Hello, everybody, and welcome back to my literary adaptation of Red Dead Redemption 2! I haven't posted any new chapters for a while now, but I definitely think this chapter is a really great one for Arthur's character development and overall story. Now, let's get on with my routine intro-schtick.
If you have been around on this wiki long enough, you likely now about this project. If you haven't read any of these chapters so far, I strongly encourage you do, as it not only helps me with feedback, but it might be fun. You can find all of the previous chapters linked on my profile page. So far, I've posted over a dozen chapters on this wiki since 2022, and it's been quite a fun journey. I've been sort of inactive in terms of writing, so this chapter's been pretty long-awaited. This chapter adapts the mission "We Loved Once and True," which introduces Mary Linton into the story as Arthur's estranged love interest, and Arthur must save her brother, Jamie, from Chelonians. My adaptation holds close to this, but I've also added some other things too that aren't in the mission.
But, anyways, now that I'm done with my explanation, I hope you enjoy this chapter as much as I did writing it. As always, your thoughts and feedback are always welcome.
P.S.: Please bear with the formatting, as the content was transferred from a Google Doc.
Chapter Eight - We Loved Once and True[]
The swinging doors of the decrepit Keane’s Saloon creaked open, and a gust of cold evening air rushed in, mingling with the warmth and quietness within. The dimly lit establishment, tucked away from the main street of Valentine, bore the wear and tear of countless rowdy nights. It was far removed from the grandeur of Smithfield’s Saloon, which held favor with most townsfolk. But especially after the massive brawl only a few weeks ago, discretion was in my best interest.
The sparse patrons occupied only one or two of the few tables scattered across the well-worn wooden floor. The air held a faint scent of whiskey, mingling with the soft murmur of voices engaged in muted conversations. Faded paintings adorned the walls, accompanied by mirrors that bore the scars of time, much like the few elderly souls who still found comfort in this humble abode.
I made my way through the quiet saloon, approaching the bartender, a taciturn feller with a cigarette dangling from his lips, who quietly cleaned away empty glasses. “Hey, Mr. Callahan,” he greeted me with a gruff nod, squinting through a cloud of smoke. It’s good to know that nobody around here knew my real name.
“Hey, Ned,” I responded, leaning in as I placed a quarter on the weathered countertop.
“Whiskey?” He inquired, already reaching for a dusty bottle with practiced ease.
I nodded and grinned. “You know it.” As I waited for my drink, the flimsy doors creaked open once more, and footsteps seemed to approach me. I turned and saw Sadie Adler, like an unexpected gust of wind. She wore a brown leather jacket above her dress, and her dirty blonde hair was untidy. She looked at me with a shy grin, and I motioned for her to join me at the bar.
“Mrs. Adler,” I warmly smiled. “What’re you doing here?” I signaled to Ned Keane for another bottle of whiskey. Ned, acknowledging my request with a nod, poured two glasses and slid them toward us.
“Thanks,” Sadie rasped. She turned to me and answered my question. “I needed a break from camp. Pearson’s driving me crazy.” She settled onto a stool next to me.
“Pearson has a knack for doing that,” I responded, swishing around the whiskey in the glass before taking a sip. Like always, it was refreshing. Setting the glass down, I saw that Sadie’s glass was already empty. “Damn, you sure can drink!”
“I ain’t some housegirl, Arthur,” Sadie scoffed. “I ain’t like Tilly or Grimshaw. Jake and I…” Her voice faltered; it was but a whisper. “Jake and I shared the work.”
“Sounds like a good man,” I said, taking my hat off respectfully and setting it on the counter. Jake Adler had been a lifeline for Sadie. A lifeline cruelly taken away by the O’Driscolls. I could remember finding her as clear as day. First, there was a scream inside the house, then all hell broke loose when Micah tipped over a gas lantern, setting the whole place on fire. Sadie, who was too distraught to even speak, agreed to return to Colter with us.
Sadie’s gaze met mine, and an unspoken understanding passed between us. “He was,” she croaked. “My Jakie… he was the best man I ever knew.” She stared into the reflection on her empty glass before trying to change the subject. “I-I’m sorry, Arthur. I’m messing up your day. How’re things?”
“It’s all good, Mrs. Adler,” I smiled. “But it’s been fine. Just thinking about things.”
“Like what?” Sadie asked, her eyes still heavy.
I swirled the melting ice in my glass for a moment, contemplating. Then, in a low, thoughtful tone, I said, “Memories, Sadie. Old ones, I reckon.”
For the first time in ages, she had the slightest hint of a smile. “Care to share?”
Shit. This wasn’t where I thought this conversation was going. But I had nothing better to do. Why not tell someone about a dead relationship from a decade ago?
I took a deep breath. “I had someone once. She was… like your Jake, in a way,” I began, my gaze distant as I stared into the depths of my whiskey glass. “Mary Gillis. We… had something special back then.”
Sadie’s expression softened as she listened intently. “Mary Gillis,” she repeated softly as if testing the weight of the name on her lips.
“Yeah,” I continued. “We were just kids… but it was real. At least, it felt real at the time.” A wistful smile tugged at the corners of my mouth as I let the memories wash over me. “We talked of leaving, starting fresh... somewhere else. But you know how life is, Sadie. It doesn’t always give you what you want.”
Sadie nodded, her eyes filled with understanding. “Sometimes, life just takes everything away,” she said, her voice trembling with emotion. As Sadie and I continued our conversation, the hours passed like whiskey-soaked memories, each sip bringing us closer to the bittersweet end of the night. The patrons at Keane’s Saloon dwindled, the dimly lit establishment becoming emptier with each passing minute.
Eventually, we realized it was time to get back to camp. Sadie offered a tired but genuine smile. “It was good talking to you, Arthur,” she said, her voice softer now, less raspy.
I nodded in agreement. “Likewise, Sadie. You know where to find me if you ever need to talk or just share a drink.” With a nod of thanks, Sadie rose from her stool, her steps steady despite the considerable amount of whiskey she had consumed. She disappeared through the saloon’s creaking doors, leaving me with my thoughts and the empty glass still holding the remnants of our conversation.
I paid Ned Keane for the last of our whiskey and walked out into the freezing but crisp night air. The muddy streets of Valentine were illuminated by gas lanterns and campfires. My steed, Isaac, hitched up by the back of the building, drooped his head, resting. I woke him with a gentle pat, whispering, “Let’s get home, boy.” As I mounted Isaac, we set off, heading back for Horseshoe Overlook.
