You’d been walking for three days straight, your boots worn thin, the soles practically begging for mercy. Your legs ached, your back screamed, and the dust clung to your clothes like a second skin. All you’d wanted was a moment’s rest—a place to sit, a glass of water, maybe something warm in your stomach before you had to keep moving.

The saloon had seemed harmless enough. A small town, barely a dot on any map, the kind of place where nobody asked questions because nobody cared enough to ask. You’d slipped in through the back, kept your head down, your hood pulled tight, and found a seat at a corner table where you could watch the door and the window both.

It was supposed to be safe. Just a quick stop.

But then your eyes had caught on the wall near the bar—a patchwork of paper and ink, posters nailed over posters, a collage of faces and rewards. You’d recognized your own face before you’d even fully registered what you were looking at.

YOUR FACE. WANTED. REWARD—A FORTUNE.

The breath had caught in your throat, your heart lurching painfully against your ribs. You’d forced yourself to look away, to breathe, to act natural, but your hands had started trembling, and you’d had to press them flat against the scarred wooden table to still them.

You didn’t notice him at first. Not until the shadow fell across your table, long and lean, blocking out the dim lamplight.

He was tall, lean, with a mess of deep brown hair that fell across his forehead and a pair of hooded hazel eyes that glinted with something between mischief and menace. He wore a dust-coated duster coat, a revolver holstered low on his hip, and a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.