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RDR2 | Charles Smith x F! reader
â€ïž Summary: After everything that happened with the gang, Charles Smith sets out for Canada in search of a new beginning. Far from his past, he dreams of a peaceful life, maybe even a family. Riding along the vast, silent roads of Canada, he never expected to find anyone. But then, he heard it. A call for help. A voice lost in the wind. When he stopped to help you; a woman, he thought it was just a fleeting moment. But when, months later, your paths crossed again, something felt different. It became clear that this was never just a coincidence. Could there be something more to it?
â€ïž Genre tags: Explicit (not in this chapter)
WARNINGS â ïž : mentions of violence against women, blo0d, corpses and mention of cannib4lism (supposedly). Nothing too extreme.
Author's notes: this text hasn't been completely revised yet, I'm probably going to avoid Canadian accents because I don't know if they make the texts strange or something... but since it's set in the South, where people don't have such strong accents, it won't be strange if I take out some accents, I'll try to keep some dialogues, I hope you like this chapter, the hardest part for me is organizing it and putting it into English. c:
Time had passed since that night when you and Charles shared dinner. Mornings had returned to their usual silence, and your routine hadnât changed much. But then, small details started to bother you.
First, there were the footprints near the fence. Not Charlesâs from that dayâthese seemed more recent, and you knew how to recognize his. These were different, neither his nor yours, and there was more than one pair. They had appeared in the dead of night, close to the chicken coop.
Then, there was the constant feeling that someone was watching you.
You brushed off the thoughts and went about your routine. Morning arrived lazily, bringing with it a thin mist that lingered over the trees. You opened the front door and took in the fresh air, the scent of damp earth and wood filling your lungs. The wind rustled the leaves, making tiny hairs on your skin stand up, as the first rays of sunlight touched the porch.
It was always like this. Silence, routine.
With a sigh, you adjusted your skirt and went to fetch water from the storage outside. The rope creaked slightly as the bucket rose, rough wood scraping against your palm. With effort, you poured some of the water into a watering can and made your way to the backyard, toward the garden. The plants were lush, their green leaves gleaming with droplets of morning dew. You moved between them, carefully watering each oneâmint, rosemary, thyme⊠The scent of herbs blended with the damp soil, bringing a comforting sense of peace and lifting your mood
Once you finished, you sat on the porch, pulling out your sketchbook. The pages bore faint smudges of graphite from your fingers and small stains of watercolorâremnants of hours spent capturing the tiny details of the world around you.
Today, you chose a raven.
It always appeared nearby, perching on the trunk of a dead tree by the fence. A solitary creature, always watching, as if it knew something you didnât. Maybe it understood how isolated you feltâjust like it. The only difference was that it was freer than you. Perhaps that was why it came to visit you from time to time.
With light pencil strokes, you started with its wings, then its sharp, attentive eyesâso dark yet intelligent. You lost yourself in the details of its feathers, the shape of its beak, the elegant curve of its neck.
Time passed without you noticing.
You only realized it when your stomach growled.
Setting the sketchbook aside, you went to the kitchen. The scent of coffee still lingered from earlier, mixed with the faint aroma of bread you had baked the day before. You grabbed a cast-iron pot, tossing in a few pieces of potato and carrot, stirring slowly as the soup warmed.
The kettle whistled on the stove, steam rising steadily. You set aside some chamomile tea, letting the leaves steep into the hot water.
Washing the dishes was an automatic processâyour hands in the icy water, the soft clinking of plates, the soap bubbles sliding between your fingers. But your mind kept drifting back to the footprints near the house⊠It was strange.
You tried to ignore it. Maybe they belonged to travelers passing through. Maybe your imagination was playing tricks on you, and they were just your own footprints.
But when you went into town, an unexpected warning left you uneasy:
â Miss, be careful when you head back home. â The old postman adjusted his worn hat, glancing around before lowering his voice. â There are some strange men about.
â What do you mean? â You frowned, gripping your bag of supplies.
â A house was burned down this week. â He let out a sigh, shaking his head. â And a ranch was raided. Livestock killed and stolen, tools gone⊠â His calloused hands clutched the bundle of letters against his chest. â Just stay alert.
A chill ran down your spine. You knew the region could be dangerous, but something like this hadnât happened in years.
â Have these men been seen around here?
â Not yet. But if itâs anything like last time, they start in the outskirts and then move in deeper.
You swallowed hard and thanked him, grabbing your packages and walking away with hurried steps, ready to go home. You knew the postman as well as your father once didâhe wasnât the type to lie. But the region wasnât dangerous, and if something like that had happened, it was probably farther away.
The house was peaceful. The only sound was the occasional creaking of wood under the heat of the oil lamps. You were finishing your meal, the last remnants of dinner still warm on the plate. A simple meal, but satisfying. With a sigh, you pushed the chair back and gathered the dishes. The water in the basin reflected the soft glow of the flame as you washed everything, feeling the lukewarm touch on your fingers. The movement was automatic, almost soothing.
After your visit to town, the conversation with the postman kept echoing in your mind. He had always been a kind man, not one for many words, but today⊠today, something felt different.
âBe careful around these parts. Iâve heard of some strange folks lurking around farms. Just stay alert, alright?â
You knew how to take care of yourself. You always had. But for some reason, his warning wouldnât leave your mind.
With a sigh, you grabbed a towel and went to the room you used as a bathroom. The water in the bucket was cold as it ran down your skin, the shock sending a shiver up your spine. You rubbed your arms, your face, letting the coolness ease some of the tension.
When you were done, you put on your pajamasâa long-sleeved cream-colored blouse with delicate blue bird and leaf details, along with thick fabric pants, comfortable against the nightâs chill. You turned off some of the oil lamps on your way to the bedroom, leaving only one lit on the bedside table.
The old double bed was made of dark wood. You lay down on the sheets, staring at the ceiling. The silence around you felt heavier that night, pressing down on your shoulders like an invisible warning.
A strange chill in your stomach.
Maybe it was just anxiety⊠but why?
You pulled the thick blankets over your body, a nearly childish gesture, seeking comfort in the warmth of the soft fabric.
âDonât be silly. Everything is fine.â
Even so, you clutched a pillow, hugging it against your chest. Your eyes slowly drifted shut, but the silence didnât bring rest.
Low, coming from outside.
You opened your eyes slowly. Your heart jumped in your chest, alert to any sound.
It was quickâmaybe the wind, maybe an animal.
You took a deep breath, trying to ignore it. Maybe it was just your imagination.
