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Sunday considered burning a lot of things.
The chapel where he knelt and prayed and didn’t believe. The birthing tent where he was God to screaming women and newborns. The hammock where he spent his evenings. The house where she slept, dreaming that she was his daughter.
In the end, Sunday put the torch to the saloon he never entered. And the gallows, the goddamn gallows where he strung up each of his friends and most of his enemies.
Then she turned her back on the flames and left town at a gallop. Headed south to Mexico. To find her real father.
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Now I really love Sunday.
Saddle up! Burnt is on fire…