The slow trot back to Horseshoe Overlook was marked by the soft glow of a moonlit sky. Memories of Mary Gillis tangled up with the words Sadie and I had shared, and they clung to me tighter than the cold air. Riding into the camp, passing that familiar triangular arch, and weaving through the woods, every memory felt like a notch on my belt. But it hit me: the past wasn’t tailing me from behind but riding alongside, keeping pace.
The camp was quiet, except for the distant murmur of some folks still burning the midnight oil and the soft rustle of horse tails. I let Isaac loose to graze near the ladies’ wagon, hearing the soft snores of Tilly, Mary-Beth, Karen, and even old Miss Grimshaw. Peaceful, for once.
I headed for my bed, a springy cot beside my weathered wagon, carrying the camp’s guns and ammunition. The wind played with the canvas draped down from the wagon, flapping like some old bird trying to take flight. Resting my boots on the springy bed, I felt the day’s weight press down on me. Not just the physical toll but that deeper tiredness, the kind that gnawed at the soul. Sleep was calling, offering a brief respite, not an escape. And I was ready to answer.
The days came and went, each one much like the last. One morning, I was at it early, splitting logs by the bonfire. I’d always liked these early hours in the gang’s camp. The beautiful scenery in Horseshoe Overlook was only a plus. Something about the world waking up, shaking off the night’s darkness, felt right. Felt pure.
The sun started to make its presence known, sending shafts of golden light through the trees, reflecting off the Dakota River, making it shimmer like a dream. I especially loved mornings because everyone I liked was awake, and the folk I didn’t fancy were still dead asleep. Take Uncle, the lazy bastard, who still leaned against an oak tree by my wagon, snoring away.
Molly O’Shea, Miss High-and-Mighty, stood by Dutch’s tent. She held a small mirror, applying her makeup with the kind of dedication I’d seen folk like Micah give to their pistols. Dutch, in his own world at the other end, puffed away at his pipe, each exhale carrying a sense of purpose. That damn phonograph of his played some opera tune. Ain’t to my liking, but it gave the camp a kind of class. It was an odd, comforting feeling reminding me that despite the savages we were, we liked to be held in a higher regard.
Pearson and Miss Grimshaw were already stirring the pot, the scent of coffee and raw meat wafting through the camp. Their bickering, a regular morning tune, only made Horseshoe Overlook seem more regular. And near the bonfire, the girls- Tilly, Mary-Beth, and Karen- had their morning ritual, heads close together, sharing whispers and laughter. Always wondered what secrets they shared.
Yet, the morning rumbled on. The camp grew in noise as more people woke up, and I took a hefty swing at the last log. The wood split clean in two, each piece landing with a thud that resounded satisfyingly in the crisp morning air. Wiping sweat from my brow, I tossed a few pieces onto the bonfire. The flames hungrily devoured them, pushing back the morning chill.
I was about to grab another log when I noticed Tilly Jackson approaching me from the circle of ladies. Mary-Beth and Karen, side-by-side, side-eyed me with a look of concern. As she drew closer, Tilly crossed her arms over her yellow blouse. “Hey, Arthur,” she smiled.
“Tilly,” I responded, standing straighter and brushing wood chips off my hands. “Something on your mind?”
“I picked up a letter for you when I was in Valentine.”
Raising an eyebrow, I asked, “Who from?”
Tilly avoided eye contact, her eyes fluttering from place to place. “It’s from that Mary girl you used to talk about.”
Mary Gillis.
I felt like I’d been kicked by a mule. Sounds of the camp dulled into a distant hum, and for a moment, it was just her voice echoing in my ears. It was so long since I last saw her, six or seven years now, yet it felt like yesterday. It was even longer ago when we were truly in love. My voice caught a bit as I responded, “Y-you have it with you?”
“I left it by your tent,” Tilly replied softly. “Thought you’d wanna read it alone.” I looked back at the circle of ladies. They were watching, not with amusement, but genuine concern. Tilly caught my glance and added, “I never did like her, you know.” Her tone was soft but with an undertone of disapproval. “Always seemed to bring more storm than sunshine.”
I couldn’t find the words to respond, so I just nodded, the weight of Mary Gillis’s letter and the memories attached to it pressing down on me.
As I walked away and Tilly reunited with the girls, I could faintly hear Mary-Beth murmur, “Poor Arthur…”
With each step towards my tent, the world got quieter. The camp noises faded into the background, replaced by the loud hammering of my heart. My thoughts raced, filled with fragmented memories of Mary- her laughter, her touch, the way her eyes sparkled when she was passionate about something. I hadn’t expected to hear from her, not after all these years.
Reaching my tent, the sight of my usual belongings momentarily grounded me. But there it was, a folded letter on the nightstand, kept in place by a book. The writing on the outside was unmistakably Mary’s. It said, “To Tacitus Kilgore.” That was our gang’s mail-in alias.
For a long moment, I just stood there, wondering if this was all real. But I hesitated, removed my hat, and set it down. Then, with a deep breath, I unfolded the letter, bracing for whatever words she’d penned to me.
Dear Arthur,
I’ve written this letter a hundred times or more, and I cannot get it right. It’s me. You know it’s me from the bad handwriting. I know I said when last we spoke, and I was going off to get married, that we would not speak again. I know I said a lot of things, and I meant them, I suppose, at the time, but I am not so proud as to not speak to people who care for me, or cared for me.
I’ve been in Valentine for a couple of months. I had some bad luck and, well, it’s a long story and not an interesting one, but I am here for now. I saw a couple of the girls, or whatever the polite term for them is, that ran with you and your associates in town, and I heard tell of a man who sounded like you. I would love to see you again if you could spare me a little bit of your time. I’m renting a room at Chadwick Farm, just north of town.
Yours,
Mary Linton
The weight of the paper in my hands seemed to grow heavier as I finished reading the letter. Linton? The name echoed in my mind, stabbing at old wounds. I remembered the last time I’d seen her, the news of her impending marriage, and the distance between us since then. Why would she be reaching out now?
I glanced around the camp. The sounds of laughter, chatter, and life going on all around me felt distant, as if they were muffled by the fog of my memories and thoughts.
Slowly, I lowered myself onto my cot, the springs protesting softly under my weight. I lay there, looking up at the tent’s canvas, the letter still gripped in my hand. Mary’s words repeatedly played in my mind, each sentence evoking our shared past. The smell of her hair, the touch of her hand, the sound of her laughter. They all came flooding back, bittersweet memories of a time that felt both so close and yet so far away.
