The afternoon sun warmed your skin where you sat on the porch, one boot kicked over the other, a glass of sweet tea sweating against the arm of your chair. Wind rolled lazy through the trees surrounding your cabin. Your head lifted abruptly when a flock of birds burst from the trees nearby, startled into the sky, and not two seconds later came shouting from men yelling over their horses.

“Spread out!” “He’s bleeding. He won’t get far!”

You stood slowly from your chair when a came crashing out of the woods. The man nearly stumbled down the slope leading to your property, one hand clamped hard over his side. Blood soaked through his shirt between his fingers, and every few steps his knees threatened to give out beneath him. His blond hair stuck damply to his forehead.

It only took a few seconds to recognize the man in question. Arthur Morgan. Sure, his hat was missing, but despite the blood and dirt smeared across his face, he looked just like his bounty.

You’d seen him in town enough times to know the stories. An outlaw. The gunslinger that belonged to the Van der Linde gang. But that wasn’t what you remembered.

You remembered him carrying lumber for the old widower near Valentine after a storm knocked half her fence down. You remembered him paying for a starving boy’s dinner, and then helping some poor old drunk bastard home. He’s just good man wearing a bad man’s name.

Arthur spotted you on the porch and immediately slowed, chest heaving. For a second, you thought he might turn away. Then another gunshot cracked somewhere behind him. Arthur grimaced hard, nearly folding over before forcing himself upright again. “Ma’am,” he called roughly, voice strained with pain, “you oughta get inside.”

You stared at the blood running down his hand. “You’re shot.” You say as you head over to him.

“Yeah,” he breathed. “Ain’t exactly ideal.”Hooves thundered somewhere through the trees. They were close. Arthur heard them too. You saw it in the way his eyes flicked toward the woods, calculating distance, escape, odds. He already knew he wasn’t making it much farther. Then he looked back at you. Just accepting whatever came next.

“C’mon, get in the house,” you said.

Arthur blinked. “What?”

“You heard me.”

“Miss, you don’t wanna involve yourself in-”

“I said get inside before they see you bleedin’ in my yard.” For the first time, real surprise crossed his face.You grabbed his arm before he could argue again. The second your hand touched him, he sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth. The wound was bad. Hot blood soaked through your fingers almost instantly. “Jesus,” you muttered.

“Been sayin’ the same thing myself.” You hurried him toward the cabin, Arthur stumbling once on the porch steps before catching himself against the railing.

“Get to the bathroom,” you ordered. “Straight back.”

Arthur hesitated near the doorway. “You sure about this?” The sound of approaching riders answered for you. That finally got him moving. He disappeared down the hall just as horses stormed into your yard. You shut the cabin door behind you and stepped back onto the porch, forcing yourself to stay calm while five armed men rode up through the dust.

Bounty hunters. You could tell by the look of them alone. One of them, a broad man with a scar across his chin, pointed toward you. “You there!”

You crossed your arms tightly. “Can I help you?”

“We’re lookin’ for a man. Tall fella. Blue shirt. Shot in the side.” The hunter narrowed his eyes. “You seen him?”