#rdr2 x reader

Your boots crunched softly over dried twigs as you ventured toward the tree line, bending now and then to inspect the carpet of copper-colored pine needles. Nestled near the damp, mossy roots of a decaying trunk, you found your prize—bay boletes, round and firm, a cluster of orange caps still unspoiled by frost. You knelt, smiling as you carefully twisted them free, brushing away the dirt with a thumb before tucking them into your basket. Good for stew, good for bait, and a treat for your horse—little rewards for another winter survived.

You straightened up, sunlight seeping through the dense canopy overhead. And you let it melt into your skin like warm honey, savoring the sensation as your eyes wandered over the clearing. The snow had finally retreated, and green had begun to claim back the landscape, lush and alive. You wouldn’t have minded finding one of those flowers again—the ones with the swollen purple bulb and speckled leaves you’d stumbled upon by sheer accident. You hadn’t seen one since last year, but you kept an eye out anyway, more out of fondness than expectation. Perhaps they would bloom once spring set its roots more possessively into this place. They were so beautiful—shaped like little slippers, almost too pretty to belong out here. Too whimsical to exist anywhere outside the pages of a fairytale.

And that was the thing about Tall Trees, it felt whimsical. It had its perks, living out here. This bountiful land most folks deemed too haunted—too wrong—to bother hunting, foraging, or fishing. Which meant the Basin—all its game, its fish, its untouched mushrooms pushing stubbornly through the cold earth—belonged entirely to you.

But as generous as Tall Trees was, you weren’t immune to its moods. The forest felt watchful, as though the leaves themselves were a million little eyes always paying attention. It didn’t feel haunted, exactly—just occupied. That was why you only ever came out in the mornings, when the light was gentle and forgiving. The moment the sun crept past the middle of the sky, signaling early afternoon, you always traced your steps back toward the Basin, and the safety of your porch. There was always laundry to tend to, wood to split, sage to dry, or a snag in a skirt to mend anyway. So you didn’t wander. You didn’t stray far. Some places demanded a certain respect—and Tall Trees was one of them.

You had just spotted another orange cluster, glowing like embers in the shade a few feet ahead, when a loud bang tore through the forest. The echo drilled into your ears, splitting the midday quiet so cleanly it felt like a physical blow. Birds burst violently from the trees, a frantic cloud of wings thrashing against the branches as they fled for the sky.

You froze mid-step, the forest suddenly, unnaturally still, save for the painful hammering of your heart against your ribs as you waited for the follow-up.

A hunter’s second shot, perhaps?

No.

Two more shots rang out in quick succession, followed by the jagged edge of angry shouting—at least three men, raised voices, overlapping in a cacophony of rage. This was no hunter.

Your breath hitched as the basket slipped from your numb fingers, mushrooms scattering across the forest floor like discarded coins. The realization hit you with the weight of a falling tree. You knew exactly where the noise was coming from. You knew the direction, the distance, and the perpetrators.

Damn Skinners.

“No, no, no,” you muttered under your breath, already moving, boots skidding as you rushed toward the narrow trail leading back to your cabin. Not again

You shared this land with those sick bastards—vicious, cruel butchers who turned the beauty of Tall Trees into a graveyard. They were everything that was wrong with humanity, patrolling the roads with cursed intentions, haunting them like demons who tortured anyone and anything unfortunate enough to cross their path, sometimes even wandering as far as the Basin. You knew the way they crept, the way they watched. Every time you heard their hollering, you dropped everything and ran to hide.

Your mind raced ahead of your feet, already mapping the quickest path inside, already picturing the heavy rug you’d yank back, the wooden mouth of the cellar waiting beneath the floorboards, the safety of the dark. You could be hidden in seconds. You had been before.

Another crack echoed, closer now, followed by a raw, guttural scream that died off into a wet choke. You pushed harder, your heart pounding in time with your footsteps as you leapt over a fallen trunk, lungs burning as branches clawed at your sleeves as if the forest itself was trying to hold you back.

Maybe you could reach the cellar before they noticed you. God—you hoped they hadn’t touched your horse.

