Some cuts from glass. Nothing serious. They regrouped in the house, lighting a single lamp. Rose had a graze on her arm. Catherine's hands were cut from broken glass, but they were alive.
Outside, bodies littered the yard. "Morrison will come himself now," Margaret said. "With everything he's got. " "I know. " Jake reloaded his rifle methodically, "But he'll find more than he bargained for. " Rose laughed, wild and free. Think you can handle us all? " she asked again. But now it sounded like a battle cry.
Together? Jake looked at each of them. These brave, fierce women who'd turned his quiet life into a war zone. "Together we can handle anything," Catherine surprised them all by saying firmly. Then we make our stand.
No more running. This is our home now. Our home. The words settled into Jake's chest like a promise. Whatever came next, they'd face it as one.
Morrison and his empire of fear were about to learn what happened when you cornered people who'd found something worth fighting for. Outside, the desert wind carried away the gunsmoke, and the stars looked down on a ranch transformed from refuge to fortress, where three sisters and one lonely man prepared to write a different ending to their story. The days that followed the gunfight took on a strange, suspended quality. They buried the dead in a gully far from the house. Jake insisted on it, though the sisters would have left them for the buzzards.
They worked side by side, reinforcing the ranch's defenses. But in between the preparations for war, something else was growing. Jake watched Rose, teaching Catherine how to better handle the shotgun's recoil, her hands gentle as she adjusted her sister's stance. He saw Margaret's fierce concentration as she counted ammunition, her green eyes softer when she thought no one was looking. The domestic rhythms they'd play acted for Garrett's benefit began to feel natural, real.
"You're staring," Rose said one afternoon, catching him watching her work with the horses. Sweat glistened on her collarbone, her auburn hair coming loose from its pins. "Just thinking," Jake replied, not looking away. "Dangerous habit. " She moved closer, that familiar challenge in her eyes. What about about how different this place feels with you three here?
Her expression shifted, the teasing replaced by something more vulnerable. Different good or different bad. "Good," he said quietly, "though I probably shouldn't say so. " Why not? Because when this is over, you'll leave. The words came out rougher than he intended.
Then I'll have gotten used to this. Rose reached out, her fingers brushing his hand on the fence rail. Who says we're leaving? That evening, as they sat down to supper, the air was charged with more than just the threat of Morrison's return. Catherine had made bread badly burned on one side, but Jake ate it anyway, earning a grateful smile.
Margaret had found his mother's recipe box and attempted a stew that was more salt than anything else. Rose had contributed wild onions from the field. We're terrible at this," Margaret said, laughing as she tasted the oversalted stew. It was the first time Jake had heard her truly laugh, and the sound transformed her face. "You're learning," Jake said, taking another spoonful.
"Besides, I've eaten worse. " "Liar," Rose said fondly. "But a sweet one. " As night fell, they took their usual defensive positions, but the darkness remained quiet. It was Catherine who broke the watchful silence. Tell us about your family," she said softly. "You know our story, but we know so little of yours. " Jake hesitated, then began.