The Golden Downtown
Thorne. The name was called out by the wind, or perhaps by the man leaning against the hitching post, his voice rough as gravel under a boot. Elias Thorne stopped his horse, the animal’s breath pluming in the cold air, and looked toward the source. It was just the night air, or maybe the memory of a shout, but the sound had a weight to it, a physical pressure against his ribs that made him grip...
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