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By the ti they returned to camp, they had three fish between them, and smiles on their faces. Mary-Beth blushed when Tilly gave her a knowing look, but Caleb just handed the fish to Pearson with a casual grin. "You cook, Pearson," Caleb said, patting his belly. "We'll eat." Mary-Beth laughed, and for the rest of the morning, they shared breakfast and stories by the fire.
As they ate the fish that was grilled and enjoyed stories, Caleb noticed several knowing looks from the gang mbers, a wink from Karen, a thumbs up from Tilly, and even a teasing nod from Sean. Arthur's smirk was particularly insufferable to look at.
But in that mont, with Mary-Beth's eye and smile that was full of warmth directed at him and the promise of a new day stretching before them, Caleb found he didn't mind the attention one bit, he even relished it and hoped that everyone realized what he was trying to do.
But unbeknownst to Caleb, across the camp, beneath the shade of his tent's canvas awning, stood a man who did not share the others' amusent at the sweet interaction between Caleb and Mary-Beth.
Dutch Van der Linde leaned against the support post of his tent, a lit cigar clenched tightly between his fingers, the smoke curling lazily into the air.
His usually relaxed posture was taut, his jaw set tight as he watched Caleb and Mary-Beth laugh together across the fire. The smoldering end of the cigar glowed brighter than usual with each angry puff.
To most, he looked like a man deep in thought. But if one observed closely, they'd notice the tension in his shoulders, the subtle narrowing of his eyes. The cigar's tip trembled ever so slightly.
He said nothing, did nothing. But inwardly, Dutch's mind was in turmoil.
He had noticed the shift. How Caleb had beco more central even though he had just joined for a couple of months. He was respected. Trusted. Even beloved by so. That in itself might've been tolerable. But now, he was making Mary-Beth smile.
"His sweet Mary-Beth," Dutch told himself.
The possessiveness crept in like a snake coiling in his gut. He'd never laid claim to her, not truly, at least maybe... not yet. But she had always looked up to him. Always offered warm words and quiet admiration. And now… now she barely looked his way after slowly getting close to Caleb.
The logical part of Dutch's mind tried to cut through the fog. "You need him." That voice reminded him how Caleb had helped guide them to this new camp, how he'd handled himself in the field, and how his marksmanship, resourcefulness, and insight had improved the morale and survivability of the gang massively.
"Micah's dead. Can't afford to lose more n." Dutch reminded himself. And Caleb... he has been contributing massively even though he has just joined. But the possessive side, the selfish, hollow place inside that had grown louder over ti, hissed back, He's taking what's yours. Piece by piece.
He took another long drag of his cigar, fingers squeezing the rolled tobacco until the ash broke and fell onto his boots.
Then, a soft hand touched his shoulder.
Dutch turned slightly and saw Molly O'Shea, her auburn hair tied up, her expression a mixture of concern and care. "Are you alright, Dutch?" she asked gently, her Irish lilt soft against the morning air.
Dutch sighed, exhaling smoke through his nose before answering. "I'm fine, Molly. Just got a lot on my mind, that's all."
Molly gave a small nod, her gaze searching his face. "Well… I thought maybe we could sit and read together for a bit. We haven't done that in a while, and it'd be nice, don't you think? You could use a bit of rest also."
He didn't answer imdiately. Instead, he turned around and looked back at Caleb and Mary-Beth, still sitting close by the fire, their conversation so natural it made sothing burn in his chest.
The frustration, the pressure, the jealousy, it all boiled over.
"For the love of God, Miss O'Shea!" Dutch snapped and turned back to face Molly, his voice sharp and scathing. "Stop giving that lost puppy look!"
Molly blinked, stunned. She recoiled a half step, her hands rising to her chest. "What's wrong with you, Dutch? I'm just asking if you'd like to read a book together. No need to shout and be angry if you don't want to. I just wanted to spend so ti with you."
