Chapter Text
The desert stretched out endlessly, a quiet yet fierce ocean of sand that shimmered beneath the afternoon sun, where the lone silhouette of a rider and her horse drifted across the horizon.
Days blurred together out here. Sunrises bled into sunsets, and in between there was only the sound of creaking leather, the faint jingle of her tack, and the occasional whisper of wind dragging itself over the badlands. She rode with her hat low, coat collar turned up against the dry air, her canteen sloshing lighter than she would have liked.
But out here, the world belonged to no one, and that was exactly how Marcy liked it. No fences, no shouting foreman, no eyes on her but the blazing sun’s. The freedom to see and do what she’d like was worth every mile of dust in her throat and every night spent beneath a blanket of stars, a sky so vast it held wonders beyond her comprehension.
She’d chased that feeling for as long as she could remember. Every town crossed, every horizon she chased, was a new story waiting to be written in her journal. Some days, it was the hope of a warm meal or a friendly smile. Other days, just the quiet company of the open road. But always, it was hers to choose.
After a few hours, the landscape began to shift. The endless dunes gave way to rocky ridges with hardy sagebrush and scrub. Marcy eased back in her saddle, letting Joe pick his way carefully over the uneven ground.
She ran a hand down his neck, feeling the familiar warmth and strength beneath her fingers. Joe wasn’t just a horse, he was a companion who had carried her through countless miles of dust and sun, always remaining steady and true. She owed him more than she could say.
“Not far now, boy,” she said softly, the corners of her mouth lifting in a tired smile. He snorted softly, a gentle reminder that he was ready for whatever lay ahead.
The narrow trail wound downward, leading them toward the soft murmur of water and the faint hum of life. From on top of the ridge, Marcy could see a modest cluster of weathered buildings nestled close to the riverbank. Smoke rose in lazy curls from a few chimneys, carrying the scent of woodfire. Even from here she could make out the faint clatter of hammer on metal and wood, the bark of a dog, the muted hum of voices carried on the wind.
Her smile came easy. Towns like this were never much, but they were enough to replenish what she needed to continue her journey.
With a gentle tap of her heels, Joe picked up his pace, eager for rest, and Marcy felt a flicker of excitement settle in her chest. The road had been long and lonely, but perhaps here, in this rustic, sun-soaked town, new stories awaited for her.
A weathered sign creaked on a post by the roadside as they entered the town limits: Wartwood. Marcy let the name roll over her tongue for a moment, finding it equally charming and strange.
The dusty main street of Wartwood stretched ahead, flanked by sun-bleached buildings with sagging porches and crooked shingles. She slowed Joe’s pace, letting her eyes wander over what the town had to offer.
Unsurprisingly, a few folks lingered outside, leaning against posts, shuffling down the boardwalk, pausing mid-step to watch her pass by. Their gazes found her almost immediately, sharp and weighing, as if they were deciding whether she was worth the trouble or best left alone.
She offered a small, wobbly smile, tipping her hat slightly. “Afternoon,” she called softly, hoping to break the tension. A couple of men stopped their conversation outside the general store and exchanged quick, wary looks. One spat a quick stream of tobacco juice to the side and gave her a nod that was more warning than welcome.
A pair of kids paused their game as Marcy passed by, eyes wide and curious but quick to look away when she met their gaze.
Marcy tightened her grip on the reins, not surprised by the cold welcome. “No harm meant,” she said under her breath, more to herself than anyone else.
Not wanting to linger too much on the silent hostility she was given so far, she nudged Joe onward until the creak of a swinging door and the faint jangle of piano keys drew her attention. The saloon squatted on the corner, its paint long since surrendered to the sun, the sign overhead faded but still legible: The Hop Saloon.
She guided Joe toward the hitching post, dismounting with a soft grunt before looping his reins and giving his neck a fond pat.
“Won’t be long,” she promised, loosening the cinch just enough for him to rest easy and drink some well deserved water.
Marcy had just turned toward the saloon doors when a voice cut through the silence.
“Don’t think I’ve seen you around here before.”
She looked up to see a tall, broad-shouldered figure leaning casually against the porch rail, hat tilted low enough to shade her eyes. There was an easy smile there, but with an edge to it, like the woman was already three moves ahead in whatever game she was playing.
“Name’s Sasha,” she said, voice warm but anchored with authority. “Deputy Sasha.” She stepped down onto the boardwalk, boots landing with a soft thud that made Marcy instinctively slow her stride.
Marcy adjusted the strap of her satchel, gaze flicking briefly toward the saloon ahead. “Just passing through,” she murmured, hoping to slip inside without drawing more eyes.
But Sasha shifted, just enough to angle her body in the doorway’s path, blocking her. “That so?” she said, head tilting slightly, blue eyes catching the afternoon light as they studied her. “Funny thing about people who are ‘just passing through’—they usually aren’t.”
Marcy’s mouth felt dry. She wasn’t sure if the deputy was weighing her up as a threat… or just deciding how much trouble she might be worth.
Instinctively, her gaze flicked down just enough to catch the faint outlines of dual guns holstered at Sasha’s hip. They looked well-kept, and very, very used.
Sasha’s eyes followed the movement. “You handle that iron too,” Sasha said, voice still soft but with a knowing curl, “or is it just for show?”
