Hypothermia..That was the only boogeyman haunting Isabella's thoughts as she pushed her way through knee deep, freezing cold snow. Surely she read about it enough in all her adventure books growing up, but she'd never read it in a newspaper, or heard about it before one of her hunts. Yet here she was, feeling as though she would topple over any second, bleed out of her left side, which was already blown out. Every time she took a step further into the unknown, she could hear that sickening wet squish of her shotgun jacket sticking to her wound. It made her sick, to a point where she wanted to vomit this morning's breakfast. Was it even the same day? The sky had been dark for hours, and she wasn't sure if the sun was rising or setting. She was tired, and hungry, felt miserable. With the wound, it made her feel even worse. Not only was she betrayed, she was alone. Her humble mare being shot in the head by someone she had once called her partner, it was all too difficult to think about now.
A heavy groan slipped from her lips when her foot lost it's balance and she stumbled, having to take a knee in that snow, soaking her trousers even more. Isabella lifted her gloved hand from her side, seeing her sleeve caked in her own blood. Her arm shook, and she couldn't wiggle her pinky finger. If shelter didn't come soon, she wouldn't make it.
Picking herself up, which took minutes to do, she carried on, pushing deeper and deeper. Until finally, she came upon a run down village. No windows were lit, no footprints marked the snow, she was entirely alone. Most of the houses had caved in, due to lack of upkeep, or large tree branches. This blizzard certainly didn't help. Hugging her drenched coat around her shivering body, she moved forward, approaching the nearest little home she could get to, barging in to find that it was bare. A few pieces of furniture sat in the entryway and in the bedroom towards the back from what she could see. All that she needed was a fireplace, to keep warm, and dry her clothes off. Along with a roof over her head so she could work on the wound that was near frozen at this point.
Slamming that door shut, Isabella stumbled over to the fireplace, seeing that there were a few lumps of dry wood left inside. It would be enough for the night, she told herself, and so she reached into her satchel to get her matches. It was hard enough shivering from the cold, trying to actually get a match lit just aggravated her. She managed of course, but it took too long, and by the time the fire was glowing in front of, she was exhausted. Isabella fell backwards onto her butt, watching that fire grow more and more by the second. It was comforting really, watching the flames dance about, that tired woman not realizing it was making her sleepy. When she heard a gale of wind, she jumped slightly, remembering why she was here. She really needed to get cleaned and patched up, but her body simply did not want to move, refusing to anytime she gave the command. Instead, she shifted her free arm, hand placed on her holster, where her pistol sat. If she was walked in on, she figured she'd be able to move fast enough to remove her gun, and fire the shot. But of course, Fate had other plans that day.
Isabella dozed off in front of that fire, nearing death, and not knowing it. If it wasn't for the loud thump of the front door opening, she would have slipped away easily.
Jumping awake again, she had enough time to draw her gun, but was shivering too much to actually fire it. A tall figure, dusted with snowflakes was staring down at her, his own gun drawn, aimed right at her. A black mask covered the lower portion of his face, and a hat protected his hair from the wet slush falling from the pitch dark sky.
"Put the gun down." The figure called, gun still drawn, and Isabella sneered.
"You first, asshole." She heard herself say, but it came out weak, and she stuttered every word, thanks to the chattering of her teeth.
The figure laughed, pulling his gun back, "You ain't in no position to kill me, woman." He laughed, and Isabella wanted to kill him right there, she was a good shot. Hell of a shot actually, otherwise she wouldn't have taken up that damn job as a Bounty Hunter all those years ago. Instead, she could only drop her gun, and attempt to roll her eyes.
"If that's what you came to do, do it already. Spare me another minute of suffering." She half growled, the pain in her side making her grumpier by the second. The figure walked closer, looking around, most likely checking to see if she was alone. She wasn't a hundred percent sure what made him move so hastily the next minute, maybe because it was of the sound she made, but he was suddenly beside her, kneeled.
He tugged a bit on the arm that was wrapped around her side, trying to coax her to let him see.
"Lemme see," He said, Isabella giving in to whoever this stranger was, letting him get a peek of her current problem. To which he let out a soft whistle, tilting his head a bit, shifting his body to let the light of the fire help him see what he was looking at.
"How the hell you make it up here?" The figure asked, placing her arm back where it was before, Isabella shaking her head, "No idea." She said, that figure standing. She could see him shift a bit, thinking. He probably would just leave her, and honestly she couldn't be mad, caring for the injured was a burden, and who the hell knows what kind of life he had.
"Now, I ain't the smartest man, but you've lost a lot of blood. You need attention. I'm gonna have to patch you up." The figure called, Isabella shifting uncomfortably, groaning a bit.
" I have to go down and get the rest of my people, I advise you not to do anything stupid." The figure told her, Isabella rolling her eyes, "Whatever, just go." She hissed, that strange, hulking man nodding, adjusting the hat on his head, taking off. Isabella felt the spilt second of cold as he stepped outside, shutting her back in, surrounded by warmth.