The cabin finally came into view through the trees, smoke still lifting gently from your chimney as though nothing had changed since you left. A cruel image of domestic peace that vanished when you smelled the sharp, metallic air, heavy with the scent of burnt powder.

And that’s when the realization cut though the fear like ice water.

Skinners didn’t use guns.

They hunted quiet. Arrows that hissed against flesh, knives that whispered against muscle, traps that doomed futures.

You ducked behind the thick trunk of an ancient pine, peering toward your home. A man wearing a hideous skunk-pelt hat was limping away from your porch, moving as fast as his mangled, bleeding leg would allow. He hissed a curse, trailing behind three other dark shapes that scattered back into the dense tree line.

To your left, your horse whinnied, ears pinned back and teeth bared in a defensive snarl, but he was still standing.

Unharmed.

Thank God.

But relief fractured within a heartbeat, because the silence that rushed back into the Basin was somehow worse than the gunshots. It pressed tight and suffocating, broken only by the rhythmic, indifferent slap of the water against your old wooden pier, and the fading rustle of the brush where the four Skinners had vanished.

You waited, counting your breaths until the forest felt empty again. Then crept toward the porch, following the wet, crimson trail the limping man and his companions had left behind.

The sight made your stomach churn, bile rising in your throat until your breakfast threatened to come back up. You hated blood. Always had. You hated the metallic tang of it in the air, the way it clung to everything, the heavy implication of pain and gore it carried. It was why you’d never taken work at the doctor’s office back home, no matter how steady the pay. You’d preferred the chaos of the post office instead, even when the shifts ran long and loud.

You reached the porch steps, your eyes darting to the door. It was kicked halfway open, red footprints guiding you inside like a gruesome map leading to a nightmare. You swallowed thickly, your skin crawling and your fingers numb as you crossed the threshold.

Two bodies lay sprawled near the hearth, unmoving, their blood dark against your floorboards. Unmistakably Skinners.

A few feet away, in the shadow of your kitchen, slumped against the worn table was a man you’d never seen before. Very much alive, even as he pressed a blood-soaked hand to his side.

He lifted his head when he heard you, eyes blue and icy as the water of the Basin, sharp and assessing beneath the brim of his hat.

For a moment, you simply stared. Your mind scrambled uselessly between run and hit him with something, while your heart thundered painfully against your ribs.

You did neither.

“Uh—” You cleared your throat, the sound far too loud in the quiet, your own voice too small, too polite to belong in a room that reeked of gunpowder and death. “You ain’t a Skinner.”

A sound escaped him—half-snort, half-wheeze—and you couldn’t decide if it was incredulity or sheer indignation. If he rolled his eyes, it was subtle, but unmistakable.

“Most folk would be screamin’,” he said, his voice a hoarse rumble edged with tired irritation, despite the alarming amount of blood soaking through his shirt. “And here I was, havin’ a dull day, until you walked in to enlighten me with the obvious.”

He was right. Up close, it was clear he was no butcher. No hideous pelt fashion. No human bone trinkets. No filth stitched together in mockery of clothing. He wore leather and denim, dust and road stitched into every seam.

And somehow, against all reason and despite the two bodies cooling on your floor, the realization made your knees go weak with relief.

“Dear God—thank you, good sir,” you gasped, a frantic, shaky smile tugging at your lips as you stepped closer. “You saved my home! I was mostly worried they'd burnt the place down… or hurt my horse.” Your gaze dropped to the satchel at his side, hanging open where he’d likely been fumbling for a bandage, blood dripping down the leather. “And those are my peaches in that bag, mister.”

He let out a huff that might have been a laugh if he wasn’t so pale. “I’ve killed the two men in your kitchen, lady,” he said flatly, “and gave the rest a reason to stay clear. I reckon I earned a peach.”

You nodded quickly. Of course. Of course. A juicy peach was the least you could offer this gentleman, who seemed to be deteriorating with every breath he took. His face was the color of old parchment, and a fine sheen of sweat made his skin glint ghostlike in the firelight.

You leaned closer, and then you saw it—the deep track of a blade carved through his hand from back to palm, and two arrows buried deep in the meat of his thigh, the shafts shivering slightly with every pained breath he took. Dark, heavy drops of crimson hit the floorboards like a ticking clock.

