"SQUEEEEEAK!!!"
The piercing shriek of the whistle tore through the quiet morning, followed by the grating groan of steel on steel. The train, a behemoth of iron and steam, grudgingly slowed, groaning its way into Valentine Station. A mere handful of souls disembarked; Valentine, a forgotten speck on the map, held little appeal. Even the sheep merchants, its lifeblood, preferred dusty carriages to the mechanical beast. No one knew the silent agonies or desperate hopes carried within its rattling cars, or whose broken hearts it transported.
Inside, Mary Linton – no, simply Mary now – sat rigid, a fragile mask of calm barely concealing the maelstrom within. Her eyes, betraying the truth, darted to the window, scanning, searching, her longing a palpable ache. Her hands, clasped so tightly her knuckles gleamed white, trembled.
As the station drew closer, she hunched, scrutinizing her reflection, every stray hair, every wrinkle in her dress, a frantic check for perfection.
She released a shuddering breath, her gaze lifting once more to the blur of faces outside. Each one a possibility, each one a pang of nervous hope. Was she mad? Bewitched? After Arthur's letter, sleep had become a stranger, food a tasteless burden. The relentless current of yearning had pulled her onto this train, towards an uncertain destiny in this desolate town.
Memories, sharp and painful, flickered through her mind: Arthur, their impossible love, the agonizing pull of their past, the bitter reality of their separation. Her father, a monstrous shadow, and the tangled, hopeless knot of her family life. So much time, so much change, yet her feelings for him burned with an unwavering intensity. And, to her astonishment, his for her.
A wave of profound sadness washed over her. Their love had been crushed by the brutal heel of reality. Her father's iron will, Arthur's unbreakable loyalty to the gang—two immovable forces that had splintered their world. T
o call it anything less than true love was a lie; it was the cruel, helpless choice of adults trapped by circumstance. Arthur, bound by decades of loyalty to Dutch and Hosea, could not simply walk away. Mary, desperate for him to abandon his outlaw life, had been willing to flee, to elope, but he could not. And so, she had let him go, a piece of her soul torn away.
That first time she'd sought his help, as the train pulled away, her voice had caught, the unspoken words heavy in the air, leaving only, "You'll never change..."
"Oh, Arthur…" she whispered now, her eyes blurring with unshed tears, fixed on the passing landscape. How desperately she had wished, how she still wished, for him to leave it all behind, to run with her. She dreamed of it every night.
But adulthood was a cage of restraint, of cautious words masking tumultuous hearts. "Long time no see, how have you been?" – the only acceptable currency for emotions that screamed for more.
But now, the future she had yearned for, the life she had clung to in her dreams, was finally, within reach. A thrill, almost unbearable, shot through her. God, she had devoured his letter every single night, each word a lifeline, each line fueling a frantic desire to sprout wings and fly to him.
He'd written of the Van der Linde Gang's transformation, their shocking shift to legitimacy, their dealings with the powerful elite of Saint Denis. He'd spoken of Dutch, that old devil, somehow changing his stripes, and their new venture into the textile industry—a factory, workers, equipment. And then, the words that had truly shattered her composure: Arthur wanted to give her a stable life.
After she had quietly settled her affairs, her father blissfully unaware, she had, once more, boarded the train to Valentine. Her hands clenched, raw with anticipation.
"SQUEEEEEAK!!!" The final, guttural shriek of the brakes. The train shuddered to a halt.
"Phew!"
Arthur took a ragged breath, the cigarette butt crushed under his boot, a nervous tremor running through him. He stood at the train's exit, his eyes burning with an almost feral anticipation, scanning the faces, desperate for the sight of the woman who haunted his waking thoughts and tormented his dreams.
And then, in that breathless moment, as the train doors hissed open, their gazes locked. One on the platform, one still in the carriage. Mary, Arthur. They met.
"Oh, Ar—"
"Oh, Ma—"
The words, choked by years of unspoken longing, died on their lips. Adults, burdened by reserve, by stubborn pride, by the fear of showing too much. Their eyes blazed with a desperate passion, one having abandoned her home for this moment, the other having yearned for it for years. Yet, the invisible chains of propriety held them captive, wanting to embrace, yet daring not to move. They stood, awkward, eager, like lost puppies finally finding their way home, wanting to approach, but terrified of startling the warmth they craved.
"Mary, you… you came…" Arthur's hand fidgeted, hovering, aching to reach out, to grasp hers. But he was too raw, too nervous, his fingers coiling uselessly, unable to bridge the gap.
"Arthur, you…" Mary's gaze fell to his hand, seeing his hesitation, watching as he nervously fumbled with his gun holster instead. And in that moment, the love in her eyes, finally, undeniably, shone through.
Damn it! Play to your strengths, Arthur! He wanted to smash his own head, to force his hand forward. It was the same damned paralysis he'd felt before, wanting to put his arm around her, but utterly unable to move.
But Arthur, despite his awkwardness, was a man of action when pushed.
"Mary, come down." He extended one hand, ostensibly for her baggage. With a swift, practiced move, his other hand closed over hers, a gentlemen's gesture masking a desperate need. He held her. Finally.
"Oh, thank you, Arthur!" Mary seized the chance, her fingers lacing tightly with his, a desperate, possessive grip she vowed never to release.
Arthur held her hand tight in his, her suitcase in the other, and they walked out of the station. "Mary, we're going straight to the ranch. Dutch bought two, like I said in the letter. Our clothing factory's already up and running." Valentine's heat was stifling, but he never loosened his grip. A fine sheen of sweat coated their palms, sticky and unpleasant, yet utterly ignored by both of them.
"Oh, Arthur," Mary murmured, her voice soft, eyes crinkling with hidden delight, yet her reserve held, muffling the boundless joy threatening to erupt. "Okay, Arthur, I'll listen to you. But… is Dutch truly that impressive now?"
Arthur's chest swelled with an almost unbearable pride. As they walked, he regaled her with every detail of the gang's recent, astonishing rise. He couldn't help it.
The Van der Linde Gang had not merely survived; they had ascended. He could now walk the dusty streets of Valentine with his head held high, no longer a shadowed outlaw but a man acknowledged, even feared.
Everyone knew of "Mr. Hosea,",his alias, a man of such power that the Sheriff himself patrolled their newly renovated shop three times a day, terrified of any incident. So, yes, Arthur could afford to be proud.
Mary's face blossomed with a genuine smile as she listened, walking close beside him, his words a balm to her soul. He was holding nothing back, sharing his world, his triumphs, his truths. Their intimate bubble felt impervious, a perfect, fragile sanctuary.
Then, a sudden, booming voice shattered it.
"Mr. Hosea! Oh, esteemed sir, I saw this horse and it seemed familiar. I didn't expect it to truly be you, Mr. Hosea!"
Mary and Arthur recoiled, their hands instinctively flying apart, the spell broken.