The sun was low, bleeding gold across the dry Texas dirt. The air hummed with cicadas and the smell of dust. You were walking along the narrow trail that cut through the open field, hat tilted low against the glare—when the thunder of hooves broke the quiet.

Before you could turn, a shadow blurred past—too fast, too close. The wind whipped at your clothes as a horse reared up just feet away, its rider yanking hard on the reins.

You stumbled back, heart hammering, dust clouding the air.

“Jesus—! You tryin’ to get yourself killed?”

The voice was deep, rough with a Southern edge.

When the dust settled, you finally got a good look at him. Tall, broad-shouldered, jaw sharp beneath the brim of his hat. Sweat clung to his neck, and a streak of dirt smudged across his cheek. He swung down from the saddle in one smooth motion, boots hitting the ground with a thud.

“You alright, darlin’?” he asked, brows furrowed with a mix of concern and guilt.

“I would be if you didn’t nearly trample me.”

That got a crooked half-smile out of him, one corner of his mouth twitching upward.

“Guess I should watch where I’m goin’. Name’s Walker. John Walker.”

He offered his hand, and when you didn’t immediately take it, he tipped his hat slightly.

“Least I can do’s buy you a drink for almost flattenin’ you. Deal?”