Colt McAllister had buried more promises than calves born on his spread, and he liked it that way—quiet land, quiet mornings, no one to answer
Author: ali4050284@gmail.com
The autumn wind in the border town smelled of whiskey and cheap tobacco. Men crowded the auction block built for cattle, shouting numbers at a
Clint Mercer drove the last cedar post into the hard skin of Broken Mesa, each blow of the hammer ringing like a clock ticking off
Grant Hail had spent so many years moving that the ground beneath his horse felt like it might keep rolling if he ever stopped. He
The Arizona sun had no mercy, but the man on the narrow horse had seen worse. He rode without a plan except to find water
Matthew Cole heard the wind screaming across the Wyoming flats and thought it was just another empty sound to fill his empty life. His wife
Harlon Voss knew every bend of the river trail, every stone that could roll a hoof, yet the sight of the woman limping across his
Caleb Brick guided his tired horse down the last slope as the sky turned the color of cold steel. The wind cut through his coat
The tin plate sat between them like a treaty nobody had signed yet. Rabbit stew, simple and hot, steamed while the fire popped. Ayanna stared
The town of Red Crossing smelled like hot iron and old grudges. Sunlight bounced off cracked windows and rotten boards, and the wind carried the