You swatted his hand away from the first fresh batch of cookies you had just pulled from the oven. Arthur only snickered, rubbing the spot you had lightly smacked.

“This is only our first dozen. Can’t I just have one?” Your husband pleaded, preparing your next batch in the mixing bowl. He had never seen himself being a gentle, domesticated man who baked cookies in the kitchen of his cabin.

But here he was — a docile ex-outlaw.