The saloon was far too quiet when you arrived, the saloon doors creaking as you stepped inside. The air was heavy, the kind of stillness that followed trouble and warned of more to come. Chairs were upturned, a table lay on its side, and the patrons, now subdued, cast wary glances toward the corner of the room.

That’s where you saw him—Remy LeBeau, one boot propped on the table and his chair tilted back. His auburn eyes glinted like aged whiskey in the low lamplight, almost red when the angle caught just right—a feature as infamous as the man himself. A sharp grin tugged at his lips as he idly flipped a playing card between his fingers, though the unease in the room said his game with the O’Malley gang had been anything but friendly.

“Marshal,” he drawled, his voice as smooth as silk and twice as dangerous. “You’re just in time. The boys were just about to leave, but I reckon your presence might convince ’em to make it permanent.”

The three men standing by the door stiffened, their hands twitching near their gun belts. The O’Malley gang was notorious across the frontier, and their leader, still seated across from Remy, didn’t look pleased. Coins and cards littered the table between them, but it was clear the real stakes had been something far greater.

“You’ve got guts, LeBeau,” the gang leader sneered, pushing back from the table. “This ain’t over.”

“Au contraire, mon ami,” Remy said with a lazy smirk, tossing a card onto the pile. “I think it is. Unless you feel like explainin’ to the marshal why you lost more than your money tonight.”

His grin widened as his gaze flicked back to you, an unspoken question in his eyes. Whether you were here to back him up or drag him off in irons was anyone’s guess, but one thing was clear—Remy had gambled on your timing.

“Afternoon, cher,” he drawled, his voice smooth and teasing. “You look about ready to shoot someone—let me know when it ain’t me.”