Arthur knows Lilian Cornwall is tired of being holed up at Horseshoe Overlook and looks for ways to get her out of camp for a little while.
THE SUN TEETERS between light and shade with rolling clouds passing by. Things have been quiet as of late, too quiet for some people's liking, but besides a few mishaps in the Valentine saloon, everyone, save Micah shooting up half of Strawberry, has kept their noses clean —like Dutch told them too. Arthur heaves the last bale of hay for chores onto his shoulder, taking it to the far edge of the camp where his horse and a few of the others are. Dropping the bale in the remnants of the last, he unsheathes his hunting knife and slices through the twine, loosening up the dry straw. Lilian Cornwall is there, speaking with Kieran Duffy, fingers brushing through the mane of his dark bay Andalusian —Ginger.
If Arthur thought Kieran was skittish around the gang, he's even more so around Lily, but she thinks nothing of it, continuing a vibrant description of one of the racehorses her father sponsored in the Derby when she was a girl —Longfellow, a handsome bay Thoroughbred with a bright-white blaze and four white socks. She startles when Arthur bumps into her, cheeks aflush when she looks over her shoulder, holding his gaze. "Wanna take her for a ride?" Arthur asks, patting Ginger's withers, knowing Lily has to be tired of staying cooped up in camp these past few weeks. Everyone could come and go as they pleased except for her and Kieran.
Lily shakes her head, stepping back from the mare. "I couldn't," she tells him, unwilling to test the length of the invisible rope Dutch Van der Linde has tied around her ankles. After seeing what the gang did to Kieran Duffy, Lilian Cornwall wants to remain in their good graces —well, good as they could be, given who she is.
Arthur's brows knit together, the faintest of smiles twisting the corners of his lips upward. "'Course you can," he tells her, adjusting the brim of his hat. "Know how to ride, don't you?" There's a reply on her lips and feigned shock in her expression at the implication she didn't know how to ride a horse, but Arthur shakes his head 'fore she can say anything smart. "And I don't mean none that sidesaddle shit."
True to a lady of her standing, Lilian Cornwall has only ever ridden in coaches and sidesaddle during the summer games in the upstate; it's all that's ever been required of her. Her hazel eyes widen, and cheeks burn redder at the implication of riding like a man. "You mean," she hesitates, "one leg on each side?" It sounds like something scandalous when spoken with that naïve little inflection.
Arthur laughs, low and under his breath. There are times when he forgets who Lilian Cornwall is, but it's in these moments that he's reminded she's still a spoiled little rich girl, no matter how well she gets along with him, Hosea, Sean, and little Jack. "Ain't askin' you to lay on your back, woman," he remarks, an offhand thought that earns him a harsh look. He bites his tongue, knowing he's spoken out of term by the sour expression on Lily's face.
"Mr. Morgan!" she gasps, swatting his shoulder —then she smiles and starts laughing. It's the first time he's seen her look anything close to being happy since they hauled her off that train. The first time he's heard her laugh —it's like a sweet birdsong, soft and delicate, like her. And there's something about how the sun shines on her through a break in the clouds and the flitting trees overhead that makes his heart start to ache. But then he laughs too, holding up his hands in surrender.
"Forgive me, Lily," he says, stepping closer and then, without much warning, his hands find her waist, and he lifts her onto the saddle, nodding his approval when she swings a leg to the other side of Ginger's flank. It's an odd feeling, sitting astride a beast of muscle and power like this —and unladylike with how her skirt is hitched up, wrapped around her knees. Arthur rests a hand on her thigh, looking up from under the brim of his hat as though to ask if she's all right. Lily nods, hoping she can blame the warmth of the sun for the persistent flush on her cheeks.
Arthur steps in front of Ginger, fingers curling around the dark leather cheek strap of the bridle, his other hand running down the mare's neck. Lilian shifts, holding tight to the saddle horn, her heart thudding. "Best behave," he tells the horse, looking her in the eye. "Can't go buckin' Miss Lilian, y'hear?" Ginger whinnies in response, stamping a hoof into the ground. Pleased with the horse's answer, he hands Lily the reins, then turns to Hosea's mount, still saddled from a run to Valentine. "I'm takin' Silver Dollar!" He calls, unhitching the silver Turkoman and swinging up into the saddle. "Follow me." He nods toward the path leading out of Horseshoe Overlook beneath a felled tree.