Eventually, sleep won over, but it didnât last long.
An hour later, your eyes opened again.
You sat up slowly, feeling the cold wood under your bare feet. You grabbed the oil lamp and stood up, pulling a sheet and a blanket over your arms, trying to shield yourself from the sharp wind creeping into the house. Even though you were used to solitude, something about that night made your body tense with unease.
You walked to the kitchen, trying not to think too much about the strange discomfort weighing on you.
The water bucket was still near the sink. You picked up a clay cup, crouched down, and dipped it into the dark, cool liquid. You drank slowly, feeling it run down your throat, refreshingâbut not enough to chase away the restlessness.
Cup in hand, you walked slowly through the house, your thoughts scattered.
For a brief moment, you thought of Charles.
His calm demeanor, his sharp eyes. The way he always seemed to sense when something was wrong.
Maybe it was just paranoia, but a part of you wished he was around.
And thatâs when you saw it.
You stopped by the window, the cup still between your fingers. Outside, under the pale moonlight, the chicken coop was open.
Your heart pounded harder.
The fence stood dark and empty, the small door wide open, swinging slightly with the wind. You frowned. You were sure you had locked it before going to bed.
A sense of unease crept over you.
Setting the cup aside, you took a deep breath and walked to the back door. Your hand hesitated over the handle for a second.
Then, slowly, you turned itâŠ
The moonlight bathed you as soon as you opened the door, and you clutched the blanket tighter around your shoulders and arms while your gaze swept across the property, stretching out in moderate size. The dewy grass and the almost absolute silence only intensified the feeling that something was out of place.
You walked with careful steps, the sound of your footsteps blending with the soft whisper of the wind. As you neared the chicken coop, the dim light revealed its simple structure and the animals resting inside. For a moment, everything seemed normal. You closed the coop door with an almost automatic gesture, but the lingering sense that something was wrong persisted.
As you made your way back along the dirt path, a low, indistinct noiseâperhaps the rustling of leaves or a distant groanâmade your heart race for a brief moment. A shiver ran down your spine. It wasnât the paralyzing fear of living alone, but rather a vague, inexplicable discomfort, as if the silence itself had become suspicious.
Keeping your eyes sharp on the darkness around you, you decided to return to the warmth and safety of the house. You shut the door firmly, locked it, and, for a brief moment, stood in front of it, trying to convince yourself it was just your imagination.
Back in your room, you lay down in your parentsâ old but cozy bed. The soft sheets and thick blankets had been carefully arranged. As you settled in, your thoughts tangled togetherâthe image of the chicken coop, the strange sound, the vulnerability you couldnât quite explain.
You closed your eyes and hugged the pillow against your chest, trying to surrender to sleep, hoping that the cold and the silence of the night would fade into nothing more than another small detail of your solitary routine.
Two days after that unsettling night, at dawn, you woke up with the vague memory of the strange sound and the eerie sensation you had felt. Still dwelling on itâŠ
With your mind full of thoughts, you decided to face the day with your usual chores. First, you headed to the backyard to tend to the chicken coop. Dressed in simple clothes and still wrapped in the lingering warmth of the blankets you had used to ward off the wind, you began scattering feed for the chickens. As your careful fingers let the grains fall to the ground, you couldnât help but notice something felt different. Normally, the soft rustling of feathers and the comforting clucking would fill the air. But today, something was off.
After feeding the animals, you went to collect the eggs to bring them inside. The nagging feeling wouldnât leave you, so you decided to count the chickens.
Your heart picked up its pace.
Two or three were missing.
The realization left you stunned. In this region, you were sure there were no predators that fed on chickensâno foxes, no wild animals you knew of.
The discomfort grew as your sharp eyes scanned the perimeter of the coop, searching for any sign of what might have happened. Nothing pointed to an intruder or an opportunistic animal. And yet, the unease remained.
Without wasting any time, you secured the coop firmly and, trying to regain your composure, continued feeding the remaining chickens. Then, with slightly trembling hands, you gathered the eggs and carried them inside, where you prepared your simple meal. But the feeling of loss and the mystery of the missing birds clung to you.
After finishing your chores, you returned to the backyard to water the garden. As you poured water over the plants with the same delicate care as always, despite your unease, your mind drifted between doubts and a faint fear you couldnât quite understand.
The cold seeped into the skin like tiny, invisible blades. It was nothing Charles couldnât endure, but still, he pulled his poncho a little tighter over his shoulders before crouching to check one of the traps he had set near the river.
Straightening up, he cast his gaze over the gray sky stretching above the open landscape. The wind howled strong that morning, shaking the trees around the camp, making Taima snort softly in annoyance.
â Yeah, I donât like this weather much either â he muttered to the mare as he knelt to tend to the nearly extinguished fire.
He hadnât slept well the night before.
Something about the silence in the region felt⊠off. Not that he believed in bad omens, but years of a wandering life had taught him to trust his instincts.
And his instincts told him something was out of place.
He shook his head, dispelling the thoughts. The day demanded work. He stood up and walked over to the small pile of hides and furs he had set aside for sale. Local traders paid well for good material, and he already had a decent amount to bargain with.
Taima followed him as he prepared to leave. Charles ran a hand along the mareâs neck, feeling the warmth of the animal against the cold skin of his own hand.
â Come on, girl. Weâve got work to do.
He mounted the saddle, adjusted the gloves on his hands, and guided the mare onto the dirt road leading to the small town. The plan was simple: sell the materials, get supplies, and maybe have a word with the gunsmith about new arrows. But as he moved farther from the camp, the strange feeling from the previous day settled in the back of his mind once more. He wasnât the type to get carried away by paranoia, but something about that quiet land felt off.
The forest at dawn was a place of silence and expectation. He rode Taima naturally, taking in the fresh scent of damp earth and pine resin in the air. The mareâs gallop was firm and rhythmic as he guided the animal through familiar terrain, passing moss-covered rocks and streams winding through the trees. The cold wind cut across his face, but he was used to it. In Canada, the cold was a constant presence, even in summer, and he had learned to live with it. After all, he was an American.
Hunting required patience. He dismounted, tied Taima to a low branch, and proceeded on foot, stepping carefully through the sparse grass that still remained in some spots. The tracks were freshâdeer. He crouched, studying the signs closely: deep marks in the soil, some leaves grazed. Ready with his bow, he moved forward in absolute silence.
