Chapter Text
The sun hangs low, casting long shadows between the rundown houses. There, he waits patiently as his target enters the bar, but doesn't follow. He doesn't need attention, he needs answers.
Not because answers change reality.
The man who pulled the trigger wasn't the one who carried the blame.
But perhaps the man who did could still choose differently.
–🐎–
By the time Sloane reached the saloon, she was out of options. The faded sign hanging above the swinging doors creaked in the evening wind, the words Morningstar Saloon still visible beneath years of dust and sun. This was her last hope.
She'd started at the stagecoach notice board, hoping someone had posted there looking for seasonal work. Instead she'd found rooms for rent, furniture for sale, and a handful of wanted posters.
Every ranch hand she'd managed to track down after that either already had steady work or wanted wages she couldn't afford.
The general store owner's nephew was apparently looking for a new job, right up until he'd learned the job she was offering involved actual work.
If she walked away from this place, she would be going back to the farm exactly as she'd arrived—alone.
Which left this.
Gods.
If only Liam could see her now. The thought hit harder than she expected.
No.
She could not go back to the farm alone. She had to stop pretending she could somehow manage a cattle farm with sheer stubbornness and no practical experience whatsoever.
Lynx and Baylor would need help after driving the cattle back home. Liam should have been here for that. But their family farm had only her now.
She reached into her reticule. Ten coins stared back at her. Well seven, she needed three to pay for a coach back to the farm.
The girls at Madame Calloway's Academy had never been taught such an unlady-like thing as horseback riding.
Her lessons were focused on preparing her for proper society, teaching her about history, art, embroidery, and playing the piano. The most practical skill she had been taught was how to prepare a respectable tea party.
Unfortunately none of those skills seemed particularly useful when one was suddenly responsible for three hundred head of cattle, who couldn’t care less about proper fork placement.
However, there was a decent amount of overlap between throwing a tea party and running a household. One look at the farm's books and the sight settled the argument immediately.
Without Liam the farm needed more help.
Which meant she needed a farmhand.
Which meant she was walking into a saloon—even if every instinct she possessed was screaming otherwise.
"Here we go," she muttered.
Straightening her spine, Sloane marched across the boardwalk and shoved through the swinging doors.
Tables covered in worn green baize filled most of the room. Some men crowded around card games, while others lingered at the long mahogany bar running the length of the left wall. Behind the bar hung the largest mirror Sloane had ever seen, reflecting the haze of cigar smoke and lamplight back across the saloon.
One moment the place was buzzing with smoke, music and laughter. Then all of it stopped.
Every single person in the room looked at her. Wonderful. Absolutely wonderful.
Sloane resisted the urge to turn around and walk right back out. Instead she lifted her chin and crossed the room toward the bar.
The bartender watched her approach with open suspicion.
"You lost, miss?"
"No."
His eyebrows rose.
Sloane immediately wished she'd sounded more confident.
"I'm looking for a farmhand."
The bartender blinked. Then barked out a laugh. Several nearby patrons joined him.
Heat crawled up her neck.
"A farmhand?"
"Yes."
"For you?"
"Yes."
The laughter got louder. Sloane briefly considered introducing the man's face to the nearest bottle.
The bartender wiped his hands on a towel.
"What kind of farm?"
"Cattle."
His amusement faded slightly. Apparently that wasn't the answer he'd expected.
"I inherited it."
For one brief moment she saw something that looked almost like sympathy.
She hated it. She far preferred the laughter. At least laughter didn't make her feel weak.
The bartender studied her for a long moment. Young, alone, and very clearly not someone who had spent her life working cattle.
"How many acres?"
Sloane named the number. A low whistle came from somewhere nearby.
"That's a lot of land."
"Thank you. I am painfully aware."
A grin tugged at the bartender's mouth. "Fair enough."
Finally, someone was taking her seriously. Then he ruined it.
