[In a frontier town like Silver Springs, especially one so small as to be governed by a council of just eleven citizens, gossip whiled away the hours, adding an extra spice to the drudgery of work and chores. And on particularly slow, hot, dusty days when nothing else was happening, gossip about "Liz"—or, more rarely, "Elizabeth"—more often than not took center stage. Two years in a small town made you only marginally less of a stranger than the guy who'd arrived six months back, after all. A rolling tumbleweed of a young lady who had simply showed up one day, "Liz" seemed to understand this fact of life without needing to be told. And yet despite repeated questions and persistent, if gentle probing, her story remained as frustratingly threadbare as on the day of her arrival.
Everyone in town knew she worked at the local watering hole, a saloon called Molly's. They often saw her juggling the responsibilities of a cook, a waitress, a performer, a bouncer, even a walking advertisement board; accordingly, few thought it strange when the eponymous owner chose to bequeath the business to their best and only employee before being carried off by an outbreak of fever. They knew that she had moved into the loft above the saloon...but not that she slept with a loaded pistol under her pillow. Nor that she awoke every morning by first scanning the room through half-closed eyes before moving to the window, standing stock-still at an angle which kept her comfortably concealed as she peered outside, carefully scanning the rooftops, alleyways, and the hardpacked dirt roads of the town square.
They could even make an educated prediction about what her outfit would be each day: a pleated blouse paired with a black button vest, low-heeled boots that went up to the knee, black stockings, a high-waisted banded skirt. And over said skirt, a snakeskin belt fitted with a knife sheath and dual pistol holsters. Practical enough to work in, frilly enough to feel welcoming to customers. Everyone recognized it...but none realized that every stitch of it was borrowed and had been twice-mended to fit her lanky frame. Or that she'd burned the clothes she'd crossed the desert in. Or that she only got dressed after first confirming that she was safely alone, making a circuit of the entire saloon armed with the loaded pistol.
One last thing they also knew was, on slow, hot, dusty days like this one, "Liz" opened the saloon two hours early to let folks partake of the cool indoor air, dutifully sweeping the front porch when not flitting about serving lemonade and iced tea.]
[ Tanya's caretakers were minimally serviceable in their guardianship of her. They were a typical group of traveling bachelors, which was to say the number of boxes they ticked on the "child rearment" checklist was approximately below average, and the number of boxes they ticked on the "little girl rearment" checklist was so abysmal that if consulted, the boxes would unflinchingly erase themselves in protest.
Her caretakers were typical bachelors in their complete inability to pander to her needs as both a child and a girl, but in other ways they were rather atypical men. For one thing, Tanya found their lack of regard for the law somewhat troubling. She recognized that she was neither old enough nor traveled enough to know what was wise or even strictly typical, but she had always found the economical teachings of her father logical and good — and in a multitude of ways, the lifestyles of her current caretakers ran in diametric opposition to the disciplined, rational truths that had been imprinted on her in her most tender years.
Well. Tanya had a good many opinions about a good many things regarding her current lot in life, but she could acknowledge that she was at least afforded more freedom than the average child her age. The rough, hedonistic, law-skirting men she might be forced at gunpoint to call her "guardians" rarely cared to keep an eye on her. She knew they were as hopeless to keep track of as a bag of cats, and they knew she was a rational, pacifistic, rule-abiding individual who wouldn't go running off, and in this small way they all understood each other.
And so it is that Tanya finds herself wandering toward the only saloon in this backwater settlement, looking to gather information and refuel her weary body while her associates carry out the drudgery of taking care of the horses, trading goods, and figuring out overnight arrangements for a small band of people. She's probably an atypical customer for a number reasons, but most immediately because more of her is visible than not from beneath the swinging saloon doors. She pushes the doors open to get in anyway — like a civilized individual — and no one follows behind her, completely free of adult supervision as she is.
Politely, she loosens herself of excess dust with a tap of her leather boots on the floor and a patting down of her nondescript dress. Her hair is a wild ruffle strangled into a ponytail, but there's nothing she can do about that until she gets a turn at a bath. Thus as presentable as she can be, she literally climbs into a seat at one of the stools at the bar. Turning to the solitary worker at the saloon, Tanya speaks up, her voice childishly high but even with composure. ]
Miss? Would you happen to serve coffee here?
