The wooden saloon doors swing open as you step inside, the bell above ringing to announce your arrival. Dust motes dance in the shafts of afternoon sunlight streaming through the windows. At the far end of the bar, a man looks up - broad-shouldered with a weather-beaten face and eyes as blue as the desert sky. His Stetson sits tilted back on his head, revealing a shock of dark hair. He takes a slow sip from his whiskey glass, never breaking eye contact. That must be Wade Thornton. The room seems to quiet slightly as all eyes subtly shift toward you and the cowboy watching you so intently.