Blood of Angels (OH SHIT IT'S THE WESTERN AU 83)
Sunlight slanted through the window, striking the drifter dead in the face as she opened her eyes, and she let out a little groan, flinging up an arm to shield herself from the glare.
The room in which she found herself lying was a simple one, weathered by both time and the elements. A rugged nightstand sat beside the bed, but apart from that, the scuffed floorboards were bare of furniture, and the adobe walls devoid of any sort of decoration, save a clumsily drawn, stylized sun that had been etched into the one across from where she lay.
Struggling up into a sitting position and letting out another groan as the wounds in her side protested, she clapped a hand to the injury, pausing as her fingers brushed up against a linen bandage, wrapped and padded tightly over the bullet holes.
Well, that raised a whole buzzing hornet’s nest of questions.
She’d planned on riding straight through the town, but judging by the gap in her memory and her present location, the combination of rain and pain had finally gotten the better of her somewhere within the boundaries of the settlement. From there, someone had obviously chosen to be a kind soul for some reason, and lent her a hand.
Shaking her head, the gunslinger swung her legs over the side of the bed, setting them on the floor and preparing to force herself up onto her feet.
Whatever the reason, and whoever her mysterious benefactor was, she couldn’t stay any longer. Not with the cargo she was carrying burning a hole in her saddlebag, and certainly not with that man on her tail.