Marcy’s fingers twitched against the edge of her coat, resisting the urge to check her own holster. “Depends who’s asking.”
That brought a quiet chuckle out of the deputy, more amused than suspicious. “Someone who likes to know what she’s dealing with.” She took one small step forward, the metal glint of her revolvers catching in the sun. “And whether she’s looking at an asset… or a headache.”
Marcy met her gaze. “I’m not here to start anything.”
“Well, now that’s the thing,” Sasha began, tapping her thumbs against the buckle of her gun belt. “In my experience, folks who say that are the ones you keep your eye on.”
For a long moment, neither of them moved. Marcy wasn’t a stranger to being in stalemates, some ending with a laugh and a friendly handshake, others with someone hitting the dirt. This one, she couldn’t quite read yet.
“Guess that means I’m in the interesting category, huh?” she said, the faintest smile tugging at her lips.
Sasha didn’t return it. “Means I’m not letting you out of my sight until I know you’re not here to make trouble.”
Marcy considered her options. She could bristle at that, or she could let the tension sit where it was, see if the deputy’s guard dropped on its own. In the end, she simply nodded and adjusted the strap of her satchel. “Then I guess you’ll be seeing a lot of me, Deputy.”
Sasha’s gaze lingered another heartbeat before she gave a slow nod, stepping aside then; by not much but just enough to give Marcy a sliver of space toward the saloon doors.
Marcy shifted her hat a notch lower and cautiously walked past, the weight of Sasha’s stare trailing her like a drawn gun until the saloon swallowed her whole.
Releasing the breath she hadn’t even known she’d been holding in since the deputy first spoke, she let her shoulders sag just a fraction once the doors closed behind her, racing pulse finally getting the chance to calm. While she did enjoy the lick of danger every now and then, messing with the law was a different story entirely; one she unfortunately knew all too well. A wrong place, wrong time kind of history.
A weary sigh left her lips, hands reaching up to adjust her hat. Hopefully nothing like that happened here… this town didn’t look like the forgiving sort, especially not that deputy.
Pushing through the last of her nerves, she stepped further in the saloon, gaze idly sweeping across the main room as some folk played cards, drank, or simply chatted with one another. The air inside was warmer, heavier with the scent of tobacco and stale ale, but blessedly free of the dust and sand carried on the wind outside.
The barkeep barely looked up when she moved towards the counter and asked for water, only nodding and filling a glass before sliding it across the counter. She took it with both hands, cool condensation slicking her fingers, and tipped it back. The first swallow was almost too much, her throat catching on the sudden rush of something that wasn’t dust but she pushed through, gulp after gulp, until the ache in her chest softened into relief.
Easing into her seat, Marcy mulled over her next course of action. While staying in Wartwood for a few days certainly sounded appealing: the time to rest both her legs and Joe’s, patch her gear, and most importantly stock up before her next stretch of road, the memory of the deputy’s sharp-eyed scrutiny and the tense set of the locals’ eyes made the prospect less inviting.
She’d dealt with towns like this before. Places where the smiles didn’t reach the eyes, where a stranger’s welcome only lasted as long as she kept to herself and didn’t ask too many questions. And she wasn’t exactly the type to fade into the background, not when her luck had a way of tripping her into the middle of things.
Her fingers drummed lightly on the cool glass as she weighed the options. Move on and risk the next stretch with dwindling supplies, or stay and keep her head down?
But before she could really delve into a decision, a small voice piped up from beside her. “Hey.”
She blinked, head turning toward the small figure leaning against the counter next to her. A girl, couldn’t be older than ten, rested her chin on folded arms, wide eyes peering up at her with that sharp, unblinking curiosity. A streak of ginger hair fell across her face, and she blew it away without breaking eye contact.
“Are you a gunslinger?” the girl asked without hesitation, as if the question was no more unusual than asking for the time.
Marcy’s brows lifted, caught somewhere between amusement and surprise. “That’s… a pretty big question for a kid,” she said, setting her glass back on the counter.
The girl shrugged. “You look like one. You’ve got the hat. The coat. And that thing on your hip.” Her gaze flicked down toward the holster at Marcy’s side.
“Maybe I just like the look,” Marcy offered. Though, the girl didn’t look convinced. If anything, her eyes narrowed in a way that felt far too practiced for her age.
“My grandpa says gunslingers don’t stay in towns like this unless they’re looking for trouble,” she said matter-of-factly. “So which are you? Passing through, or here for a fight?”
Marcy huffed a quiet laugh, more out of disbelief than humor. “Bold kid.” She leaned back slightly, studying her pint-sized interrogator. “What if I told you neither?”
“Then I’d say you’re lying,” the girl shot back, chin lifting.
That earned her a real smile. “You always talk to strangers like this?”
“Only the interesting ones.”
Marcy tilted her head curiously, twirling the last inch of water in her glass. “And what made you come to that conclusion?”
The girl shrugged again. “Because you’re not boring enough to ignore me. Most travelers just grunt and stare at their drinks.”
“Well I guess I should be flattered.”
“You should,” she grinned without missing a beat. Then she leaned in, lowering her voice into a hush. “You should also know that people are watching you right now.”
