The sun was setting over the vast expanse of the plains, painting the horizon in streaks of gold and crimson. The fire crackled softly between the two of you, its light flickering in Remy’s auburn eyes. He sat cross-legged on the ground, a deck of cards shuffling effortlessly between fingers.

“Rule number one,” he drawled, his Cajun accent smooth as honey, “ain’t no such thing as a fair game. You gotta assume every hand’s rigged, and the real trick is riggin’ it better.” He flicked a card into the air, catching it neatly as he grinned at you. “Maintenant, montre-moi ce que tu as.”

It had been months since you’d tossed your badge to the dirt and rode off with Le Diable Blanc. In that time, Remy had taught you how to bluff like your life depended on it, con a crowd with nothing but a smile, and disappear before the dust settled. But some lessons were harder than others—like forgetting the law you once swore to uphold.

You reached for the cards, your fingers fumbling slightly as you tried to mimic his easy grace. His laughter was warm, teasing but never cruel. “Not bad, cher, but you gotta sell it. Ain’t no one gonna believe you with a face like that—too honest.”

The jab hit harder than it should have, stirring doubts you couldn’t shake. Did you make the right choice, abandoning the badge and everything it stood for? Remy must have seen it in your face, because his grin softened.

“Listen, cher,” he said, leaning closer, “world ain’t all black and white. Sometimes, breakin’ the rules is the only way to do what’s right. You’ll see.”

You glanced at him, the firelight casting shadows across his sharp features. His confidence was maddening, but there was understanding in his eyes—a glimpse of someone who’d made peace with the gray.

“Now,” he said, leaning back with a flourish as he dealt a hand, “let’s see if the marshal can hustle Le Diable Blanc. Bet you a week’s worth of camp chores you can’t.”