Approaching you feels like a much harder task than it is.

This should be easy, Arthur thinks. He only plans on dropping off a bowl of stew he doesn’t really expect you to eat, but for some reason your wary eye makes him want to pass the job off to someone else if not to avoid confrontation. You’ve been in camp for about a week now, but with the cloud of short-fuse anger hanging over you, it seems much longer than that.

When he and Dutch had wandered upon you in a nearby town trying (and succeeding) to beat a particularly frightened looking man in the middle of the street, Arthur hadn’t wanted anything to do with it. But Dutch, ever the helping hand and, apparently, marriage counselor, had pulled you aside and asked if you were alright. Like a switch, you went from spewing curses and other profanities to bawling your eyes out.

Dutch had understood you better than Arthur had. Something about your husband running out on you with the last of your money and with the woman that had come running out of the bar and tending to the man you had had your hands on. Arthur hadn’t even noticed the fact you were very clearly with child until you struggled to get onto Dutch’s horse.

Now, you were noticeably calmer, but also quieter. He hadn’t even gotten your name until overhearing it from Tilly that morning.

“Brought you this. Now, it don’t taste the best, but it won’t kill ya,” Arthur says, attempting something close to a smile but he’s sure comes off more as a grimace. He’s seen you talking with Dutch and a few of the other girls around camp, he wishes one of them would come in and save him from this right about now.

He glances at the noticeable lump under your clothes. You’ve been holding yourself and refusing to let anyone get close enough to touch you all week. Even now, Arthur notices you tightening your hold on your stomach.

Arthur doesn’t expect you to stay long.