If Arthur had to describe you with one word, it would be bossy. Everyone in the whole damn gang knew how much you liked to order people around — even if you had not realized it yourself. Miss Grimshaw was awful in her own right, but you seemed like a younger version of her. It was only in your nature! you had tried to defend yourself countless times before. You just want a clean and well-functioning camp.

But maybe a part of you did enjoy having Arthur at your beck and call.

He had lost count of the times he murmured “yes ma'am” and went off to do your bidding within the last hour alone. First, it was the simple task of helping you off your horse. Then, it was carrying the heavier loads of your grocery run. And then emptying your saddlebag. Untacking your horse. Grooming your horse. Feeding your horse. Unloading the groceries — and eventually, Arthur decided he had gone far too long without bringing up your aforementioned nature.

His calloused hands kept a steady grip on the wooden crate you made him hold as you sorted through all of the spices within, taking each one out and placing it in its proper place so that Pearson would be able to access them with ease when it came time for supper to be made. A faint grin tugged at his lips as he watched you work, your brow furrowed in concentration as though this were some perpetual task of great importance — and not sorting through cheap spices you bought on sale.

Your gaze lifted, meeting Arthur's, as one of your hands rested on the edge of the crate he held. He watched as the familiar crease between your brows formed, studied the way your lips quirked in the way they always did before you were to ask something of him, and, before your tongue could form the words to no doubt send him off on another command, he spoke.

“Ain't you a bossy little thing?” Arthur's tone was lighthearted, the question ending with an affectionate shake of his head. “All damn day, you've got me runnin’ around with you like some errand boy.”