The sun is low on the horizon once they come of a halt at a precipice south of Flatneck Station, glinting off the water where the Dakota River opens into Flat Iron Lake. Arthur leans forward in Silver Dollar's saddle, catching a glimpse of Lilian. There's a thoughtful look about her —has been since they turned south on the road and she saw the rolling green hills and rock towers of the Heartlands. "You know," she starts, taking a deep breath of the evening air, gaze following the river up to the rail bridge spanning across it, "I've taken trains through these parts what feels like a hundred times over but haven't seen anything beyond what's outside a window." Few could say they'd gone from New York to San Fransisco, but for Lily, it was just business, and yet most of the country remained a stranger —vast wilderness.
"It's pretty country," Arthur notes. Hosea had been right, as usual. The Heartlands was quite a sight —where the horizon and the sky seemed to blend as one and where the buffalo still roamed free, even after their massacre to the west in the ever-expanding wake of civilization. But it's not where we're meant to be, he thinks, unsure if he'll live long enough to see the Wild West again or live to see it tamed by mankind.
Camp is quiet when Arthur and Lily return. The campfires are nothing but heaps of smoldering embers. Arthur hitches Silver Dollar, then takes Ginger's reins. With a nigh inaudible groan, Lilian shifts in the saddle, swinging both her legs to the same side of the mare's flank before sliding off. He catches her beneath the arms —hands sliding down her side to steady her footing by the waist. The rush of heat returns to her cheeks again when she looks up at him in the pale moonlight and realizes she can feel the planes of his chest under her palms and the strong beat of his heart. They stay like that for a moment too long before parting. Arthur's hands fall away from her waist, and he averts his gaze, rubbing the back of his neck. Lily glimpses him as she heads to the cot at the opposite edge of the camp and shakes her head to chase away thoughts silly enough to rival Mary-Beth's novels.
ARTHUR SCROUNGES AROUND camp asking the girls for a spare skirt and shirtwaist. Even stained, Lilian Cornwall's petticoats are finer than what anyone in Valentine could ever hope to afford. They all come up empty-handed, even Miss O'Shea. He knows they're lying. Passing weeks hadn't made any of the girls, save Miss Grimshaw and Mary-Beth, fonder of the new camp princess. There's a brick-and-iron wall separating Lilian Cornwall and the likes of Molly, Karen, Tilly, and Abigail that won't budge no matter how many times Lily tries to dismantle a little section.
Rummaging through his footlocker, Arthur wrangles up a spare pair of jeans he knows don't fit his gut anymore —the knees a patchwork of different color denim and fabrics— and the nigh threadbare flannel button-up from his younger days that Lily mended not too long ago. It's the best he can manage.
He finds Lilian sitting by her lonesome next to the scout fire, holding a ruined velvet and fur shawl tight around her shoulders and poking a lump of hot coal with a stick. The past few days had been particularly difficult in comparison to others. She couldn't say why other than the growing pang of sadness in her chest. She looks up, brows furrowing when Arthur shoves the worn clothes forward without explanation. "Put these on," he says, his usual charm lacking.
Lilian Cornwall rises, appalled by the idea of wearing anything other than bespoke. "I'm not wearing that!" She exclaims. As improper as it would be, she'd rather walk down the main street of Saint Denis in only her knickers than be seen wearing the clothes of a man. The Van der Linde gang may have taken her luxuries away, but she still had standards.
He raises a brow, lips curved into a smile and mirth shining in his blue-green eyes. It's good to see there's still fire in her, especially since Dutch and some of the others seemed so keen on stamping it out. "If you want to get away from these reprobates and degenerates for a few hours, you will," Arthur remarks, nearly laughing at how quickly she snatches the clothes from his grasp with the prospect of a whiff of fresh air away from Horseshoe Overlook. She turns from the scout fire, heading toward his wagon to change. "Goin' into Valentine to pick up some supplies for Pearson," he explains, unfurling the extra canvas around his cot to serve as a makeshift changing room —it's the least he can do to preserve her modesty after seeing how Micah, and even Dutch, stare at her like a slab of prime rib. No small wonder Molly had taken a keen distaste for Lilian Cornwall.
ARTHUR CRUMPLES THE list from Pearson in his hand when he pushes open the door to Worth's General Store, stuffing the piece of paper into his pocket. Lily's still sitting in the wagon seat, a far off look in her eyes as she watches people pass on the street —a rancher who'd just brought his sheep to market, a dog nipping at the heels of a young boy running from his mother, someone stumbling from the saloon to the bank. Valentine is a quaint town, small and peaceful and unlike anywhere Lilian Cornwall has ever been. Arthur climbs onto the side of the wagon, situating something in the back and startling Lily from her daze. "They'll have everything ready in the mornin'," he says. She moves over on the seat, letting him take the reins and park the wagon off the main street.
