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Do you have what it takes to survive the Wild West? You may need some friends. |
| [Introduction]
The sleepy town of Mountain Springs is home to a small population, some living in the town proper, others building homesteads, ranches, or digging and panning for that sweet, sweet gold. (Oh, right, and it's (lite) steampunk --> an alternate timeline to real history) It's harsh out here. Wild animals, inclement weather, and gangs of ruffians looking to steal all your hard-earned cash. So. You think you got what it takes to survive The Wild West in all of its glory? We'll just see about that, won't we, partner? ~<><><>~ If you're just here for the fun of the read rather than play, feel free to skip the intro and bios and just enjoy!  (For available occupations, the inhabitants (NPCs) of Mountain Springs, town buildings, and other...)
 Your first addition would look like this Additions Must Be Put In Within Four (4) Days In This Campfire Name: Age: Appearance: Occupation: Personality: Other: ~ (Please take a look at the NPC section [linked above] before crafting your character. You'll see why.) ~ Now, as this is also a steampunk-themed campfire, you might have special weapons or prosthetics, but please check with me first. I know this looks like a lot, but it's actually supposed to make things easier and more coherent for everyone. So! You ready to ride, partner? |
| Name: (Dr.) Cary Carter Age: 32 Appearance: Of average height, his leanness sometimes makes him look smaller. He has light auburn hair and hazel eyes. He wears practical clothes (blue plaid shirt under a vest, for example), but has an expensive-looking gold pocket watch hooked by a chain on his vest. His left hand is a simple, but usable, mostly iron prosthetic, but the fingers are lightly coated in steel from tip to hand to make it more sanitary for patients. He usually wears a simple soft leather glove over it. Overall boyish, he’s been told he has a nice smile. Occupation: Doctor / Inventor Personality: Pacifist. He won’t fight physically, but will do whatever he can to keep others safe — he is the doctor after all! He’s really quite smart and can often stop a fight before it begins anyway, with logic and empathy. Can be very persuasive. He’s rather quiet and friendly, some think a little naïve, but he’s a good judge of character. Other: ~ Has a brown pet ferret named Esther, or Es/Essie for short. A bit mischievous, she is always hanging around him — sometimes literally, wrapped around his neck and shoulders so she looks like a furry scarf ~ Often carries little peppermints to give to child patients to try and help them relax while he does what needs to be done. Also, he eats them too — he's got a sweet tooth ~ Counts cards ~ (Secret: Functioning Laudanum addict) |
| Name: Lucas “Lucky” Barrett Jr. Age: 34 Occupation: Apprentice Blacksmith Appearance: Lucas “Lucky” Barrett Jr. stands at 6'2", his frame broad-shouldered and rangy from the ten grueling years he spent building the railroads in North Carolina. The hard labor carved definition into his arms and back, giving him the solid physique of a man who knows the weight of steel and soil both. His skin is a deep olive tone, often sun darkened and wind worn from long days outdoors. His dark, wavy hair is usually tied back with a leather cord, though rebellious strands always find a way to fall into his face, especially when he’s focused. His eyes are a sharp steel-gray, cool, and observant, like he’s forever measuring the world around him for danger or opportunity. A set of old burn marks crosses his forearms, remnants of an explosion on the line years ago. He carries them with quiet pride, reminders of what he’s survived. His jaw is strong and square, perpetually shadowed with stubble, lending him a rough approachable look. Lucky favors simple, sturdy clothing: dark trousers, a plain work shirt, scuffed boots, and a wide-brimmed black hat. The muted tones help him blend into the background, a useful habit for a man who’s spent years trying to stay out of the wrong kind of spotlight. Personality: Lucky is an easy mix of laid-back charm and iron hard stubbornness. He has a naturally warm presence, often disarming people with his calm manner and dry humor. When he speaks, it’s usually with quiet confidence, and when he jokes, it’s with a clever wit that slips in sideways and catches people off guard. He’s loyal to a fault, willing to go to great lengths to help others, yet almost incapable of asking for help in return. His pride runs deep, but so does his empathy. If someone’s hurting or overworked, he notices, long before anyone else does. Lucky respects honesty, grit, and skill above all else. Class or status mean nothing to him; character means everything. Though he’s slow to anger, once roused, his temper burns hot and precise. Underneath the easy smile and quiet nature, Lucky carries a strong inner drive, a need to rebuild his name, reclaim his future, and prove he’s more than the shadows cast over his past. Other: Years ago, Lucky was framed by Billy “Blackstrap” Coltrane, a ruthless schemer who murdered Lucky’s father, Lucas Barrett Sr., and pinned the crime of claim jumping on Lucky to seize the Barrett land. With the law bought and bent, Lucky was sentenced to ten years of chained railroad labor. Now free, he is determined to clear his name, avenge his father, and dismantle the Blackstrap Gang piece by piece. Extra – Weapons Lucky travels with five trusted weapons, each with its own history and importance: 1 & 2. Daliah and Ramona (Twin Pistols) Gifts from northern inventor Robert Giraldini, these expertly crafted pistols fire silently thanks to vented side chambers that disperse sound. Daliah has an elegant ivory handle. Ramona is finished in a deep black polish that glints purple under moonlight. Both pistols have extended handles housing clockwork autoloading mechanisms, allowing them to reload themselves the moment a magazine empties. 3. Modified Long Rifle (His Father’s) Lucky’s most treasured ranged weapon, inherited from his father and continually upgraded: Fitted with custom rotating lenses for long-distance targeting. Weighted with internal ball bearings for enhanced stability. Heavier than a standard rifle, though Lucky hardly notices after ten years of railroad labor. Accurate, powerful, and deeply personal. 4. Justine (His Mother's) Strapped along his back, this knife is the last possession he has of his mother. Lucky has relied on Justine in tight escapes more times than he can count, and he treats it with the same reverence he gives his mother’s memory. |
| Samantha “Sam” Geraldine James Age: 30 Occupation: Bounty Hunter Appearance: Samantha has long hair, usually tied back in a practical ponytail, then twisted and tucked neatly beneath the wide-brimmed hat she never travels without. Her features are sharp, clean, and deliberately neutral, easy to shadow, obscure, or harden depending on what disguise she needs for the day. Though undeniably feminine up close, she has learned how to angle her jaw, adjust her posture, and shift her voice just enough to convince a distant observer she might be a young man. She dresses in simple, sturdy clothing suited for riding, tracking, and fighting: a plain shirt tucked under a fitted leather vest, dark trousers, worn boots, and gloves she’s patched more times than she can count. A long duster coat completes the look, part practical armor against the dust, part disguise to hide her silhouette. Sam’s eyes are a sharp hazel-gold, always flicking from person to person, detail to detail. She walks with confident, deliberate strides, often masking her natural grace beneath a rough, almost swaggering gait when pretending to be male. Personality: Sam has a dry, biting sense of humor, often delivered without a hint of a smile. She enjoys misdirection, not out of cruelty, but out of skill and necessity. Fooling people is part of her craft, and sometimes part of her entertainment. She has no problem lowering her voice, slouching her shoulders, and adopting the mannerisms of a cocky trailsman if it gets her closer to a target. Despite her sarcastic streak, Sam has a strong sense of justice. She pursues bounties because people who hurt others should face consequences...preferably consequences she delivers personally. She is patient, clever, and methodical. She studies her marks, learns their habits, and strikes when the moment is perfect. Sam is fiercely independent, preferring to rely on her own instincts rather than trust anyone else’s. But once someone earns her respect, truly earns it; she becomes loyal, protective, and surprisingly soft-hearted under all that grit. She would never admit that last part, of course. Other: Sam is known across several territories under various aliases, most of them male: Samuel James Gerald J. Stone S. G. Jenson Her ability to pass as a man on the trail has saved her life more than once, and has made her far more effective than many bounty hunters twice her size. She carries a handmade revolver, modified for quick draw precision, and a set of throwing knives she keeps hidden beneath her vest. Sam also maintains a small notebook filled with sketches, maps, and notes about fugitives. Along with her skills with the pistol, she was taught a martial art from a time she spent overseas when her family was whole. |
