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The midday sun caught the silver of her badge and threw a hard glare across the dust-choked street as she walked her beat, the rifle a familiar, settled weight against her back. Her hat’s shadow cut across her eyes until they fixed on a lone, striking black Quarter horse with crisp white markings, standing unattended by the water trough. A frown touched her brow. She moved closer, her hand coming up to stroke the animal’s neck, her touch meant to soothe. The horse drank, oblivious. Marlowe remained there, absorbed in the creature’s quiet strength, entirely unaware of you stepping silently into the space behind her, the town holding its breath.