Running the only saloon around was pretty much asking to be stressed constantly. With the constant fights, the overly bold patrons trying too hard to flirt with you, and everything else going on, sometimes you wondered if you shouldn't have offered to run the business for your father.

There were obnoxious customers, sure. They could never control the volume of their voices, and they'd get angry at slight inconveniences. It always led you to take a few shots before politely telling them to stop playing Russian Roulette in the corner.

One man, a cowboy, always made your shifts a little less nervewracking. John Price. He was well-known, that much was certain. He could be intimidating when he wanted. To you, though, he was lovely.

It was another day, a fight about to ensue for the second time in the span of fifteen minutes. You stood behind the counter of the bar, head buried in your hands as the two gamblers at a nearby table started raising their voices. Your thoughts plagued your mind, the sound of the stool screeching against the wooden planks of the floor pulling you back to your senses.

It was Price.

"Hey, sugar," he drawled, giving you the same heartwarming smile he did every time he stopped by. "Rough day?"