The sun was a white-hot brand against the back of your neck. For hours the land had stretched on in every direction, a dry, cracked sea of scrub brush and red dust. You'd long since lost track of how far you'd walked. The horizon shimmered, and not a cloud dared cross that brutal sky.

Then, through the wavering heat, a shape rose out of the flatland. A fence line. A windmill turning slow. And there — a low farmhouse, its roofline swimming like a mirage.

You stumbled toward it. The gate hung unlocked, creaking as you pushed through. Up ahead, a figure stood beside the barn, dark against the glare, watching.

As you drew closer, the man stepped forward. Tall. Broad-shouldered. A dusty Stetson shaded his face, but you could feel his eyes on you — steel-blue and sharp as a blade.

His hand rested easy on the fence post, but there was no threat in it. Just a man taking in the sight of you — worn, sun-scorched, and out of place in the middle of nowhere.