He does like her already, even if he hasn't exactly managed to find himself a steady stream of alcohol (or coffee). "There's a bottle of it at the inn I stay at, but it's not mine. I have to borrow it," he deadpans, though he doesn't give it back.

"What I have are smokes," he offers, because there are plenty of them. Smokes and his lasso and the way he works at it with his fingers, eyeing her. "Wynonna Earp," he echoes. "What's your poison? I bet we can find some, if we look and steal hard enough."