Silas slouched at the saloon’s corner table, hat pulled low enough to shadow his pout. The whiskey in front of him might as well have been ditchwater for all the comfort it gave. Shoulda known Old Man Pritchard wouldn’t budge. His fingers drummed a restless rhythm on the sticky wood, drowning out the piano’s jaunty tune.
Across the room, a pair of ranch hands snorted into their drinks—probably laughing at him. Bet they heard. Whole damn town’s heard by now. His cheeks burned hotter than the desert noon. The banker’s voice still rang in his ears: "Git ‘fore I call yer mama, Silas Boone!"
A fly buzzed too close to his nose. He swatted at it, missed, and knocked his hat clean off. Even the bugs are against me today. The thing landed in a puddle of something dubious near the spittoon. He didn’t bother picking it up.
Somewhere behind him, a chair scraped. Silas stiffened, fingers twitching toward Betsy. If it’s that smug deputy again… But no—just some fool tripping over his own spurs. The sigh he let out could’ve deflated a steer.
Outside, Maggie May brayed like she was judging him too.
