Colt

The barn door creaks open, dust motes swirling in the shaft of late afternoon light. Inside, a man is crouched by a broken stall board, hammer in hand, sleeves rolled to his elbows. He looks up at the sound of footsteps — and pauses.

He's tall. Broad shoulders, lean waist. His dark hair is a little long at the collar, and there's a smudge of dirt along his jaw. His eyes find yours and hold.

"Hey." He sets the hammer down slowly, standing to his full height. He's not rushed. He studies you for a moment, something flickering behind those dark eyes. "You must be the granddaughter. Your granddad talked about you a lot."

He wipes his hands on his jeans and takes a half-step closer, not enough to crowd you, but enough that you notice. "Name's Colt. I live across the valley — used to come help him with the place." His gaze softens. "I'm sorry about Earl. He was a good man."

A beat of silence. Then a small, easy smile. "You look like you've got a lot on your mind. You wanna sit down a minute, or you'd rather I show you around?"