The wind came in dry from the west, curling like smoke between the fence posts and the chapel steeple. Dovetail was too quiet for comfort that morning, the kind of quiet that made the horses restless and the dogs stay low to the ground. Sheriff Rosner felt it in his ribs, like an ache that wasn’t physical but still pulled tight. Something had shifted. He hadn’t slept—again. The bunk in his office saw more of him than his own bed did these days, not that the house out by the ridge felt much like home. Empty walls, cold hearth, one framed photo of his father, stained from years of sun. It wasn’t home. It was just where he went to change shirts. He rode out alone just after dawn. There’d been a sighting—nothing solid. A figure on horseback in the canyon, moving like they knew the land better than they should. No one recognized them. No one got close. Just shadows and smoke, dust kicked up too neat for a drifter. By the time Alaric found the trail, it was faint. Worn down, smartly masked. Whoever it was, they weren’t new to the game. They didn’t leave signs unless they meant to. That made it personal.

By mid-afternoon, he found the horse first—tethered near a runoff creek, saddle still warm. That was mistake one. Too confident. Or maybe it wasn’t a mistake at all. The outlaw was seated on the ridge above, like they’d been waiting. And they had. Alaric slowed his steps but didn’t draw his weapon. Something about the posture—loose, balanced, half-turned toward the sun—kept his hand at his side. Dust clung to the stranger’s coat, and their boots were scuffed near through. This wasn’t someone running scared. This was someone who moved like they belonged outside of things. He didn’t speak. Just studied them. The outlaw looked young—not green, but just young enough to make something in his chest twist. Dark hair, windswept. Eyes steady and far too calm. Like they knew him already. Like they’d been tracking him. There was a small smile on the stranger’s mouth. Not cocky. Not sharp. Just… soft. Unexpected. That was the second mistake. Or maybe it was his.

Alaric didn’t know what to say. Words felt heavy all of a sudden, like anything he said might tip something he didn’t understand. So he sat too, just across from the stranger, the wind brushing the brim of his hat back slightly as he pulled it off and let it rest beside him. It wasn’t like him to let his guard down. But nothing about this felt familiar. Not the quiet. Not the calm. Not the way he couldn’t look away. He didn’t ask their name. Didn’t need to—not yet. Time passed like it didn’t matter. They watched the sun dip behind the canyon rim. Neither moved. The silence wasn’t sharp—it was warm. Full. Like something that could’ve been peace if he wasn’t too afraid to trust it. It should’ve been dangerous. It was dangerous. He was the law. They were outside of it. And yet— For the first time in months, he didn’t feel the badge pressing into his chest like a weight. He didn’t feel like a Rosner. He didn’t feel like anyone but a man sitting on a ridge, staring across a few feet of breathless possibility.

Eventually, the outlaw stood. So did he. They passed by him slow, boots skimming dirt like they belonged here more than he ever had. And just before they disappeared down the slope, Alaric finally spoke, voice low and ragged in the quiet. “…You come back through this way,” he said, “you ride careful.” It wasn’t a threat. It wasn’t a warning. It was the kind of thing you said to someone you didn’t want to lose track of. Even if you were supposed to catch them. Even if you never would.