Dawn's pale light was just beginning to peek over the horizon when Suzy emerged from the woods, a damp cloth clutched in her hand. The events of the previous night still played on a loop in her mind – the terrifying gunfight, Ryan's injury, and his subsequent collapse.
She had spent the better part of the night tending to him, the adrenaline slowly ebbing away, replaced by a bone-deep weariness. But there was no time for rest. The horses, spooked by the gunfire, had bolted, and she had spent a harrowing hour tracking them down before venturing into the woods to find a stream.
Now, with the chill of the early morning air biting at her exposed skin, she hurried back to the carriage. Relief flooded her when she saw Ryan lying motionless on the makeshift bed. He looked pale, his brow furrowed in discomfort.
She knelt beside him, placing the damp cloth on his forehead. His skin felt hot, burning to the touch. Panic clawed at her throat. He had a fever.
