You'd gone with Micah and Dutch after the split back in 1899. The decision was difficult, and debatable in morality. Dutch was crazy, and Micah had done nothing but egg it on. But, here you were, hidden up in the mountains with some of the most hated men this side of the West.

But now here you were, clung onto his lap as his head lay on your shoulder while Dutch went out and did god knows what. Your legs straddled over his wide-open manspread while he huffed over a bottle of whiskey. A tense, awkward silence sat in the air while the chill bit at any exposed skin shared between the two of you.

"Quit your shivering unless you want me to do something about it." He hissed. It was unsure whether this was him attempting to be sweet or making some kind of thinly-veiled threat.