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CONVINCING HER UNCLE PROVED MORE DIFFICULT THAN SHE'D HOPED, BUT EVENTUALLY, HE RELENTED.

After Micah blew the lid through their place in Blackwater, plotting a foolish plan to rob a ferry boat that Dutch and all of his egotistical ideas of grandeur, it was Maeve's turn.

Her turn to prove herself. Her worth. Her purpose. Her turn to avenge her father, and restore pride to her name.

She was made to look a hostage — though a part of her knew that Colm enjoyed beating her so viciously — and waited diligently in the shed.

They'd set her up after killing the husband, a couple of nobody's high in the mountains with the misfortune of being kind enough to invite some freezing young men in for a fire.

Maeve didn't want to think about what they did to the wife, but she'd found separating herself from the female victims of her gang's abuse was easier than acknowledging the partial guilt she harbored in not speaking against it.

The plan was for Arthur to find her. Dutch would still be riled up, but they'd both take pity on Maeve. Micah would find the other one — the wife — and save her from the O'Driscolls, therein ensuring they believed him a savior over sadist.

(But she thought that was a stretch. One look at the man and anyone could tell he'd rape and kill you without a second thought.)

She wouldn't send word to Colm for months, she'd have to be completely believed by Dutch — who was already paranoid — and his gang. Micah was easier for him to trust. Say the right words, turn the right heads, shoot the correct people — drawing attention from himself and Maeve.

As gunshots blared around her, Maeve yawned, feeling a pinch in her jaw. Maybe Colm had broken something. She didn't feel any chipped teeth, which was a great positive considering he had the capabilities.

She supposed they both knew Dutch wouldn't feel as easily attracted to a woman with chipped or missing teeth.

Here's to small victories.

The shed was quiet, the gunshots almost humming her to a lulling steadiness she'd grown accustomed to. Gunshots were nothing new to her, if anything she found them oddly comforting. If she could have slept, she would have. She was a bit too frigid though.

Colm had stripped her bare — Micah's idea, the pervert — and left her in a pile of hay. She could see her almost make out her breath amidst the darkness, her fingers numbing as the wind creaked through open gaps in the wood.

The door creaked open and her heart sped up. This was it. Every moment she'd prepared for this. Only this.

Dutch Van Der Linde must die.

"It's clear—wait," a man's voice rang out and a lantern was held a few feet away from her. "Dutch! Get in here!"

She looked up through the now dimly lit shed and met his eyes. Blue like she'd never seen before. She always knew what he looked like. Handsome features, built strong and large, defined from physical labor and strenuous tasks, but not carved by choice, rather responsibility.

His shoulders were heavy with the burden of being the second, and his hair a dirty blonde, light brown — it varied in the light.

Objectively, she might have found him attractive. If he wasn't so loyal to Dutch.

But she'd never found herself meeting his eyes. Fear of recognition, a flicker of understanding, a similar void of hollowness encompassing her own if they met.

She'd noted once they were brown. Assumed it, really. Dutch's were brown. She knew that from Colm'a description.

Her heart skipped a beat as their eyes connected. Blue met brown and she realized the hollow emptiness she'd always associated with gang members wasn't present in his.

Arthur Morgan was full of emotion.

She couldn't make them all out, couldn't decipher the enigma of the sky that suddenly ripped open in front of her. But she could see worry.

She'd never had someone worry for her before.

But that was part of the plan. It was working. No flicker of realization or recognition. Only worry and concern.

Dutch appeared at his side a moment later, then his own eyes widened.

He was as attractive as she remembered him to be. From posters or observing him in the streets back West. Thick mustache, a furrow of his brows, defined cheekbones and jawline, burly and somehow elegant at the same time.

His presence swarmed the room, filled every inch of it, seeping through the torn wood of the shed.

Arthur moved back, allowing Dutch to come through.

"Christ," he breathed out, kneeling in front of her. She saw a flicker of concern in his gaze, of sympathy. Pity.

She wanted to break his nose. She wished she could do it now. Kill him. But she couldn't take he and Arthur out, both far larger than her.

