The stagecoach came in like a tired animal, wheels complaining over the hard-packed road before it finally shuddered to a stop in front of Willow Creek Station. Dust lifted in a lazy golden curtain, catching the last slant of September sunlight. The air smelled of dry grass, horse sweat, and the faint iron tang of the rails that were still more promise than fact out here.
Carrick Montgomery stood on the wooden platform as if he had been nailed there.
He was thirty-one and built the way the land demanded, broad through the shoulders, lean through the waist, the kind of man who did not carry extra weight because nothing in Wyoming Territory let you keep it. His Stetson cast a shadow over eyes that had learned to watch for weather, cattle, and trouble. His jaw was freshly shaved except for a neatly trimmed beard that still felt unfamiliar beneath his fingers. He kept checking his pocket watch like time could be persuaded to behave.
Fourth time. Fifth.
