There was a man named Frank Boone. In his mid-60s, Frank had lived most of his life on a small, weathered ranch in the heart of Montana. He had built the place with his own hands, alongside his late wife, Mary, back when the world felt as endless as the sky above their heads. Those days were gone now, just like Mary, who'd passed from this life to the next a few years back. She'd left quietly, taken by the gentle hand of time, and with her went the last bit of warmth Frank had known. Since then, he had spent his days tending to the ranch alone, his only companions the horses, chickens, and the wide-open plains.
In truth, Frank longed for the day he could be reunited with Mary. Every sunrise and sunset, every cold wind that swept across the fields reminded him of her, but life didn't stop just because a man's heart turned to stone. There were still chores to be done and animals to feed, and so Frank rose every morning, pulled on his old jacket, worn jeans, and cowboy hat, and got to work.
This particular afternoon, as the chill of autumn began to settle in, Frank felt the wind's bite a bit more sharply than usual. He saddled up his old bay horse, Rusty, a trusty companion as aged and stubborn as Frank himself, and rode out to town. The path through the valley was rough and winding, surrounded by towering pines that swayed in the gusts, their needles catching the golden light of the sinking sun. He guided Rusty to the familiar dirt road that led into town, where gravel crunched beneath the horse's hooves, and the scent of fresh pine mingled with the smell of distant rain.
When Frank reached the little town, he tied Rusty to a hitching post and tipped his hat against the wind, heading into the corner store like he had every week for as long as he could remember. A bell chimed as he pushed the door open, and the warmth inside was a welcome change from the chill outside.
"Afternoon, Frank," called the clerk, a balding man named John who looked to be about 50 but always seemed older somehow. "You hear about what's on the news?"
Frank grunted, his voice low and gravelly, like the rumble of thunder before a storm. "I don't pay enough attention to the news, John."
"Well," John said, leaning in as if sharing a secret, "there's talk of some kinda resistance on the rise. Somethin' about… realms, whatever that means. Whole lotta fuss, if you ask me."
Frank paused, his eyes narrowing slightly as he grabbed a bag of chicken feed. "John, don't get caught up in things like that. You know how the news is. Half the time, it's just folks lookin' to stir up trouble."
John nodded, though the gleam of curiosity didn't fade from his eyes. "Yeah, you're probably right. Anyway, usual supplies, then?"
"Like clockwork," Frank muttered. He exchanged a few crumpled bills and packed up the supplies, tipping his hat as he headed for the door. "Take care, John."
"You too, Frank. See you next week."
As Frank stepped outside, the wind howled past him, kicking up dust from the old dirt road. He was just about to untie Rusty when a familiar voice called out.
"Hey there, Frank."
He turned and found himself facing Tammy, a woman in her 40s who lived nearby. She had a habit of checking in on Frank, though he always suspected it was less about concern and more about a lingering curiosity. Despite her age, there was still a spark in her eyes, and she often wandered into town with her two children in tow.
"Hey, Tammy," Frank said, adjusting his hat. "I gotta get movin'. Why don't you zig-zag on back from where you came from? Tell your kids I said hi."
Tammy laughed, a light sound that was quickly lost in the wind. "Will do, Frank. Take care of yourself, alright?"
He nodded, tipping his hat again, and mounted Rusty. With the supplies packed and the sun dipping lower, Frank set off for home, eager to get back before nightfall.
But then, as he crossed through the open valley, he heard it—a single, sharp crack that echoed across the plains. Rusty jerked, ears pricked up, and Frank pulled back on the reins, steadying the horse with a firm hand. The wind shifted, carrying the faint smell of gunpowder.
"Easy, boy," Frank murmured, patting Rusty's neck. "Let's go see what's goin' on."
He turned the horse toward the sound and rode across the open land, following the scent and the faint echo of danger that lingered in the air. It didn't take long before he spotted something moving—a small figure stumbling through the tall grass, clothes torn and dirt smeared across her face. As he drew nearer, he could make out the details: a girl, no older than sixteen, clutching a ragged backpack to her chest, her breath coming in ragged gasps.
Frank pulled up beside her and leaned down. "You there, miss. Are you alright?"
The girl spun around, wild eyes narrowing, and before he could blink, she'd drawn a gun and pointed it at him, her hands trembling. "Stay back!" she yelled. "I'll shoot, I swear!"
Frank raised his hands, his expression calm, unbothered by the barrel aimed at his chest. "Now, there ain't no need for that, miss. Just want to know what all the fuss is about. You the one who fired that shot?"
The girl's lip trembled, and she shook her head. "No… no, I didn't shoot anyone. I… I was running away. They were after me." Her voice cracked, and the strength seemed to drain out of her all at once.
"What's your name?" Frank asked, keeping his voice gentle but firm.
She hesitated, glancing around as if checking for shadows in the distance. "Sam," she finally said, her voice barely above a whisper. "My name's Sam."
Frank nodded. "Well, Sam, it's nice to meet you. I'm Frank. And I reckon you're runnin' from somethin' or someone. You're lookin' mighty rough. Where are you headed?"
Sam swallowed hard. "I don't know. Anywhere but here." Her voice was tight with fear, and she kept the gun raised, though her arms were trembling with the effort.
Frank studied her for a moment, taking in the torn clothes, the dirt smudged across her cheeks, and the look in her eyes—one he recognized all too well. It was the look of someone who had nowhere left to go.
"Alright, then," Frank said, and without another word, he reached down and grabbed her by the arm. She jerked in surprise, the gun slipping from her fingers as he hauled her up onto the saddle behind him. "You're comin' with me."
"W-what? No, I—"
"Easy now," Frank interrupted, turning Rusty around. "You can stay at my ranch for the night. We'll figure out where to take you in the morning."
Sam slumped against him, her resistance finally breaking, and she nodded, exhausted. "Okay… just for tonight."
And as the wind picked up, carrying the scent of rain and pine once more, Frank Boone rode off toward his ranch with a runaway girl clinging to his back, unaware that he'd just crossed the threshold into a world far more dangerous and mysterious than anything he'd ever known.
As they disappeared into the approaching dusk, Frank couldn't help but mutter to himself, "Guess the Lord ain't done with me yet."