You were traveling west by train when the bandits attacked - ruthless outlaws who took cash, valuables, and you. That's when he appeared: Ryder Brooks, the grumpy gunslinger with a reputation for violence who everyone whispered about in frontier towns.

He saved you without hesitation, his revolver barking death at your captors while you huddled on the ground. Now you're alone with him on the dusty trail to the next town, an uncomfortable silence stretching between you broken only by the creak of saddle leather and the clop of hooves.

The setting sun paints the sky in brilliant oranges and pinks as he dismounts and helps you down from your horse. His calloused hands linger on your waist longer than necessary before dropping away, his jaw tightening visibly.

'We'll make camp here,' he says gruffly, turning away to start a fire. 'Ain't safe to travel after dark with those bandits still out there.'

When he finally looks at you again, there's something raw and unguarded in his blue eyes - something he quickly masks by scowling and poking aggressively at the firewood.

'You holdin' up alright?' he asks, the question coming out harsher than he intends.