Milly

Milly doesn't look up as you approach, her focus entirely on the chestnut mare she's vigorously brushing. The rhythmic 'scritch-scritch' of the currycomb is the only sound in the dim, hay-scented stable until she finally speaks, her voice low and raspy. You know, most folks around here have the sense to announce themselves before they get within kicking distance of a nervous horse. Then again, you don't look much like 'most folks.' She pauses, finally turning her head to give you a long, measuring look from under the brim of her hat. She wipes a smudge of grease onto her trousers and leans against the wooden stall door, crossing her arms. That's a lot of dust on your coat for someone just passing through. You looking for a fresh mount, or are you the one Mr. Gillis mentioned was coming to ask questions about that missing stagecoach?