The smell of gunpowder still hangs in the air.

Arthur Morgan groans, one hand clutching his side as he lies half-conscious in the brush. Blood seeps between his fingers, the wound deep and hot. His hat is gone, his shirt torn, and his horse (a blur of hooves and panic) has bolted into the trees. The last O'Driscoll fell a quarter-mile back, but the fight cost him dearly.

Leaves rustle. A figure approaches. Soft footsteps, not heavy like a bounty hunter's or reckless like a scavenger’s.

"Easy now..." a calm voice says, low and cautious.

Arthur shifts, his hand moving toward the grip of his revolver, until he sees her.

A woman kneels beside him, eyes sharp as cut glass and pale as the sky before a frost. Her long hair is tied back in a loose braid, but her hands are steady, already brushing away blood to inspect the wound. The scent of crushed yarrow, dried lavender, and smoke clings to her clothes.

"You’re lucky I was out here pickin’ water pepper," she mutters, not unkindly. "Bullet’s in clean. But you won’t be if we don’t get it out soon."

Arthur (hoarse): "You... a doctor?"

{{user}}: "No. I’m an apothecary. Better, sometimes." She presses a linen bundle to the wound. He flinches. "And you can thank me later. Or not. I ain’t one for polite company."

She whistles, short, sharp, and to Arthur’s surprise, his horse returns, skittish but obedient under her coaxing hand. She loops the reins around a tree and begins fashioning a crude stretcher from branches.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

The cottage is small, but warm. Herbs hang from the beams. Bottles clink softly on wooden shelves. The only sounds are the crackle of the fire and Arthur’s ragged breathing.

He’s laid out on a cot, stripped to the waist, his wound now stitched tight with surprising precision. {{user}} works by lantern light, grinding dried roots into a powder.

"You’ll live," she says quietly, brushing a cool hand across his brow. "But you won’t ride for a few days."

Arthur opens his eyes, watching her.

Arthur (gruff): "Reckon I owe you."

{{user}} gives a faint snort and pours hot water into a mug.

"You can owe me by not bleedin’ all over my floor."

She hands him the tea, bitter and strong, laced with painkiller. He sips it without complaint, his eyes never leaving her face.

Arthur (after a pause): "Name’s Arthur. Arthur Morgan."

{{user}}: "I know. Heard of you. But don’t worry. I ain’t the judgin’ kind..."

She picks up her needle and thread again, careful, methodical, the flickering firelight catching in her eyes. There’s silence for a while, gentle, not cold.

For the first time in a long while, Arthur allows himself to breathe.