After the Pinkertons find Arthur and Jack by the river, he knows it's time to let Lilian Cornwall go, or else the borrowed time the gang has been living on since Blackwater may just run out.
HE LIES IN wait for the right time —he always does, picking moments when she's alone, and now's one of those times. Arthur Morgan is off fishing with little Jack Marston, and most of the other men are out scouting jobs or neck deep in chores. Besides, it's not like Dutch is going to go out of his way to stand up for the woman he intends to ransom off. Micah Bell grips onto his gun belt, lolls his head to the side —cracking his neck— and then heads across the way to Lilian Cornwall, sitting on a crate with her nose in a journal. "Miss Cornwall," Micah greets, a strange lilt in his voice as he leans on the munitions wagon.
She knows the voice and hardly gives him the time of day, only a glance with no intention of hiding her displeasure with his sudden and unwanted appearance. "Go away, Mr. Bell," Lily says, as politely as she can muster, still shading in a sketch. In the weeks since his unfortunate return, she's learned just why almost the entire gang seems to hold him with disregard. While most everyone in the camp had the mind to respect one another, it didn't seem as though the word was in Micah Bell's limited vocabulary.
Lilian's request for solitude goes unheeded. "Jus' wanna talk, Lily," Micah says, leaning down —his hot and acrid breath fanning against her cheek and neck. It makes her skin crawl, but she won't give him the satisfaction of seeing her squirm in discomfort. "See if there's anything sweet under that sour look you always got."
Turning her cheek, she meets his icy blue stare. "Your impudence is unsettling, sir," Lily responds, gaze flitting back down to her journal and the page half-filled with text. She should bite her tongue, but she speaks before thinking better of it. "It's no small wonder no one likes you."
Micah's face goes red. She'd struck a nerve. "You best watch your goddamn mouth, woman," he hisses at her ear. "Arthur ain't here," he adds, more of a whisper as he wraps a hand around her arm, trying to trap her between him and the wagon.
Lilian closes her journal, sets it aside, then rises from the crate, pulls from his hold, and smooths down the front of her skirt. There's a defiant glint in her eyes, unwilling to cower before him or run for help. Micah's lips curl upward. They hadn't broken her spirit just yet, but for just a bit more time he reckons he could —especially with Morgan not around. "Aren't you a big man," Lily taunts, holding her chin high, tired of his ill-treatment, "threatening a woman like that?"
His short temper flares —won't the natural order of things to have a woman speak to him like that. Lily can't move quick enough to avoid the inevitable. Micah's hand collides with the side of her face thrice as hard as the drunk from Valentine. The force of it sends her to the ground on her hands and knees, cheek throbbing with a pain unlike anything she's ever felt. Lilian blinks away the tears blurring her vision, fingers digging into the soft earth to regain composure, before twisting to right herself. "How you like that?" Micah sneers, standing over her. There's blood on her lips, burgeoning red streaks on her cheek. Not so defiant now. He quite likes the sight of having Leviticus Cornwall's daughter at his feet like this.
Arthur Morgan might not be around, but Charles Smith is. His hand curls into the collar of Micah's coat as he starts to lean down. Charles hauls him back 'fore shoving him, hard enough to make him stumble to keep upright. Micah Bell turns, face red and fuming —there's a foul remark on the tip of his tongue about being handled like that, but he can't get it out before Charles points to the tree line. "Leave," he grits out. Plans foiled, Micah backs away, his spiteful glare lingering on Lilian.
Charles turns, and Lily nods her gratitude when he offers his hand, pulling her back to her feet. He rests a hand on her shoulder and guides her over to one of the tables, where John and Uncle are sitting. Lily takes a seat with them, nodding weakly when Charles asks if she's okay —not quite trusting her voice yet. She lifts a hand to the dampness on her lips and finds her fingertips coated with bright red blood. "Maybe you should shoot the bastard next time," she remarks, voice rougher than normal.
"Maybe so," Charles replies, offering a damp washcloth to wipe the blood from her mouth and hand.
"If he don't, I will," John says, returning to sharpening the edge of his hunting knife. From what the others have said, she imagines there'll be a line to put a bullet in the bastard, with Arthur at the front. Lily brings the cloth to her mouth again, tasting fresh blood on her split bottom lip. "You're right 'bout one thing. Hardly anyone likes havin' him 'round." Six months ago, life seemed to be looking up for the gang again. They had a fair amount of money and only local lawmen trailing them through the plains and mountains of the west. It was easy to disappear and let the heat die down. That all changed when Dutch turned up with Micah Bell after a deal to sell stolen gold went sour in Crenshaw Hills. "Ain't been nothin' but trouble since Dutch dragged him back here," John spits, bitter.