"Oh, it's always about your needs, isn't it?" Dutch growled, turning his body fully to face her now. His eyes were wild, smoke trailing from his mouth as he spoke. "I've never known a woman with so many needs."
That did it. Molly's expression twisted with Irish fury. "Never known a woman with so many needs? Dutch, you don't even know the first thing about a woman's needs. All you care about is your own!"
Dutch paused, surprised. But only for a mont.
He yanked the cigar from his lips. "Wha—? How selfish are you?! Do you even know the price on my head? The pressure I'm under?! The lives I'm trying to protect?!"
Molly's eyes reddened with unshed tears. Her voice wavered. "So tell then, Dutch! I want to help you! But you won't let ! You won't speak to . There's always this… wall. And it's killing , Dutch!"
"You can help ," Dutch patience ended, raising his voice, "by leaving alone! So I can actually think in peace and silence for once!"
That shattered her.
Tears spilled over. "You're a bastard, Dutch Van der Linde!" she cried, her voice cracking. And with that, she turned and stord away from the tent, heading toward the far edge of camp where a lone tree stood near the periter, where she could be alone.
Dutch stood still for a long mont, chest rising and falling in heavy breaths, the cigar now forgotten in his hand.
Then, without a word, he ducked into his tent, letting the flap fall closed behind him.
Back at the campfire, silence hung in the air like a wet blanket. The whole camp had heard the argunt. Conversations stopped, eyes darted away, and the mood darkened like a passing storm cloud.
The gang mbers exchanged uneasy glances before returning to their routines, so pretending they hadn't heard anything, others muttering under their breaths. Karen rolled her eyes and muttered sothing about "dramatic fools," while Tilly shook her head in quiet disappointnt.
Caleb, however, kept his gaze lingering on Dutch's tent for a mont longer before turning back to Mary-Beth. She was watching Molly's retreating figure with concern, her fingers idly twisting a loose thread on her sleeve.
"You think she'll be alright?" Mary-Beth asked softly.
Caleb exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Molly's tough. Stubborn, too. But Dutch…" He trailed off, glancing toward the tent again. "He ain't in a good place right now. I think the pressure got onto him, he needs to rest."
Mary-Beth nodded, her expression thoughtful. "He's been different lately. More… tense."
"Because he's losing control and he doesn't like it," Caleb thought but didn't say. Instead, he offered her a small, reassuring smile. "Well, ain't nothing we can do about that right now, we can only let him take his ti alone."
Mary-Beth nodded in agreent at Caleb's words, her eyes lingering on Dutch's tent for just a mont longer before she turned back to him with a soft smile. "I hope he gets so rest," she murmured. "He's been pushing himself too hard."
She glanced once more toward the lone tree where Molly sat with her arms crossed around her knees, head bowed. A pang of concern flickered in her eyes before she turned her attention back to Caleb, offering him a soft smile.
Caleb humd in agreent, though his thoughts were darker. Dutch wasn't just tired, he was unraveling. But that wasn't a conversation for now, not with Mary-Beth's warm presence beside him.
They continued their idle conversation, letting the tension that had briefly overtaken the camp drift away. It was a skill everyone in the Van der Linde gang had developed to survive, learning to let tension slide off like rain from oilskin.
Their talk andered from the weather to the latest gossip, from Jack's newfound fascination with frogs to the state of Pearson's cooking in which Mary-Beth claid she was convinced he had a bad reaction to spices.
Then, halfway through a laugh about Javier's ridiculous singing the night before, Mary-Beth leaned in slightly, voice gentle but curious.
"Have you thought more about that Harry Potter story?" she asked, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. "I've been thinking about it, you know. Wondering what happens next."
Caleb blinked, caught off guard for just a second.
He'd known this mont would co eventually. The story of Harry Potter, the first book he had recited from mory under the pretense of "making up a tale", had completely enraptured Mary-Beth and a few others in camp.
