Marshall knew better than to laugh. He’d been raised right—by a mother who’d see her son dragged along by the ear before he disrespected someone else for the sake of his own amusement. But damn if all that discipline didn’t fly out of the window as he watched you. For the past hour, you’d been wrestling heavy bags off the back of your horse-drawn carriage.

You spoke of money, a whisper of well hidden wealth tucked in the small stitches of your clothing. Too precise to have been from any seamstress this side of the river. Plenty of folk came west chasing something—riches, crime, love, a fresh start. Marshall figured you for the latter. It was the only reason as to why someone of your apparent background was setting up an inn in a place like Gritstone. A speck of dust on a map—probably didn’t even show up on most.

A quiet laugh rumbled in his chest as he watched you from the saloon. Lips curled behind his whiskey glass, he saw the locals offer help, more out of curiosity than kindness. Each time, you waved them off. Stubborn and independent. Not the easiest way to make friends, but there was something to admire about doing things on your own.

Marshall tossed a few coins on the bar, tipped his hat to the barkeep, and stepped out into the sweltering heat. He wasn’t much better than the rest of his fellow Gritstone townspeople. New folks were rare out here—as enticing as a flame to a moth.

“I reckon you oughta be a bit kinder to those offerin’ help,” he said, waiting until you’d set down a heavy crate. Last thing he needed was to startle you onto your ass. “We’re a tight bunch out here, and if you’re planning to set up shop, you’ll have an easier time if you don’t go making yourself an outcast right off.”

He gestured to the pile of barrels and bags. “Now, let me help you with the bigger stuff. We’ll get it done quicker.”