As carefully as he could, Cal set the woman down on their bed, but still she groaned, tensing in pain and arching off the bed, reaching up to fumble at the wound but Cal grabbed her hands and pinned them to the bed and she stopped without much of a fight, not quite conscious.

Charlotte bustled around behind him, cupboards clattering, calling out "Grab the whiskey," and so he did with blood-covered hands, gulping down a mouthful before catching her disapproving eye and setting it down.

She set her armful down on the edge of the bed, looking the woman over. "Help me get her undressed," and though he flushed he did as he was told, helping to prop her up as Charlotte removed, first, her bandolier, then her guns, setting them aside as she pulled off her belts, then worked to unbutton her jean jacket as carefully as she could, mindful of the fibres that had been forced into the wound, Cal helping her to pull it off. Then was the shirt, the sight of the hole in it leaving them both cringing, and it took more time than she'd like to peel it out of the wound, more and more blood pooling as she worked.

They were starting to think they were about to watch a woman die.

Charlotte wasn't squeamish. And neither was Cal.

But they both had to take breaks as Cal held the woman down on the bed, as Charlotte poured whiskey over the wounds and blue-green eyes snapped open as she arched up with breathless sounds of pain, as she stitched shut what of the wound she could, wrapped what she couldn't. By the time she was done, they were both covered in blood, the woman unconscious, face lined deep. Her breath smelled faintly of the whiskey—Cal had tilted the bottle to pour some down her throat, as they didn't have anything else that could act as a painkiller, and he adjusted her as Charlotte stripped the bloodied bedding, putting a blanket on top of her when she saw her shivering.

They left her to rest, heading outside among the rotting corpses to use the pump to wash themselves off, though they'd need to take baths later, probably give the woman a wipe down as well considering that most of her skin was filthy, but for the moment they just wanted to wipe themselves down and take a moment to catch their breaths. The horse grazed, thoroughly unbothered, as though this were a daily occurance, and considering the scars they'd seen on the woman it wouldn't be much of a surprise.

"So,"

"So."

They shared a look, eyes wide, adrenaline leaving their hearts thrumming in their veins. They'd begun the day intending on starting their garden, and now the sun was only just beginning to set and they had a woman, bleeding, maybe dying, laying on their bed, nearly twenty corpses rotting in their yard.

Which, Cal remembered, he still needed to take care of. What do you do with wild-person corpses?

"I'll take care of the corpses," he said to Charlotte, "If you put away her horse." They had a single horse of their own, one that was too lazy to care about sharing its rather-small barn with some woman's horse.

Charlotte nodded, leaving him to puzzle over what to do with all the corpses as she approached the horse.

Close up, she realized he wasn't as big as she'd thought at first, couldn't have been much more than fifteen hands, but he was wide and bulky, making it easy to think that he was much larger. The Andalusian raised his head when she neared, giving her a wary look that had her hesitating, before seeming to decide that she was no threat and going back to his grazing.

"Easy," she murmured, approaching the horse, but he didn't react, allowing her to take his bridle and lift his massive head. He blinked at her slowly, still chewing his mouthful of grass, and plodded after her obediently when she took his reins in hand and led him to the small barn (more of a shed, really) that they kept their cart horse in, patting him on the shoulder.

With Browny in there, it would be a tight fit, but it was shelter and he'd have food and water, so it would hopefully be good enough. Browny was getting on in years and wouldn't mind sharing, and she could only hope that this scarred horse would agree.

And they did. She gave them a moment to greet one another, ears perking and nickering lowly, before Browny gave a sigh and dropped his head, going back to his favorite activity: napping. Charlotte patted the horse she led whose name she didn't know on the neck, murmuring a "Good boy," and leading him to the biggest open space in the small stable, offering him an apple from the sack they kept for Browny as she went to work making a pile of hay for him to eat—they didn't have an extra trough, unfortunately.

Stripping his tack was… oddly terrifying. Six sidearms, two shotguns, three longarms she couldn't identify, and a bow—what type of person needed so many weapons? The optimistic side of her said bounty hunter, but somehow she got the feeling that the woman wasn't something quite so lawful. A nasty looking knife was found in one of his saddlebags, as well as what she was pretty sure were several vials of poison along with what she was sure was more tonics than she'd seen in her life, and several of the herbs she'd seen in the saddlebags she knew were poisonous. One of the saddlebags she'd set aside as carefully as she could, having found dynamite and several vials that she had a feeling were explosive from the way grains had settled at the bottom, and several others smelled strongly of alcohol, cloth poking out from around their stoppers.

What kind of person had they brought into their home?