Green River, Wyoming – 1872

My spurs jingled quietly as my boots struck the dirt, the weight of each step landing like a warning. I walked like I owned the place—because I did.

Green River was the last real stop before the land unraveled into nothing but sagebrush and regrets. A railroad town built on the back of the Union Pacific, it was a haven for whiskey-breathed railroad men, cattle drivers with empty pockets, and outlaws playing at honest work. Too far west for law to mean much, but close enough for men to settle in.

And get stupid.

That's why I was here.

You got sloppy, thinking you could disappear into a town where the whiskey was cheap and the beds cheaper. Bad luck for you—Sheriff John McGlinchey owed me a favor. Worse luck? I never lost a bounty twice.

A gust of Wyoming wind kicked up dust, stinging my eyes and catching in the sweat at my collar. I muttered a curse, wiped my face, and shoved open the sheriff's door. The hinges groaned in protest, and the place smelled like tobacco, sweat, and bad decisions.

McGlinchey didn't move much, boots on his desk, hat tipped low over his eyes. Lamplight caught the silver streaks in his mustache and hair, carving deep shadows into a face that had seen more shootouts than sunrises. He looked like a man who had dodged more bullets than he cared to count—and expected the next one would catch him. A half-empty bottle of rye whiskey sat on the desk, wanted posters spread beneath it like a tablecloth.

I flicked the brim of his hat as I passed. "Evenin', John."

He grumbled, shifting just enough to show he was awake. "Sullivan. You're late."

"Sure am. And you're still ugly. We all got our crosses to bear."

Before he could react, I plucked the smoldering cigar from his hand, rolling it between my fingers like I had all the time in the world. McGlinchey shot me a look, but I only smirked, taking a slow drag and letting the smoke curl between us.

"Christ, Cass," he muttered. "You ever think about keepin' your damn hands to yourself?"

I exhaled a cloud of smoke toward his face before snuffing the cigar out on his desk. "All the time," I said. "Ain't today, though."

McGlinchey snorted, rubbing his temples. "One of these days, someone's gonna put a bullet in that mouth of yours."

I shrugged, already heading for the cells. "Better men have tried."

The floorboards groaned under my boots as I walked to the back. Lantern light stretched the iron bars into black, jagged shadows across the stone walls.

I stopped in front of you.

"Evenin', sweetheart," I said, tapping the wanted poster against the bars. The likeness wasn't perfect, but it was close enough. "You look friendlier on paper."

I unlatched the door and hauled you up with no concern for comfort. My rope was already in hand, knots quick, tight, and unyielding.

"Let me get a few things straight," I said, voice even, sharp as a whetstone. I grabbed your chin, forcing you to meet my gaze. "I don't care why you ran, and I don't give a damn who's waitin' on you. You belong to me until I drop your sorry hide in St. Louis. You eat when I say, sleep when I say, and if you so much as breathe wrong—you'll find out how fast I can reload."

McGlinchey leaned back in his chair, watching with amusement. "Tell me you ain't fool enough to ride to St. Louis with that one in tow."

I grinned, pulling the knot at your back tighter. "Ain't my fault men keep gettin' stupid out here."

The sheriff shook his head. "Six weeks in the saddle, Sullivan. Nebraska's gonna be hell, and by Kansas, word'll spread. You're not the only one after this payday."

"Let 'em come," I said, ignoring your grunt of discomfort as I tightened the rope another notch.

McGlinchey snorted, though the joke never touched his eyes. "Well, if you do get yourself killed, I'll be keeping that mare of yours."

I shot him a look. "I'd shoot her dead myself before I let your grubby hands near her."

With that, I hauled you to the door. Outside, the night was thick and warm, buzzing with crickets and quiet threats. The air smelled of coal smoke and river water, the Union Pacific yards steaming beyond the town's edge.

I whistled low. My bay mare, Willow, trotted up, ears flicking forward. She was a sleek Missouri Fox Trotter, quick-footed and smarter than most men I'd met.

Not far behind her, my backup mount, Brimstone, snorted and stomped at the dirt. The buckskin Mustang had been mine for three years, won in a poker game outside of Laramie when the fool sitting across from me bet his horse against a straight flush. Poor bastard hadn't even had two pair.

Brimstone wasn't as fast as Willow, but he could go for miles without tiring. He carried the bedrolls, spare ammunition, water skins, and extra supplies. If I lost one horse, I sure as hell wasn't about to lose two.

I hauled you onto Willow's saddle and climbed up behind you, boots sliding into the stirrups with practiced ease.

McGlinchey leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. "Don't hurry back too soon, Sullivan."

I smirked, gathering the reins. "Six weeks to St. Louis? You'll miss me before I'm halfway there."

With a flick of my wrist, Willow trotted forward, Brimstone falling in line beside us.