When he finally spotted the animal, his body reacted instinctively. He pulled the bowstring back slowly, feeling the tension in his fingers, and aimed precisely between the deerâs ribs. He released the arrow. The impact was clean; the deer leaped once before collapsing to the ground, panting. Charles walked over to it and, with a swift knife stroke, ended its suffering. Skinning and cleaning the kill was part of the routine. With expert skill, he removed the hide, separating meat, bones, and organs, making use of everything he could. His hands were stained with blood as he secured the hide to Taimaâs back and prepared to return. Along the way, he caught a few more rabbits, easy to snare with simple traps. All of it would fetch a good price in town.
The small village was busy, at least by local standards. Simple wooden houses, a general store, a blacksmith, and a saloon clustered around the main road. Charles dismounted and walked straight to the gunsmith, where he sold some of the feathers and pelts he had gathered.
As he waited for payment, he overheard conversations around him.
â Have you heard? â a manâs voice asked another.
â What? Heard about what? â the other responded, confused.
â Another cabin burned down this week⊠â one of them murmured.
â They took everything before that. Left nothing behind, not even the horses. Lucky for the owners, they werenât home at the time.
Charles didnât react, but he listened carefully.
â Must be just some drifter, people without a place to go â another said, trying not to show concern.
That was unusual. Sure, there were always thieves and outlaws, but frequent arsons and looting werenât common in such a peaceful region. It wasnât for nothing that he preferred to travel through those parts. He received his payment, left the shop, and led Taima out of town.
As he rode back along the path near the river, the sound of running water caught his attention. But that wasnât what made him stopâit was the figure kneeling by the riverbank, washing clothes.
Your bare arms worked against the soaked fabric, scrubbing with determination. Your hair was tied up carelessly, a few loose strands falling over your face. And yet, you looked so⊠right.
Your movements were practical, habitual, as if you had done this all your life. The simple dress you wore was already a little wet near your ankles.
Charles dismounted slowly, watching. He hadnât expected to run into you so soon again. You hadnât noticed him at first, too focused on your task. But then, you felt it. A slight shiver on your skin, a strange intuition. When you tilted your head and looked to the side, your gaze met his.
He didnât speak immediately. He just stood there, his mare drinking from the river beside him, observing. You blinked, surprised, then sighed.
â Are you following me, Charles? â your voice was light, almost playful, but with a hint of suspicion.
But even without looking, he could still hear the rhythmic sound of clothes being wrung, water dripping, and wet fabric sliding against the stone.
â So, did you find any work? â your voice sounded casual, but there was a slight nervousness in it.
Charles lifted his gaze again, a little surprised. You had never been rude to him, but most of the time, you seemed to avoid him, as if his presence bothered you in some way. At least, that was the impression he had. You rarely looked at him directly, and now, striking up a conversation out of nowhere, had caught him off guard.
You were still focused on the clothes, running your hands firmly over the fabric, not meeting his eyes. The white foam dissolved in the current, disappearing downstream.
â Picked up some small jobs. â he answered, rubbing the back of his neck, now without the poncho since it wasnât as cold anymore. â Leather, feathers, a bit of hunting. Whatever I can sell and trade for other things.
You nodded, lifting the soapy cloth to rinse it in the clear water. The rolled-up sleeves of your blouse left your forearms exposed, and as you pressed the fabric against the stone, a thin stream of water slid down your skin to your elbow before dripping into the river.
Charles noticed it and, for an instant, his gaze lingered there, distracted. But he quickly pulled himself together when he realized you were watching him from the corner of your eye.
â And you? â he asked, breaking the tension.
You shrugged, raising the garment to wring it firmly between your hands. The sound of wet fabric snapping under your fingers echoed softly.
â The usual. Taking care of the house. But there are things that need fixing.
He tilted his head slightly.
â That doesnât seem like work you should be doing alone.
You smirked, leaning forward to wet another piece of fabric, your hips naturally following the motion.
â Thatâs exactly why I asked if you were still looking for work.
He stayed silent for a moment, just watching you. It wasnât the first time someone had offered him a job like that, but coming from you, the proposal felt different. It wasnât out of pity, nor because you saw him as some desperate outsider. It was simply practicalâyou needed help, and he knew how to do that kind of work.
You let out a small sigh, tossing another drenched, wrung-out piece into a basin on the rock.
â The fence is a mess. I need to reinforce some parts before something decides to get through. I couldnât do it alone.
Charles glanced away toward the water before nodding slightly.
You smiled slightly, returning to scrubbing the clothes against the stone. This time, without realizing it, Charles watched for a little longer than he should have. After wringing out the last piece of clothing, you tossed it onto the pile you had made on the rock. The sun was already strong, and the water slowly dripping into the river darkened the soil below, forming small puddles between the stones.
You picked up one of the buckets and poured the remaining water onto the ground, watching the muddy stream slide until it was absorbed by the earth. Then, without much hurry, you placed the clean clothes inside the buckets, stacking them carefully to keep them from falling on the way back.
â If you want to stop by later, it can be in the morning or after lunch. â you said, picking up the second bucket and lifting it.
Charles gave a slight nod.
You didnât prolong the conversation, just adjusted the handle of the bucket on your forearm and started walking back home. The sound of dry leaves crunching under your boots mixed with the soft murmur of the river behind you, where Charles remained, watching as you walked away.
He stood still for a moment after you left, observing the slight sway of the bucket as you moved. Then, he sighed and turned, heading toward where Taima grazed calmly near the closest tree. He patted the mareâs neck before adjusting the reins, mounting without haste. His plan was to return to camp and get things organized before anything else. The new pile of hides he had prepared earlier needed to be tied and stacked properly for drying, and some arrows had to be replenished.
The way back was quiet, with few sounds besides the hooves against the dry ground. Charles thought about the town, about the comments he had overheard earlier regarding strange happenings in the area. People disappearing, animals found dead without explanation⊠He didnât like paying attention to rumors, but something about that kind of talk unsettled him.
At camp, he dismounted and got to work. He set aside wood that was still usable for firewood, checked the hides, and sharpened his knife. It was a silent but useful routine. While organizing the furs to sell the next day, he found himself thinking about youâabout the way you scrubbed the clothes against the stone, how your body moved so naturally. How, for the first time, you seemed less distant or uncomfortable when speaking to him.
After a while, he pushed those foolish thoughts aside and finished what he had to do. Tomorrow, there would be work.
The morning sun cast a soft light over the land as you stepped outside. The fresh breeze carried the scent of damp earth, and a few light clouds floated across the sky.
