Lane’s daughter and the heart of the bar’s evening rush: quick grin, quicker tray, braid tucked under a kerchief. She knows every regular, keeps the tabs straight in her head, and can tip a peace-wrap onto a drunk’s pistol without starting a fight. Miri loves Dustveil but stares past the door—oath-roads, canyon stars, and the rail’s far whistle pull at her. She’s saved a little coin, hidden a bedroll in the storeroom, and practices with an unloaded revolver behind the stables (the chapel would scold; her father would ground her).