| It had been a wonderfully mild day, even if things hadn’t exactly gone as… expected. But out here in the “Wild West”, the only thing you could count on really was the unexpected. Even in the (relatively) simple town of Mountain Springs. Take today, for example. Their primary veterinarian had gone to the town next over, so it was up to the human doctor to help a horse through a particularly complicated delivery. Fortunately, he had some experience with horses, and everything turned out just fine. Cary rolled his shoulders, taking in a deep breath of the town as he headed back to his office. The town smelled like tobacco, either spat into spitoons or smoked. It smelled like perfume wafting from the girls in the saloon, and the lovely little horse droppings you had to avoid in the street. It smelled like warm hay. It smelled like superheated coal that the blacksmith was using. And wafting from the big house that looked over them on a hill, the smell of fine cooking. The smell of wealth. That’s what Mountain Springs smelled like. Like… life. He felt a little warm with Essie wrapped around his neck like a thick fur scarf, her soft brown pelt sometimes tickling his ears. But he loved her being near. Loved the feeling of her heartbeat pulsing into his throat. Mountain Springs was a bit isolated from the rest of the world, which (usually) kept it out of trouble. But if they needed serious help for some reason, or there was an outbreak of some kind, extra medicine and assistance could take some time. Right now, though, everything seemed normal. Quiet, even. He wasn’t sure if he should be worried about that whole “calm before the storm” thing, or just enjoy the stillness. “Mad Garrett Jenkins” and his Jackal gang had always been a nuisance, but a little less as of late. Cary had the idea that Mr. Hiram Gold might be paying him off. He wasn’t the sheriff, but everyone really knew who ran the town. The Golds. What an apt name! But more recently, and much more troubling, there had been whispers from other small towns and homesteads about a different, far more dangerous gang led by the brute Billy “Blackstrap” Coltrane. But those were just whispers, and they’d been circulating the countryside for months, so he hoped it was all rumors. Especially on behalf of one particular individual. An individual he was now trying not to suspect of coming to town with ulterior motives. Even if he did understand them. He winced lightly when he felt a pain in his prosthetic left hand. Or, maybe, the nerves that were connected to them. If prosthetics ranged from cheap wood to expensive ivory or gold, his was… practical. Mostly iron, but with steel tips for better sterilization and sanitation for his patients. Admittedly, the black iron mixed with shining steel could make it look a bit frightening. Right now, as he often did, he was wearing a soft leather glove over it. He’d had it for a good portion of his life. It was only recently, “settling down” in one place for a bit instead of roaming the countryside, that he had the passing but surprising thought: There would be no wedding band. At least not on that finger. He’d always been so busy and itinerant, he’d never thought about it before. And of course, it wasn’t like he didn’t have other fingers. It was just a thought. Finding someone he wanted to spend his life with would probably have to come first. And that wasn’t exactly the first of his problems… “Hey doc,” came a voice from nearby that carried a smile, “We still on for tonight?” Cary turned to see Lucas Barrett leaning against a post in front of the open portion of the blacksmiths. He was tall, broad, and tanned. He carried himself with confidence — sometimes, Cary worried, a little too much confidence, though the man seemed martially unmatched. His dark, wavy hair was tied back with a leather cord, but defiant strands stuck out here and there. No wonder, too. Blacksmithing was hard, sweaty, dirty work. Not that “Lucky” wasn’t used to that. They’d planned for a game of blackjack in the saloon for that night. And if things went as they normally went, Lucas wouldn’t leave feeling quite so “lucky”. That was because, ever since he was a kid, Cary had found a “mathematical method” to the game to use to his advantage. He didn’t win every time, of course, but he won more than he lost. “Make sure to bring more than I.O.Us this time,” Cary smiled mildly, “I can’t buy supplies with those kinds of papers” Lucas opened his mouth, but they heard the booming voice of Mr. Barker, the blacksmith, from inside. “You gonna get hammering or just talkin’?” Lucky winked at Cary and disappeared into the shadow of the forge. Cary shook his head as he kept walking. He hadn’t seen the man in ten years, and suddenly, he showed up a month ago, looking for a job. The apprentice blacksmith had just run off with a saloon girl, and Cary knew that Lucas knew his way around metal, so he’d gotten him the job, and they’d become friends. Now, with the whispers of Billy “Blackstrap” Coltrane… Cary was wondering if perhaps it wasn’t so much of a coincidence. He frowned when he saw the door to his small doctor’s office askew. He pushed it aside to find eight-year-old Clint, the blacksmith’s son, standing up quickly from where it looked like he’d been looking under Cary’s bed. The kid was a town-wide menace, but for some reason, lovable all the same. But that didn’t mean he had to make it easy on him. Cary held his arm out and down so that Essie shimmied down it onto his desk. “And what can I do for you today?” Cary asked. “I uh…” the kid started, “I don’t feel quite well today, doc.” “I’m sorry to hear that,” Cary took off his jacket, “What exactly is the matter?” His sharp eyes saw that his drawers had been opened and mostly closed, and some of the boxes in his medicine cabinet weren’t quite sealed. “Well, I, uh…” the boy touched his throat, “I’ve a terribly sore throat.” “Well, we’d better take a look,” Cary said, pushing the kid into a seat when he tried to leave, and grabbing a wooden tongue depressor, “Open your mouth, please…” Clint tried to explain himself, but Cary stuck the thing in his mouth. “Oh dear,” Cary threw the depressor in the bin, “That isn’t very good.” “What?” The kid shot out of the chair. Cary rested the back of his palm on the kid’s head for only a moment, “Oh dear,” Cary shook his head. “What’s wrong?” The kid cried. “I’m afraid you are suffering from a case of Tomfoolerothious, and a bad case.” “Well, what do we do?” “I’m sorry, boy, but I’m afraid it’s terminal.” Cary shook his head sadly at Essie, who he swore shook her head back. “What does ter—term what does that mean?” “Well, you see that up there?” Cary gently guided him to the dirty window and pointed to the cemetery on the nearby hill. “That’s where the terminal cases go.” “You know,” the boy slipped from him, “Actually, I’m — I’m feeling much better.” “Oh?” “Yes, much better —” Cary pulled out what he knew the boy had snuck in for — a peppermint candy from a jar hidden on a top shelf. “That’s good,” Cary said, “Perhaps it’s not the terminal kind. But you might want one of these, just in case.” Cary tossed a wrapped hard candy at the boy, who caught it and beamed. “Just in case,” the kid said, “Thanks, doc.” Then the boy was gone, and Cary shut the door. He’d have to find a new hiding place now… Speaking of, he grimaced again, his hand paining him. He went to the more powerful medicine cabinet and unlocked it with a key he kept on his person. He took out the bottle of Laudanum tincture, fighting the urge, but only for a moment. Then he grabbed a spoon and sat down. Technically, the stuff was often a “catch-all”, even given to colicky babies. But this kind was particularly