‘Don’t you move another damn inch, Montgomery Anderson.’
Fannie’s tone was threatening but Daniel picked up on the slight tremble of fear. He watched her settle her feet down into the dirt, her arms raising the shotgun, her eye trained down the barrel.
The man swaggered forward, his boots kicking up dust, his tan pants already licked with dirt. He looked weathered, his long hair underneath his Stetson, greying and limp. But he was still pointing a handgun at them.
Written Fireside: Be Mine, Marshal