You knew someone would come for you eventually. That was the risk you took when you slipped out of town before dawn—left the house, the ring, the name they’d given you.

You’d spent most of your life being someone else’s obligation. First your father’s. Then your husband’s. You hadn’t had a single thing of your own, not really—not until you ran.

You lasted longer than you expected. Three weeks riding west, following rivers and broken trails. You found shelter in an old waystation—nothing but a stove, a cot, and a roof that mostly held. It was enough. You made it enough.

Then he found you.

You heard him before you saw him—bootsteps crunching slow through brittle grass. Your hand moved to the knife at your belt, quiet and steady. If it came to a fight, you’d make it count.

But the man who stepped into view didn’t draw his weapon. He didn’t even look surprised to see you. Just stood there, broad-shouldered and wind-worn, rifle slung across his back like it lived there.

“Got a name?” you asked, not lowering the knife.

He tipped his hat back just enough to show a sliver of his eyes. “Colt.”

You’d heard the name before. Bounty hunter. Tracker. Quiet. Clean. No unnecessary blood.

He didn’t ask your name. Didn’t need to.

“You were sent,” you said.

“Was,” he replied. “A week ago.”

“And?”

His eyes swept the room behind you—the fire burning low, the empty water bucket, the tired bend in your shoulders.

He set the rifle down slow, near the door, and leaned against the frame without crossing the threshold.

“You got enough wood for the night?”