strong — because he had it made that way. Opium and ethanol, not even bothering to try and use cinnamon or saffron to mask the bitter taste, maybe as a way to punish himself. He took a dose, wrinkling his face at the taste, and locking it back up. As was the way of these things, he’d been building up a tolerance for years. He knew how much he could take and still be the functioning town doctor. He popped a peppermint for the taste and plopped down onto his bed, and Essie jumped on his stomach, curling up in a ball with her face and beady eyes blinking at him. “What?” He garbled, his mouth with a big piece of candy in it. She just nipped his nose. “Ow!” Then she licked it. ~<>< ><>~He’d taken a nice Laudanum nap and was now sitting in the cemetery on the hill just by Mountain Springs. The sun was almost set, and soon he was supposed to meet Lucas in the Saloon. But he’d wanted to pay respects to his mentor on the anniversary of his death. So he sat cross-legged in the grass before a basic headstone that read: “Doctor Ronald T. Thomas; may the hands that healed rest in peace.” He had followed that man like a disciple for over fifteen years. He was the toughest, gruffest, most foul-mouthed doctor you could ever find. And he was wonderful. He was hard on Cary, as any teacher was, but it was only because he cared. He cared about everyone, even if it didn’t seem like he did. In fact, he cared so much that he ended up getting shot by a bandit for refusing to give up a patient. He was the reason Cary was in Mountain Springs. Because he’d died here. Because he’d been buried here. And because, no matter how many decades you were taught by someone, you always felt like you had been left with still so much to learn. His whole life almost, he’d followed the man wherever he went. Now that he wasn’t going anywhere, Cary wasn’t sure where to go either. So that’s why, for now, he was serving as the doctor of Mountain Springs, since their old one had passed hardly a day before they’d come to town. Cary wasn’t sure what to say, so he said nothing. Essie squeaked, standing on two feet and putting her paws on the cork top of a bottle of whiskey. “Right,” Cary gave a weak laugh and opened the bottle. “This is for you,” he told the man six feet below him as he poured out the whole bottle into the grass. Essie put a small pink paw on his leg, and he held out his arm. The little furry thing scurried up his arm and wrapped herself around his neck as he stood. As Cary dusted himself off, he squinted to see in the low light. It looked like, a few miles off, a single rider was headed for Mountain Springs. Odd. They didn’t get many visitors. He hoped they weren’t here to cause trouble… Essie squeaked again. “What?” She blinked at him with meaning, and he checked his golden pocket watch. The watch his mentor had left to him the day he died. “Oh!” Cary began to hurry — safely — down the cemetery hill where he would meet, and hopefully beat, Lucky at a few hands of cards. |
| They said a man could start over anywhere so long as he was willing to sweat for it. If that was true, Lucas Barrett figured he ought to have become a saint by now. He wiped the back of his wrist across his brow as the forge behind him belched out another wave of blistering heat. Even standing outside the smithy, the air shimmered with it, thick enough to choke on. Smoke curled through the open windows and drifted across the dusty street. “BARRETT!” Barker’s booming voice thundered from inside the shop. Lucas stepped off the post he’d been leaning against and ducked back into the glow of the forge. Heat greeted him with a savage bite. Sparks leapt from Barker’s hammer as it struck glowing iron on the anvil. “Took you long enough,” Barker snapped. “Hold this.” Lucas grabbed the tongs and braced the iron, slipping back into the rhythm of striking metal. But his eyes kept drifting to the open doorway, to the quiet road outside. Ten years on the chain gangs had carved instincts into him that prison walls couldn’t contain. Always watching. Always listening. Always expecting the worst to arrive just as the sun started sinking. Mountain Springs was a small place; dusty and unimportant, exactly the kind of town where a man could lie low. Or heal. Or prepare. Lucas still wasn’t sure which one he was doing. Every day at the forge reminded him of the iron cuffs that had once cut into his wrists. Every blade he shaped reminded him of the gun he would someday have to raise. Every step toward the open desert reminded him of Billy “Blackstrap” Coltrane, the man he would not rest until he confronted. But for the moment, he had simpler plans. Cary was expecting him at the saloon tonight for blackjack. The doctor claimed he didn’t cheat, but Lucas wasn’t entirely convinced anyone could be that good at counting cards by accident. Either way, he enjoyed the company. He wiped his hands on a rag, already turning toward the door, when he heard it. A single gunshot. Far away, but sharp enough to crack through the ringing hammer falls. He stopped mid-step. Barker lifted his hammer again. “What was that?” Lucas didn’t answer. He was already striding toward the door, his hand sliding instinctively to his duster and the smooth leather of his holster. The moment he stepped outside, he saw them. A rider, coming fast. Horse lathered, hooves tearing up the road. Behind her, two more riders. Bandits. Mountain Springs reacted in an instant. Miss Maddie Lawrence rushed out of the general store, apron still in hand, hazel eyes full of alarm. Mr. Lawrence followed with a shotgun he had no intention of firing but refused to let go of. At the saloon, Madame Zhang pushed through the batwing doors, Miss Hannah fanning herself dramatically beside her while Miss Tessa clutched her golden locket. Children peeked around barrels until they were dragged away by frantic parents. Old Harvey the prospector limped into the street with half his beard still lathered in shaving soap. Even Clint Barker stuck his head out, until his mother yanked him back inside by the ear. The lone rider approaching was too slight, her frame too narrow. Her long brown hair streamed behind her as she fought to control her horse. Her wide-brimmed hat bounced wildly against its chin strap. A woman. Lucas stepped into the road, boots planted, coat stirring with the wind. The bandits raised their rifles. Lucas drew both pistols. Steam hissed from the vents; gears clicked into place. The woman reached him, breathless and red-faced. “Please! Help!” “Get behind me.” She threw herself from her saddle and stumbled behind him. The bandits closed in, snarling. “The girl is ours!” one shouted. Lucas didn’t bother replying. He raised his guns. “Five...” Gasps and whispers rippled through the townsfolk gathering along the boardwalks. “Four...” Pastor Harold Hyde clutched his Bible so tight his knuckles whitened. Mr. Guster, the banker, ducked behind a porch post. “Three...” Deputy Jackson Baxter burst out of the sheriff’s office, revolver ready. Sheriff Owens followed, shotgun raised. “Two...” Dust curled under the horses’ hooves. “One.” Lucas fired first; shattering one rifle, grazing the other man’s hat. Before the bandits could recover, Sheriff Owens and Deputy Baxter took aim. “DROP IT!” Baxter yelled...too late. Both officers fired. The bullets struck the dirt near the horses’ legs, close enough to startle them. The beasts screamed and reared violently. One bandit was thrown backward, landing flat with a thud. The other hit the ground rolling, his rifle skittering away into the dust. Lucas was already moving. The uninjured bandit scrambled to his feet and swung wildly. Lucas stepped in and drove a solid, punishing punch square into the man’s jaw. The crack echoed louder than gunfire. The bandit collapsed unconscious. The second bandit, his hand ruined from Lucas’s earlier shot, held up both arms. “I–I surrender! Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!” Deputy Baxter ran forward with rope, but Lucas took it from him with a quick nod. “Let me,” he said, tying up the bandit while Baxter placed cuffs on the unconscious one. Together, Lucas and Baxter restrained both men. Lucas tied knots with the crisp precision of a man who had outrun the law before, and tied up more than one outlaw when necessary. Baxter hauled the unconscious bandit upright while Lucas bound the other’s legs. Sheriff Owens approached, lowering his shotgun. “There’s been more excitement around here since you been in town, Barrett,” he muttered. Lucas straightened. “One of them has a busted hand. You’ll want Cary Carter to take a look.” Owens grunted. “Baxter, let’s haul these two to a cell, then get the doc.” The sheriff and deputy dragged both bandits toward the jail. Townsfolk slowly scattered, muttering among themselves, still shaken and buzzing with excitement. Lucas tipped his hat and turned away.  ~ ~  He walked back toward the town proper, the sky bleeding orange and pink across the horizon. The woman he’d saved had waited just down the road, trembling as she stroked her horse’s neck. Only now, after the shots, and the excitement, did Lucas have a moment to look at her. She was beautiful in a worn, sun-kissed way. Dirt streaked her cheeks, and wisps of dirty blonde hair clung to her temples, the rest tied back in a ponytail that had mostly come undone during the ride. Her shirt was torn at the shoulder, dust clinging to the fabric. She smelled faintly of soap and horse and fear. A real frontier woman, he thought. Tough enough to survive out here, just unlucky enough to cross the wrong men today. Her saddlebag had torn open in the chaos, spilling half its contents, clothes, letters, a tin of biscuits, a bundle of keepsakes, across the dusty ground. Lucas knelt to help, gathering items into a neat stack. “You all right, ma’am?” She nodded shakily. “Thanks to you.” Lucas handed her a folded shawl that had landed beside his boot. “Where’re you headed?” She brushed dust from her hat. “My grandmother’s old place. Over by the creek.” Lucas nodded. “I’ll walk you.” He helped secure what was left of her bags and guided her horse by the reins as they walked down the winding path out of town. The air softened the farther they got from the commotion; cicadas hummed, and the creek whispered just beyond the tree line. After a long moment, she exhaled. “I never properly thanked you,” she said, voice steadier now. “My name’s Tabitha. Tabitha Wright. I’m new here; just settling my grandmother’s affairs.” Lucas tipped his hat, offering a small smile. “Lucas Barrett, ma’am. Welcome to Mountain Springs.” She hesitated. “If you hadn’t been there...” “But I was,” he said simply. She nodded, though tears still clung to her lashes. “Thank you. Thank you, I... you saved my life.” Her voice wavered in a way that tugged at something in him; some old softness he kept buried under hard years and harder memories. “Just glad I was around to help, Tabitha.” Lucas smiled. Her shoulders eased. She offered him a soft, relieved smile, one that stayed with him even as he walked away, dust rising behind his boots. ~ ~ Back in town, lanternlight spilled from the saloon windows, warm and messy. Voices drifted into the street, the clatter of glasses, laughter, and the off-key familiar twang of a drunk plucking a banjo that deserved mercy. Perfect place to lose a few hours. And hopefully take a few dollars off Cary Carter if he was finished with fixing up the bandits. He pushed through the swinging doors, scanning the haze of smoke until he spotted the doctor at his usual corner table: sleeves rolled up, cards neatly stacked, a peppermint rolling between his teeth. Lucas smirked. “You savin’ a seat, Carter, or should I just steal it?” Cary looked up with that easy, boyish smile. “Evening, Lucas. Try not to lose all your money this time.” Lucas snorted and slid into the chair. “After a day like today? I think we both could use some entertainment.” "After the visiting those bandits, could definitely use some stress relief." Cary sighed. For a moment, his thoughts drifted back to when he’d first met the man. ~ ~ Ten years ago. Chain gang. Heat like a branding iron pressed to the bone. Lucas had barely been a year into his sentence when the dynamite went wrong. They packed too much into the rock face set by a guard who thought he knew better. The explosion ripped through the work site, burying one prisoner under a rain of stone. Lucas didn’t think, he just moved. Ten years later he could still feel the weight of the rocks he’d thrown aside, the rough hands pulling the man free, the sting of burning debris tearing into his own arms. Then the coughing started, we and rattling. Men who got sick out here didn’t last. Nobody cared. Not the guards. Not the warden. Not anyone. Except the determined young stranger who rode up on a mule. “That man needs to sit,” the doctor said sharply. “Doc, we’re on a schedule,” the guard snapped, chewing tobacco like it was a weapon. “And he’ll die on that schedule if you keep pushin’ him.” Lucas remembered it clearly, this thin, determined man with auburn hair arguing with a man twice his size and three times his authority. And winning. "My name is Cary Carter," the young doctor said. The sick prisoner was pulled aside. Cary knelt beside him, cleaning his face, checking the fever, talking to him like he mattered. Then Cary’s attention shifted. He looked at Lucas, really looked, and his eyebrows lifted. “Sir, you’re injured.” Lucas didn’t bother looking at his own arms. He could feel the blood. “It’s nothin’.” “You’re shaking,” Cary said. Lucas blinked. Willing the tremor in his body to still. “...I ain’t.” “Your hands say otherwise.” Before Lucas could argue, Cary took his arm with gentle, firm hands; pulling the sleeves back he saw the damage. He then went to work cleaning out the cuts. Sharp pain flared. Lucas hissed but didn’t pull away. “So, you saved that man’s life,” Cary murmured. Still working on his arms. Lucas’s jaw tightened with pain. “Anyone would’ve.” “No,” Cary said softly. “Not anyone.” That was the first time in a year someone had spoken to him without suspicion. Without disdain. Without assuming the worst. Cary believed him, just from a look. And somehow, Lucas found himself saying quietly, “I didn’t do what they said I did. I'm innocent.” Cary didn’t hesitate. “I believe you.” Lucas swallowed. Hard. After he bandaged Lucas’s arms, Cary treated another prisoner with just as much care. When he finally stood, dusting off his trousers, he said, “I’m headed to Mountain Springs. My mentor, Ronald T. Thomas is there. Finest doctor I ever met. If you're ever in those parts look me up.” Lucas had watched him go, mule trotting away down the dusty road. That was the day Lucas realized two things: Cary Carter was too kind for this world. And Lucas didn’t mind being around someone like that. ~ ~ The memory faded as Cary dealt the next round of cards. “You with me, Lucas?” he asked. Lucas smirked, picking up his hand. “Yeah. Just rememberin’ how we met.” Cary blinked. “Good memory or bad?” Lucas let his grin widen. “Good enough that I’m spinnin’ the deck next round.” “Ah,” Cary said, leaning back knowingly. “You’re planning to cheat.” “Planning?” Lucas shot back. “Carter, I was born to cheat.” The doctor laughed, and for a while, the weight of vengeance, Coltrane, and the ten long years behind him eased, if only for the night. |
| Night had already swallowed the plains by the time Samantha “Sam” Geraldine James reached the edge of Mountain Springs. The town lay low and dark against the rolling desert, lantern light flickering like hesitant fireflies along the main road. Most of the buildings were shuttered tight for the night, doors barred, windows drawn. It wasn’t much to look at, but then, quiet towns rarely ever were. Sam rode in at an easy pace, guiding her horse with a relaxed confidence born of long miles and longer nights. Trinity’s hooves whispered softly against the packed dirt as the mare carried them forward without complaint. Sam leaned low in the saddle, wide-brimmed hat shadowing her face, her long hair tied back and twisted tight beneath it. From a distance, she looked every bit the lone drifter most folks would assume her to be. That was just how she liked it. She reined Trinity near the inn, slipping down from the saddle with a quiet grunt. A single lantern burned above the door. Inside, the place was warm and alive with the muffled sounds of laughter and clinking glasses, but when Sam knocked and asked for a room, the answer came swift and firm. “Full up for the next two days.” Sam tipped her hat in thanks, though irritation curled beneath the surface. Two days was a long time to sleep under the stars when a bounty might be moving. With no other choice, she led Trinity back into the quiet streets, scanning for a decent place to make camp just outside town. Her eyes wandered as she passed the darkened storefronts until something caught her attention. A sign. HELP WANTED. It hung crooked in the window of the general store. Sam slowed. She studied the building: sturdy, and locked