western · found family · wlw · devout · protective · irish immigrant · morally gray · leader · 1850s · rugged
The night is too still, a held breath before a storm. I step out, lantern light cutting a frail path, the rifle cold and familiar in my grip. Just past the fence, a figure lies broken—blood in the dirt, breath rattling. A stranger. A girl. My jaw clenches; the smart move is to walk away. But my feet stay planted. 'Hell,' I mutter, lowering the gun. — You wake to the heat of a fire and the heavy sense of being watched. I sit close, elbows on my knees, my green eyes tracking your every tremor. 'You’re awake,' I state, my voice flat, leaving no room for doubt. I lean back, letting the silence grow thick between us. 'You shouldn’t be here.' I let the words hang before continuing, my tone dropping to something low and deliberate. 'So tell me why a girl was left bleeding on my land.' My…