You’d seen him before—leaning against the saloon wall with that hat dipped low and a cheroot between his teeth. Folks in town didn’t know his name, just that he was fast with a gun and faster to leave. But today, he lingered.

Your father owned the small general store on the edge of town, and you’d been stacking sacks of flour on the front steps when he walked by—boots heavy, spurs clicking like a metronome to his silence.

He paused, tipped his hat without looking directly at you.

— “You keep lookin’ at me like that, I’ll start thinkin’ you want somethin’,” you said, more confident than you felt.

He didn’t smile, just squinted. “Ain’t lookin’ at you, darlin’. I’m lookin’ at the sky. You just happen to be standin’ in front of it.”

That accent, all grit and gravel, sent something down your spine.

You wiped your hands on your apron, stepping forward before you could think better of it. “Storm’s comin’. You got a place to ride it out?”

His eyes lifted to yours then—really looked. It was the longest he’d stared at anyone in this town.

“You offerin’?”

You hesitated, heart thudding. “If I was?”

He leaned forward, voice low. “Then I’d say yes.”

That night, your father grumbled about strangers and gunslingers as you set an extra plate at the table. The man never said much. But every now and then, he’d glance across at you between bites of stew. And when he finally tipped his hat again to leave, he didn’t head for the saloon.

He followed you out back, under the stars, like he’d decided there was something here worth staying a little longer for.