“No More Pain, My Ribs Are Already Broken” She Cried, Apache Warrior Took Her In ,Against Whole West

.
.
.

No More Pain, My Ribs Are Already Broken

The wind was a living thing that night, howling through the black pines and tearing at anything foolish enough to move beneath it. Rain slashed sideways, stinging like needles against skin already bruised raw. She ran because stopping meant they would catch her. And if they caught her again, she knew she would not leave alive.

Every breath came ragged, torn from her lungs. Her ribs were on fire with each movement, pain pulsing and flaring until she could barely see. Somewhere behind her, men laughed in the storm—a sound that, even over the roar of wind and water, cut through her worse than the cold. The earth was mud and stones beneath her bare feet. The hem of her dress, heavy with water, plastered itself to her legs. She could taste blood and copper in her mouth.

When she glanced back, lantern light swung in the darkness—blurs of yellow through sheets of rain. Horses splashed through the muck, their riders leaning forward, silhouettes jagged against the lightning. She didn’t know how far she’d run since she’d slipped out the back of that shack, only that her strength was bleeding out with every step.

A dark shape moved ahead—a rider, not part of the pursuit. She saw him only in flashes: the glint of a rifle barrel, the broad frame of a man sitting still in the storm as though the night belonged to him. She tried to swerve away, but her foot caught in a rut and she went down hard. Pain flared so sharply in her ribs that it stole her voice. She lay in the mud, gasping, unable to move until boots splashed into her vision.

He loomed above her, tall, the pale lightning catching on high cheekbones and a face carved in quiet strength. His long hair, black as the storm, clung to his jaw. The fringed edges of his coat and leggings were heavy with rain. She tried to push herself up, but her arms gave way. The words tumbled out in a broken whisper before she could think: “No more pain. My ribs are already broken.”

For a moment, he only looked at her. Then he knelt, his hands moving with a gentleness that told her he’d done this before, lifting her as if her weight meant nothing, his body shielding her from the rain. She caught the faint scent of smoke and cedar from his coat. He was warm, even soaked through. Without a word, he set her before him on his horse and swung up behind, his arm bracing her against his chest. The sudden heat of him was dizzying after the night’s cold.

A shout cracked through the storm, closer now. She felt the change in him, his muscles coiling like a drawn bow. He turned the horse sharply, guiding it into a narrow gap between dripping spruce trunks. The animal’s hooves sucked at the mud but found their way forward. Behind them, the pursuit gave chase, lanterns bobbing wildly, light fractured by rain. The forest swallowed them.

Branches clawed at her shoulders and snagged in her hair. She leaned into him because she had no choice, her cheek pressed against the damp leather of his chest. The horse’s stride shifted from a gallop to a careful climb over a ridge. She could hear the stream below before she saw it, its roar swollen by the storm. He guided the animal down, not hesitating even as water surged high against the horse’s flanks. The cold bit into her legs like knives. The current tugged, threatening to drag them under, but he urged the horse on until they found the opposite bank.

On the other side, the forest thickened, swallowing even the faint glimmers of lantern light. The shouts were still there, but farther back, muffled by the rain and wind’s wail. He didn’t slow until they reached a slope where the ground rose into a wall of stone. At its base, half-hidden by tangled brush, a shallow overhang opened into darkness. He swung down, lifting her from the saddle. Her legs nearly gave way when they touched the ground, and his hands steadied her without force.

Under the rock’s shelter, the air was still cold but calmer. He led the horse in after them, looping the reins over a root. Then he knelt and dug into a leather pouch at his belt. Flint struck steel, sparks catching in a twist of dry moss he’d somehow kept hidden from the storm. Soon, a small flame flickered, feeding on slivers of pine he split with his knife. The scent of resinous smoke pushed back the damp night.

She sat against the stone wall, watching him with eyes that fought to stay open. He didn’t glance at her more than once, as if giving her space to keep her dignity. Rainwater streamed from his hair and down the angles of his face. The firelight caught in his dark eyes, steady and unreadable. When the flames grew enough to cast warmth, he reached into a saddlebag and drew out a rolled blanket, shaking off what water he could before wrapping it around her shoulders. The wool was scratchy, smelling faintly of horse and smoke, but it was warm. Her breathing slowed, though every inhale still pulled at the jagged ache in her ribs.

