As the man in black flew threw the air, knife aimed at her, Kate's gun fired twice before she had to drop it. She needed both hands to stop the fist holding the knife and redirect it away from her. They landed in a heap. For a brief, frantic moment, Kate felt the man's weight on top of her and she nearly fainted, but he wasn't moving and she managed to wriggle out from under him.

She scrambled to her gun, pointing it even as she slid through the dust on her knees- but the man in black was lying face down in the dust. One of the shots she'd fired at him in midair must have hit. She forced herself to take a few deep breaths to steady herself. When she was composed, she walked over and kicked the knife out of reach. Assuming the man was playing possum, she cautiously turned him over with her boot, gun pointed at him.

When he rolled over, she could hear the labored breathing and saw what one of her shots had down to the man's chest.

***

Kate Logan watched the shadows on the wall of the cave, cast by the men around the bonfire. Time had slipped away from her, and she had no idea how long she had been with them. An hour? A day? It was dark out; she knew that much. She was laying on the crudely assembled bed in the corner, listening to the men as they stood up to get their dinner. A fatal mistake, as it left Kate the only person watching the entrance of the cave for a moment.

Kate saw John's silhouette, and the faintest ghost of a smirk broke out on her face. 

Six rapid shots later, she was alone in the cave with him. 

John walked over to her slowly, holstering his gun. He helped Kate to her feet, ignoring the blood as he wrapped his jacket around her. She allowed him to help her up on his horse, and the feeling of John's arms reaching around her to hold the reins gave her a momentary panic attack before she demurred. 

The next two weeks were a blur. She wound up in her bed and, for the first time since she'd arrived on the farm, she did no work on a sunny day. She tried to read occasionally. John read to her, when she couldn't. He was a constant presence and, when he was gone, Mark often sat in with her, talking incessantly about the farm as if he was afraid to let silence reign for too long. Even Matt made a begrudging appearance or two, although she suspected it was forced. After that first couple weeks, she was more relieved and recovered.

One day shortly after that largest relief of her life, John walked into the room and removed his gun from his holster. He looked down at it for a moment before flipping it around and offering her the handle. He spoke lowly, with long pauses between his sentences.

"It's yours now, Kate. And I swear to you, on my life, that I will teach you how to use that weapon more skillfully than anyone you've ever met, present company excluded. You are now exempt from your early morning work and your evening work. Every day for an hour after sunrise and before sunset, I dedicate myself to ensuring that you need never be afraid again. Consider it my... penance. My guilt. Do you agree?"

Kate easily lifted the revolver. In some ways, she felt complete again- perhaps more complete than ever. She looked down and saw the gleaming metal, felt the warmth of the sandalwood grips, and, for the first time in a long time, she smiled.