Mr. Linton. The thought hit me suddenly. She had married him and was now back in Valentine alone, reaching out to me... Could it be that he had passed? Maybe she found herself alone in this world, just like I had often felt that way. Was this why she was reaching out to me now?
The sun had shifted slightly when I sensed a presence near the wagon. It was the familiar shuffle of Hosea’s boots, moving with that unhurried pace he always had. Opening my eyes, I spotted him leaning against my wagon. His striped blue shirt stood out under his untidy coat, but his gaze was more piercing- searching, concerned, and all too perceptive.
“Arthur,” Hosea began, his voice soft, a hint of concern lacing his words. “You’ve been lying here a while. Everything alright?”
My grip on the letter tightened reflexively, and I could see Hosea’s eyes shift slightly, catching a glimpse of the writing. Without uttering a word, his lips pursed, and he dropped his head slightly, the weight of understanding in his posture. “It’s just a letter,” I murmured, pulling myself up.
Hosea didn’t push. Instead, he looked back at me, a soft sigh escaping his lips. “Whatever’s in that letter, Arthur, remember you’re not alone.”
The genuine concern in his gaze was hard to bear. Pushing myself up from the bed, I avoided meeting his eyes. “I appreciate it, Hosea,” I said hoarsely, “but I gotta go.” I walked away without waiting for his response, feeling his watchful gaze on my back, knowing that he understood more than I’d ever voice aloud. The camp buzzed with life, but at that moment, amidst all the noise, I felt utterly isolated.
The familiar call of my whistle echoed through the camp, and within moments, Isaac, my trusty steed, was trotting towards me. As I mounted, I glanced over to the entrance further down the trail, spotting Javier, his sharp eyes scanning the surroundings as he stood guard by the triangular arch. He tipped his hat slightly, a silent nod acknowledging my departure.
As Isaac carried me forward, the directions Mary had penned replayed in my mind repeatedly. Chadwick Farm, north of Valentine. Chadwick Farm, just north of town. The words looped, clear as day, pushing me into a steady canter, heading for my destination.
The ride was, in many ways, a blur. The world moved past in hues of green and brown, punctuated by the occasional wildflower or a passing deer. But my focus remained on that singular destination. Chadwick Farm. Just north of Valentine.
Before long, the ambient noises of Valentine crept into my ears, the distant sounds of clanking, church bells, and chatter reminding me of the town’s ever-bustling life. Veering slightly from the muddy main road, Chadwick Farm came into view. Funnily enough, it wasn’t so much a farm as a large wooden house with a pig pen or two. The home seemed sturdy, its white wooden walls worn but well-maintained. Smoke curled lazily from the chimney, and furniture straddled the porch.
I dismounted, patting Isaac reassuringly, before making my way to the entrance. It was an ornate wooden door. I raised my fist, prepared to let its knuckles rap against the hard surface, but a sudden hesitance took hold. A pang of vulnerability, perhaps even fear, gripped me tightly. Pulling off my hat and holding it in my other hand, I let out a shaky breath and swiftly knocked on the door.
Before the echoes of my knock could die, I quickly turned my back to the door, facing the vast expanse of the land. Knocking on a door seemed more complicated than everything I had done since Blackwater- saving Sean, killing that bear, all of that combined.
The creaking of the door broke my train of thought. It opened slowly. It was not Mary, but instead an elderly woman. Her skin was creased with age, but she wore a heavy layer of makeup that tried to conceal it all. Most startlingly, the glint of a revolver pointed directly at me reflected the morning sun.
I instinctively moved my hands away from my belt, raising them slightly, palms out. I locked eyes with the woman, her gaze unwavering. “Whaddya want?” she croaked, her voice deep and rough, like gravel underfoot.
Caught off guard, I stumbled over my words for a moment. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you, ma’am. Is erm... is Mrs. Linton in?”
She squinted suspiciously at me, eyes narrowing as she took a moment to consider. “I’ll go see,” she said eventually, not lowering the gun until she was sure I wasn’t a threat. The door closed with a soft thud, and I was left staring at the ornate woodwork again.
From within the house, muffled but audible, I heard her call out, “Mrs. Linton, a caller for ya!” The seconds that followed felt like hours. I could hear the faint, soft footsteps approaching, each step bringing a rush of memories that threatened to overwhelm me. With each footfall, my anticipation grew, my heartbeat quickened, and the rhythm of anxiety and hope combined.
And then the door opened.
The sunlight caught her just right, creating a halo of light around her dark brown hair. The years might have marched on, but time seemed to have tiptoed past Mary. Her tanned skin looked as soft as I remembered, and her brown eyes held a warmth that felt familiar, even after all these years. The beauty mark on her right cheek, a feature I had often teased her about, remained unchanged. She’d tied her hair back in a practical yet elegant braid, just like her. She wore a dark green blouse with a long, dark blue skirt that swayed with her movement.
For a moment, I froze. Every rehearsed word, every planned sentence- gone. In that brief moment, the past faded, and it was just like old times.
“A-Arthur,” her soft voice trembled, barely a whisper. She closed the door and seemed to be at a loss for words. Just like me.
“Mary,” I struggled, my voice catching in my throat. My gaze wandered to the wooden planks of the porch, trying to find words in the grain. “I… erm…”
Her nervous habit of biting her lower lip made an appearance. “I heard about you... and your folks being around. I...”
The weight of everything made it difficult, but I finally met her eyes. “And Mr. Linton?”
A shadow passed over her face, and she looked away. “He died… some time ago.”
The silence was almost unbearable. “I’m sorry to hear that,” I finally managed, a knot forming in my throat. It all made sense now. Her reaching out, the pain in her eyes.
“Me too,” she whispered, her breath visible in the cold air. “Pneumonia.”
“Bad business,” I shook my head slowly with discomfort. “Well, y-you’ve been… you’ve been made a widow. So you come here looking for me? Is that it?”
She hesitated. “It ain’t like that, Arthur. I… my family…” Her voice trailed off, tears welling in her eyes. “I need your help.” The rawness in her eyes and desperation in her voice cut through me. But why turn to me after all this time? We haven’t spoken for years and haven’t left on good terms. Why did she choose me of all people on this goddamn planet? Why did she choose the man her family hated out of all people?