She wanted to ask who he was, why he’d stopped for her, why he hadn’t handed her over, but her tongue felt heavy and the thought of speaking seemed impossible. Instead, she let herself lean into the stone, closing her eyes against the flicker of the fire. He moved quietly, checking the horse’s hooves, adding another log to the flames. The crackle of burning pine was almost enough to drown the storm beyond their narrow shelter. Almost.

The wind still tore at the trees. The rain still hissed against stone and leaf. But here, just here, it was bearable. Her heartbeat began to ease. Through half-shut eyes, she saw him take a seat by the fire, one knee up, his hands clasped loosely over it. He stared into the flames, not at her, as though the night outside had nothing new to show him. A man who belonged to storms, she thought. A man who didn’t flinch at the dark.

Sleep tugged at her, heavy and stubborn. Somewhere in the blur, she thought she heard him hum a low, unhurried tune, strange and soft. It faded into the rush of the wind until she wasn’t sure if she’d imagined it. She clung to that sound as her mind drifted.

A crack of wood outside snapped her eyes open again. His head turned sharply toward the sound. The fire’s light threw his face into sharp planes. His gaze fixed on the black beyond the overhang. For a heartbeat, all she could hear was the storm. Then, faint and far, came the crunch of something heavy moving through wet undergrowth. His hand slid to the rifle propped against the wall, fingers curling around the worn stock. He didn’t rise, but his whole body seemed to tighten, a predator sensing what came next.

She stayed still, breath shallow, though her pulse thundered in her ears. The sound faded, perhaps only the storm shifting the trees. He didn’t relax. The fire popped, and a spray of sparks leapt into the air before vanishing. He laid the rifle across his lap, eyes never leaving the dark outside. When his gaze did flick toward her, just for a second, it was enough to see something in it—something that said the night’s danger wasn’t over. Not for either of them.

Dawn came gray and slow. The storm had weakened to a patient drizzle, falling straight down instead of driving sideways. She woke to the muted hiss of water on leaves and the low scrape of steel on stone. The Apache sat a few feet away, sharpening his knife in smooth, unhurried strokes. The small fire still smoldered between them, sending up the occasional thread of fragrant smoke that clung to the air.

Her ribs ached from the simple act of breathing, but the worst of last night’s shaking had left her. She tried to shift, winced, and stilled again. He glanced over, not long enough to make her squirm, just enough to see if she was about to fall apart, then returned to the blade. The scrape of metal slowed, then stopped. He set the knife aside and reached for a folded cloth near the fire. Steam curled from it when he wrung it out over a shallow tin cup. He didn’t ask permission. His hand was steady as he drew the blanket from her shoulder, pressing the warm cloth gently against her side. The heat sank through the bruises and the fractured bone beneath, easing the tight grip of pain just a little.

He spoke for the first time since they’d met in the storm, his voice low, carrying the faint rasp of someone who didn’t use it much. “You move too fast, you break worse.” She swallowed a reply and simply nodded. Something in her chest loosened just a little.

He set a small tin cup of water beside her and gestured for her to drink. It was cold from the rain barrel outside, tasting faintly of pine, but it cleared the last cobwebs from her mind. He moved to the horse, checking the animal’s legs, then stepped out into the drizzle without a word. She could hear him moving in the underbrush, the sound of something small and quick meeting a swift end. By the time he returned, a limp rabbit hung from one hand, its fur dark with rain. He worked in silence, skinning and cleaning it with methodical precision. The scent of raw meat and wet fur briefly cut through the damp air before the fire took it, hissing fat onto the coals.

He propped the meat on green sticks, turning it slowly. The smell began to fill the space, rich and smoky, and her stomach tightened with an ache she hadn’t let herself feel in days. When he handed her the first strip, she hesitated, almost waiting for it to be pulled back. It wasn’t. The meat was hot, almost too hot, and she chewed slowly, letting the warmth spread down into her hollow middle.

He watched her, but not in the way men usually watched her. It was the same way he might watch the fire or the weather, gauging what it would do next. Outside, the rain kept its slow rhythm—a constant curtain between them and whatever waited beyond the trees. She felt it pressing in, the space too small for strangers, yet not uncomfortable. There was no place for false pleasantries here. Every gesture, every movement, meant something.