"Does a real proper lady fancy beer or whiskey?" He asks, helping Lily down from the wagon 'fore offering the crook of his arm like a true gentleman. There's time to spare, and since they're in town, Arthur figures he may as well wet his whiskers with a drink or two.
"I can handle my whiskey, good sir," Lily tells him, chin held high as she places her hand on his bent arm, letting him lead the way to the saloon.
Arthur leans against the bar, sliding two coins across the counter for the bartender. "Two whiskeys," he says. Cliff Smithfield places two glasses on the scratched-up bar top and unstoppers a bottle of Tennessee Whiskey, pouring two stout glasses full. Arthur pulls his glass to him and stares at the pale gold alcohol for a brief second 'fore one of the saloon's patrons catches his attention —it's the poor bastard he almost beat to death a few weeks back during the scuffle Bill caused and one he owes an apology to. His attention returns to Lily, her glass tipped up to her lips. "Not gonna run off, are you?"
"Don't you think I would've tried already?" Lily asks, smiling —and given her current appearance, she doesn't think anyone would even believe her if she tried telling them who she was. Arthur shakes his head with a dry laugh, knocking back his whiskey, then turns from the bar.
She watches him go, finishing off her glass too before running a hand through tangled hair and almost laughing. Funny life this is, Lily thinks, drinking cheap whiskey in a town that smells of shit from a mile away, and my best company is an outlaw. "Could I get you another, miss?" Cliff asks, having just poured another round for the group playing poker in the corner. "It'll be on the house." Lily speaks her thanks when he tops off her glass and turns to watch patrons pass in and out of the swinging doors.
It's not Arthur who comes back first, but some drunk fool smelling of sheep shit and cheaper liquor than Smithfield's sells. He motions for a beer before turning his attention to Lilian Cornwall, barely able to hold himself steady against the bar. "Must be one of the new girls," he slurs, leaning close. He knows most of the working girls by name, spent the night with almost all of them once or twice before, but there's something even more alluring about breaking in a new and pretty face. Lily turns her cheek, thinking she can ignore the drunken advances. "Why don't we go upstairs?" The man asks, reaching for her. "Can pay a pretty penny," he promises, dirty fingers curling around her arm, his hot and acrid breath on her neck —a penny is about all he can pay.
"No," Lilian says, pulling free of his hold.
"Don't be like that, sugar," he laments, doing his best to corner her against the bar.
"I said no" —Lily pushes against the man's gut, hard enough to make his balance falter and send him backward, onto the plank flooring with his beer spilled over his shirt and ground. It's enough to draw the attention of those sitting around the tables playing poker but not enough to spur anyone to intervene. Confrontations in Smithfield's is about all the entertainment one can find in Valentine.
The drunkard regains his footing, swaying, face twisting in anger rooted in rejection and humiliation. "Stuck up little trollop, ain't you?" He spits. There's a quip on Lily's tongue, but it fades when the man's hand lands on her cheek with a sharp sting, bringing tears pricking at her eyes and the tinge of blood on her tongue.
Several men rise from their chairs then, but it's Arthur who steps between Lilian and the drunken fool, half-pushing her behind him. "The lady said no, partner," he grits out. The way the saloon falls silent tells Lily all she needs to know about how this will end. She's heard a few whispers around the camp of his notoriety when it comes to getting into and finishing fights. She's seen the dried blood on his face and knuckles, too. "So, either you leave on your own, or I help you out the door" —Arthur looks up from under the brim of his hat, arms bent, fingers twitching as to not make a fist or reach for his six-shooter— "which will it be?"
The drunk sizes Arthur up —standing a head taller and sober—but doesn't back down. "Who d'y'think you are?" He spits, swaying on his feet, undeterred.
"Right now, I'm the bastard that's gonna teach you some goddamn manners, boy," Arthur says, voice dropping to a low, dangerous rasp.
"You two take this outside," Cliff says, his voice wavering with nerves, "don't want no trouble here like last time." First had been the fight with Tommy, then the ruckus he and Lenny raised with another feller put him in jail for a night. Arthur reckons he can put this fool on his ass with one good swing, though. He deserves it after laying a hand on Lilian Cornwall.
Lily grips onto Arthur's wrist, stopping him from throwing the first punch. Sliding in front of him, she places a hand on the center of his chest, fingers curling into the open neck of his shirt, bringing his icy glare downward, which softens almost immediately. "Arthur, darling" —her lips quirked upward as she looks at him from under her lashes, and for some reason, it sets his heart to racing, hearing that sing-song little voice of hers say his name like that— "let's just go." He lifts his gaze back to the drunkard, anger simmering below the surface, but he nods, wrapping his arm around Lily's waist and leading her out of the saloon.
