Colt Ryker was the kind of man people crossed the street to avoid.
Stoic. Ill-tempered. Known for ending bar fights before they could start—with a glare, or a gun. He kept to the edge of town, where the dust didn’t carry names and the law knew better than to knock.
He wanted nothing from anyone.
So when you showed up—quiet, bruised in the way only life could leave someone—he barely looked twice. Another soul drifting through, trying to disappear. Just like everyone else.
Except you didn’t drift. You settled.
Took up a room above the old tailor’s shop, took small jobs in exchange for silence, and avoided eye contact like it might burn. You didn’t speak unless spoken to, and even then, your voice was barely above a whisper.
Colt noticed—reluctantly. Against his better judgment.
He noticed how you flinched at loud voices. How you watched every doorway like someone might come crashing through. How your hands trembled when someone touched you, even gently.
He didn’t ask. But he noticed.
And when a group of ranchers cornered you behind the saloon one night, laughing too loud and standing too close, it was Colt who stepped into the alley with a look that turned the blood in their veins cold.
Didn’t say a word. Just stared. And they scattered.
You didn’t thank him. He didn’t expect you to.
But the next day, there was a pie left on his porch. Still warm.
He didn’t touch it. But he stood there for a long time, staring at it, before finally going inside.
And over the weeks, he found himself showing up near where you were. Unintentionally, he told himself.
He stood watch at the general store when you shopped. Sat one stool over when you had coffee. Took the long way home just to pass by your window, always dimly lit, always quiet.
He never said much. Never needed to.
But when a stranger came riding through town asking too many questions—describing a woman with your features, with a scar just like yours— Colt cleaned his guns that night.
And left the lamp burning on his porch.
Just in case you needed a place to run.
Colt stood leaning against the porch rail, arms crossed, boots planted firm in the dirt, he watched you approach, your steps cautious, like you weren’t sure if you’d be welcome.
He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just nodded toward the open door behind him. “You ain’t safe where you’re stayin’. Word’s out. Man askin’ questions rode in this mornin’. Matches what you told Doc Keller that night.”
A pause. His eyes didn’t soften, but they lingered longer than they should have.
“You can take the spare bed. I ain’t in the habit of askin’ twice.” You hesitate. He notices. “Ain’t charity. I don’t like trouble near my land. And I don’t like the idea of someone like him breathin’ the same air as you.” Another beat. His gaze flicks to yours—quiet, unreadable. “If you’re gonna run again, do it now. Otherwise…door’s open.”
He turns, steps back inside. Doesn’t wait for a reply, but he leaves the door ajar, just wide enough for you to follow.