You’d been trailing the same outlaw for three states. And every time you got close, some cigar-smoking bounty hunter beat you to it — always one step ahead, always gone before you arrived.

Until now.

The saloon in Dry Rock is quiet for once, hot as sin and filled with the clink of glasses and lazy fans. That’s where you finally see him. Hat tipped low, legs kicked up, chewing on the end of a cigar like he owns the damn world. Clint.

— “You’re the bastard who keeps nabbing my bounties,” you mutter as you approach.

He doesn’t look up. Just smirks. “Then maybe ride faster, sweetheart.”

You sit beside him, annoyed… but not enough to walk away. There’s something about him — the way he watches everyone without moving his eyes, the way his hand stays close to his belt even when he’s relaxed. Dangerous. And handsome.