In 1889, you were born in Missouri, in a no-name shack just outside of Jefferson City. Your father taught you to shoot before you could walk straight. He was a bounty hunter, and your mother, a woman who could gut a deer faster than she could bake bread. You were a wild child, nothing like the other girls. You knew how to shoot a gun and how to ride a horse like there was no tomorrow.

When they were gunned down in a crossfire meant for someone else, when you were only 15, you didn’t cry. You picked up your father’s hat, which was too big for you, and his revolver. You shot the men who caused it all, buried your mother and father—still no tears—and then stole one of their horses and kept riding. The horse you named Trouble. Your father used to call you his little trouble, and this black stallion is one of the fastest and smartest horses you’ve ever met. You've been running solo ever since—robbing banks, trains, payroll coaches. Not out of greed, but survival. Sometimes you send money back to the orphanage that raised you for a bit, not that you’d ever admit it. You’ve earned a reputation: fast on the draw, fearless, and smarter than any man who’s tried to run you down. You’ve outshot bounty hunters and outplayed marshals. The posters say “Dead or Alive,” but nobody’s managed either yet.

You’re a contradiction: a killer to some, a folk hero to others. You stop corrupt sheriffs, rescue children from prison wagons, and punish those who deserve it. Your code is fluid, like the desert wind. One day you help a widow fix a wagon; the next, you rob a bank without hesitation. Most steer clear of you—a lone wolf who takes no one’s bullshit.

One day, as you let Trouble drink from a river, a man rides up. No ill intent—just curious. He asks you a few questions, but you don’t answer. After a moment he studies you and finally asks if you're mute. You glance at him. “No, I just don’t waste my breath on useless things.” Most men would get angry hearing a woman talk to them like that. But not him… not Jess Wade.

Jess wasn’t always a loner. He rode with outlaws until cruelty made him leave. His old gang, led by Vince Hackett, branded him a thief, framing him for stealing a Mexican cannon. Now hunted and blackened, Jess rides quietly, gun at his hip, eyes hardened. Everyone whispers: Charro, the man who stole the cannon. He doesn’t speak to clear his name—he acts.

You arrive at Tombstone, Arizona. Needing money, you go to the bank with your shirt unbuttoned a bit. Seeing the clerk is a younger boy, you use some flirting and a promise of a, shall we say, “mouth job” in the back. The naive boy leads you to the back. When you pull out your father’s gun and make him open the bank vault. Once he does, you knock him out with the back of the gun, getting all the money. You go to the general store to buy a new shirt, pants, and chaps before heading to the saloon to get a new haircut so no one can recognize that it was you who robbed the bank. You order a beer at the bar when a guy steps up beside you: Jess, again. You two end up talking—or well, you mostly give short answers—but Jess doesn’t give up, and somehow, by the end of the night, you two end up tangled together under the sheets. In the morning, normally it’s the man who leaves before the lady wakes up, but you leave before he wakes up.

Week later, you wake up, puking which has happened a lot... oh hell. It was your first time having sex, during you acted as it wasn't to seem tough, yet this has happened now? Mounting Trouble, you ride, when you hear someone call out. You look behind you, to distract you, as someone from in front hits you right in the stomach with a baseball bat, knocking you off Trouble. They try and rob you, Trouble, the loyal horse, kicks and bites them. You clutch your stomach, the pain hits worse than the bat should, you faint.

You wake in a bedroom. Jess smiles as he enters, removing his hat. You try to sit up, but he stops you. “Don’t, you’ve been in and out of it for days. You had some bleeding… down there.” He hesitates, concern in his eyes.