UNWILLING TO DWELL in self-pity much longer, Lilian sets off across the camp to find Mary-Beth or Sadie Adler, but she's drawn to Hosea Matthews —sitting by himself and reading a three-day-old copy of the New Hanover Gazette. "Afternoon, Lily," he greets, lowering the paper with a kindly smile. He'd heard of her run-in with Micah earlier, the evidence of which left her cheek a mix of red lines with the beginnings of a bruise. It's but another infraction to tack on a growing list of reasons Hosea found Micah Bell to be especially deplorable.
She lingers, noticing a framed picture sitting next to his bedroll on a crate. Lily lifts the frame, smiling at the portrait of a younger Hosea sitting next to a woman —who she can only assume is Bessie. They make a handsome couple, much like the few portraits of Leviticus and Ada. Hosea's gaze flits up from a short article about the ever-expanding pursuits of Cornwall's industries. "Is this Bessie?" Lily asks softly, unsure if it's a topic he'd wish to speak on despite hearing so much about her, but Hosea folds the newspaper and sets it aside, patting the ground next to him.
He nods, a far-off wistful look in his gaze as he remembers Bessie and all the good times they had together —with Dutch and Arthur and traveling on their own. "She was far too good for the likes of me," Hosea tells her. He always thought it was a cruel sort of irony that someone like him could end up lucky enough to have a woman like Bessie, loving and loyal, willing to follow him even in a life of crime.
"Still can't understand why she was taken, and I was spared," his voice fades off into a fit of coughing. Lily pats Hosea's back, and after a moment, the fit subsides, but her hand lingers on his shoulder. "After all these years, she's still the first person I think of when I wake up." Hearing the despondency in his voice is enough to break Lily's heart. He draws in a long, slow breath, glancing between the portrait and Lilian. "I fear I won't see her again, though," he admits, covering her hand with his. The lull in their conversation is broken by the thudding of approaching horse hooves. Hosea looks over his shoulder, finding Arthur and Jack riding into camp.
"You boys have fun?" Abigail asks, and while Jack gives an excited answer, Arthur remains silent, wearing a sullen expression, only giving a passing glance to those he passes on the way to where Dutch sits next to his tent. Hosea pats Lily's shoulder, going to join Dutch and Arthur, already knowing something was wrong. The three of them retreat into the tent. Lilian's trance is broken when little Jack Marston tugs on her skirt, holding a woven flower-and-grass necklace. "Is that for me?" She asks, kneeling. The boy nods and Lily dips her head down, letting him drape the yarrow over her head. "Thank you, Jack," Lily says, ruffling his hair.
Abigail Roberts approaches Lily with her head lowered in shame. She'd been thinking of late, and seeing as Jack gave Lilian a necklace too only cemented that there were things that needed to be said. She clears her throat, still looking down at her clasped hands and worn boots peeking from the hem of her skirt. They haven't spoken much, but there's no point in holding grudges. "Thank you, Miss Cornwall," Abigail says, "for helping with Jack these last few weeks." It meant more than she could say, seeing Lily help with Jack's lessons and keep him occupied in times of immense boredom. "Thank you, Lily," she says again, hoping she hasn't overstepped by using the byname. "And I'm sorry for being like that towards you," Abigail adds. "Was wrong of me to judge."
Lily smiles and reaches for Abigail's hands, clasping them within her own. There's a response on the tip of her tongue, but it fades when Jack potters back over to them and holds out a new dime novel Arthur had brought back for him a few days back. "Can we read?" He asks. Abigail steps back and nods her approval with a smile as Lily motions for Jack to follow.
LILIAN FINDS HIM after some time, sitting on the cliffside overlooking the Dakota River. She's hesitant to step forward, unsure if he really wants to deal with her after overhearing him and Dutch argue about picking up camp again earlier. There's something about seeing him like this that makes her heart ache, with his legs dangling off the edge, his head —sans hat— hanging forward, and shoulders slumped in defeat. The chill of the evening wind cuts through the trees, carrying with it the warmth of the campfire smoke. Lily pulls the duster coat tighter and approaches the precipice, stopping just shy of where he is. "Arthur?" She knows something's wrong, and whatever it is has put him at odds with Dutch by the look and sound of it. "What happened?"
