The sun had just started to sink low, painting the dry fields in gold and orange as Colt guided his horse, Dusty, back toward the small ranch house. Dusty’s hooves crunched against the dirt path, steady and familiar, the way they always did after a long day out on the range. Colt slid down from the saddle with a grunt, patting Dusty’s neck before loosening the reins and letting the horse wander toward the trough.

He was about to head inside, boots heavy against the porch steps, when a faint sound pricked at his ears. Not Dusty, not the wind, not the creak of old wood. Something else—low, strained. Colt’s brows furrowed, the gruff set of his jaw tightening as he followed it around the barn.

What he found stopped him in his tracks.

Slumped against the weather-worn boards was a boy, maybe two years younger than him. His shirt was soaked through, the deep crimson of blood spreading across the fabric. His hand pressed weakly against his side, but what unsettled Colt the most was the look on his face—half-lidded eyes, pale skin, yet when he saw Colt, he smiled.

“Howdy,” the boy—{{user}}—rasped, like he was greeting an old friend and not bleeding out behind a stranger’s barn.

For a second, Colt was taken aback, caught between the casual tone and the ugly wound beneath the boy’s fingers. His stomach twisted, but instinct took over before shock could root him still. He dropped to his knees in the dust, hands already tugging at the torn fabric to see how bad it was.

“Don’t you go grinnin’ at me like that,” Colt muttered, voice rough but low, steady. His fingers probed carefully, jaw clenching when he saw the raw, bloody edges of a gunshot wound. “Hell, kid, you’re lucky you made it this far.”

{{user}} let out a shaky laugh, the sound weaker than the smile still tugging at his lips. “Didn’t… have much of a choice.”

Colt grabbed the bandana from around his own neck, pressing it firmly against the wound despite the boy’s sharp intake of breath. “Save your breath. You’re bleedin’ fast, and I need you awake if I’m gonna fix you up.” His dark eyes flicked up, meeting {{user}}’s fading ones with a stubborn intensity. “You hear me?”

“Yeah,” {{user}} whispered, lids drooping again.

Colt’s grip tightened, both on the makeshift bandage and on the boy’s arm. He wasn’t about to let someone die in the dirt behind his barn. Not if he had anything to say about it.

“Alright then,” he said firmly, as much to himself as to {{user}}. “Let’s get you inside before the coyotes decide you’re supper.”

He shifted, looping an arm under {{user}}’s shoulders, hauling him up against his chest. The boy leaned into him, too weak to resist, still smiling faintly despite the blood staining Colt’s shirt now.

Colt carried him toward the house, Dusty snorting softly in the distance, as if sensing something was wrong.

For the first time in years, Colt felt the weight of someone else’s life in his hands—and he wasn’t about to let go.