[ She finds nothing inherently wrong with lemonade or iced tea, but as a means of reaffirming her sophisticated mind, coffee is by far the superior choice. ]
[Depending on how one saw the world, it'd be easy to decide that Lys wasn't anybody to take seriously. Just a friendly face behind a counter, affable and chatty, overly willing to indulge every patron that wanted a quick chat with their beverage. But she misses very little in the saloon she's come to own, always keeping one eye on the batwing doors and what could be seen of the town square through the half-open windows. She says nothing when Tanya walks in—this was just a saloon, after all, not a brothel. But she's also expecting at least one adult to follow swiftly after, so when the tiny child clambers, alone, onto a bar stool and orders a drink...]
Uh...
[—she almost fumbles the glass she's wiping clean, blue eyes widening in clear surprise. Lys could hide many things, and did, but without an immediate threat to contend with, emotions were still difficult to suppress. Confusion and then concern flash rapidly across her face, as incriminating a tell as any poker player could ever hope for. But...just because Tanya's parents hadn't followed her inside didn't mean they weren't nearby, right? The saloon was far from the only building that lined the town square. Maybe their kid was just particularly independent?]
...yep, I sure do! How do you like it? Hot, iced, with milk or sugar? Don't have any fancy blends, I'm afraid, but our coffee beans are freshly ground each and every morning. I hope that's okay.
[ The cocktail of emotions that initially passes the bartender(?)'s face goes unheeded, as long used as Tanya is to the dramatic leanings of some adults. She understands that most individuals her age don't make coffee their drink of choice, but it's that very childish image that she seeks to wade against. She's spent much of her short life attempting to develop a mature palate, a controlled demeanor, an elegant bearing — those personal factors which can be projected into the world for other people to grade and acknowledge. ]
Hot, please. No milk or sugar.
[ Back straight, hands folded, she sweeps her gaze across the bar to take in the state of it. Granted, as long as it isn't riddled with mold or cockroaches, she doesn't have much room to refuse it her business. It probably won't be long until someone comes along to fetch her anyway, so it's not like she has the time to be picky. ]
It's fine if it isn't fancy. It just has to be better than the spongewater my associates like to call coffee.
[ Annoyance presses her brow. Really, there's no harder evidence of her company's brutishness than the abysmal quality of their brewing. ]
[The word slips out before she can think to roadblock it as well. She almost winces, but doesn't stumble in her smooth preparation of the coffee: rationing the grounds into a filter, adding hot water from a kettle, leaving out milk and sugar as requested.
She very carefully doesn't let herself remember doing the same thing countless times back home. Bad enough that Tobias' face had risen to the surface of her thoughts from the bottom of her heart where she'd buried him—superimposing his face over Tanya's own, reminding her of the intense way he'd disliked questions that made him feel condescended to. He'd been so sensitive about it that the habit of treading carefully had remained despite the haze of grief clouding the memories themselves, like a piece of shrapnel trapped under flesh.]
Let me guess. They like their coffee straight black, in a beaten tin mug, after its been brewed for too long over a campfire. Right?
[The coffee she places before Tanya is anything but overbrewed: hot and strong, the full richness and flavor left intact. The mug is clean and unchipped, as meticulously spotless as the bar, the floor, the saloon windows.]
Close. They do often end up with one condiment in their coffee that the rest of us would happen to call sand.
[ Too many nights spent out on the open range tend to make rough men equally rough about little things like hygiene and food safety. Truly regrettable. For that reason, the cleanly served, professional brewed coffee placed in front of her is a godsend. She pulls it closer, her expression lightening into pleasure as its complex aroma fills her nose. The smell of civilization...
She gives the coffee a moment to cool to a safer temperature and keeps up the conversation. ]
My associates and I have just arrived in town. Knowing them, you'll have the chance to meet them all before the day is over... but unfortunately, they won't be strict coffee-drinkers like me. I apologize for their boorish behavior in advance.
[ Now that she thinks about it, she does feel a little sorry for this worker potentially having to handle everything on her own. Tanya hasn't seen any other workers around, at least. ]
[The lightening of that expression, however fleeting, prompts a smile in return—the kind she usually wore for people, calm and steady instead of on the awkward side of flustered. It even touches her eyes, softening the brilliant blue as her gaze flickers from the coffee to Tanya's face before sliding away again, glancing toward the saloon's batwing doors and wide front windows. Gustav Kaspersen had a long arm; even with two territories and a whole desert between them, it didn't feel safe to drop her guard for very long.]
