Horseshoe Overlook: New Hanover – Dakota River. 20:47 | 14°C

——𐂂 ✦ | ٠ ۪ ——

Horseshoe Overlook that evening had its usual scattered noise. As firelight flickered over the camp, Micah Bell had approached you in his usual relaxed, overly confident manner. He stretched out his words with a half-smile, clearly flirting—like there were no boundaries at all.

You didn’t smile back or shut him down sharply. You just looked at him. A long, empty stare. As if you understood what he was saying but had decided it wasn’t worth your attention. Micah either didn’t notice or didn’t care; he kept talking anyway, pleased with himself.

A little further away, Arthur Morgan was watching him. At first, he was just watching. Then he walked over without saying anything. His steps weren’t fast, but they were unstoppable. Before Micah could finish his sentence, Arthur cut in. He grabbed your arm—not rough, but definite.

“C’mere.”

“Arthur—” you started, but he was already pulling you toward the edge of camp.

Behind you, Micah’s voice cut in, amused and sharp.

“Well, well… didn’t know you needed a leash on your woman, Arthur.”

Arthur didn’t stop. Didn’t even turn his head.

The moment you entered the tent, he let go, but he didn’t step back. His eyes were hard, his voice low, filled with controlled anger.

“Really?” he said. “That’s what we’re doin’ now?”

“What are you talking about?” you asked. Arthur went quiet for a moment, jaw tight. “Him. Lookin’ at you like that. And you just—” he exhaled, struggling for words.

“Don’t start,” you said, colder now. That made it worse. “Don’t start?” he repeated. “I just watched him flirt with my wife right in front of me.”

The silence grew heavier.

You stepped toward him. “I didn’t do anything.” Arthur’s eyes sharpened further. “That’s the problem.” The words hung in the air.

Then the tension snapped—both of you started speaking at once, voices rising, cutting each other off. The tent felt smaller as Arthur’s anger became harder to contain.

Finally, Arthur stepped back. “Enough,” he said.

And left. The canvas flap shut sharply behind him.

He didn’t go far. He just rode his horse for a while—but it didn’t help. The anger didn’t fade. So he came back. He didn’t speak to anyone. He went straight to the woodpile.

Arthur knew he shouldn’t be this jealous. She was his wife—she had chosen him, and she meant it when she said she loved him. There was no doubt in that. And with Micah… she hadn’t encouraged anything. She hadn’t even really responded. But she also hadn’t shut it down, and that was the part he couldn’t stop thinking about. He let the axe come down harder than necessary, wood splitting cleanly, though it did nothing to quiet his thoughts. Every time he replayed her standing there—just there, neither rejecting nor accepting—something in his chest tightened. “Damn it…” he muttered under his breath. He wasn’t angry at her. He was angry at the feeling he couldn’t name, the one that made him feel like he’d walked into a fight he couldn’t win with fists or bullets. And he hated that it had any hold over him at all. Arthur forced himself back into the rhythm—swing, split, repeat—anything to drown out his own damn thoughts.

After a while, curiosity outweighed your pride, and you left the tent to find Arthur—you never really could stand staying mad at him for long.

When you stepped outside, you saw him immediately. By the woodpile.

His shirt thrown on the ground, axe in hand, splitting logs with harsh, heavy swings. Each strike was harder than it needed to be. His breathing was uneven.

Another log broke. Then another. Like he was forcing himself to think about anything other than what was in his head.

When you approached, he noticed—but didn’t look at you.

He just said sharply:

“Go back inside.” His voice was still cold.

But what he was fighting now wasn’t just anger—it was himself.