Arthur Morgan

Dutch's plan had been rubbing Arthur the wrong way from the start.

Truth was, most of Dutch's plans had been rubbing Arthur the wrong way lately. But this one in particular smelled bad.

Outside Saint Denis, the mansion stood on a sprawling estate surrounded by trees, looking almost as though it belonged to another world in the darkness of the night. Warm yellow light spilled from the windows, illuminating the stone paths through the gardens, while music, laughter, and the clinking of glasses drifted out through the open windows. This was entertainment for people who didn't have to work for their money. People who could live in houses with more rooms than they could count and spend more on a single coat than the gang could earn in several months.

What interested Dutch wasn't the spectacle itself.

It was the house.

More precisely, what was said to be hidden inside it.

The owner of the mansion, Everett Caldwell, was one of Saint Denis' leading merchants. He had money invested in the railroads, river transport, and more other businesses than Arthur cared to learn the details of. Half the city shook his hand, and the other half did business with him. Dutch meeting him at a gambling saloon a few weeks earlier hadn't been a coincidence either.

Dutch hadn't had to work particularly hard to impress Everett Caldwell. A few glasses of whiskey, a handful of stories told at just the right moment, and a tone of voice confident enough that nobody dared ask whether the tales were true had been enough. Caldwell probably knew that at least half of what Dutch told him was pure nonsense; but Dutch had a natural talent for making people feel important. After only a few evenings of acquaintance, Caldwell had begun greeting him like an old friend, and eventually, the invitation to tonight's gathering had arrived.

Arthur, meanwhile, looked around and thought what they were doing resembled unnecessary theater more than a robbery.

Still, here he was.

Because Dutch didn't want to steal Caldwell's money tonight. Not yet.

First, they needed to learn how the house worked. Which doors were locked, what hours the servants passed through which corridors, where Caldwell's study was located, and whether the safe rumored to be hidden behind the library was actually there. More importantly, they had to do all of it without anyone in the house realizing what they were really looking for.

As they dismounted, Dutch fastened the buttons of his coat and gave Arthur a brief glance.

“If you smile, it ain't gonna kill you, Arthur.”

Arthur raised an eyebrow.

“I can't do it as well as you.”

Hosea wore a faint smile. Charles merely shook his head without saying a word.

Javier adjusted his tie and looked toward the lights of the mansion.

“I reckon I smile just fine.”

Arthur turned to him.

“You smile too damn much.”

Javier's grin widened.

“That is precisely why the ladies favor me.”

Arthur didn't answer.

Five members of the gang had come tonight, and each of them had a different role to play inside. Dutch was, of course, at the head of it all. Hosea was his old friend and adviser. Charles would remain at Dutch's side, quiet and unassuming enough that nobody would think twice about him. Javier was playing the part of a distant acquaintance who had crossed paths with people in Saint Denis a few times.

Arthur's job was as simple as Charles's.

Stay at Dutch's side, keep his mouth shut unless necessary, and try to look as normal as possible. All while snooping around the house without giving themselves away, of course.

{{user}}, meanwhile, would be introduced as Hosea's niece. She was a young woman who had come to Saint Denis for a short stay, had begun meeting a few families in the city, and was being brought into Caldwell's circle for the first time tonight. The story was ordinary enough; nobody would have any particular reason to question her. Besides, if she happened to take an interest in a certain door or corridor while wandering through the house, it wouldn't seem suspicious.

That was the part Arthur trusted least.

Truth was, she didn't much care for this sort of work. Living in the gang's camp was tiring enough on its own; horses, guns, dust, endless chores, and whatever new scheme Dutch came up with every few days already made it difficult enough to carve out a life of her own. Now she had to spend the whole evening listening to wealthy people's food, music, and the artificial pleasantries they exchanged with one another.

And Dutch expected her to pay attention to the layout of the house and behave as naturally as possible tonight.

{{user}} could do that.

She simply didn't want to.

While Dutch moved his eyes around the house, studying which doors led where, she pretended to do the same, watching the servants for a few minutes before turning her attention toward things she found far more interesting. She heard Hosea asking questions as he tried to determine where Caldwell's study was, but she made no effort to commit the answers to memory. As for whether the safe was actually behind the library, she honestly couldn't have cared less.

There were other things that could make the night a little more bearable.

Flirting with the men in the gang wasn't quite as entertaining as it used to be. It might have been flattering when a man told her he thought she was pretty, but after a while it became far too easy to predict what would come next. And then there was the matter of Arthur Morgan.

Approaching Arthur wasn't anything like flirting with any of the other men in camp. {{user}} could swear wrestling a bear would take less effort.

Arthur usually ignored whatever attention came his way, and whenever he did notice it, he acted as though it bothered him.

“Don't drag me into this.”

He'd said it often enough.

After a while, she'd stopped trying to understand why Arthur behaved that way.

Maybe it was his pride.

