** Chapter One: Safety First**

  The first time I ever saw a cultivator gunfight, I was so young I can’t even remember how old I was. Just flashes. Heat rippling off the dust. Gunfire like thunder cracking open the sky. A man and a woman—standing together, backs straight, eyes sharp—took on an entire sect of gunfighters.

  And won.

  Not just won. Obliterated ’em. Bullet sigils lit up the sky like it was the fireworks. Their guns didn’t shoot—they sang. And every shot rewrote the air like it owed ’em rent. The kind of showdown that leaves your knees jelly and your bones talkin’ about it years later, even if your brain don’t remember squat.

  I remember sittin’ in the sidecar-like cradle strapped to a horse—beautiful and magical as heck, glitterin’ with old spell-etchings and lined in sky-hide leather that shimmered like moonlight caught in molasses, probably illegal by frontier travel standards. My tiny adorable fingers were wrapped around the rail, and every few seconds a wild but stunning woman would lean in with a crooked grin and stuff a binky in my mouth.

  I hated that thing. It was made from some creature’s nipple—tough, hairy, and definitely not sanitary. I spat it out soon as she looked away, which only made the handsome man ridin’ beside her laugh like it was the funniest thing this side of Abilene's bunyun. They were hotter than Sunday sin and twice as untouchable—like a god got bored and made hisself a pair of walkin’ judgments. Playin’, teasin’, laughin’, and strong enough to make an entire sect look like a traveling joke. They faced 'em like swattin' flies and left behind nothin’ but a broken signboard.

  I think the signboard said 'Gold Mountain Sect" or some shit like that.

  That’s why I think it might’ve been a dream. I mean, I may be handsome as hell—but I know I ain't the brightest bullet in the bandolier. That kind of thing? It don’t feel real. Still, it’s a memory I keep tucked away like a shiny coin—too strange to be trusted, too precious to toss.

  “Wyatt! Where the hell are.. Oh there you are."

  The voice snapped me outta my daydream and into my current reality—half-soaked in gray water, elbow-deep in britches and long johns.

  I looked up to see Abilene standin’ there, hands on her hips, smiling at me daydream in the laundry basin. Her makeup was older than the paint on the porch, but her mascara'd eyes—sharp, bloodshot, and smarter than any preacher’s sermon—still had fire in ‘em.

  “You plannin’ to scrub that one pair all day, or are you just enjoyin’ the smell?”

  I chuckled sheepish-like. “Just givin’ ‘em some extra love. I included some sun-dried lavender or do you prefer rose scented? I also have sagebrush, bluebonnets, hibiscus...”

  Abilene rolled her eyes. “Do sagebrush but enough of that. Get a move on. And don’t forget to run drinks after. The Buck’s gettin’ rowdy.”

  The Wild Bucker. Officially the second best whorehouse in the town of Retribution, thanks to a court ruling in favor of our rivals across the street—The Velvet Hushpuppy. They bought the right to call themselves number one, and Abilene was forced to slap that humiliatin’ title on every flyer, front window, and bottle label in the joint.

  She hated it

  “It’s a damn conspiracy,” she’d grumble every time she passed the sign. “They got flashier furniture, but not one of their boys can twirl a wine glass with their toes like our James can. I should've bedded that damn judge before that witch did. Damn my slow fine ass.”

  Every week, like clockwork, both houses tried to outdo each other with stage shows. Music, dancin’, illusions—you name it. The Velvet Hushpuppy brought in big-shot spell-spinners and city-slicker cultivator performers with more glitter than grit. We had James. And well... his dart show? To die for. Literally. One guy did, once.

  She took a long drag from her cigarette, the end of which was nestled in an elegant silver filter carved with old runes. It lit itself with a soft hiss whenever she brought it to her lips. She never used matches. Magic fire obeyed her the way a dog obeys its master.

  The Wild Bucker was home to 'service' ladies and gents of all kinds—some sweet, some strange, some fat, some skinny but all I think are good lookin. None of ‘em had it out for me. Most were kind. A few ignored me. All knew I pulled my weight.

  My job? A little of everything. Washin’. Cleanin’. Haulin’ crates. Servin’ drinks. Fixing busted shelves. Carryin’ out drunk fools and makin’ sure nobody defecated in the parlor. That happens once a year. I especially love cleaning and making sure to lessen work place accidents. A safe establishment is a wealthy establishment.

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  It's my thang, don't hate.

  It was a nice enough day. Sun high, breeze cool. But in Retribution, someone always dragged in their own dark cloud.

  And right then, the storm kicked in.

  It started upstairs, as these things usually do in a place like the Wild Bucker. A ruckus from Room Twelve—thumps, a screech, followed by the unmistakable sound of something heavy hittin’ the floor.

  Folks down in the saloon looked up, pausing mid-sip. I heard the cussin’ long before I saw the man.

  A door banged open upstairs, heavy boots thunderin’ down the steps, and in came the source of the chaos—a mid-grade cultivator gunfighter—F-grade by the shimmer around his boots—red in the face and madder than a stomped rooster. One of the girls, Mei Ling, lay bleedin’ against the wall, face half-swollen and sobbing softly.

  “I paid,” he roared, spit flying. “She didn’t show respect!”

  Abilene stepped into the room, calm as a banker with a hidden pistol. She eyed him like she was scoping a particularly loud rooster.