"Let me know when that doesn't work out for you. I could always use another barmaid. With that face and that hair you would be very popular around here"
Not if, when.
The men nearby erupted with laughter.
Sloane closed her eyes and counted to three before opening them again.
"No."
"Shame."
"I need a ranch hand."
"I heard."
The bartender leaned forward. "Unfortunately most of the decent ones already have jobs."
"Then I'll take an indecent one."
That earned a genuine laugh.
"At least you're honest."
Before she could respond, the saloon doors slammed open.
A group of men stumbled inside. Dust-covered, sunburnt, loud. The sort of men who looked as though they spent more time drinking than working.
The bartender took one look at them and grinned. "Well."
Sloane didn't like that grin.
"Looks like your luck just changed."
It hadn’t. Not even a little. The moment the nearest man spotted her, his expression made that abundantly clear. Sloane had spent enough time around men to recognize trouble when she saw it. Unfortunately, trouble had apparently noticed her too.
"Well now," the man drawled.
Every instinct she possessed immediately began screaming.
"Well, there you go, miss. You need a farmhand, and I'm sure one of those boys will be happy to help."Before Sloane could object, the bartender had already waved one of the newcomers over.
Wonderful.
The man lumbered across the room with all the grace of an injured bull.
"What've you got for me, Mikey?" he asked.
"This young lady needs assistance."
The man's eyes slid over Sloane.
Not looked, slid Slowly. Deliberately.
Every instinct she possessed told her she'd made a mistake walking into this saloon.
"Not assistance, a farmhand," she corrected sharply.
His grin widened. "Farmhand, huh? Well, maybe me and the boys can help you out."
Sloane forced a smile. "I inherited a cattle farm."
Confidence in, confidence out. This was just a business arrangement. Nothing more.
"I can offer room, board, and a share of the profits."
"Sounds mighty generous.” He responded, directly to her chest.
The knot in her stomach tightened. Still, she followed when he motioned toward a nearby table. What choice did she have? Maresite Meadows wasn't going to save itself.
She'd barely reached the table when a hand closed around her waist. The floor disappeared beneath her feet.
Sloane gasped. "What—"
The man hauled her into his lap and the table erupted with laughter.
"Well now," one of them drawled. "Ain't she pretty?"
The smell hit her next. Sweat. Whiskey. Tobacco. Enough to make her stomach turn.
"Let me go."
The arm around her waist tightened. The laughter grew louder.
"Aw, don't be shy."
His hand slid upward. Sloane froze for a second, but anger quickly replaced any fear she felt. As much as Madame Calloway had tried to make her a perfect lady, she had not been born a fragile city slicker.
She drove both heels backward as hard as she could. The man’s grip loosened as he howled.
Sloane hit the floor ready to run.
"There's been a misunderstanding," she said, backing away. "I'm not here for—"
The man lunged. His fingers closed around her wrist.
"No misunderstanding.” The smile on his face vanished and something ugly took its place. "You don’t walk in to a place like this looking like you do without wanting some attention."
Panic flared as Sloane jerked against his hold without success.
Nobody was helping. Nobody was moving.
The men around her just watched, quietly. The bartender at least looked uncomfortable, but not enough to leave his post behind the bar. The realization made her go from angry to furious.
The man yanked her closer. That was a mistake. Sloane drove her forehead straight into his nose.
Crunch.
The man roared. Blood exploded across his face, and for one glorious second his grip vanished.
Sloane bolted. She’d barely made it three steps before another man caught her around the middle.
"Oh no you don't."
The room erupted.
The bartender finally found his courage and came charging around the bar.
"Let her go!"
A punch flew.
Someone missed. Someone else got hit.
A chair shattered.
Within seconds half the saloon was trying to kill the other half.
Sloane ducked beneath a flying bottle and crawled toward the wall.
A table crashed nearby.
Men shouted.
Glass shattered.
Someone screamed.
The piano player, remarkably, never stopped playing.
