Chapter Text
The church is small, drafty. The wood seems to creak with every brush of wind against the walls of flaking white paint. You’re nervous. Your hands are clammy as they hold the modest bouquet of flowers tightly.
You’d never been brave enough to speak up for yourself. That tightly wound fear in your stomach which makes the words dry up in your mouth, then that pit of regret you feel afterwards as the consequences of your silence play out. Particularly against your father - the man is a mountain, and you’ll never be able to stand up to him. It was easier to just act as though you’d never had any of your own desires, going along with everything he’d tell you to do.
Now, look where it’s gotten you - about to walk down the aisle, to marry a man you’ve never met.
He barely looks at you now, as your arm loops through his. You’d never been his favorite daughter - your older sisters were prettier, more accomplished. Suck-ups, really. That made you barely more than an asset to him. You didn’t even truly understand the terms of this agreement he’d made, giving you away with a dowry in exchange for some kind of promise.
A gang. He was selling you away to a gang.
You’re terrified.
But deep down, in some secret corner of your heart, you’re relieved that you’ll be out of your father’s household. You feel a weight lifted that you’ll no longer be a Bronte.
But what would you be? You didn’t even know this stranger’s name. You didn’t know how old he was, or if he was even a good man - you certainly didn’t trust the kind of men who did business with your father, so why should this one be any different?
“Smile,” your father whispers to you, one final command as your owner. Angelo Bronte’s face is painted into a satisfied smirk, and it makes you wonder what was so valuable to him that he would trade away a daughter for. You shift in place, the lace of your simple dress itching.
The doors open. You feel a brief rush of cool air on your face, lifting your hair from your shoulders.
There are several people in the pews, who turn and stand as you enter, but your eyes stop on the two figures standing at the end of the aisle. One stands slightly off to the side, with slicked-back black hair and a fine-looking red lined vest. He’s got a thick mustache and a prominent chin, which almost makes you imagine he might be some kind of Italian, like your family. He puts a hand on the shoulder of the man front-and-center, who finally turns to look at you.
The groom has hard features, sun-worn and rugged, but it only accentuates a kind of rough-hewn handsomeness. With a light lining of stubble along his jaw, and sandy-colored hair, he scans you up-and-down with light blue eyes that make you shiver.
Things could always be worse.
Your father slowly walks you down. Your eyes scan the audience, but you don’t see anyone you’d recognize. Not even your sisters had come.
“Father-”
“Listen, bella. You belong to this man now. You must be a good wife to him. Don’t disappoint him as you have often disappointed me.”
You can’t even look at him for fear you might cry. You just try to keep a straight face as you walk.
“You must hope he will not try to return you. I will not take you back, if that time comes.”
“But Mother-”
“Your mother will do as I say.”
At this point, you’re close enough for them to hear, so you pinch your mouth shut into a thin line.
Your father makes a show of “giving you away” - he transfers your hands into that of the groom’s dramatically, then leaves to take a seat in the front pew.
You’re scared. Too scared to look up and meet the eyes of this man, even though you can feel his gaze burning into you. You just stare down at where your hands meet.
His hands are huge and rough. In general, he was a huge man - broad-shouldered, arms thick with muscle visible even through his fine shirt. But as you turn to look at the priest, he turns your hands over ever-so-gently, and it makes your heart stutter.
The ceremony goes by quickly.
“Arthur Morgan,” the priest says.
You turn over his name in your head. Arthur Morgan. A strong name. But also, a familiar one - you’re certain you’ve heard it on the lips of the Saint Denis police before.
“Do you take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife from this day forward - to have and to hold, in good times and bad, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health; will you love, honor, and cherish her for as long as you both shall live?
The words are heavy. You’ve never really considered their meaning until now. It was a lot to ask of someone, even a friend let alone a stranger.
“I do,” Arthur says. His voice is gruff and deep. Something about it makes you dizzy.
The priest turns to you. He repeats the words, with a serious look in his eyes, as if he knows all of your secrets. You can feel your hands shaking as you say, “I do,” and promise yourself to Arthur Morgan.
“Then by the power vested in me by God, I pronounce you Man and Wife. You may kiss.”
Lord. You’d forgotten that this would be a part of it.
You finally muster up the courage to look up at the man that is Arthur Morgan.
So close now, you can see the fine details of his face. The way the sun has creased gentle lines onto the corners of his eyes, the sad twinkle in his gaze. You can feel your entire body shaking now as he leans closer. You can feel the angry stare of your father on your back because of your hesitation.