Marcy’s hand stilled on the glass. “Watching me?”
The girl nodded toward the far table where a few of the older locals sat playing cards. None of them were looking now, but she could feel the weight of their attention all the same.
“You look like trouble,” she said, though not unkindly. “And Wartwood doesn’t like trouble it doesn’t start itself.”
Marcy arched a brow. “And what if I told you I’m just here to rest and stock up?”
The girl’s grin turned sly. “Still lying.”
Marcy exhaled through her nose, the edge of a smirk tugging at her lips. “You’re not making it easy for me to plead my case, kid.”
“You’ve already got the deputy sniffing around,” the girl went on, rocking back and forth on her heels. “Saw her talk to you when you rode in. That’s practically a welcome sign here.”
Another huff of laughter leaves Marcy, recalling that stiff exchange only a few moments ago. “Yeah. Guess there’s worse people who could be keeping an eye on me.”
“Oh, for sure. Sasha’s not bad. She just likes to pretend she’s scary. Now Sheriff Grime? He’s the one you don’t want staring holes through you. Or Mrs. Croaker. She’ll make you do her bidding, then ask why you’re still in her town three weeks later.”
That earned a quiet chuckle from Marcy. “Sounds like a real warm welcome.”
“Depends who you ask.” the girl waved off, settling herself on the stool next to Marcy, an eagerness suddenly sparkling in her eye as the next question almost jumped off her tongue. “But I bet you can shoot a can clean off a fence post from, like… way far away.”
Amusement flickers in Marcy’s eyes. “What makes you so sure about that?”
“Just a feeling,” the girl said with a wink. “You’ve got that look. The kind that doesn’t miss.”
Before Marcy could answer, the saloon back doors swung open and a lanky boy stomped in. His sharp eyes scanned the saloon until they landed on the girl.
“Polly! There you are,” he called out, relief and exasperation mixed in his voice. “You’re not bothering anyone, are you?”
The girl, Polly, rolled her eyes but smiled as she hopped back down from the stool. “Just having a little chat.”
The boy’s gaze finally shifted towards Marcy, eyes narrowing as he stepped closer. “And who might this be?”
Polly only shrugged. “Someone interesting.”
The boy’s protective stance stiffened almost instantly. “You better not be causing trouble, stranger.”
Marcy gave a small, easy smile, keeping her tone light. “Just passing through. No trouble on this mind.”
The boy’s eyes didn’t soften, but he relaxed just a bit. “Well, the name’s Sprig. And this is my little sister, Polly. We keep an eye out for each other, and for this town.”
“I can see that.” Marcy acknowledged with a nod. “Not many kids like you are willing to do that for their town. Wartwood must’ve gotten lucky.”
Sprig’s gaze flickered toward Polly, a brief flicker of pride softening his features before he looked back at Marcy. “We’ve had to be. Not everyone around here likes strangers, much less standing up to them.”
Marcy tipped her hat. “Well, I respect that. A town’s only as strong as those who stand to protect it.”
Polly grinned, clearly pleased with Marcy’s words, and Sprig gave a small, reluctant smile in return, though his eyes remained wary.
“So, what’s your name, stranger? Can’t just be called ‘someone interesting’ around here.”
As if she’d been waiting for the cue, her grin widened just a touch. “Marcy Wu,” she said, sweeping off her hat in a small, almost theatrical gesture. “Explorer, mapmaker, and occasional sharpshooter when the trail calls for it.”
She rested her hat back on her head, eyes glinting with an easy confidence. “Mostly I go where the land hasn’t been charted yet, or where there’s a good story waiting to be found.”
Sprig raised an eyebrow, his curiosity winning over his suspicion for a moment. “And Wartwood’s on your map?”
“Not yet,” Marcy said with a playful shrug. “But maybe it should be.”
Polly leaned forward, elbows propped on the counter. “Bet you’ve seen all kinds of weird stuff out there.”
“Oh, you wouldn’t believe half of it,” Marcy replied, leaning over to speak her next words in a hush. “Like the time I got chased across a canyon by a pack of coyotes… only to realize they were being chased by something else.”
Polly’s eyes widened. In the corner of Marcy’s eye, she also saw Sprig begin to lean in. “What was it?”
“Let’s just say it had more teeth than sense, and I had to run faster than both it and the coyotes to make it out.”
Polly let out an impressed laugh, grin eager and wide. “Okay, now I gotta hear the full story.”
Meanwhile, Sprig glanced between the two of them, lips twitching before he finally allowed a small chuckle. “Well… if you’re looking for stories, you’ll find a few here. Just… try not to make yourself one of them ‘cause I wanna hear that story too.”
“Deal.”
As if remembering something, Sprig straightened, glancing toward the saloon doors. “C’mon, Polly. Hop Pop and Anne are waiting for us back at the house. Said they’ve got something important to show us.”
Polly only groaned dramatically but began to follow her brother. “Fine… but you owe me the rest of that story later. I’ll even hunt you down for it.” She vowed, pointing at Marcy like it was a signed contract between them.
Marcy chuckled, raising a hand in mock salute. “I’ll make sure it’s worth the wait.”
Sprig gave her one last weighing look, one that wasn’t quite distrustful anymore, but not entirely at ease, before turning towards the doors. Polly lingered just long enough to flash Marcy a mischievous grin before bounding after him.
