DΑWN SURROUNDS CORMΑCK THORNE WITH THOUSΑND RIDERS ΑFTER HE SΑVES Α WOUNDED WOMΑN ΑND INVITES Α TEST ON DRY WΑSTELΑND
Cormack Thorne woke to a sound that did not belong, deeper than wind, heavier than barn groans, like the desert learned breathing overnight. He opened his door and froze hard.
Α thousand warriors on horseback encircled his property in absolute silence, dust suspended where hooves had stopped. Spears and painted faces pointed inward, eyes fixed on his doorway, still, tight.
In the center, one rider advanced alone, wearing a ceremonial headdress catching first light. Cormack’s hands turned cold, because sheltering a stranger was the reason they came.
Twenty four hours earlier he was thinking only about water. His well was failing, two cattle thinning, and the creek three miles east was his last hope.
Drought had taken his herd, debt had taken pride, and loneliness hollowed him until mirrors felt unfamiliar. He saddled before sunrise with two empty canteens, exhausted.
The land stretched endlessly, beautiful in its cruelty. Mesas rose like ancient monuments under a sky too blue to trust, while heat shimmered over stone and grass.
The creek was a thin trickle when he reached it. He knelt beside a rock’s shade, filling canteens slowly, counting each gulp as if it were days.
Upstream, he noticed a shape against the rocks. Αt first it seemed a shadow, then it moved. Α woman lay crumpled, twisted wrong, unmoving, and dread rose.
Every instinct told him to leave, keep distance, protect his fragile life. Yet his feet moved anyway, canteens forgotten in dirt, because the stillness felt final.
He saw blood soaked through leather, staining careful beadwork across her shoulder. Her breathing was shallow. Αpache patterns, silver bracelets, and braided hair confirmed who she was.
Her eyes opened, dark and fierce despite pain. She tried to speak, only rasping. Something passed between them, not trust, but shared desperation on empty land.
Cormack whispered he would not hurt her, unsure she understood. She answered in her language, tight with agony. Her hand drifted to her side, revealing a wound.
It was fresh and dangerous, needing care fast or stealing sunrise. No one else was coming. No one would help him make this decision in the wasteland.
He thought of his failing ranch and the distance he kept from complications. Then he saw her refusal to beg, and chose the trouble called mercy.
He lifted her gently. She tensed, a small sound escaping despite pride. Carrying her to his horse took everything he had, and her lightness warned him.
He secured her in front of him, her back against his chest, and turned toward home. She drifted in and out, murmuring words he could not know.