“It’s alright.”
Arthur’s voice is barely above a whisper, but it fills you with a new kind of warmth.
With a hand, he gently cups your face and leads your lips to his. The touch is gentle, but brief. It’s over before you realize, and you stare up at him breathlessly, as the audience in the pews begin to applaud.
The priest introduces you to the church with your new name, Morgan replacing the Bronte.
Arthur doesn’t let go of your hand, eternally gentle - and together, you walk down the aisle with shy smiles and polite nods.
* * *
The air outside is a relief like none other, but with it comes the smell of sheep manure. The doors let out onto the muddy terrain of Valentine, a place you’d never been until today. It was less than charming.
Arthur says your name softly, as if testing the feeling of it on his tongue. You turn to look at him, shaking your head.
“I’m sorry,” you mumble.
“Sorry? For what?”
“For all of this,” you sigh, looking down at the ground dejectedly. You can feel the tears stinging the corner of your eyes, and you don’t want him to see. “For having to take me.”
“Hey, no. This has nothin’ to do with-”
“Congratulations to the happy couple!”
Bursting from the door is the man who had stood beside Arthur, followed by a small crowd of individuals you assumed to be part of their “gang.” You search through the people to find the familiar face of your father, but he’s nowhere to be seen. As if on queue, you hear the clopping of hooves in mud and turn to see his fine carriage already carrying him away.
You look up at Arthur, who is also staring at the carriage rolling away - and something in his expression cinches, as if he’s… angry?
“Our very own Arthur, a married man.” He comes over and slaps the back of your new husband, almost aggressively. “How does it feel?”
“Feels just the same as ten minutes before,” Arthur mumbles. “Look, Dutch-”
“Why don’t we all head down to the saloon to celebrate? Obviously we have the means, what with all of this newfound money,” the man named Dutch chuckles. You must have been delusional to think your dowry would have remained exactly that - yours.
His eyes finally settle on you, as if noticing you for the first time. “Welcome to our family, Miss. Or rather, Missus, now.”
“Dutch,” Arthur tries again, subtly trying to pull him aside. “I think we just need a moment to, you know… recuperate.”
“Recuperate? How do you know a word like that?”
They mutter back and forth for several moments, exchanging words you think you aren’t supposed to be hearing.
“I think it would be best if we just talked for a little. There’s an inn here-”
“The inn? Arthur, my word. The wedding wasn’t even five minutes ago!”
“Don’t disrespect the lady, Dutch,” Arthur growls. “You know what I’m sayin’.”
You flush, turning away - but you’re greeted by a woman with a kind face, her hair piled into an intricate updo which trails gentle curls down her shoulders. She’s pretty, with freckles all over her soft features, and a small smile on full lips. “Hello.”
“Hi,” you reply, trying to return her smile - but you can feel your lip quivering, too much emotion in your heart to contain.
“Aw,” she presses her lips together sadly. “Don’t cry. I know it’s scary, but Arthur’s a good man. He’ll take care of you.”
“He’s a stranger. It don’t matter what kind of reassurances you give her, Mary-Beth.” Another woman saunters over - she has gorgeous blond hair and a low-cut dress which reveals her… well-endowed figure, let’s say. “Right? You’ve never met before?”
“No,” you shake your head. “I didn’t even know I was going to be married until… the day before yesterday.”
The second woman whistles low, and the first woman’s brows fly up.
“You didn’t know? Arthur’s been nervous for weeks.”
“What kind of father just sells off his daughter and doesn’t even tell her-”
“Karen!”
“What? I mean, the man’s already gone. She can’t be too fond-”
But the tears are already running down your cheeks. She’s right. Or she should be - your father cared for money more than you, and you’d known that for all of your years growing up. So why do you still care for him? Why do you still want him to love you?
With every action, every plea, it had only ever been to impress him. Every attempt to win his favor had been futile, always falling into the shadow of your confident sisters. Your mother had tried to reassure you, but over the years it had only ever made her fall out of his favor, and so she’d abandoned you as he pleased.
The only way your father cared about you was in an honorable aspect - he’d never let someone disrespect a member of his household, because it was the same as disrespecting his property. But that was all it ever was, ownership. Now that you were out of his house, he’d care nothing for defending you in society.
The girls, Mary-Beth and Karen, fall silent as you cry.
You know you’re drawing attention. On top of the tears, your face feels hot with embarrassment.
“Come on.”
