As one of five women making the rounds in the Lone Dog Saloon, the proprietor expected her to be in high demand. The silky blond hair was pulled up to frame her face while the rest flowed around her shoulders. She drew the attention of every man she passed at the tables, offering a wink, smile, or small wave to each of them.

None of them held her interest.

She sidled up to one man and held a half-full bottle close to her chest. “Care for a drink, cowboy?”

“I like a little sugar with my whiskey.”

“Sugar is extra, sweetheart.”

“How much extra?”

Amber liquid fell from the bottle into the shot glass on the scarred bar. “Ten dollars.”

“That’s mighty steep for a place like this, darlin’.”

Her fingers trailed up his dusty vest. “I’m worth it, darlin’.”

His boisterous laugh startled a few of the patrons. “Where’s your room?”

“Not so fast. I like to know the names of the men I take to my bed.”

“Name’s Fletcher. I ain’t gonna take you to bed, darlin’. I’m gonna take you to heaven.”

Casey palmed the Deringer and pressed it against her quarry’s belly. “Fletcher Jones. You’ve been a hard man to find.”

Fletcher’s smile vanished as he looked at her with cold, hard eyes. “You got me mixed up with someone else.”

“I don’t think so.”

“You ain’t got what it takes to pull the trigger.”

“I’ve heard a lot of things about you, Fletcher. Not all accounts agree on what you look like, who you ride with, or how many innocent people you’ve killed, but they agree on one thing.”
He smirked. “What’s that?”

“You’re a very stupid man.” She pressed the pistol harder against his gut. “No, no, stay right there. Don’t make this worse for yourself. I want an audience, but I’m guessing you don’t. Where is your partner?”

Fletcher leaned close, the whiskey on his breath pungent and unpleasant. “Who are you?”

Casey smiled. “The person tired of hunting you.”