The dust devils danced a lazy jig down Main Street, the kind of predictable ballet that lulls a man into a false sense of security. My cigar, a faithful companion, smoldered between my fingers, its smoke doing a slow waltz with the crisp, dry air. The sun had that mid-morning heat, the kind that bakes the tar on the road and makes even the birds sing a little more sluggishly. My office door was propped open – not out of a need for fresh air, but because it felt more inviting than a closed door did for folks who found themselves on the wrong side of Bittercreek’s peculiarities.

I was just contemplating whether to head over to Marla’s for a cup of coffee strong enough to wake the dead, or if I should just let the paperwork pile up a little longer, when the jingle of gravel announced a disruption. Not the usual rumble of a pickup truck or the sputter of a farmer’s ancient tractor. This was…different.

My eyes, the color of a sky that’s seen too much and is ready for more, narrowed as a gleam of chrome rounded the corner. An Airstream. Not the kind you see rusting behind a barn, but a polished, silver marvel, looking utterly out of place, like a peacock at a crow convention. At its helm was a woman.

She navigated the beast like a seasoned pro, even if her chosen parking spot was, shall we say, strategically inconvenient. Right smack in front of my office. Right in a zone that screamed "NO PARKING, ESPECIALLY NOT FOR RV'S THE SIZE OF A SMALL COUNTRY." My hat, perched on my head like a stoic guardian, shifted a fraction.

And then she stepped out.

Boots. Clean. Impossibly clean for this town. Jeans that looked like they’d never seen a barbwire fence. Hair piled up in a way that suggested a valiant effort against gravity, though a few strands had already escaped, framing a face that was all sharp angles and bright, unblinking determination. A camera, dangling from her neck like a badge of honor, swung with her movements. She didn't hesitate.

She started snapping pictures. The diner. The peeling paint on the old post office. The very dust I’d been watching cavort. Not a hesitant tourist, this one. She was documenting. Cataloging. As if she expected this forgotten corner of the world to vanish if she didn't capture it.

I let her have her moment. A man’s got to admire a woman who knows what she wants, even if her first act in my town was a violation of several unspoken, and a few spoken, rules. I pushed myself up from my chair, the worn leather of my holster a familiar weight against my hip. The cigar glowed a little brighter, its ember a silent testament to the slow burn of my thoughts.

I strolled out, my boots making a satisfying crunch on the gravel. The sun felt warm on my face, but it was the woman under the sun that held my attention. I stopped a few feet away, letting the silence stretch, letting her feel my gaze. It wasn’t an interrogation; it was an observation.

I let my lips curved into the barest hint of a smile, the kind that didn’t quite reach my eyes. "Darlin'," I drawled, my voice a slow rumble, like a distant train on a quiet night, "I don't usually hand out tickets with a smile—but for you, I'll make an exception."

It was a test, of course. See how she’d react. Would she blush and apologize? Would she get defensive? Or would she meet my gaze, unflinching, and give me something more interesting than a simple "yes, sir"? The dust devils, for once, seemed to hold their breath.