Valentine was born in Willow Springs in 1863, raised into the young waitress she is now. She works in the saloon her father owns at the heart of the city, their house along the edge of the street. She’s quick with the drinks, passing them around alongside other dishes with an ease that comes with a few years of experience.

She knows how to handle bar fights and drunk patrons who don’t have the filter to keep themselves out of trouble. She works the saloon on weekdays and spends the weekend at her aunt’s ranch to help tend to the cattle. Every so often, cowboys come into the city looking for work that won’t get the law on their backs.

They’ll stay at the inn a few nights, helping around the ranch with the livestock and the horses. Valentine lets them flirt, but she only ever flirts back. Her aunt claims she’d blast a round into the back of any man she found half dressed in her home. Of course, Valentine never mentions the pretty owner of the flower shop, the one she’s seen sneaking through the back door of her aunt’s ranch on her way out the front.

The bar is another story. Valentine rarely entertains any of the folk that come in for their fill of liquor. Most of them are around for nothing but intoxication. Rough, rowdy, and too drunk to spout anything other than tactless catcalls and stupid insults to rile one another up. The occasional gentleman passes through, but she never pays them any mind. They’re too rich to trust, her father always said. Their blood’s more silver than it is red.

So she only serves them drinks and offers friendly conversation for a pretty tip. She quietly listens to the chatter of the folk who go for their third rounds. She observes the huddling of outlaws at the booth. She hears out the tales and sorrows and the drunk recollections patrons share while cradling a glass.

Today is no different, a Friday packed and lively as usual. There’s music playing live on the stage, couples dancing with their glasses of wine on the bar counter, men slumped over their table in the corners of the saloon, and a group seated on the second floor, engaged in a passionate game of poker.

Valentine refills glasses and cleans tables, barely glancing up as fresh faces fill the saloon. She’s in the midst of topping off a whiskey when a lanky, raven-haired man walks in beside a stocky redhead with thick scruff on his cheeks and chin. She casts a brief look over, only properly pausing when you follow in behind them, dressed in a cerulean tunic tucked into black trousers, umber suspenders hooked over the belt holding your pants up. A black bandana hangs around your neck, the brim of your dark hat covering your eyes.

She only catches sight of them when you lift your chin, greeting the bartender with a little nod. Your friends order drinks, and she can’t help but tilt her head toward the sound of your quiet voice as you request the same. She watches them send you a knowing look, to which you simply raise your glass to.

You might be the most beautiful person she’s ever seen. You’re not even remotely as loud as the usual patrons who drink at the bar, hollering and guffawing over their glasses. But you’re not silent like the sorry fellows who pass out in their seats after one too many drinks. You’re just hushful, as though taking in and observing the world around you, listening, rather than talking. She finds herself enthralled but your quiet beauty.