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Tanner   Loren                               

    The street lay still beneath the burning sun, heat rippling off the dirt like a mirage. The cowboy stood dead center, boots braced, dust curling around his spurs. His left hand hovered above the revolver on his hip — the show everyone expected. But behind his back, half-hidden by the sway of his coat, his right hand already gripped cold steel — a short-barreled ace no one knew he carried. The wind grabbed hold the edge of his coat, and tugged at his hat brim.  The sign over the saloon creaked.  Every window along the street held its breath. He didn’t blink. Not yet. The next move belonged to the fool who thought he was unprepared for the fight.  The fool who was to unable to sense the Danger in the Wind.