Four: Showdown At Sundown

Rhett stood at the base of the water tower, gazing out at the expanse of dry plains stretching endlessly under the hot evening sun. The scent of oiled metal clung to his hands, remnants of his labor repairing the intricate gears and pulleys. The brass and iron now gleamed in the fading light, promising a steady flow of water to Hollow Creek. He leaned against the wooden rail, the tools at his hip a reminder of the hard work behind him.

Two days had passed since Everly’s defiant declaration, yet her words still lingered in Rhett’s mind. He’d tried to lose himself in the clatter of his tools that morning, but no amount of work could drown out the unease knotting in his chest.

To everyone in Hollow Creek, Everly Cunningham looked like any other local. Nothing about her hinted at the Faith magic she carried. Rhett figured that was true for most folks with magic. Just yesterday after service, he watched her chat politely with Pastor Bennett and his wife, blending right in. She even flashed a sweet smile at Miss Prewett, despite the woman’s relentless scolding about her skipping the morning class again.

Try as he might, Rhett couldn’t forget the way the cloaked men had walked into the saloon, dragging silence in their wake. He could still feel the oppressive weight of their stares, the head honcho’s sneering threat ringing in his ears. “You’re either with the girl or against her.”

Everly didn’t understand the danger circling her. She was stubborn to a fault, and while he couldn’t help but admire her determination, it also worried him. Her strength might be enough to stare down the spiteful gentlemen callers who slung insults when she turned them away, but against those men? Rhett clenched his jaw. Reckless as she was, she didn’t see what he saw—how outmatched she was.

“There you are, ya ornery cuss!”

He turned to see Damian approaching. Dressed in a fitted leather vest adorned with intricate brass gears and a long coat that billowed slightly in the warm breeze, he looked every bit the young inventor he was. He extended his hand, offering Rhett his gun belt, the gear gun swinging in the holster.

“I swung by the shop lookin’ for ya,” he said, a hint of mischief in his voice. “Mr. Beauchamp said you were wrappin’ up here, so I figured I’d fetch your rig.” He raised an eyebrow, his expression turning serious. “Heard you got chewed out again for messin’ around at the shop. You holdin’ up all right there, Gearhead?”

“Yeah,” Rhett replied as he exchanged the tools for his belt rig. He hesitated. “I’m worried about Everly.”

Damian crossed his arms. “She hasn’t said a word to me. I don’t know what to think, but I know she can’t handle this all on her own.”

Rhett let out a frustrated sigh, slinging the leather strap with his tools over the banister. “She’s walking into something dangerous, and I can’t do a damn thing about it.”

“Maybe we should try talkin’ to her again,” Damian suggested. He wiped a bead of sweat from his brow.

“Bah, she won’t listen.” He shook his head, exasperated. “She’s got grit, all right. Stubborn as a rock, but that’s what makes her who she is.” A memory of the first time Damian had introduced them surfaced in his mind. He was twenty-one, she was seventeen—fiercely independent even then. She’d been trying to remove a wasp nest from beneath the stairs of their home. When he offered to help, she had insisted she could handle it on her own, proclaiming she didn’t need any man to assist her.

It had ended in a frenzy of angry wasps, resulting in a night of Grandma Destiny meticulously picking out stingers from all three of them. Eight years later, her resolve remained as unyielding as ever.

“I want to help,” Rhett said, “but she don’t take too kindly to reason. She’s courtin’ danger, plain and simple, and I don’t know how to make her see it.”

Before Damian could voice his response, a shriek cut through the dusk, sending a chill down Rhett’s spine. The sharp pops of multiple gear guns erupted from the west, each shot cracking the air like a clap of thunder. Rhett’s heart raced as he exchanged a bewildered glance with Damian, confusion etched on his friend’s face. Without a moment’s hesitation, Rhett turned on his heel, hightailing it back toward the heart of town. A rapid thud of footsteps trailed behind him, Damian right on his heels.

As they rounded the corner, the scene unfolded before them: a group of men—the same cloaked figures from the saloon—brandished their gear guns while shouting orders. Everly stood in the center of the chaos, her posture defiant as she faced them. Her leather corset was missing a few brass buckles, the billowy white blouse spotted with dirt. Dust marred the hem of her skirt, one of Damian’s gear guns tucked into the belt.

Outside the Mercantile, Miss Prewett shrieked again as she spotted a cloaked man advancing on her, a long-barreled gear gun slung over his shoulder. In a panic, she dropped her basket of oranges, the fruit spilling out and rolling across the boardwalk behind her as she hurried back inside.

Rhett’s chest tightened. His gaze snapped back to Everly. The last rays of sunlight caught her hair, shimmering like honey fire. He shouldered his way through the cloaked men, the familiar thrill of a showdown rushing through him. It had been too long since he’d faced a real opponent—since the days when word of him and Damian had spread across Hollow Creek, and no one dared challenge them. His fingers tingled, aching for the grip of his gear gun. The air was thick with the anticipation of a fight.

He wouldn’t be able to talk his way out of this confrontation, and that was fine. He’d been itching for a fight, and he knew Damian was, too. This wasn’t like the challenges they used to face, where the stakes were just pride and reputation. This was far more personal.

A delicate hand gripped his. Rhett looked down to find Everly squeezing his fingers. She smirked, her show of confidence stealing his breath. He tightened his hold on her hand.

Damian arrived at their side, his gear gun already drawn, thumb poised on the hammer.

“No more runnin’,” he muttered, his eyes locked on the men around them. “We end this here.”

Rhett nodded, his gaze fixed on Everly. “How ‘bout a kiss for good luck, darlin’?”

She glanced up at him, that same reckless smirk curling her lips. “Luck is for gamblers, Rhett. Try saying a prayer once in a while.”

Rhett chuckled, the ease of their ritual banter loosening the tension in his chest. It was a familiar exchange, a well-worn script that never failed to spark a flicker of amusement in her eyes. “I reckon a prayer from you might make the good Lord smile on my ornery hide. Now, let’s show them boys what real gunslingers are made of.”