Chapter Text
Adler Ranch, 1899
Sadie
Sadie knew their routine by now.
It was the only reason she hadn’t lost her sense of time yet—or her mind.
Three days.
It had been three days since they arrived.
She remembered it too vividly. Late in the evening, when the sky was dark and the wind had begun to howl down the ridge. She’d just been getting ready for bed, her limbs aching from the endless hours of work. They’d been at it since before dawn—hauling firewood, sealing windows, hauling sacks of flour and root vegetables into the basement. The storm was coming. You could smell it in the air, sharp and cold, like iron and ozone. The kind of cold that crept under doors and into your bones.
Jake had been the first to notice them.
Sweet Jake. Her loyal husband.
They came from the mountains like shadows on horseback, the moon catching the slick edge of a revolver now and then. No warning, no words. Just the guttural screams of men who’d left humanity behind long ago, and the sharp, thunderous bark of gunfire tearing through the night.
It hadn’t been a robbery. They hadn’t asked for food. Or shelter. They hadn’t asked for anything at all.
They’d come for blood.
Jake had told her to hide in the basement. No—demanded it. It was the first time he’d ever raised his voice to her. The first time she'd heard it laced with fear.
And if she had just listened—just once in her stubborn, godforsaken life—maybe…
Maybe Jake would still be breathing.
Everything happened too fast. The door splintering inward with a scream of wood. Jake shoving her behind him. The deafening blast of a shotgun that shattered her world and rang through her skull like church bells gone mad. The sickening thud of a body collapsing. Jake. A scream—high, raw, feral—maybe hers, maybe not. And then laughter. Cold. Cruel. Guttural.
She must’ve blacked out. When she came to, there was only darkness and silence pressing down on her like a grave. It took her a moment to remember where she was—why the air was damp and tasted like earth and mildew. Then the memories returned, and her stomach turned violently. She barely managed to get to her hands and knees before bile surged up her throat. The taste of it clung to her tongue, acrid and burning.
Then the tears came. Not loud ones. Not at first. Just quiet, broken sobs, as she lay curled in the dark.
Three days had passed since then.
Three days, and they were still upstairs—still laughing, still drinking, still alive.
Still waiting for their turn with her again.
It was almost a mercy that she no longer felt the cold. Her body was bruised and bloodied, her skin numb beneath the thin cotton of her nightgown, now torn and stained. She couldn’t feel her feet. Her hands trembled without her consent. Every breath was a razor slicing through her side. She was sure at least one rib was cracked—maybe two. Her lips were split, her throat raw, her voice worn thin from screaming.
The voices above grew louder as the night deepened—drunken, slurred shouts and stomping boots, the crash of glass breaking. Laughter that had no joy in it. Just cruelty.
Not much longer now.
Not much longer until they remembered the girl in the basement. The one they’d left alive—barely.
Not much longer until they threw the trapdoor open again, drag her up by her hair and—
No!
She doubled over, retching, but her stomach was long since empty. Her whole body convulsed as dry heaves overtook her. When it was over, she leaned back against the stone wall, the chill seeping through what little remained of her gown. She wrapped her arms around her knees. Rocked slightly.
She started humming to herself, trying to drone out their voices, their sneers and taunts, and laughter.
A lullaby. A rhyme from long ago.
Busy Bee, Busy Bee
My busy little bumble bee,
Buzzin’ in the bushes, buzzin’ in the trees,
Dancin’ in the meadow where the tall grass sways,
Spinnin’ ‘round the sunshine on lazy summer days.
A silly little song she’d made up years ago, when things had been simpler. When her world was golden and dappled with sun, and there had been time to run barefoot through wildflowers. When she'd been in love. When her heart had been whole.
Buzzin’ by the river, buzzin’ by the gate,
Buzzin’ by the window when Mama’s runnin’ late,
Buzzin’ through the flowers where the sweetest honey grows,
My busy little bumble bee, with sunlight on her nose.