Isabella had dozed off again, having laid back against that hard flooring, her side oozing. Her fingertips were beginning to feel numb, along with toes. It was getting difficult to stay awake more and more, and she thought of giving up. Of course that would be the last thoughts she had in her final moments. At least she thought it would be. Voices carried along with the wind and before she knew it, that tall figure was back. With unknown faces.
"Arthur, you fool. What if we didn't make it back up in time? This poor girl could have died." A female voice hissed.
"Easy there, Susan. The boy only came back for his family, surely he knew not to leave us stranded over some stranger." A much older, more southern voice called, and Isabella groaned, those surrounding her looking down at her.
"She try anything, shoot her." That same female voice called, the one called Arthur, simply grunting. Isabella heard heavy footsteps, and a lot of them. The next thing she felt was arms going about her, and she jolted awake with the little energy she had left.
"Easy,"
"Put me down," Isabella hissed, that same figure from earlier shaking his head.
"Don't be stupid," He grumbled, carrying her into a small room, standing her upright. She clung to the dresser he set her in front, Isabella wobbling a bit.
"Stay here." He called, stepping out of the room, she nodded, feeling as though she needed to vomit. Infection was already beginning to set in, and by the time the figure came back, he could tell she wasn't feeling very well.
"I gotta get these clothes off you," He grumbled, and Isabella perked up a bit, reaching for her knife, to which he stopped her, his hand at her wrist. "Ain't nothing like that." He told her, and the tone in his voice made her shiver, causing her to release her blade, to which he released her wrist. He still hadn't removed his mask, or his hat, and with how dim the room was, she barely could see his eyes. She doubted he could even see hers, not that it mattered.
He got to work, quickly. His own blade cutting at her clothes. Her shotgun coat, bloodied blouse, and even her corset needed to be cut through. He was respectable enough not to go another further upward, keeping her bust covered.
"Miss Grimshaw, I need a lamp in here!" He called out, that door coming open, an older looking woman stepping in, with an oil lamp in her grasp.
"See if the girls can give up some spare clothes? She ain't gonna be able to keep these."
"Make sure you burn em' when you're done." The one she assumed was Miss Grimshaw called, stepping to that door once more, watching Isabella. She left without another word, shutting the door behind her.
"Alright, you're gonna have to hang on to me, I've got to get everything out," He explained, standing up, removing his neckerchief, folding it. "Bite down on this." He said, Isabella looking up at him, confused.
"What?" She asked.
"I need you to be quiet as much as possible, and that ain't gonna happen with me removing the shrapnel. Either bite down on it, or do it yourself." He threatened, a hint of annoyance in his voice, and she snatched that cloth from his hands. She was in no shape to do it herself, and with the sudden tone, she knew that he wasn't messing about. This man would leave her to do it herself.
That black cloth was stuffed into her mouth, the second he kneeled again, not hesitating on getting what he needed out. Isabella cried out, just like he said she would. It felt like every nerve on her side was on fire, painfully roaring as he worked to get the smaller pieces out of her flesh. Large crocodile tears pooled in her eyes, as she continued to cry, those sounds completely muffled. Those drops rolling down her cheeks, coming to meet with Arthur's hands, and that man felt suddenly bad for her. She had no one with her, not even a horse to comfort her. Of course, he had no idea of her story and wasn't planning on asking. He figured he could comfort her in some way. They were bad men, but nothing like what had happened to her.
"You're almost done, darlin'. Hang in there," He said softly, and Isabella nodded, biting down again on her cloth. The rest of that shrapnel came easily, but all the poking of the tool made her more sore. Absentmindedly, she reached and took hold of his shoulder, her strength no longer existing, and she doubled over, Arthur reaching with his free hand to take hold of her.
"Easy, girl." He told her, pushing her back upright.
Once everything was out, Isabella watched him, puzzled. "What?" She whispered, having taken that cloth out of her mouth.
"I don't know if I should cauterize," He began, Isabella cutting him off, "Do it, I don't fucking care, just do it." She hissed, Arthur taking her tone seriously, not questioning her. That male figure nodded, silent, shuffling a bit. Eventually getting up from that kneeling position in front of her, moving around the room. When he left without another word, she sighed, deeply in pain. Taking a few moments to gather herself, she noted how hot she felt, despite the brewing blizzard outside, along with the slight draft in the room. Her own mocha colored skin felt clammy, and beads of sweat rolled down her back from her neck and shoulders. The layers of clothes she had on caused her to sweat profusely, making her feel sickly.
That bedroom door was opened once more, that male figure returning, a lit candle in his hand, giving her a bit of a leeway to seeing that small exposed portion of his face. He could see hers, and noted how pink she looked, knowing she wasn't feeling the greatest. Walking back over, he opened his mouth to say something, setting that lit candle down.
