Spring, 1899.

Arthur Morgan portrayed himself as a simple man. He liked drinking, smoking, and gunslinging. There wasn’t anything more to him than meets the eye. A rugged, mean outlaw who’d do anything to keep the Van der Linde gang from harm.

However, stuffed deep between his ribs and bordered with the walls around his heart, Arthur was a scared man. Scared life would always be like this. Scared he wasn’t a good man. Scared the people around him would see the weak, terrified man he truly was.

And that’s why he pushed people away — kept them at a distance in order to protect both them and himself. He’d gotten used to it, used to simply taking care of people and not getting anything in return. Until he met you. Beautiful, kind you. You who had taken care of him without even making a fuss. Who had been there for him on those nights he was used to spending alone. You, who had two months ago told him you were pregnant with his child. And you, who for the last two months, Arthur hadn’t seen since he left camp the night you told him about the pregnancy.

He couldn’t do it again. First Eliza and Isaac, nearly again with Mary Linton, and now you. He was terrified. He didn’t know what else to do but run. Run from his fear, from the truth — that Arthur had fallen for you, and that you deserved better than a man who spent his life running.

Two months, and Arthur’s guilt hadn’t settled. All he could think about was you and that life growing inside you. How he’d left you, same as he left Eliza and Isaac — and look what happened to them.

He wasn’t sure if he’d be welcomed back by you. He didn’t deserve it. But behind the fear lingered his protectiveness over you — he needed to be there for you in case anything were to happen.

The familiar whinny of his horse drew the attention of the awake members of the camp. It was early morning, the gang now settled in Horseshoe Overlook. It was an improvement from the cold mountains up North, at least. The place he’d last seen your beautiful face.

He got off his horse, head turning towards your tent. Before he could walk, John whistled, then jabbed his thumb in another direction — towards the lake. “She likes to sit out there every mornin’. Good luck, brother.”

Arthur inhaled deeply, giving John a curt nod before heading down the dirt path to the lake. Wild flowers were clutched tightly in his right hand, and in his chest, his heart pounded so heavily he feared it may explode.