tight for the night. A faint glow burned behind the back windows. Someone, at least, was still awake. She considered her options for only a moment. Then she knocked. The sound echoed sharply through the still air. A pause followed, long enough for tension to settle into her shoulders. Finally, movement stirred behind the door. A bolt slid free. The door cracked open. A man in his fifties peered out at her, lamplight catching on his graying hair and the brim of a well-kept felt hat. His expression was guarded, his voice low and steady. “Store’s closed.” Sam tipped her hat politely. “I saw your sign.” His eyes flicked to it through the window, then back to her. “That don’t mean I answer the door in the middle of the night.” “Fair,” she said easily. “But it does mean you need help. And I need a roof.” He studied her longer now, gaze sharp and measuring. A quiet figure hovered behind him, young, brown-haired, hazel-eyed. She watched from the shadows of the store with cautious curiosity, hands folded in front of her plain, conservative dress. “Daddy, everything alright?” the woman asked. The man shot a quick glance behind him and said, “Yeah, it’s fine, Maddie.” Then he turned his attention back to Samantha. “You traveling alone?” he asked. Sam nodded toward the street. “Just me and my horse.” Another pause. Then the door opened wider. “I’m Thomas Lawrence, and this is my daughter,” he said gruffly. “You got a name?” “Sam.” His eyebrow lifted slightly. He wasn’t fooled by the short answer, but he didn’t press either. “You can sleep in the back room,” he said at last. “We talk work in the morning.” “That’s all I ask.” Maddie stepped aside silently to make room as Sam entered. Up close, the young woman’s quiet strength was unmistakable, the way her hazel eyes sharpened when she looked at her father, the way she squared her shoulders despite her timid nature. Thomas mentioned that it would be better to hitch Trinity in back of the store, to which Samantha obliged. She led Trinity around back, following Maddie, whose mouth was going a mile a minute, asking question after question, most of which Samantha let slide, not that it slowed Maddie down. She talked about how she wanted to see the world one day, and how she was looking for a nice guy to start a family with. Then she began asking Samantha where she was from and what she had come to town for. Samantha didn’t answer those questions as Maddie led her to the hitching post. Thomas watched silently from the open back door, then called Maddie away; giving Samantha a much needed reprieve from the onslaught of questions. Sam grabbed her saddlebags from Trinity’s back. Inside were her rifle and the knives she used to subdue her bounties. The familiar weight grounded her. She was after two men. One of them was Lucky Barrett, not for the bounty on his head, per se, but to get information out of him...and to learn the truth of his connection to Billy Coltrane. As the name settled in her thoughts, another memory stirred uninvited. Cold rain. Mud up to her knees. A broken rifle at her side. Coltrane’s men closing in with laughter on their breath. She remembered the way the rope burned her wrists as they dragged her through the dark, how she’d tasted blood and dirt and fear all at once. And then; gunfire. Precise. Controlled. Deadly. She remembered the way one of the men fell forward without a sound. Then another. The way the rest scattered when they realized they weren’t hunting anymore, they were being hunted. Lucky Barrett had cut her bonds with shaking hands and steady eyes. Had hauled her up, kept her awake through the fever, shared what little water he had left. He never took credit. Never stayed long enough for thanks to matter. Sam exhaled slowly now, standing beside Trinity in the quiet dark behind the store. Lucky Barrett was the reason she was still alive. And soon...he was the man she would have to find. |
| Despite Lucas’s admission of intention to cheat, in the end, Cary had come out on top. He hadn’t won every round, but math was math, and it was usually right. Cary’s ability to focus on logic and the here and now was what served him well as a doctor. Unfortunately, out here, there was always something unexpected coming down the road. Like the little shootout between Lucky, the sheriff, and the deputy against some bandits chasing a defenseless woman down the road. At least it had ended all right. If you counted “all right” as no casualties. Especially civilian ones. Then he’d had to take his doctor’s bag to the sheriff’s office, to take a look at the hand of one of the men they had locked up in a cell. The other man was unconscious. As the sheriff watched closely, just in case the man tried to make a move, he made a show of shining his gun. Cary applied some stinging antibiotic liquid that made the injured man swear. Luckily, the wound wasn’t particularly bad, though it would require some stitches. Deputy Baxter had said he didn’t understand why the doctor was helping scum like this, and Cary replied that it was because he was the doctor. “You have no idea what you’ve done,” the injured man said with a face whose default seemed to be furious. “Actually,” Cary pulled some other things from his bag, “I like to think I’m competent enough.” The man grimaced when he saw Cary prepare the needle and thread. “I’m not talkin’ about this,” the man said, “I’m talking about Coltrane.” The sheriff, deputy, and Cary froze for a moment, then exchanged worried glances with each other. The sheriff got up and came to the cell wall. “What do you know about Coltrane?” He demanded. “Why should I tell — ow!” Cary had begun to weave the needle in and out of the man’s skin, pretending not to be afraid. For himself. For Mountain Springs. For Lucas. “You’re gonna wanna tell me now, boy,” Sheriff Owens said, “If you know what’s good for you.” “You’ll find out soon enough,” the man said with a nasty smile. Cary used a small pair of scissors to cut the thread after tying it, and then bandaged the hand. “There you go,” Cary said as he stood and collected his doctor’s bag. Owens opened the cell door to let him out, and then closed it behind him, the loud clanking noise ringing in Cary’s ears as he left. He took a steadying breath of the night air. There were still some lights and noise coming from the saloon, but it seemed the rest of the town had fallen asleep. He only hoped that the future of Mountain Springs was going to be a dream and not a nightmare… ~<>< ><>~He washed his face in a basin when he returned to his doctor’s office. He thought of his mentor, buried up on cemetery hill. Why did he have to die and leave him here alone? The man had so much dedication as to be willing to be shot rather than give up a patient to a bandit. Was Cary as brave as he was? He liked to hope so, but sometimes he doubted it… When he sat on his bed, he heard an angry squeak, as apparently he’d sat on Essie’s tail, not having seen her there in the dark. “Oh! I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he said in the voice he used with children, and eventually she let him pick her up. “Such a good girl,” he said as he stroked her brown fur and used his nose to nuzzle hers. She licked his nose and made a happy squeak, and he let her back down on the bed. Then he sighed. And suddenly, a stressful and unhappy thought entered his mind. If Lucas ever did get his hands on Coltrane, if Cary was there too… Cary would be obligated to try and stop him from killing the man who had ruined Lucky’s life. Or could he, just once, look the other way, abandon his morals, if only for a moment? But then, what kind of doctor would he be? And what would his mentor think of him then? Cary decided to leave future problems in the future for now, got ready, and got in bed, Essie curling up in the crook of his chest and neck. ~<>< ><>~He had a slight headache in the morning, but he wasn’t sure if it was because of the two admittedly watered-down drinks he’d had in the saloon — if he wanted to count cards, he couldn’t be drunk doing it — or from the Laudanum. As he did regularly, he went through his stock. He had some things waiting for him at the general store, if they’d been able to get them in, at least. He fed Essie, and she climbed up his arm to wrap loosely around his shoulders. After some coffee on the porch, watching the world move on as if nothing had happened last night, he finally made his way to the general store. The sound of light bells tinkled as he entered the store. He glanced around for Mr. Lawrence or Miss Maddie, but