You feel an arm sweep around your shoulder, leading you away, and you let yourself fall into the weight. You hear their voices behind you.
“She didn’t know?”
“Is that even legal?”
“When have we ever cared about legal-”
“Since it involved people, Sean-”
Very quickly, you’re swept too far away to hear. You’re not sure if you could stand their pitying, anyway. They seem kind enough to care about how you feel, but at the end of the day, they were strangers. They wouldn’t have your back.
You’re led into a building, your vision blurry.
“A room, sir.”
“Is she-”
“A room.”
You walk upstairs. The innkeeper unlocks a room with a brass key, and hands it to Arthur as he steps in. Great. On top of everything, now, your new husband wanted to claim what was his. And as his wife, who were you to tell him no?
You try to wipe away the tears with the back of your hand. You realize at some point you must have dropped your bouquet. You straighten your back, looking up at your new husband, and try to put on a brave face.
He just stares at you, arms crossed.
“Sir-”
“Whatever you think is about to happen, isn’t,” he grunts.
You twist at your dress sleeve stiffly. “It’s not?”
“No,” he shakes his head. “I just wanna talk.”
He walks up to you, gently taking your hand in his own again, but this time so intentionally - and he’s so gentle every time that now it just feels natural. He leads you to sit beside him on the edge of the bed, and with his other hand uses his thumb to wipe away at a stray tear running down your cheek.
You’re holding your breath. So far, he’s nothing like you imagined him to be, but you keep reminding yourself you don’t know anything yet.
He’s a wanted man.
“Do you know where your father went?” Arthur asks, and it’s really not the first question you were expecting. His voice is husky.
You shrug, sniffling in between words. “Probably home. He doesn’t like to be out of the city for long.”
“Yeah? How do you feel about that?”
How do you feel?
It’s been years since someone asked you that.
“I don’t like the city, but it’s all I’ve known.”
“I don’t like that city much, neither,” Arthur says, his gaze drifting away as though lost in memory. “But I was askin’ you about your father.”
“Oh. Well, I suppose we’ve never been all that close. As you can see.”
“Right.” He’s chewing on the inside of his cheek, deep in thought. “So do you know why we’re here?”
You still. “I assume… you have some sort of arrangement.”
“Not me. With Dutch.” He indicates with his hand the imitation of his slicked-back hair. “Dutch Van Der Linde. We all ride with him.”
“I know him. I’ve heard his name before.” Your eyes meet his. “I know your name, too.”
“So you know what kind of man I am.”
His eyes are so blue, so pretty. And right now, his expression is almost sad.
“I’ve only just met you,” you say, and it’s the truth. “I don’t like to judge from other peoples’ ideas.”
He inspects you. His eyes briefly stop on your lips, and your breath catches - will he kiss you again?
“Well, I’ve heard your name too,” Arthur says. “The untouchable daughter of Angelo Bronte.”
“Untouchable? You must be thinking of one of my sisters,” you say, the corner of your lips lifting into a smile.
“Naw, I’m sure it was you. I was worried you might be some self-important princess,” he drawls.
“Well, you shouldn’t judge from other peoples’ ideas.”
He smiles, and it sends a wave of warmth throughout your body.
You’re scared. You feel alone. But it would be wrong of you to say that there wasn’t more you were wanting to learn about your new husband.
“If you don’t mind my saying, I don’t very much like your father,” he states, nodding to himself.
“Fine by me,” you shrug. “He basically told me he’ll never want to see me again after all this.”
“Then even more so,” he says. “That’s no way to treat a lady, let alone a daughter.”
The knock on the door which comes then is aggressive, and something tells you it is not one of Dutch’s gang members. Arthur stands with a startle, and pushes you behind him protectively.
“Who’s there?” he calls out.
“Come out with your hands above your head!”
You hear boots on wood, and you know that there’s more than one of them out there. Blood rushes in your ears, your heart racing.
That’s when the door busts down, and three men with guns in hand leap in.
You shrink back to the sound of gunshots. Before you can even think, before you get the chance to see them - they’re on the ground, and your ears are ringing. You smell the bitter punch of smoke, and you look up to see Arthur with a smoking pistol in hand.
There wasn’t even a second’s time of preparation. They’d come, and he’d drawn, and now they were dead on the ground, all within the blink of an eye.
You feel a sinking feeling, deep in your gut. The men on the ground wear blue - they were police.
This man you’ve married is dangerous. He kills like it’s nothing.
With a firm grip on your wrist, he sweeps you out of the room. And just like that, you become a woman on the run.