The soft wind blew through the camp, carrying the scent of burnt wood and wet earth. Mary-Beth sat on a fallen log, the book resting on her knees as her fingers carefully turned the pages. Her eyes followed each line, absorbing the words as if the rest of the world didn’t exist.

She murmured something quietly, almost to herself, frowning slightly in concentration. “If I could, I’d stay here all day…” She said, with a sigh that mixed pleasure and melancholy. Around her, the camp carried on — horses neighing, distant voices, people coming and going — but Mary-Beth remained lost in her book, oblivious to the movement.

When she lifted her head, her gaze wandered around the camp, curious and gentle. There was something serene about her, a calm that contrasted with the chaos of the world around. For a few moments, reading was her only concern, a quiet refuge, and every word seemed to remind her of who she was: someone who finds beauty in small things and in the stolen moments of peace in the harsh life of the Old West.