The saloon seemed quieter without their presence. Now just a shuffle of boots, low conversation, and the faint creaks of old wood.
Marcy sat there for another beat, fingers drumming idly against the rim of her second empty glass. She hadn’t expected her first real conversation in this town to be with two kids who looked ready to throw themselves headfirst into trouble for the fun of it. It was… refreshing. Most folks she visits in these small towns only wanted to talk trade or tally debts, not swap grins over near-death experiences.
With a quiet hum to herself, she pushed her stool back, coins clinking on the table before she departed the saloon. The dusk air was cooler now, settling the heat that had clung to her all day. After feeding and brushing the dirt off Joe, she got into her saddle and began looking for a place to rest.
A modest inn stood around the corner street, its sign swaying in the breeze. She stepped inside, greeted by the warm scent of woodsmoke and the quiet creak of floorboards. After arranging for a room, she made her way upstairs, the day’s fatigue catching up to her in slow waves.
Hat hung and boots by the bed, she collapsed on the bed, finally letting herself breathe out her worries for the day and just simply rest.
Briefly, her mind wandered back over the day: the wary eyes in the street, the deputy’s sharp presence, the unexpected warmth of two kids who dared to meet her gaze without fear. There was something honest about Wartwood’s cautiousness, something that made her want to stick around a little longer despite the chill beneath the surface.
A faint smile tugged at her lips as her eyes struggled to keep themselves open, the bed’s soft embrace finally coaxing her into stillness. Whatever stories lay ahead, she knew she was exactly where she needed to be, at least for tonight.
***
The morning passed in a steady rhythm. Marcy moved through Wartwood’s main street, checking off her list: fresh water from the general store, some dried jerky and canned food, patches of cloth and extra thread to mend her clothing. Naturally, the townsfolk kept their distance, casting wary glances her way as she shopped but none spoke beyond the usual greetings.
She felt the weight of the watchful eyes but pushed through the unease, reminding herself of Polly and Sprig’s words from yesterday.
With her satchel a little heavier and supplies secured, Marcy headed back towards the center of town, ready to find a quiet spot to plan her next move. But just as she rounded a shortcut, the distant murmur of raised voices caught her attention. The sounds weren’t far, only just down the side street.
Curiosity pulled her forward, instincts going on high alert. As she neared, she caught sight of Sprig, Polly and another younger girl surrounded by a group of rough-looking travelers. One of them, having enough of sizing them up, reached out suddenly, snatching the other girl’s hat from her head.
“Funny hat for a kid,” he jeered, tossing it between his fingers. The other girl’s stance stiffened, gaze near deadly as she stepped forward.
“Give it back.”
“Yeah!” Sprig suddenly barked, taking out a slingshot from his back pocket and loading it with a spare rock. “Give it back to her, bandit!”
The man laughed. “Or what, little man? You gonna shoot me with that?”
Polly stepped closer to Sprig, eyes blazing. “Don’t let him get to you, Sprig. We’re not scared.”
The leader of the group smirked, tossing the hat up and catching it with a casual flick of his wrist. “Scared? No, just enjoying the show. This town’s full of brats who think they’re tougher than they are.”
With a snap of his fingers, the two men at his side lunged, one shoving the younger girl to the ground, the other grabbing Sprig by the collar of his tunic and hauling him off balance.
Before either could do more, a sharp crack cut through the air. All heads snapped towards the sound as Marcy strode forward, boots kicking up dust with each step, her coat billowing behind her like a shadow. Her eyes blazed beneath the brim of her hat, voice cold and hard as steel itself.
“Enough.”
Shaking out of his stupor, the leader scoffed, stepping forward with a crooked grin. His hand reached slowly into his coat; no doubt about to grab his revolver.
“Or what?”
Without a moment’s hesitation, she drew her revolver, spinning it once in her hand before firing another bullet and knocking his hat clean off his head, sending it skittering across the dirt.
He stumbled back in shock, hand faltering in grabbing his weapon. And that was all Marcy needed.
Moving like lightning, she kicked a nearby wooden crate, sending it crashing into a pile of barrels that tumbled like dominos, scattering the bandits and cutting off their advance.
One of the bandit’s lunged at her, but she caught his wrist mid-swing, twisted sharply, and slammed him into the ground. Grabbing and whipping a coil of rope from a nearby post, she lashed it around the incoming second bandit’s legs, sending him tumbling before he could reach her.
Two down, one to go.
Seizing the moment, the leader yanked his revolver free from his coat and aimed at Marcy, eyes blazing with fury. But just before he had the chance to fire, another sharp shot rang out, knocking the gun from his grasp with a sharp clang of metal, sending it clattering to the ground.
The leader snarled, clutching his wrist and taking a step back. “You little—“
“Save it,” she interrupted, leveling her revolver at him, the sound of the cylinder clicking into place asserting her warning, “You’re done here.”
For a moment, the man hesitated, eyes darting between her poised weapon and the two groaning bodies on the ground. It seemed the value of self-preservation won over pride. His lip curled in one last show of defiance before he spat into the dirt, turned on his heel, and stalked off.