You wore a simple dress, made of soft, lightweight fabric, without the excessive volume some women in town preferred. The delicate fit accentuated your silhouette without constraining you, allowing you to move comfortably. The short sleeves left your arms free for work, and as you walked through the yard, the fabric brushed lightly against your legs.
You headed toward the area where you kept the tools, needing to organize a few things before Charles arrived. The thought of seeing him again brought a strange nervousnessânot quite anxiety, but a different sensation, hard to define. As you sorted through some stacked wood and checked the nails and hammers, you heard a sound in the distance. Hooves and firm, steady footsteps approaching along the dirt road.
You turned slowly, and there he was.
Charles walked with his usual calm posture, guiding Taima beside him. The sun cast subtle shadows across his face, and he looked completely at ease in that landscape, as if he belonged to that kind of life.
You opened the small back gate and held it for a moment before stepping aside, making room for him to pass.
â This way. â you said, pointing toward the fence.
He simply nodded and entered. You led him to where the damage was most evident, quickly explaining what needed fixing. Charles listened without interrupting, observing the damage attentively.
When he began sorting the wood and organizing the tools, you returned to your own tasks. You cleaned up around the porch, checked on the chickens, and after a while, walked over to Archer, your horse, who was resting near the side enclosure.
â Itâs a beautiful day, huh, boy? â you murmured, running your hand along his neck and giving him a few kisses. Archer snorted softly and shook his head, as if responding to your affection.
The early hours of the morning passed peacefully. The sound of wood being cut blended with the wind, and you noticed that Charles worked unhurriedly but with precision. He didnât waste movements. You watched him for a moment, observing him without realizing it. There was something fascinating about the way he handled the tools, the quiet strength behind each action.
After a while, you went back inside. But as you passed through the kitchen, you felt a slight discomfort seeing him out there, working alone since early morning. He hadnât asked for anything, but stillâŠ
Without thinking much about it, you grabbed a mug of hot coffee and stepped outside again.
You walked over to where he was, the strong, bitter smell filling the air between you. Charles noticed your approach and looked up, a bit puzzled to see you standing there, until he saw you holding the mug with both hands. His face didnât show much expression, but the way you slightly lowered your head, as if unsure about the gesture, made him accept it without hesitation.
â Thanks â he said, taking the mug from your hands.
You nodded slightly, stepping back as he took a sip.
You leaned against the porch wall, lightly crossing your arms, unaware of the naturally feminine grace of the gesture. The morning breeze played with a few loose strands of your hair as you looked at Charles, still holding the now-empty coffee mug.
â So? â your voice came out softer than you expected. â What do you think needs to be done? Can we fix the fence, or will we have to replace something?
Charles lowered the mug and looked at the enclosure, as if analyzing every detail again. He stepped closer to the structure, tapped one of the wooden posts lightly, and frowned.
â I think one side of the fence is hollow inside â he remarked. â The wood is rotten in some spots. If we just reinforce it, it might not last long. Better to replace this part altogether.
You sighed and uncrossed your arms, nodding.
â Makes sense⊠Is it a lot of work?
â Nothing a bit of new wood wonât fix.
You thought for a moment before offering a small smile.
â Well, we have a carpenter in town. We can go there today with the wagon.
Charles just nodded, as if he had no issue with that.
â Then letâs make a list first â he suggested.
You agreed and went inside to grab paper and a pencil. Charles followed shortly after, and the two of you sat at the table. As you wrote, he suggested the necessary materials: wooden planks, nails, some hinges for reinforcement, and a new latch for the small gate.
â This should be enough â he said.
You checked the list, gave him one last look, and then stood up.
â Alright, Iâll get the wagon ready.
Outside, you let out the other horses, who were already waiting patiently, and adjusted the wagonâs harnesses. Charles helped secure everything in place, checking the fastenings while you tied a final firm knot.
Before getting into the wagon, you quickly passed through the porch and went inside, heading to your room to adjust your outfit. You chose an aquamarine-blue dressâyour favorite colorâmade of soft, lightweight fabric that fit well without being too extravagant, something more appropriate for going out. The sleeves were rolled up just above your elbows, and the small lace-trimmed buttons down the front gave it a discreet yet practical touch. You put on a delicate hat, tying it under your chin to keep the wind from blowing it away.
When you returned, Charles was already sitting on the wagon bench, holding the reins. You climbed up beside him, carefully gathering the skirt of your dress so it wouldnât get caught on the metal parts, and settled into the wooden seat.
You held your hat against your face to shield yourself from the wind and nodded.
Charles clicked his tongue and pulled the reins, making the horses take their first steps. The wagon began moving smoothly along the dirt road.
The journey was peaceful, with only the sound of the wheels creaking against the ground and the rhythmic trot of the horse. You gazed at the landscape, enjoying the crisp morning air and the scent of damp earth.
â Thanks for helpinâ with this â you said, making conversation.
â Itâs no problem â he replied simply.
Silence settled for a moment, but it wasnât uncomfortable. You adjusted your hat and glanced at him from the corner of your eye.
â Have you worked much with wood before? â you asked, your voice carrying the subtle lilt of your Canadian accent.
He nodded, eyes fixed on the road.
â A little. Iâve built cabins, reinforced some fences⊠Things like that.
â Damn. â you admitted, absentmindedly playing with the brim of your hat. â So you must know exactly what youâre doing.
He gave a faint, almost imperceptible smirk.
â Enough to make sure the fence doesnât fall on anyone.
You chuckled softly, and the sound seemed to relax him a bit. The silence between you wasnât awkward, just a natural pause. You liked that about himâhow he didnât feel the need to fill every second with words.
â Have you ever stayed in one place for long? â you asked after a while.
He thought before answering, his eyes narrowing slightly under the sun.
â Not often. The longest was about six months, and another time maybe five. Depends on what Iâm doing. But staying in one place too long ainât always easy.
You absorbed those words, wondering if he was only talking about work or if there was something deeper behind his answer. You didnât want to push.
Give him space. Itâs not even your concern !!!
The town wasnât large, but it was bustling that morning. Merchants arranged their stalls, children ran through the alleys, and the scent of freshly baked bread drifted from a nearby bakery. You guided Charles toward a small carpentry shop at the end of the main street. He pulled the wagon up beside the weathered wooden entrance. You stepped down, smoothing your dress and adjusting your hat before heading inside.
â I wonât be long â you told him.
He simply nodded, staying beside the wagon.
Inside, the air was thick with the scent of cut wood and varnish. The carpenter, a stocky middle-aged man, looked up as you approached.
â Ah, good morninâ, miss! What can I do for ya today? â his voice carried the rough drawl of a seasoned craftsman.