She was almost at the door when another body slammed into her. She would have hit the floor if a pair of strong hands hadn't caught her.
Sloane looked up.
And forgot every thought in her head.
The man standing in the doorway was tall enough that she had to tilt her head back to properly look at him. A dark hat shadowed most of his features, and a bandana concealed the lower half of his face.
She should have noticed the coat—a trail coat that was far too clean for a man fresh off the road.
She should have noticed the way he held himself.
Alert. Controlled. Dangerous, if she had to guess.
Instead, she found herself staring at his eyes—brown, steady, assessing. The sort of eyes that seemed to miss nothing at all.
She didn't realize she was staring until his large hands tightened slightly over the fabric of her dress.
"What's going on?"
Before she could answer, someone crashed into her back.
The stranger took the impact instead.
A fist flew out of nowhere, and connected directly with his face.
His head snapped sideways. Blood immediately poured from his nose.
Sloane winced. "Sorry."
The stranger blinked once, then a second time. Slowly, as though trying to determine why he had just been punched.
Only then did the rest of the saloon seem to register.
Broken tables.
Broken chairs.
Broken glass glittering in the sawdust like spilled ice.
Broken men, groaning where they’d fallen.
And in the far corner, the piano player continuing his tune as if nothing in the world had changed.
The stranger exhaled. Not a sigh of panic, a sigh of resignation— as if this was an inconvenience he had encountered before.
"What started this?"
The bartender didn’t hesitate, he pointed directly at Sloane."Her."
“What?" The stranger questioned.
"I did not!” Sloane insisted.
Every eye in the room turned toward her.
Sloane pointed toward the bleeding cowboy she'd headbutted. "He wouldn't take no for an answer."
The stranger looked at the man.
Then at her.
Then at the man again.
One eyebrow rose. Slowly, thoughtfully, as if evaluating evidence.
Finally he nodded."Fair enough."
He crossed the room with deliberate purpose, neither hurrying nor hesitating. One hand closed around the drunk's collar. The man barely had time to register the danger before a single punch dropped him where he stood.
Complete silence fell across the saloon, even the piano had stopped now.
The stranger looked around. "If we're done?"
Nobody argued.
He nodded once, apparently satisfied, then he glanced toward Sloane. "Come with me."
Sloane's eyebrows rose. "What?"
"The sheriff will be here any minute.” He removed the bandana from his face and pressed it against his bleeding nose. "Trust me."
Something in his tone made her pause. Not commanding. Not pleading. Certain—like he already knew exactly what happened next.
"How do you know that?"
His eyes met hers. For a brief moment she thought she saw something weary there, something practiced.
"Because," he said quietly, "where men like that go the law follows."
Then he turned and headed for the door, leaving Sloane staring after him.
And then, against every ounce of common sense she possessed, following.
Outside, the sun was already sinking toward the horizon, painting the town in shades of gold and copper. Sloane barely noticed.
The stranger had already made it halfway across the street.
A dark red chestnut horse with lots of chrome waited by the hitching rail. Unlike every other horse in town, it wasn't tied. It simply stood there, one hind leg cocked, entirely unbothered by the noise spilling from the saloon.
The man pressed his bandana against his bleeding nose while attempting to tighten the saddle one-handed.
Impressive. Slightly stupid, but mostly impressive.
"Let me help with that."
"I can handle my own horse."
"Not the horse." She rolled her eyes. "Your nose."
The stranger paused.
"You did just get punched because of me." Sloane added.
A look passed over his face. "Technically, I got punched because someone missed you."
Sloane chose not to show her technical agreement. Before he could object, she stepped closer and caught his chin. The movement seemed to surprise him more than the punch had.
Tilting his head toward the fading light, she inspected the damage.
A neatly trimmed beard framed his jaw. Brown, almost auburn in the evening sun. Strong cheekbones. A nose that looked painful but thankfully intact.
"Good news," she announced. "It's not broken."
The stranger nodded. "That is good news."
