Chapter 5
How to Accidentally, on Purpose, Shoot a Legend
Olivia
Rain had faded to a thin drizzle by the time we reached the barn. My porch light glowed behind us through the fog, casting a muted halo I refused to look back at. If I did, I’d turn around and lock myself inside.
The hinges shrieked when I pulled the big sliding door open, a sound sharp enough to make him flinch. “Sorry,” I whispered before I could stop myself. I wasn’t sure how much he understood, but the way his eyes tracked my mouth told me he caught something.
Cool, damp air met us, carrying the scents of hay, old oil, and wood darkened by years of storms. The barn always held the smell of work already done, but tonight it felt different; the air felt tight enough to notice, even if I couldn’t explain why.
A distant rumble rolled through the hills.
Water dripped steadily from the eaves, each drop marking the quiet.
Behind me, he paused in the doorway, broad shoulders tight under the frame. Lantern light traced the damp fur along his arms and outlined him in a soft, uneven glow.
“It’s dry,” I said quietly. “That’s something, at least.”
He made a low sound deep in his chest, not quite agreement and not quite warning.
His eyes—deep gold catching every shift of light—moved across the space, from the stalls to the low rafters and finally to me.
Caution lived there, but so did awareness.
He wasn’t turning away, and that felt like its own kind of answer.
I stepped farther inside, found an old quilt folded on a shelf, and spread it across a thick pile of hay. “Here,” I said, patting the spot. “Sit down before you fall down.”
For a moment, he didn’t move. Then, he stepped forward, careful as if the floor might give way beneath him. Every movement had its own controlled weight, a balance of weight and restraint bound together. When he lowered himself onto the quilt, the old boards moaned in protest. I exhaled slowly.
“I’ll be right back,” I said, forcing my voice to steady. “Don’t go anywhere.”
Outside, the night air clung warm and damp against my skin.
I ran for the house, my boots sinking into the soft earth, with Boone and June Bug barking at my heels.
Inside, I grabbed the first-aid kit, a clean towel, bottled water, and a small bottle of ibuprofen from the cabinet.
My hands weren’t steady as I poured the water into another glass and slapped together a sandwich—ham, cheese, and mustard—simple and human.
“Lord above, don’t let this be a mistake,” I murmured, looking down at the pill bottle in my hand. “If this hurts him, I’ll never forgive myself.”
When I returned to the barn, he was still seated on the haystack, waiting for me to return like I’d asked him to do. I still wasn’t sure how much he understood, but I wasn’t sure I was ready to know those answers yet either.
“I brought some things,” I said softly, setting everything down beside him. “Water, food, and medicine. It’ll help with the pain.”
His head lifted at the sound of my voice, my breath stilling when our eyes met. At that moment, the thought of anyone tracking him down and studying him like some science project turned my stomach.
“I need to clean your shoulder first,” I continued after pulling myself out of my head. “Then you can eat.”
He made no move to stop me when I leaned in close to him.
The rain had rinsed most of the blood and dirt away, but the wound was deep and still trickled red beneath the lantern’s glow.
I dipped the towel again, pressing gently until the bleeding slowed.
My focus stayed fixed on the motion—cloth to skin, breath to rhythm—until I realized how close I’d leaned in.
The warmth coming off him wasn’t just heat; it was presence.
It filled the small space between us in a way I couldn’t ignore, but somehow, I felt safe.
When my hand brushed lower, I couldn’t help but notice how the fur thinned across his torso and hips, revealing the shape beneath. The shadows softened him, but not enough. The sight jolted through me before I could look away. I caught my breath, the heat climbing the back of my neck.
Focus, Olivia. You’re tending a wound.
I forced my eyes back to his shoulder, where the blood welled along the edges of the gash. Some things didn’t need clear light to be understood, and I had no business thinking about any of them just then.
“This’ll sting,” I warned quietly. “Don’t hit me.”
His breath rolled out in a low, vibrating sound that almost passed for a laugh.
The noise startled me, and I realized he recognized my tone—even if the words slipped past him.
Clenching my teeth, I poured the disinfectant over the wound and blew across the torn skin to blunt the sting. His whole body tensed, muscles shifting beneath the fur as a guttural noise tore from his chest. I flinched with him and murmured, “I know, I know it burns. Just hang on.”
His golden gaze snapped up.
And this time, the truth landed hard: he wasn’t reacting to tone—he was following the words.
Dragging my eyes away, I pressed a clean towel against the wound until the bleeding eased. His skin startled me—tough but smooth, something between hide and flesh. His pulse thudded steady beneath my fingers, deep in a way that felt anchored in him.
“You’re lucky,” I whispered. “It could’ve been worse. It just grazed you.”
A low sound rose from his chest, something that might’ve meant agreement. Gradually, his breathing slowed, the tension in his frame loosening one careful breath at a time. The wound probably should have been stitched, but I did not have the nerve. I wasn’t even sure human skin rules applied to him.
When the bleeding stopped, I tore a strip of gauze and wrapped it across his shoulder, tucking the edge to hold it in place. My fingers brushed his skin as I tied the bandage, and the heat of him lingered against my palms. It was impossible to ignore.
“Alright,” I said softly, sitting back on my heels. “Now for the medicine.”
He watched me without moving, the lamplight slipping across his face in bands of gold and shadow. The curiosity in his eyes wasn’t human exactly. Still, it wasn’t feral either—it was something that lived in the space between.
Pouring a few pills out of the bottle, I let them rest in my palm. “It’s for pain,” I explained. “You swallow them. It’ll make you feel better.”
He cocked his head slightly, listening to the sound of my voice. The soft rasp of his breath filled the quiet. I lifted one pill to my mouth, swallowed it, and opened my hand to show him. “See? Safe.”
For a moment, nothing happened. Then he reached out, his hand massive and covered in fur, and took the pills from my palm with a gentleness I didn’t expect.
Next, I passed him the glass of water. He sniffed it once, then drank, each swallow visible in the movement of his throat.
The sound was ordinary, almost domestic, and that ordinariness undid me a little.
Watching him like that—cautious but trusting—did something strange to my chest, as if my heart had shifted into unfamiliar territory.
“Good,” I murmured. “That should help.”
Outside, the storm had softened into stillness. The frogs had begun their tentative calls, the first few voices testing the quiet. I reached for the sandwich and held it out to him. “Here. Eat.”
He studied it the way he studied everything—with patience that felt learned rather than instinctive.
One cautious sniff, a low huff, then he took a small bite.
The sight nearly pulled a laugh out of me: this enormous creature chewing carefully, as if trying to remember how food was supposed to work.
I took a bite of my own half, pretending it was normal. “Not bad, huh?”
A deep rumble moved through him, the sound vibrating in my ribs. It wasn’t a growl, really. It was too content for that.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” I said, the corners of my mouth lifting despite myself.
When he finished eating, I handed him the last of the water. He drank again, slower this time, his gaze lifting to mine as if to make sure I approved. There was nothing animal in that look. Only a quiet and unsettling awareness.
The lantern light shifted when he leaned back, tracing the lines that crossed his chest. Long, pale scars ran beneath the fur like rivers under snow.
Old wounds, healed over time, still refusing to fade.
My breath caught. He wasn’t wearing anything, but the moment didn’t feel indecent.
Maybe it was the way he held himself—unashamed, unconcerned with the boundaries that governed people.
The fur covered most of him, but not enough to hide what he was.
Not a beast. Not a man. Something caught in between.
“You’ve been hurt before,” I said quietly. “Not just tonight.”
He blinked once, then the gold in his eyes dimmed, like a lantern turned low. The sound that followed wasn’t a growl—it was softer, almost mournful.
I wanted to ask who had done it. What had happened? But the words stuck somewhere behind my teeth. Whatever he’d endured, he’d survived it. And tonight, I’d added another wound to the list.
The light flickered, and his face shifted with it—shadows slipping across the hollows beneath his eyes. His breathing had steadied, deep and even, but the sound carried through the barn, sharp enough that I felt my own heartbeat pick up. Guilt twisted my chest until I thought it might burst.
“You shouldn’t exist,” I whispered before I could stop myself.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” I said quickly. “I just—there’s no one else like you.”
The silence that followed was absolute. Even the rafters felt unnervingly still. Rain tapped once against the roof and stopped, leaving only the slow, living sound of him breathing.
“You need rest,” I said finally, rising to my feet. “I’ll check on you in the morning.”
Although he didn’t stand, his eyes followed me as I moved toward the door, his gaze catching the lantern light, too alive to belong to anything imagined.
Blowing out a shaky breath, I closed the door gently. The light inside shrank to a thin gold thread, glowing through the cracks until it disappeared.
Sleep wouldn’t come. I lay beneath the quilt, staring at the ceiling beams while my mind refused to settle.
Each small creak put me on edge; every tap of the branches against the roof sounded too much like footsteps.
Boone and June Bug slept near the door, completely unfazed. They trusted the quiet. I didn’t.
My thoughts kept drifting back to the barn, to the shape of him breathing in the dark, to the way those gold eyes followed me even after I pulled the trigger.
I kept listening for something heavier than rain—anything that might tell me whether he’d moved or left or simply stayed where I’d last seen him.
But the guilt wasn’t the part that kept me awake.
It was the question I hadn’t let myself ask until now:
Why did he follow me home? What had he wanted when he stepped out of the trees? What made him walk straight toward my porch light as if he’d come straight to me on purpose?
The questions tightened my stomach more than the memory of the gunshot ever had.
“Lord, what am I supposed to do with this?” I whispered into the dark.
The house stayed quiet.
Rolling onto my side, I pulled the quilt tighter. The sense of him lingered. Not a smell, exactly. More a warmth, the echo of his pulse beneath my hands when I bound his shoulder. I’d washed twice, yet the feeling clung like static, impossible to shake.
Each time I closed my eyes, I saw the lantern light on his fur, the rise and fall of his chest, those gold eyes when I’d said he shouldn’t exist. That look burned the deepest. He hadn’t been angry; he’d looked wounded. As if he understood more than I’d meant to say.
It didn’t make sense. None of it did. He was too human to be a legend, too wild to be a man. He bled and breathed and moved like both, carrying a gravity that felt older than either of them.
My hand found my chest, right where I’d felt his heartbeat through my palm. The warmth pulsed there still. Touching him hadn’t felt wrong—just unfamiliar, like standing too close to a storm, waiting for whatever might break next.
“Get a grip,” I muttered. “You’re lying here mooning over Sasquatch.”
The humor fell flat. What unsettled me most wasn’t that I’d seen him—it was that I wanted to see him again.
Boone stirred once and sighed. June Bug’s paw twitched.
The night was so quiet the clock down the hall sounded louder than it should.
I thought about getting up and checking the barn.
But I knew myself too well. If I went out there, I wouldn’t stop at the doorway.
I’d want to see his eyes again—to hear that low hum that didn’t quite sound human.
“He’s out there sleeping like a log,” I whispered, “and I’m in here losing my mind.”
Darkness pressed close around me. Somewhere outside, an owl hooted, then went silent again.
For a moment, I thought I heard something else—not thunder, not wind, but a sound too deep to be either.
It rose from the direction of the barn, low and even, like the heartbeat of the land itself.
I held my breath. The hum came again, quiet but clear.
Not a growl. Not a cry. Just a vibration that felt gentle somehow—like he was dreaming.
My throat tightened. I wanted to believe I’d imagined it, but I recognized that sound. It was the same one he’d made when I touched his shoulder. The sound that lived somewhere between pain and understanding.
I lay awake long after it faded, my hand pressed to my chest, feeling the echo move through me like warmth. By the time my eyes finally closed, dawn had begun to gather at the window, washing the room in a dim, colorless light.
The hum drifted with me into sleep, so quiet I almost believed I’d dreamed it.