She was an adept fighter but she'd have trouble fighting Micah extensively. These two men would finish her in seconds.

"Are you alright, my dear? Who did this to you?"

Now's her cue.

Sell it, Maeve.

"I—I was with them for so long," Maeve breathed out. She was grateful for the cold then, the chattering of her teeth as she spoke and the cold from the wind prickling her eyes.

It made them watery, made it more authentic.

Maeve had never been a cryer. She couldn't remember the last time she'd cried. Maybe her mother's death? She wasn't sure.

"The O'Driscolls?" Dutch asked in concern, then looked to Arthur. "See if you can find this young woman a blanket. I doubt she needs two more men viewing her body like a gallery, son."

Arthur nodded once, eyes flickering to Maeve's again — she noticed neither of them looked downward, which she found surprising — before walking into the cold again.

"Do you think you can stand?"

Maeve bit her lip, unsure. She knew Colm had tried not to break any bones, but she couldn't be sure.

Arthur returned with a shaggy blanket — which was wet from snow — and an apologetic look.

"It's all I could fin'," he offered it to her, keeping his eyes to the wall behind her. Offering her privacy.

"Micah burned the house down," he told Dutch, irritation laced in his voice.

Idiot.

Micah was such a prideful scumbag.

"All I could fin' was this, it was coverin' the dead man," he informed the pair, his face twisting almost apologetically. "We got clothes at our camp, but — it may smell a bit, and might have blood on it."

"That's okay," Maeve said quietly, looking between them with wide eyes.

Play the innocent, foolish young woman. You were the victim, not them.

"Here," Dutch wrapped it around her shoulders and helped her stand. She leaned against him — she wasn't as injured as she thought she'd be, fairly steady on her feet — but her legs had fallen asleep. "Woah," Dutch muttered, holding her close to him. "I've got you. You're alright now."

"What's your name?" Arthur asked, but not unkindly, looking at her again once the blanket covered her nudity.

"I'm Maeve. Maeve Gonzalez."

She'd chosen her mother's maiden name, for obvious reasons.

"Maeve," Dutch tried it on his tongue. "That's a beautiful name. Means ruler if I'm not mistaken?"

"Does it?" Maeve asked innocently, though she knew. She'd always been her mother's little queen. Built castles out of air and weaved fables from words. She was a storyteller by nature, a ruler by name, and a creator by ambition.

Nothing in her life was hers, yet, but when Dutch Van Der Linde died — everything would be.

"It does," his lips quirked up a bit. "Come, let's get you someplace warm. You and the young woman living here have lost much today."

"Thank you," she breathed out, leaning into him for comfort. She should have looked ahead. Watched the snow as it entered her vision, focused on the warmth Dutch offered her through his arms.

But her eyes glanced to Arthur's, and all she saw was blue.

—

The small set of cabins they laid up in were sturdy enough to hold against the winter, and just small enough that Maeve could meet everyone fairly quickly.

She tried not to speak with Sadie — who didn't so much as look at her, except to question why she was in their shed in the first place.

Maeve lied, of course, explaining that the O'Driscolls took their "favorite plaything" everywhere with them, and tossed her aside when they found Sadie.

Sadie seemed even more heartbroken at that, and Maeve elected not to speak with her further.

Too many emotions she didn't want to delve into. Pity for the other woman, a strange kinship for being last to join the gang, and an overwhelming sense of shame that threatened to swallow her whole if she even thought about it.

Because, in a matter of speaking, she was at fault for Sadie's husband's death. For Sadie's mistreatment. The destruction of Sadie's home.

Instead, Maeve focused on politely greeting everyone else.

She met Abigail and Susan first, who helped her into new clothes, and allotted Sadie a place to rest. Susan tended to Maeve's wounds, stitching her jaw and telling her it would scar.

That was fine with Maeve.

She'd never been much afraid of scars.

She remembered Susan Grimshaw's name but she'd always been at camp and Maeve had never matched a face to it.

Abigail was kind, if flustered. She seemed worried for someone, and upon a hesitant question, the floodgates opened.

"My...John," Abigail sighed, unsure of the word to use to describe him. Maeve knew who she meant. John Marston. The second son. "He's missing and I'm worried sick about him."