Breathing out a sigh of relief once the man left, she holstered her revolver, though the pounding of her heartbeat still echoed loudly in her ears. The two wounded men groaned again, shifting where they lay in the dust, but Marcy spared them no more than a wary glance. She had no doubt that the lawmen were on their way after the gunshots fired out.
From the corner of her eye, movement stirred as Sprig poked his head out from behind an overturned barrel, eyes wide as saucers. “Uh… are we good?” he asked, voice cracking.
“Good? That was amazing!” Polly popped out next to him, grinning like she had just witnessed the best gunfight show of her life. “You totally nailed that guy! And the other guy! And—“
From behind them, the younger girl Marcy had seen earlier stepped out from cover, dusting off her skirt and picking up her hat from the ground. She placed it firmly back on her head with a huff, side-eying one of the men still on the floor until her attention turned towards Marcy.
“Thanks for that,” she said simply, offering a small smile, “Name’s Ivy Sundew. Guess I owe you one.”
Marcy shook her head, returning a smile of her own. “Just glad everyone’s okay.”
Sprig suddenly let out a shaky laugh, rubbing the back of his neck, more than likely recalling his near graze of death when that bandit grabbed him. “Okay might be a stretch, but… yeah. You were pretty amazing.”
Ivy nodded in agreement. “Yeah, it’s not everyday you get to see someone take on a couple of jerks like that and win. You’ve got to tell me where you learned to shoot.”
Before Marcy could answer, the sharp and urgent sound of a bell interrupted their conversation. Marcy’s eyes narrowed, the weight of the situation settling over her again. That wasn’t a casual ring, it was the kind meant to rally folks or warn them.
“Trouble?” Sprig asked, his voice small.
“Could be,” Ivy replied, already scanning the street with a wary glance. “We should probably clear out before we find out the hard way with Sasha.”
Polly’s face fell. “Aw, but I wanted to see what happens next.”
“What happens next,” Marcy began with a faint smirk tugging at her lips, “is you all find somewhere safe, and I make myself scare before that deputy decides I’m part of the problem.” She adjusted the strap of her satchel, glancing down the street where the sound of boots and hooves started to grow louder. “Trust me, it’s better if we’re not standing in the same place when the questions start.”
Sprig frowned at her words, wanting to object, but Ivy caught his sleeve and gave Marcy a knowing nod. “Fair enough. Thanks for stepping in back there. Still owing you one.”
Marcy’s smirk softened. “Just pay it forward,” she tipped her hat in farewell, already edging towards the nearest alley. “Stay safe!”
And with that, she turned with a flair of her coat, slipping into the narrow backstreet; just in time before the deputy entered the scene.
***
Marcy’s boots clattered rapidly against the uneven alley path as she rounded yet another corner, the sound of the town’s bell and commotion fading behind her. Putting distance between herself and the chaos was all that mattered, forcing herself not to think about the chill of Sasha’s gaze she had narrowly just escaped from.
Then—crash!
Boxes of supplies tumbled across the alley, wood splintering under her momentum.
“Oh! I’m so sorry! I didn’t see—please, let me help!” she stammered, dropping to her knees in a panic to try and right one of the fallen crates. Her hands shook from the adrenaline, fumbling as she attempted to lift it.
And then she looked up.
Sunlight poured like liquid gold over the young woman standing before her, one salvaged crate balanced effortlessly in her arms. Skin kissed by the sun, warm and rich; hair the shade of deep chestnuts with unruly stray curls catching the angle of light in glints of amber. The sight hit Marcy like a rush of summer air, soft and golden and oh-so dizzying all at once. A faint sheen of dust clung to her clothes and fingers, the trace of someone who’d been working, moving, living.
And then there were her eyes. Oh, her eyes—brown in way that wasn’t dull at all, but alive, carrying little flecks of blue that made them gleam like the finest jewels of the west. It made Marcy’s heart skip a pleasant beat.
She was beautiful.
Oh. Oh no.
“Uh… I—I’m sorry. Really, I didn’t—“ Marcy tried again, but her voice cracked under those warm eyes looking down at her so equally concerned and patient.
Then, the woman smiled, and it was over. Marcy was done. Officially and utterly undone.
“It’s alright,” she said softly, tilting her head as if she had all the time in the world to watch Marcy fumble over herself. “You’re not hurt, are you?”
Only mortally wounded, Marcy thought, but what came out was a mess, “Oh—no! No, I’m fine. I—uhm… you’re… you’re very strong.” The words sounded utterly ridiculous, even to her own ears, and she expected the woman to cringe or wordlessly walk away, but instead, she laughed, the sound warm and genuine.
Oh God. Marcy wanted to bottle that sound and live inside it forever.
“Thanks,” she said, shifting the crate in her arms like it was no effort at all, “And you? You look like you just ran a mile?”
Marcy swallowed hard, heart hammering and suddenly very aware of how ridiculous she must have looked. Hands smeared with dirt, hair stuck to her face, cloak on the wrong side of her shoulder after her flurry of panic.
“Yeah… well, you know… morning rush, right?” she said, forcing a grin that probably looked more like a grimace.
The woman arched an eyebrow. The crate in her arms didn’t so much as shift as she studied Marcy’s disheveled state. “Morning rush,” she repeated, voice slow as honey dripping from a spoon, “That what they’re calling barreling through alleys like a spooked mustang these days?”