He ate last, tearing his piece in two and feeding the smaller to his horse before finishing the rest. The hours slid by in a hush. He mended a tear in his coat with a needle carved from bone. She sat close to the fire, holding the blanket tighter around her shoulders, tracing the rough weave between her fingers. A part of her wanted to speak, to tell him her name, to ask his, but words felt like a door she wasn’t ready to open. He seemed to understand. When his eyes met hers, there was no question in them, only acknowledgment.

The light outside began to dim again, the day short and reluctant in the grip of winter. He rose, moved to the doorway, and scanned the wet forest with the stillness of a man who knew how to see what others missed. She followed his gaze but saw only trunks fading into fog. His jaw tightened a fraction before he turned back.

That night, the fire burned a little higher. The wind had returned, not with the fury of before, but with a steady persistence that spoke of another storm building. She watched his hands as he packed the saddlebags, checking straps, making sure the rifle’s powder horn was sealed. He wasn’t restless, but prepared, like someone who had learned that trouble didn’t always announce itself.

When she tried to stand, the pain lanced so sharply through her ribs that her knees buckled. He was there before she could fall, his arm firm around her waist. It was the first time she felt the strength in him fully—not just the breadth of his shoulders, but the way he held her up without making her feel owned. She caught the faint warmth of his breath before he stepped back and let her settle again by the fire.

He reached into one of the packs and drew out a small bundle of herbs tied with sinew. Crushing a pinch between his fingers, he dropped it into a cup of water he’d set near the flames. A bitter, sharp scent rose with the steam, medicinal and earthy. When he offered it to her, she wrinkled her nose at the taste, but drank. It spread warmth through her in a different way, calming the ache enough for her to rest.

For a while, they sat without moving, the firelight flickering over the rough walls of the shelter. She traced shapes in the dirt with her toe, wondering how long before the men who chased her found this place. He stared into the flames, his face shadowed as though weighing the same question.

Later, she woke to find the fire low and him by the entrance, rifle across his knees. The moon had risen, pale and blurred behind the thin rain. His silhouette was still as stone, but his head was tilted, listening. She strained her ears and caught it, too—a distant rhythmic thud like hoofbeats swallowed by the wet ground. Her breath caught. His eyes shifted toward her, and in the dim glow, she saw it: the quiet warning there, the unspoken truth that whatever safety she’d found here was fragile. The sound faded again into the night, but neither of them moved. The fire cracked softly, and outside, the forest waited, holding its secrets in the rain.

By the time the rain broke, the forest smelled of wet earth and pine resin. Mist clung low between the trunks, curling in pale ribbons that drifted with the breeze. She woke to the sound of him chopping wood outside the overhang—measured, efficient blows, each one followed by the thud of splitting logs. Her ribs ached less this morning, though every movement still sent a muted pulse of pain through her side.

He came in carrying an armful of firewood, droplets clinging to the ends of his hair, dark against his cheek. Setting the logs by the fire, he crouched to stir the coals, coaxing the orange glow back to life. In the quiet, she studied him. His face was carved in lines of weather and distance—not unkind, but not made for small talk. There was no curiosity in his eyes when they met hers, only the same steady regard that made her feel seen without being pried open.

When he brought her breakfast—strips of smoked meat warmed over the fire—she managed to speak. “Why?” The word came rough from disuse.

He looked at her, head slightly tilted. “Why what?”

She hesitated, the truth knotting in her chest. “Why help me?”

He didn’t answer immediately, just sat across from her, slicing a piece of wood into clean shavings with his knife. “Storm takes anyone it wants,” he said finally. “Didn’t seem right to let it take you.”

She stared at the flames. “The storm wasn’t the worst part.” The words surprised her as much as they seemed to catch his attention. His hands paused mid-cut, though his eyes didn’t push. The silence between them held space instead of pressure. And somehow that was enough for the rest to spill in fragments. “It was my uncle,” she said, her voice low. “He’s not blood, but after my father died, he decided everything was his. The house, the land—me. Wouldn’t let me speak to anyone without him knowing. Wouldn’t let me leave.” Her fingers gripped the edge of the blanket. “Last week, I said no to him. Just no. That was all it took.”

