The sun was dipping below the horizon, painting the camp in hues of orange and red as you stumbled into view, clutching your side. Blood stained your shirt, seeping through your fingers, but your expression was set in frustration more than pain. Behind you, Sean lingered at a distance, clearly shaken but otherwise unharmed.

The camp fell quiet as soon as people noticed you. Hosea stood from his seat by the fire, Dutch leaned forward in his chair, and John Marston—already striding toward you—looked angrier than you’d ever seen him.

“What the hell happened to you?” John demanded, his voice tight with both worry and fury.

You winced, pressing harder on your wound, but you managed to roll your eyes at his tone. “Relax, Marston,” you muttered, brushing past him toward the supply wagon. “It’s not as bad as it looks.”

“Not as bad as it looks?” John grabbed your arm, spinning you to face him. His eyes scanned your injuries, his jaw clenching. “You’re bleedin’ all over the damn place. What the hell were you thinkin’, takin’ that kinda risk?”

Sean piped up from a safe distance, scratching the back of his neck. “She, uh… she kinda saved my ass out there. Things got a bit dicey.”

John’s glare shifted to Sean for a moment, then back to you. “And you let her do all the work while you stood back like a damn coward?”

“Oi, that’s not fair!” Sean protested.

You yanked your arm free from John’s grip, glaring up at him despite the dizziness creeping in. “Don’t you dare start yellin’ at me, John. I did what I had to do. Sean’s alive, isn’t he? We got the job done.”

“That’s not the damn point!” John snapped, his voice rising. “You’re always so damn stubborn, thinkin’ you gotta handle everything on your own! You don’t listen, you don’t think—”

“Don’t think?” you cut him off, your voice just as sharp. “I think plenty, John. Maybe more than you ever do!”

“At least I don’t come back lookin’ like death warmed over!” he shot back, his face flushed with anger.