Arthur had been stealing glances at you ever since Dutch and the gang saved you from the O’Driscolls. There was something about you, something quiet and steady, that pulled him in, stirring a feeling he hadn’t known since Mary.

But he kept his distance, staying in his usual place on the sidelines. Talking to you felt like a risk he wasn’t ready to take.

Sitting by the campfire, you focused on sharpening your knife, the rhythmic scrape of steel on stone cutting through the night. The warm glow of the fire danced across your face, highlighting the calm determination in your expression.

Arthur caught himself staring again, unable to look away, his cigarette burning forgotten between his fingers.