neither seemed to be there. Instead, there seemed to be a young man in a wide-brimmed hat — interesting to wear indoors — being accosted by Miss Hannah Garfield, one of the young “working” girls at the saloon. “I put in an order for this blush a month and a half ago,” Hanna said, “Mr. Lawrence said it would be in today. And the lipstick.” The young man didn’t seem exactly frazzled, but perhaps a tad uncertain as they looked through different drawers and slots behind him. As Cary had never seen him before, clearly he was new and hadn’t been shown the ropes yet. He wondered where the Lawrences had gotten off to… “Miss Garfield,” Cary gave her a friendly nod as he stopped at the beginning of the inside of the counter. “May I?” He asked the newcomer, who, after a pause, nodded. Cary murmured to himself as he ran a finger just over the boxes on the wall. As a fellow organizer, he was confident in himself to find it. There. “There you are,” he grabbed the blush and lipstick and set them on the counter, where they were immediately plucked by Hannah. “So hard to find good help around here,” she said, leaving the bells tinkling behind her as she left. “Well,” Cary turned to the young man with a smile, “I hope that doesn’t sour your first impression of Mountain Springs.” He had hazel-gold eyes, and was wearing a plain shirt tucked under a fitted leather vest, dark trousers, and worn boots. And yet, up close, there was almost something… feminine about him. But it wasn’t like Cary didn’t have soft features himself, so maybe the young man was simply younger than he looked. “Maybe only parts of it,” he said, and though the voice was low enough, Cary thought he heard a quiet crack. It had been deadpan, so Cary wasn’t sure if that had been a joke or not. All right. Cary started to look through the stock again. “What are you doing?” The young man asked. “Oh, I’ve got a standing order,” he said as he moved about, grabbing this and that and setting it on the counter. “I think your… scarf. Is… moving.” For once, he thought he sensed an emotion besides light sarcasm, and he stood. “This is Essie,” he smiled as he scratched behind her ear, “Want to pet her? She doesn’t bite. Much.” “Uh… no thank you.” Cary smiled again, but only when his back was turned, so that the young man couldn’t see him. Soon, everything was on the counter. Medicine mostly, though he did add a handful of peppermint candies. “Oh,” he slapped his palm on his head, “Where are my manners. I’m Cary Carter. Current doctor for Mountain Springs.” “Current?” “It’s… a long story,” he shrugged. “Sam,” the young man said eventually. “Nice to meet you, Sam,” Cary said genuinely as he put his goods in a large sack he’d brought with him, “Hope you like it here.” Then he was back in the street, though he paused, sack slung over his shoulder. There was definitely something interesting about that new hire, but he couldn’t put a finger on it. Oh well, he was sure he’d figure it out eventually. If Sam decided to stay, of course. Cary was just glad they hadn’t been here for the gunfight… |
| Lucas awoke earlier than usual, though he felt like he hadn’t slept more than a couple hours. Funny how a few rounds of losing cards to Cary could settle a man’s nerves. Guess he’d needed the distraction after the excitement with the bandits, and Ms. Tabitha Wright’s frantic ride into town. Still, he felt good. Clear. Focused. The morning air held a crispness to it, the kind that woke a man up better than any cup of coffee. He rolled his shoulders, loosening the last traces of sleep, before tugging on his boots and heading out. A man who called himself a blacksmith’s apprentice had no business sleeping in. Kyle Barker didn’t tolerate late. Which made him doubly grateful that Cary had stepped in the other day, smoothing things over so Lucky didn’t lose his job over a misunderstanding. Cary had a way with people, gentle, but firm; like he could wrap common sense in honey and make anyone swallow it. Lucky wasn’t always so good with people. Steel, gears, mechanisms, that made sense. People didn’t. The sky still held the last stretches of dawn, purple as he made his way through Mountain Springs. Lanterns flickered out one by one as shopkeepers opened shutters, dusted stoops, swept away yesterday’s footprints. Mrs. Delancy from the bakery stood outside her back door, shaking flour from her apron. The warm smell of fresh bread drifted across the street, making Lucky’s stomach grumble. “Morning, Lucky!” she called. “Mornin’, ma’am,” he replied with a tip of his hat. Further down, Old Man Hawthorne leaned on his cane, motioning irritably at a stray chicken that had apparently decided the middle of the road was the perfect place to settle. The first wagonload of lumber rattled through town, the driver raising a hand in greeting. Lucky lifted his in return. Behind the wagon, a pair of ranch hands argued about who’d forgotten to latch a gate last night, their voices echoing down the street. It was all so...normal. Peaceful, but normal. Exactly the kind of quiet a man could get used to, if he were allowed to keep it. Lucky drew a long breath and let it out slow. The memory of his father was heavy, and settled somewhere behind his ribs, not heavy enough to hurt this morning, but present. Always present. Ten years on a chain gang didn’t sand that kind of thing out of a man. Not when the one responsible was still breathing. Coltrane. Lucky pushed the name out of his mind the way a blacksmith pushes unwanted slag off metal. Not now. Not when the town was just waking up and the day hadn’t even begun. He passed the general store, noting the help wanted sign taken out of the window. Mr. Lawrence must’ve been up late again; the lamp inside was still burning low. Lucky figured they’d found someone to take the job. Probably not. Someone stepped out of the sheriff’s office just then, Deputy Baxter, rubbing his eyes like he hadn’t slept, either. Lucky gave him a nod. The deputy hesitated, then nodded back. Word of last night’s fight had traveled fast; Lucky could feel the eyes on him, though not unkind. Curious, maybe. Respectful, even. He kept walking. The forge would be warm by now, and Kyle Barker would be expecting him. Lucky ran a thumb over the pistols holstered at his side. Smooth. Cool. Familiar. Today would be ordinary. He hoped. But in his experience, ordinary never lasted long. ~ ~ Lucas arrived at Barker Forge just as the rising sun painted the rooftops in soft amber. He could already smell breakfast drifting from the Barker home next door; warm biscuits, maybe sausage, definitely eggs. His stomach growled loud enough that he winced and glanced around, hoping Kyle hadn’t heard. No such luck. Kyle Barker, already apron-on and sleeves rolled, was sorting iron stock with the stern focus of a general planning a campaign. He lifted his gaze just long enough to give Lucky a look halfway between amusement and reprimand. “Hungry, are ya?” Kyle grunted. Lucky grinned sheepishly. “Mrs. Barker’s cookin’ could rouse the dead.” “That it could,” Kyle conceded, setting a bar of iron on the workbench. “But we’ve got a day’s work ahead of us, and horses don’t shoe themselves. Martha’ll have a plate for you later, if you don’t collapse first.” Lucky pretended to wipe his mouth. “Wouldn’t dream of faintin’. Bad for business.” Kyle snorted. “You talk too much for someone who ain’t carried the water yet.” Right, water. Cooling trough was barely a third full from yesterday, and with a stack of horseshoe orders due before five, they’d drain it fast. Lucky rolled up his sleeves. “I’ll fetch fresh water from the pump,” he said. “Shouldn’t take long.” Kyle nodded, already turning back to the forge as he began stoking the coals. “Good. And when you’re back, we’ll start shaping the first set. Barker Forge stays punctual, boy.” Lucky started toward the door but paused at the threshold. The forge was waking up slowly, the hiss of the fire, the metallic scent of iron, the rhythm of Kyle’s sure hands preparing the workspace. Lucas grabbed the buckets, and headed out into the crisp morning air, stomach still complaining, but heart lighter than it had been in days. He slowed his pace as he neared the pump, buckets swinging lightly at his sides. Morning had fully settled over Mountain Springs now, merchants opening shutters, a few early risers sweeping porches, the distant clatter of someone hitching a wagon. Just the way he’d come to appreciate it. But the figure walking ahead of him didn’t fit into the usual morning rhythm. They moved with