Dutch started, low voice rumbling and his dark eyes trailed off the ground. He was looking in your direction, but not looking at you – his gaze appeared to be looking right through you.

"Dutch!" Arthur pressed, stepping forwards as he crouched down beside you. "You ain't gonna believe this goddamn slippery rat, are you?" Arthur snapped, his hand resting on your hip. You by now had lost all faith, Dutch's distant gaze said everything. You were as good as done. Your fate was sealed by a potent lie.

"I can't... I can't take no chances." Dutch cleared his throat, looking up. "It all seems to make sense."

Hearing the words felt like the man himself was driving a stake right through your heart.

"She needs to leave, right now." Dutch's face was folding into a frown. "Get her out of my sight."

Micah dived in to haul you up from the ground by your hair, the roughness on his fist in your locks made you scream in agony, along with the futile frustration you felt.

"I am not a spy!" you cried out, one last effort hoping to win your case. "Why would I do this!? I have nothing else to live for if I lose you guys! Why would I hurt any of you!?" you screamed, the sounds of your voice so raw were absolutely heart breaking to Arthur. His movements were skittish, restless – as he rubbed his hands over his face and desperately figured what he could do to make this nightmare end.

"D-Dutch-" Arthur fumbled, tailing after the decadently dressed gang leader. "She... she ain't a spy... Micah... he's lying." Arthur tried to persuade Dutch as he followed him across the camp. Dutch didn't even bother to look back, as he made a definitive path back to the safety of his tent whilst the chaos blazed in the camp like a wild fire.

"She's used you Arthur, just like she wanted to." Dutch said, his back to Arthur still whilst he walked to the far side of his tent and stared out at the view to avoid gazing at the man who viewed as a son. "Micah is right... it was all so obvious, right in front of us... we just couldn't see past the sweet fragility of a pretty young girl."

Arthur growled to himself in anger, storming back towards Micah who was still trying to drag you across the camp by your hair. Morgan had decided now there was no use in talking to Dutch when he was so blindly under Micah's virulent spell.

Strong hands laying on Micah's scrawny shoulder, Arthur wrenched the rat from you and shoved him aside.

"You get off her goddamn." Arthur hissed, pulling you into his arms. In that moment of relief, you scanned the bewildered and terrified faces around you, some – like Abigail – watched on in utter sadness, big eyes wide like saucers and filled with crystal tears. However, some looked at you in contempt, clearly figuring Micah's story was too sensical not to be true – when in reality, it was all just a horrible coincidence of some kind that Mr Bell had spun into this wonderful persuasive tale.

Seeing some of the people you had liked a lot – staring at you with such a cold glare, was so earth shattering to experience. Javier and Bill were some of the faces who looked most stormy... and these were men who usually questioned Micah. Not today, it seemed.

"Get her out of here Arthur." Bill ordered, his tone indicated that if you didn't leave – you would most likely be shot.

A whimper of desperation left you, and you wrestled in Arthur's grasp. This painful event, you didn't wish it to be true.

"Sure..." Arthur sighed, holding you tightly as he forcefully walked you along. Along the way, he grabbed Boxer's reigns and walked the pair of you right to the edge of the camp, out of sight of the others. Already you could hear conflicted chatter of utter shock and sadness, but also furious snaps from the men who believed Micah's story that you were some horrible siren sent to destroy the gang.

Releasing his tight hold of you, Arthur then grabbed your shoulders, turning you to face him. Your face was stained red with tears, eyes bloodshot and glassy. You could see the look of misery in his expression that he was having to do this.

Within a moment, the gunslinger had pulled you back into his arms – and you crushed yourself against his chest, burying your teary face against the material of his dark grey shirt.

"Arthur-" you wailed shakily. If you had to leave, where would you go?

Most importantly – you feared so highly that this was it... you would never see the love of your life ever again.

Now this absolutely terrifying thought sent your chest once again into panicky breaths, unable to catch a single gasp of air whilst your heart rattled madly in your chest. Arthur pressed a few kisses to your face, trying to calm you down.

"You have to go." Arthur's voice was wavering, and as he pulled back to look at you, his storm blue eyes were now also wet with tears like your own. "If... If I don't send you away, they'll have you shot." He tried to steady himself with a deep breath.

For a second time he dragged you into his arms, holding you tightly in his strong arms in what was seemingly the final moments. He rested his ashy-brown stubbled cheek against your hair, eyes closed tightly to stop the tears that were imminent to fall. He ever rarely got upset by things – but part of it all was the frustration that what he feared most was happening... He was losing you.

Pulling away, he knew he was losing time fast – he needed to get you safely away from camp before someone was allowed to send a bullet your way.

Double checking Boxer's tack, Arthur hastily gave you a leg-up onto the shire's back. You weakly sat yourself in the saddle, body wracked with exhaustion from the toll of all that had just happened. At this point you felt like just letting yourself fall off somewhere in the wild and succumb to those wolves.

"Here... You take all this, get yourself somewhere safe okay?" Arthur urged, taking a thick wad of cash from his satchel and immediately depositing it in Boxer's saddle bag. The outlaw looked up and searched your sad, empty eyes.

"W... when you get settled... you write to me straight away okay? You know the alias to write to?" he reaffirmed with you, and you nodded feebly, feeling a sickness rising in your stomach at the fact the gang you felt you were a part of had so quickly turned their backs on you.

"I will come and find you when I talk some sense into Dutch." Arthur reassured you, taking one of your hands off the reigns to hold it tightly. Your clutch was shaky in his grasp, feeble and weak like a frightened child.

"Everyone will know the truth, I will make sure of it." Arthur whispered finally, and let go of your hand reluctantly. "Now go..." his voice was breaking at what he was facing, and he laid a hand across Boxer's rump – as the shire immediately shot into a marching trot.

Bobbing about unsteadily on the back of the horse, you gazed back in devastation at Arthur. It was clear he was just as upset as you, but was forcing himself to hold it in.

However, you did not have that concern. Your chest caved in once more as the agony of another wave of tears engulfed you. How you cried as Boxer carried you off, in a direction you were not sure.

With nothing on your person apart from the clothes on your back and whatever money Arthur had given you – you now had to find somewhere to get settled. This big wide, world – the land of the free, was quickly becoming the land of the ruthless. Everything that had been set up for you here, had been snatched away so cruelly.

For minutes more, you let the tears flow and the wails emit from your body like a new born baby, it felt better to expel the horrible pressure in your chest cavity caused by all this pain.

Following this, you felt slightly more capable of setting a path – and you had some idea that you had to get as far away as possible from the camp, lest risk being punished by a bullet.

And through that cold, starry night – yourself and Boxer galloped miles and miles of weathered and rough landscape, following signpost after signpost, passing train after train – until the air became thicker with a smog and there was a present sound of work in the air.

At early sunrise, your bitterly dry eyes were met with the view of a new world. Factory chimneys high and proud, buildings constructed of bricks and standing as solid as a stubborn horse. Carriages rolled past you without a second thought, carrying the country's busier and more important folk about.

In front of you laid the most decadent sign yet, a detailed picture depicting only joy, prosperity and opulence.

Saint Denis.