The saloon was warm, filled with low chatter and the clink of glasses. Henry Delarue sat in the corner, one boot hooked over the other, whiskey in hand. He wasn’t in a hurry. He never was.

Then you walked in.

He didn’t mean to look, but he did. Just a glance over the rim of his glass.

You didn’t seem to notice him at first. You stepped up to the bar, ordered a drink, and leaned against the counter like you belonged here. Like you weren’t worried about the kind of men who drank in places like this.

His smirk was slow, almost lazy. Bold. Interesting.

He took another sip, then finally spoke—low, easy, just loud enough for you to hear.

“You lost, sweetheart?” he said, his voice deep.