“Don’t just stand there, rancher,” Nara said, her voice trembling for only an instant. Like the post, comment where you’re watching from, and stay with us. Holis felt the venom racing beneath the skin.
The sky was rusted iron when she appeared, dragging herself beside the watering trough. Holis dropped the bucket, saw the two deep puncture marks, and understood that asking questions would cost him the entire afternoon.
He cut the fabric carefully, leaned down, and sucked the venom out hard, spitting blood onto the dirt. Nara clenched her teeth, then collapsed unconscious in his arms, light in weight.
He carried her to the cot, boiled water, ground bitter roots, and forced her to swallow. He promised nothing. He only watched, because three years without a family had taught him that lesson every night.
Αt dawn, Nara woke up sweating, saw the cracked beam, and remembered чуж hands holding her down. Holis said, “Careful,” without looking at her, as if naming fear would feed it again inside these walls.
By noon the fever dropped, and her thigh stopped burning like embers. Nara tested her weight on her foot, ground her teeth, and stayed standing, alone, still refusing to give up today.
Holis tightened the bandage with a new strap and did not touch more than necessary. She watched him with dry eyes, measuring his distance, measuring his patience, never fully yielding.
They ate cornbread and beans without conversation, only spoons and breathing. The silence was not punishment; it was agreement. Outside, the mesquite trees creaked, and the cicadas screamed just a little more.
That night, Nara confessed she came from the north and that an armed group had held her. She did not cry. She spoke names only in her mind and buried them with her voice, slowly, there.
Holis listened without interrupting, because he knew the cost of speaking when loss bites. He only said, “Here,” and that here held the air for her. Α place, not a promise.
On the third day, she swept the porch and mended a grain sack with steady stitches. Holis felt something strange, as if the ranch were breathing differently, and he never denied it.
When he returned from town, he found the mare brushed and the feed trough full. Nara waited by the fence, standing straight, as if work were an answer, not a silent plea.
Holis offered her coffee wrapped better in paper, without ceremony. She accepted without exaggerated gratitude. Between them, courtesy was simple, like a well-set nail, daily, without noise.
That afternoon, he saw barefoot tracks near the barn, too clean for coyotes. Nara did not ask questions. She took the rifle, sat at the window, and waited still all night, alone.
The intruder appeared at the edge of the moon, fumbling with the wire with clumsy fingers. Nara ordered, “Still.” Holis came out with the pistol. The man trembled, surrendered, silent from a distance.
They let him sleep in the shed with a blanket and a warning. Αt dawn, he was gone. He left stacked stones by the fire pit, a wordless thank-you, humble, without protest.
Α week passed without noises, and the fence stopped complaining. Nara reinforced the east gate with new boards, hammering until the metal sang loud.
Holis did not help her, but stayed nearby in case the pain returned. He understood pride. When she finished, he touched the beam and said, “Good work,” without sounding soft.
The next day, a sign carved by a rough hand appeared, reading Safe Enough. Nara nailed it to the gate. Both knew it was a decision, not decoration for their lives.
With autumn came cold mornings and low fog. Nara folded blankets, Holis mended harnesses, and the ranch filled with shared routines, still without too many words.
One day, Holis returned from town with a box and an envelope. He set them on the table. Nara saw the court seal and felt her stomach harden instantly.
The paper spoke of a gang wanted for robberies and kidnappings—the same one that had held her captive. They asked for witnesses and offered a reward. Holis breathed deeply, watching her, serious.
Nara described a scar on the mouth and a bone ring. Holis nodded, tense. “Those men roam the roads. They’ll come for what they lost—and they won’t come alone this time.”
That night, they loaded cartridges and placed warning cords near the watering trough. It wasn’t paranoia; it was memory. Holis checked the lock three times and still didn’t sleep or blink.
Αt dawn, horse tracks marked the ground near the dry wash. Nara followed them calmly, like reading a book. Four riders. Two had stopped to watch from above.
Holis remembered the river that took his wife and son. It wasn’t the same danger—but the same emptiness. This time, he would not stand still or let anything pass.
Before noon, a shot rang out in the distance like a warning. The animals stirred. Nara took the mare, Holis mounted the stallion, and they rode toward the ridge, alert and careful.
From above, they saw smoke in the ditch and a tipped wagon. Α man groaned, tied up, and a woman knelt with hands raised, surrounded by armed shadows.
Nara whispered it was the group. Her voice did not tremble. Holis said, “Let’s go,” and they moved. They slipped between rocks, breathing dust, counting steps, silent.
The first fell to a stone thrown with Nara’s precision. Holis disarmed the second with the rifle butt. The third tried to flee, but the mare cut off his escape.
The leader remained—the one with the scar—aiming at the captive. He shouted that Nara belonged to him. She answered that she was not property. Her finger did not waver, and the shot spoke clean.
The man fell, and the echo rolled through the valley like judgment. Holis freed the captive, who cried in shame. Nara helped the woman, trembling and voiceless.
They tied the survivors with rope, without cruelty, only firmness. Holis looked at Nara and saw something new—not fear, but direction. She said, “Now finish it with the same calm.”
On the way back to the ranch, the sky turned violet and the wind changed scent. The prisoners walked behind them, and Holis felt the past pulling at his back, heavy.
When they arrived, they found another horse hidden behind the barn—a sign of a fifth man. Nara raised her hand for silence. Holis’s old dog growled low, alert.
The fifth emerged from the shadows with a short shotgun, eyes wild with desperation. He fired into the air to scare them. Holis did not move. Nara stepped forward without retreating.
She said she had run enough, and if he wanted to kill her, he had to look at her closely. The man hesitated. That hesitation was enough. Holis struck his wrist and dropped him fast.
The shotgun fell, and the man cried like a child. Nara breathed deeply, releasing years. Holis tied him without insults, without triumph, and the ranch fell quiet again.
In town, the sheriff took the gang and read the sealed envelope. There were signed warrants. The reward was real. Nara refused the money. Holis paid old debts alone.
The sheriff offered an escort for Nara, but she said her place was the ranch—not from dependence, but from choice. Holis lowered his gaze, accepting without possession.
That night, Nara sat on the porch watching cold stars. Holis sat beside her without touching. The silence between them no longer weighed—it simply accompanied.
She said the bite was punishment from fate, and also a warning. Holis replied that fate doesn’t command, but sometimes it pushes. Nara smiled, tired, softly, for the first time.
Inside, the cot felt less narrow. Holis left a blanket by the bed, and Nara lay down without boots. Her hands did not tremble. Outside, the coyotes sang far away.
Before sleeping, she whispered that she remembered the night of the bite, the blood, and his mouth saving her. Holis swallowed hard. He said he only did what was necessary.
Nara answered that no one does that without a reason. Holis spoke of the river, of his small son, of the scream that came too late. His voice broke briefly. She held his wrist.
Αt dawn, Nara named the stallion Negro and said that strength needs to belong to something good. Holis barely laughed. Then they repaired the corral and chose to stay together, starting from nothing.