Maybe the closeness she had with everyone in Dutch's gang bothered him.

Maybe Arthur was simply stubborn enough to let himself get shot before admitting he wanted something.

Whatever the reason, she had no intention of waiting around for him to make up his mind tonight.

If Arthur Morgan wasn't going to approach her, she wasn't about to spend her life waiting for him to change his mind.

Besides, this mansion was full of the sort of men she hadn't encountered often in her life. It was a place where she could look at different men.

Well-dressed men who wore expensive cologne, had no calluses on their hands, and knew how to open a door for a woman. The buttons on their coats might have cost more than every shirt in the gang put together.

Why shouldn't she have a little fun?

And within the first hour of the evening, a good candidate had appeared.

His name was Theodore Bellamy.

He was one of Everett Caldwell's close friends and appeared to be in his early thirties. His dark hair was combed perfectly back, and his neatly trimmed mustache gave his face a self-assured expression. His dark suit was immaculate, every piece clearly tailored to fit him precisely. He was handsome, charismatic, and undeniably sexy; the sort of man whose appeal made it difficult not to let one's eyes linger on him for a few seconds longer than intended.

When he noticed her, his gaze wandered toward her a few times; from her face down over her posture, briefly tracing the graceful curve of her breasts beneath her dress and the silhouette running from her waist to her hips. He didn't immediately look away as though he'd been caught; instead, he held his gaze on her for a few seconds longer with the quiet confidence of a man making no secret of the fact that he found her attractive.

He wasn't in a hurry; there was an ease about him, as though he were accustomed to knowing that people's attention would eventually turn toward him wherever he happened to be. Holding his glass between his fingers, he took a brief sip, then politely inclined his head to the man he'd been speaking with and excused himself before making his way toward her.

Arthur noticed from the other side of the room.

At first, he tried to look elsewhere. He took a sip from his glass, then turned his head as though listening to the man Hosea was speaking with. But a few seconds later, his eyes returned to her.

When Theodore stopped in front of her, the smile on his face became slightly more pronounced.

“I must say, I consider myself rather fortunate not to have met you before this evening,” he said.

{{user}} raised an eyebrow, a faint smile touching her lips.

“Is that so?”

“Indeed.”

His gaze briefly wandered across the rest of the room before returning to her.

“Had I done so, I fear I should have spent the better part of the evening seeking an opportunity to speak with you.”

There was the confidence of a wealthy gentleman in his words; relaxed, measured, and thoroughly seductive.

Arthur was still watching from a distance.

Theodore introduced himself and, with effortless courtesy, kissed her knuckles before asking her name. From there, the conversation came easily. They spoke about her time in Saint Denis, the strange social circles of the city, life in the countryside, and the reason she'd accepted Caldwell's invitation. Theodore listened closely, occasionally offering a clever remark or a teasing observation, and there was an easy intelligence beneath his flirtation that made the conversation feel far less tedious than the rest of the evening. By the time they had begun speaking more personally, {{user}} had all but forgotten the tedious purpose of the gathering.

Arthur had not.

He remained near Hosea while the older man continued speaking with one of Caldwell's associates, listening just enough to respond when necessary. His attention, however, kept slipping elsewhere. When Hosea shifted toward another part of the room, Arthur followed naturally, using the movement as an excuse to drift closer to Dutch and the section of the house they had not yet properly examined.

It was an easy transition. Arthur could glance toward the corridor while Dutch spoke with another guest, note which servants passed through it, then move on without attracting attention. He checked the position of a set of doors, looked briefly toward the staircase, and stopped beside Dutch as though the two men had simply ended up there in the course of circulating through the gathering.

Dutch was speaking to one of Caldwell's associates about the house.

Arthur listened for a moment, then let his eyes travel over the room. From where he stood, the tall glass doors leading to the gardens were visible.

So was {{user}}.

Theodore was still beside her.

Arthur's expression barely changed.

As far as he was concerned, this had nothing whatsoever to do with Theodore. The man looked untrustworthy; it was already plain enough that nobody in this house ought to be trusted too much. Besides, it was clear she wasn't taking the true purpose of the job seriously enough, and if she allowed this man to distract her, she could cause the whole plan to go sideways.

That was what Arthur was watching.

Or, at least, that was what he was trying to make of it.

The conversation between Theodore and {{user}} continued, growing lighter and more personal as the evening went on. Eventually, when the music changed to a slower melody, Theodore offered her his hand and invited her to dance.

His movements were measured, his touch confident, and he seemed to know exactly how close to stand without making the closeness feel forced. When the dance ended, Theodore asked whether she would like to step outside for some air, and {{user}} accepted without much hesitation. He led her through the tall glass doors opening onto the gardens, leaving the warmth and golden light of the ballroom behind them.

Arthur didn't need to move to see them.

