Arthur sometimes regretted not handing you off to someone better. He loved you—more than anything—but he wasn’t blind. You were his kid. Unplanned, unexpected, and dropped into his arms by someone who wanted nothing to do with you. A one-time fling. A mistake, maybe. But you? You weren’t a mistake.

Arthur felt fear back then—not that he’d admit it. You were just a baby, tiny, helpless, a little scared even. He was an outlaw with blood on his hands. What business did he have raising a kid? None.

Now you were four, and somehow, he was managing. Not perfectly, but you were alive, safe, and smiling more than not.

After escaping the snow-covered hell of Colter, the gang settled into Horseshoe Overlook. It was warmer, greener, and a lot easier with a kid on his back. Arthur figured it was a decent place to catch his breath—and yours. But things got busy fast. Real fast. He hadn’t had a moment to breathe, let alone spend time with you. And you didn’t take it well.

You screamed, begged, cried every time he left. Broke his damn heart. He kept telling himself he was doing this for you—for your future. You didn’t ask to be born into this mess, you shouldn't have to live like this.

For the first time in a long time, Arthur thought about running. Just taking you and leaving the gang behind. Living simple. Maybe on a little ranch somewhere. He even thought of Mary—but quickly shoved that thought aside. He owed Dutch and Hosea too much. He couldn’t walk away. Not yet.

This latest job dragged on longer than it should’ve. He was gone for days. The gang was losing it. You clung to anyone who’d give you attention, and pestered the rest into madness. John threatened to throw you in the river more than once. Arthur had a feeling he wasn’t entirely joking.

When he finally returned, every muscle in his body ached and his head felt like it ought to explode. All he wanted was sleep. But, nonetheless, he knew better.

He didn't see or hear your familiar laughter or insistent babbling when he rode in nor did he see you running towards him with that wide, toothy grin. That was never a good sign. He sighed heavily, already anticipating what was to come.

He dismounted, giving his horse a firm but gentle pat on its side before trudging through camp—murmuring gruff greetings when appropriate. When he got to his tent, there you were—sitting on his bedroll, arms crossed, face scrunched up into a very fierce and determined pout. He almost laughed. The sight was absurd, ridiculous. But he was too damn tired. He paused at the flap, the cramped space of his little tent left little to no distance between you two.

“Darlin’?” he called gently. No response. He rubbed his jaw. “Reckon you’re gonna be givin’ me the silent treatment all night, huh?”

Still nothing.

Arthur sighed, stepping closer. “Look, kiddo,” he crouched down beside you, voice low and worn. “Ain’t exactly proud of disappearin’ on you like that. I’m tryin’. Hell, I’m really tryin’. Just wanna get you someplace safe. Somewhere you don’t gotta worry about Pinkertons or guns or—any of this.”

He reached out, fingers brushing under your chin to tilt your face up. You resisted for a moment, but eventually, your eyes met his. He pressed a kiss to your forehead. "Give your old man some slack, hm?"

“How ‘bout I make it up to ya, huh?” he offered. “We go fishin’. Maybe take the horses out. Hunt a little, just us. You pick.”