16 views
The Spitfire of the Sagebrush
"I'm Confused!
AllI ever hear from you
You Spineless Cowards
Is how Poor you are ...
How you can't afford taxes
My Protection.
When somehow you've managed
To hire a Gunfighter to kill me!
What am I to Believe?
What am I to Think?!
If you've got so much money to spare
Then I'm just going to have to take more off you!
Cuz you clearly haven't gotten the message!
THIS IS MY TOWN!!
If you live to see the Dawn
It's because I ALLOW IT!*
Mr. Herod (TQATD)
🩸 🪦 🩸
A #WRITCO Gunfighter Story
🌈 📚
LADY
BANDIT
🦄 🦋
"You ain't from 'round here, are ya?" the burly bartender sneered, eyeing me up and down as I sauntered into the saloon. My spurs jingled with every step, a sweet melody that seemed to dance around the dusty room. I could feel the heat of his gaze on the back of my neck, but I didn't bother to look his way. Instead, I strutted up to the counter, slapped down a silver dollar, and growled, "Whiskey, straight up."
My reflection in the mirror behind the bar was all grit and fire. My hat was pulled low over my eyes, but even in the dim light, the glint of the pearl-handled pistol at my hip was unmistakable. The saloon fell quiet, the only sound the crackling of the fireplace and the occasional clink of a poker chip. They knew who I was—the kind of woman who didn't take kindly to sideways glances or whispers. I've got more notches on my belt than a lumberjack's axe handle, and that's not just from the men I've sent to meet their maker.
"Here you go, darlin'," the bartender grunted, sliding the amber liquid across the counter. I didn't bother to thank him. Instead, I tossed the whiskey back, letting the burn slide down my throat like a warm embrace from a lost lover. It was a lie, of course. Whiskey could never fill the void that love left behind, but it sure as hell made the nights easier to bear.
As I set the empty glass down, the saloon doors swung open, and in stumbled a man with a face that looked like it had been dragged through a cactus patch. He took one look at me and did a double-take, his eyes widening like a steer's before slaughter. "Well, I'll be," he slurred, "if it ain't the Spitfire of the Sagebrush herself." The room erupted in laughter, but I just smirked. Let 'em laugh. They'd be sobbing for their mamas when I had them staring down the barrel of my Colt. But tonight, I wasn't here for trouble. I was here for a man named Colt—a blacksmith with a secret that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up like a riled-up rattler. And I had a feeling that secret was gonna change everything.
I made my way through the sea of whiskey-soaked faces, each one looking at me like I was a mirage in the desert. They parted like the Red Sea for Moses when they saw the look in my eyes—a mix of determination and something else, something they couldn't quite put their finger on. I found Colt in the back, hammering away at a piece of iron as if it owed him money. His biceps bulged with every strike, and sweat glistened on his bare chest like morning dew on a rose. He was a fine specimen of a man, and I couldn't help but lick my lips at the thought of what lay beneath that leather apron.
"Evening, Colt," I purred, leaning against the forge. The heat from the fire licked at my skin, and the smell of hot metal filled the air. "Heard you're the man to see if a girl's got a hankering for a new shootin' iron." He looked up, his eyes meeting mine, and for a moment, I thought I saw a flicker of something—recognition, maybe. But it was gone as quick as a jackrabbit in a dust storm. "What can I do for you, Miss...?"
"Just call me Spitfire," I said, flipping my hair over one shoulder. "I've got a mind to upgrade my hardware, and I've heard tell that you're the craftsman to do it." He nodded, wiping the sweat from his brow with a forearm that looked like it could crush a man's skull. "I reckon I can whip something up for you," he said, his voice low and smoother than molasses. "But it'll cost ya."
"Name your price," I said, placing a hand on my hip. "I've got gold, silver, and I'm sure I can think of something else you might find... pleasin'." The air between us grew thick with tension, and I could almost hear the crackle of electricity. He set down his hammer and stepped closer, his eyes roaming over my body like a greedy prospector panning for gold. "I've got what you need," he murmured, his breath hot on my neck. "But it's not just your gun that needs tunin'." And with that, he reached out and brushed a stray strand of hair from my face, sending a shiver down my spine.
The rest of the night was a blur of fire and passion. Colt's hands were as skilled at working metal as they were at working my body. He knew just how to coax a moan from my lips, just how much pressure to apply to make me arch my back. We tumbled onto a pile of saddle blankets in the corner of the smithy, the smell of horse and sweat mingling with our own scents. He was rough, but not cruel, and I liked it—I liked feeling like I was being claimed, like I was more than just a pretty face with a deadly draw. And as we lay there, our breaths mingling in the cool night air, I realized that maybe, just maybe, I had found more than a gunsmith in this godforsaken town. Maybe I had found the one thing I'd been searching for all along—a man who could handle a wildcat like me.
But as the days turned to weeks, and the whiskey turned to sweet nothings in the night, I couldn't shake the feeling that Colt was hiding something. The way he'd look at me sometimes, with a sadness so deep it could drown a man—it made me want to shake the truth out of him. And when I finally did, it was like opening Pandora's box. His past was a minefield of heartache and deceit, a story that would make the toughest saddle tramp weep like a babe. But by then, it was too late. I was in love with him, hook, line, and sinker. And love, as I've learned the hard way, can be as deadly as any gun.
One Sunday, I convinced him to come to church with me. The choir sang sweetly, their voices rising to the rafters like the souls of the angels themselves. I sang too, my voice as clear and sharp as a mountain spring, and I felt his hand, rough and calloused, squeeze mine. But when the preacher started talking about...
