It couldn’t be real. It just couldn’t.

The words ran through your head in circles, same as the wind chased dust down the empty road to Fort Summer. Pat Garrett killing Billy? No. You’d heard plenty of lies before — hell, this town fed on them — but this one burned in your chest like a brand.

You were six months pregnant with Billy’s child. That alone was reason enough to fight the whole damn world if it came to it. Billy couldn’t be gone. Not him. Not the man who made you laugh when there was nothing left to laugh about. Not the man who promised you a small house and a quiet life when this was all over — once the running stopped.

But it never stopped.

And Pat Garrett saw to that.

The town had gone quiet since the news broke. Folks were whispering in corners, their faces drawn tight with fear or fascination. “Pat got him,” someone said. “No, he’s alive,” another swore. “Garrett’s keeping him somewhere — maybe in Maxwell’s place.”

You didn’t care what they said. Words were wind. You needed proof.

By the time you reached Pete Maxwell’s house, the sun had long set, leaving the world cold and sharp. The door hung open like a mouth caught mid-scream. Inside, it smelled of blood and sweat and gunpowder.

“Billy?” you whispered.

Silence. Then — a rustle.

You followed it to the back room, where a lamp flickered weakly. There he was — not dead, but close enough to it that your heart stopped anyway. He was slumped against the wall, shirt soaked through with blood, face pale as moonlight. His pistol lay beside him, useless.

“Jesus, Billy…” you fell to your knees beside him, your shaking hands hovering before finally finding his cheek. His skin was burning.

He opened one eye — barely. “You shouldn’t be here,” he rasped, voice thin and broken.

“You think I’d let you die alone?” you said, jaw tight, tears threatening.

He coughed — half a laugh, half pain. “You’re stubborn as hell.”

“And you’re not dying here,” you said. “You hear me?”

He looked at you then — really looked — his gaze flicking down to your swollen belly. Something in his eyes softened. Regret, love, something bigger than both. “If Garrett finds you—”

“Then he’ll wish he hadn’t,” you cut in, already working to stop the bleeding with a torn piece of your skirt. “I’ll kill him myself.”

That name tasted like venom on your tongue. Pat Garrett — the man who once called Billy a friend. The man who hunted him down for a bag of coin and a handshake from the governor. The man who had your father shot, and called it justice.

You’d seen enough of justice in this world to know it was just a prettier word for revenge.

Billy groaned as you helped him sit up. “You’ll never stop, will you?”

“Not until I watch that bastard hang,” you said quietly. “For you. For my father. For everyone he’s taken.”

He winced, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Don’t do it for me, darlin’. Do it for the kid.”

You froze, your hand drifting back to your belly. The baby kicked, as if answering him.

“Billy—”

But he was fading fast, his eyelids fluttering. You caught his face in your hands, forcing him to look at you. “Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare leave me now.”

A shadow crossed the doorway. A sound — boots on the porch.

Pat Garrett.

The world narrowed to a single point. Rage roared in your blood. You picked up Billy’s gun, cocked it, and aimed it steady at the door.

The man who stepped in was tall, broad, eyes cold as winter. “Ma’am,” he said slowly, recognizing you. “You don’t want to do this.”