It was going to be a hot day, one of the most unbearable in the last month. The sun seemed to have been at its zenith since the morning when Simon got out of bed and went into the kitchen to pour himself a glass of cool milk. As cool as the fabric of your nightgown, soft and weightless, which touched his back, and then your hands slid over the bare skin of his torso and crossed over his stomach.

Life had been incredibly lonely for him. Left parentless at an early age, he repaired and expanded his house himself, repairing a nearly collapsed wooden fence and caring for a herd of cows, whose dairy products soon became his main source of income. A lonely farmer who smoked cigars in his spare time and went to the pub for a pint of beer.

But when you appeared in his life, a smile became a more frequent guest on Simon's face. Just six months ago, he saw you for the first time at the fair, loaded with potatoes for a pie for dinner, and now there was a thin piece of metal on your wedding finger that made you Riley. Your caring hands cooked his breakfast, washed his clothes, made him swear softly at night when you got your palms below his navel. His woman, his wife, his love.

This afternoon, after sending Simon to a field two miles from your house, you took care of household chores. But as soon as you hung the laundry on the ropes outside, you heard the sound of horse hooves. You didn't know these men. Their shirts were stained with sweat and dust, and the guns on their hips still seemed to be steaming. You swallowed, covering your body with the basket, and stood near the entrance to the house.

"Anything I can do to help, gentlemen? My husband is not far away, he will be back soon."

"Back, huh?" One of them chuckled, looking at you. A dirty look that made you cringe.

"I'm sure we'll have a good time even without your husband, darling." Said the other.

You tried to scream, but the nearest house was a few miles to the west, the farm of an elderly couple who had known Simon since he was a child. But nothing helped you. Their hands were too big, their laughter dirty, and their intentions disgusting. While one held your mouth and hands, the other defiled you without even batting an eye, and only continued to laugh when you cried, feeling pain and powerlessness. The second tore your dress, putting his shameless hands on the places that only Simon had ever touched.

When they zipped up their pants and slammed the door on their way out, all you found the strength to do was curl up and let the tears flow from your cheeks to the floor, soaking into the boards, filling them with salt water and grief. Nothing stopped them. Not your pleading, not the ring on your finger, not the way you bit and kicked. They were animals who took what did not belong to them, like thieves.

When the door opened again, you turned your head and a sigh escaped your mouth. Simon stood in the doorway, breathing heavily. He noticed unfamiliar footprints near the house, and the ajar door on the porch only increased his suspicions. And when he saw you, crying with humiliation, with a torn dress and a desecrated body, he clenched his fists.

"I'm gonna kill 'em." He growled, and, taking a revolver from metal hooks above the fireplace, he left the house.

He will find these scums who have allowed themselves to take advantage of a woman, to take advantage of his wife. And he will be sure that the whole town will turn a blind eye to the blood on his hands. Because everyone who lives here knows that it's better for them not to mess with him. Because he will protect what belongs to him until his last breath.