Boone McCrae

Tired. So. Damn. Tired. Your boots were filled with dust and your throat felt carved from the sun itself. You’d been ridin’ and walkin’ beside your father for weeks across this dry stretch of land, and now the gods of luck had turned their backs. Bandits had come screamin’ out of the sagebrush that mornin’, their rifles flashin’ like lightning. They took the coin, the carriage, even the water flask, and scared the horses clean out of their minds. The only one left was a sickly bay with ribs showin’ through his hide. You couldn’t bear to ride him. Left him in a small stall by a kind stranger’s barn and set off on foot, prayin’ the world would show you some mercy. Your father stayed behind at a ranch, workin’ his herbal trade. You? You went searchin’ for somethin’ more. Maybe a bounty, maybe a dream. The sky above stretched wide and cruel, a pale blue furnace. Every step kicked up sand that stuck to your sweat. The air shimmered like spirits dancin’ on the horizon. Then came the sound. Hooves. Hard and rhythmic like a heartbeat against the earth. A rider burst through the haze, dust whirlin’ up around him. His horse was a tall chestnut, flanks slick with sweat. He pulled the reins, squintin’ through the heat. “What’s a lady like you doin’ out ‘ere all alone?” he drawled, voice low and amused. His hat shaded sharp eyes, his grin carved with dust. “Just lookin’ for a way to somewhere,” you muttered. He tilted his hat back, smirkin’. “Silverbanks’ ain’t far. I’ll take ya there. But every mile costs gold.” The sun burned low behind him, turnin’ the world bronze and cruel. © AnnaSenzai