You pulled the list from your pocket and handed it to him.
â I need these wooden planks and some nails.
He skimmed through it quickly and nodded.
â I can get that together for ya. Need help loadinâ it up?
â No, thank you. I have someone helpinâ me with the wagon.
The carpenter headed to the back of the shop to gather the materials. Meanwhile, you glanced around, taking in the shelves stocked with tools and carved wooden pieces.
After a few minutes, he returned, carrying the planks and other supplies.
â Here ya go. Iâll have one of the boys help load it up for ya.
While you waited, you chatted with him about the farm, mentioning the work that needed to be done. He listened attentively before crossing his arms and letting out a small sigh.
â Well, just be careful on the road. Ya know how things are these daysânever know who might be lurkinâ around.
A small chill ran down your spine, but you kept your expression neutral.
He nodded, and soon the helpers loaded the wood onto the wagon. You thanked them and said your goodbyes before heading back to where Charles was waiting.
Charles stood beside the wagon, his posture relaxed yet attentive. When you approached, he lifted his gaze to you, and for an instant, your eyes met. There was something about him⊠a quiet kindness that contrasted with his strong appearance and the way he always seemed prepared for anything.
â All set? â he asked, his voice low and calm.
You nodded as you climbed onto the wagon.
â Yes. Theyâve loaded everything. We can go.
He got up beside you, took the reins, and with a soft click of his tongue, made Archer start moving.
The ride back began smoothly. The wagon swayed slightly with each bump on the road, and you adjusted your hat to keep the sun from shining directly on your face.
â The carpenter said to be careful on the road â you commented after a while.
Charles glanced at you from the corner of his eye before turning his attention back to the trail ahead.
â And heâs right. Itâs always good to stay alert.
You held your hat against the wind, watching the trees slowly pass by.
â Have you run into any trouble around here?
â Not much. Nothing serious, but I heard some talk last time I was in town.
He pressed his lips together slightly, as if deciding whether or not to tell you.
â Strange folks passing through these areas. Unusual movement.
â Maybe. Or just people looking for trouble.
Silence settled between you again, but this time it was heavier, as if both of you were considering the possibilities.
The wind blew a little stronger, and you pulled your shawl lightly over your shoulders. Still, even with that lingering sense of caution in the air, there was something comforting about Charlesâ presence. The road was long, and youâd likely arrive home around five or six in the afternoon, but his company made everything feel a little easier. Even though you barely knew him.
The wagon followed the dirt road, rocking slightly over each uneven patch. The afternoon sun gilded the landscape, filtering through the trees and casting soft shadows on the ground. The wind was warm but pleasant, making the loose strands of your hair escape from the improvised bun, fluttering around your face.
You tucked the strands behind your ear, an unconscious gesture, as you observed Charles beside you. He guided the wagon with ease, holding the reins firmly but without urgency. There was something about him â the steady posture, the sharp eyes on the road, the way he seemed to belong in that setting, as if the natural world was more of a home to him than any town or city.
The silence between you wasnât uncomfortable, but your curiosity began to grow. There was still so much you didnât know about him:
â Charles⊠â your voice broke the calm. He tilted his head slightly to show he was listening, though his gaze remained on the road.
You hesitated for a moment, adjusting your hat against the setting sun hitting your face, before asking:
â Whatâs your full name?
Charles blinked, caught off guard by the sudden question. His fingers adjusted the reins absentmindedly before answering.
â Charles Smith. â The response was straightforward, but he noticed your expectant expression and sighed, relenting a little more. â My full name is Charles Chatunka Smith.
â Chatunka?? â you repeated, tilting your head. The sound was different, unusualâat least to you.
He nodded, still focused on the road.
â My father was African American, my mother was Lakota. The name came from her.
His explanation was simple, but there was something beneath itâsomething that suggested Charles wasnât a man who often spoke about himself.
â Itâs a beautiful name. â You smiled, and he finally glanced at you, seeming a bit surprised by the comment. â I think it suits you. Simple and mysterious. â you added.
He didnât respond, but his lips curved slightly into what could be a subtle smile.
â And you? Whatâs your full name? â He looked at you now.
You told him, and you saw Charles nod slowly, as if committing it to memory.
â Beautiful⊠â he remarked, and this time, it was your turn to be surprised.
You smiled softly and looked away, feeling your cheeks warm slightly.
The conversation continued, flowing naturally. You spoke more than he did, even though you were naturally shy. But there was something about Charles that made it easier to keep talking. He listened attentively, responded when necessary, and his calm demeanor contrasted with the chaotic world around you. He paid close attention to detailsâsomething rare. At one point, you laughed at something you had said, brushing your hair away from your face again. The sound was light, more relaxed than you expected. And for a moment, Charles observed youâhis dark eyes capturing details: the curve of your soft lips, full of life, the sparkle in your eyes, the delicate way your fingers moved the loose strands. But he quickly looked away, focusing back on the road ahead. Silence settled between you again, but this time, it felt more comfortable. The road stretched long before you, and you traveled it without much hurry.
The road narrowed as you approached the area where your house was. There wasnât much left⊠just a few more hours and youâd be back. That was when Charles started to slow the horseâs pace, his gaze locking ahead.
â Somethingâs wrong â he muttered, his deep voice tense.
You followed his gaze and felt a shiver run down your spine. Further ahead, three men stood in the middle of the road, armed and wearing predatory expressions. A few more were scattered around, circling an overturned wagon on the side of the road. Another empty wagon. The thin smoke in the air made it clear it had been burned on purpose.
Charles pulled the reins to a stop and remained still for a moment, his muscles tensing.
â Well, well⊠what do we have here? â one of the men said, walking toward you with a rifle slung over his shoulder. He glanced at the loaded wagon and whistled. â Looks like you folks found yourselves a nice treasure.
You swallowed hard, feeling your heart pounding.
â Look at that⊠Obedient ones. That makes things easier.
Another man laughed, tapping his gun against the palm of his hand.
Charles remained firm, but you saw his jaw clench. Then, the first man tilted his head and looked directly at you, the way his eyes slid over your body making your stomach turn.
â Well, well⊠whatâs a pretty little thing like you doing here? â his voice was laced with fake concern.
â Come on, sweetheart, no need to hide behind him. Step forward, let us see you properlyâŠ
You could feel your blood rushing faster than normal.
â And whatâs a little thing like you doing running around with him? â The manâs voice was thick with disdain and cruel amusement, clearly referring to Charlesâ skin color. He didnât even bother looking at him, his eyes shamelessly roaming over you instead.