Bitterness crept into my voice. “You mean the family that always looked down on me? You want me to help them?”
She trembled. “It’s my little brother, Jamie.” Jamie. The name sent a jolt through me. Memories of the boy flashed before me- that same boy who once idolized me. I hadn’t seen him for years. Turning, I rested against a fence, feeling the rough grain pressing into my hands, grounding me.
“Jamie,” I sighed, glancing back at Mary. “I always liked Jamie, at least compared to the rest of ‘em.”
The soft whisper of her dress against the grass reached my ears, a delicate presence. Standing beside me, she leaned into the fence, her closeness both comforting and scary. “He’s broken daddy’s heart.”
I shook my head with a slight smirk. “Your dad has a heart?”
I caught the swift change in her expression from the corner of my eye. Her brows drew together, and her face tensed with an urgency I hadn’t seen in her before. “Don’t make me beg you, Arthur,” she said, her voice tinged with desperation and defiance.
I let go of my grip on the fence. I liked Jamie enough, but it didn’t seem worth it. Her father, the most royal asshole in the world, ruined everything between Mary and I. We would’ve run off, started a life away from it all, but her goddamn father. All I could do was grimace. “My money, my life… me! It wasn’t good enough for him.”
“And I’m sorry for that,” she swallowed hard. “But we need your help, real bad. Little Jamie’s joined the Chelonians, that strange religious order!”
I didn’t even know what the hell Chelonians were. If they were any the same as Christians, then I suppose Jamie would be well off. “So he found God. Leave him be,” I shrugged.
Mary shook her head and cried, “They’re zealots, Arthur! They’ll kill him! You’re the only person he’d listen to-”
“So,” I interrupted, locking with Mary’s eyes. It seemed that the nervousness between us had washed away. “Now, when it suits you, am I good enough?”
She took a step closer, hands clasped. “I regret everything, and I understand if you don’t wanna help me, b-but… I think of you often!”
A wistful grin tugged at my lips. “That was a long time ago now.”
Her voice trembled as if on the brink. “Please, Arthur, for Jamie’s sake. He’s just a boy!”
“I say let Jamie live his own life and not the nightmare that his daddy dreamed up for him.” I began pacing the porch.
She looked defeated, her voice a mere whisper. “He’s so pure, Arthur. Too innocent for this world.” Her voice lowered as I stopped and took a deep breath. “Please, Arthur. Will you help me?”
The weight of Mary’s plea bore down on me, each word echoing in my head. My mind was flooding with memories from all over the place. Jamie’s youthful face flashed before me, eyes wide with innocence and admiration. Then, the vision shifted to the lingering touches and stolen glances between Mary and me; our promises of a future never came to be.
In another corner of my mind, I saw the gang. Hosea’s wise words, Dutch’s impassioned speeches about loyalty, and the countless times we’d gone through hell and back together. Did I owe it to them to stay away from this? To protect our interests and keep our noses clean?
Yet, pulling me back was Jamie’s smiling face, a boy lost in a world that might very well chew him up. Could I live with myself if something happened to him, especially knowing I might have been able to intervene?
Mary’s eyes, those warm, pleading eyes, continued to bore into mine. “Arthur?”
Swallowing the lump in my throat, I squared my shoulders. “Where is Jamie?”
Her relief was palpable. “Thank you,” she whispered, the words barely reaching my ears, but the gratitude in her eyes said it all. “A rancher at Carmody Dell said he saw him and the Chelonians out by Cumberland Forest at Kachina Mountain. I just want him back, Arthur. Please bring him to me at the station if you find him.”
Cumberland Forest, Kachina Mountain. It sounded familiar to me. With understanding, I firmly nodded, stepping down the porch and into the earthy grass. “I’ll go find him.”
Mary’s fingers wrapped tightly around the fence pickets, her voice holding a hint of hope, “You don’t know how much this means to me.”
I grinned, a touch of our old camaraderie shining through. “You owe me plenty, Mary.” I felt her gaze on me, warm yet full of worry. I placed my boot on Isaac’s stirrup, swinging myself onto the saddle. As I grabbed ahold of the reins, Mary smiled one last time.
“I knew you’d do right by me, Arthur,” her voice wavered with emotion, carrying a world of unspoken words. Turning Isaac, I gave her a final nod. A task was ahead, and it was time to set things in motion.
. The path leading out of Chadwick Farm was familiar, with its beaten tracks leading straight through the bustling livestock town of Valentine. I rode through a street perpendicular to the muddy main street, with houses and smaller businesses lining the road.
The sounds of horse hooves squishing into the mud and the occasional holler of construction workers filled the town. As we trotted through, people went about their business, most wrapped in light coats against the cool morning chill. A child’s delighted laughter echoed as he chased a stray dog, their game zigzagging between pedestrians. Over by the shabby Keane’s Saloon, a couple of cowboys raised their hats in acknowledgment. Not friends, but familiar faces. As I left the outskirts of town, passing the yellow post office and train tracks, I briefly nodded to Mickey, a poor veteran without an arm, a story seemingly always on his tongue, lounging by the train deck.
Leaving the hustle of Valentine behind, the path wound upwards. Each hoofbeat of Isaac made me more determined to find Jamie. If Mary, out of all people, reached out to me, this had to be pretty dangerous.
The ground shifted from well-trodden dirt to rock-strewn trails, signaling the start of Cumberland Forest. Pine trees gradually appeared, and the air grew cooler and crisper, the scent of pine needles and damp earth becoming more pronounced with each step.
The silhouette of Kachina Mountain soon loomed ahead. Its gray, rocky peak stood blanketed by trees, and smoke from a campfire wafted into the air. Maybe the zealot Chelonians were up there. I still had no idea who these people were; for all I know, Jamie joined some Christian gathering. The thought of it drew a smirk. Wouldn’t that be something? Go through all this just to find him singing hymns.
Regardless, I pressed Isaac onward, needing to find answers and fast. The trail became steeper, and the dense trees gave way to rocky outcroppings, but our path was clear. As we climbed, the view began to open up, with the entirety of the Heartlands coming into view. Not only could I see the small buildings of Valentine from afar, but the Twin Stack Pass, the several ranches and farms that dotted the plans, and even the distant campfires lazily wafting above Horseshoe Overlook.
I was only so much as a walk from the mountain’s peak, and I could hear the distant sounds of voices and chatter. Dismounting Isaac, I heaved up the gravelly ground and noticed the signs of people.
