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The heat slammed into Daniel Crisco like a slap. He jolted upright in bed, heart racing. The white sheet Martha had sent was soaked in sweat. He sat there in nothing but his underwear, shirtless and sticky, looking down at his skin like it disgusted him.
Daniel stood and stretched, then wandered downstairs. On one of the benches, yesterday's dinner was still sitting there, cold. He picked at it without interest, chewing in silence. When he finished, he pulled on a pair of pants and stepped to the door.He opened it slowly, peering out with caution, like he half-expected someone to be waiting.
The sun hit hard. The sky was spotless, blindingly blue, as if the night had never happened. Daniel crossed to the water tank and bent over it, splashing water onto his face and chest with urgency, almost desperation. His breathing was fast, chest rising and falling like he was trying to outrun the heat. He glanced around. Nothing. Everything was calm—the same heavy stillness as always.
But then a noise snapped through the air. Daniel's head turned sharply toward the hill of houses. Dust. A cloud rising. Riders. Too late to head back in—they'd seen him.
He stayed by the tank waiting.
Ten horsemen rode up and stopped in front of him. A few of them dismounted and moved straight to the water tank, drinking without a word. They wore leather vests with badges, tall boots, wide-brimmed hats, and pistols on full display. One of them stepped forward with the weight of authority in every step. White, broad-shouldered, maybe fifty or so. A red shirt stained with dirt clung to his frame under a black vest. The man's face was sun-worn, his beard scruffy and gray. He spat a glob of tobacco onto the ground and locked eyes with Daniel, unreadable.
Daniel forced his voice to stay steady.
"I just washed up in that water," he said, tense. "The one you're drinking from."
No response. Then, laughter. . One man doubled over, clutching his belly.The man in the black vest—clearly the leader—let a smile flicker across his face, but his eyes never warmed.
Daniel swallowed hard, stepped forward.
"My name's Daniel Crisco," he said. "I'm new around here."
The man looked him up and down . Then he turned his head, exchanged glances with the others, and looked back.
"You can call me Polak," he said at last. "I'm the sheriff in these parts. I'm looking for Gerónimo."
Daniel nodded toward the hill.
"He's probably up there with his people. If you want, I can walk up and stand on the rise, so they know you're waiting. They don't take kindly to people entering unannounced."
More laughter from the riders. Even Polak let out a mocking grin.
"Trust me boy. We're welcome wherever we go. Gerónimo was right… the letter said you were another Palermo."
Daniel's expression tightened.
"You read the letter?"
Polak spat again, this time closer to Daniel's boots.
"Gerónimo told me some city kid was coming. If he hadn't, I'd have shot you the minute I saw you. Folks here don't trust strangers."
The sheriff set his hat back on his head and gave Daniel a final glance before climbing back onto his horse. The riders turned and began heading for the Amish hills.
Daniel exhaled, chest rising with relief. Just as he turned to go back inside, something caught his eye—a carriage, stopped in the middle of the road. Two people stood beside it, scanning the area like they weren't sure what they were seeing. He rushed inside, grabbed a shirt, threw it on, and ran toward them.
By the carriage, a large, balding man struggled to lower a wooden crate. He wore a filthy white shirt held up by overstretched suspenders that barely contained his massive stomach, his long mustache drooped past his mouth. Next to him stood a woman in her sixties, white-haired, short-cut, wearing a long cream-colored dress. A dark mole near her nose added a distinct mark to her serious face.
They both looked up as Daniel jogged toward them, still catching his breath.The woman smiled and nudged the man beside her.
"Look Paul," she said, amused. "This must be the antisocial boy Gerónimo mentioned in his letter."
Daniel tried to speak, but was still panting.
Paul glance from head to toe. Said nothing.
Marla, still smiling..
"Oh, it's definitely him."
She paused, thinking, then her face lit up.
"You're Daniel! The altar boy, right?"
Daniel nodded, breathing more evenly now.
"Yeah. I'm Daniel. But I'm not an altar boy anymore. I help at the church sometimes, but not like when I was a kid."
Marla leaned toward her husband, whispering just loud enough for Daniel to nearly catch it.
"God help him, Paul. He's clearly still the altar boy—just refuses to admit it."
She turned back to Daniel, still smiling.
"I'm Marla Terries, and this here's my husband Paul. We run the café. Got two restaurants in the city. Gerónimo invited us out to open one here."
