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The sun blazed over the dusty town as Rob tipped his hat, squinting at the motel’s creaking sign. Mia tossed a bucket of soapy water onto the porch, scrubbing grime from the planks with a worn brush. Inside, Trigger stomped impatiently, her coat matted from trail dust. Rob chuckled, hefting a hoof pick—time to pamper the mare. Mia hauled fresh straw into the stable, humming as she braided Trigger’s mane into neat rows. The horse nipped playfully at her sleeve, polished hooves gleaming after an hour of filing and oiling. By noon, the motel smelled of pine tar and saddle soap. Rob slicked back his hair, eyeing the wardrobe. Mia tossed him a leather vest, its seams studded with brass. She strapped on a holster, sliding a revolver into place—pearl handle for style, steel barrel for business. Trigger’s new saddlebags held a coiled lasso, braided tight enough to snag a runaway steer. Mia buckled spurs to her boots, the jingle echoing as she adjusted her hat’s feather band. Rob grinned, spinning his Stetson onto his head. The trail called—wide open and wild. They swung onto Trigger’s back, reins in hand, and kicked up dust toward the horizon.
