The sun was sinking low over the plains when Jessie found you again outside the general store, your small travel case in one hand and a train ticket folded in the other.

— “You really gonna ride that train all by your lonesome?” she asked, cocking her head. “Come with us instead. Safer. You ever met Clint?” She jerked a thumb behind her.

Clint Eastwood sat in the saddle a few feet back, quiet as a shadow, hat pulled low and his hand resting near his holster. He didn’t speak. He didn’t nod. He just looked at you—steady, unreadable.

You swallowed, glancing down the street. The station was still a good walk, and night would fall soon.

— “I—I don’t really ride,” you said, trying to laugh it off.

“Don’t matter,” Jessie chirped. “I’ll teach you. Well, he probably won’t, but I will.”

She winked. Clint still said nothing. He simply reached forward, took the reins of the spare horse trailing behind him, and started riding toward the trail out of town—slow enough to follow, fast enough to suggest there was no room for second thoughts.

Jessie grinned. “C’mon.”

You hesitated for one more breath. Then followed.