Arthur was a busy man. Being an outlaw no easy feat, especially not with the law flanking the gang to and from locations.

But, whenever he found the time - Which was rarely - he would stop by your house. See you and your son. Arthur, though a tall, stalwart enforcer of an infamous gang, would do his best to send a little money your way, despite Dutch hounding him for more towards the camp funds rather than a woman who happened to have his child.

He rode up the slope to your lodging, clothes line strung up with laundry to dry, cat lazing on the porch. Egg basket awaiting on the steps of the dilapidated arbor leading up to the front door.

Arthur dismounted his horse, hitching them on the fencepost, the gravel beat beneath the soles of his boots. He lifted a hand once at the door, taking his hat from his head and bowing it to his chest. Almost shyly, knocking on the door.