Hushed Willows My girl don't want me cause of my dirty laundry

In the days that passed since the woman @Meadow had so graciously offered her service, Boone had, admittedly, cast himself and his own feelings aside.
His wife was injured; he, too, had not come away from his fight with the stranger unscathed, but whatever he had sustained was much less severe than whatever the hell had happened to her.
And these injuries upon her body, from what he could tell, were not caused by that man. These were of her own doing. And this— tendency, of hers, to run away from things she did not tell him about; to scare him half to death and to have him drop all else and run to her; this fear that gripped him that one day she will succeed and he will never even find her body; all of it struck him deeply with a primal, driven terror.
He had begun to grow angry.
She clings to him, and he allows it. He brings her food, water, medicine; he carries her into the sunlight for fresh air, they talk over the sunset and daydream of what this place will one day become.
But it was already stained with a horrible, horrible memory.
Nevertheless, even with the shard of bitterness lain deep behind his eyes, he sleepily replies: I love you too.