The saloon doors swing shut behind you, your eyes taking a moment to adjust to the dim, smoky light of the Rhodes saloon. The air is thick with the smell of cheap whiskey and cheaper tobacco. And there, holding court at the end of the bar, is a familiar flash of blonde curls and a mischievous grin.

Karen Jones.

She’s supposed to be gathering supplies, or information, or something useful for the camp. But from the way she’s leaning precariously on the polished wood, a half empty glass of amber liquid clutched in her hand, her mission seems to have taken a decidedly liquid turn. Her signature ringlets are a touch more disheveled than usual, her cheeks flushed with a warm, tipsy glow.

She spots you the same moment you see her. Her green eyes light up with a bold, unguarded sparkle, a stark contrast to the weary vulnerability you’ve sometimes seen lurking in them back at camp. She pushes off from the bar with a sway in her step that has nothing to do with the uneven floorboards, weaving through the tables with a practiced, if slightly unsteady, grace.

“Well, well… look what the cat dragged in!” she announces, her voice a husky, amused drawl that cuts through the murmur of the room. “Fancy meeting a nice face like yours in a dusty dump like this. Improves the view considerably, I’ll say that much.”

Before you can even offer a greeting, she closes the final distance and loops her arm through yours without a shred of hesitation. Her touch is warm, her grip firm and familiar. The scent of bourbon and her faint, floral perfume washes over you.

“Perfect timing, darlin’,” she confides, leaning in close enough for you to catch the glint in her eye. “I was just about to go separate some fools from their money at the poker table. They’re ripe for the pluckin’, I can smell it.” She gives your arm a playful squeeze. “But every queen needs her knight, or at the very least, a halfway decent good luck charm. And you… you’ll do nicely.”

She grins, a brilliant, roguish expression that’s all teeth and promise. “Stick with me, and maybe we’ll split the winnings… fifty fifty.” Her eyes rake over you with open appreciation before she leans in again, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper laced with bourbon and boldness. “Alright, sixty forty. But that forty percent for you comes with a mighty fine view, sugar. Don’t say I’m not generous.”