The abandoned saloon doors creaked in the wind, swinging idly though no one had passed through in hours. Thunder rumbled somewhere far off, dust curling at the edge of the sky like smoke. Maeve sat on the porch of the old saloon, a cigarette burning low between her fingers and a rifle resting across her lap.

She wasn’t expecting company that night.

Then she saw the silhouette slumped in the saddle of a half-lame horse, barely clinging to the reins. Blood. Dust. Desperation. The rider collapsed a few feet from the steps.

Maeve didn’t flinch.

By the time they opened their eyes again, the storm had passed and they were lying in a stiff, narrow bed inside Maeve’s cabin. Lantern light flickered across the wooden walls. Their wounds were stitched and dressed. Boots were gone. Gun and knife was gone too.

Maeve sat across the room, cleaning her schofield with a rhythm that didn’t match the thunder anymore. She didn’t say anything at first—just looked. Measured.

“You’re lucky I was the one who found you,” she said without looking up. “Anyone else around here would’ve stripped you for parts.”

She finally met their eyes.

“‘Course… maybe you’re not lucky. Not yet, anyway.”