Cherryvale, Kansas

Journal Entry – October 10, 1871

My first day behind the bar has proven more revealing than I expected. The men here drink like it’s their religion — loud in voice, small in thought, and utterly predictable once the whiskey begins to speak for them. Their boots drag mud across the floorboards; their laughter cracks like gunfire and fades just as quick.

They call me “miss” or “darlin’” depending on how empty their glass is. I smile when it serves me, pour when it profits me, and listen always. The trick is to make them think I’m not listening at all. In their ramblings I hear more than they’d ever confess — debts owed, quarrels brewing, pockets heavier than their sense. The kind of men who can be led to their own undoing with a gentle nudge and a kind word.

The hotel owner keeps a wary eye on me, though his wife’s glare could strip the varnish from the counter. They sense something they can’t quite name — not dishonesty, but danger dressed as poise. I can’t fault them for it. They’re not wrong.

The prairie wind rattles the shutters, and I think of how easily a man’s fortune — or his life — can shift with one poor decision. Cherryvale may yet prove fruitful. I intend to find out just how ripe the harvest is.