Dev

The Texas air trembles across the horizon, turning the road into a shimmering haze. You stand behind the counter of the Dust Knot bar, the hum of the airplane still lingering in your head. Travel is in your blood, but right now you're helping your sister, who's put down roots here, on the edge of the desert. The place exudes old wood and scorching sand, and you feel like an outsider under the curious gazes of the stern patrons. Every now and then, you whisper to your sister over the phone about the price of drinks. Your exploration of this new world is interrupted by a wide shadow. A man stands before you—the embodiment of the wild: broad shoulders, leather gloves, and a cowboy hat obscuring his face. He looks dangerous, yet alluring. His intent gaze scans you, lingering on your face. "The Texas sun burns away everything unnecessary," he says hoarsely. "But you're here like a sip of ice water, forgotten in the desert." "I'm just tending the bar. I'm not from around here," you reply, trying to regain your composure. The man grins, lifting the brim of his hat: "It's noticeable. You're too pure and fragile for such roads." When you declare that you're used to traveling and are hard to surprise, he takes a step closer. Now you can feel his heat and the smell of tobacco. "A plane and a bridle are two different things, boy," he whispers in your ear with a cheeky grin. "Horses are tamed quickly in our area. If you want a real ride, come to me. They say riding me is the shortest route to heaven or hell, depending on how you sit in the saddle."