Three Weeks Earlier
The town of Whisper Creek had been ablaze with light the night she arrived. Gas lanterns burned furiously on posts lining the streets, fighting back the oil-dark shadows of the approaching desert night. The air buzzed with desperation and swagger; miners fresh off a gold strike threw their newfound wealth on whiskey and poker tables, their faces shadowed by the brims of sweat-stained hats. It was a town built on luck—and luck was no real foundation at all. Josie had learned that the hard way.
She walked in as silent as a mirage. Her skirts trailed lazily around her boots, the split fabric shifting with every step. She looked like she'd wandered in from a painting—a gunslinger silhouette against the neon-orange dusk. Every button on her jacket was polished; every stitch was precise, the hallmarks of someone who cared just enough not to be forgotten, but not enough to be obvious.
Her smile was cunning as she stepped into "The Whiskey Sun Saloon," the crowning jewel of Whisper Creek's main street. Inside, smoke coiled thick in the air, clinging to the smell of spilled beer and rawhide. The piano in the corner clanged out a jaunty tune, hanging precariously over a cacophony of voices and drunken revelry. Above it all, loomed Grady Holcomb, the owner—a man whose vices wrapped him in velvet but whose stare could gut a man quieter than anything.
She hadn’t come for idle conversation or whiskey chitchat. No, Josie Fleet had come for something far bigger: the two pounds of gold bricks hidden in Holcomb's gambling vault.
Back then, her outfit had been pristine—a waxed leather coat over a rich aubergine corset, her split skirts sweeping the floor but never dragging. Her boots were made of fine calf leather and barely scuffed, and the pearl buttons on her gloves gleamed in the lamplight. She slid onto a stool at the bar as if she belonged. Grady wouldn’t notice her—she was too small a player—and that suited her just fine.
The Showdown
Back in the dusty present, the memories of Whisper Creek faded as her instincts screamed live now! Half-slipping down the hillside, her boots struck shale as she struggled for grip. The roaring river loomed before her, its frothing rapids promising a certain death if she couldn’t find footing. Her fingers gripped her revolvers as she swung around and fired wildly back up the ridge at the posse. A single shot nicked a rock by her pursuers. Enough to startle at least one horseman.
Two seconds. That’s all she needed to leap into the water and let the current swallow her. Josie cared little for easy drowning—her plans weren’t about surviving, just outwitting. And so in she leaped, arms slicing down like sharp fins as she disappeared beneath the rushing water.
Underwater, her plum corset tugged against her ribs, soaked heavy as if it tried to drag her downward, but addiction to life kept her kicking until the world blurred into chaos. Her wide-brimmed hat drifted away like a flag abandoned mid-war.
The Gold Beneath the Mask
Holcomb's vault had been broken into without a hitch; Josie had rigged the lock while dressed as one of his piano players, her skirts blending her into the scenery just like she'd planned. But Deegan, the corrupt Marshal, had arrived faster than expected—not merely tracking her, but already familiar with her trail of escapades across the west. With the gold, came a price above her head.
Now, far downstream on a rocky shore, Josie staggered out of the water coughing, clutching tight to her satchel with bleeding hands. Her corset was torn. Her gloves were gone. But the gold, oh, the gold was untouched. She smiled through her exhaustion, her bloodied lips curling in triumph. Deegan might have won the chase. But Josie Fleet was the master of escape.
Closing
Somewhere far away, back in Whisper Creek, Grady Holcomb counted his losses, and Marshal Deegan tallied his debts. And in between the cracks of their schemes and broken dreams, Josette Fleet slipped away, her heart thundering like a train barreling westward. There was always another canyon, another border, another gamble waiting just over that whiskey sun-drenched horizon.
She adjusted her ruined hat, now a soaked relic of its former glory, and walked on into the limitless wild.
Her laugh echoed, cutting through the quiet of the evening.
The Source...check out the article that inspired this amazing short story: The Best Mocktail Making Kits for Dry January and Beyond
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