#lafg

You spot him, in the crowd. A man dressed in black. He’s slinking through the thicket of people; no doubt trying to find a good spot for the hanging.

Even though you can’t see him very well, what you can see is enough to captivate you. He isn’t from Cortez Creek. He’s finely dressed in a coat and vest, with a hat that covers his hair. The most intriguing piece of apparel, however, is the dark blue handkerchief concealing half his face.

The mystery of the man behind that mask excites you.

Sheriff Hargreve starts to speak, so you turn around and shift your attention to him. He greets the people of the town, talking about how Little Louis has been caught and will soon face justice. Then he lists off Louis’s extensive crimes. You wonder how long this will take. It’s still dreadfully hot out with the sun not yet set, and the dust in the air is beginning to parch your throat.

A presence looms behind you.

It’s faint, almost imperceptible, but you notice. Like a phantom, it reaches closer. Something ghosts the inside of your pocket.

Faster than a snake, you snatch the wrist. It yanks in resistance, but you tighten your grip and whip your head around.

Icy blue eyes lock onto yours. The man from earlier glares at you with venom under the brim of his hat.

Your hard stare communicates one thing in the midst of the oblivious crowd. Don’t move or I’ll scream.

He bristles indignantly.

Glancing down, you spot your coin pouch pinched between his fingers. He’s frozen—caught in the risk of what he wants and what you’ll do. Little does he know, it isn’t your only purse, because you keep a second one properly hidden for cases like this.

You cautiously pry the one of concern from his fingers, but after you’ve recovered it, you don’t make any more movements. You don’t let him go.

He raises an unamused eyebrow, as if to say, “What do you want?”

You eye him up and down. With how close he is to you now, your earlier intrigue only grows. What you can see of his face are handsome features—black hair, thick eyelashes, a strong nose beneath his handkerchief—and you are not immune to their allure.

His wrist twitches. He’s growing antsy under your fixed hold and stare.

Finally, he asks in a quiet, exasperated voice, “Are you going to let me go or not?”

Its deep and breathy nature shakes you to your core. But you can’t let him notice that, nor can you let him notice how charmed you are by his surprisingly English accent.

Still, you fail to be reasonable when you slowly, gently press the coin pouch into his palm and curl his fingers over it.

He looks shocked. Then, for a fraction of a second, he softens. You wonder what he’s thinking behind those beautiful eyes, but they quickly harden into diamond as he pulls out of your grip with more force than needed; like he expected it to be tighter.