He could retell the entire saga from mory if he wanted to as his Past Life mory (Lvl MAX) ensured that. But to keep up the illusion, he had to feign that the story was sothing being invented in pieces. That ant playing the part of a struggling storyteller.
He rubbed the back of his neck and gave her a sheepish grin. "Haven't had the chance to think too hard on it, if I'm honest. Been a lot going on."
Mary-Beth didn't press. Instead, she patted him on the shoulder with a smile that ward the chill out of the air. "Well, I believe in you, Caleb. Take your ti. We've got all the ti in the world."
Caleb smiled back, and yet a twinge of guilt squird in his chest. Lying to her felt wrong. She was too kind, too genuine. But he knew his secret, his past life mories, had to be guarded. Even in a camp full of outlaws, so truths could be more dangerous than lies. "Thanks, Mary-Beth. That ans a lot."
Before they could continue, Miss Grimshaw's voice cut through the air across the clearing, sharp and commanding.
"Mary-Beth! Quit dawdling and get to work! Those linens won't wash themselves! Don't make call again!"
Mary-Beth sighed but stood obediently. "Duty calls," she said with a playful roll of her eyes. "I'll see you later, Caleb."
"Don't work too hard," Caleb said.
She walked away toward the drying lines, where Tilly was already elbow deep in sudsy water. Caleb watched her go, a small smile still lingering on his lips. But soon his attention shifted.
He stood, stretching out his back, and let his gaze roam around the camp. There was a faint thud of boots on dirt and the clink of tal. Near Pearson's wagon, just getting up with the grace of a man punched by whiskey and ti, was Bill Williamson.
Bill groaned as he staggered toward the barrel of clean water, his shirt crumpled and his face bearing the distinct pallor of a man regretting his last bottle. Caleb hesitated only a mont before walking toward him.
This was long overdue.
Bill dunked his head into the water, then pulled back and splashed his face again. Water dripped from his beard and the end of his nose. That's when Caleb called out, "Morning, Bill."
The ex soldier stilled, then slowly turned to look at him, squinting like Caleb's voice hurt his skull. "What do you want, city boy?"
The hostility was thick, but Caleb didn't flinch. He raised his hands in a peaceable gesture. "Just want to make things straight between us. I think we got off on the wrong foot."
Bill's jaw worked, grunted, not yet convinced. "Truth is," Caleb continued, "I actually had quite a good impression of you when we first t. That brawl at Valentine's? I helped all of you and saw how tough and brave you were taking on 3 n by yourself. That thing stuck with ."
...
Na: Caleb Thorne
Age: 23
Body Attributes:
- Strength: 7/10
- Agility: 6/10
- Perception: 8/10
- Stamina: 7/10
- Charm: 5/10
- Luck: 6/10
Skills:
- Handgun (Lvl 2)
- Rifle (Lvl 2)
- Firearms Knowledge (Lvl 2)
- Past Life mory (Lvl MAX)
- Knife (Lvl 1)
- Blunt Weapon (Lvl 1)
- Sneaking (Lvl 2)
- Horse Mastery (Lvl 3)
- Poker (Lvl 3)
- Hand to Hand Combat (Lvl 1)
- Eagle Eye (Lvl 1)
- Dead Eye (Lvl 1)
- Bow (Lvl 2)
- Pain Nullifier (Lvl 1)
- Physical Regeneration (Lvl 0)
- Crafting (Lv1)
- Persuasion (Lvl 2)
- ntal Fortitude (Lvl MAX)
- Cooking (Lvl 2)
- Teaching (Lvl 1)
- Germanic Language Proficiency (Lvl MAX)
- Inventory System (Permanent - 5x5x5)
Money: 463 dollars and 45 cents
Inventory: 1000 dollars, 2 gold nuggets, and 1 gold bar
Bank: 320 dollars, 4 gold bars, a large bag of jewelry, and 3 gold nuggets
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