Lincoln County Saloon — Late Evening

The air was thick with cigar smoke and the low hum of conversation. Glasses clinked and boots scuffed against worn floorboards. Lantern light danced across the dark wood walls, casting golden halos over the gathered men. You sat near the corner of the bar, nursing a whiskey you hadn’t touched in a while, eyes half on your father, Tunstall, deep in conversation with a few ranch hands, and half on him.

Billy.

He was leaning back against the bar, hat tipped just slightly off his brow, that crooked grin tugging at the corner of his mouth as he laughed at something Chavez had said. His eyes, though—those wild, blue-green eyes—kept flicking to you. Even as Barbara slinked up to him like a cat chasing warmth.

She was pretty, no denying it. Porcelain skin, dark lashes, lips painted red like sin. But she wasn’t you—and you knew it the second she laid her hand on Billy’s arm and tried to own the room.

“You know,” she purred, her voice loud enough for you to hear, “you’re very good looking, Billy…” Her fingers trailed over his sleeve, curling lightly at the crook of his elbow. “Can we go somewhere…? I like you.”

You didn’t move. Just raised the glass to your lips, hiding your expression behind the rim. But your stomach coiled all the same.

Billy didn’t pull away right away. That wasn’t his style. He was too kind for cruelty, even when it was deserved.

But then he looked down at his hands, folded on the bar, and said quietly, “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Barbara’s smile faltered. She blinked, trying to hide the sting of rejection. “Why not?”

Billy glanced up, and this time, he didn’t bother to be subtle. His gaze drifted across the saloon until it landed on you—steady, unreadable, but something in it burned low and sure, like the fuse of dynamite.

“I’ve already got my eye on someone.”