Daniel fumbled in his pocket.
"Right. I've got the keys here."
As soon as he pulled them out, Paul snatched them without a word and headed toward the building. Marla watched him go, her smile flickering with unease.
"Don't mind him," she said, walking alongside Daniel. "Paul just hates having his time wasted."
That rubbed Daniel the wrong way. Marla noticed, adjusted.
"Sorry. I didn't mean it like that. We know you've got potential. I'm sure you'll do great. It's just… Paul likes doing things his way."
At the café door, Daniel paused, question in his voice.
"What exactly did Gerónimo say about me in that letter?"
Marla past him with a smile too practiced to be sincere.
"You must be starving. Don't worry, once we're done here, I'll cook a nice stew."
Daniel nodded with a faint smile. He watched Paul unloading another crate and hurried to help—only to find it wouldn't budge.
"What's in this?" Daniel asked, breath catching.
Paul didn't look at him.
"Fruit and vegetables."
Daniel stared, dumbfounded. He tried again, straining. Nothing. Marla watched with a grin.
"Come on, Daniel. You're growing. This is man's work. Someday you'll be strong as a tree. What are you—fifteen?"
"I'm twenty-six," Daniel said.
Paul and Marla exchanged a glance. Shocked.
Paul leaned in close to his wife.
"Should I wait for him to pass out or bury him ?"
Marla ignored Paul. Something beyond Daniel caught her eye.
"Daniel! Look—Gerónimo's coming with the sheriff. Looks like he's looking for you. Go, son, hurry."
Daniel turned to see Gerónimo talking to Polak on the hill.
"I don't think he's looking for me, Mrs. Marla…"
Marla's voice snapped like a twig.
"Get going, for heaven's sake—!"
She stopped mid-sentence, caught herself, and pasted on a smile.
"I mean… go on. We'll call you when the food's ready."
The sun scorched the open land. Gerónimo stood facing Polak, .the sheriff's men lingered nearby, eyes always watching. From a distance, one of them spotted Daniel approaching.
"Daniel my boy," Gerónimo called out, arms wide. "Come. Join us."
Daniel stepped closer, hesitant. Gerónimo pulled him into a firm hug, and though Daniel returned a small smile.
"This is Sheriff Polak," Gerónimo said warmly. "He wants me to take down the sign that says 'Police.' Says that only applies to cities."
Polak's voice was hard, almost bored.
"You know the rules of the West, Mr. Gerónimo. This little city dream of yours… it's a lost cause."
But Gerónimo just chuckled, tipping his hat in mock salute.
"Then let it fail my way. Daniel, meet the sheriff. He's the law in Limestone."
Polak gave Daniel a cold, almost dismissive nod.
"Yeah, we've already spoken," Daniel said.
Gerónimo started to say something, but Polak cut him off.
"How do you expect to build wealth in a place with no people?"
Gerónimo adjusted his hat with care, still smiling.
"This humble servant of God had a vision. One day, this town will be remembered—as something born of the sweat of those who believed. A legacy for my people."
Polak plucked up a dry twig and picked at his teeth, unimpressed.
"You know what? You're right," he said, mocking. "It's your legacy… Funny thing, the natives say there was a warrior named Geronimo. You sure he wasn't your daddy?"
A sly grin crept across his face. Gerónimo stepped forward. Polak's men stiffened, hands twitching near their guns.
"You'll get your wages," Gerónimo said, voice hardening. "But if you can't respect my dreams, at least respect me as a businessman."
Polak finally gave him a real look. He stepped closer, just inches away.
"Then learn from me. Save the dreams for when you sleep. You strike me more as a merchant than a preacher. And anyone who shines for money—he earns my respect. You know how many dreamers I've killed Gerónimo?"
He tipped his hat one last time and turned away. His men followed in silence, disappearing into the dust.
Daniel stood there, uneasy.
"Marla and Paul just got here," he said. "They're setting up the café."
Gerónimo turned toward him, something bright behind his tired eyes.
"That's good. Martha sent some food and clothes for you—I left them at your place. Don't let the food get cold. I'll welcome the Terries myself."
He turned and began to walk away.
Daniel hesitated, then trotted after him.
"The clothes… they're not necessary. I'm just passing through, remember?"
But Gerónimo didn't answer.
He just kept walking.