Gwendolyn"S Choice
Copyright© 2026 by Megumi Kashuahara
Chapter 2
The ride out of Dry Gulch was quiet at first—the kind of quiet that felt heavy rather than peaceful. The sun dipped low behind the distant hills, throwing long shadows across the dusty trail. Ethan kept his pace slow, giving the horses—and Gwen—room to breathe.
She sat rigid on the wagon seat beside him, as far to her edge as she could get without falling off. Every muscle was tense, coiled like a spring. Her eyes scanned the horizon constantly—not admiring the landscape, but watching for threats.
Ethan didn’t look at her directly, but he was aware of everything. The way she gripped the edge of the seat. The way her jaw stayed clenched. The way she held herself like she expected him to grab her at any moment.
Miles passed. The only sounds were the creak of the wagon, the horses’ hooves on hard-packed earth, and the wind moving through the scrub grass.
Finally, Ethan spoke. “How long were you out in Devil’s Canyon?”
Silence.
He tried again. “You got family anywhere? Anyone who might—”
“No.”
Her voice was flat, final. A door slamming shut.
More silence. The sun dropped lower, painting the sky orange and purple.
“Can you read?” Ethan asked.
She turned her head sharply. “Why?”
“Just asking.”
“Everyone knows I’m feral.”
The word hung in the air between them—heavy, bitter. She said it like it was her name now. Like she’d claimed it because if she said it first, it couldn’t hurt as much when others did.
Ethan kept his eyes on the road. “I don’t know what everyone knows,” he said quietly. “I’m asking you.”
Gwen went still. She stared at him, searching for the trap, the mockery, the cruelty that always came next.
It didn’t come.
Ethan just drove the wagon, his hands steady on the reins, his face calm.
She looked away sharply and didn’t answer.
They rode another hour in silence before Ethan spotted what he was looking for—an old cottonwood beside a shallow creek. A place he’d camped before on long hauls. He pulled the wagon off the trail and set the brake.
“We’ll stop here for the night,” he said, climbing down.
Gwen stayed on the seat, watching him with narrowed eyes.
Ethan began unhitching the horses. “You can stretch your legs. Water’s clean if you’re thirsty.”
She didn’t move.
He glanced up at her. “Or you can sit there all night. Your choice.”
“This where you kill me?” she asked. Her tone was half serious, half daring him to lie.
Ethan stopped what he was doing and looked at her directly. “If I wanted to harm you, Gwen, Dry Gulch would have let me. Nobody there would have lifted a finger to stop it.”
The quiet honesty in his voice hit harder than a shout.
Her sharpness softened for half a second. Then she slid off the wagon seat, landing lightly despite the bruises he could see on her arms and legs. She kept distance between them, pacing toward the creek like a wild thing testing the perimeter of a cage.
Ethan let her. No sudden moves. No commands.
He set up camp with the ease of long practice. Fire lit. Pot of beans set over the flames. Bedrolls laid out on opposite sides of the fire. He kept his movements slow, predictable, non-threatening.
When the beans were bubbling, he filled a tin cup from his canteen and held it out toward her. “Water’s clean. Drink.”
“I don’t want anything from you,” Gwen muttered.
“You want water.”
She did. Badly. Her lips were cracked. Her throat was dry from dust and fear and screaming at deputies hours ago.
After a long hesitation, she took the cup. She didn’t thank him. Just drank in fast, desperate gulps.
When she lowered the cup, Ethan caught sight of her wrists in the firelight.
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