He shifts, a silent gesture for her to join him on the overlook. "Pinkertons," Arthur says, not trying to hide his concern. Won't good to run into those bastards a stone's throw from camp like that. "Found me and Jack by the river," he explains. Still makes him mad thinking about how Milton spoke about killing Mac Callander right in front of the boy. Arthur runs a hand over his face, at this point, they may as well have the entire army gunning for them. "Your daddy's payin' em now." Their pockets were lined with Cornwall's money, a nigh unlimited amount —anything for Lilian to be brought back safely. The Van der Linde Gang had been living on borrowed time since Blackwater, but now it's even more obvious —won't a place in this new world for outlaws.
"I'll get you out of here, Lily," Arthur tells her, looking up at the evening sky and then back to the river. "Somehow." She smiles, reaching for his hand, a wordless thank you, but anger churns in his gut when Lily faces him, and he finally sees the red streaks on her cheek and the blossoming bruise just under her left eye. He'd ask who struck her, but he already knows. "Micah?" There's venom in the way he says the name. She nods, eyes slipping shut when the backs of Arthur's fingers brush against the tender skin. As if he needed another reason to hate the bastard.
"Was it always like this?" Between talking to John and Hosea, she can't help but wonder.
He looks at her, brows furrowed. "How you mean?" Lily raises her brow as though to say drop the dumb brute act. Arthur does. "No," he starts. Arthur remembers his first bank robbery; they'd pocketed some of the money and then gave the rest to charity. Robbing the rich and giving to the poor used to be Dutch's philosophy. A misguided attempt to be a modern-day Robin Hood, but now since Micah's gotten in his ear —Arthur shakes his head when he thinks back to how things used to be. "It's like Hosea said, used to be that we helped people," he pauses, and a strange sense of guilt slips into his voice, "but now, been a long time since we've helped anyone but ourselves."
Lily shifts, twisting so she can look at Arthur and the pensive expression his brows and lips are set in. "If you got a chance to start over, what would you do?" She asks.
"Not really something I think about," he confesses —was a time he thought about leaving this life for love, but even that feels like a lifetime ago now. After these last twenty years, it's hard to imagine a different life than this one. Arthur catches her curious stare and the little smile tugging at her lips. "Reckon havin' a patch of land to call my own wouldn't be so bad."
It's not so hard to imagine him working a small ranch —herding cattle, plowing the fields, tending the horses and chickens. There's a certain appeal about a quiet life such as that. Lily picks up his hat, brushes off the blades of dried grass from the brim, and places it atop his head, crooked and almost falling off. "A real cowboy," she muses.
Arthur straightens his hat, his laugh quiet. "You're not what I expected, Lily." Her smile widens with the admission, and she looks away, suddenly bashful. He thought every woman from high and polite society would be like Molly O'Shea or even Mary Gillis —thinking less of him and the others because of their status in the world, never lifting a finger, or speaking so openly. Still seems odd to think how accustomed he's grown to having her around in these last weeks and just how much he enjoys their late-night conversations.
"I would say the same of you, Mr. Morgan." Lilian hadn't known what to expect after he'd given his name on that cold ride back to Colter, but she knows it wasn't this. A rather foolish part of her thinks she'll miss his company when this is all over. There's a certain amount of reticence in the action when Lily leans her head against Arthur's shoulder, she expects him to move or say something, but he remains still and quiet, watching the clouds pass over a waning moon. It stirs a funny feeling in his gut, being so close to her, so content
Arthur shifts after a long while but Lily slumps farther into him, asleep. Sighing, he wraps an arm around her shoulders and slips his other beneath her knees, and lifts her as he stands, making his way through camp and over to his wagon. He lays her on the cot, draping a thin blanket over her, then steps back to retreat to his bedroll by the scout fire, only he's stopped by a hand loosely curled around his fingers. Lily breathes his name, unwilling to let go. Shoulders falling, Arthur toes off his boots and lays next to her on his side, the only way they'll both fit. She doesn't know what's come over her, but the weight of the day —of dealing with Micah and Arthur's promise— strikes something deep down and the façade of strength kept up all these weeks crumbles. It makes her feel foolish, acting like this, but the culmination of everything is all too much to bear.
Lilian presses her face into Arthur's chest, unable to fight or hide her distress any longer. He can feel the warmth of her tears and how her shoulders shake with silent sobs. He drapes an arm over her and tucks her further into him. "It's gonna be okay, Lily." He tells her, unsure if it's a truth or lie. Another minute or two passes, and she starts to calm —her hand twisting into the fabric of his shirt. It all makes Arthur's heart tighten in his chest, then sink to the pits of his stomach. What the hell have we done?