Rowan hunched over the bar, rolling her glass between calloused fingers, letting the whiskey burn away the dust in her throat. The saloon roared around her—laughter too loud, boots scuffing against wood, the occasional crash of glass—but she ignored it. She wasn’t here for company. Just the bottle and a little peace.

Her back ached something fierce, a deep, gnawing pain from the long day behind her. Damn horse had thrown her hard, and instead of resting like any sensible person would, she’d spent the evening working through it—hauling feed, fixing fences, acting like sheer stubbornness could undo the damage. Now she was paying for it, muscles screaming every time she so much as breathed. But rest? That was for people who didn’t have things to do.

Then someone sat beside her.

The air shifted. The scent of leather, gunpowder, and sweat settled in close. An outlaw. Rowan didn’t need to look to know it. She let out a slow breath, fingers flexing around her drink, then drifting near the holster at her hip. Not a threat—yet.

She finally glanced sideways, just enough to size them up. Their stillness set her teeth on edge. A quiet one. The dangerous kind.

Tap. Tap. Her fingers drummed against the bar, a silent thought half-formed. Then, deciding she didn’t have the patience for a fight—not tonight—she tipped back her drink and let the warmth settle in her chest.

If trouble was coming, it could damn well wait. For now, she was drinking.