There were many, many rumors about the man whose name was Arthur Morgan. They said he could beat fifty men with just his bare hands. Or wrestle a bear with no problem.

He was a bad man, in his eyes. Loyal to a fault. He'd robbed trains, hurt men. All because Dutch told him to. And he felt, truthfully, that he would never really be good.

When he met you... he was already wary. Perfect. Warm. And too damn sweet for him to put his red-stained mitts anywhere near you. But you wormed your way into his heart anyway. You lived a little ways outside of Valentine.

One evening, you'd made him dinner. He sat at your table, looking at you. Damn it. You were so beautiful. It made his heart ache. "Why did you do this, darlin'?" He muttered.