“No, no, no, no…” you whispered, more to yourself than to him, your head spinning. “I hate blood.”

The man looked down at his leg, then back up at you, his expression flat and unimpressed.

“Well, I’m real sorry, ma’am,” he grumbled. His free hand trembled, but still managed a mocking little wave. “I’ll stop bleedin’ now.”

You spun around, eyes darting frantically in search of anything useful. But all you saw was your unmade bed. A jar of sugar cubes. Big Valley Canned Apricots. The two Skinners with clean bullet holes in their heads. Sloppy Molly’s Salted Offal. The Schmitz Canned Salmon you’d picked up at Manzanita Post last week—

There it was. The moment of clarity you needed.

“Wait here, good sir,” you said, voice certain like a promise. “I’ll go find help.”

“No,” he cut in sharply, as if you’d suggested a mercy killing. “No doctor—” The words came too fast, breaking into a ragged cough that made him wince in pain. “No doctor,” he repeated more quietly, voice dropping to a stubborn growl.

The audacity of such a request nearly took your breath away.

Who else would you bring if not a doctor? The undertaker? He was bleeding all over your scrubbed pine, slumped against your table with two—possibly poisoned—arrows in his leg and a knife wound to his ribs and hand, and somehow you were the unreasonable one for suggesting help.

“You a wanted man, mister?” You asked, already snatching up your satchel and coat, shoving a clean rag into his hand. “Just stay put. I won’t be long.”

You were halfway down the porch steps when another thought struck you—sharp, unwelcome, and oddly specific.

Where was the box of Hedley Baking Company’s Assorted Biscuits you’d also bought at Manzanita last week? The ones you’d been rationing carefully, knowing Saint Denis shipments didn’t always make it as far as Tall Tress. They were supposed to be right above the canned salmon.

You turned back.

Why was he here in the first place?

“Sir,” you retraced your steps into the cabin, “you were lootin’ my home,” you announced. It wasn’t an accusation—more like commenting on the weather.

“I wasn’t lootin’ ‘your’ home,” he said, knuckles turning white as he pressed the rag to his side. “I didn’t know you lived here.”

“Well, you were still robbin’ whoever you thought lived here.”

“I wasn’t. I was inspectin’.” His breath was shallow now, chest hitching with a wet, ragged sound.

“Inspectin’ for what?” You challenged, folding your arms.

“The idiot.”

“What idiot?”

“The one,” he wheezed, his blue eyes narrowing, “who decided to live in a cabin in the middle of Skinner territory.”

You scoffed, feeling a flush of offense crawl up your neck. You knew, however, that his reasoning carried a stinging amount of truth.

You took a steadying breath, doing your best to ignore the way the cabin smelled like a butcher’s shop.

“Just don’t bleed to death while I’m gone,” you said firmly. “You’ve got a lot of explainin’ to do, mister.”

You turned to leave—then stopped halfway through the doorway.

“One more thing—”

“What now?” he muttered. The edge in his voice was sharp with pain, and you understood the urgency, but if those devils came back and found him wounded and alone, they’d torture this poor man to shreds.

“I don’t know how wise it is for you to move in that condition, or if you even can, mister,” you said, already crossing the room, “but those bastards might be thinkin’ of comin’ back as we speak.” With a soft grunt, you hauled the heavy, hand-woven rug aside, revealing the wooden latch set into the floorboards. “So please, hide here.”

He stared at the dark opening in the floor, then slowly lifted his gaze to yours.

“Jesus,” he muttered, studying your face as if trying to decide whether he’d misjudged you entirely. "Is that where you hide the bodies?"

“What bodies, mister?”

“I’m just sayin’,” he half-grunted, each word sounding like it cost him precious breath, though that didn’t stop the snark. “A lady livin’ all by herself in the middle of the most cursed woods in the country. I ain’t accusin’ you of nothin’, but it is suspicious.”

You rolled your eyes, leaving the latch open in case he decided he needed it, and grabbed your coat.

“Just hide if you can, please,” you said shortly, heading for the door for good this time.