She remembered the warm tickle of tall grass against her bare legs. The weight of a boy’s hand in hers. The soft crinkle around his blue eyes when he smiled at her. The taste of him on her lips. The sound of cicadas humming their slow, hypnotic tune. A summer day that stretched forever. That had felt like forever.
If there was a heaven, would she see him again on the other side?
Busy Bee, Busy Bee,
With wings so fast and small,
She flies so high, she flies so free,
I swear she’s magic, after all.
Her little Bee.
And the man she once loved.
If they were the last thought Sadie ever had, it wouldn’t be the worst way to go.
So I’ll keep her in my heart,
And hold her close and near,
My busy little bumble bee,
Forever safe, forever here.
~ * ~
She woke with a start, heart already pounding before her mind could catch up, when the sound of an explosion shattered the silence of the night like a hammer to glass.
No—no, not an explosion.
A gunshot.
Sharp and sudden and close.
Then another one, louder this time, echoing through the walls like thunder rattling through the bones of the old cabin.
And another after that, buried beneath the ragged chaos of panicked shouting and the dull, violent scuffle of boots scraping hard against warped wooden floorboards right above her head—so close she could almost feel the tremble of it in her teeth.
Her breath caught somewhere between her lungs and her throat as she scrambled to her knees, ignoring the screaming protest of her ribs and the fiery burn in her raw throat, the cold floor biting into her shins as she crawled up the steps on shaking limbs, pressing her ear to the hatch with a hand that trembled no matter how hard she tried to still it.
What the hell was happening? Had those filthy bastards finally turned on each other—drunk and stupid and mean, like animals gnawing at their own limbs in the dark?
Good. Let them tear each other apart. Let them bleed out on the goddamn floor. She hoped they all rotted.
Another gunshot cracked the air—then another amid more shouts and barked orders cutting through the blizzard.
It went on like that for what felt like an eternity—each second suspended in glass, stretched and distorted and too loud—until suddenly, without warning, there was nothing at all.
Just silence.
Heavy and still.
Sadie held her breath, counting—one, two, three heartbeats—listening so hard her ears began to ring, the silence too loud, her pulse too fast.
And then—
“Goddamn O’Driscoll boys here? Why?”
A voice she didn’t recognize—raspy, low, edged like a knife dulled by blood—cut through the quiet, followed by the sound of heavy boots moving somewhere near the front door, each step like a thunderclap in her ears.
Another voice answered from farther away, distorted by the thickness of the walls and the constant low howl of wind and snow.
Then the first voice again, closer now: “Micah, go bring the horses closer to the house. Arthur, let’s go search the cabin.”
Sadie froze.
She pressed herself tighter against the hatch, her breath shallow and her heartbeat hammering against her ribs, every instinct screaming for silence, for stillness, as if the smallest sound would give her away to whatever new hell had just walked into her house.
They weren’t the O’Driscolls—at least she didn’t think they were. No one called each other by name like that. The O’Driscolls hadn’t spoken much at all, just shouted and laughed and hurt her like it meant nothing, like she meant even less. But whether these men were better or worse, she couldn’t say. And God knew she wasn’t about to find out. She just wanted them gone.
Another set of boots crossed the floor, accompanied by a new voice—this one quieter, calmer somehow, with a low drawl that carried a quiet weight, like he didn’t need to raise his voice to be heard. Something about that tone stirred something in her gut she couldn’t name. Not hope. No. Not that.
But a memory...
“Turn the place upside down. Grab as many supplies as you can,” the first voice ordered, the one who seemed to be in charge. “We need the essentials—food, medicine, whiskey. O’Driscolls, I don’t believe it,” he muttered.
The cabin groaned above her as the men moved, their boots scraping across the floor. Furniture was being shoved, drawers yanked open with impatient force. Dishes shattered, the sound sharp and piercing, and something inside her flinched. Her fists clenched until her nails bit into the torn, bruised skin of her palms. Fury coiled in her belly, hot and bitter and dangerous.