Sometimes I'll hire one or two people during the really busy months, but usually it's just me. And I like it that way, honestly—ends up being less for me to keep track of. [She goes back to wiping down glasses, stacking them up in neat rows.] You don't have to apologize for your crew, though. We get tough guys in here pretty often.
[But speaking of tough guys...Tanya's messy, in-need-of-a-wash ponytail and absurdly independent, absurdly adult affect made a little more sense now. If her "associates" (parents part of Lys still wants to think, if without much hope) were so rough and tumble as to allow sand in their kid's drink, well...]
I guess you'll be staying in the hotel across the square? Or do you have kin in town?
[ So the saloon gets a lot of tough guys, but the proprietress does fine handling them on her own...? It doesn't sound like she's trying to brag, but it's quite the claim. Either she's so good at diffusing situations that she can even get through to unruly drunkards, or she's packing enough firepower to scare anyone out the front door. Whatever she has to do to keep her business going, Tanya supposes. It ultimately shouldn't concern her; she's a good, lawful citizen with no plans to start a bar fight. ]
No kin. My parents are dead.
[ She says so dispassionately, pausing to blow delicately on the surface of her coffee. Then a more aggrieved look settles on her face, weighing her youthful expression down. ]
If the hotel across the square is the cheapest option, then we probably will stay there. Is it a decent place? If you have any tips—
[ Heavy boots suddenly clomp up to the saloon doors, and a big, dusty, well-whiskered head peeks in over the top. "Tanya!" the man shouts, his voice blasting in without a single consideration for the occupants' ears. "Come on, let's go! ... Hey, who's that with you?"
The man pushes his way in, his bulk effortlessly brushing aside the winged doors. He eyes Lys, frowning, before noticing Tanya's cup of coffee. Absently, he picks it up, guzzles its contents one long swig, and then slams it back down.
Ignoring the sharp dismay on Tanya's face as she stares at her now-empty coffee mug, the man picks her up wholesale and bundles her under his meaty arm. Then he looks sidelong at Lys, the cogs in his brain visibly turning.
[There isn't much time for her own expression to register anything but the briefest sympathy before the man comes blundering in, loud and brutish and immediately aggravating. Her face tightens at the exchange, the way the man picks up Tanya like a football, but she tamps down on the surge of indignation that wanted to say something sharp and angry. One did not cross two territories and a desert, to then live two years in a strange town under a false name, without learning a few hard lessons on how to mask one's emotions.
She also doesn't make a move for either of the pistols slung openly on her hip. Speculative glances were nothing new. If she shot everyone who looked at her like that, the saloon's crawlspace would be full of corpses and she'd have gotten herself hung in the town square long ago. Instead she casually picks up the coffeepot again, ready to offer a second serving like any good hostess should be.]
"Liz", sir. [She smiles at him, bright as sunlight glinting off new morning ice—and just as glacially cool, meeting his look straight on.] That'll be a nickel for the coffee. Would you like another cup?
[ Tanya hasn't bothered trying to struggle and is now securely bundled under the man's arm like a rolled up, long-suffering rug. Whatever her personal thoughts on his handling of her, she knows that fighting will be a waste of energy. Instead, she joins her dear brute of a caretaker in looking at "Liz" — and from this angle, it's much easier to see those guns at the woman's hips. That answers one question.
Tanya, having done nothing wrong, doesn't feel particularly threatened, but she can feel the slight tension that enters her unwelcome escort's body as he also notices the guns. His expression remains tough and calculating in the face of her direct stare... until his mouth slides into a grin, independent of the overly keen gleam of his eyes.
"Fair's fair," he says with overbearing good nature, and rummages around in a pocket so that he can toss a nickel onto the counter. Tanya's eyebrows raise, having expected him to make her foot the bill, but it seems he's on about seeming agreeable for some reason. She kind of wishes he wouldn't be so that he'd get himself shot, but sometimes good people don't get what they want.
"Love to stay for another cup, Miss Liz, but we got to get going. Appreciate you humoring the girl," he continues, patting Tanya roughly on the head and immediately earning a skeptical look from her. She then looks at Lys with a slight tip of the head as if to say, I did apologize in advance. ]
I'll have to try your coffee another time.
[ And she'll chug it next time, even if she has to scald her mouth to do it.
