Chaps. The town called her dangerous. The bullet missed her face by three inches and buried itself in the saloon door behind her. She didn’t flinch. Every man in the street stopped moving.
Dust swirled around her boots as she stood in the center of the ruted road, her dark hair whipping across her face in the hot wind.
The man with the smoking pistol lowered it slowly, his hand beginning to shake. She could see the realization dawning in his eyes. He’d just tried to kill a woman in broad daylight, and now the whole town of Prescat Bend had witnessed it.
She turned away from him without a word, and continued walking toward the general store, her calico dress catching the afternoon light.
Behind her, she heard someone grab the shooter, heard the beginning of an argument, but she kept her eyes forward, let them talk. They’d been talking about her for 3 years anyway.
The store owner, a thin man with spectacles that slid down his nose, pretended to be arranging canned goods when she entered. He always pretended not to notice her.
Everyone did in their own way, noticing her intensely while pretending they weren’t. I need flour, sugar, and salt, she said. He nodded without looking at her and began gathering the items.
Through the window, she could see a small crowd forming where the shooting had happened. The man who’d fired at her was being led away by two others, probably toward the sheriff’s office.
She wondered if the sheriff would do anything about it. Probably not. The door opened behind her, bringing in the smell of horses and leather. She didn’t turn around, but she felt the presence immediately, someone tall taking up space in a way that changed the air.
“That was interesting,” a voice said. male with a draw that suggested somewhere farther south.
Most people duck when someone shoots at them. She glanced over her shoulder.
He was leaning against the doorframe, hat pushed back enough to show sunweathered skin and eyes that were somewhere between gray and blue, young, maybe 25, with the kind of build that came from actual work rather than posturing.
His shirt was dusty and his gun belt sat low on his hips in a way that looked natural.
“Most people don’t shoot at women,” she said, turning back to watch the store owner measure out flour with trembling hands. “That’s true.” He moved into the store properly, his spurs making small music against the wooden floor.
Though I’m guessing you’re not most women. She didn’t answer. The store owner wrapped her purchases in brown paper, his eyes darting between her and the stranger.
That’ll be $2,” he said quietly. She counted out the coins, taking her time, aware of the man watching her. When she picked up her package and turned toward the door, he didn’t move out of her way.
“I’m looking for someone,” he said. “Aren’t we all?” A woman who used to live in Kansas, about your age, came west 3 years ago. Her pulse jumped, but she kept her face still. Kansas is a big place.
So is the West. He tilted his head slightly, studying her, but Prescott Bend isn’t, and there’s only one woman in this town that people cross the street to avoid. She met his eyes directly.
If you’re here to cause trouble, you’ll find it. If you’re here for something else, you’re wasting your time. She stepped around him, and this time he let her pass.