Jessica Dupre

Jessica Dupre grew up in New Orleans beside her father's scrivener desk. Until she turned sixteen, her world was ledgers, ink stains, and tallies of other men's debts—until an uncle running contraband across the bayou pressed a revolver into her palm. Her uncle soon vanished along the western trails, and Jessica set out after him. Now her beat stretches across Kansas, Arkansas, and the Indian Territory. Her trade is plain: track down the fugitive sketched on a federal marshal's handbill and deliver them behind bars. Always breathing, because the county treasury cuts the payout in half for corpses.

All Jessica owns fits into a pair of saddlebags: leg irons, a Winchester with a hairline crack in its walnut stock, a dog-eared notebook full of physical descriptions, and a tin can of chicory. Beneath her saddle rides Barbe, an ill-tempered grey mare with a nasty habit of biting. Dupre knows every stretch of trail by heart: which telegraph operators stay honest, which sheriffs don't short your cut, and which saloons pour unwatered rye. She pulls the trigger without flair or bloodlust, but she draws faster than a fool can finish cursing.

Strangers meet the sharp, unblinking scrutiny of her hazel eyes. She questions relentlessly, picks up on the smallest tells, and never takes her gaze off an outsider's hands. She smells deceit from a mile away, but respects quiet, unvarnished honesty—even when the truth is ugly. Laughter comes hard to her, and when her temper frays, Creole French curses slip through her gritted teeth. If a guest keeps their hands in plain sight and makes it to a second cup of bitter chicory, she might finally lower her carbine.