"I gotta hurry this up, I'm needed elsewhere." He said, giving her a side eye, but she didn't look up at him, eyeing the floor instead.
"I can just do it myself," She told him, shifting a bit to stand up straight.
"Enough with that nonsense," He called, that annoyance that was there earlier having returned to his tone. Isabella could only muster so much strength to roll her emerald green eyes, and that figure caught onto, immediately grabbing hold of her free arm, pulling her into him.
"You carry on with that attitude, I'll throw you straight out onto your ass, and not give a second thought." He told her, Isabella looking to glare up at him, and that's when she was taken aback. Those eyes he had, a slight tug at the back of her mind, as though she had seen them before. Those in depth blues that had her swallowing a lump in her throat, fumble over her words when she tried to reply to her. He picked up on it, and released her arm, turning away a bit. She of course had these rich emeralds that Arthur hadn't paid any mind to earlier. If Isabella wasn't feeling so under the weather, she would have sworn that male figure was blushing a bit.
After a while, he cleared his throat, rolling his shoulders, that big blue coat he was wearing shifting with his movements. Once he kneeled again, he reached and brought that oil lamp closer, sighing a bit.
"What a mess," He mumbled, reaching into his coat pocket, for what, Isabella wasn't sure. She was losing strength with every passing second, and when she felt that sudden sprinkle of gunpowder, she gasped. Her hand returned to his shoulder, giving hit a squeeze, not realizing that she actually bruised his shoulder underneath that thick winter coat. Her eyes closed, and she tried her hardest to focus on simply standing, shifting a bit where she stood, ready to pass out.
What caught her off guard was when that candle met her skin, causing her to scream, that male figure reaching up to cover her mouth. He only kept that flame there for a few seconds, which seemed like minutes to her, moving to the next biggest wound. Her screams continued to be muffled, until he finally finished, releasing her. She shivered, due to the pain she was feeling, along with the fever that was setting in.
Isabella doubled over, and that male caught her just in time, standing with her in his arms. He could feel her warmth, and the shivers her body was producing.
"Come on, let's get you into bed." He mumbled, shifting a bit to adjust his hold on her, taking her fully into his arms. He carried her to a bed that probably hadn't been touched in years, did she care? No, she didn't. The second he set her down, she shivered, and he took notice.
"Stay here," he called, watching her curl inward slightly before he took off again. About a minute or so later, he returned with two women behind him, who stared down at Isabella.
"She ain't looking too well," One called, the other reaching, placing a cool hand upon her forehead.
"Fever set in, she's gonna have to be with us a while, until she can manage on her own."
"How long you suppose that's gonna be?" The male grumbled, clearly tired of Isabella already.
"Don't know, but where's your manners Mister Morgan? Woman is nearly dying and you're already trying to get rid of her."
"We got enough problems, Miss Grimshaw." The male grumbled, the female who was standing closest to Isabella turning to snap at the pair of them, like a mother to her child.
"We'll take care of her, now go on and get, Dutch is waiting for you."
'Dutch?' Isabella immediately thought to herself, her brows furrowed in thought, surely it couldn't be the one Dutch she'd been after all these years? Was she finally catching a break? No, things never came that easily, and she was sure if they found out she was a Bounty Hunter, she'd be dead.
Thinking was painful, and before she could process what was happening, she groaned. The woman turned and looked at her, that male figure by the door, looking back. As if he cared, but her mind told her he didn't, just by the way he carried himself. He wanted her gone, the day she could probably stand up on her own he'd be kicking her out.
Some time passed, the woman helped Isabella in a borrowed nightgown, and fixed up that old bed to be something a bit more comfortable, warm. Isabella fell in and out of a fever like sleep, only in small increments until she was jolted awake from a sound, or from her own pain. Those two same women, who she learned were Abigail, and Miss Grimshaw, kept checking in on her every thirty minutes or so. That was until that male figure returned, looking exhausted. She had awakened again, hearing his heavy footsteps on the creaky floorboards.
"You're back," Isabella called, her voice groggy, thick with sleep.
"I am, Miss-?" That male figure stepped beside her bed, towering over her while she laid below him.
"Turkin. Isabella Turkin." She told him, watching as he removed his hat, showing off his locks of chestnut colored hair. Strangely enough, she wanted to run her fingers through it.
'Get it together, Turkin.' Her mind shouted at her, and she mentally smacked herself upside the head. That male figure nodded, "Isabella," He repeated, but the way he said it caught her attention. Rough, rugged, it made her shiver again.
"And you?" She asked, seeing him finally remove that mask from the lower portion of his face, and that's when it clicked. She was staring in the face of one of the most known outlaws, the prodigy son of Dutch Van Der Linde himself, the man she'd been chasing after for years because of the price on his head.
"Arthur Morgan."