The sun poured over the plains, bourbon-rich, soaking every board and bone in amber heat. Cal Boone rode into it, dust in his teeth, sweat curling behind his neck. He adjusted the ring on his finger, too loose now, like everything else he’d carried west. A man half-emptied by miles, half-waiting to be filled.

The town of Bluebonnet slouched at the desert’s edge, crumbling under its own weight. A saloon’s warped sign hung crooked, its paint flaked to illegible scars. Tumbleweeds snagged on rusted barbed wire that fenced nothing but sand. A cracked church bell lay half-buried in the street, its tongue rusted silent. The skeleton of a wagon rotted beside it, one wheel missing, as if it had tried to flee and failed. Cal dismounted beneath a weather-bitten sign, its ghost letters barely spelling Bluebonnet. The bordello loomed above, paint peeling from her bones, lace curtains catching the breeze in whispered confessions.

Inside, the parlor sighed with cheap perfume and the low hum of secrets. Marlowe sat alone, boots kicked up on faded velvet, cigar smoke wreathing her head in a crown of ash. Her voice was gravel warmed by whiskey—the kind of woman who’d buried three husbands and hadn’t cried for any. Her eyes flicked to the doorway, expectant, as if waiting for someone to fill it.

“You’re early. Or late. Depends what you came for,” Marlowe said, exhaling smoke. “Or what I need you for.”

Cal took off his hat, fingers brushing the worn ring on his hand, a reflex when the world felt too close. “Company,” he said, voice low, wary now.

She smirked, her gaze lingering on the gun at his hip, measuring. “Ain’t no charity for broke souls in this town.”

The doorway filled. Len—coiled mischief in worn petticoats, sucking sugar from her thumb, hair falling in her eyes. She tossed it back with a practiced flick, then tapped her fingers restlessly on the doorframe.

“New blood,” she said, tongue flashing. “Hope you brought stamina.”

He watched their eyes. Not flirtation. Calculation.

They led him up, stairs creaking with memory. Marlowe’s room was heavy with shadow and silk, wallpaper curling at the seams. Len worked his buttons loose, humming, her breath warm on his chest. She traced a finger along the table’s edge, restless. Marlowe lit a match, watched the flame burn to nothing, then ground it out with her boot. Len knelt, her mouth hunger, not mercy. Marlowe pressed against his back, hands cold from her glass, her breath steady. Too steady.

“You’ll need your strength,” Marlowe said, her voice low, like she was measuring him.

He thought it was foreplay. It was foreshadowing.

Marlowe straddled him, hips moving with deliberate possession. Her eyes flicked to Len, who leaned against the wall, stroking herself with idle fingers, her foot tapping softly. A silent conversation passed between them, one Cal couldn’t read.

“Tell him,” Marlowe said.

“We’re not here for you,” Len said, her voice sharp as a blade’s edge.

Cal stilled. “Could’ve fooled me.”

Marlowe’s fingers curled against his throat. Not threatening. Final. “There’s a train in Abilene. Five days. Bank gold. We know the guards, the timetables. We need a man who rides hard, shoots straight, knows his way around a fuse.”

He blinked, the heat of her body still holding him. “You plan your robberies mid-fuck?”

Len grinned, tapping her foot again. “Only the good ones.”

His body pulsed with more than pleasure. The air shifted. Sweat cooled to instinct. He saw his brother’s face, blood blooming through his shirt for standing beside the wrong man. He saw his wife, coughing blood into a cloth until she stopped. The ring on his finger burned. The last time I held a gun, it was to bury him. Maybe this time it’ll mean something.

“You using me?” he asked.

“We’re fucking you because we want to,” Marlowe said, her voice softening, almost tender. “The job’s a bonus.”