He didn’t need her to explain the bruises. His gaze flicked almost imperceptibly to her side. “Men like that,” he said, his tone as flat as the still air outside, “don’t stop because you run once.”

Before she could answer, the sound of footsteps in the wet leaves drew both their eyes to the entrance. A tall man stepped from the mist, bent under the weight of a pack, his beard silvered, his coat patched in too many places to count. The Apache rose, but didn’t reach for his rifle. The newcomer’s eyes moved between them, pausing on her for a beat, longer than comfort allowed.

“Didn’t expect to find company up here,” he said, his voice roughened by years of smoke and wind. “But then, I’ve been hearing talk.”

The Apache’s tone was even. “What talk?”

The man dropped his pack near the fire. “Down in the settlement, they’re saying a white girl ran off with an Apache. Your uncle’s telling anyone who will listen that you were stolen. Offering good coin for your return.” He leaned closer, his gaze sharpening. “And he’s not going alone. Hired men, the kind who know how to track.”

Her stomach knotted. She saw the Apache’s jaw tighten, though his face stayed calm. “How long?” he asked.

“They left town yesterday. Storm slowed ’em some, but they’ll be making up for lost ground now.” The old man shrugged, reaching for his pack again. “Figured you should know.” He nodded to her, then stepped back into the mist as quietly as he’d arrived.

The silence after his departure felt heavier than before. The Apache didn’t waste time. He rose, went to the saddlebags, and began checking the contents. She watched him take stock—ammunition, a coil of rope, a small pouch of dried berries. Every movement was deliberate.

“What will you do?” she asked.

“Be ready,” he said simply. He picked up the revolver from where it rested by the fire and set it on the blanket beside her. “You know how to use this?”

She shook her head. He opened the cylinder, showing her each step with slow precision. “Six shots. Don’t waste them. Thumb here. Squeeze, not pull.” He guided her hands once, adjusting her grip until it was steady. She hated that it trembled, but his expression didn’t change.

For the next hour, he worked in quiet rhythm, oiling his rifle, replacing the knife in its sheath, checking the horse’s hooves. She sat by the fire, the revolver across her lap, the weight of it both foreign and strangely grounding. The reality of her uncle finding them pressed against her ribs like another injury.

When he was done, he took her dress from where it had been drying and laid it out. The tear at the hem was neatly stitched now, the seams reinforced with heavier thread. She realized he’d done it sometime in the night. Along the inside, he had sewn strips of fur, thin but warm. The care in it was wordless, and it made her throat tighten.

Outside, the mist began to thicken, turning the forest into a white maze. The air smelled of snow. He noticed too, stood at the entrance, scanning the ridges. “Snow will hide their trail,” he said. “But it hides ours too.”

She rose carefully, the revolver still in her hand. “You could leave me. They’d stop chasing you.”

His eyes met hers, steady and unblinking. “Storm takes anyone it wants,” he repeated. “So do men like that. I don’t leave people to either.”

The cold crept deeper into the shelter. He added another log to the fire, the crackle filling the space. Outside, the first flakes began to fall, slow, drifting, harmless looking. She knew better. The forest would be white and silent within hours—the kind of quiet where danger could stand right in front of you, and you wouldn’t hear it until too late.

She tightened the blanket around her shoulders, feeling the revolver’s weight against her palm. Somewhere beyond those pines, her uncle and his hired men were closing in. She could almost hear the hoofbeats again, ghostly in the snow.

The Apache sat across from her, his hands still. The firelight caught on the metal of his rifle, on the curve of the knife at his belt. Outside, the snow thickened, blurring the world into a shifting white wall. From deep in the forest came the faintest sound, so soft she thought she imagined it—the snap of a branch under something heavy. His head turned sharply toward it, and for the first time since she’d met him, she saw a flicker of something in his eyes. Not fear—anticipation.

She held her breath. The sound came again, closer this time, muffled by the falling snow. Snow swallowed sound, but it couldn’t hide the rhythm of horses breaking through the timber. The Apache’s head tilted, listening. Then he rose in one fluid motion and checked the rifle’s load. The woman sat frozen on the blanket, revolver clutched in her lap, pulse hammering in her throat.