At first, it was the collection of horses that caught my eye. A motley of colors and breeds stood huddled together, tethered to makeshift posts, while others lazily grazed on the patches of green that interrupted the rocky soil.
Just a few paces ahead of the horses was a collection of weather-beaten tents surrounding a wooden table, fluttering in the cold mountain wind. Each tent was accompanied by a mess of belongings: pots, rolled-up blankets, and, weirdly enough, many symbols of turtles. Turtles were everywhere, whether it be the drapes, plates, or several canvases strewn across the camp.
Ahead of the cluster of tents, by the mountain’s crest, was the murmur of voices, one loud voice raised against the others. From here, now that I was inching closer, I could hear the man declare, “What is Chelonialism?” Slowly walking past the tents, I saw the people in view. The feller talking was a small, elderly man standing by the edge of the mountain.
His audience, or subjects- I wasn’t too sure, all huddled around him. They all wore woolen sweaters with a giant turtle embroidered onto them. I also saw them wearing leather satchels, with yet again, more turtles. Oh, Jesus. Are these turtle worshippers?
The elderly man continued his speech, holding his arms out widely as he rambled on, “No less than the recent discovery of theology!” He chuckled. “Entirely unique, for it follows the life of the sacred chelonian and its mysteries!” The old man exclaimed, his voice echoing fervently, drawing even more attention from the circle around him. I couldn’t help but roll my eyes; of all the things for Jamie to get mixed up in, he chose this. They weren’t precisely zealots, unlike what Mary told me, but they were sure weird.
Shuffling a bit closer, trying to avoid being seen, I scanned the faces in the crowd. Where was Jamie? In the sea of turtle sweaters, it was hard to spot anyone distinct, but knowing the boy, he’d be near the front, eager and impressionable, soaking in every word.
A young face caught my attention, blonde hair peeking under a wool cap. Jamie? No, but he seemed just as entranced by the turtle talk as the rest. I mentally sighed; this might be harder than I thought.
Suddenly, a boy turned around and noticed me. Soon after him, everyone else turned and timidly stared at me, foolishly hiding behind a set of crates like an elephant behind a mouse. Awkwardly standing up, I scratched the back of my neck. “Gentlemen…” I shouted so wherever Jamie was, he could hear me. All it seemed to do was frighten them like a group of deer.
The elderly man glanced at me and then at his “students.” He promptly whispered “Shell of safety” to the boys, and they followed suit, repeating the phrase and huddling together. The teacher stood at the front of this shell of safety, holding his arms out as if taking a bullet. I approached the group, distancing myself- if these folk backed up any further, they’d meet the bottom of the mountain. I cleared my throat. “Can I speak to Jamie?”
“A-Arthur?” A voice interrupted. From within the huddle, I saw a distinct face stand out. A slim, tall, ginger-haired teenager. It was Jamie, alright. I hadn’t seen him for long; he looked completely different! Then again, the last time I spoke to Jamie, he was still knee-high to a grasshopper.
“Hello, son?” I said, my voice lowered. “Your sister’s very worried.”
The elderly teacher quickly interjected, “The boy has chosen a path, sir. The path to truth.”
A grin broke my solid face. These folk couldn’t be serious! I cupped my hand over my mouth, trying to hide it as I calmly replied, “His sister just wants to speak with him.”
“Arthur,” Jamie said firmly. Two boys next to him held their arms over his chest, stopping him from approaching me. “I’ve chosen a path!”
“You see? This boy has chosen safety!” The old man smiled. He looked at me with a raised eyebrow. “What path have you chosen, sir?”
The old man continued to eye me expectantly, waiting for an answer to his question about the path I’d chosen. I could not believe anybody smart enough to be human fell for this. But I needed to get Jamie home, no matter how I did so. Impatiently, I exclaimed, “I don’t know about this nonsense. Now let me speak to the boy!”
The Chelonians immediately formed a tighter circle around Jamie, hands joined like a turtle shell. The old man responded with a tinge of disappointment, “Tut tut. Are you always this negative and antagonistic, sir?”
Taking a deep breath, I shook my head. I had to take a different approach. Smooth-talking this man was the way to go, although I was no expert. If only Hosea were here. My voice softened, and I admitted, “I’m not a very cultured man. Forgive me, please.”
The old man chuckled, “I am a fool for my god and a happy one, sir. I bless you. What do I dream about? Who are my heroes?”
Caught off guard and trying to navigate the situation, my eyes bounced around the place, looking for an answer. I glanced at the boys’ turtle robes, attempting to think on my feet. “Turtles... yeah, turtles!” I declared somewhat awkwardly. “Admirable critters! I love ‘em too... turtles!” As I said this, I awkwardly raised my fist into the air, hoping to connect somehow.
The elderly teacher momentarily looked amused before returning his gaze to Jamie and then to me. “Jamie knows his heroes… but of course, you may speak with him.”
I nodded, “Exactly.” Taking a step forward, I added, “Hey, if your teachings are so great, what harm can I do?”
As I approached, Jamie hesitated. His eyes darted around frantically, possibly looking for a way out. He stepped back, his voice shaking, “I’m... I’m not…” He veered away from the protective circle of chelonians, and I followed slowly, trying to keep the situation calm. But the panic in his eyes was evident, and he exclaimed, “I’m not coming with you, Arthur!”
“Just come and speak with Mary, then make up your mind!” I yelled back, only to watch as Jamie quickly mounted a brown horse by the hitching posts, ready to make his escape. With a nudge and a determined “hyah!” he was off.
Goddamnit! I had no time to think as I prepared for a wild chase down the mountain. “I hate kids,” I muttered under my breath. Without missing a beat, I mounted Isaac, who, sensing the urgency, galloped forward, sending a cloud of dust over the group of startled chelonians.
Isaac’s powerful strides ate the distance, his hooves pounding against the hard mountain path. We descended down Kachina Mountain, following the winding trails that snaked down its slopes. The wind’s chill stung my face, carrying with it the earthy scent of the forest. My hat threatened to fly away and with one hand on the reins and the other holding my hat, the world around me blurred into streaks of green and brown.
Ahead, Jamie’s horse was struggling. Its labored breaths reached my ears, even over the sound of Isaac’s galloping. Every so often, Jamie would cast a terrified glance over his shoulder, eyes wide. His inexperience as a rider showed, his body too stiff, movements out of sync with his horse.