You frowned, feeling a chill down your spine, but before you could respond, he took a step forward, tilting his head with a crooked grin.
â A pretty thing like you⊠You could be keeping much better company. â His gaze swept up and down your body, lingering on your hips. He slowly licked his teeth. â I bet plenty of men out there would love to have a woman like you.
Your fingers clenched involuntarily around the fabric of your skirt, and you swallowed hard, instinctively looking away. Coward.
Charles remained motionless at your side, but you noticed how his body stiffened. His shoulders tensed slightly, the muscles in his jaw standing out beneath his skin. The fingers near the shotgun at his belt turned white from how hard he was gripping them.
â Come on now, darling, no need to hide behind him. We just wanna talk⊠â The bandit laughed, and the others joined in.
â Leave she alone!! â Charles growled, his voice filled with fury, his fists clenched at his sides. His tone startled you a little.
The bandit merely raised an eyebrow, studying him with pure contempt, as if Charlesâ anger was insignificant. A sneering smile curled at the corner of his mouth.
â Oh⊠The mutt knows how to growl.
Charles still hadnât moved, but his silence was as heavy as his presence. It was like a storm about to break â a silence thick with something dark, simmering beneath the surface. You could feel the tension radiating off him, even without looking directly.
â Relax, redskin, no need to get all worked up. â The man taunted, throwing his head back. â We ainât gonna hurt your little lady⊠Maybe. â The laughter that followed made your stomach churn.
You frowned at the manâs words, discomfort growing in your chest. But when he licked his teeth again and let his eyes wander over you once more, this time pausing at your chest, watching the way it rose and fell with each breath, before stepping closer, a cold shiver ran down your spine. You felt nervous.
His eyes locked onto yours, sensing your discomfort. A filthy, twisted smirk formed on his lips.
â You know⊠I think we could just take this wagon. But⊠â He made a dramatic pause, pretending to consider, then chuckled, throwing a glance at his men.
â I could do better⊠I could kill you both, burn your bodies, devour you. This red one first, of course⊠and you, my love⊠â He left the sentence hanging, taking another step closer, his mocking tone laced with something darker.
Your body stiffened. Fear exploded inside you in a way you hadnât expected. Your father had taught you to carry a gun, to never be weak⊠but now? It had been so many years since youâd seen or heard of a robbery. And you never thought youâd feel like this. That youâd shake inside like this. But these men were strange. Vile.
The banditâs grin widened when he noticed your silence. But before he could step any closer, Charles moved. He stepped forward again, placing himself directly between you and that man. The bandit took a step back, annoyed, and then, in an instant, drew his gun and aimed it straight at you.
Your heart leaped in your chest, your legs seemed to go weak. The world felt like it was spinning as you lowered your gaze to the ground, trying to control your breathing. Fear crawled inside you like poison. Charles, however, did not move. He did not blink. He just stood there, between you and the gun, his body rigid as stone.
â Hey, Darkie, she ainât worth dying for. Just another little bitch!
Charlesâ breathing turned heavy. He did not hesitate. The bandit beside him got distracted, glancing at one of his men rummaging through the wagonâs cargo.
In a swift and precise movement, Charles drew his gun and fired. The first bandit fell backward, a large, dark hole in his chest. Before the others could react, Charles moved like a predator, drawing his revolver and firing two more times. Another man collapsed, bleeding from his neck, and the third shouted in surprise before running into the brush, heading toward the treesâbut Charles shot him in the head before he could escape.
The scent of gunpowder filled the air. Silence returned to the road.
You shivered. Your chest rose and fell uncontrollably, your vision blurred by the shock. You barely recognized yourself. This was a peaceful region. You had never seen anything like this up close. You didnât even notice the few minutes passing as he walked quickly toward you. Charles turned to you, his dark eyes scanning your face carefully. His breathing was still slightly quickened from the fight, but there was something else thereâconcern.
â Are you alright? â he asked, his voice low, rough, but filled with care and worry.
You blinked, the sounds around you seeming muffled, distant. The world still felt unstable beneath your feet, the air still heavy with the scent of gunpowder and dirt. You wanted to answer, but your throat was dry. Charles didnât touch you right away, respecting your space. But when you took a step toward the wagon and your legs wobbled, he stepped in a little closer, his hand hovering near, ready to catch you if needed.
Your body trembled. You knew you should move, get out of there, but each step felt slow, like walking through quicksand.
â Take a deep breath â he murmured beside you.
You tried, but the air felt shallow, weak.
â I⊠Iâm⊠â The word came out so faint that you doubted you had spoken at all. Still, Charles nodded, patient.
â Stay calm, try to relax. Youâre okay.
He extended his hand, not to force you, but to offer the choice. You hesitated for a second, then let your fingers touch his arm, feeling the thick fabric of his shirt against your skin. Charles didnât move right away, just letting you take the support at your own pace.
When you finally managed to climb onto the wagon, your movements were still hesitant, almost mechanical. You sat down slowly, your back meeting the wagonâs hard wood.
That was when a distant sound cut through the airâwheels and hooves approaching.
Charles turned his head toward the road, eyes sharp. You heard it too, even in your dazed state.
A second wagon came into view, carrying two men and a womanâprobably local farmers. They slowed their pace when they saw you, their faces tense as they noticed the bodies on the ground and the lingering tension in the air.
â Shit⊠Everything alright here? â one of them asked, gripping the reins more firmly.
Charles nodded slowly but didnât fully relax.
â Some men tried to rob us â he answered.
The newcomers exchanged concerned glances.
â Didnât have a choice â Charles said simply, without any pride in his voice.
One of the men sighed and shook his head.
â This is happening more and more⊠Weâre heading into town. Weâll let the law know. They need to be aware these bastards are lurking around here.
Charles nodded, the tension in his shoulders easing just slightly.
They exchanged a few more words before moving on. You remained where you were, eyes still fixed on some undefined point, the menâs voices mixing with the echoes in your own mind. Charles then climbed onto the wagon beside you, adjusting the reins. The horses were still restless, and he ran a hand along oneâs neck, murmuring something low to soothe them.
You felt the wagon begin to move, the wheels creaking against the packed dirt road. The familiar sway should have been comforting, but everything felt off, like you were still trapped in the moment that had just unfolded.
You didnât know how much time had passed, but seeing your house in the distance brought a strange sense of relief. As soon as Charles stopped the horses in the yard, you stepped down slowly, your legs feeling a little steadier but still uncertain. Without saying anything, you walked to the porch and sat down with a short sigh, trying to regain your composure.