-

The gentle firelight spilled across the cabin walls in dusty orange slants, catching in the steam rising from a basin of warm water on your bedside table. It was that fragile hour before dawn, a moment of absolute stillness, when the birds hadn’t yet stirred, and the only sound was the soft, rhythmic lap of the lake against the pier outside. It was a hauntingly peaceful contrast to the red chaos of the day before.

Your lower back and neck throbbed from hours of scrubbing, and your hands felt like cracked rubber from the harsh lye and all the water it had taken to scour the blood and brain matter from your porous floorboards. You hadn’t been able to stomach a single bite of dinner after that. And when you’d finally been ready to collapse for the night, the realization had hit you like a splash of icy water: you’d be spending the night in the rocking chair.

Your bed was already claimed.

You wrung out a clean cloth, water dripping back into the basin with a soft plop. Your eyes drifted to the man currently resting against your lacy pillows.

He was still out cold, his breathing deep and slightly raspy, but steadier than it had been when you’d hauled the doctor through the front door. You’d found the physician exactly where you’d hoped—perched on the porch of the general store at Manzanita Post, spectacles slipping down his nose as he turned a page of the Blackwater Ledger.

He’d been a godsend, though he’d grumbled incessantly about being dragged into Skinner territory and the bodies cooling on your kitchen floor.

You’d found the stranger sprawled in a heap of denim and leather right next to the cellar door he’d been too stubborn to enter. For a terrifying moment, you’d thought he was a third corpse. But no, he wasn’t cold like the Skinners lying beside him. Instead, his skin had been burning.

Between the doctor’s grunts and your own aching muscles, you’d managed to get the arrows out and the man into your bed.

Now, as you pulled the quilt down to reach the bandage on his side, you couldn’t help but stare.

You’d handled the laundry of half the men in your hometown since you were old enough to work—the mayor’s soft, expensive shirts; the store clerk’s and his sons’ spindly long johns; the butcher’s oversized, blood-stiffened aprons—but you’d never seen a man built like this.

Even in repose, he looked powerful. Dangerous.

His shoulders were broad and unyielding, sinking into your mattress as if forged from iron. His chest was a rugged, hairy map of old scars and hard-earned muscle—a landscape of a life lived violently. But the mark on his left shoulder was different: a gnarled, puckered mess of twisted tissue that broke the rhythm of his skin. It was shiny and distorted, a scorched patch of history that looked like it had been sealed by fire and grit rather than a doctor’s hand. There was a weathered strength to him that made your small cabin feel suddenly, startlingly cramped.

You carefully began to dab dried blood away from the edges of his bandage, shuddering at the sight of the red staining the white. And yet, your fingers couldn’t help but linger just a second too long against the warm, solid skin of his ribs.

“You’re a lot of work for a man who tried to loot my home, mister,” you whispered, the words barely more than breath.

The doctor had left you with two bottles of tonic and a stern warning:

“Your husband’s got a constitution like an ox, but he’s lost a lot of blood. Keep him warm, keep him clean.”

A tiny, involuntary giggle bubbled in your throat at the sight of your rough “husband” tucked into dainty floral bedsheets. You still couldn’t believe the lie had worked, but instinct told you that a man who refused a doctor was a man with ugly secrets. You didn’t want to know who he was running from; you just knew that “husband” was an easier explanation than “armed looter who saved my life.”

You moved the cloth over the curve of his bruised bicep. It felt like tempered steel beneath your palm. You’d never touched muscle like this before. What kind of life carved a body like his? Besides looting homesteads, that is. You doubted any ordinary life could produce a build like that.

You studied his sleeping face, searching for an answer in the sharp jaw, and the golden stubble catching firelight. Without his hat, he looked less like a threat and more like a man. A very tired, very wounded man who currently had your favorite quilt pulled to his waist and a battered satchel, still holding your peaches, sitting brazenly on your vanity.

You dipped the cloth back into the water, your mind wandering through a forest of unanswered questions. You didn’t even know his name.

Pulling the quilt down further, you moved to the stitched mess on his thigh. The doctor had been forced to cut away much of his denim and drawers to let the wounds breathe, leaving thick, corded muscle exposed to the cool morning air.

