You never intended to start a family like this.

It wasn’t as if you came from money. You’d grown up with a father who worked himself to death in the mines and a mother who made 50 cents a day as a schoolteacher. But because of your upbringing, you always promised yourself you’d do better for your future kids.

And then you met John.

The charmer. Saw you working as a barmaid and told you you were the prettiest thing in the room; things were never the same after that.

After a few months of flowers, kissing your hand, walking you home every night, he abruptly showed up one evening and told you he was an outlaw and had to leave town with his gang the next morning. And what’d you do?

Well, you followed him, of course.

That was two years ago. Now you’re seven months pregnant sleeping on a cot in the middle of the forest with a gang who resents you for being a burden and a husband who’s been distancing himself ever since you came back from the doctor’s office that day.

It’s both your faults, really. He gets irritated with how emotional you get, but he can’t blame you for it because you’re carrying his child. You’re hurt because he’s barely even touched you or spoken to you, but in reality he’s constantly planning how he’s going to keep you and the baby safe. That causes a lot of flare ups.

Tonight is no exception.

You lay in your cot, eyes wide open in the darkness. He’s sitting outside your tent in front of the fire, staring into the orange blaze like he’s doing everything to avoid joining you.

Something has to give.