"Well, ain't this the quietest saloon I've ever seen," Xaverick mumbled to himself, scanning the almost empty room. His dusty boots echoed against the worn wooden floorboards as he approached the bar. The bartender barely looked up from his polishing, giving Xaverick a nod that was more obligatory than welcoming.
The man who sat at the corner table was the only patron that evening. He was dressed in clothes that were too fine for the establishment, too clean, and too... well, fancy for a place that saw more dust than dollar bills. Xaverick's eyes narrowed as he took in the stranger's attire; a crisp white shirt, a black vest buttoned over it, and a hat that could have been made from the fur of a hundred rare critters. The man's face remained hidden under the brim, but Xaverick could make out the sharp line of a jaw and the glint of something that looked like a diamond ring on one of his slender fingers.
"What...?" the man finally said, his voice a low, velvety drawl that didn't quite match his gruff appearance. He side-eyed Xaverick, curiosity peeking through the shadows like a cautious animal. Xaverick felt his hand tighten around the handle of his gun, not quite sure why the stranger's tone grated on him.
"I said," Xaverick repeated, his voice a little louder now, "you're not from around here, are you?" The fancy man's eyes met his, and for a moment, Xaverick felt like he was staring into the abyss. They were a piercing shade of red that seemed to glow in the dim light of the saloon, like the heart of a sapphire in a mine at midnight. He took a sip of his whiskey, letting the liquid burn down his throat as he waited for a reply.
"Actually," the man said, taking his time, "I was born here." His voice was like molasses on a hot summer day, thick and sweet, but with an underlying hint of something darker. He took another sip of his wine, the crimson liquid leaving a trail on the edge of the delicate glass as he set it down. Xaverick's hand hovered above his gun, his instincts telling him that something about this man was not quite right.
The stranger's eyes remained on him, those piercing red orbs seemingly seeing right through him. "But it's been a long time," he added, "since I've called this place home." He pushed the hat back slightly, revealing a pale, almost translucent face, with sharp cheekbones and a smirk that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"The name's Dorian," he said, extending a hand. "Dorian Blackwood."
Xaverick didn't take the hand. "Blackwood," he repeated, the name leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. The Blackwood family had left the town in disgrace after Richard's scandal with the local preacher's daughter. "So you're related to that no-good rich bastered of a man, Richard Blackwood?!"
Dorian's smile grew, showing a hint of fang. "Yes, he was my father," he said with a wicked smile that made Xaverick's skin crawl. "But I'm only here for his will. You see, I've come to claim my inheritance"
"Inheritance?" Xaverick snorted, taking a swig of whiskey. "What's a city slicker like you want with a piece of dirt in the middle of nowhere?"
Dorian's smile grew, his fangs peeking out even more. "You'd be surprised, cowboy," he said, his voice a low purr that made Xaverick's spine tingle in a way he didn't quite like. "But that's not all. You see, he also left me all his richess not only that but the family mansion and an assortment of other goods"
Xaverick felt a twinge of jealousy, but he didn't show it. "What's your game, then?" he asked, leaning on the bar with a heavy hand. "Why come back now, after all these years?"
Dorian's eyes glinted in the candlelight as he took a moment to consider his response. "Let's just say I've had... a change of heart," he finally said. "And with the mansion now under my name, I'm considering moving back."
Before Xaverick could reply, the door to the saloon flew open with a bang, and a woman rushed in, her skirt billowing around her like a storm of fabric. She was dressed in a fancy red dress that was more suited to a ball than the dusty streets of the town. Her hair was a wild mess of curls, and her eyes were wide with fear. She looked around the room, frantically searching for someone, until she spotted Dorian.
"Dorian!" she shouted, her voice filled with a mix of relief and anger. She stomped across the floor, ignoring the stares of the few patrons, and grabbed his arm. "Do you ever listen?" she yelled, her grip tightening on his sleeve. "You could have been killed, you idiot!"
Dorian stood up slowly, his movements fluid and graceful, a stark contrast to the cowboy's rough demeanor. He towered over her, his 6'6" frame casting a shadow across the table. "Mother, I'm not a child," he said calmly, his voice dropping into a lower register that was somehow both soothing and commanding. "I can take care of myself."
The woman, who was his mother despite the lack of resemblance in their features, rolled her eyes and let go of his arm. She was a small but formidable presence, with a stern look that could make even the toughest ranch hands quake in their boots. "You know what's been happening," she said through gritted teeth. "The townsfolk aren't going to take kindly to your... 'lifestyle'."
Dorian sighed, his eyes never leaving Xaverick's. He pulled out a fresh hundred-dollar bill from his pocket and laid it on the table, the sound of the crisp paper echoing in the tense silence that had fallen over the saloon. "I've got better things to do than argue," he said, his voice a mix of boredom and amusement. "I'll be seeing you around, Xaverick."
With that, he turned and strode out of the saloon, his mother on his heels, still muttering under her breath. Xaverick watched them go, his curiosity piqued. What kind of inheritance could bring a man like Dorian Blackwood back to this forgotten corner of the world? And what was he really after? The whiskey in his hand suddenly tasted sour.