They were picking through the remnants of her life like vultures, like they had any right.
But what could she do?
She was half-dead, weak with hunger and blood loss and exhaustion, every inch of her body screaming, aching, broken. She couldn’t stand upright for more than a minute without swaying. She couldn’t take on even one of these men, let alone a whole goddamn gang of them.
If she wanted to survive—if she still believed in the idea of survival—she had to be still. She had to be quiet. She had to wait.
For once in her goddamn life, she had to be level-headed about it.
Still, she gritted her teeth and balled her fists tighter, hating the feel of her own helplessness, hating that she had nothing left to fight with but her breath and her bones and her hate.
Then it came again—that voice.
“There’s a big price on Colm O’Driscoll’s head. Nearly as big as the one on yours.”
She went still.
That voice—
But it couldn’t be.
It wasn’t possible.
It was the voice of a man who´d died.
A long time ago.
Maybe she was hallucinating. Maybe her mind had finally snapped and started conjuring ghosts, dragging voices up from the grave just to torment her.
But then the leader spoke again: “Wantin’ Colm dead’s about the only thing me and Uncle Sam are agreein’ on. Alright, I’m gonna start packin’ the horses. You head over to the stables.”
And then something else—more instructions, said to the one called Micah—but it was muffled again, drowned by the wind and the walls.
Silence followed.
Deep and oppressive.
The only sound was her own ragged breathing, the way her pulse thudded in her ears, the faint drip of melted snow or blood—she didn’t know which—somewhere close by. She tasted the metallic tinge of blood in her mouth, felt something warm and sticky on her face. Had the cut on her lips reopened again? Or maybe the one above her right eyebrow?
But it didn’t matter.
They were leaving.
They were packing their horses.
They’d be gone soon.
She just had to hold on. Just a little longer.
But every bone in her body ached. Her nightgown was soaked in places she didn’t want to think about—with blood, with alcohol, with melted snow, and worse. The cold had seeped through her skin and into her bones. She was shaking, but she wasn’t sure if it was from the chill or the memory—because even now, even with the worst behind her, she couldn’t stop seeing their faces, couldn´t stop feeling their hands on her body, the rough wood of the table as she was shoved onto it face-first, the pain.
No.
She clamped her hands over her mouth as the memory rose like bile, sour and burning, threatening to choke her. Her shoulders trembled as a small whimper escaped, no matter how hard she tried to swallow it.
Not now. Not when she was so close to it being over.
The strangers—whoever they were—would be gone soon.
Just a little longer, and she could—
CRACK.
The trapdoor exploded open above her head with the sound of splintering wood and wrenching metal, and bright light flooded in like a blade, stabbing her eyes and blinding her before she could even move, before she could scream, before she could think.
A shadow loomed over her. And a voice, a cruel voice.
“Now look at what we have here.”
Before she could so much as raise her arms—or even shield her eyes from the sudden glare above—the man reached down with rough, calloused fingers and grabbed a fistful of her hair, yanking her upward so violently her vision went white at the edges and an explosion of pain burst in her skull, searing and sharp, as if the roots of her hair had been torn straight from the bone.
She cried out, her scream raw and hoarse, more instinct than sound, and her knees buckled beneath her, sending her crashing to the floorboards once again. Still, there was no mercy, no pause—he dragged her back to her feet with a grunt of exertion, as if she were nothing more than a rag doll in his grip. Her bare toes scraped and slipped on the steps as he hauled her up into the light.
No, no, no, no, no… not now! Not again!
“GET AWAY FROM ME!” she screamed, the words tumbling out of her in one long, jagged sob, her voice cracking with desperation and terror so thick it wrapped around her lungs like wire.
She thrashed blindly, a wild, uncoordinated swing that caught him off guard. Her fist connected with the hard line of his jaw with a sickening crack, and for one glorious second, his grip loosened.