As you moved the rag over the skin, something pressed against your hand from his remaining pocket. Driven by a mix of curiosity and the need to clear any debris, you reached in, pulling out a crumpled box of Millicent’s Premium Cigarettes and a sturdy folding pocketknife.

“You loot many strange men, ma’am, or just me?”

The low, gravelly rumble vibrated through the mattress, making you jolt so violently you nearly fell off your chair.

“Jesus!” you gasped, the rag dropping to your lap as you clutched your heaving chest. “Don’t do that again, mister. I ain’t used to hearin’ other voices ‘round the house.”

He didn’t move much—couldn’t—but his eyes tracked you with a sharp, heavy intensity. “You live out here alone?”

“Well—yes. Mostly,” you answered, your heart still hammering too hard for you to think clearly. “I mean… except when I don’t.”

There was a long, skeptical silence.

“…That ain’t exactly reassurin’,” he said, shifting his head slightly, the rough gold of his stubble scraping against your lacy pillowcase.

Seeing him like that—awake and observant, gears turning inside his head in God knows which direction—it suddenly hit you: you didn’t know him at all. He was helpless now, sure, but what about tomorrow? Or next week? When he was all healed and towering over you? He was so broad, so dangerously strong. He’d stood against at least five Skinners all by himself and came out alive. What could you do against a man like him? What if he decided he liked your cabin for his permanent home? What if he decided he didn’t want a witness to his “inspecting”?

“I mean, except when my husband’s here, of course,” you added quickly, the lie slipping off your tongue with alarming ease for the second time in twenty four hours.

“Your husband?” he asked, sounding surprised though not entirely incredulous.

“Yes. Why?” You busied yourself with the cloth again, hands trembling.

“What kind of worthless piece of shit leaves his lady alone to fend for herself in a cabin and in the middle of Tall Trees, of all places?” he grunted, his breath catching as your gentle touch met the wound on his thigh. “If it was me—”

“He…he’s travelin’,” You blurted, staring at the tender wound, your stomach churning at the sight and your mind scrambling for an explanation at the same time. “For work,” you cleared your throat, “he travels a lot.”

When there was only silence for an answer, you glanced up to meet his gaze.

And there it was. His blue eyes were clouded with fever, but there was still a spark of that dry, defiant wit behind them.

“He works for…” you averted his inquisitive gaze, desperate for a detail. Your eyes darted to the vanity, landing right on his satchel where your biscuits still remained taken. “The Hedley Baking Company.”

He cocked one sandy eyebrow.

“You know… the biscuit factory,” you added weakly.

“Saint Denis?” he asked. You nodded fervently.

He let out a long, pained huff of air that might have been a scoff under other circumstances.

“Well, if it was me, I’d take my lady to the city. Buy her a floor somewhere nice and make sure she was safe every time I came home from... makin' cookies. Wouldn't leave her to her luck, only to come back and find a rottin' body in this cabin. Just sayin’.”

“And I'm just sayin’,” you countered, fingers careful as you cleaned the edge of his wound, “for a man who was stealin’ peaches and biscuits from my kitchen just yesterday, you’re awfully rude to my good husband—considerin’ he ain’t even here to defend himself.”

“Or you,” he murmured.

You opted for silence. He was impossible. You pretended to focus on the task at hand, but your mind couldn’t help but wander to that absurd image: a version of you living in bustling Saint Denis, wearing a perfectly starched apron and pristine hair, baking cookies all day while the trolley rattled by your window. It couldn’t be further from the reality of your raw, scrubbed hands and the smell of pine and smoke you woke up to every morning. You almost chuckled at the sheer ridiculousness of it.

“Sorry,” he added suddenly. The word was so quiet, so unexpected, it took the breath right out of you. “Didn’t plan on gettin’ stabbed yesterday.”

“That’s all right.” You offered him a small, genuine smile, pulling the quilt back over his broad chest to keep the morning chill at bay. “I ain’t done yet, mister. Still gotta clean that nasty cut on your hand. But I figured you must be hungry. Doctor said you’ll likely sleep for days, but not before you eat. Can’t take your medicine on an empty stomach.”

You turned toward the kitchen counter, aware of his gaze lingering.

