“STOP… ARE YOU GOING TO PUT THAT IN ME?!” The nun froze—but the cowboy didn’t stop. – thuytien

A credential fell from her habit: Pinkerton National Detective Agency. Cody read the archbishop’s letter by lamplight. “You must kill Cody Mustin. Your redemption depends on it.”
Her finger tightened on the trigger of her Colt, aiming at the unconscious woman. She couldn’t do it. Not even to an assassin sent by the church. She would wait until she woke up, hear her explanation, and then decide.
Two weeks later, the cabin was a prison for two. Norah was recovering, praying at dawn and dusk, but her eyes were those of a soldier: calculating escape routes, weapons, weaknesses.
Cody taught her how to reload the Winchester, claiming he needed extra hands if Kane’s men came. She sang hymns while mending his shirts, songs that reminded her of her mother’s voice before the whiskey killed her. Small gestures accumulated like drops filling a canteen.
Cody brought her wildflowers when her fever rose; Norah surprised him carving a wooden cross with surprisingly gentle hands. “Do you believe?” she asked. “I used to, before I saw the good die and the bad prosper.” “I don’t know what I believe anymore,” Norah confessed. For the first time, she was honest.
On the fourteenth night, Cody asked, “Why did Kane’s men shoot you if you worked for them?” Norah paled. “They thought I’d switched sides, that I was asking uncomfortable questions about the Hendricks family.”
“And what did you find out?” “That maybe the church sent me after the wrong man.” Before she could answer, the window exploded. Five horsemen surrounded the cabin. “Cordell, send in the nun and maybe you’ll die quickly!” Cody fired, taking one down.
Norah, still weak, grabbed the Colt and killed the giant Garrett with a perfect shot. The mercenaries fled. Cody approached, took the gun from her trembling hands. “Who the hell are you?” Norah dropped her Pinkerton credential and the archbishop’s letter.
 “I was drafted at 18. I became the church’s weapon at 24. I came to kill you. But the monster they described wasn’t you.”
The orphaned boy, Tommy Hendricks, came running up. “The lady gave me candy, asked for Mom and Dad.” Cody lowered his gun. “Did you talk to the boy?” “Yes. He told me how his parents died.
And you saved them.” “Are you still planning to kill me?” “I don’t know what to believe anymore.” Norah wept. “The archbishop showed me evidence, confessions, it was all a lie. Now I know.” Cody read the papers: false testimonies, signatures of dead men.

“Why did you believe this?” “Because I wanted to believe. If the church was right, everything I did was justified. All the blood would be washed away.” Cody looked at her. “I didn’t kill the Hendricks. Callaway and Kane demanded water, Samuel refused, they killed him.
I ran with Tommy, I’ve been on the run ever since. There’s a federal marshal in Fort Worth investigating Callaway. He needs witnesses, Tommy’s testimony.”
They set off at dawn. Three horses, minimal supplies, Tommy among them. The Lano Estacado was a hell of dust and death. The temperature reached 119°F. Kane’s riders were in pursuit.
On the second day, Norah’s horse broke its leg; Cody quickly put it down. They redistributed supplies, Norah’s fever worsened, the wound bled. On the third day, she couldn’t ride.
Cody faced the impossible choice: leave her and save Tommy, or carry her and risk them all dying. He thought of his lost brother, of years of guilt. “Tommy, run to Fort Worth, find the marshal.”
The boy galloped off. Cody hoisted Norah onto his shoulders. Twenty miles under the scorching sun, the riders in pursuit. “Leave me, save yourself.” “No. I left my brother once. I won’t do it again.” “I’m not your brother.”