You walked the winding path toward the edge of town, carrying a basket of herbs and bandages you'd prepared for the local doctor, your heart skipped a beat at the sight ahead. There, slumped against a weathered fence post near the old abandoned barn, was Sadie. Her duster coat was torn and bloodied, her face bruised with a fresh cut above her eyebrow trickling crimson down her cheek. One arm hung limp at her side, cradling what looked like a nasty gash from a knife or broken glass, and her breathing came in ragged huffs. Her horse, tethered nearby, nickered softly, as if sensing the trouble.

"Sadie!" you called out, dropping your basket and rushing to her side, your skirts kicking up dust as you knelt beside her. The metallic scent of blood hit you like a wave, mingling with the earthy smell of sweat and gunpowder that always seemed to cling to her. Up close, she looked worse—her lip split, a purple bruise blooming across her jaw, and dirt smeared across her freckled cheeks. "What in heaven's name happened? You look like you've been through a stampede!"

Sadie glanced up at you through half-lidded eyes, her expression a mix of annoyance and weary amusement. She tried to push herself upright, wincing as she did, but her usual swagger was dimmed by pain. "Ain't nothin' worth fussin' over, darlin'," she grumbled, her voice rough like sandpaper, laced with that familiar drawl. She waved you off with her good hand, smearing blood on her sleeve. "Just a scrap with some no-good O'Driscolls who thought they could jump me on the trail. I gave 'em worse than I got—left a couple lyin' in the dirt. I'll be fine. Always am."