  “Now darlin’, let’s lower the temperature a smidge,” she said, her long cigarette filter pointed straight at the guy. I could’ve sworn the cigarette fire gave a little twirl—but maybe that was just my nerves talkin’. “You want respect? Don’t act like no jackass in my house.”

  “She mocked me,” he snapped, waving an accusing finger at Mei Ling. “Mocked me right to my face!”

  Mei Ling whimpered and clutched her ribs. “I didn’t mock you! You… you couldn’t get it up! And now you’re blamin’ me!”

  That hit the room like a lightning bolt. The silence was thick.

  Abilene gave a slow, knowing nod, then reached into her cleavage and pulled out a folded talisman—a slip of tough yellow paper brushed with red ink, the spell painted in fine, flickering strokes like it had a pulse. “Well hell, sugar, you should’ve said somethin’. I got charms like this one—spelled by a back-alley monk with three ex-wives and not a lick of shame—that’ll get the blood movin’. Good for one night, guaranteed to stand tall. Five gold a strip.””

  The cultivator’s face went from red to purple. “You think this is funny?!” he shouted, and in one quick, stupid motion, yanked out his pistol. The barrel shook as he grabbed Mei Ling and yanked her up by the arm, pressing the gun to her temple.

  “Everybody back the hell off! I demand respect! I’m a cultivator! I could level this whole damn town if I wanted!”

  He bit her ear. Bit it. Licked her neck like a dog and howled, “You feel that power? That’s what y’all oughta be bowin’ to!”

  Mei Ling bit down on her scream and shot Abilene a desperate look.

  Abilene didn’t flinch. Her eyes narrowed, but her voice stayed molasses smooth.

  She shot me a look. I know that look.

  I’d been in the middle of bringing drinks up the stairs, holdin’ three glasses of cider I’d blended myself—citrus, a hint of sorghum, and just a touch of mint from mister Tillman's apothecary. I was mighty proud of those, truth be told. Folks said my mixes tasted like bottled sunshine.

  Course, I was pretendin’ to reorganize my citrus glasses so I didn’t have to get involved. That probably looked kind of weird reorganizing my citrus glasses while on the stairs but everyone knows I’m more of a lover than a fighter.

  Abilene didn’t say a word, but that look? That was a command, clean as any shout.

  Get the sheriff.

  So I set the glasses down gentle like, and slid out the side like last month's long johns.

  With a growl, the cultivator threw Mei Ling down toward the saloon floor. Gasps went up—some folks stood, others froze. But just before she hit, he somersaulted down, catching her mid-fall with a twisted grin like it was all part of the act.

  Then, to prove just how unhinged he was, he spun and fired. Shot so damn fast, I only caught one bang—but glass exploded like a poltergeist throwin’ a tantrum. Bartender’s shot glass he was cleaning, every mug, flask, and wine glass in sight, all shattered in the same damn time. Folks screamed like the floor caught fire and scrambled under tables like prairie dogs dodgin’ a hawk.

  Abilene took a step forward, reaching out a hand for Mei Ling—then sighed when she saw the bastard caught her. Mei Ling sobbed furiously, trembling, too scared to move.

  “Wanna see more F-grade power?” the gunman bellowed. With a grunt and a stomp, he released a pulse of energy—red lightning crackled over the floorboards, raising dust and knocking over chairs. A mirror shattered. Candles blew out.

  Then his eyes darted to a table in the corner—three folks still sitting calm, unmoved. One wore tattered robes, another a knife on each hip under a giant miner's hat. Their eyes met his and didn’t flinch.

  “Wild cultivators,” he hissed.

  Now unsure, he backed toward the swinging doors, dragging Mei Ling like a sack of laundry—

  —and froze.

  Because there, just behind the doors, was the barrel of a gun. Not just any gun. Sheriff Tohvakeh’s rifle.

  He didn’t shout. Didn’t stomp. Just showed up like he was poured outta cool fog and bad intentions—bam, there he was, arm out, gun pointed like a promise. His face paint? All strange lines and glowing red whorls, lookin’ all badass. And his voice—Saints preserve me—his voice was so calm it made hellcats forget they had claws. Gave me goosebumps every damn time.

  “You got two options, kiddo. Jail or coffin. And between us, my jail’s fresh outta space.”

  The cultivator froze. Blinked. Mei Ling slipped from his grip like water.

  “She’s waitin’, and I ain’t in the mood to watch you leak,” the sheriff said, cool as creekwater and twice as mean.

  The man pissed himself. Not metaphorically.

  Tohvakeh hauled him out by the collar, not speakin’ a word to the crowd.

  His piss trailed them all the way to the sheriff's office.

  When he came back a minute later, he walked straight to me. I’d just finished setting a fresh tray of drinks.

  He grabbed a cider, sniffed it, sipped.

  “Citrus blend,” he muttered. “I like your watermelon cucumber and mint blend better but this is good too. Keep it up.”

  The sheriff tipped his hat goodbye and sashayed across the street to the Wayne's barber shop.

  Tarnation he’s cool.

  A rag hit the side of my face.

  "Help clean this shit up, Wyatt." yelled Abilene.

  I peeled my sheriff-smitten eyes off that fine monument of frontier justice and pulled out my trusty scrub mix—water, lemon, and a dash of newt sweat. Works like a charm on blood, beer and bullet stains alike.

  Just sayin’, I’m all about the ladies—but a little manly hero worship never hurt nobody.