"It'll still hurt."
"I'm beginning to suspect that."
Sloane snorted.
The bandana was soaked through with blood and completely useless now. With a sigh, she untied the shawl from around her shoulders and dipped one corner into the water trough nearby.
"You shouldn't waste fabric on me, Miss..."
"Mairi."
The stranger froze.Only for a second, so briefly she might have imagined it.
Still, something about the reaction made her pause.
"Sloane Mairi," she continued. "With an ‘e’ on the end.”
The moment passed.
The stranger lowered his gaze. "Sloane."
For some reason, hearing her name in that deep voice made her stomach do something odd. She decided to ignore it.
Carefully, she cleaned the remaining blood from his face. When she finished, the shawl was stained pink, but his nose looked significantly less alarming.
"There."
She stepped back. He looked more like a cowboy now than he had when he entered the saloon. A bit of dirt and blood on him, but somehow not disheveled.
"You're presentable again."
A corner of his mouth twitched. "I appreciate your dedication to my appearance."
"Someone has to."
The stranger laughed softly. The sound caught her completely off guard.
"Do you have a name?" she asked.
He hesitated, just for a moment. "Dain."
Something about the answer felt incomplete. Still, she let it pass.
"Well then, Dain, you're free to go."
"So are you.” The amusement vanished from his expression. "You should head home before the sheriff arrives."
"I was planning to hide here until the next stagecoach."
His frown deepened. "You came here by coach?"
"Not everyone has a horse."
"What happened to yours?"
Sloane grimaced. "Let's just say we're not on speaking terms."
Dain sighed. The same long-suffering sigh she'd heard inside the saloon. It seemed to be a habit.
"Where are you staying?"
"My farm is just on the other side of the Tyrrish border."
His eyebrows rose. "Your farm."
"Yes."
"But you didn't bring a horse."
"Yes."
"Interesting."
Sloane folded her arms. "I feel judged."
"That's because I am judging you."
For the first time all evening, she almost smiled. Almost.
Dain glanced toward the far end of town, then toward the road. Whatever he saw made his expression harden.
"Did you bring anything with you?"
"My bag."
"Where?"
"Near the stagecoach station."
"Go get it."
"What?"
"Sloane."
Something about the tone immediately had her attention.
"The sheriff is coming. And I’m sure every patron of that bar would happily blame this all on you."
She followed his gaze. A cloud of dust rose in the distance.
Riders, several of them.
"Oh."
"Exactly."
Sloane didn't wait for further explanation. She hurried back toward the station and retrieved the small bag she'd hidden beneath a bench.
As she turned to leave, something on the notice board caught her eye.
Wanted posters. The same collection she'd glanced at earlier. One had fallen slightly crooked.
Frowning, she stepped closer. The sketch looked familiar.
Brown hair, neatly trimmed beard, sharp cheekbones.
Her stomach dropped.
No.
Slowly, she read the name.
DAIN AETOS
WANTED FOR QUESTIONING IN CONNECTION WITH THE SHOOTING ON ATHEBYNE ROAD
The world seemed to stop.
Athebyne road, shooting…Liam.
A voice called from outside. "Hurry up. They're almost here."
Sloane looked up.
Across the street on top of his horse sat the man she'd just cleaned up. The man she'd laughed with. The man she'd nearly trusted. Her brother's killer.
His hand was already extended toward her. "If you're coming," he called, "we need to leave now."
Sloane stared at the approaching riders. At the wanted poster. At Dain Aetos.
Every sensible decision pointed in one direction. Unfortunately, she'd never been particularly good at sensible decisions.
"What'll it be, Sloane?"
"Bollocks."
Then she ran toward him.
The moment she reached the horse, he caught her wrist and swung her effortlessly into the saddle in front of him.
One touch of his heels and the chestnut sprang forward. The town disappeared behind them.
Sloane grabbed the saddle horn with one hand, and silently wondered whether she'd just made the biggest mistake of her life.