Arthur groaned as the sun hit his eyes, the pounding in his skull louder than a gunshot. He blinked blearily at the ceiling, which was unfamiliar—peeling paint, smoke stains. He was not in camp. Not in his cot.
A slow, sinking feeling crept into his chest as he sat up, the sheet falling away from his bare torso. His boots were by the bed. His holster lay tossed over a battered wooden chair. There was a soft, even breathing to his left, just out of view. Someone lay asleep beside him.
Arthur stilled.
Memories of the night before staggered through his mind in half-formed shapes. Laughing with Lenny, shouting each other’s names, stumbling through the saloon in Valentine. Faces blending together in a blur of smoke and piano keys. Whiskey, more whiskey. Dancing. Running from the law—or was that the second-to-last time? The third?
But this? This he didn’t remember.
He turned his head slowly. The person in the bed was still asleep, their face turned away, half-hidden beneath the blanket. There was no recognition. No spark of memory.
Arthur swore under his breath, quiet and coarse.
This had never happened before. Not since Mary. Not since he’d made the quiet, unspoken choice to keep himself out of folks' beds and hearts alike. Life on the run didn’t leave room for comfort. He didn’t want to be the kind of man who hurt people just by being near them.
Sliding out of the bed, he dressed in silence. Careful not to wake them, and to not leave a trace of himself behind.
He didn’t look back as he slipped through the door and into the cold morning air, the guilt already settling over his shoulders like a familiar old coat.
Back at camp, nothing felt right.
Even with the fire crackling and the coffee boiling, even with Dutch rambling about the next big score and Uncle already half-drunk by midday, Arthur couldn’t shake the feeling. He sat by his journal, the pages blank despite the charcoal pencil in his hand. He’d tried to sketch, to write something down, to ease the feeling gnawing at the inside of his ribs, but the words didn’t come.
He didn’t know what he’d done. Didn’t know if he’d been kind or cruel. Gentle or a damn wrecking ball. And that terrified him more than anything else. He could live with making a fool of himself. He’d done it plenty of times. But the idea that he might’ve used someone—left them confused, hurt, waking up to an empty bed and a memory they regretted—that was a different kind of wrong.
So, he saddled up.
Didn’t tell anyone where he was headed.
Valentine greeted him like a dog that knew it had bit his hand the night before—same streets, same muddy stink, but quieter. He tied his horse near the sheriff’s office and walked the road toward the saloon, unsure if he’d be recognized. Unsure what he’d even say.
He found the building tucked two streets over from the main drag—a boarding house with fading white paint and crooked shutters. He remembered the outside now, faintly. A woman laughing from the balcony. Someone tugging his arm toward the stairs. Just flashes.
Arthur swallowed the lump in his throat and knocked. It took a minute before he heard movement. Footsteps. The latch turning.
The door opened slowly, revealing a face he still didn’t quite remember.
Arthur cleared his throat. Took off his hat, running a hand through his hair.
“I… uh…” he started, voice low and rough. “Look, I ain’t here to make excuses. Just—” He sighed. Looked down at the floorboards. Then back up. “I woke up here yesterday mornin’. And I didn’t remember a damn thing. Didn’t even know your name. That… that ain’t somethin’ I’m proud of.”
They said nothing, still watching him.
“I left before you woke ‘cause I was ashamed,” he went on. “I’ve been sittin’ on it since. Couldn’t stop wonderin’ if you were alright. If I was outta line. If I… did somethin’ wrong.”
The words came slowly, heavy with guilt.
“I ain’t proud of that,” he repeated, quieter now. “I was drunk. Don’t remember much, but if I was a bastard, I’m sorry. That ain’t how I want to be.”