AllI ever hear from you
You Spineless Cowards
Is how Poor you are ...
How you can't afford taxes
My Protection.
When somehow you've managed
To hire a Gunfighter to kill me!
What am I to Believe?
What am I to Think?!
If you've got so much money to spare
Then I'm just going to have to take more off you!
Cuz you clearly haven't gotten the message!
THIS IS MY TOWN!!
If you live to see the Dawn
It's because I ALLOW IT!*
Mr. Herod (TQATD)
🩸 🪦 🩸
A #WRITCO Gunfighter Story
🌈 📚
LADY
BANDIT
🦄 🦋
"You ain't from 'round here, are ya?" the burly bartender sneered, eyeing me up and down as I sauntered into the saloon. My spurs jingled with every step, a sweet melody that seemed to dance around the dusty room. I could feel the heat of his gaze on the back of my neck, but I didn't bother to look his way. Instead, I strutted up to the counter, slapped down a silver dollar, and growled, "Whiskey, straight up."
My reflection in the mirror behind the bar was all grit and fire. My hat was pulled low over my eyes, but even in the dim light, the glint of the pearl-handled pistol at my hip was unmistakable. The saloon fell quiet, the only sound the crackling of the fireplace and the occasional clink of a poker chip. They knew who I was—the kind of woman who didn't take kindly to sideways glances or whispers. I've got more notches on my belt than a lumberjack's axe handle, and that's not just from the men I've sent to meet their maker.
"Here you go, darlin'," the bartender grunted, sliding the amber liquid across the counter. I didn't bother to thank him. Instead, I tossed the whiskey back, letting the burn slide down my throat like a warm embrace from a lost lover. It was a lie, of course. Whiskey could never fill the void that love left behind, but it sure as hell made the nights easier to bear.
As I set the empty glass down, the saloon doors swung open, and in stumbled a man with a face that looked like it had been dragged through a cactus patch. He took one look at me and did a double-take, his eyes widening like a steer's before slaughter. "Well, I'll be," he slurred, "if it ain't the Spitfire of the Sagebrush herself." The room erupted in laughter, but I just smirked. Let 'em laugh. They'd be sobbing for their mamas when I had them staring down the barrel of my Colt. But tonight, I wasn't here for trouble. I was here for a man named Colt—a blacksmith with a secret that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up like a riled-up rattler. And I had a feeling that secret was gonna change everything.
I made my way through the sea of whiskey-soaked faces, each one looking at me like I was a mirage in the desert. They parted like the Red Sea for Moses when they saw the look in my eyes—a mix of determination and something else, something they couldn't quite put their finger on. I found Colt in the back, hammering away at a piece of iron as if it owed him money. His biceps bulged with every strike, and sweat glistened on his bare chest like morning dew on a rose. He was a fine specimen of a man, and I couldn't help but lick my lips at the thought of what lay beneath that leather apron.
"Evening, Colt," I purred, leaning against the forge. The heat from the fire licked at my skin, and the smell of hot metal filled the air. "Heard you're the man to see if a girl's got a hankering for a new shootin' iron." He looked up, his eyes meeting mine, and for a moment, I thought I saw a flicker of something—recognition, maybe. But it was gone as quick as a jackrabbit in a dust storm. "What can I do for you, Miss...?"
"Just call me Spitfire," I said, flipping my hair over one shoulder. "I've got a mind to upgrade my hardware, and I've heard tell that you're the craftsman to do it." He nodded, wiping the sweat from his brow with a forearm that looked like it could crush a man's skull. "I reckon I can whip something up for you," he said, his voice low and smoother than molasses. "But it'll cost ya."
"Name your price," I said, placing a hand on my hip. "I've got gold, silver, and I'm sure I can think of something else you might find... pleasin'." The air between us grew thick with tension, and I could almost hear the crackle of electricity. He set down his hammer and stepped closer, his eyes roaming over my body like a greedy prospector panning for gold. "I've got what you need," he murmured, his breath hot on my neck. "But it's not just your gun that needs tunin'." And with that, he reached out and brushed a stray strand of hair from my face, sending a shiver down my spine.
The rest of the night was a blur of fire and passion. Colt's hands were as skilled at working metal as they were at working my body. He knew just how to coax a moan from my lips, just how much pressure to apply to make me arch my back. We tumbled onto a pile of saddle blankets in the corner of the smithy, the smell of horse and sweat mingling with our own scents. He was rough, but not cruel, and I liked it—I liked feeling like I was being claimed, like I was more than just a pretty face with a deadly draw. And as we lay there, our breaths mingling in the cool night air, I realized that maybe, just maybe, I had found more than a gunsmith in this godforsaken town. Maybe I had found the one thing I'd been searching for all along—a man who could handle a wildcat like me.
But as the days turned to weeks, and the whiskey turned to sweet nothings in the night, I couldn't shake the feeling that Colt was hiding something. The way he'd look at me sometimes, with a sadness so deep it could drown a man—it made me want to shake the truth out of him. And when I finally did, it was like opening Pandora's box. His past was a minefield of heartache and deceit, a story that would make the toughest saddle tramp weep like a babe. But by then, it was too late. I was in love with him, hook, line, and sinker. And love, as I've learned the hard way, can be as deadly as any gun.
One Sunday, I convinced him to come to church with me. The choir sang sweetly, their voices rising to the rafters like the souls of the angels themselves. I sang too, my voice as clear and sharp as a mountain spring, and I felt his hand, rough and calloused, squeeze mine. But when the preacher started talking about...