He stops under a flickering light on the street next to the general store and steps in front of Lilian, calloused fingertips brushing against her chin when he tilts her cheek toward the light, first wiping away the bit of blood on the corner of her lips. There's a faint handprint on her cheek, but it's not enough to leave a bruise. Arthur's nose scrunches —should've laid the bastard out. His thoughts return to the present when Lily's fingers curl around his wrist. "Thank you, Arthur," Lilian breathes, dark eyes flicking away from his intense gaze.
It's too late to worry about heading back to camp now just to have to turn back around at first light, he nods over to the small Valentine hotel, and Lily follows after him, wiping away the remaining dampness from under her eyes. "Room and two baths." Arthur slides a dollar and a few coins across the counter to the hotelier, who gestures down the hall to the baths and hands over a key for a room. "After you, princess," he gestures, opening the creaking door to the room.
The Valentine hotel is simply furnished —an oil lamp next to a washbasin on a bedside dresser, a single straight-back chair near the hearth, and a bed tucked into one of the corners opposite the window. Not the luxuries Lily is accustomed to, but she's grateful for this small escape.
He's sitting in the chair by the hearth when Lily returns from the baths, scribbling something down in his journal. Arthur looks over his shoulder when the door opens, seeing her step into the room with hair still dripping, wearing the flannel shirt and her bloomers —jeans and corset draped over her arm. He lets her take the chair, knowing the chill of the evening air would feel even worse after a hot bath, and goes to the dresser where his satchel and gun belt are, digging around for something.
"Here" —Arthur holds out a leather-bound journal, not unlike his own, with a pencil tucked between the pages and the cover— "might make the time go by a little faster." Lily takes the journal, fingertips brushing reverently across the pebbled cover and uneven pages; it's the same one she saw him place in his satchel earlier from the general store, but she hadn't thought much of it then.
"I," she starts, then shakes her head, smile widening, "thank you." He nods as though to say it's nothing, then heads out the room and across the hall to the baths.
She's almost asleep when he comes back, but the stream of light from the opening door and the squeaking floorboards spurs her back awake to see him snag one of the spare pillows and takes to the floor. "Arthur?" Lilian peers over the edge of the mattress, brows furrowed. He looks content enough on the plank floor, legs crossed and arms folded behind his head, gaze flitting from the ceiling to her. A flush creeps up her neck, settling on her cheeks in a pretty rosy pink color. "Bed's big enough for two," she notes, voice soft and shaking with nervousness. "Know you're tired of sleeping on the ground." Since arriving at Horseshoe Overlook, Arthur had given up his cot, opting to sleep on his bedroll by the fire or under the canvas lean-to of his wagon when the weather turned sour. She hadn't expected such kindness from him but is thankful for it all the same.
A smile pulls at her lips when Arthur sits up —a proper bed for a night isn't something he's going to pass up now that the offer's been made. Scooting over to the other half of the mattress, she pulls back the sheet and quilt. He slides between them, laying on his side, facing Lilian, and studies her for a quick moment by the dim light of the dying embers in the hearth and a lantern. This close, he notices there's a tiny scar on her upper lip, but the lingering red streaks on her cheek stir the anger lingering in his gut again.
Lily's gaze flits down to his chest —the first three buttons of his scarlet union suit are undone, and she can see a few little scars beneath the smattering of dark chest hair— then back to the rest of his rugged features. She reaches out, unwittingly resting a hand on his cheek, thumb running over the scar on his chin and the stubborn patch where his beard doesn't fill in —a souvenir from a bar fight he mentioned one time. He watches as her lips tug into a smile, barely visible. She's not blind, nor is she a fool —Arthur Morgan is a handsome man and a kind one too. "Sorry," Lilian breathes, pulling back her hand when she realizes what she's doing, cheeks turning the color of shame.
"S'alright, Lily," Arthur mumbles, unable to remember the last time anyone looked at him like that, might've been Mary Gillis? Or maybe Eliza? Doesn't much matter now. All that had been years ago. He draws in a slow breath, turning to put out the oil lantern, then straightens the quilt, pulling it up to both their shoulders 'fore settling in. "G'night," he whispers, and Lily says the same, settling into the lumpy mattress as though it were the finest featherbed.
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I think Arthur and Lily might be a little sweet on each other. 👀