Safe Among Wildflowers // Simon "Ghost" Riley x Reader

A Small Patch Of Heaven

The afternoon sun hovered lazily over the Kentucky meadows, casting a golden hue across the undulating plains. The air was thick with the scent of wildflowers and freshly turned earth, and all was quiet save for the gentle breeze whispering through the grass. Here in this solitude, time seemed slower, the world smaller. It was a place for someone who valued peace, far from the bustling towns and prying eyes. For you, it was a sanctuary, a world removed from the noise that most folks seemed to live in. Your ranch was modest, a small house with a thatched roof and a handful of animals grazing nearby, but it was all yours.

The stillness was broken only by the occasional crack of a twig underfoot or the whicker of your horse as you went about your chores. But then, amid your daily tasks, a shadow caught your eye, a lone figure in the distance, swaying atop a horse.

It was an unusual sight. Travellers were rare around these parts, especially those riding alone. You squinted, shielding your eyes from the sun, watching as the figure slowly made its way closer. The horse's steps were uneven, and the rider seemed almost...slumped. You couldn't quite make out the details, but an unease began to settle in your stomach. Without thinking, you reached down, fingers brushing the handle of the revolver strapped to your hip. Out here, you had no one but yourself to rely on. It was second nature to prepare for any potential threat.

The figure drew closer, and you saw the unmistakable signs of exhaustion and injury. The man, a stranger dressed in dark, battered clothing, his face obscured by a wide-brimmed hat and a scarf wrapped around his lower face, suddenly slumped forward, sliding from the saddle and tumbling to the ground in a heap. You hesitated, watching him lie still for a moment before instinct took over.

Cautiously, you approached, your revolver still held tight in one hand. The man was motionless, his breathing shallow and laboured. A streak of crimson trailed from his torso, staining his shirt and soaking into the dry earth below. You glanced around, but there was no one else in sight. The man had ridden alone, and if he'd meant harm, he was certainly in no position to do it now.

With a reluctant groan, you holstered your gun and knelt beside him. Up close, you could see his clothes were worn and patched, a coat that had seen far too many miles, boots scuffed and dusty. He was a gunslinger, that much was obvious. You could see the shape of a holster slung low on his hip, his revolver resting heavy against his thigh. His hat had fallen off, revealing a mop of dark blond, damp hair clinging to his forehead. The scarf still obscured most of his face, but his skin was pallid and clammy.

"Damn it," you muttered, debating with yourself for a moment. But even as your mind argued caution, your hands were already reaching to drag him up by his shoulders.

You managed to hoist him to his feet, his body heavy and awkward in your grip, and slowly led him back to the house. "I got you, you're alright," you reassured but he was barely conscious, his head lolling to the side as you half-carried, half-dragged him. Good thing you had practised with those sacks of vegetables and animal feed throughout your years to handle this mountain of muscle.

With a strained breath, you forced the door open, easing him inside as gently as you could manage. The man's weight was nearly too much for you, each step a challenge as you manoeuvred him through the small, dimly-lit front room, and into the tiny bedroom beyond. The room smelled of cedar wood and herbs you'd dried last summer. Shadows from the late afternoon sun crept across the wooden walls, giving the space a warm but melancholy air.

You finally lowered him onto the bed, and he sank into the thin mattress with a low groan, his breathing uneven. The faintest trace of a sigh escaped your lips, relief mingling with anxiety as you stepped back. The scarf he'd worn to obscure his face had slipped somewhere along the way, and with it gone, his face lay open, unguarded in the firelight of your oil lamp.