Charles watched you for a moment before tying up the horses and following. He didnât want to invade your space, but he also didnât want to leave you alone in that state.
â Do you want some water?
You blinked, pulling your eyes away from the ground.
â Water. â He repeated, pointing to the bucket nearby, the one you had filled to pour into the houseâs water filter.
You hesitated but eventually nodded.
He poured some and handed it to you. Your fingers brushed against his as you took the cup, and you noticed that he was warm, strong, yet at the same time, not intrusive. It was a strange contrast, but comforting.
â T-Thank you. â Your voice came out quiet. You took a sip, feeling the coolness spread through your chest.
Charles then sat beside you on the porch, his weight making the wood creak slightly beneath you both.
He didnât speak immediately, just looked ahead, toward the golden horizon of the setting sun. You knew he wanted to ask something, but he seemed to be giving you time.
You swallowed hard, still feeling your pulse racing.
â I⊠I didnât expect that. â You admitted, your voice coming out almost in a whisper.
Charles turned his head toward you, his dark eyes studying you carefully.
â No one does. â He replied, his voice deep but calm.
You lowered your gaze to the cup of water in your hands, your fingers trembling slightly around it.
â Iâve seen things like that before, when I was younger. â You inhaled, hesitating. â But⊠itâs been so long. I thoughtâŠ
You stopped because even you didnât know exactly what you had thought. That these things didnât happen there? That youâd be more prepared?
Charles didnât push you to continue. Instead, he gave a small nod.
â They were cowards. â He said, his voice firmer now. â Men like that⊠They live to scare others.
You took a deep breath, trying to hold onto his words. But a part of you still felt uneasy, a lingering trace of fear clinging to your chest. Your eyes met his, and you noticed the tension in his broad shoulders, the way his hands were clenched against his thighs. Charles seemed calm, but you knew this had angered him.
Then, without thinking too much, you reached out and touched his arm.
The touch was light but enough to make him look at you.
â Thank you. â You said, and this time, your voice was steadier.
He blinked slowly, then shook his head.
â You donât have to thank me.
Because, as much as you felt guilty for what had happened, as much as you hated the idea of feeling so vulnerable, you knew that if Charles hadnât been there, things could have ended much worse.
You swallowed hard, letting out a sigh.
â You⊠are you okay? â The question came out almost hesitant because you werenât sure if he would even care to answer.
Charles raised an eyebrow, as if he hadnât expected that question.
â Iâm fine. â He said simply.
But you noticed the way he lowered his gaze for a moment, as if he were reconsidering everything.
You pressed your lips together, feeling a slight heat rise to your face.
â You⊠well, I just wanted to⊠â You stopped, trying to find the right words.
Charles frowned slightly, and then he noticed somethingâyour hand was still resting on his arm.
Your face grew hot, and in a hurried motion, you pulled back, embarrassed.
He didnât laugh or tease. He just watched you for a moment before letting out a soft sigh and turning his gaze back to the horizon.
The silence between you wasnât uncomfortable, but it was heavy with something unspoken.
After a while, he finally spoke:
â You should get some rest. Iâll stay around and finish unloading the wagon.
â Yeah⊠I think I will.
The last hours of that day passed sluggishly after that. You tried to go back to your unfinished tasks, acting as if nothing had happened, but the feeling of unease never left you. During the day, you kept yourself busy to stop thinking, but at night, every creak of the wooden house made your body tense up.
In the end, the decision came almost impulsively.
You found Charles in the late afternoon, near the fence he had started inspecting earlier. The low sun cast long shadows over the field, and he was finishing securing some planks when you cleared your throat. He glanced over his shoulder at you, his dark eyes studying your expression.
â You should stay here.
The way his brows furrowed and then arched showed exactly what he thought about that unexpected invitation.
â What? â His voice carried both suspicion and confusion, and you felt a slight warmth rise to your face.
â I mean⊠â You crossed your arms, looking away for a second. â Youâre going to help me with the fence, right? So⊠it doesnât make sense for you to keep coming and going with those dangers out there.
Charles kept his gaze on you for a moment, as if trying to make sense of the situation.
The question made your heart race, but you stood your ground.
â Yes. Just for a while.
He wiped his hands on his pants and tilted his head slightly, as if still thinking it over.
â I can set up a camp outside. I donât want to be a bother.
You frowned, letting out a frustrated sigh.
â You donât have to sleep outside, Charles. I have a spare room.
He remained silent for a moment. You could tell he wasnât entirely comfortable with the idea, but before he could argue, you crossed your arms, trying to hide the nervousness in your voice:
â Look⊠Iâm not the kind of woman who scares easily, but⊠after what happened, I donât know. â You glanced away for a second before looking at him again. â Iâd rather know someone is here.
This time, Charles didnât answer right away. You noticed the tension in his shoulders, as if he were processing your vulnerability.
In the end, he nodded slowly, though somewhat uncomfortably.
When night fell, you led him inside the house. The wooden floor creaked beneath your feet as you guided him down the hallway, stopping in front of a door.
â Here. â You pushed the door open and stepped in first, lighting a lamp to illuminate the small room.
It was a simple but comfortable space. A modest bed, an old dresser, and a chair near the window. You remembered sleeping there years ago before moving into your parentsâ room.
Charles stopped at the doorway, observing the space as if unsure what to do.
â Are you sure about this? â He asked once again.
You rolled your eyes, already tired of his insistence, and looked at him innocently, like a pouting child.
â Yes, I already said so. Now, just come in.
He hesitated before stepping inside and placing his small bag of belongings on the chair. You left for a moment and returned with clean sheets folded in your arms.
â You donât have to do that. â He said as he watched you approach the bed.
You ignored him and started laying out the sheets, smoothing the fabric with your hands.
â I like things clean. â You answered simply.
Charles sighed but didnât argue further.
When you finished, you stepped back and wiped your hands on your apron.
â There. Now you have a place to sleep.
He looked at the bed, then at you, and let out a low sigh.
You just nodded before stepping out and closing the door behind you.
Later, when the smell of food filled the kitchen, you called for Charles.
He was in the room, occupied with somethingâmaybe organizing his belongings or just finding something to do to keep busy.
Hearing your voice, he stepped out, running a hand over the back of his neck, looking slightly out of place inside the house.
You both sat at the table, and for a while, the only sound was the clinking of utensils against the plates. You werenât sure how to start a conversation after everything, but deep down, you felt like you needed to.