“And no, before you ask, I didn’t tell him your name—which I don’t even know—nor did I mention you were a stranger who just happened to be…” you reached for a spare bowl you kept on the top cabinet, “…inspectin’ my home when those Skinners arrived.”

You glanced back, mischief flickering on your lips.

“Rest, assured mister. I told him you was my husband.”

You’d expected a scowl or a grunt. Instead, you found the corners of his mouth twitching, his cheeks pulling back to return the smile. It transformed his face, smoothing out the hard edges of the bleeding man you’d met on the kitchen last afternoon.

“Thank you,” he murmured. His voice was so weak and heavy with exhaustion that you knew he’d be back in the dark of sleep within minutes. You needed to get some broth into him, and fast.

“It’s Arthur,” he said, the sound of his name stopping you mid-step.

You turned around, wooden spoon in your hand. He was watching you from the pillows, his eyes half-closed.

“Arthur Morgan.”

-

You woke before the sun had fully crested the treeline, the world still caught in that pale, breath-held quiet between night and morning. The Basin lay glassy and still, mist curling low over the water as you knelt at its edge, sleeves rolled tight, fingers aching as the cold bit into your skin. The water was bitter this early, but you’d never minded. You liked to work before the day truly began—an old habit learned back home, when the hours were long and the laundry had to be finished and folded before the town ever noticed you were there.

The past four days had been uneventful—about as uneventful as having a wounded stranger occupying your bed could possibly be.

He’d spent most of it sleeping, just as the doctor had warned. The first two days, he’d burned with fever, stirring only when you pressed a careful hand to his shoulder and coaxed him awake to drink broth. He hadn’t complained about the soup itself, only about being “treated like a baby,” his voice hoarse and obstinate even through the haze of pain.

The two days after that, he’d improved enough to sit up on his own. He’d remained stubbornly grumpy, but his stomach had managed solid food at last—starting with the very peaches he’d looted from you, now soft and ripe and disappearing faster than you’d expected.

And now, it was the fifth day.

You twisted the heavy fabric of his shirt once more, your eyes flicking toward the cabin without meaning to. A man like him wasn’t built for stillness. You could see it even in his sleep, in the tension that never quite left his frame. Five days confined to a bed would drive a man like him to the brink of madness—of that you were certain.

You only hoped he wouldn’t decide to prove you right by tearing open his half-healed stitches.

You wrung the shirt between your hands, watching the water cloud faintly pink before running clear again. It had taken four days of patient scrubbing and soaking in your carefully guarded “magic solution”—a mix of lemon, salt, and secrets—to get the blood out completely, but you’d done it. The fabric was finally clean, saved from ruin.

You huffed a quiet breath through your nose, more satisfied than you cared to admit.

“How could I ever have called myself a laundress if I couldn’t rescue you, Mr. Shirt?” you murmured, speaking to the fabric more than to yourself—a habit you’d picked up living alone in the woods, just to keep you from going insane in the silence.

“Now we just have to get you dried, and then I can stitch you up,” you explained to the shirt, giving it one last soak for good measure. “You’ll look even newer than when your grumpy owner first ordered you from that catalogue.”

“You always this talkative or did the Skinners rattle your brain loose?” A voice, husky with a morning rasp, drawled behind you.

You let out a small shriek, spinning around with your heart jumping straight into your throat. No, you would never get used to hearing another voice in this clearing.

“Mr. Morgan,” you said, half-greeting, half-scolding.

“M’lady,” he replied, tipping his head as if doffing a hat that wasn’t there.

He stood on the porch, chest bare save for the clean bandages you’d wrapped snug around his torso the night before. He was clutching his satchel’s strap in his hand. And you didn’t care how good he thought he felt or how strong he believed himself to be—it was too early for this. Too cold.

“Why are you upright?” you demanded, crossing back toward the line.

“Cause I got two legs?”

“You had two arrowheads deep in one of those legs,” you reminded him, pinning his freshly cleaned shirt to the line with unnecessary force. “I didn’t spend the last five days of my life cleanin’ and re-wrappin’ bandages just for you to tear ’em open again ‘cause you “got two legs”, mister.”