She didn’t hesitate.
She tore herself free, stumbling back on unsteady feet, her legs nearly collapsing beneath her as pain radiated through her ribs like fire and the splintered floor bit into the soles of her feet. But she didn’t stop, didn’t look, didn’t think—just moved, propelled by panic and rage and something deeper still: the primal need to survive.
When she whirled around, she got her first good look at her attacker.
He wasn´t one of the men who had been here before, but from his dirty, unkempt appearance, he might as well be. He was tall and lanky, but had a visible gut underneath his worn-out cloak. His mouth was turned into a nasty sneer underneath his unkempt mustache. A curtain of greasy blond hair framed his cruel face and pale eyes.
“Come now, sweetheart, don’t be shy,” he said, his voice slurred with a lazy drawl that somehow made her skin crawl more than a shout ever could.
He made another move towards her, but hell if she let that bastard touch her again.
She snatched up the first thing she could reach—a cracked ceramic cup—and hurled it at him with everything she had left. It missed.
Then another—an empty tin can, dented and rusted—this one hitting his shoulder but doing little more than piss him off.
She kept going anyway, grabbing blindly—plates, cutlery, whatever her hands could find. She didn’t care. It wasn’t about hitting him. It was about keeping him away from her.
“Little Miss O’Driscoll,” he taunted, ducking a glass bottle that shattered against the wall behind him, “too bad we killed all your friends.”
That name.
That goddamn name.
Her rage ignited like gunpowder.
He was grinning now—full of himself, confident, entertained by her terror. Each object she threw only fed his twisted joy. He moved in again, dodging easily, his boots thudding against the boards, the sound echoing like war drums in her ears.
“You’re a wildcat, aren’t you?” he laughed, breathless with glee, his face flushed and eyes feverish with perverted joy, as he came closer, closer still, like he couldn’t wait to get his hands on her again.
So close now. So close.
“Don’t touch me, you son of a bitch!” she screamed, her voice breaking as she hurled a brass candlestick that whizzed past his shoulder and clattered uselessly against the wall.
“Or what?”
Then another voice cut through the haze.
“Micah, what the hell do you think you’re doing?”
She turned, just for a second, instinct pulling her gaze toward the doorway.
A man stood there—older, maybe, with the lean, controlled stance of someone used to command. His clothes were too clean, too polished for a snowstorm, for this place. A long dark coat buttoned to his throat, a hat pulled low. He didn’t look surprised. Just annoyed.
Sadie looked at him a moment too long.
Because the bastard called Micah lunged again. With a triumphant jeer, his body slammed hard into hers, sending her crashing sideways into the edge of the table, the corner biting into her hip with a sickening jolt that knocked the wind from her lungs.
She screamed—whether from pain or fury, she couldn’t tell—and twisted, fought, kicked, clawed at his arms, but he was too fast, too strong. He grabbed her again, flinging her like a ragdoll against the cabin wall. Her head struck wood with a loud thud, and white stars exploded across her vision.
“Look what I found in the basement, Dutch,” he said with a nasty grin. He pressed in closer, his breath hot and rank against her face, his body pinning hers, hips grinding against her backside as if to prove some vile point. “Oh, you are a wild one, aren’t you? I like that.”
She gagged.
The sheer weight of him, the press of his body, his hard length pressing and grinding against her, the way he smelled—stale sweat and whiskey and filth—was enough to send bile rising again in her throat.
“Don’t touch me,” she growled, her voice low and trembling with fury.
But he only chuckled, and she could feel his excitement now, feel how her fear pleased him, how her resistance aroused him.
“Leave her alone, Micah,” the other man said, but his voice was bored and with little urgency, disinterested, as if this was only a mild inconvenience.
Somewhere behind them, the cabin door opened once more, followed by heavy footsteps. The third man had come back. And she felt more helpless than ever before.
