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"Thank you," he breathed, his voice barely carrying over the wail of the sirens drawing closer.
"Quiet now," she said, slamming the door shut. The thud was final, resolute.
Rachel slid behind the wheel, the keys cold in her palm. She glanced through the rearview mirror at Wyatt, his raven hair plastered to his forehead, his scarred face streaked with more than just dirt.
"Next stop, the station," she muttered, firing up the engine.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The old prospector’s eyes narrowed to slits as he watched a lone figure, a woman, staggering toward the decrepit camp at the heart of the ghost town. Shadows clung to the hollows of the abandoned buildings, but she seemed to carry her own darkness with her, a heavy cloak wrapped around her trembling form. Dust rose in small puffs from beneath her dragging feet, each step a labor of survival.
His gnarled hand tightened on the window frame, splinters threatening to pierce skin long-weathered by the unforgiving sun. His breath held in anticipation, the prospector's keen gaze never wavered. There was something magnetic about such raw desperation; it drew him in, ignited his curiosity like a struck match.
She stumbled again, knees buckling before catching herself against the jagged wood of an old hitching post. Her sobs were carried on the wind, a haunting melody that played counterpoint to the eerie silence of the forsaken settlement. Tears etched clean lines through the grime on her cheeks, and her hands gripped at the empty air, as if pleading with unseen specters that circled just beyond sight.
The prospector's mouth twitched at the corners, a grim mimicry of a smile. This was the dance of fate, and he had become its silent conductor. He imagined her pleas weaving through the desolate alleyways, searching for solace where none could be found. Her turmoil was palpable, a scent on the breeze that spoke of terror and despair. She was lost, though not merely in place, but in spirit – and it was this vulnerability that he found so intoxicating.
Unseen by the woman, he stepped back from the window, the wooden floorboards groaning under his weight. The prospector's heart thrummed in his chest, syncopated with the rhythm of distant weeping. Each sob fractured the stillness of the evening.
In the dying light, the old ghost town bore witness to her breakdown, the walls of the forsaken buildings absorbing her cries as they had countless others before. But this time, the prospector knew, the story would unfold differently.
Two cops were hastening forward towards the sobbing women. Both of them wore expressions of alarm as they drew near. One wrapped his arm around the woman, and the other began to lead her away.
The woman in question had survived the caves...
She'd left the bag behind.
His hand moved to his pocket, feeling the cold, rigid of the metal pressing against his pocket.
He stood in the shadows of the large, dilapidated saloon, watching as the cops tried to speak to the woman, leading her sobbing form away.
She was alive.
But...
Not everyone would make the same choice she had.
Most of the tourists had been taken home, now, and only a few--who had to wait until travel arrangements could be made--were still left in the ghost-town's scant tourist accommodations.
His gaze scanned the area, searching out the officers posted through the town. He was able to slip by, moving casually.
The uniform he'd picked up at the local thrift store helped this. He always came prepared.
And as his gaze scanned the area, he paused.
In the shadowed embrace of the crumbling adobe building, she stood—a young officer, her badge catching the last glimmers of the sun's retreat. She was a fresh graft onto the old tree of law enforcement; her uniform still bore the creases from its packaging, and her eyes held the unspoiled luster of one who has not yet seen too much. The prospector watched her from a distance, his gaze unwavering as a hawk's.
She fidgeted with her belt, adjusting the weight of authority strapped around her waist, then scribbled notes in her pad—another detail—her hand unsteady. The prospector's lips curled into a knowing smile. She was new to the game, yes, but there was something about her, an earnestness.
The prospector's fingers grazed the rough fabric of his jacket, feeling the shape of the small brown bag concealed within—a bag that carried the weight of fortune and fate. He could sense the eager pulse of her ambition from here, and he knew she would be unable to resist the lure he'd provide. His confidence swelled within him like a desert bloom after the rain. He had chosen well.
As he watched the officer move methodically along the perimeter of the ghost town, her silhouette a stark contrast to the jagged ruins, he imagined the gears turning in her mind. It was her curiosity that marked her for the game, her desire to peel back layers, to expose truths—or lies—that made her the perfect target.
He was a connoisseur of human nature, and hers was a vintage he was particularly keen to savor. He envisioned how she would react, how her instincts would kick in. The choice was hers and hers alone.
The prospector's feet shuffled softly in the dust as he began to close the distance between them, unnoticed. His choice had been made long before she donned the uniform, long before she swore to serve and protect.
The prospector's shadow stretched long and thin across the weathered floorboards as he left his perch on the saloon's wooden veranda. Dust motes danced in the shafts of light that pierced the dilapidated ceiling behind him, the only audience to his silent departure. He stepped toward the young female officer, each footfall a deliberate punctuation in the hush of the abandoned town. His hand grazed the wall for balance, the gritty texture of peeling wallpaper whispering beneath his calloused fingers.
