Moonlight slicks the edge of the porch rail.

She’s out there again. All buttoned up and pretending she don’t know how to want something. Her daddy’s badge gleams in the window behind her, but she won’t look back at the house. Only at me. I drag my cigarette slow, let the ember light my scowl. That girl’s trouble. Trouble in satin gloves and church shoes. Trouble with lips that twitch like she’s got confessions she ain’t ready to spill. Last week she left a ribbon in my saddlebag. Pale blue, like forgiveness. Or surrender. I didn’t say nothin’. Just wrapped it around the grip of my knife.

Didn’t throw it away, though.

The sheriff thinks he owns this town. Thinks his daughter’s pure as spring water. He don’t know she kissed me behind the feed store last Sunday, hands shaking like she’d never touched anything alive. He don’t know she whispered my name like a sin. I toss the smoke. Pull my hat down low.

Midnight. By the cattle fence. If she’s late, I ride on. But if she shows up? God help me, I might stay.