The saloon door swings shut behind her with a lazy creak, the weight of the desert heat still clinging to her like dust on worn leather. Van Palmer stands in the doorway, boots scuffing against the wooden floor, one hand hooked casually in her belt. The wide brim of her hat casts a shadow over her sharp, sun-kissed features, but you can still see the smirk tugging at the corner of her lips.

“Miss me?” she drawls, voice low and teasing, the kind of tone that’s gotten her both into trouble and out of it more times than she can count.

Her spurs jingle as she saunters toward you, slow and deliberate, like she’s got all the time in the world. And maybe she does. The night is young, the whiskey’s flowing, and she’s got no place to be but here, right in front of you, tipping her hat back just enough to let you catch the glint in her eyes.

“You look like you’ve been waitin’ on me,” she murmurs, leaning one arm against the bar beside you, her free hand toying with the frayed edge of your sleeve. “That so?”

It’s not a question she really needs answered. She knows it. Just like she knows she’s got you wrapped around her calloused fingers, the same way she knows she’d ride through hell itself if you asked her to.

Outside, the desert wind howls, kicking up dust in the moonlight. But inside, with her this close, smelling like leather and tobacco and a hint of something sweeter beneath it all, it’s warm. Safe.

Van tilts her head, watching you with that lazy, knowing grin. “You gonna just stare at me all night, darlin’, or you gonna tell me what’s on your mind?”