Chapter 1 The Stranger in the Dust

The wind howled across the open plains like a wounded coyote, carrying the scent of gunpowder and smoke. Lila Montgomery tightened her grip on the reins as her mare, Dusty, snorted and shifted beneath her. The sun was bleeding into the horizon, staining the sky crimson, and casting long shadows across the dry grassland.

She wasn't supposed to be out this late, not alone. But when you inherited the Montgomery Ranch at twenty-two, with half the cattle gone and the other half sick, there wasn't time for fear-or sleep.

She spotted the flicker of something ahead. Not a coyote. Not a cow. It was...a man.

Lila slowed Dusty to a trot, her free hand slipping to the rifle strapped beside her saddle. The figure was slumped against a mesquite tree, one leg outstretched, hat tilted low. Blood stained his shirt, a dark smear across the ribs. His horse, a black stallion, was nowhere in sight.

"Hey!" she called out, voice firm. "You dead or just resting?"

The man shifted. Slowly. Painfully. He tilted his head, revealing sharp cheekbones, stubble, and a split lip. "Depends...who's askin'?"

His voice was a drawl-lazy, laced with pain and danger.

"I've got a rifle and a short temper," she replied. "You want help, you'll answer straight."

A ghost of a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Then I guess I'm restin'."

Lila dismounted, eyes never leaving him. He didn't look like a rancher. His coat was too fine, his boots too worn, his eyes too...hard. She'd heard stories about bandits robbing travelers on the Laramie trail. About outlaws slipping across the border like rattlesnakes in the dark.

"You're bleeding," she said.

"I noticed."

She knelt beside him, lowering her rifle but not letting it go. "What happened?"

He looked past her, toward the setting sun. "Let's just say I got into a disagreement with a man who prefers talkin' with bullets."

"And you lost?"

"I never said that."

A long silence passed between them. Lila studied his face. Despite the grime and blood, there was something unnervingly calm about him. Like a man who'd seen too much to be scared of anything anymore.

She sighed. "You're lucky I came this way."

"Luck's never been on my side, miss..."

"Lila Montgomery. I own the ranch a mile west."

His eyes flickered-recognition? Interest? "Didn't know women owned land in these parts."

"They do when every man in their family is buried beneath it."

He didn't respond. Didn't apologize. Just nodded like he understood more than he let on.

"Can you ride?"

"Can you carry me?"

"You want a bed or a grave, mister?"

His grin returned, weak but real. "Bed sounds just fine."

The stairs creaked under Lila's boots as she made her way up. She didn't light the lantern in her room-no need. Moonlight poured through the lace curtains, casting silver patterns on the floorboards. She sat on the edge of the bed, untying her boots slowly, her thoughts tangled around the man now lying in her parlor.

Who was Jack really? He hadn't given a full name, and the way he scanned the room like it was foreign ground told her one thing-he was no ranch hand passing through.

Lila reached into her nightstand drawer and pulled out her father's old Colt. She checked the chamber, then slid it under her pillow. She wasn't scared... but she wasn't stupid either.

Downstairs, Jack hadn't moved much. But he wasn't sleeping. His eyes were open, trained on the shadows dancing along the wooden beams overhead. Pain throbbed in his side, but it wasn't what kept him awake.

It was the dream. The one that always came after a job went wrong.

Blood in the dust. A scream he couldn't stop. A name he hadn't spoken in years.

He closed his eyes, forcing the memory down, down, down, until it was buried beneath the ache in his ribs.

Then-a creak.

Not from upstairs.

From outside.

Jack sat up instantly, breath caught. He knew that sound-the long groan of a porch board under a cautious step. He strained to hear it again... nothing. Just wind brushing against the windows like a whisper.

Still, he reached for the knife hidden in his boot.

Upstairs, Lila hadn't heard anything yet. But Dusty let out a soft whinny from the barn.

Something wasn't right.

Tap.

The sound was light. Deliberate. Like someone brushing fingers against the front door.

Jack moved slowly, silently. He stood, gritting his teeth against the pain, and crossed to the window. He eased back the curtain just an inch.

A horse.

Tethered by the fence.

But no rider.

He looked back at the stairs, where faint light from Lila's room leaked under the door. He wasn't sure what he'd dragged her into, but he had a gut feeling it had just arrived on horseback.

Then-a flash of silver in the dark.

A man, moving low by the barn, a rifle slung over his shoulder.

Jack's jaw tightened.

Whoever they were, they weren't here to borrow sugar.