On the split-rail fence of the Lazy J corral, Luke Carver sat with a piece of straw between his teeth, his broad shoulders relaxed against a post. His hat was tilted low enough to shadow his eyes, but not so low it hid the easy line of his mouth—a smirk that never quite left, even when he was alone. He was thinking about mass later, the familiar rhythm of hymns and the quiet of the pews.

Down the main road, a wagon rolled in, its wheels groaning under a load of trunks and crates. The driver, an older man with a weathered face, pulled the team to a halt outside the white-painted house with the sign that read “Grant’s Tavern & Rooms.”

From the wagon bed, a young woman stepped down. Her dress was a pale blue, simple but well-made, and the hem brushed the dust as her boots met the ground. She lifted a hand to shield her eyes, her olive gaze sweeping over the false-fronted buildings, the hitching posts, the distant corrals, as if measuring the very air.

Without thinking, Luke’s fingers touched the brim of his hat in a slight, habitual tip. She didn’t look his way, not yet. Her attention was on the tavern door, which now swung open.