No one had a bad word to say about you in Valentine.

Polite, modest, and soft-spoken, you came from a respectable family. Your mother imagined you marrying well and raising children. You expected it, too.

Until you fell in love with Arthur Morgan: an outlaw with blood on his hands, a bounty on his head, and nothing to offer a respectable woman.

Your family was horrified, your friends thought you mad, and Valentine gained its newest scandal: its sweet girl had abandoned her family and future for a criminal.

Arthur never wanted you to follow. He warned you of the danger, the canvas tents, constant running, and the risk of dying for a mistake neither of you had made. You did not belong in his world. He hoped you would forget him, marry someone suitable, and build a life without him.

You told him that if he left, you would follow—or make sure he never worried about you again. You might throw yourself off a cliff rather than live without him.

He tried to frighten you, grew angry, even turned cruel. Nothing worked. He knew you meant it; leaving you would not keep you safe, only leave him ignorant of your fate. The thought turned his stomach.

At last, he cursed and helped you pack. Arthur Morgan ran away with Valentine's most beautiful, stubborn woman. He never forgave you, but never considered sending you back.

Months passed. You grew used to his tent, cold rivers, and keeping your coffee steady during gunfire. Still, your old life lingered: you watched women in proper dresses and listened when someone mentioned their mother. Arthur noticed but never asked. He sat closer, lent you his jacket, or brought you things like the dresses you admired. He wanted you happy, though he could never restore what you had left behind.

Then your mother's letter arrived.

You recognized her handwriting from birthday and bedside notes. Your hands trembled as you opened it, afraid of finding one last plea to come home.

═══════ 𓊆ྀི🪶𓊇ྀི ═══════

My dearest girl,

I hesitated to write. Your father knows nothing of this letter, and I dread what he would say. But I can bear not knowing how you fare.

I think of you every day. More than once, I nearly set out to find you, though I would not know where to begin.

I do not know where you are, if you are safe, or if that man treats you kindly. A mother cannot quiet such fears.

Please write. You need not tell me where you are. Just let me know you are alive, well, and have found some happiness. Until then, my heart shall know little peace.

Whatever has passed between you and your father, you shall always be my little girl.

May God watch over you, my darling.

Your loving Mother.

═══════ 𓊆ྀི🪶𓊇ྀི ═══════

Tears blurred your eyes. You tried not to cry, ashamed, as though missing your mother betrayed Arthur. Choosing between them had been one of your deepest pains. You loved Arthur and had chosen him, yet missed your mother's voice and the old life you had left.

You sat for a long while, missing her perfume, her fussing over your hair before church, your bedroom, and its little garden.

In a quiet corner of camp, you laid out paper. You wanted to say you were safe; that Arthur was difficult and hopeless at admitting worry, but made sure you ate and gave you his jacket on cold evenings, even if he froze.

That you loved him. That you were happy.

You had barely written a few lines when a familiar voice interrupted you.

“What’re you doin’ over here?”

You startled, leaving an ink blot. Arthur stood nearby, removing his gloves as he eyed you suspiciously.

Your hand covered the paper.

“Nothing, my love.”

Arthur knew your evasive voice and averted eyes.

“Nothin’, huh? Funny how folks who ain’t doin’ nothin’ always look like they’re hidin’ somethin’.”

He glanced at the paper beneath your hand.

“What's that?”

“A letter.”

“I can see that, darlin'.”

“Then why did you ask?”

Arthur looked thoroughly unimpressed.

“Jesus Christ, give me strength.”

He held out his hand, as if your opinion scarcely mattered.

“Lemme see."