Marcy’s face burned. She reached up to adjust her hat, only to find it hanging halfway off her head. Her bangs hand stubbornly decided to stick to her forehead no matter how much she tried to fix it, leaving it with a huff. She must look like something dragged backwards through a cactus patch.
The woman’s gaze tracked the movement, her lips twitching. Without a word, she set the crate down and stepped closer. Marcy’s breath hitched as calloused fingers brushed her temple, tucking the stubborn strands behind her ear.
“Better,” she murmured, her thumb lingering just a second too long against Marcy’s cheekbone.
And Marcy… Marcy was fairly certain her heart stopped.
“Y’know,” the woman continued, stepping back to retrieve the fallen crate Marcy was trying to lift, “most folks use the street when they’re in a hurry.”
Marcy’s moved before her brain had the chance to catch up. “Where’s the fun in that?”
Her laugh was sudden and bright, smile growing. “Ain’t that the truth,” She hefted the crate higher, muscles flexing beneath rolled-up sleeves that Marcy was definitely not eyeing right now. “You always this much trouble, or am I special?”
Special. Definitely special. The thought slipped across Marcy’s mind before she could stop it.
“Depends,” she managed, wiping her dusty hands on her trousers. “You always this pretty, or is the sunlight doing you favors?”
Her grin turns wolfish. “Now that’s no way to talk to a lady after nearly bowling her over.”
Nervous, Marcy opened her mouth to apologize or dig her grave deeper, she wasn’t quite sure yet, but just before she could get a word out a crate was abruptly shoved into her arms, making her stumble back with a surprised grunt.
“Since you’re so eager to help, might as well make yourself useful, gunslinger.” the woman interrupted, already turning towards the scattered supplies.
Marcy blinked. “I never said I was—“
A look was shot over the woman’s shoulder, brow raised with a knowing smile. “Let’s see,” she mused, ticking off talking points with her fingers. “Worn-in boots with proper riding spurs. Strange but charming attire that’s seen more trails than wagon wheels. And that?” She nodded towards Marcy’s hip. “Not exactly standard issue for farmhands or shopkeeps, sweetheart.”
She took a step closer, the early afternoon sunlight catching the blue flecks in her brown eyes. “Now I may just be a simple delivery girl, but even I know that adds up to one thing.”
She leaned in, close enough that Marcy could smell the faint scent of hay and cinnamon on her. "You're either the worst undercover lawman in the territory," her lips quirked into a grin, "or you've got stories worth trading for a drink."
Marcy’s stomach swooped, the word sweetheart buzzing in her ears with the woman’s close proximity and her wickedly charming grin threatening to turn her into mush.
Oh, she was in for it now.
“Name’s Anne,” she continued, stacking yet another crate atop Marcy’s burden with ease. “And you are?”
Done for. Smitten. Doomed.
“Marcy,” she breathed out, arms full of crates and her heart full of something dangerously hopeful.
Anne's grin softened at the edges as she reached out to steady the teetering stack in Marcy's arms. “Well, Marcy," she said, her fingers brushing Marcy's and sending a pleasant flutter through her chest, “reckon you owe me a drink after all this.”
She nodded toward the saloon across the street, her grin looking almost hopeful. “The Hop Saloon. Tonight at eight, if you’re not too busy getting tangled up in more alleys.”
Marcy’s mouth went dry.
She’s asking me. She’s really—
Anne’s smile widened, as if she could see the gears turning in Marcy’s head. With an easy giggle, she reached out and straightened the lopsided hat on Marcy’s head.
“Don’t overthink it, gunslinger.”
Oh, but how could she not? The most beautiful gal in town—no, the entire dang frontier, had just asked her out. Casually. Like it was nothing. Like Marcy wasn’t standing there with splinters still stinging her palms and her heart threatening to burst out of her chest.
“O—Okay. Yes! I—I’ll be there.”
Giving the crate in Marcy’s arms one last pat, her fingers lingering just a heartbeat too long before she stepped away. But instead of turning, she walked backward slowly, arms swinging loose behind her back like a schoolgirl who’d just shared a secret. A faint pink colored Anne’s cheeks, though whether from the heat or something else, Marcy couldn’t tell. Neither seemed willing to break this fragile moment between them.
Then, just before the alley’s bend would steal her from view, Anne called out to her, “I’ll save you a seat by the piano!” tapping two fingers to her brow in mock salute before finally turning away, but not before Marcy caught the way her steps quickened, almost giddy, as she disappeared around the corner.
Marcy stood there motionless, the crates in her arms suddenly weightless.
Oh. Oh wow.
A giddy, disbelieving laugh bubbled up in Marcy’s throat. She was going. Of course she was going. She’d crawl through the worst trenches of the valley and face relentless barrages of gang members to get to that saloon by eight. She’d—
“Well ain’t this a sight.”
Marcy nearly dropped the crates as she whirled around to find Sasha leaning against the alley wall, arms crossed over her deputy’s star, and smirk downright predatory.
“The great alley-crasher, struck dumb by Wartwood’s finest delivery girl.”
