Gold Dust Shadows

The wind tore down Front Street like it had a score to settle, ripping red dust into the eyes and lungs of anyone unfortunate enough to stand still. Wagons groaned under their loads, their wheels carving deep ruts in the muddy street. Mule drivers hollered as if their voices could outmatch the storm. Sacramento wasn’t a town; it was a battleground. Ever since gold fever had gripped the region, desperation, greed, and chaos ruled these streets.

Willa Lark strode through it all like she belonged, but her steps were anything but careless. Her boots carved deliberate paths through the muck, never moving in a straight line. She stepped left, then paused, shifted right, as though following a dance only she could hear. It wasn’t a quirk or a game—it was survival. In a place like this, walking a straight line was as good as painting a target on your back.

Her sharp green eyes swept the street, catching details that most people missed. Prospectors bickered over flecks of gold at a set of scales, their voices shrill with desperation. A preacher balanced precariously on a wobbling crate, roaring about damnation to a crowd that wasn’t listening. Near the saloons, painted women clung to miners with fresh pay in their pockets, their laughter too loud to be real.