chapter 13; hurts to love you

                                    

                                          
'It hurts to love you,
But I still love you. 
It's just the way I feel.
I'd be lying, if I kept hiding;
The fact that I can't deal.'
                          
-
                          
Over the months that had passed, Arthur's feelings for you had not changed at all. 
                          
His feelings towards all that had happened... also remained fixed as certain as the sun would rise on a new day. 
                          
Following the scare of the O Driscoll's and the Pinkertons around the camp, Dutch had ordered the camp to pack up and leave Horseshoe Overlook – in search of somewhere new to 'lay low' for a while. 
                          
Every single day, Arthur had ached for you. The recall of you hit him like a blow to the face from a heavy weight boxer. He seemed to see you in everything, the prettiest, daintiest flowers – to the way the sun shone through the trees on a particularly picturesque morning. How he wished things had been different, how he wished he had just put a bullet in Micah's brain when the moment arose – and not worried about what Dutch had thought. 
                          
Since the incident where you had been exiled from camp, the gang leader and his new found friend were inseparable. Things that Dutch used to go to Arthur and Hosea for, he now went immediately to Micah. It both angered and perplexed Arthur, he had been a part of Dutch's life for going on 20 years – and yet Micah showed up just over a year beforehand and already had Dutch eating out of his hand like a prize pig? Arthur hadn't been sure of it all. 
                          
The Gunslinger had been incredibly distant, especially on the long travel between Horseshoe Overlook and the next camp, wherever that may've been. Slumped in the saddle way at the back of the convoy, Arthur had Phantom on a long rein, plodding idly and making it his priority not to speak to anyone if he could help it. 
                          
It was as if the dark, turbulent cloud from his life before you had returned to hang over him again – casting nothing but miserable, rainy spells. Of course, Arthur conversed with the members of the camp he had always counted as close – Abigail, little Jack, Hosea etc... but he rarely uttered more than a few words to anyone who seemed to be following Micah in leading Dutch down a shadowy path. 
                          
-
                          
Autumn had set in, scattering crisp golden and burgundy leaves across the camp. The gang had been settled in their new home for a few weeks, it was a pleasant enough place by a big lake, with muggy, soupy air that felt hot and sticky despite the arrival of autumn. It was just outside of a rather quaint little town by the name of Rhodes, and already Dutch was coming up with some rather deadly plan to play the town's two rival families against each other. Unfortunately, Arthur knew he would be forced to have some part to play in it. 
                          
Except for one quiet Saturday morning. A blissful day, with tepid air and a bright score of sunshine glimmering sweetly across the faint rippling waves of the lake. 
                          
Back against a tree trunk, Arthur had been sat in the grass of a small hill that overlooked the camp to the left, and the lake to the right. It was a perfect spot for him to get some time alone, to think and to write. 
                          
Pencil in hand and worn leather hat tipped slightly into his eyes, Arthur had been sketching a face he was trying so heavily to treasure and keep memorised in his mind forever, fearful he would not get to look upon said face ever again. 
                          
You. 
                          
Like sweet, sticky honey – you had glued yourself into his thoughts. Arthur was finding it rather frustrating thinking about you all day and night, wondering about you and wishing for you to be back in his arms. 
                          
His wintery blue eyes lazily traced the page as his hand carefully sketched out the details of your face. He had many sketches of you in his journal, ones of you doing just about anything – from brushing the horses, to laying in his bed that time you had crept in – to just stills of your face. Arthur happened to be detailing a side profile sketch of you that second, and he took so much time and care making sure to capture every detail.