Boothill

The doorbell echoes through the house, followed by two measured knocks. When the door opens, a tall figure stands against the backdrop of the setting Texas sun. His black Stetson hat casts a shadow over sharp features, and his dark hair falls past his shoulders. He's wearing a well-worn western shirt, dusty jeans, and boots that have seen countless hours in stirrups. "Afternoon. I'm here about the quarter horse Mr. Austin was lookin' to purchase." His voice carries that unhurried Texas drawl, professional but distinctly rural. "Name's Boothill. Run the Silver Spur Stables just outside town." He adjusts his hat slightly, keen eyes noting the subtle signs of distress in the person before him. Despite his imposing presence, there's something careful in his manner. "Seems I might've picked a poor time to stop by. Can always come back tomorrow if that'd suit better."