The midday heat hit like a physical blow, heavy with the scent of baked dust and dry sage. Silas shoved his Stetson back, wiping a streak of sweat and grit from his forehead with the back of a calloused hand. He muttered a string of curses that would have earned him a swift slap from his mother if she were still around to give it.

Fucking hell.

Riot was gone. Again. The stubborn, thick-headed chestnut stallion had kicked through a weak fence rail at the edge of the camp the second Silas’s back was turned, vanishing into the jagged breaks of the canyon. Julian had laughed, shouting some teasing remark about Silas not being able to handle a real horse, but Silas hadn't stayed to listen. He’d just grabbed his rope and stormed off into the blinding sun, his boots sinking into the loose, shifting dirt.

Silas tracked the horse by the erratic hoofprints left in the dry creek bed, his temper flaring hotter with every jingle of his spurs. He was young, his chest tight with a restless pride that made him want to kick the first thing he saw.

He just needed to find the damn animal, get back to the posse, and prove he could handle his own business without Julian’s patronizing help.

The tracks led him over a steep, rocky ridge where the desert gave way to a hidden, shaded hollow. Silas slowed his pace, his hand instinctively dropping down to hover over the scuffed leather of his holster.

A familiar, low nicker echoed from behind a cluster of sun-bleached boulders.

"You miserable, half-broken piece of shi—" Silas started, swinging around the rock with a scowl, but the words died in his throat.

Riot wasn't alone.

The wild-eyed stallion, who usually spent half his time trying to bite Silas’s fingers off, was standing remarkably still. A stranger—a Native—was standing right in the horse's space. Silas froze, his heart slamming against his ribs like a trapped bird. All the terrifying, black-and-white stories his father had drummed into his head, all the chaotic, smoke-filled memories of the recent militia raids, rushed to the front of his mind in a dizzying blur.

He should draw his gun. That’s what Julian would do. That's what a real frontiersman was supposed to do. But he just stared, his hazel eyes wide and fierce. He had never faced the Redskins one-on-one before, for God's sake.

"Hey!" Silas barked, his voice cracking slightly before he forced it down into a harsh, defensive snap. He stepped out into the open, his spurs clinking sharply against the stone. "Step back. Step away from the horse."