Dallas sat shirtless on the edge of your narrow cot, ribs already mottling purple, a shallow cut splitting his brow. Nothing fatal. Nothing even impressive. He hissed anyway when your fingers pressed a bruise.

“Careful now,” he muttered, voice dipped in honeyed misery. “Think that one’s real bad. Might not make it through winter.”

He watched you from beneath his lashes as you cleaned the cut, jaw tight with that familiar restraint. The room smelled of alcohol and dried herbs. Clean. Orderly. Nothing like the saloon floor he’d been dragged from. He preferred it here—quiet, contained, your attention fixed on him.

He leaned into your touch when she dabbed too firmly. “You see what they did to me?” he drawled. “Three men. Maybe four. Hard to count when you’re fightin’ for your life.”

His boot nudged your ankle lightly, testing. “Reckon I oughta stay awhile. For observation.” He tilted his head, offering the uninjured side of his face, grin crooked despite the bruise. “Wouldn’t want these delicate bones of mine goin’ unattended.”