'It hurts to love you,
But I still love you.
It's just the way I feel.
I'd be lying, if I kept hiding;
The fact that I can't deal.'

-

Over the months that had passed, Arthur's feelings for you had not changed at all.

His feelings towards all that had happened... also remained fixed as certain as the sun would rise on a new day.

Following the scare of the O Driscoll's and the Pinkertons around the camp, Dutch had ordered the camp to pack up and leave Horseshoe Overlook – in search of somewhere new to 'lay low' for a while.

Every single day, Arthur had ached for you. The recall of you hit him like a blow to the face from a heavy weight boxer. He seemed to see you in everything, the prettiest, daintiest flowers – to the way the sun shone through the trees on a particularly picturesque morning. How he wished things had been different, how he wished he had just put a bullet in Micah's brain when the moment arose – and not worried about what Dutch had thought.

Since the incident where you had been exiled from camp, the gang leader and his new found friend were inseparable. Things that Dutch used to go to Arthur and Hosea for, he now went immediately to Micah. It both angered and perplexed Arthur, he had been a part of Dutch's life for going on 20 years – and yet Micah showed up just over a year beforehand and already had Dutch eating out of his hand like a prize pig? Arthur hadn't been sure of it all.

The Gunslinger had been incredibly distant, especially on the long travel between Horseshoe Overlook and the next camp, wherever that may've been. Slumped in the saddle way at the back of the convoy, Arthur had Phantom on a long rein, plodding idly and making it his priority not to speak to anyone if he could help it.

It was as if the dark, turbulent cloud from his life before you had returned to hang over him again – casting nothing but miserable, rainy spells. Of course, Arthur conversed with the members of the camp he had always counted as close – Abigail, little Jack, Hosea etc... but he rarely uttered more than a few words to anyone who seemed to be following Micah in leading Dutch down a shadowy path.

-

Autumn had set in, scattering crisp golden and burgundy leaves across the camp. The gang had been settled in their new home for a few weeks, it was a pleasant enough place by a big lake, with muggy, soupy air that felt hot and sticky despite the arrival of autumn. It was just outside of a rather quaint little town by the name of Rhodes, and already Dutch was coming up with some rather deadly plan to play the town's two rival families against each other. Unfortunately, Arthur knew he would be forced to have some part to play in it.

Except for one quiet Saturday morning. A blissful day, with tepid air and a bright score of sunshine glimmering sweetly across the faint rippling waves of the lake.

Back against a tree trunk, Arthur had been sat in the grass of a small hill that overlooked the camp to the left, and the lake to the right. It was a perfect spot for him to get some time alone, to think and to write.

Pencil in hand and worn leather hat tipped slightly into his eyes, Arthur had been sketching a face he was trying so heavily to treasure and keep memorised in his mind forever, fearful he would not get to look upon said face ever again.

You.

Like sweet, sticky honey – you had glued yourself into his thoughts. Arthur was finding it rather frustrating thinking about you all day and night, wondering about you and wishing for you to be back in his arms.

His wintery blue eyes lazily traced the page as his hand carefully sketched out the details of your face. He had many sketches of you in his journal, ones of you doing just about anything – from brushing the horses, to laying in his bed that time you had crept in – to just stills of your face. Arthur happened to be detailing a side profile sketch of you that second, and he took so much time and care making sure to capture every detail.

His heart ached for those sad fifteen minutes, before the outlaw moved onto the right page and began to scribble an entry:

It ain't getting any easier. Hosea told me in time it will be easier, but it ain't true.

She's been gone four months now, not a trace left behind. No letters, no signs – no nothing. I worry myself sick thinking something has happened to her.

A trickle of tears began to brim at Arthur's eyes which he quickly wiped away, trying to hold it together in case one of the gang snuck up on him like they seemed to like doing.

I just wish I had stepped up when she needed me too. It hurts so much to love her like this when she ain't around here anymore. I can't keep lying to myself, hiding the fact that I am finding it hard to deal with stuff whilst she's not around.

Nothing anyone seems to say makes it easier. I do take comfort in the fact some of the others miss (name) too. Abigail always speaks so highly of her, she really did love (name)'s company. But aside from that, it's either slandering from Micah or spiteful comments from Bill. It just proves how dumb they are.

I just hope I can find (name) again one day. I just want her to be safe and well, I don't know what I'd do if I found out any harm came to her.

Closing the book silently, Arthur let the journal fall down into the off-green grass beside himself and stared miserable out across the lake with these empty eyes which spelled a broken man who had lost far too much.

There were lots of times he felt he could've just cried, and this was one of them. Arthur was never a man to show any signs of emotional distress or weakness, all his previous soul destroying knock-backs had hardened him as far as he was concerned – but perhaps this was had just pushed him that bit too far.

He hadn't ever expected to care for you as much as he did, never in a million years.

You were just some kid, a rescue who would be a short term guest until she got back on her feet...

Staring out dazedly, Arthur sunk back into his memories of the times gone by...

---

Like a band of heroes, the three outlaws galloped back to camp at lightning speed.

You had been clutched fearfully to the tan leather jacket of the rider in front of you, whilst you sat worriedly on the back of his horse. You had had no idea of the place you were being taken too, as far as you were concerned – these men could be just as lethal as those horrible brutes who had you before.

"Miss Grimshaw!" the dark haired man on the small grey horse had called, gesturing his hand about. "Could you fetch a blanket please? Miss Jackson, could you please kindly get a cup of coffee going?"