With that, the man turns to leave with Tanya in arm. He has some men to talk to and plans to make. ]
[She notices Tanya only in the periphery of her unwavering stare, expression frozen in that sunny, artless, pleasingly folksy smile. Her grip tightens ever so slightly around the coffeepot's handle, ready to fling the boiling contents into the man's face should his talk or his movements turn violent. Working in a saloon for two years included such onerous duties as breaking up fistfights and quelling gunfights, ideally before either type of altercation had a chance to erupt; a difficult feat made all the trickier, and accordingly more dangerous, if you did the expected thing and went for your gun. A beer bottle, a steak knife, a hot beverage splashed on someone's face or crotch...it was really quite amazing, the results you could get with a little unconventional thinking and the element of surprise.
If the man tried to make trouble, she knew other patrons would back her up, if only in how the tale was later recounted to the sheriff. They'd probably do it even if Lys jumped the gun and attacked first; she may yet remain something of a stranger to them, infuriatingly mysterious for no reason they could define or divine, but the man carrying Tanya around like an underweight sack of grain was a Stranger, as unknown to them as the topography of an alien planet.
Except the man doesn't make trouble. He simply says his piece and walks away. Even pays for the coffee she hadn't planned to charge Tanya for.]
...sure thing. You two have a fine day, alright?
[The batwing doors swing creakily behind him as they depart, leaving the saloon in peace and Lys with a sense of unease deepening steadily toward trepidation. Like a call to danger only she could hear.
....
Call it instinct, intuition, or plain old paranoid delusion. By the end of a very long day, Lys decides that extra precautions are in order before the next day's sunrise crawled over the horizon. Maybe the odds that someone had finally come to collect the bounty Gustav had put on her head were only one in a thousand, but even then the risk was too high; she had come too far and survived for too long to gamble everything on a moment of complacency. In addition to the tripwires at every door and the soup can alarms at every ground floor window, she's reloaded the shotgun under the bar with fresh shells and fitted out two knapsacks with provisions; one laid close to hand in her room, the other hidden in the small barn out back that housed three chickens, a cow, and her horse.
Plus a few extra things, a few extra tricks. Part of her hopes, though without much conviction, that she won't have to call upon any of them.]
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no subject
Everyone in town knew she worked at the local watering hole, a saloon called Molly's. They often saw her juggling the responsibilities of a cook, a waitress, a performer, a bouncer, even a walking advertisement board; accordingly, few thought it strange when the eponymous owner chose to bequeath the business to their best and only employee before being carried off by an outbreak of fever. They knew that she had moved into the loft above the saloon...but not that she slept with a loaded pistol under her pillow. Nor that she awoke every morning by first scanning the room through half-closed eyes before moving to the window, standing stock-still at an angle which kept her comfortably concealed as she peered outside, carefully scanning the rooftops, alleyways, and the hardpacked dirt roads of the town square.
They could even make an educated prediction about what her outfit would be each day: a pleated blouse paired with a black button vest, low-heeled boots that went up to the knee, black stockings, a high-waisted banded skirt. And over said skirt, a snakeskin belt fitted with a knife sheath and dual pistol holsters. Practical enough to work in, frilly enough to feel welcoming to customers. Everyone recognized it...but none realized that every stitch of it was borrowed and had been twice-mended to fit her lanky frame. Or that she'd burned the clothes she'd crossed the desert in. Or that she only got dressed after first confirming that she was safely alone, making a circuit of the entire saloon armed with the loaded pistol.
One last thing they also knew was, on slow, hot, dusty days like this one, "Liz" opened the saloon two hours early to let folks partake of the cool indoor air, dutifully sweeping the front porch when not flitting about serving lemonade and iced tea.]
no subject
Her caretakers were typical bachelors in their complete inability to pander to her needs as both a child and a girl, but in other ways they were rather atypical men. For one thing, Tanya found their lack of regard for the law somewhat troubling. She recognized that she was neither old enough nor traveled enough to know what was wise or even strictly typical, but she had always found the economical teachings of her father logical and good — and in a multitude of ways, the lifestyles of her current caretakers ran in diametric opposition to the disciplined, rational truths that had been imprinted on her in her most tender years.
Well. Tanya had a good many opinions about a good many things regarding her current lot in life, but she could acknowledge that she was at least afforded more freedom than the average child her age. The rough, hedonistic, law-skirting men she might be forced at gunpoint to call her "guardians" rarely cared to keep an eye on her. She knew they were as hopeless to keep track of as a bag of cats, and they knew she was a rational, pacifistic, rule-abiding individual who wouldn't go running off, and in this small way they all understood each other.
