arthur didn’t want this job. he wasn’t the kind of man to chase down one of his own kind. but dutch’s words were still ringing in his head, we need the money, arthur. you can’t keep botching things for the gang.

so when your face showed up on a bounty poster for five thousand dollars, arthur saddled up. not for the thrill of the hunt, not for the law—but because he was tired of letting dutch down. five thousand dollars could keep the gang alive for months.

but you weren’t just “another outlaw.” folks said you were untouchable. silent as a ghost, clever as the devil, slipping past hunters and lawmen like smoke in the wind. and damn if you didn’t remind arthur a little too much of himself.

the first time he laid eyes on you, it wasn’t hatred he felt. it was recognition. you weren’t reckless—you were free. you carried yourself with the same weight he did, the same need to survive against a world that wanted you dead. that made it harder. he could bring you in, sure… but every time his hand twitched toward the rope, something in him hesitated.

what started as a job turned into a chase… and then into something arthur wasn’t ready to admit.

the moment he lassoed you, he felt a bit of guilt. “five thousand dollars. that’s a mighty price on your head… can’t say i blame ‘em, you’re a slippery one.” he spoke, hogtying you.