The horses had slowed in the middle of the darkened area, and you felt sick with the lack of grounding you felt. Ever since arriving in America, you had had no roots, just constantly dragged from here, there and everywhere in screaming reluctance.

Your (eye colour) eyes darted around in the dark, making out the shapes around you. Tents? Wagons? Even in the falling shadows you could make out the rising plumes of a smoky campfire.

In front of you, the man who had been the one to 'rescue' you dismounted from his steed with one swing of the leg over the saddle, swiftly landing with a thud on the ground. Shivering on the back of his horse, you watched as he held a hand out to you. The way you looked at him must've been with complete feral fear. In the low light, you watched the man's expression soften.

"Don't worry, miss. We ain't gonna hurt you." His voice was gentle. You cautioned yourself once more that things weren't always as they seemed, and hesitated a moment longer. The man could see you wavering between you worried thoughts.

"We ain't gonna hurt you like them, miss." He added, furthering offering his hand.

There was a gentle look of nothing but modesty in his eyes when you had forced yourself to look harder, and dared you enough to take his hand and lapse away from your guard. Part of you was just so exhausted from being bound to that chair and then racing over every possible thought going through your brain. The exhaustion was so much that you questioned whether you should even care anymore, was life really worth living anyway? If these men did decide you hurt you – you would just simply ask them to kill you, and put you out of your misery.

Taking the stranger's hand, you allowed him to help you down from the horse's back. He held you carefully, but tightly still. Something about the grip he had on you indicated some form of security... and safety.

"What's her name?" an older lady with a big brown bun sat atop of her head said, walking over to you with a big thick blanket. Eyes were expectantly on you now, as the warming item was wrapped around your slight shoulders. With big, childlike eyes, you scanned the group of unfamiliar faces around you.

"M-my... my name is (name) (surname)." You croaked, the hoarseness of your voice seemed to cause a level of pity from the glances around you, whilst a pretty young girl of a similar age to you handed you a distained metal cup containing a hot coffee.

The man with a seemingly big ego and even louder voice put his arm around you, beginning to guide you away from the circle of people who had been staring at you inquisitively.

"You need to get some rest, miss." He had said, his voice low and growly almost. His steps ground to a halt all of a sudden, causing you to jar a little and the coffee to slosh violently in the cup. "Arthur! Get over here!" he then shouted.

Arthur. So that was his name.

Your saviour came wandering over promptly to the raven-haired man, nodding his head softly in acknowledgement of the beckoning call.

"Yes Dutch?" the man called Arthur enquired, his icey blue eyes darting between yourself the man called Dutch.

"Would you mind showing this fine young lady to the back tent? I need to speak to Hosea." Dutch had ordered, and like a little parcel you were passed over in the direction of Arthur.

You had to admit, the man did look a little uncomfortable.

"This way..." Arthur had said, and led the way, walking a little in front of yourself as he made a path through the various tents and wagons towards a neat little camped out area. There was a small bedroll on the ground and some quilts. It wasn't a palace, but it certainly was a damn sight greater than a rickety old kitchen chair and some rope.

He had seen you safely into the tent that night with your coffee and blankets, and left you to it. Inside Dutch's tent, there was a tepid warm glow. Hosea was sat on the chair in the corner by the door, and Dutch was stood by his gramophone, looked deep in thought as Arthur wandered into the gang leader's domain.

"I, uh, seen she made it to her tent." Arthur started nonchalantly, earning a grateful smile from Dutch.

"Thank you, son," he replied, crossing his arms over his chest. "Did she seem a little better? Poor thing, them O Driscoll's really must've shook her up." He said in a pitiful tone, as Arthur nodded in slow agreement.

"Sure, it ain't nice for anyone to have to deal with." He had said, leaning against one of the support beams that held Dutch's tent up. "How long is the kid gonna be with us, d'ya think?" Arthur pressed Dutch with a curious expression.

"We'll figure something out." Dutch said in that tone of voice he used when he had some great plan. "She may have family out here, or somethin'. We'll let her decide."

Hosea and Arthur shared a confused glance between one another. The gang was struggling as is with the amount of mouths to feed, surely one more is not what they needed.

"You sure about this?" Hosea had asked with a look of worry on his face. These days he mostly panicked over the welfare of everybody, he had really become the great father figure In the group.

Dutch's glance seemed to narrow, and was there hint of a smile on his face.

"I'm sure – you never know, this might be fate." The leader added, a self-assured chime to his low tones.

-

Those words had always stuck with Arthur since the rather rocky start to his relationship with you. He had felt Dutch had been right about you that night, and your rescue had been fate.

Reflecting on that night, Arthur found himself drawn back into reality with a painful pressure in his chest. A part of him longed to stay buried in his memories forever, that way he could be there with you for all eternity.

Tipping his hand down further in his eyes, and slumping more relaxed against the tree – the gunslinger wished for his peaceful escape to last forever. Closing his eyes, he listen to the twittering of the birds, the gentle washing sounds of the lake's water, and the ambient whirring of the wind's breath through the wilting trees around him.

Drifting into dreams, he had been so happy to envisage your darling face once again.

-

A/N: Sorry this is a little boring/short. I had wanted to do two chapters, one for your perspective of life after being kicked out of the camp and then this one for Arthur. It's just to explore the feelings of both yourself and Arthur through what is such a difficult time!

I promise the plot for the remainder of the story will be back on track and be the focus in the next chapters 😊