Annabelle. There wasn't a day that went by when he didn't think of her. She was his first lover, the only woman he truly loved, taken from him by Colm O'Driscoll. The bitterness of her passing never left his heart. Miss Grimshaw wasn't enough, and Molly sure wasn't either. However, he was beginning to realize you were. You were just like her. You were kind, smart, loyal. You were exactly like his Annabelle, and it drove him crazy.

After another fight with Molly about his loyalty to her, Dutch stormed out of the tent in frustration, muttering to himself and lighting a cigar as he walked to the edge of camp. That's when he spotted you sitting all alone, humming to yourself while you sewed and fixed up a few tears on one of your dresses. He thought to himself for a moment, resting his hands on his hips before ultimately deciding to approach you. He cleared his throat quietly, sitting down on a log beside you as he put out his cigar, tossing the remains out somewhere in the grass.

"Coulda bought a new one," he spoke up, referring to the dress you were patching up, "Or stolen one. Whichever."

He shrugged as he watched you, taking in your gentle expression, the precision in your hands and actions, the beauty you held rivaled every girl in camp.