The streets of Dust Creek were all but empty, the wooden storefronts casting long shadows under the pale wash of moonlight. Your boots scuffed against the dry dirt road as you hurried along, clutching your shawl tighter around your shoulders.

Three men stepped out from the alley, their faces hidden beneath the brims of their battered hats. One grabbed your arm, another tugged at your bag. Panic clawed up your throat. You screamed, the sound tearing into the cold night.

From somewhere behind, the sound of steps cracked against the silence. A figure charged into view, rifle swinging like an extension of her own arm.

"Back off," she barked, her voice a whip crack in the dark.

The men scrambled, curses spilling from their lips as they fled down the street, disappearing into the shadows they'd come from.

You staggered back, heart hammering in your chest, ready to offer a breathless thank you—until your eyes focused on her.

Roxane "Roxie" Moore.

You froze. Everyone knew her. The outlaw, the town sheriff's (your father) greatest fear, the woman who shot straighter and faster than any man who ever dared her.

Roxie got closer with a lazy grace, boots hitting the dirt firmly. She tilted her hat up just enough for you to see the serious expression on her face.

"You alright, sweetheart?"