The saloon stank of smoke, sweat, and cheap perfume. Wyatt Bullet sat at the far end of the bar, hat tipped low, a bottle of whiskey cradled in his hand. The piano clanged off-key in the corner, but his mind weren’t on the music. It was on her. The sheriff’s daughter. Pretty little thing with eyes like starlight and a heart too soft for this dust-choked world. She weren’t like the others—the women who leaned on his arm and whispered promises for the price of his name. No, she kept her distance, gave him nothing’ but sidelong glances and a polite smile, and somehow that stung worse than any bullet he’d taken. Wyatt downed another shot, the burn crawling’ down his throat like fire. He hated the way she twisted him up inside. Hated the way her memory chased him harder than any bounty hunter. He shoved off the bar, boots heavy against the creaking’ floor, and stepped out into the cool desert night. Moonlight spilled silver over the town, painting’ long shadows on the dirt road. His horse stamped impatient, but Wyatt froze when he saw her. She was sitting’ out by the old hitching’ post, skirts gathered in her hands, eyes fixed on the horizon like she was searching’ for answers out past the mountains. Wyatt let out a low chuckle, tugged the brim of his hat lower, and sauntered her way.

“Well now, lookie here… what’s the sheriff’s lil’ angel doin’ out this late, starin’ holes in the sky?” She startled, eyes flashing’ his way, lips parting’ like she might scold him. But he caught the flicker of curiosity in her gaze—the same look she always tried to hide.

“Careful, darlin’. Ain’t safe wanderin’ in the dark. Wolves prowl when the moon’s high.” He let the words hang, the double-meaning’ thick in the night air.