“You’re making a mistake, Jamie!” I hollered, trying to make my voice heard over the rush of wind and the rhythmic pounding of hooves.
“Stay away, Arthur!” Jamie frantically yelled back. His response was almost a shriek, hands white-knuckled on the reins, gripping the saddle's pommel.
As we galloped on, two campers suddenly emerged from the woods, setting up their tent. Their faces instantly turned from surprise to terror, diving aside as Jamie barreled past me hot on his trail. Their indignant shouts and curses faded quickly behind.
As the tree canopy thinned, the dense woods of Cumberland Forest gave way to the sweeping landscapes of the Heartlands. The changing terrain made me adjust my riding– Isaac’s hooves finding a different rhythm on the softer ground of the grassy inclines.
Pulling Isaac to the left, then the right, navigating the hills, overflows, and ever-changing trails, I pushed him harder. I felt the powerful muscles of the horse working beneath me. Isaac snorted with each gallop he made, the wind crashing through his mane. Slowly but steadily, we began to close the distance between Jamie and me. The gap narrowed until I was nearly beside him. “Jamie! This won’t end well! Stop now!” I tried again, voice edged with frustration.
His answer was both stubborn and shaky, “I have a new life now, Arthur. Just... just leave me be!”
“Damn it, do we have to do this the hard way?” I threatened. It was more of a blank threat. What could I do to stop him? Jamie’s so slim a lasso would probably split him into two. I continued chasing him as we turned left. I gritted my teeth, debating my next move, when the looming silhouette of a train tunnel up ahead caught my attention. A railroad crossing by a steep cliff. Realization dawned. “Think this through, Jamie!” I called out, desperation creeping into my voice.
“They care about me!” He shouted back. A distant, ominous chugging echoed through the valley as the trail neared the railroad. The sound, growing louder, reverberated off the rocky walls, painting a clear picture of a train bearing down on its tracks, its heavy iron wheels rhythmically beating against the rails.
The gleaming brown silhouette of Jamie’s horse approached the crossing, its hooves throwing up a fine mist of dust. My heart raced, urging Isaac faster, the weight of desperation pressing heavily on my chest. “JAMIE!” My voice tore from my throat, raw and pleading, just as he daringly darted in front of the behemoth of a locomotive. The train’s whistle bellowed, a deep cry before thundering past.
Between the gaps of the rattling wooden carts, I caught glimpses of Jamie— his dismounted form standing defiantly, his chest heaving from the exertion. I yanked Isaac to a screeching halt, sending gravel skittering in all directions. Jamie’s impassioned voice echoed, “Please, Arthur! I’m a man now! I’ve found a calling. Something real!”
Closing the gap, my steps measured, my voice unwavering despite the storm of emotions within, I retorted, “You’re just a boy, Jamie! Lost in all that muck!”
His blue eyes, once innocent, now flashed with anger and pain. “You? Preaching about mistakes? You’re an outlaw, a pariah! What do you know about purpose, Arthur Morgan?”
As the final cart of the train passed, the roar of its passage faded, replaced by a tension you could almost touch. It was then I saw it — the cold gleam of steel in Jamie’s hand. He swiftly pulled a revolver from his turtle satchel. The world seemed to stand still for a fraction of a second before a deafening bang fractured the silence. A bullet soared into the open sky, sending a flock of birds scattering. The shot’s echo sent his already spooked horse into a frenzied gallop, its hooves drumming a rapid beat as it disappeared into the distant woods.
Thrown off by the gun’s fierce recoil, Jamie’s footing wavered, his face as white as a ghost. Eyes wide, he leveled the gun at me, voice quivering, “LEAVE ME ALONE!”
“Jamie,” I whispered, each word dripping with desperation, “put it down. Please.”
His eyes, blue pools of despair, filled with tears, voice breaking, “I can’t handle it anymore, Arthur. This world... I don’t wanna live no more!”
Time seemed to stretch infinitely. A sinking feeling of dread consumed me as he pointed the gun to his temple. In that fraction of a heartbeat, my hand shot to my holster, fingers wrapping around the cold, familiar grip. The hammer of my revolver clicked back, a sound so soft, yet at that moment, it was deafening.
The world was reduced to tunnel vision, my focus solely on Jamie’s gun. My revolver barked, the sound ricocheting off the tunnel’s walls. Jamie’s gun fell, leaving a trail of gunsmoke in its wake. Jamie fell to the ground in shock, and he was breathing heavily.
Dust billowed in small swirls around Jamie’s fallen gun. I ran for it, each step a promise of safety for the young boy. I bent down, fingers brushing over the engraved metal of the gun before snatching it up. With the weapon now secure in my grasp, I turned my attention to Jamie.
His ginger hair was disheveled, and his eyes conveyed several emotions. Fear, guilt, relief… so many. Moving closer, I gently touched his shoulder, offering my support. “Now, let’s go see your sister.”
“O-okay,” he stammered. Without warning, he lunged at me, his arms wrapping tightly around my waist. I could feel his heart race, each beat echoing his silent cries for help, for understanding.
A small smile touched the corners of my lips. The boy was confused and lost, but there was also a hint of relief in that embrace. “It’s okay, kid,” I murmured, my hand gently patting the back of his head, feeling the soft strands of his hair against my rough palm.
With Jamie still trying to steady himself, he choked, “Have I been a fool, Arthur?”
The rawness in his voice hit me harder than a shot of whiskey. I glanced over, taking a moment before pulling out Jamie’s revolver. Handing it over, Jamie fumbled, his hands not quite ready for its weight. With a clatter, he got it into his turtle satchel.
“Well,” I began, glancing at Isaac and trying to find the right words. “I ain’t no scholar on what you’ve been up to, kid. But… if there’s one thing life taught me, it’s that there’s no shame in looking for a better world.”
As we neared Isaac, his nostrils flared, inhaling cool and warm noon air. Helping Jamie up on Isaac’s saddle was easy enough. For the tall kid he was, he was light. As Jamie settled in, a smile, this one of relief and recognition, crossed his lips. “I missed you, Arthur.” I swung up before him, taking the reins and guiding Isaac forward. “You and Mary... you two sweet on each other again?” Jamie asked, half-hoping to avoid the subject.
I let out a weary sigh, memories of another life clouding my thoughts, and replied, “Nah. That’s all ancient history, son.” With a soft “hyah!” Isaac shifted from a slow trot into a steady canter. The trail led through the rolling hills of shrubs and green grass. Up ahead was a towering butte, Citadel Rock. Just behind that formation was Valentine.
