THE HEIRESS FROM OUTLAW HOLLOW

The old wooden sign stood beside a road leading through the trees.

OUTLAW HOLLOW, it said.

Riley blocked the road beneath it, her broom balanced across one shoulder.

Her dark hair was half tied back, and her red-and-black tracksuit gave the approaching men very little reason to take her seriously.

There were six or seven of them, all moving quickly, their faces hidden by black masks and the brims of their caps. They stopped when she didn't move.

"Go back," Riley said around a blade of grass. "Don't bring things in here that don't belong."

The leader gave a contemptuous snort.

He unzipped his green jacket, exposing the knife at his waist, then pulled it free and pointed it at her.

"Get her!"

The others drew their knives and rushed her. Riley spat out the grass, took the broom in both hands, and stepped into the fight.

She slipped sideways past the first blade and drove the broom handle into its owner's stomach.

He stumbled away. She jumped, swept the broom in a broad arc, and knocked the next men down before landing among them.

Her name was Riley. She was the adopted daughter of Outlaw Hollow's community leader, and she was used to people arriving with bad intentions.

The reason for the Hollow's name could wait.

Several men closed around her with their knives raised. Riley leaned against a wooden rack beside the road and crooked a finger at them.

When one lunged, she took his knife and kicked him backward.

The others came together. She met them with her hands and feet, dropping them one after another.

Her father, Hank Mercer, had a simple rule for dealing with people like this: be worse than they were.

Riley grabbed one man's backpack and ripped it open. White powder burst into the air, coating the face of another man who had been charging her.

He covered his eyes and fell. Sealed packets scattered across the ground.

Riley used the sudden confusion to bring her broom down on the men still standing.

When the last attacker collapsed, she rested the broom on her shoulder again and surveyed the road.

Nobody was getting through now.

She crouched beside a groaning man, searched his clothes, and found another packet.

One sniff made her wrinkle her nose. She threw it away and searched again.

This time she found a thick stack of dollar bills.

Her smile returned. She counted with enthusiasm, then less enthusiasm, then sighed.

Every child in the Hollow had to contribute to the community upon reaching adulthood.

Riley's assignment was to raise a hundred million dollars to rebuild the memorial hall. Hank had set the target, and she intended to meet it.

Unfortunately, the pile in her hand was nowhere close.

She sat beside an old millstone at the roadside, her chin in her hand, and considered her finances.

A black Maybach eased to a stop nearby. A suited man got out and offered her an expensive-looking folder.

She opened it, puzzled, and read the papers inside. Her eyes widened.

"The Sterling family's daughter?"

She looked from the documents to the man, shocked and suddenly delighted.

"The Sterlings in San Diego?"

"Yes, Miss Sterling." The family's estate manager, Mr. Grant, stood among the defeated men as if he would prefer not to notice them.

"The family's negligence caused you to end up in… a place like this. You've suffered a great deal."

"Are they rich?"

He hesitated.

"Do they have a hundred million?"

"The Sterlings are the wealthiest family in the city." He recovered with a polite laugh. "That amount would hardly be a problem."

"Good. I'll tell my dad."

Riley turned and ran toward home.

"Dad! A walking ATM just showed up!"

Inside their modest wooden cabin, she stuffed her clothes into an enormous checked laundry bag. Hank watched with growing concern.

"What? Riley, those people have a bad reputation. Maybe you should just stay here."

"Relax, old man. I'll come back as soon as I've made the hundred million."

She lifted the bag with one hand, swung it over her shoulder, and headed for the door.

"Riley!"

Mr. Grant was waiting outside. Riley came through the doorway with her luggage and gave him a cheerful nod.

"Let's go."

Hank followed her to the threshold, calling after her.

Mr. Grant inclined his head to him before accompanying Riley to the car. The Maybach started and rolled out of the yard.

Hank folded his arms and sighed.

"I'm worried about the Sterlings," he said to the departing car. "You little…"

By the time Riley reached San Diego, the quiet road and wooden cabin had given way to a coastal skyline and a sprawling gated estate.

She followed Mr. Grant up the front steps with the bag still on her shoulder.

"Wow. That's big."

"Let me take your luggage. Mr. and Mrs. Sterling have been waiting a long time."

She passed him the bag. It dropped through his hands and hit the ground with a heavy thud.

Mr. Grant stared at it, then bent and tried lifting it with both hands. His face turned red with the effort. The bag didn't move.

He looked up at Riley in astonishment.

She was already heading inside.