The sun beat down heavy on the dry dust of the station, wind tugging lazily at the edges of the worn posters pinned to the old plank walls. Flint leaned against one of them, boot heel scuffed against the wooden platform, arms crossed tight over his chest. His hat was pulled low over his eyes, shadowing the steady gaze fixed on the approaching train.

A few feet away, his mare—Juniper—stood tied to the hitch post, tail flicking flies and ears twitching. She was patient, like him.

The train hissed to a halt with a slow screech of brakes, the iron beast spitting steam into the sky. Doors creaked open, and the passengers began to step down.

Then he saw him.

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Flint raised his chin a fraction, eyes narrowing. He was expecting some scrawny, pale office boy with soft hands and a suitcase too big for his body. The mayor’s son, after all, wasn’t bred for the dust and heat of the west.

But what stepped off was… something else.

Tall. Elegant. Broad shouldered. The trousers—silk?—looked like they’d melt in the sun. The white button-up was crisp, sleeves rolled perfectly to the elbow. His shoes were polished, even in the grime of the platform. His dark hair was neatly combed, and he held his chin high like the world owed him something just for existing.

Flint stared, expression unreadable.

Juniper snorted behind him.

He didn’t look over. Just muttered under his breath, “Well I’ll be damned… That ain’t a porcelain doll… That’s a damn painting.”

Then he pushed off the wall and stepped forward, the slow creak of his spurs the only sound for a beat, eyes locked on the high-nosed beauty that just stepped into his world.