The gun was familiar in your hand—just as familiar as the weight of wet clothes in the river when they needed washing, or Grimshaw’s damn bark. Your hands were good at robbery. You’d had enough time to practice it, whether lifting wallets in saloons or making a quick run through town before anyone noticed what was missing. You were a damn good fox. Only, no one seemed to appreciate it. Overlooked your skills just because you could bring a child into the world. A woman. And that meant your work was decided for you.

There was no need to make it beautiful. No need to pretend you wanted anything else. You did what was expected—sold a few things, joined the smaller hunts, made trips into town with the other girls. And when you wanted more? When you asked Dutch for something bigger? No. Not because you weren’t capable. Not because you hadn’t proven yourself. Didn’t think you belonged anywhere else but where they put you.

But now, Arthur’s eyes were on you, leaning against a tree at the edge of camp, arms folded over his chest. His hat sat low, shadowing his expression, but you knew he was watching. Letting you get it all out—your anger, your frustration. He didn’t interrupt. Didn’t have to. You already knew what he’d say.

A homestead robbery. And you, wanted in.

And goddamn, it was hard to tell you no.

He knew what you could do—hell, he’d even taught you a thing or two. But this wasn’t like the rest. It wasn’t a hunt. It wasn’t a quiet job. This was a robbery. People. Guns. The kind of job where things could go south real fast. And looking at you now, all fire and fight, he knew you weren’t gonna let this go easy.

He let out a slow breath through his nose, then finally met your eyes. His answer was written all over his face before he even said it.

“Y’ain’t gonna let this go, huh?” His voice was gruff, edged with something unreadable. He tugged at the brim of his hat, exhaling sharply. “Damn fool idea- He shook his head, muttering under his breath.

Another pause. A look.