The shirt soaked through. She tore it open. Blood still coming. Gunshot. Her hands paused for half a second, then moved again.
Water, cloth, pressure. He hissed through his teeth, but didn't fight her. Didn't speak. Just watched every move, every touch, like he was trying to decide if she was saving him or finishing the job. She wrapped the wound tight.
Too tight. Didn't matter. It had to hold. When she finished, she sat back. The barn felt smaller now, the storm louder.
"You should have left me," he rasped. His voice sounded like it scraped its way out. Clara wiped her hands on her dress. "Maybe I should have. " Silence sat between them. Heavy.
"What's your name? " she asked. A pause long enough to matter. "Eli. " The name hung in the air. Clara nodded once. Well, Eli, you picked a bad place to fall.
He let out a weak breath. "You don't understand. " She stood, turned away. "I understand enough. " You don't, he said, forcing himself up slightly before collapsing back with a sharp intake of breath. There are men. "Not tonight," she cut in.
Her voice came out harder than she meant. The storm's got this land locked down. Nobody's coming. She grabbed the lantern and hung it higher. Light stretched across the barn walls.
Shadows shifted. "You stay here," she said. "Morning comes, you leave. " He watched her like he didn't believe it. Like he didn't believe her or himself. Clara turned and walked out into the rain.
Didn't look back. Didn't want to. But as the storm swallowed her again, something inside her already knew. He wasn't leaving. And neither was the trouble that came with him.
The storm did not stop. It stayed all night. Rain hammered the cabin roof like it was trying to break through. Wind clawed at the walls, rattling the door with sudden violent bursts that made Clara look up every time. She sat by the fire, did not move, did not sleep.
Water dripped from her hair onto the wooden floor. Her dress hung loose now, half dried, stiff against her skin. The flames crackled low, throwing shadows across the room that shifted like something alive. Out in the barn, he was still there. She told herself that was all he was.
A stranger, a problem, nothing more. But her eyes kept drifting to the door again and again. Finally, she stood, grabbed a bowl, filled it with what little stew was left. Her stomach twisted, but not from hunger. She stepped back into the storm.
The barn doors groaned when she pushed them open. Inside the air was thick, damp hay, mud, blood. He hadn't moved, still lying where she left him, eyes closed, but they opened the moment she stepped closer, gray, alert, watching. "Eat," she said. She held the bowl out, his hand lifted, shook.
The spoon slipped from his fingers and hit the ground with a dull sound, his jaw tightened. Clara exhaled through her nose, short, impatient. She crouched, picked up the spoon, scooped the stew, held it near his mouth. For a moment, he didn't move, just stared at her like it cost him something. Then he leaned forward, took the bite, slow, careful.
She fed him like that, one spoon at a time. No words, just the storm outside and the quiet inside. When the bowl was empty, she pulled back. Set it aside. "Rest," she said.
He didn't answer, but his eyes didn't leave her. She turned and walked out. Faster this time. The cold hit harder. The cabin felt smaller when she stepped inside.
Warmer, but tighter, like something had followed her in. She sat back in the chair. Fire low, hands wrapped tight around her arms. Sleep didn't come. It didn't even try.
The storm kept talking. And somewhere between the thunder, she heard it. A sound. Faint. Sharp.
She froze, listened. There again, a shout from the barn. Clara grabbed the iron poker from beside the fire. Didn't think. Just moved.
Rain hit her like a wall as she ran. The barn doors slammed open under her hands. Lantern light flickered inside. He was thrashing. Body twisting against the straw.