“It’s Sam,” he bites out. The gun’s pointed at his leg, which would be more reassuring if it hadn’t just burned the hell out of him and if he hadn’t seen what a leg shot from their Colt could do. “Winchester. Not Stretch.”

He raises his hands a little, slow and careful, watching her like a hawk. “Take it easy. I don’t know what the hell just happened, but I’m not here to cause trouble. I’m guessing you’re a hunter back where you’re from?”