“I wasn’t—!” Marcy’s voice cracked, face flushing brightly. “We were just—“
“Save it.” Sasha interrupted, stalking forward and plucking an apple from the top crate as she passed, polishing it against her shirt before taking a crisp bite. “Though I will say… Anne’s usually better at spotting trouble before it barrels into her. ‘Course, you’re not exactly trouble, are you?”
Marcy blinked. “I… no?”
“Mhmm. Funny thing. Heard from some little birds—well, a few very loud little birds—that some quick-draw stranger saved their hides from a couple of bandits earlier.”
Marcy’s grip tightened on the crates.
“You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, right?” Sasha inquired, stepping closer and pinning Marcy under that deadly stare.
Marcy’s easy grin came automatically, the same one that had talked her out of three bar fights and one ill-advised marriage proposal. “Funny. I don’t recall ‘small talk with lawmen’ being on my to-do list today.”
Just wonderful.
Every nerve in her body was cataloguing the details: the way Sasha’s fingers drummed against her gunbelt, the weight of that stare, like she was peeling back Marcy’s skin to count the sins underneath.
Sasha stepped closer, kicking up a small storm of dirt as she began to circle. “Aw, don’t be like that.” Her smile showed teeth. “Just curious how three wanted men, each ones with a set of warrants thicker than Polly’s skull, happened to pick a fight right when a certain gunslinger rolled into town.” A pause. The corner of her mouth twitched. “Almost like they knew you.”
Marcy’s pulse jumped, but she hoisted the crates higher, using them as a makeshift shield to hide the sweat building on her brow. “Deputy, are you accusing me of staging an ambush just to impress some kids?” She gasped in mock offense, widening her grin that she knew only fanned the flame. “I’m wounded. And here I thought we were bonding.”
Sasha took another slow bite from her apple, crunching loud enough to make Marcy’s eye twitch. “Mm. You’re real good at answering questions that ain’t been asked.” She flicked the apple core to the dirt and stepped closer; close enough that Marcy could see a faint scar across her right cheek. “Here’s what I actually asked: did you know those men?”
The crates were getting heavy, real heavy. Marcy’s arms burned, but she refused to let them dip even an inch, not with Sasha watching her like a hawk circling prey. “If I say no, you wouldn’t believe me. If I said yes, you’d slap irons on me before I could blink.” She adjusted her grip, fingers digging into the rough wood. “So let’s skip to the part where you tell me what you really want.”
For the first time, Sasha’s smirk faltered. Until it settled into something sharper. “Cute. Real cute.” She leaned in, voice dropping low. “What I want is to know why a drifter with reflexes like yours didn’t stick around to claim three perfectly good bounties.” Her gloved finger tapped the side of the bottom crate, right where Marcy’s whitening knuckles held it. “Unless you got a reason to avoid lawmen.”
A bead of sweat trickled down Marcy’s temple. The crates creaking in her arms.
Think. Fast.
She forced a laugh. “Oh, is that all? Deputy, if I stopped for every two-bit outlaw with a price on his head, I’d never make it to the next town.” She tilted her head, channeling every ounce of false bravado she’d learned in a dozen saloons and twice as many poker games. “Besides, figured you’d appreciate the assist. Unless Wartwood’s so flushed with deputies you don’t need the help?”
Sasha’s eyes narrowed. Then, abruptly, she threw her head back and laughed. A rough, almost startling sound that even made a nearby horse snort in its hitching post. “Oh, you’re good.” She chuckled, wiping away a tear from her eye, her laughter subsiding.
“Real shame you’re full of shit.”
Before Marcy could retort, Sasha snatched the top crate clean out of her arms. Marcy staggered, suddenly off-balance, while Sasha hefted the load one-handed like it weighed nothing at all to her.
Was everyone in this town freakishly strong?
“So, here’s what’s gonna happen,” Sasha began, cheerful as a cocked hammer ready to slam down on some poor rusted nail. “You’re gonna help out Anne, like you so-embarrassingly claimed, and deliver these to the establishment printed on the front end of these crates.”
She leaned in, close enough for Marcy to count the sun-freckles dotted across her nose. “Then tonight, you’re gonna show up at the Hop Saloon looking real presentable.”
Sasha’s hand shot out, rough and fast, wrenching the last crate toward herself. The wood groaned, caught between them, pinning Marcy in place until she had no choice but to meet those sharp blue eyes over the splintered edge.
“And I’ll be sitting by the front door, watching your every move like a hawk with a hunger to satisfy.” With a sudden shove, the crate slammed back into Marcy’s chest, hard enough to knock the breath out of her.
Her throat went dry, but she held her ground, gathering balance and lifting her chin at the other. “That a threat or a promise, Deputy?”
“Call it… professional curiosity.” Sasha free hand tapped her badge with lazy finality. “See, Anne’s like a sister to me. And sisters?” She dropped the crate back into Marcy’s arms with a thud that made her knees buckle. “We vet the riffraff.”
The crate’s rough edges bit into Marcy’s forearms. She could feel splinters working their way through her shirt sleeves, but refused to wince. “Riffraff. Charming.”
