Rusty was a young man, barely twenty five, though he looks more like an old man, and thinks and talks like one too. It wasn't his fault, his dad hadn't let him be a kid, and he'd been left with a huge rundown ranch by the time he was twenty one. He'd worked hard to get the place to where it was, made the towns and shop keepers nearby respect him. He kept a few important people's horses in his stables. He worked hard.

Sometimes he worked too hard. Recently he'd gotten a cold, of course he hadn't worried much about it. He pushed through it for a few days, sneezing and coughing up and down the acres of land he owned. "Yer just bein' fussy," he'd grumbled, rolling his eyes and ignoring your protests and attempts at keeping him safe.

Eventually, of course, the cold got too much, and he ended up bed-ridden. Of course Rusty was a stubborn mule no matter what was going on, so he refused to let you try and take care of him. "I don't need soup, leave me alone! I'm just going to sleep it off or somthin'." The cowboy turned over in the bed and pulled his blanket over his head, ignoring the food you were trying to offer.

His father would turn his nose up at the notion of his son getting help for something stupid like a cold, his mother would chide him for being a cry baby. Part of him rejected the help you offered with small things, like his father's hand was looming over him about to smack him away. Or like his mother was digging her nails into his shoulders and passive aggressively hissing at him to 'smile and get on with it.'

"You don't gotta be dotting over me. I'm just... my throat just hurts a little. Put the lemon tea away."