The first few minutes of the ride were silent, save for Isaac’s canter. But Jamie, nonetheless, spoke up, “Well, this wasn’t how I thought today would turn out.
“It’s been a long time, Jamie Gillis,” I smiled, continuing to ride through the Heartland plains. “You were a kid the last time I saw you, and you didn’t try to kill yourself neither.”
Jamie quickly changed the subject. “You know, you taught me how to ride a horse.”
I scoffed, “Too well, apparently. Shoulda taught you who to not run off with.” It seems Jamie remembered what I taught him, for the most part. He was a little rough around the edges controlling his horse, but I’m surprised the chase lasted as long as it did.
“They… made me feel wanted,” Jamie defended weakly. “Nicer than my pa ever was.”
“I’m sure,” I mumbled. “Please tell me you didn’t give them any money.”
“Of course I did,” Jamie replied. “They rely on charitable donations.”
“Jesus, Jamie,” I sighed. “Come on, you’re not that stupid!”
“I-I just wanted to believe that there might be something good coming my way one day, but I guess that’s dead in the water.” Dead in the water with them turtles, too. I ain’t the brightest man in the world, but even I wouldn’t fall for this Chelonia scheme. It all seems too dumb to be true. But Jamie continued, trying to defend himself. “All Pa kept telling me was, ‘You won’t amount to nothing,’ or, ‘You ain’t enough of a man.’ I had to get away! I couldn’t take it anymore.”
As I spoke, the wind carried my words to Jamie, a hint of bitterness creeping into my tone. “Your pa might have a big voice, but he’s nothin’ but a cowardly windbag. Don’t let his words cut you.”
Jamie shot back, “Watch your mouth, Arthur. That’s still my father you’re talkin’ about.”
Rolling my eyes, I countered, “What do you want me to say, kid? That he’s a pillar of virtue? A saint?”
Jamie’s gaze dropped, his voice low. “He ain’t gonna be pleased that you saved my life.”
A smirk tugged at my lips as I replied, “Do me a favor and send him my warmest regards.”
He seemed lost in thought for a moment before he blurted out, “He’s right, you know. I’m... I’m not cut out for much.”
“Now, that’s a load of bullshit,” I shot back, trying to bolster his faltering spirit. “C’mon, there must be something you like.” Jamie was silent. “Don’t strain yourself too hard now,” I joked.
After a moment’s pause, Jamie’s answer was simple, almost innocent, “Apples, I guess?”
I couldn’t help but chuckle at the unexpected reply. “Apples? Seriously?”
I imagined his face turning red like an apple, but I couldn’t see anything while riding Isaac. He stammered, “I... I really like apples.”
Holding back a broader smile, I mused, “Well, I was expecting something like horses or maybe blacksmithing, but... you could always find work in an orchard.”
His quick wit returning, Jamie teased, “By that logic, you must really enjoy robbing folks and shooting up the place.”
Leaning into Isaac’s saddle with feigned sternness, I replied, “Only when young fools like you decide to play runaway. Makes my job a tad more adventurous.”
Jamie groaned. “Pa’s told me plenty about your line of work.”
I sighed, slowing our pace as we trotted up Citadel Rock’s ascent. The trail would wrap around the butte and then head straight for Valentine. “I’m sure he spared no detail.”
Jamie promptly continued, “Speakin’ of… Are you still riding with those folks? Dutch and, what was his name? Hester?”
“Hosea,” I corrected. “And, yeah. Still the same, sort of.” I lied. For the most part, the gang was nowhere near the same. When I was undeniably in love with Mary, the Van der Linde gang was few in numbers, like a small Robin Hood clan, stealing from the undeserving and giving to the poor. Now that the noose has been tightened, especially after Blackwater, it seems our gang is nigh on twenty now and is every man for themselves. It was a quick burst of nostalgia, really. It was refreshing that all Jamie knew of my gang was what we were fifteen years ago.
Jamie asked, “And what about Annabelle and Bessie? I liked them two.” Even more nostalgia. At this point, it was uncanny. Both of them died over a decade ago. Annabelle was Dutch’s fiancee, and she seemed to be the one. Then Colm O’Driscoll slit her throat in front of Dutch, thus starting the whole O’Driscoll blood feud that still rambles on today. As for Bessie, Hosea’s wife, it was rather sad. She and Hosea left for a bit to live alone, and then Bessie died. Hosea never really recovered.
Choking up from the onslaught of memories, I told Jamie, “They died long ago.”
“Shit,” Jamie gasped. “Maybe Mary did make the right choice all those years ago.”
“No doubt,” I sighed with a tinge of sadness. Jamie did have a point. If things with Mary worked out, she’d probably stay with the gang. A position that reaped no benefits. “But, to be fair, none of what we do is like the nonsense in the newspapers.”
Still dwelling on the thought of Mary and me, Jamie asked, “So, are you two getting back together again?”
I let out a “pfft” and sternly responded, “No, I told you. She just asked me for some help.”
“The door’s open, so to speak,” Jamie reasoned. “Barry’s been dead a while now, and you ain’t so bad.”
“It’s all in the past, Jamie,” I sighed. As we began descending the other side of Citadel Rock, I looked out, and there it was— Valentine, just as I remembered. The place felt like an old, well-worn leather glove that fits just right. Those mighty, snow-capped mountains stood guard in the distance, their jagged peaks watching over us like they’d done countless times before. Midway, the green thickets of the forest adorned them.
The town, with its rustic heartbeat, slowly spread out before us. That familiar yellow building, the post office train station, caught my eye. I remember Mary told me to meet her there when I found Jamie.
I slowed Isaac to a trot as the dirt-trodden paths turned into muddy goop, wagons and farmhands filling the roads. As we neared the yellow station, its wooden walls peeled off over time, I declared, “Here we are! Mary should be inside.”
Guiding Isaac around to the opposite side of the building, I found a hitching post, still half in the shade. I deftly tied up Isaac. Together, we dismounted and headed up the worn-out wooden ramps, my boots clamping and creaking on them.
Pushing open the station’s door, a mixture of scents greeted us: the musty odor of old wood mixed with the crisp scent of paper and a faint aroma of freshly brewed coffee. The interior was simple and functional. A row of wooden benches were lined up along the walls, with a couple of folks waiting, engrossed in their newspapers or lost in thought. In the center, a long wooden counter stretched out, behind which a clerk was attending to a customer, meticulously stamping envelopes and looking outside for any train. The dim light from the overhead fixtures cast a golden hue over everything, with motes of dust dancing in the occasional beam of sunlight that broke through the windows.
