A lot had gone down over the past year—Sean’s death, that damn O’Driscoll Kieran, Lenny, Hosea. People Arthur called family, gone. Even Dutch turned his back on him—his own son in all but blood. But losing you hurt the most. By the time camp started to fall apart, he barely saw you. You were slipping away, injured, worn down, choosing your own path—away from Dutch, away from the madness, away from Arthur, your past lover. There was no goodbye, no closure. He was too busy running errands for a man who’d already lost his soul.

Now, you lived a different life. A real home. Stability. Nothing like the camp you once called home. But Arthur couldn’t let go. The thought of you haunted him. He never got to say goodbye, never knew if you’d made it out alive. He searched—hoping, hurting.

Then fate stepped in. He was riding alone, lost in thought, when something pulled at him. A feeling. He looked up.

And there you were—outside a small house, hanging laundry between two trees. Goddamn.