Jake guided his horse to the cabin and swung down carefully, keeping her close. The cabin wasn’t much—wood walls darkened by years of smoke, a pot on the stove, and a Bible on the table he hadn’t read as often as he promised himself he would.
A simple place.
A quiet place.
Jake carried her inside and laid her gently on his bed.
He soaked a cloth and pressed it to her forehead again. Her skin still burned. The heat was the kind that made you feel helpless, like you were trying to put out a fire with a teaspoon.
Her eyes fluttered open just enough for her to take in the room.
Then her face softened.
Relief.
Not sudden, not dramatic—slow relief, like a door finally closing after years of being left open.
Jake offered her water. He held the cup steady, not forcing it.
She took a small sip.
Then another.
Her throat moved like swallowing hurt.
After a long moment, her voice came out soft and scratchy.
“Where am I?”
Jake pulled up a chair beside the bed. He didn’t loom over her. He didn’t stand like an authority. He sat like a man who understood fear needed space.
“Hollister Ranch,” he said. “Couple miles west of Dodge City. You passed out cold in the grass.”
She nodded slowly, like she expected that answer. Like she knew she’d pushed herself past her limits and paid for it.
“My name is Jake,” he added. “What’s yours?”
The question hung there.
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