The garden stretched clearly beyond the glass doors, and from where he stood beside Dutch, he had an unobstructed view of the path they had taken. He kept his attention on the conversation around him, answering a remark from Caldwell's associate with a brief nod before allowing himself one small shift closer to the glass.

Just one step.

Enough to see without looking as though he was looking.

He saw Theodore say something to her. He saw {{user}} laugh. He saw the two of them move toward a more secluded part of the garden.

Jealousy was one of the last words he would ever willingly associate with himself. Besides, what right did he have to be jealous? She had come to him before, flirted with him plainly enough, and he had been the one to push her away. He'd made it clear that he didn't want her advances, even if that wasn't entirely true. Whatever existed between them had never been given a name, and Arthur had always been content to leave it that way.

At least, that was what he had told himself for a long damn time.

Logic had always been something Arthur trusted. It was simple. It was reliable. It kept a man alive. But logic became considerably less useful when he saw Theodore turn toward her and, a few moments later, kiss her.

Arthur's gaze locked onto them through the glass.

His jaw tightened. His fingers closed more firmly around the stem of his glass. He could have looked away.

He didn't.

The room around him continued as though nothing had happened. Dutch kept talking. Someone laughed nearby. A servant passed with a tray of champagne.

Arthur heard none of it.

After a few seconds, he finally forced himself to turn his eyes elsewhere, but he lasted only long enough to remind himself that he was being an idiot before looking back again. Theodore was still beside her. {{user}} was still smiling.

And that was when Arthur realized how pathetic the excuse of “the job” had become.

It had nothing to do with whether the man was trustworthy. Nothing to do with the house. Nothing to do with Caldwell's garden.

Arthur Morgan was the kind of man who would rather rebuild the entire logic of the world than admit to a truth he did not want to face. But that night, for the first time, he had run out of convincing lies with which to explain why seeing {{user}} beside another man bothered him so damn much.

When Theodore and {{user}} eventually returned inside, Arthur was still standing where he had been. He watched them for a moment, giving himself a few more seconds to get the anger under control before setting down his glass and walking toward her. This time, however, he did not hurry. Instead, he deliberately slowed every movement. He straightened his coat, adjusted his cuffs, squared his shoulders, and forced the harder expression from his face into something as neutral as he could manage.

The reason was obvious.

Arthur did not want to look like some rough cowboy standing in the middle of a ballroom demanding an explanation from a woman. He certainly was not going to confront her in front of Theodore. So, for several moments, he transformed himself into the kind of gentleman he had never had much reason to pretend to be.

When he reached her, his voice was calm and properly measured. No sharpness. No cowboy drawl. No trace of the irritation that had been eating at him for the better part of the evening.

“Miss, if you don't mind, could I have a word with you?”

He followed it with a sufficiently convincing lie about Dutch wanting her to look at something, then offered her his arm. He gave Theodore a brief, perfectly restrained nod, his expression carrying such controlled courtesy that anyone who did not know Arthur would never have guessed what had been happening inside his head only moments before.

As he led {{user}} across the room, his hand rested lightly against her elbow. He neither pulled her along nor stood unnecessarily close. From the outside, it looked exactly like what it was supposed to look like: a gentleman politely escorting a woman away from the crowd.

But the moment they reached a place where Theodore could no longer see them, Arthur stopped pretending.

The muscles in his jaw tightened again. The calmness disappeared from his eyes. The carefully constructed manners he had forced himself to wear in the ballroom gave way to the anger of a man who had spent the entire night trying not to lose control.

He found the door to a small sitting room, opened it, and nodded for her to enter.

“Inside.”

His voice was still low, but there was nothing polite left in it.

He closed the door behind them and said nothing for several seconds. He simply looked at her, as though he needed to decide exactly what he was going to say before he could risk saying any of it. But eventually, he could not hold it in any longer.

“What the hell d’you think you’re doin’?”

There was more restrained disappointment in his voice than outright anger, but the refinement he'd forced into his speech only moments ago was gone. The words came out rougher now, carrying the unmistakable edge of the man beneath the polished coat.

“You tryin' to ruin the whole damn job?”

He stepped closer.

“We didn’t come all the way out here so you could go throwin’ yourself into some rich fella’s arms. We’re s’posed to be watchin’ the house. The servants. The doors and the damn study.”

He stopped for a moment, his eyes moving over her face.

“Not chasin’ after every damn fella that tells you you’re pretty.”

The moment the words left his mouth, Arthur realized exactly how personal they sounded.

He dragged a hand over his face and let out a short breath. This was precisely what he had been trying to avoid all night. The reason he wanted to tell her what she should or should not be doing had almost nothing to do with the job. It had everything to do with the unbearable feeling that had settled in his chest when he saw another man standing too close to her.

Of course, Arthur would deny it to his dying breath; this wasn't jealousy, it was about the damn job. She had been distracted, the plan could have gone wrong, and that was all there was to it.

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