He let out a long, heavy breath, shoulders dipping.

“Ma’am,” he said quietly, the edge leaving his voice. “I really do appreciate what you’re doin’. I do.” He paused, a ghost of a rueful smile playing on his lips. “But if I gotta stare at that ceiling one more day, I swear I’m liable to lose what little sense I got left.”

You shook your head, opting for silence instead of an argument, and turned back toward the water. There were still bloody rags to wash. If he was determined to ignore common sense, you weren’t going to exhaust yourself trying to provide it for him.

The Basin was beginning to wake with you. The sun crept higher, pale gold spilling through the ancient trees and catching on the water’s surface, breaking it into a thousand scattered coins of light. You knelt at the edge, skirts gathered, and dipped the rags into the cold. The soap bloomed white between your fingers, sharp and clean against the iron tang that still lingered in the fabric.

The water numbed your hands first, then coaxed them awake, just as it always did. You worked on instinct, movements smooth and practiced, muscle memory guiding you where thought wasn’t needed. Bubbles rose where small fish darted near the shore, quick silver flashes disappearing the moment your shadow shifted. Somewhere deeper in the trees, a bird began to sing—then another—the woods slowly filling with melody.

Behind you, the porch boards creaked softly.

“You… do this for a livin’?” he asked after a moment. His tone careful, as if testing the waters of your temper.

“Used to,” you replied, wringing out a rag and watching the red bleed into nothing. “Back in Strawberry.”

“Strawberry?” he echoed.

You nodded, not looking at him.

“Been there, mister?”

“A few times,” he said. “Pretty little town.”

“That it is.” You smiled despite yourself, the memory bubbling up easy and warm inside your chest, a stark contrast to the icy lake water. You could almost hear the river running straight through the heart of town, the steady melody of the waterfall singing by your window day and night. You remembered the way mist clung to the flower baskets on the bridges in the early mornings, the petals heavy with pearls of dew.

He was quiet for a moment.

“You don’t miss it? Up there?”

“I do,” you admitted. “Most beautiful town in the whole country.” You paused, scrubbing gently, thoughtfully. “Miss ridin’ out to Big Valley. Campin’ there. Pickin’ lavender so the clothes’d smell nice after.” A small smile curved your lips. “Heard there’s a ranch up there now.”

You hadn’t been back in years. Too many to count.

“Looks like there ain’t a stain stubborn enough for you,” he said, his voice closer now. And you could hear the rustle of the floral blanket he’d wrapped around his waist.

You shrugged, dunking the cloth once more into the water. “Some things just stick with you, Mr. Morgan.”

The words settled between you, soft as the morning mist.

From the corner of your eye, you saw him shift on the porch, head turned in your direction.

“Say, ma’am,” he drawled, “how’d a hardworking woman like yourself leave the quaint little capital of Big Valley just to end up livin’ in a graveyard?” He asked gently, not like a man judging or measuring, but like someone trying to place himself into a life that wasn’t his.

A quiet chuckle slipped out of you. Some days, you wondered the same thing—whether there was an explanation that didn’t sound like good ol’ lunacy.

“I was workin’ a shift at the general store back in Strawberry,” you began, wringing out a rag until only a couple lonely drops fell. “Customer comes in to buy a newspaper. Well—he eyes it. Doesn’t buy it. Mr. Cooper got real mad. Didn’t say nothin’, but I could tell.”

You smiled faintly at the memory. “Anyway, the man starts readin’ the headlines out loud. Then he mentions an advertisement—cheap property, right here in the Aurora. I’d been here once as a cub. Remembered how alive it felt. Thought… how bad could it be?”

He listened without interrupting. The only sounds were your voice, the gentle creak of porch boards beneath his bare feet, and two does grazing along the far shore, heads lifting now and again as if listening to your story.

“Next day, I went to the bank with all my savings,” you finished, heading for the clothesline. “And the rest is history, Mr. Morgan.”

“So,” he said at last, his voice a low rumble, “you hear one strange conversation and decide to move into the woods?”

“I thought it sounded… affordable,” you replied, pinning a damp rag to the line beside his shirt.

“That ain’t usually a good sign, ma’am.”