Through the curtain of white, shapes emerged. Five riders, their outlines blurred, but their purpose sharp. The one at their center sat straighter than the rest, his coat a dark slash against the snow. Even at this distance, she knew the way his shoulders squared, the way his gaze fixed on a thing like it belonged to him—her uncle.

They stopped a dozen paces from the overhang. Steam drifted from the horses’ nostrils, rising into the white air. Her uncle’s voice cut through the snowfall, cold and sure. “You’ve got something of mine.”

The Apache stepped forward, rifle loose in his hands, the barrel angled toward the ground but ready. “She’s not yours.”

A thin smile crossed her uncle’s face. “Blood makes claim. She’s coming back.”

Her voice trembled but rose anyway. “I’m not.” The words hung there, fragile but unbroken. Her uncle’s eyes narrowed, the faint curve of amusement gone. One of the hired men shifted in his saddle. “We can do this easy, or we can do it with holes and folks,” he said, his hand brushing the butt of his pistol.

The Apache’s gaze flicked between them, measuring distance, terrain, the speed of their draw. “Your choice,” he said simply.

Her uncle nodded once and a rider dismounted, stepping toward the shelter. Snow whispered under his boots. The Apache moved without warning. Two strides and the rifle’s butt cracked against the man’s jaw, sending him sprawling in a spray of white. That broke the stillness. A pistol cleared leather, but the shot went wide as the Apache spun and drove a boot into the man’s knee. The report echoed through the trees, scattering birds from their branches.

The woman’s fingers tightened on the revolver, heart slamming. Another rider aimed for the Apache’s back. She didn’t think. She lifted the revolver, thumbed the hammer, and squeezed. The shot cracked, the recoil jerking her arm, but the bullet struck true, splintering the man’s rifle stock. He cursed, clutching at the ruined weapon.

Her uncle’s face darkened, and he spurred his horse forward, closing the gap. “You’ll regret that,” he spat, drawing his own gun.

The Apache met him halfway, sliding to the side as the horse lunged. His hand caught the bridle, yanking hard, while the rifle came up in the same motion. The barrel pressed against her uncle’s thigh. “Leave,” he said, voice low but carrying.

The snow thickened, wind rising into a howl. The other riders wheeled uncertainly, their shapes ghostlike in the white blur. Her uncle’s horse danced under him, nostrils flaring. “You think she’ll last a winter out here?” her uncle said, trying for a sneer, but the strain in his voice betrayed him.

“She’ll last,” the Apache replied. His finger stayed poised on the trigger, steady as stone.

A gust of wind blasted through the trees, driving snow into their eyes. In that instant, he moved, shoving the horse’s head aside and stepping clear. Her uncle fired. The shot, muffled by the storm, missed wide. The Apache’s rifle barked once in reply, not killing, but close enough that the air beside her uncle’s leg tore with heat. The horse reared, unseating him into the drift.

The riders hesitated only a breath before hauling their leader up and pulling back. The snow was too heavy, the ground too treacherous to press an advantage. Now curses were swallowed by the wind as they retreated, their shapes swallowed into the gray.

Silence returned, broken only by the hiss of falling snow. The Apache lowered the rifle and looked toward her. She still held the revolver, hands shaking. Slowly, she set it down, the weight of it leaving her fingers numb. He stepped closer, his coat flurrying in the wind, and draped it around her shoulders.

“It’s done,” he said, though his eyes lingered on the treeline, as if ready for it to begin again at any moment. She pulled the coat tighter, the warmth of it sinking into her bones. Somewhere deep in the forest, the sound of hoofbeats faded until there was nothing left but the storm and the steady rhythm of her own breath. But she knew by the way his gaze stayed fixed on the white beyond, that this fight had only been the first.

Snow lay deep around the shelter, a white wall muffling every sound beyond the fire’s quiet crackle. The air inside held the warmth of wood smoke and simmering stew, the scent mingling with pine sap that oozed from the logs stacked near the door. She sat close to the flames, the Apache’s coat draped around her shoulders, the fabric heavy with the faint smell of cedar and horse.

Her hands, still sore from gripping the revolver, wrapped around a tin cup. Steam curled upward, clouding her vision for a heartbeat before clearing to the sight of him across from her. He was cleaning the rifle again, as methodical as he had been the first night. But now his movements were slower, less guarded. The set of his jaw had eased. When their eyes met, there was no unreadable wall this time, only quiet recognition.

