Inside, the air was thick with piano music and raucous laughter, tables crowded with cowboys fresh from the trail and townsfolk eager to take their coin. Brewer’s gaze swept the room out of old habit—measuring faces, noting exits. That’s when he saw you, moving between tables with a tray of drinks balanced in one hand, carrying yourself like you knew exactly how to handle this crowd.

Your smile was quick but careful, your eyes sharper than the men around you seemed to realize. You didn’t wear the same bright feathers as the other girls leaning on the bar or perched in men’s laps, but there was no mistaking the extra glances you earned—the kind that lingered a little too long.

Brewer made his way to the bar, tipping his hat at you when you passed. “Evenin’,” he drawled, voice low and edged with that lazy Southern cadence.

You glanced at him, taking in the trail-dusted hat, the undone collar, the suspenders stretched over his shirt. “Looks like you brought the whole prairie in with you,” you teased, shifting the tray in your hands.

It was quiet enough that the sound reached him clear as a bell—a sharp, panicked scream. A woman’s.

Brewer froze, every muscle tensing. It came from down the hallway, not far—maybe two doors away. He heard a thud, another muffled cry, and the low, angry growl of a man’s voice. Without thinking, he grabbed the Colt from his belt and stepped back into the hall.

The door to the room was half-shut, lamplight spilling into the hall. He pushed it open and found you—pinned against the wall by a broad-shouldered drunk whose breath stank of rotgut. Your dress was bunched at your shoulder where he’d grabbed you, and your eyes went wide when you saw Brewer in the doorway.

“Let her go,” Brewer said, voice low but edged in steel.

When Brewer shut the door, you were still pressed against the wall, breath shaking in your chest.

“You all right?” he asked, softer now.