And so it is that Tanya finds herself wandering toward the only saloon in this backwater settlement, looking to gather information and refuel her weary body while her associates carry out the drudgery of taking care of the horses, trading goods, and figuring out overnight arrangements for a small band of people. She's probably an atypical customer for a number reasons, but most immediately because more of her is visible than not from beneath the swinging saloon doors. She pushes the doors open to get in anyway — like a civilized individual — and no one follows behind her, completely free of adult supervision as she is.
Politely, she loosens herself of excess dust with a tap of her leather boots on the floor and a patting down of her nondescript dress. Her hair is a wild ruffle strangled into a ponytail, but there's nothing she can do about that until she gets a turn at a bath. Thus as presentable as she can be, she literally climbs into a seat at one of the stools at the bar. Turning to the solitary worker at the saloon, Tanya speaks up, her voice childishly high but even with composure. ]
Miss? Would you happen to serve coffee here?
[ She finds nothing inherently wrong with lemonade or iced tea, but as a means of reaffirming her sophisticated mind, coffee is by far the superior choice. ]
no subject
Uh...
[—she almost fumbles the glass she's wiping clean, blue eyes widening in clear surprise. Lys could hide many things, and did, but without an immediate threat to contend with, emotions were still difficult to suppress. Confusion and then concern flash rapidly across her face, as incriminating a tell as any poker player could ever hope for. But...just because Tanya's parents hadn't followed her inside didn't mean they weren't nearby, right? The saloon was far from the only building that lined the town square. Maybe their kid was just particularly independent?]
...yep, I sure do! How do you like it? Hot, iced, with milk or sugar? Don't have any fancy blends, I'm afraid, but our coffee beans are freshly ground each and every morning. I hope that's okay.
no subject
Hot, please. No milk or sugar.
[ Back straight, hands folded, she sweeps her gaze across the bar to take in the state of it. Granted, as long as it isn't riddled with mold or cockroaches, she doesn't have much room to refuse it her business. It probably won't be long until someone comes along to fetch her anyway, so it's not like she has the time to be picky. ]
It's fine if it isn't fancy. It just has to be better than the spongewater my associates like to call coffee.
[ Annoyance presses her brow. Really, there's no harder evidence of her company's brutishness than the abysmal quality of their brewing. ]
no subject
[The word slips out before she can think to roadblock it as well. She almost winces, but doesn't stumble in her smooth preparation of the coffee: rationing the grounds into a filter, adding hot water from a kettle, leaving out milk and sugar as requested.
She very carefully doesn't let herself remember doing the same thing countless times back home. Bad enough that Tobias' face had risen to the surface of her thoughts from the bottom of her heart where she'd buried him—superimposing his face over Tanya's own, reminding her of the intense way he'd disliked questions that made him feel condescended to. He'd been so sensitive about it that the habit of treading carefully had remained despite the haze of grief clouding the memories themselves, like a piece of shrapnel trapped under flesh.]
Let me guess. They like their coffee straight black, in a beaten tin mug, after its been brewed for too long over a campfire. Right?
[The coffee she places before Tanya is anything but overbrewed: hot and strong, the full richness and flavor left intact. The mug is clean and unchipped, as meticulously spotless as the bar, the floor, the saloon windows.]
no subject
[ Too many nights spent out on the open range tend to make rough men equally rough about little things like hygiene and food safety. Truly regrettable. For that reason, the cleanly served, professional brewed coffee placed in front of her is a godsend. She pulls it closer, her expression lightening into pleasure as its complex aroma fills her nose. The smell of civilization...
She gives the coffee a moment to cool to a safer temperature and keeps up the conversation. ]
My associates and I have just arrived in town. Knowing them, you'll have the chance to meet them all before the day is over... but unfortunately, they won't be strict coffee-drinkers like me. I apologize for their boorish behavior in advance.
[ Now that she thinks about it, she does feel a little sorry for this worker potentially having to handle everything on her own. Tanya hasn't seen any other workers around, at least. ]
Are you the only one working here?
no subject
Sometimes I'll hire one or two people during the really busy months, but usually it's just me. And I like it that way, honestly—ends up being less for me to keep track of. [She goes back to wiping down glasses, stacking them up in neat rows.] You don't have to apologize for your crew, though. We get tough guys in here pretty often.