My eyes quickly scanned the room, searching among the patrons. Where was Mary? Was she waiting behind one of the many boxes of luggage or maybe seated in a corner? I scanned the dimly lit room until I heard a voice.
“Jamie!” I heard Mary cry. She was sitting at a desk in the far corner of the post office. She was still dressed in her beautiful blue blouse. She quickly stood up and ran towards Jamie, tightly embracing him. I watched the pair, their love emanating. If only, I thought. Mary held a death grip on Jamie and cried, “Come home, Jamie… come home. Father’s been very sad.”
Jamie broke away and scowled. “Father wouldn’t know sadness if it died in his bed. But I’ll come home. For you.”
Mary smiled. “My boy… my sweet boy!” I heard the distant chugging of a train come near. Wait a minute. The luggage Mary had, the train, was she leaving again? If only she asked for more than a favor. Now, she’s packing her bags and going elsewhere. Again. Mary, who picked up her suitcase, glanced at me. “Oh, Arthur! Thank you!” She walked towards me, her hands raised slightly as if she didn’t know whether to hug or shake my hand.
I didn’t know either. Instead, I took Mary’s suitcase and carried it for her. Looking out the window, I saw a train screech to a halt by the platforms. “It’s good to see you, Mary,” I said.
Mary nodded. “And you, Arthur.” The three of us began walking toward the train platform’s back door. Outside, a passenger train waited, a conductor calling for passengers. Jamie quickly walked up the stairs inside a train car while I helped Mary and handed her suitcase. Mary held the luggage tightly and had the slightest grin before turning around. But she didn’t walk inside. Instead, she stopped and looked right at me.
“I’ve… you’re…” She stammered, out of any final words. We hadn’t seen each other for years, and when we met again, it was as quick as a hailstorm. Mary shook her head and sighed. “Oh, you’ll never change, Arthur. I know that.”
Mary hesitated for a split second at the entrance of the train car, her hand gripping the rail. She turned back, her eyes meeting mine one final time. It was a gaze filled with years of unspoken words, regrets, and lost moments. The wind tousled her hair, a strand falling across her face, making her appear as beautiful as I remembered from our youth.
The sharp whistle of the train pierced the air. With one last deep breath, Mary Linton climbed aboard, taking her place by the window. Her silhouette, framed by the warm light inside the car, was the last image I held onto as the locomotive roared to life, billows of steam obscuring my view.
As the train chugged away, the distance between us growing every second, my heart felt overwhelming emotions. Was it relief? Sorrow? Or perhaps regret? All I could think of was our past. The joys… the heartache… it all flooded back. The curve of her smile, the sound of her laughter, and even the scent of her perfume on that date years ago.
Why did things have to be this way? I was trapped in a past as real as the present. I might never see Mary again. It would haunt me to know that her last to me would be “You’ll never change.” I played that moment over and over in my mind, hoping for a different ending, but reality had its own plans.
The rhythmic clattering of the train wheels gradually faded, pulling my thoughts back to the present. Valentine now felt emptier, and the weight of solitude settled around me. I’ve been a part of countless gunfights and life-threatening ordeals, but the simple act of saying goodbye to Mary was the most challenging ordeal I had ever encountered.
I let out a long, weary sigh, trying to shake off the gloom. “Life goes on,” I whispered to myself, a tear rolling down my cheek as I turned my back to the now-empty tracks and began my walk back into town, carrying the weight of memories with every step.
I turned away from the dissipating cloud of steam left by the train and started my journey back to familiar territory. As I ambled through Valentine, Isaac following behind, I realized how the town seemed to have faded into the background during my earlier haste. The familiar noises, the hustle of wagons and farmhands, and the chatter now seemed distant.
But, like always, there was a place to be for folk like me. The worn and decrepit Keane’s Saloon beckoned. Its wooden doors swung open, and I was greeted by the warm glow of the lanterns and the gentle hum of conversations. I went to a quiet corner and clipped my satchel open, fishing for my journal.
“Hey, Mr. Callahan,” Ned Keane’s voice cut through, a hint of amusement in his tone. I looked up to see him wiping down the counter with a stained cloth, that ever-present cigarette clinging precariously to his lips. “Why you sittin’ all the way ovah there?”
I sighed, leaning against the rickety chair. “I just needed to think.”
Ned nodded, pursing his lips. “You want some whiskey while ya think?”
I shook my head, pointing at a bottle tucked in the far back of his shelf. “How about that bottle’a rum?”
“Navy rum?” Ned raised an eyebrow. “You ain’t havin’ a good day, ain’tcha?”
“Not at all,” I sighed, flipping open my journal, taking off my hat, and setting it down on the table. Ned uncorked the bottle, its rich aroma immediately filling the air. The dark liquid poured smoothly into a glass, the amber hue catching the faint light.
Shuffling towards me, he set the glass on the table. “On the house,” he murmured, giving me a knowing nod.
“I appreciate it, Ned,” I replied, taking a slow sip, letting the warmth spread through me.
He leaned in slightly, the corner of his mouth quirking up in a half-smile. “Whatever’s on your mind, rum ain’t gonna solve it. But it might make it a tad more bearable.”
I chuckled softly. “You’re not wrong.”
Ned straightened up, casting a glance around the saloon. “I’ll leave ya to it, Mr. Callahan.” With a final nod, Ned strode back to the bar, and I returned my thoughts to my journal. Its creased pages beckoned me to pour my thoughts down. Something I desperately needed.
I fished out the iron pen Jimmy Brooks had given me that day in Valentine and began to write my thoughts down.
MARY wrote to me. WANTED TO SEE ME AGAIN. Oh, Mary, what fools we are. What a fool I am.
I saw her. She was as beautiful as she had been the last time I had seen her. I feel like the luckiest man alive, and I feel like a fool. That woman confuses me and plays me for a fiddle like no one else alive. Her little brother Jamie had joined some religious order and needed saving, or so she and her god-awful father seemed to have thought. I took him home after a pathetic little squabble. Poor boy. I wonder what will become of him. Education and an unpleasant father have been a terrible curse for him, I fear.
As for Mary, I hope I will not make a god-awful fool of myself again, but somehow, I imagine I shall.
A♡M