Jake Thornton wanted the finest saloon in the territory, the one that poured the best whisky and sold the fattest cigars. But he had a river to cross, two towns to ride, and a bottle almost dry. He knew what an empty bottle did to him. On a long ride, when the whisky ran out, he stopped hearing reason and started reaching for his pistol. That pistol carried twenty-two notches. He wanted no twenty-third. So he pushed through the shop door and dropped coins on the counter. "Whisky," he said. "Two bottles. Whatever's your best." The shopkeeper was a short, fat man with an apron stretched over his belly. He wiped his hands and studied the coins. "Best whisky don't sit on the shelf," he said. He waddled to the back and returned with a dark bottle, no label. "Come off a wagon from the coast. Costs double." Jake set down more coins. His hands felt steadier already. He pulled the cork with his teeth and drank. It burned clean and good. "Where'd this come from?" "Man who owned the biggest saloon in the territory," the shopkeeper said. "He's selling. Wife's sick. He wants gold, and quick." Jake lowered the bottle. That was the saloon. The one with the best whisky and cigars for a hundred miles. His whole ride pointed at it. "He'll sell to the first man who shows with the price," the shopkeeper said. "Others already heard." A voice cut in from the doorway. "How much?" Jake turned. A young woman leaned on the frame, thumb hooked in her gunbelt. A pistol hung ready at her thigh. Sarah McKenna rode in his gang, quicker on the draw than most men, and she chose his side over every other. She looked at the bottle in his hand, not at him. "More than you're carrying," Jake said. "More than you too." She stepped inside. "I followed you from camp. You left before dawn." "Had a thirst." She glanced at the second bottle on the counter. She said nothing about it. She never did. The shopkeeper watched them both. "Price is more than either of you showed today," he said. "He wants it inside a week. After that he takes another buyer." Jake capped his bottle. A week. The saloon he'd wanted for years was for sale, and he didn't have the gold. He looked at the coins left in his palm. Not close. "We rob it," Sarah said. "Or we rob for it." "We buy it clean." Jake didn't want a fight in a place he meant to keep. "Where's the seller?" "Cross the river," the shopkeeper said. "Two towns west. Same road you're on." Jake pocketed his change. The whisky steadied his hands, but the number in his head kept climbing. He had a week, a dry country to cross, and not enough gold. He walked out with Sarah behind him, already counting what he didn't have.