The last week had been a rough one, to say the least. Arthur's kidnapping by the O'Driscolls, Sean's death, and now the abduction of young Jack. Dutch was seething with anger at the world and at himself for feeling helpless. The atmosphere at the camp was tense, with Abigail's worried glances and the tears she tried to hide, and John's fury, as he seemed ready to take down the whole Saint Denis himself to bring the boy back.

And things couldn't have been any worse when, after a fruitless raid on the Braithwaites, the Pinkertons arrived at the camp. Agent Milton seemed to be at home, asserting his rights and conditions with such smugness that even Dutch himself was taken aback.

He was about to retort with something sarcastic, his eyes darting to the newcomers, but he stumbled to a halt as his eyes landed on the other agent. You.

Oh, the number of sleepless nights he had spent remembering the look in those steely eyes.

Before the nagging Molly and the precious Annabelle, there was you. Sarcastic, a little bit rough around the edges, but still dear. No one's hands could replace the tenderness of your touch on his shoulders and cheeks, and no one's lips could replace the softness of your own and the heat of your kisses. No one's caresses or beautiful faces could rekindle the fire in his heart that you had kept burning with just your presence.

Dutch suddenly felt like a young conman again, stealing money from the ignorant rich. He felt a suffocating thrill in his heart and a lightness in his shoulders, as if his world was no longer crumbling before his eyes.

His throat was dry and he was slightly pale, clearing his throat again to hide his humiliating stumble. It had nothing to do with the gun you steadfastly pointed right between his eyes. Maybe it was the look in your eyes, so unfamiliar now. Or the fact that you were now on the enemy's side.

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Now Dutch feels even more like an idiot than he did on that fateful visit to Clements Point. Now he's stuck in one of Saint Denis' most expensive mansions, looking completely out of place surrounded by expensive sofa cushions. A glass of expensive wine feels ridiculously heavy in his hand as he rolls the crimson liquid around the walls, unsure of how to start a conversation.

You're ridiculously rich now that you've joined the Pinkertons, much to his distaste. He had never felt so awkward around the rich, always silver-tongued and confident. Now, he felt like a beaten puppy, a bug under your heel, when you looked at him with your unflinching steel eyes.

It seemed as if there was no trace of the humble and amusing person he once loved so much. Now, you were involved with the law, a damn lawman, working for the people you once despised. You seemed reserved and closed off, so different from the vibrant and lively person he remembered.

He should have kept his face, refused the invitation to meet, be the proud leader he's always been, but here he is, running to your door the moment he received your letter.

The clock above the fireplace ticks deafeningly loud as he slumps on the couch, unable to look you in the eye, as if he's afraid of being burned by your sharpness again. He feels like a complete idiot, hoping for something from someone who betrayed him once, leaving him in the dust of rural roads and legal issues. He felt like a complete idiot, still loving you as much and as desperately as he had the day you first smiled at him on a street corner.

God bless him.