“I’m gonna kill you, you son of a bitch,” Sadie snarled, and meant it.
"Sure. But let's have a look at you first.”
He twisted her arms behind her back roughly, and Sadie had to bite her lips hard not to give him the satisfaction of seeing her wince. Then he whirled her around, so she had to face his companions.
“Well, ain’t you a pretty one,” he whispered, thin lips pressed against the shell of her ear. “I suggest we see what she can do for us, fellas—if you know what I mean.”
“That’s enough now, Micah,” the leader said again, louder this time—but not fast enough.
Because then—then came the voice that cracked the air like lightning.
“You bastard! Get your filthy hands off her!”
A roar, deep and furious, like thunder.
A large figure of a man charged at them, crashing into them only half a second later. The impact sent her to the floor. Pain jolted up her body as her cracked ribs ached in protest and her shoulder hit the floor hard. For a moment, everything blurred—sound and color and movement smeared into one chaotic swirl—and then she saw it:
Something silver gleamed in the corner of her eye.
A knife.
That bastard was going to pay.
She reached for it on instinct, her hand closing around the handle like it was made for her, cold steel biting into her palm.
She staggered upright, her vision still swimming, blood pounding in her ears.
The men were still fighting, shouting, shoving.
But she was done.
Done being helpless. Done being prey.
An almost inhuman scream tore from her throat as she lunged toward Micah, knife raised, arm poised to bury it in his chest—
But a hand shot out, large and strong and unshakable, wrapping around her wrist with surprising gentleness but enough force to stop her dead.
She turned on him, feral and trembling, teeth bared. “Let go of me or I’m gonna stab you too,” she snarled, her voice breaking apart at the edges, way past any senses she might still possess.
“Sadie.”
That voice again.
His voice.
“Sadie.”
“Let go!” she shouted, struggling, clawing, half-blind with rage and grief and fear, the knife shaking in her grip. She was losing it, working herself into a frenzy. Spiraling.
She tore at him with her free hand, scratching and pulling, hitting anywhere she could reach, not caring if she hurt him—wanting to, needing to—but his grip didn’t tighten. It didn’t hurt. It simply held. And slowly, without even realizing it, she loosened hers.
The knife dropped from her fingers and hit the floor with a dull clatter, and she was defenseless again.
“No! No—no—get away from me!” she screamed, trying to shove him back.
“Sadie!”
This time, he did let go of her. And then his hands were on her face, warm and steady, cupping her cheeks, thumbs brushing away blood or tears or both—she couldn’t tell anymore.
“It’s okay, Sadie. It’s okay. You’re safe now. You’re safe.”
That voice. Oh, that voice.
His voice.
"It's okay. It's me.”
"N-no.” A single word, only a whimper, as all strength left her body, and she stopped fighting. “No… no… n-no…”
"Look at me, darlin´.”
And that's when her world completely turned on its axes.
She knew his face—knew it like no one else's.
Blue eyes and a dangerous smile. A bit older now, maybe, a bit more weathered. And a beard that hadn´t been there when she saw him last.
But still … his face.
“Arthur…” she breathed, the word barely more than air, as if her body didn’t believe it yet.
He smiled—just barely. Just enough.
"Darlin´..."
But she shook her head, tearing herself away from him, the cracks in her heart splitting wide open.
“No—no, you’re not him. You’re not—get away from me!”
His expression darkened, sorrow flickering through those too-familiar eyes, but she didn’t care. She couldn’t.
Because this…. him … it wasn´t real!
It couldn´t be real!
“Sadie.”
“Y-you... died,” she whispered, her knees buckling as the weight of it all came crashing down. Her vision blurred, tears finally spilling over. She didn´t care. At least she didn´t have to see him anymore. The ghost of the man she once knew. Once loved. “You´re not here. You can´t be.”
“Sadie.”
"Y-you died. They s-said you... died. Five years ago.”
And then everything went mercifully black.