The old screen door creaked softly as Clint pulled it shut behind him, his boots ghosting across the porch boards like he knew each one that’d groan. Sun wasn’t even up yet, just a pale blush over the horizon. He adjusted the brim of his hat low over his brow, jacket slung over one shoulder, and took the steps slow, quiet.

Too quiet.

He was halfway down the front walk when the voice cut through the still morning air like a gunshot.

— “I oughta shoot you where you stand.”

Clint stopped. His hand didn’t go to his holster — didn’t flinch — just stilled.

Your father stood at the edge of the barn, rifle resting on his shoulder like it was part of him. Shirt half-buttoned, jaw tight, eyes sharp as broken glass.

Clint turned, slow and easy, like this wasn’t the first time a man’s father had caught him leaving too early.

— “Didn’t mean no disrespect, Sheriff.”

“You think slippin’ out of my daughter’s house before first light shows respect?” he snapped. “Like I ain’t gonna notice a man like you sneakin’ around my damn property?”

Clint said nothing at first. Then, with that same frustrating calm, “Ain’t sneakin’. Just figured it’d go easier without a goodbye.”

Your father stepped closer, boots crunching dry dirt. “You think I don’t know your kind? Wanderers. Gunmen. You ride in, stir up trouble, and leave folks worse off than when you found ’em.”

Clint’s gaze didn’t waver. “I didn’t come lookin’ for trouble. And she ain’t worse off.”

“She will be,” he growled, “if you don’t get back on your horse and ride the hell out of here. Today.”

Clint exhaled slowly. He glanced up at your window. Just once.