[But speaking of tough guys...Tanya's messy, in-need-of-a-wash ponytail and absurdly independent, absurdly adult affect made a little more sense now. If her "associates" (parents part of Lys still wants to think, if without much hope) were so rough and tumble as to allow sand in their kid's drink, well...]
I guess you'll be staying in the hotel across the square? Or do you have kin in town?
no subject
No kin. My parents are dead.
[ She says so dispassionately, pausing to blow delicately on the surface of her coffee. Then a more aggrieved look settles on her face, weighing her youthful expression down. ]
If the hotel across the square is the cheapest option, then we probably will stay there. Is it a decent place? If you have any tips—
[ Heavy boots suddenly clomp up to the saloon doors, and a big, dusty, well-whiskered head peeks in over the top. "Tanya!" the man shouts, his voice blasting in without a single consideration for the occupants' ears. "Come on, let's go! ... Hey, who's that with you?"
The man pushes his way in, his bulk effortlessly brushing aside the winged doors. He eyes Lys, frowning, before noticing Tanya's cup of coffee. Absently, he picks it up, guzzles its contents one long swig, and then slams it back down.
Ignoring the sharp dismay on Tanya's face as she stares at her now-empty coffee mug, the man picks her up wholesale and bundles her under his meaty arm. Then he looks sidelong at Lys, the cogs in his brain visibly turning.
"What's your name, missy?" ]
no subject
She also doesn't make a move for either of the pistols slung openly on her hip. Speculative glances were nothing new. If she shot everyone who looked at her like that, the saloon's crawlspace would be full of corpses and she'd have gotten herself hung in the town square long ago. Instead she casually picks up the coffeepot again, ready to offer a second serving like any good hostess should be.]
"Liz", sir. [She smiles at him, bright as sunlight glinting off new morning ice—and just as glacially cool, meeting his look straight on.] That'll be a nickel for the coffee. Would you like another cup?
no subject
Tanya, having done nothing wrong, doesn't feel particularly threatened, but she can feel the slight tension that enters her unwelcome escort's body as he also notices the guns. His expression remains tough and calculating in the face of her direct stare... until his mouth slides into a grin, independent of the overly keen gleam of his eyes.
"Fair's fair," he says with overbearing good nature, and rummages around in a pocket so that he can toss a nickel onto the counter. Tanya's eyebrows raise, having expected him to make her foot the bill, but it seems he's on about seeming agreeable for some reason. She kind of wishes he wouldn't be so that he'd get himself shot, but sometimes good people don't get what they want.
"Love to stay for another cup, Miss Liz, but we got to get going. Appreciate you humoring the girl," he continues, patting Tanya roughly on the head and immediately earning a skeptical look from her. She then looks at Lys with a slight tip of the head as if to say, I did apologize in advance. ]
I'll have to try your coffee another time.
[ And she'll chug it next time, even if she has to scald her mouth to do it.
With that, the man turns to leave with Tanya in arm. He has some men to talk to and plans to make. ]
no subject
If the man tried to make trouble, she knew other patrons would back her up, if only in how the tale was later recounted to the sheriff. They'd probably do it even if Lys jumped the gun and attacked first; she may yet remain something of a stranger to them, infuriatingly mysterious for no reason they could define or divine, but the man carrying Tanya around like an underweight sack of grain was a Stranger, as unknown to them as the topography of an alien planet.
Except the man doesn't make trouble. He simply says his piece and walks away. Even pays for the coffee she hadn't planned to charge Tanya for.]
...sure thing. You two have a fine day, alright?
[The batwing doors swing creakily behind him as they depart, leaving the saloon in peace and Lys with a sense of unease deepening steadily toward trepidation. Like a call to danger only she could hear.
....
Call it instinct, intuition, or plain old paranoid delusion. By the end of a very long day, Lys decides that extra precautions are in order before the next day's sunrise crawled over the horizon. Maybe the odds that someone had finally come to collect the bounty Gustav had put on her head were only one in a thousand, but even then the risk was too high; she had come too far and survived for too long to gamble everything on a moment of complacency. In addition to the tripwires at every door and the soup can alarms at every ground floor window, she's reloaded the shotgun under the bar with fresh shells and fitted out two knapsacks with provisions; one laid close to hand in her room, the other hidden in the small barn out back that housed three chickens, a cow, and her horse.
Plus a few extra things, a few extra tricks. Part of her hopes, though without much conviction, that she won't have to call upon any of them.]