“Oh, you haven’t seen charming yet.” Sasha chuckled, and Marcy bristled, refusing to let the sound get under her skin. “You show up late? I’ll know. You order the wrong drink? I’ll know. You even think about breaking her heart—“
“—you’ll know.” Marcy finished flatly, meeting Sasha’s gaze straight on. “Let me guess, you’ve got a ledger on every fool who’s ever bought Anne a drink.”
Sasha’s grin turned lethal. “Darlin’, I’ve got ledgers on folks who’ve thought about buying her a drink.” Her hand reached out, bold as a brand, tugging Marcy’s cloak back on straight. The touch was quick, almost affectionate, before she let go. “But you? You’re special. Got your own tab already.”
Marcy’s thin smile twitched, stretched somewhere between being amused and concerned. “Should I be flattered?”
“Oh, you should. Not everyone makes it to my watchlist this fast. Usually it takes a brawl, a broken window, and at least one overnight stay in the jailhouse.”
Marcy couldn’t help but roll her eyes, the smallest huff of a chuckle leaving her mouth. “Well, I’m nothing if not efficient.”
Sasha barked out a laugh. “Efficient. That’s one word for it.” She stepped back, giving Marcy a slow once-over that felt more like an appraisal than anything. “Anne’s got a soft spot for folks who look like they’ve wandered out of some dime novel. A gunslinger with a mysterious past? She eats that up.”
Marcy’s smile strained, but she refused to break eye contact. “And you don’t?”
Sasha tilted her head, considering the question, then shook it. “Nah. I’ve seen enough of your kind blow into town with quick hands and quicker lies. Never ends well.”
That stung more than Marcy wanted to admit, but she hid it under a simple shrug. “Well, maybe I’ll surprise you.”
“Maybe,” Sasha drawled, stepping past her, close enough that Marcy caught the scent of gunpowder and tobacco on her. “But surprises? I don’t like ‘em. So tonight—“
A sudden weight landed heavy on Marcy's shoulder, Sasha's calloused palm pressing down. Her fingers curled just enough to make the bones shift beneath Marcy's shirt, not quite painful, but leaving no doubt about the strength behind that grip. The warmth of it bled through the fabric, carrying the faint metallic tang of gun oil from Sasha's gloves. Each squeeze punctuated her next words like hammer falls, “No tricks. No running off. Just you, Anne, and me making sure you don’t try anything stupid.”
Marcy scoffed under her creeping nerves, her bravado flickering back to life like a stubborn lantern. "Deputy, I'd say crashing into alleys is stupid enough for one day."
Sasha's answering grin over her shoulder was all wolfish amusement. “Good. Keep it that way.” With a final pat to her shoulder, Sasha tipped her hat and started down the alley, boots clicking with that same infuriating, unhurried confidence.
But just before the bend swallowed her up, she pivoted on her heel. "One more thing," she called back, jabbing a gloved finger toward Marcy's general disarray. "That is not an outfit. It's a cry for help. Anne deserves better than a cloak that smells like three weeks of trail dust and poor life choices."
Marcy's jaw unhinged. "Trail dust?!" Her eyes flew back to her beloved cloak. "This is quality wear, I'll have you know—"
But Sasha was already rounding the corner, her laughter bouncing off the sun-bleached buildings like ricocheting bullets.
Marcy stood fuming in the sudden quiet, the heat crawling up her neck. She could practically feel the hair at the back of her neck bristling like an angry cat's. With a growl, she looked down at herself. Really looked.
The evidence was damning.
Marcy stared at the frayed hem of her cloak, suddenly seeing it through Sasha’s… no, through Anne’s eyes. The once dark but rich purple-grey fabric had faded, crusted with the ghosts of campfires and questionable river crossings. Her once pristine white shirt and dark trousers were stained with smears of dirt, more than likely from the train wreck she had with Anne earlier.
Oh hell.
The crates groaned in her arms, reminding her of their existence. Right. Deliveries first. Existential wardrobe crisis later.
As she started walking out of the alley, only one thought consumed her: Anne.
The name looped in Marcy’s head like a favorite melody, sweet and endless. She could still feel the ghost of Anne’s fingers brushing her temple, tucking back her hair like she was something precious. Could still see the way the sunlight had caught in those impossible blue-flecked eyes when she’d laughed—
Crash—!!
Marcy nearly walked straight into a hitching post, the crates tilting precariously. Joe snorted from where he was tied nearby, clearly judging her. "Oh shut up," she muttered to him, adjusting her grip. But even the near-disaster couldn't wipe the grin off her face.
Every step toward the general store was a step closer to eight o'clock. Closer to seeing Anne again. Closer to—
What if I say something stupid?
What if I trip over my own boots?
What if—
Marcy shook her head hard enough to make her hat wobble. No. No catastrophizing. She'd faced down armed bandits without blinking, traversed the most dangerous badlands of the west. She could handle one pretty girl at a piano.
…Even if said pretty girl made her palms sweat and her thoughts scatter like startled quail.
Another giddy buzz coursed through her at the thought, the bright grin on her lips refusing to be tamed. She had a date. A real one. With a girl who smelled like cinnamon and had the most dazzling smile of the frontier and—
Sasha was going to be watching.
Marcy’s grin didn’t falter. Let the deputy glare. Let the whole damn town stare.
Tonight, she’d walk into that saloon like she belonged there.
Tonight, she’d earn that smile.