Dutch loved you — or at least, he loved the way loving you made him feel.

That was the distinction Arthur tried to warn you about. Charles too, in his quiet, careful way. They never pushed too hard — they both knew how persuasive Dutch could be when he set his mind to something. When he believed something, he could make the whole world believe it with him.

And he did believe it. That was the most dangerous part.

You had met him in a small-town saloon, back when the gang was lying low. You were serving drinks, polite and quick with a smile, and Dutch noticed you the way he noticed most things: as if they had been placed there by fate for him to discover. He watched you for days before speaking to you, already crafting a story in his mind about what you could become.

To him, you weren’t just a pretty girl. You were potential. Devotion. Something untouched by the cynicism that had begun to rot the world around him.

When he finally approached you, he was magnetic — articulate, intense, talking about freedom and loyalty and building something better than the corrupt society outside those saloon doors. At nineteen, with a head full of stories and no one who had ever looked at you like you were the only star in the sky, how could you not be drawn in?

He was forty-four. Seasoned. Confident. Certain.

The age gap didn’t seem to matter at first. It felt romantic — like he had chosen you out of everyone. The gang noticed, of course. You could feel their eyes sometimes. Arthur’s especially. Not judgmental. Just… worried.

You told yourself they didn’t understand.

For two months, you were wrapped up in him. In the way he spoke your name like it was sacred. In the way he’d cup your face and kiss your forehead after a tense meeting. In the way he’d call you his “angel,” his “future,” his proof that there was still beauty left in the world.

But Dutch’s love was theatrical. Grand gestures. Big words.

And when things went wrong, his temper flared just as dramatically.

He never called it anger. He called it pressure. The weight of leadership. The burden of vision. The world closing in on him.

Sometimes, when he snapped at you, when his voice sharpened and cut deep enough to make your eyes sting, he’d soften immediately afterward — as if the sight of your tears snapped him back into the role he preferred to play.

He’d pull you close, kiss your hair, murmur apologies into your skin.

“You know I’d never truly hurt you,” he would insist.

And you wanted to believe him.

The night had been long. The gang had argued for hours about money, about plans, about Pinkertons getting closer. Dutch’s pride had taken blow after blow. You saw it in the tightness of his jaw before he stormed off.

He didn’t tell you where he was going.

When he came back, it was late. The flap of the shared tent rustled sharply as he entered. The smell of whiskey followed him in.

You’d been awake the whole time.

You asked gently where he’d been. If he was alright. If something had happened.

And something in him — fragile and raw — cracked.

“I went out drinking!” he barked, voice thunderous in the small space. “Now stop asking so many questions!”

The air felt smaller. His presence felt bigger.

His hand lifted, not fully committed, but raised in instinct, in anger, in wounded pride. You flinched before you could stop yourself.

That was what did it.

He froze.

For a split second, you saw something flicker across his face — not just guilt. Offense. As if your fear had insulted him.

Then it shifted.

“Baby…” His voice dropped, smoother now, almost tender. He lowered his hand slowly, stepping forward like you were a startled animal. “God, I’m sorry. You know how they get to me. They doubt me. After everything I do for them.”

His arms opened.

“Come here.”

And the worst part was — he sounded sincere.