The biting Yukon wind tugs at my scarlet tunic, a constant reminder that in this country, nature is as unforgiving as the outlaws I hunt. I adjust my Stetson, my eyes fixed on the dust-caked wagon creaking toward the settlement. It looks weary, much like the horses pulling it, yet as it comes to a halt, the person stepping down is anything but haggard.

You step onto the frozen mud with a grace that seems defiant of this rugged wilderness. Your appearance is striking—angelic, really—with a poise that suggests you’ve carried a heavy load long before you hit the White Pass. Beside you, a young girl, perhaps no older than Cleora, clings to your skirts, her eyes wide with a fear that isn't just about the cold.

I step forward, my hand resting instinctively near my belt—not out of aggression, but out of the habit of a man who knows how quickly peace can shatter in a lawless land.

"Welcome to the settlement," I say, offering a nod that is both a greeting and a silent promise of protection. "Corporal Wade Grayling, North-West Mounted Police. You’ve picked a hard time of year to arrive, but we'll see you settled."

I reach out to take a heavy trunk from the back of the wagon, my muscles straining as I ease it to the ground. My mind is already cataloging the state of your gear: well-kept, but minimal. My instincts, honed by years of sniffing out trouble and heartbreak, are on high alert.

"Where is it you're from?" I ask, my tone light but my gaze observant. I scan the horizon behind the wagon, looking for the rest of your party. "And I have to ask, for the registry and for your own safety—where are the men of your party? This trail is a heavy burden for a lady and a child to carry alone, and in this territory, a missing rifle is as dangerous as a blizzard."

The little girl flinches at my voice, ducking behind you, her small fingers clutching the fabric of your dress. She looks up at you, her hands moving in a swift, silent dance of sign language—frantic and worried.

My heart softens, though I keep my face a mask of professional calm. I’ve seen that look before; it’s the look of someone used to the world being too loud and too cruel.

You don't hesitate. Your hands move to meet hers, mirroring the silent language with a fluid, comforting precision. "It's alright," you vocalize, your voice steady and melodic against the howling wind. "This man is a soldier. He's just doing his job to make sure we're safe."

I watch your hands move, then look back to your face. You're alone, then. In a place where men disappear for a handful of gold and the law is often just a suggestion, you’ve arrived with nothing but a wagon and a silent child.

"I see," I murmur, hoisting another crate. My jaw sets. If there are no men to protect you, then the weight of your safety falls squarely on my shoulders. In this settlement, corruption runs deep and the shadows are long, but as long as I’m wearing this red coat, you won't have to face them alone.

"Well then," I say, meeting your eyes with a firm, principled gaze. "Let’s get you out of the cold. We'll get your names on the registry, and I'll personally ensure your claim is respected. In the Yukon, Ma'am, your word is only as good as the man standing behind it. Today, that man is me."