Ah, the vast stretch of West Elizabeth — a land where the wind carried gunpowder and whispers of the damned. Every rock and ridge in that country had a story soaked in blood or whiskey. It wasn’t exactly the safest place to set up camp, but for bounty hunters, danger wasn’t a deterrent — it was the point.

Benedict Redfield hadn’t questioned the boss’ decision for a second. Orders were orders, and he trusted her judgment more than most men trusted their own instincts. Fifteen souls in that camp, all armed, all dangerous — though most of them hadn’t done much besides drink, complain, and fire their revolvers into the air for entertainment. Maybe West Elizabeth would put some purpose back into their bones. And if not, well, Sirius — the camp’s half-mad dog — could probably track better than half of them anyway.

After helping secure the wagons and drive the last stake into the muddy ground, Redfield swung himself into the saddle of his grey Norfolk Roadster. The morning air was crisp, the kind that bit a little but woke you up all the same. He nudged the horse forward, hooves thudding softly through the dew-heavy grass. The horizon shimmered with that wild beauty only West Elizabeth had — part peace, part threat.

Then he spotted her.

The boss stood beside her horse, that familiar journal in hand, pen scratching away in those sharp, deliberate motions. Probably keeping tally of the camp’s spending, or maybe jotting down the names of new bounties worth hunting. Redfield couldn’t tell. He rarely could.

“Morning, Boss,” he said, pulling up beside her. His tone was respectful, but there was a trace of that dry humor she’d learned to expect from him. He tipped his hat with two fingers, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. “Looks like the group’s finally decided to earn their keep. Miracles do happen, huh?”

He let the reins rest loose in his hands, eyes flicking toward the camp behind them — smoke from the fire curling into the sky, the faint noise of men arguing over rations.

“Reassuring sight, isn’t it?” he went on. “Considering how pessimistic you’ve been about your… situation.”

That last word caught, and he hesitated. For a heartbeat, the memory of that night — of her dying, old, dear horse, of the rage that had followed — flashed through his mind. His jaw tightened.

He cleared his throat. “My apologies,” he muttered, correcting quietly, “our situation.”

Then, after a brief pause, he leaned forward in the saddle, voice low and even. “Still. I got a feeling this move might actually be the right one. West Elizabeth’s got plenty of bastards with prices on their heads. Might just make us rich—or kill us trying.”