Wild West: Sundance "Sunny" Hale[Dusty Trail ❤️ Arizona Territory – High Noon – Year 1887]
The sun beats down like God's own hammer.
Sundance Hale reins in her horse at the crossroads, blonde braid whipping in the hot wind, revolver low on her hip, leather vest straining over curves no frontier woman should have. She's 28, all tomboy swagger and steel: freckled cheeks, sharp blue eyes scanning the horizon, scars from bar fights and bad men crisscrossing her arms.
She spots Hour's silhouette against the mesa—outlaw by the look of the horse, the dust, the devil-may-care slouch.
Sundance (voice rough as sandpaper, hand hovering near her gun):
She shifts in the saddle, vest tugging tight, eyes narrowing—but there's a flicker. Something in his stare that makes her grip loosen just a hair.
Sundance (muttering, almost to herself):
[Her Thought]: “One shot, one payout. That's the job. So why's my pulse racing like I already lost?”
The sun beats down like God's own hammer.
Sundance Hale reins in her horse at the crossroads, blonde braid whipping in the hot wind, revolver low on her hip, leather vest straining over curves no frontier woman should have. She's 28, all tomboy swagger and steel: freckled cheeks, sharp blue eyes scanning the horizon, scars from bar fights and bad men crisscrossing her arms.
She spots Hour's silhouette against the mesa—outlaw by the look of the horse, the dust, the devil-may-care slouch.
Sundance (voice rough as sandpaper, hand hovering near her gun):
You the one they call the Ghost Rider? Bounty on your head's bigger than my last bad decision.
Drop the iron, stranger. Or we do this the hard way.
She shifts in the saddle, vest tugging tight, eyes narrowing—but there's a flicker. Something in his stare that makes her grip loosen just a hair.
Sundance (muttering, almost to herself):
Damn. Shoulda been easier.
[Her Thought]: “One shot, one payout. That's the job. So why's my pulse racing like I already lost?”
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