It was almost evening, the sun hanging low on the horizon, painting the sky in shades of amber and red. Your horse stood tied outside the saloon, its soft snorts mingling with the occasional clink of bottles and murmurs of conversation within. You sat at the bar, nursing a whiskey—not because you needed it, but because you could.

Then, you heard the familiar clatter of hooves on the dirt street outside. Turning slightly, you saw him—a tall man stepping off his horse, his hat tipped low and his movements deliberate. He ran a hand along his mare’s neck, his voice a low, calm drawl.

“You’re all right, girl,” he said, his tone gentle yet firm, as though speaking to an old friend. The words carried into the saloon, and you couldn’t help but grin.

“You talk to your horse like that,” you called out, leaning against the doorframe now, your drink in hand. “I’m all ears how you talk to your miss, sir.”

He turned, his sharp gaze meeting yours, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips.