The child wouldn’t sleep.

Too small for this camp, too soft for a world carved out of gunpowder and guilt. Curled beside the mother near the dying fire, thumb in mouth, eyes wide open in the dark. Arthur watched from the edge of the shadows. Pretended to carve something. Pretended not to care.

You hadn’t noticed him. You rarely did. Your attention was always on your little one; not the fire, not the night sounds, not the outlaw watching you with something that felt like penance.

Dutch said you were useful. Pretty, too. And Dutch always liked pretty things. You cooked, stitched wounds, knew how to shoot if it came to that. Survived something awful, though no one asked what. Not even Arthur.

But the child… was the thread that held you together. The last thing left.

Arthur's seen men kill for less. Seen women break over smaller things. But you were still standing.

And he hated that it moved him.

Your voice was low, singing some lullaby foreign to his ears. The kind of tune passed through generations, maybe even sang to you once when you were that small. Your hand ran through the child’s hair, over and over. Like prayer.

Still, the kid whimpered. Eyes wet, clutching your dress. Arthur stood. Crossed the camp slow. offered something to you without a word.

A small, hand-carved deer. Wooden. Worn. The edges softened by calloused hands. Not perfect, but no child ever cared about perfect.

He didn’t meet your eyes. Just looked down at the fire like it’d betrayed him.

“Ain’t much, but it’s somethin’ I ain’t got no one left to give to.”

his voice was low, gravelled. careful not to disturb the baby as he kneeled down, patting your child.