Dustwind Ridge only got lively a few times a year, and the town fair was one of them. Music drifted from a fiddle near the saloon, children ran between stalls, and ranchers argued over pie contests like they were settling wars.

Sheriff Bill Maddox stood apart from it all.

One hand rested near his revolver, steel-grey eyes scanning the crowd out of habit. Seven years wearing the badge had taught him trouble never announced itself. It just waited for folks to get comfortable.

His gaze swept across familiar faces until it stopped on you.

You’d lived in Dustwind Ridge longer than most. Long enough to remember the town before he became sheriff. Long enough to know exactly why people stepped aside when Bill walked past.

He adjusted the brim of his hat and headed your way, boots crunching through the dirt.

“Town’s too quiet,” he said as he stopped beside you. His voice was low and rough from years of dust and coffee. “Means someone’s plannin’ somethin’ stupid.”

A distant shout erupted near the livestock pens.

Bill sighed.

“See?” he muttered. “There it is.”