â A few days ago⊠the postman mentioned something to me. â Your voice was calm but carried a certain weight. â He said he heard stories about ranches being raided⊠burned.
Charles lifted his eyes from his plate, attentive.
You nodded slowly, twirling your fork between your fingers.
â I didnât think much of it at the time⊠I thought they were just rumors, you know? But now⊠after what happened⊠â You hesitated for a moment before continuing. â It doesnât feel like just a distant story anymore.
Charles set his utensils down, the muscles in his arm tightening.
â I heard something similar when I went to sell pelts. But I didnât think it was real.
â I thought the same. But now I know it is. â You let out a sigh, running a hand over your face.
Silence settled between you for a moment.
â D-Do you think theyâll show up around here? â Your voice came out almost in a whisper.
Charles thought for a moment before answering, his voice deeper than usual.
â I donât know. But⊠if thatâs the case, itâs best to be prepared.
You swallowed hard, feeling a chill run down your spine.
â But calm down, youâll be fine. â He looked at you as he spoke.
The thought of being alone in that house, with the risk of men like them coming back, made your stomach twist.
And in some way, Charlesâs presence there made it all feel a little less frightening.
You ate slowly, taking small bites of food, chewing delicately. Every now and then, you lifted your eyes to Charles, glancing at him briefly. He was a big, strong man, with a calm demeanor but always alert to everything around him.
For some reason, you found yourself staring more than you should. But whenever you realized it, you quickly looked away, focusing on your plate as if it were the most interesting thing in the world.
In the corner of the table, resting on a chair, was a worn-covered notebook and a pencil. You pulled it toward you absentmindedly, flipping open to a random page and beginning to sketch as you continued eating. Your fingers traced small, unfocused lines, a habit of yours whenever you wanted to keep your hands busy.
â You draw? â His voice broke the silence, low and curious.
You stopped for a second, lifting your eyes to him, feeling a slight warmth rise to your face.
â Ah⊠â You hesitated, gripping the pencil a little tighter. â Yes⊠a little. Since I was a child. My father used to say I had talent, but I never took it too seriously.
Charles observed the notebook for a moment before nodding.
You smiled shyly, scribbling a little more before looking up again.
â What about you? Do you have anything you like to do? Any hobbies?
He chewed another bite of food before answering.
â I like hunting. Itâs what I do best.
Charles gave a small smile.
â I also work with herbs. Learned a lot from some tribes I met⊠and I learned more about different kinds in Canada.
Hearing that, you tilted your head slightly, curious.
â What did you like most about Canada?
It took him a moment to respond, his eyes seeming to travel to a distant place in his memory.
â The peace. The clean rivers, the vast forests⊠the privacy. â He exhaled, almost as if he could smell the damp earth at that moment. â The snow in winter. Itâs different from anything Iâve ever seen.
You smiled, picturing the scene he described.
For a while, silence settled againâcomfortable, yet carrying something unspoken. You hesitated before speaking, and when you finally found the words, your voice came out softer:
â Thank you⊠for today. AgainâŠ
Charles lifted his eyes to you.
â You donât need to thank me. You already did, and now youâre letting me stay.
â I do need to. â You lowered your gaze to the notebook, your fingers tightening around the pencil. â That man⊠He looked at me in a way that made me feel⊠dirty.
Your stomach turned at the memoryâthe way his eyes roamed your body, as if you were something to be taken, consumed. For a brief moment, you wondered if your clothing had been⊠inappropriate.
But Charles, noticing your discomfort, cut off your thoughts, almost as if he had read them.
â It wouldnât have mattered what you were wearing. No bastard should look at a woman like that.
Your head snapped up in surprise at his words, and Charles seemed to realize it too, running a hand over his face and exhaling lightly.
â Sorry about that. â He looked embarrassed, which was⊠kind of cute.
But instead of scolding him, you laughed. It was a soft laugh, but genuine.
Charles looked at you for a moment, as if your laughter had caught him off guard. Something inside him stirred at the sight of you smiling like that. You noticed his gaze lingering on you, and suddenly, you felt a little nervous.
Maybe it was because it had been so long since youâd had a conversation like this with a man. He seemed to hesitate before asking:
â Donât you feel strange⊠with me here? I mean, I respect you, but⊠arenât you afraid of what people might say?
You blinked a few times before answering, and when you did, your voice was firm:
âhuh?ÂżâŠ.I think itâs ridiculous to judge someone by their appearance.
Charles remained silent for a moment, just watching you. His expression seemed⊠admiring.
You noticed and felt a small wave of nervousness spread through you. Shifting your legs under the table, you averted your eyes, not entirely sure why you were reacting like this. Without prolonging the conversation much further, you began gathering the plates. Charles stood up to help, picking up the cups and carrying them to the sink. Together, you cleaned the table and organized everything without saying much more.
Once everything was in place, he stepped back, adjusting the sleeves of his shirt.
You watched him leave the room, and for a moment, you stood there, thinking. Then, deciding it was time to rest, you walked to your bedroom and closed the door behind you. The wooden floor creaked lightly under your bare feet.
Passing by the mirror, you stopped for a moment, looking at yourself. Your face seemed⊠lighter. Maybe it was the relief of being home, of having someone there. But there was also a certain tiredness in your eyes.
You turned toward the window, closing it slowly. Then you walked to the bed, adjusting the blankets and pillows. The room was cozy, lit only by a dim yellow light.
Before lying down, you picked up your sketchbook once more. Running your fingers over the worn cover, you opened it to the last page you had been drawing on.
Sighing, you placed it inside the drawer of the nightstand. You closed your eyes for a moment, feeling the warmth of the blankets wrap around you.
Tomorrow, there would be much more to take care ofâŠ
WOW, I STARTED THIS LAST FRIDAY AND I ALREADY FEEL EXHAUSTED! I did some research, but Iâm not sure if all my sources were reliable. I looked into racism in Canada during the XX century, and it seems that in many ways, the country was quite racist, especially in the South, where there was more American influence. I also researched Charlesâs mother and found some indications that he might have inherited her last name, but I didnât find any official confirmation! If I made any mistakes here, I sincerely apologize. If youâd like to comment or clarify anything, feel free to send me an ask (anonymous or not, whatever makes you comfortable).
Either way, I hope that anyone reading this chapter remembers to like or reblog my work!
People who asked to be mentioned: @photo1030 @aotlover2002 @latvsflwrr @zizizi-blogs @millieisawriter (I had commented on something like that months ago, I think)