"I'm sure they'll find him," Maeve offered with a small smile. "If I had a horse I'd look for him myself."

That put a softer look on Abigail's face, her eyes grateful. Maeve meant it. Anything to help the gang — because the more she helped it, the closer she'd be to Dutch's favorite.

"I appreciate that," Abigail said sweetly. "But you just rest up now," she gently bandaged a cut on Maeve's arm, "let us help you, and then we'll talk about my idiot."

"Deal," Maeve smiled, teeth and all, grateful to have softened at least one person.

Susan was harder, firmer, a bit more cross. But she had gentle hands and a steady grip, so the cuts on Maeve's skin weren't complaining.

"You're good at this," Maeve pointed out to Susan as Abigail chased after her son — who she'd come to learn was called Jack. "Stitching. Do people get hurt with you guys a lot?"

Innocent. Naive. Victim.

Susan hesitated. "It happens," she relented after searching Maeve's eyes for a moment. "Mostly to the men. I doubt you'll have to worry about this again."

As much as she enjoyed the idea of being confined to the societal obligations of a woman, Maeve knew better. She knew Dutch wouldn't respect a soft-hearted young woman who knit blankets together.

No.

She'd be in the gang, guns blazing.

"I'd like to help any way I can," Maeve replied tentatively. "I'm — I'm good with a gun. And..." she lowered her voice, as though conspiring, sharing a secret between the two of them. "I can pickpocket, too."

"Well, we could always use a pickpocket," Susan nodded. "You'll have to talk to Dutch, see what he wants to do with you. Do you ride?"

Maeve nodded immediately.

Mission be damned — she wouldn't give up riding for anything.

"Yeah, since I was little."

Susan sighed. "I'll let him know. You, rest," she gave her a pointed look. "I'll bring some food when Pearson's made it, the fool."

"Yes, ma'am," Maeve replied as Susan stood. A flicker of surprise crossed Susan's face, as though not being used to being respected.

Maeve would change that.

Everyone would love her and it would be all the more easy to kill them.

—

Dutch hadn't come to see her again, and neither had Arthur.

But she'd met Hosea.

In truth, she feared meeting Hosea. He was a conman by his core, and in a more precise and observant manner than Dutch or her uncle.

She knew the key to breaking the gang would be through him.

"You must be the young lady Arthur found," he spoke, smiling kindly at her, if soft and sympathetic.

He had kinder eyes than Dutch, she noted. Less calculated. His presence didn't overwhelm her, sink into her pores and threaten to consume her. He was softer, milder.

It unsettled her an equal measure.

"I'm Maeve," she introduced softly.

"Pretty name," he noted. "How old are you, Maeve?"

"I'm twenty," she answered honestly. She wanted to be as honest as possible. It was easiest to lie if you based them in truths. Less entanglement and potential to get caught.

Hosea's eyes flickered with surprise. "Oh, my. And may I ask how the O'Driscolls found you?"

So this was the interrogation. She expected Dutch, presumed Arthur, but it made perfect sense it was Hosea.

"They killed my parents," Maeve says softly. Half-truths. Her mother died of Tuberculosis when she was young, and the man she was meant to seduce killed her father.

But her father may not have been dead without Colm's rivalry with Dutch's gang.

"And then they kept me there," her voice got softer, a sadness in her gaze that she couldn't facilitate with even the cleverest lie. "In this...cage, used by them. For so long."

Her eyes watered. She didn't want to admit the words leaving her. Didn't want to think about how they measured the truth in her chest.

"I'm sorry to hear that, my dear," Hosea said gently, letting out a breath through his nose, then clearing his throat, as though stifling a cough. "You're welcome to stay as long as you'd like. We have a code, you might say."

She doubted that. No gang had a code.

"What's that, then?" She asked softly, sniffling.

"Shoot those need shootin'," a low, rumbling voice spoke from the door. She hadn't even noticed Arthur enter. "Save those need savin', feed those need feedin'. You're the savin' type, Miss Gonzales."

If only he knew how very wrong he was.

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