purpose, not hurried, light-footed, aware of their surroundings in a way that said watchful, not nervous. Their posture, too, was familiar in some strange way. Lucky frowned slightly, trying to place why the way this stranger scanned the area tugged at something in the back of his mind. Where’ve I seen that before? Then they reached their horse. A tall, lean, sharp-eyed mare with a distinctive white slash on her nose and a dark mane. A little older now, a little heavier muscled, but unmistakable. Lucky stopped dead in his tracks. “Trinity?” he whispered under his breath. Memories flooded fast; being twelve years old, hands too small to do much but hold a towel and stay out of the way while old Mr. James delivered her...the way the foal had looked at him with big, warm eyes...how he’d blurted out “Trinity” without even thinking, and Mr. James had chuckled and kept it. Lucky blinked hard and looked from the mare to her supposed rider. The figure; dressed in a man’s coat and a wide-brimmed hat pulled low, patted Trinity’s neck in a way only someone who knew her well would. When they glanced up, Lucky finally saw the face beneath the hat. Sam. Samantha Geraldine James. He hadn’t seen her in years. She looked leaner, sharper around the edges, dust on her boots and her clothes designed for travel and anonymity...which, given she was dressed like a man, seemed to be the whole point. But her eyes he recognized those instantly. Same determination. Same spark. Same girl who used to race him across the pasture and somehow always found a way to win. Lucky’s breath caught for a second. “What in the world...” he murmured. Why was she here? And more importantly, why was she dressed that way? Sam never cared much for frills, sure, but this was different. Purposeful. Like she was hiding. Or hunting. With a steadying breath, Lucky stepped forward, boots scuffing on the packed dirt just loud enough to announce his approach. “Sam?” he called out, voice low, but unmistakably surprised. His grip tightened on the water buckets. Lucas wasn’t sure what he expected when he called her name. What he for sure wasn’t expecting was the punch that Sam threw toward his face. ~ ~ Lucas jerked his head back an instant before Sam’s knuckles could rearrange his jaw. Her punch snapped past his cheek with enough force to sting his skin with the rush of air. “Sam...?!” She didn’t give him time to finish. Her second strike came quick, a tight hook aimed at his ribs, the same one her father had taught them both years ago. Lucas pivoted, letting it brush past him, the metal buckets clattering to the dirt as he raised his hands defensively. “Hold on now, Sam! It’s me!” “That’s the problem!” she snapped, spinning into a low sweep. He hopped over it. Barely. She came up fast, elbow flashing toward his chin. Lucas blocked, the shock of the impact rattling down his forearm. “Good lord, woman! I ain’t seen you in a decade and you greet me like this?!” “Should’ve stayed unseen, then,” Sam growled. But despite her anger, he could see it; recognition. Conflict. Hesitation flickering behind her eyes, buried beneath the hardened exterior she’d earned somewhere before coming to Mountain Springs. Still, she didn’t stop. And neither could he, not if he didn’t want a broken nose. They fell into the rhythm of the familiar dance Calder James, Samantha's father had drilled into them on dusty afternoons. Lucas stepped in with a feint, testing the waters. Sam parried, caught his wrist, twisted, but he rolled with it, slipping free with a maneuver that earned him a brief smirk from her. A smirk. Well, at least he wasn’t dealing with a complete stranger. He swung a controlled punch toward her shoulder. She dodged, planted a boot against his knee to throw him off-balance. Lucas stumbled, recovered, and lunged in, grabbing her coat sleeve to stop her from slipping behind him. She countered by stepping close -too close- and slamming her forehead into his. “OW-DAMMIT, SAM!” “You got slow,” she said, shaking off the impact like she’d merely bumped into a doorframe. “You got mean!” “That too.” They circled each other now, breaths fogging faintly in the crisp morning air. Town folk began drifting toward the commotion. Mrs. Delancy froze mid-sweep, flour dusted across her apron. Old Man Hawthorne leaned forward on his cane, eyes squinting like he was watching a prize fight. The lumber wagon slowed as the driver whistled low. Even Trinity stamped the dirt with interest. “Sam, I’m not fightin’ you,” Lucas warned. “You’re doing a damn fine impression of it!” She rushed in again. Lucas caught her wrists this time, forcing them downward. She struggled, strong, wiry, relentless. He had height and weight on her, but she had leverage and ruthlessness. “Sam, just stop! I ain’t yer enemy!” She froze. Just for a second. That second was all he needed to release her without getting another bruise for breakfast. Sam tore her arms free, chest rising and falling with adrenaline and...something else. Something tight. Something guarded. Before either of them could speak... “HEY! Break it up!” Both fighters froze mid motion, Sam adjusting her stance, Lucky brushing dust off his shirt where her elbow had nailed him. Deputy Baxter stormed toward them, hat askew, badge glinting. He looked somewhere between exhausted, irritated, and deeply confused. Lucas lifted both hands. “Wasn’t me startin’ it.” Sam lifted hers as well. “Wasn’t me finishin’ it.” Baxter pointed at both of them. “I swear, if it ain’t outlaws, it’s the townsfolk punchin’ each other before breakfast. You two want to tell me what in the seven blazing hells that was?” Lucas glanced at Sam. Sam glared at him. Neither spoke. The entire morning paused around them, birds, townsfolk, Trinity, waiting for what came next. Deputy Jackson Baxter dusted off his vest with an irritable swipe, jaw clenched as the morning sun caught the scowl he’d been wearing since stepping out of the café. His coffee was still steaming on the porch rail where he’d left it, his half eaten biscuit cooling beside it. He did not appreciate being dragged into a fistfight before finishing breakfast. “I don’t got time for this nonsense. I am still tryin’ to eat my damn breakfast!” Baxter barked, stepping between Lucky and Sam, blue eyes flashing sharp annoyance. “You two kick up one more ounce of dust,” he growled, “and I swear on Sheriff Owens’s shiny badge, I’ll throw both your behinds in a cell until lunchtime. And don’t think I won’t.” Lucky nodded in a peaceable gesture. Sam simply tipped her hat. From behind Baxter, townsfolk slowly dispersed now that the spectacle was over. Miss Maddie Lawrence lifting her apron to hide a grin; Mr. Lawrence muttering about “unnecessary ruckus”; Clint Barker loudly proclaiming, “Mr. Barrett can you teach me how to fight like that?” until his mother yanked him by the ear. Deputy Baxter jabbed a finger at them both. “Straighten up. And try actin’ like civilized folk for one morning.” With one last frustrated sigh, he turned on his heel and stomped back toward the café, muttering something that sounded a lot like, “A man can’t even have breakfast in peace...” The moment he was out of earshot, Sam brushed dust off her sleeve, shooting Lucky a sideways look. “You always greet folks like that?” she drawled. Lucky snorted. “Only the ones who try to rearrange my face.” Sam smirked, a quick, sharp expression that reminded him of the girl he used to race horses with under the summer sun. “What’re you even doin’ here, Sam?” Lucky asked, dropping his voice. “And dressed like...well...that.” Sam’s eyes flicked around, scanning the street with the same careful vigilance as before. “Not here,” she said quietly, jerking her chin toward a narrow alley between the general store and the sheriff’s office. They stepped into the shade where no casual listener would overhear. “Trinity gave you away,” Lucky said. “Yeah, well, she tends to do that,” Sam answered. “But I can’t be myself everywhere. Not with what I am and I’m trackin’.” Her voice dropped further. “I'm a Bounty Hunter now, and I'm on a job. Two men. One of ’em’s you.” Lucky’s eyes widened. She lifted a hand before he could speak. “Not to take you in. To talk.” “Talk about what?” “Billy Coltrane.” The name landed like a horseshoe on fresh iron, hot, heavy, impossible to ignore. Lucky’s jaw tightened. “Sam...” “Not now,” she said. “But soon. I need answers, and you’re the only one who’s got ’em.” Lucky dragged a hand through his hair. He wanted to ask more, but Kyle Barker’s voice rang in his skull like a hammer: Water won’t haul itself. Sam raised an eyebrow. “You look like you’re tryin’ to remember somethin’ important.” Lucky cursed under his breath. “I gotta go. Kyle’ll have my hide if I don’t bring that water. I’ll find you later, Sam.” She nodded once. “I’ll be around.” When he stepped back into the sunlight, Lucky was already moving fast, buckets clanging at his sides. Between Sam’s sudden appearance, Baxter’s warning, and Coltrane’s name dropped like a storm on the horizon. He had a feeling today wasn’t going to stay quiet for long. |