He spoke without looking away. “You didn’t miss.”

Her lips quirked, though it wasn’t quite a smile. “I didn’t mean to hit him. Not really. I just didn’t want you shot.”

“That’s enough.” His gaze returned to the weapon, but the faintest edge of something warm lingered in his tone.

The storm outside had softened, the wind dying down until only a soft flurry drifted past the entrance. In the stillness, she let herself breathe without the constant knot of fear pulling her ribs tight. Her uncle’s retreat had been messy, his threats flung into the snow. But the knowledge that he’d been forced to leave burned a clean line through her chest. She could almost feel the space his absence left behind.

He ladled stew into her cup, the broth rich with rabbit and wild herbs, and watched until she ate. The heat filled her, chasing away the last clinging chill from the confrontation.

“You could take me to town,” she said between careful sips, testing the thought like a stone in her palm. “I could find work. Disappear.”

He shook his head once. “They’d find you. Town doesn’t keep secrets.”

She swallowed, the truth of it settling heavy. “Then what? I can’t hide forever.”

He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “Not hiding. Living. There’s a difference.” His eyes held hers steady and certain. “You stay until you can walk without pain. Until you can breathe without looking over your shoulder. After that, you decide.”

The choice in his words startled her. Men like her uncle never offered choice. They took. She looked down at the coat around her shoulders, at the careful stitching along its seams, mended over and over by a hand that valued what it kept.

Days passed in a rhythm that began to feel like something she could belong to. He trapped game at first light, returned with snow in his hair and the smell of the cold clinging to him. She kept the fire alive, learned to gut fish without flinching, to set snares with hands that no longer shook. Her ribs knit slowly, each breath less of a reminder of what had been broken.

In the evenings, they spoke in pieces, fragments of the past traded like small coins. He told her of mountains far to the south, where the wind carried the scent of sage. She told him about her father teaching her to ride, the feel of summer dust on bare feet before her uncle’s shadow fell across the years. The silences between stories were never heavy. They rested there side by side, watching the fire’s slow collapse into embers.

One night, after a long day hauling wood, he handed her something wrapped in doeskin. Inside lay a hair comb carved from polished antler, smooth beneath her fingers. Tiny grooves shaped into the design of a hawk in flight ran along its spine.

“Made it for you,” he said simply.

Her throat tightened. “Why?”

His gaze didn’t waver. “So you remember you weren’t just running. You were going somewhere.”

She slid the comb into her hair, its weight light but certain, like a claim that didn’t chain her.

When the thaw began, the snow receding into dark patches of earth, they stood together outside the shelter. The pines whispered in a wind that smelled faintly of wet soil and the promise of green. She could see the ridge where they had crossed that first night, the line of the stream glinting through the trees.

“Do you think he’ll come back?” she asked.

“If he does, he won’t leave standing,” the Apache said. Not as a threat, just a fact like the changing of seasons. She didn’t doubt it. More surprising was the realization that she no longer measured her safety by his rifle alone. She knew now the weight of a revolver, the path of her own courage when it mattered.

The storm had taken pieces from both of them. But in its wake, something solid had taken root.

That evening, they built a fire outside for the first time, the sky clear above them. Stars scattered in cold brilliance, the Milky Way a pale river across the black. He sat beside her on a log, his shoulder brushing hers just enough to feel the shared warmth.

“You said I decide,” she murmured.

“You do.”

She looked out over the dark forest, the comb secure in her hair, the coat still around her shoulders. “Then I decide to stay.”

He didn’t speak right away, but when he did, the corner of his mouth lifted. “Good.”

The fire crackled between them, sending sparks up into the star-heavy night. She thought of the first time she’d seen him—a shadow in the storm—and how every step since had led here, to stillness without fear, to a place where her name belonged only to her. In the distance, an owl called once, low and certain. She leaned a little closer, her hand resting lightly on his. He didn’t move away.

The night folded around them, vast and quiet, and for the first time in longer than she could measure, she felt the horizon ahead instead of the footsteps behind. The embers glowed bright in the dark, as if holding the promise that come morning, the world would still be theirs to shape.

play video: