Buck Wyld stood at the edge of the clearing, watching a woman walk straight toward the hideout like she'd been invited. She hadn't. No one knew this place except the four people already here, and Buck had told each of them what happened to loose lips. She stopped near the rock formation that marked the hidden approach—a pile of stones stacked to look like a cowboy, something Buck and the others had built as a joke. The woman leaned against a wooden post she'd planted in the ground herself, casual as anything, like she'd been waiting all morning. Her shirt hung open at the collar, and her boots were scuffed with red dirt from the long walk in. She wasn't lost. She knew exactly where she was. Buck walked down to meet her, and she pulled something from her pocket before he could ask. A pink sheriff's star, bright as candy, sat in her palm. He recognized it immediately. It had been sitting on the mantel inside the main cabin, a stupid trophy someone brought back from town last month. No one outside the hideout had seen it. No one. "You planning to tell me who sent you?" Buck asked. The woman shook her head, slipped the star back in her pocket, and said nothing. She didn't need to explain how she got it—she already had. What Buck couldn't figure out was who inside had handed it to her, and why. One of his own people had broken the only rule that mattered, and now this stranger stood here waiting for an answer he didn't know how to give.

Buck needed an answer before the stranger came any closer to the main cabin. He had a structure at the edge of the clearing—a small shack with a porch held up by two carved pillars shaped like muscular men, something the group built when they had time and lumber to waste. It stood between the hideout and the world outside, a place where someone could wait without seeing what mattered. He pointed the woman toward it and watched her walk. Her boots left deep prints in the dirt, the kind that showed she'd been standing in one spot for a long time before he came down to meet her. Inside the shack, Buck set an old ear trumpet on the bench between them. It was decorative, carved with patterns no one here had time to appreciate, left behind by someone passing through years ago. He didn't say what it was for. He just watched her look at it. Most people would ask, or pick it up, or ignore it completely. She sat still, hands folded, eyes on him instead of the object. That told him something—she wasn't curious about things, only about people. Buck asked her why she came. She said she needed shelter, that someone told her this was the kind of place that didn't ask too many questions. He asked who told her. She shook her head. He asked if she understood what it meant to be here, that the people inside didn't owe her anything and wouldn't protect her from her own mistakes. She said she understood. He looked at the trumpet again, then at her hands. They were empty, patient. She hadn't touched anything that wasn't hers. He told her she could stay in the shack until he found the person who sent her. She didn't argue or thank him. She just nodded. Buck left her there and walked back toward the main cabin, knowing he'd bought himself time but not trust. The traitor was still inside, and now there was a stranger at the edge of everything he'd built. He'd let her in, but only far enough to see what she did when no one was watching.