“Well,” you said lightly, “I haven’t been eaten or tortured yet.”

“Yet,” he echoed, the word heavy with the weight of experience.

“You’ll laugh at me,” you added, hanging another rag, “but I thought bears would be my biggest problem.”

He let out a low chuckle that vibrated in the morning air. “And? Are they?”

“Sometimes.” You sighed, finally turning to face him, clutching a clean, wet rag to your chest. “I figured folks just… exaggerated.”

“They usually do,” he said, glancing around the treeline. “Just not out here.” He leaned a shoulder against the porch post, the blanket around his waist shifting. “That husband of yours oughta have done more research. Ask ‘round or somethin’. Man can’t just drop his wife in a den of wolves and go back to sellin’ cookies.”

You winced inwardly. Right. You had completely forgotten about your “husband” from Saint Denis. Now you had no way of fitting a biscuit-maker into this story of a woman buying land on a whim. You would have to come up with something later, because your imaginary husband was starting to tangle with your reality like unbrushed hair, and you had the distinct feeling that Mr. Morgan was far more observant than you’d given him credit for.

“Are you goin’ somewhere, Mr. Morgan?” you asked, eyeing the satchel clutched in his hand, desperate to divert attention from the crumbling logic of your “marriage.”

“Like this? No, ma’am,” he said with a huff of amusement. “Just waitin’ on a friend.”

A friend? How did he—

Before you could ask, he lifted two fingers to his mouth and whistled—sharp, clear, and commanding. It echoed off the surface of the Basin and died into the trees.

A heartbeat later, you heard it. The heavy, rhythmic thud of hooves drumming against the damp earth. The frantic rustle of brush on the opposite shore.

Your breath caught in your throat when you saw it.

The largest stallion you’d ever seen burst from the treeline on the far side of the water, raven-black and gleaming, mane streaming like silk as he rounded the water’s edge to reach the porch. His reflection rippled alongside him, dark and imposing against the gold-lit surface.

“C’mere,” he murmured as the horse slowed to a snorting halt. “You alright there, boy?” His voice dropped—a softer, gentle register—as he reached up to ruffle the animal’s thick mane. “I’m sorry, boy.”

“That your friend, mister?” you asked, stepping closer, helplessly drawn in by the sheer, raw power of the beast.

He nodded, reaching into his satchel. “Sent him off when ‘em damn Skinners showed up,” he explained, offering the horse a handful of oats. “Didn’t want no arrow findin’ him.”

You watched the animal as he ate happily from his owner’s palm. You’d seen far too many horses on the roads near Tall Trees with Skinner arrows buried in their flanks, still hitched to carriages driven by corpses. To see this one whole, healthy, and loved felt like a small miracle.

“And he waited for you all this time?”

“Figured he’d manage,” he said, his eyes never leaving the horse. “Plenty to eat out here. He’s smart.” He gave the stallion a firm pat with his wounded hand. “Ain’t you, boy?”

The animal snorted, a deep, vibrating sound of contentment, clearly pleased to be back at his rider’s side.

“He a Shire, mister?” you asked, your hand already reaching out. He nodded as the horse leaned his velvet-soft nose into your palm.

“He’s massive,” you continued, your voice breathless. “And beautiful. You should’ve told me sooner. I would’ve gone lookin’ for him. Could’ve stayed in the lean-to. My horse could’ve used the company, and this handsome boy wouldn’t have been out in the cold all alone.”

He smirked faintly, the expression reaching his eyes and making the "stranger" look remarkably human. “Hear that, boy? Lady here’s sweet on you already. You’re quite the charmer, ain’t you?”

You laughed softly, the sound warm and ticklish like the horse’s nose under your palm.

And then he tipped his head back, the early sunlight catching his face—five days worth of stubble glowing like gold, eyes shifting from cold blue to a warm, honeyed hazel under the morning sky. You realized, distantly, that this was the first time you’d seen him properly in the full honesty of daylight.

The next thought hit you before you could stop it.

This “stranger” in your cabin—this wounded, stubborn man with blood on his hands and your biscuits in his satchel—was actually quite handsome when he wasn’t covered in Skinner gore.

—