| Sam stood where the dust was still settling, fingers flexing once at her side as her pulse slowly eased back into something manageable. The fight had been instinct, muscle memory older than the disguise, older than the road. It had felt...familiar. Too familiar. She watched Lucas retreat down the street, buckets banging against his legs as he hurried back toward the forge, responsibility already reclaiming him. Same Lucky. Always running toward duty, even when the past came calling. Around her, Mountain Springs exhaled. Miss Hannah Garfield laughed as she linked arms with a passing ranch hand, already spinning the story into something more dramatic. Pastor Hyde adjusted his spectacles and shook his head, murmuring something about “morning tempers.” Mr. Lawrence returned to his store with a disapproving frown, though Sam caught the way his shoulders relaxed once the excitement was over. Life resumed, as it always did. That was when she noticed Maddie. The young woman stood a short distance away near the general store’s porch, hands clasped in front of her skirt, hazel eyes bright with barely contained excitement. She looked like she’d been waiting. Sam sighed inwardly. “Mr. Sam!” Maddie said, hurrying over before Sam could escape. “That was, you were, I mean, I’ve never seen anyone move like that before!” Sam tipped her hat, already walking toward the store. “You shouldn’t stare. It’s rude.” That only made Maddie walk faster to keep up. “Were you in the war?” Maddie asked. “Or trained by soldiers? Or maybe an outlaw? Oh! Or a traveling fighter! Daddy says men like that always come from somewhere exciting!” “My past is my own,” Sam said evenly, cutting her off without slowing. Maddie blinked, but only for a moment. “That’s fair,” she said, undeterred. “I just...sometimes I wish I could leave. See things. Do something other than count jars and fold receipts.” They passed the window where the HELP WANTED sign once hung. “I worry about leaving Daddy alone,” Maddie continued, voice softer now. “He wouldn’t say it, but...he needs help. And I’m glad you’re here. It’s nice having someone else around.” Sam glanced at her then, really looked. The quiet longing beneath the chatter. The way Maddie’s eyes drifted toward the road leading out of town. “Careful what you wish for,” Sam said quietly. Inside, the general store smelled of coffee grounds and dry goods. Thomas Lawrence stood behind the counter, arms crossed, already wearing the expression of a man who knew trouble when he saw it. Maddie wasted no time. “Daddy! You should’ve seen it, Sam was incredible! There was this punch and then a twist and, oh! And Lucky almost got her but then.” “Him,” Thomas corrected automatically. “Yes, him,” Maddie said, waving it off. “I didn’t even know people could fight like that! I wish I could learn something like that.” Thomas fixed her with a look. “No daughter of mine is going around throwin’ punches in the street.” Maddie wilted slightly. “I just meant...” “That’s enough,” he said, softer but firm. Then his gaze shifted to Sam. Measuring. “You cause any more disturbances, you won’t be sleepin’ under my roof.” Sam inclined her head. “Understood.”  ~  ~ She didn’t wait for dismissal. She headed for the back stairs and up to the small room she’d been given, closing the door behind her with a soft click. Only then did she let the magnitude of the morning settle. Sam sat on the edge of the narrow bed, hat resting in her hands. The room was quiet, too quiet. Her thoughts weren’t. Lucas’s surprised face replayed in her mind. The way he’d said her name. The way his stance had shifted into something familiar the moment she swung at him. She lay back and stared at the ceiling, memories rising unbidden. Running barefoot through tall grass. Laughing until her ribs hurt. Lucky handing her a half-finished blade like it was treasure. Her father’s voice correcting their footing, their balance, their breathing. Before the bounties. Before the blood. Before the road taught her how to survive alone. For a brief, dangerous moment, Sam let herself remember who she’d been. Before she became a hunter. ~ ~ The small room above the general store faded away as Sam lay staring at the ceiling, the sounds of Mountain Springs dulling into nothing. Her mind drifted backward, pulled by memories she hadn’t meant to touch, but never truly left behind. Wyoming Territory. She could almost feel it again: the bite of the wind across open plains, the way the sky seemed bigger there, heavier somehow. Her father had raised her where the land decided whether you lived or died, and he’d made sure she knew how to listen to it. Jonathan James had been a patient teacher. He never wasted words, never raised his voice. He taught Sam how to read tracks pressed into hard ground, how to tell which plants could heal and which would kill, how to start a fire with numb fingers and keep it alive through the night. He taught her to move quietly, to observe first and act second. “Land tells you everything,” he used to say in his careful, accented English. “You just have to learn how to hear it.” At night, by firelight, he told her stories of a world impossibly far away. Beijing. Narrow streets filled with voices, incense smoke curling into the air, rooftops stacked like steps toward the sky. He spoke of hunger, of violence, of the long road that had carried him across oceans and borders to a country that promised opportunity and delivered hardship in equal measure. “The journey here was not brave,” he once told her. “It was necessary.” Her mother, Jamina, had been necessity too. Jonathan rarely spoke of finding her, but Sam remembered the pieces. Jamina had been the last of her people; her tribe slaughtered, her body broken and left for the land to reclaim. Jonathan had found her barely breathing, carried her for miles, and nursed her back to life with what little he had. Against the odds, she survived. Their love had grown from that shared survival; two people the world had tried to erase, choosing instead to keep living. Jamina taught Sam strength of a different kind. Quiet resilience. How to endure loss without letting it hollow you out. She taught Sam stories, songs, and how to honor the dead without being consumed by them. But the world had never been kind to them. Sam remembered Carson vividly; the way eyes followed them wherever they went, the doors that closed just a little too quickly. The whispers about her father’s face, her mother’s blood. The way merchants refused to trade, how townsfolk pretended not to hear when Jonathan spoke. The winter had been especially cruel that year. Snow piled high, supplies ran thin, and the cold crept into their bones. Jonathan had tried to barter for food, but prejudice had proven deadlier than the weather. That was when Lucas Barrett Sr., Lucky's father had stepped in. Sam remembered him clearly; broad shouldered, tired eyed, and kind in a way that didn’t ask permission. He’d noticed them lingering too long near the edge of town, noticed the way people avoided them. “You’ll freeze out here,” he’d said simply. “Come on. We’ve got room.” Lucas had been younger then, curious and unguarded, peeking around his mother’s skirts to stare at Sam like she was something rare and interesting instead of something wrong. His mother had smiled warmly, pressing a mug of something hot into Sam’s hands and wrapping Jamina in a blanket without a second thought. No questions. No judgment. Just kindness. They’d stayed through the worst of the winter, the Barret's sharing what little they had. It was during those long, snowbound days that Sam and Lucas had grown inseparable; learning together, training together, laughing in a way that felt like safety. That was the life before everything changed. Sam turned her face toward the wall, eyes stinging. Mountain Springs wasn’t Wyoming. And she wasn’t that girl anymore. But Lucas was here. And the past, it seemed, had finally caught up to her. |
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