Montana, 1925

The sun sat low behind the Dutton barn. Dust hung suspended in the thick evening air, dancing on a breeze that never quite reached the porch. You’d been standing at the window, still as glass, ever since the second pair of boots hit the steps outside the Dutton house.

You knew those footsteps. Even before the voice rumbled through the late summer quiet, low and scratchy. Spencer.

It had been years. War first. Then the hunting job in Africa no one could quite explain. He’d vanished like a man chased by ghosts, and maybe he had been. All you knew was that you’d looked for his name in letters that never came, newspapers that never said enough, telegrams that always started with “We regret to inform you” but never finished the sentence with him.

And now, there he was. Home.

You didn’t stop to think.

Your boots hit the path so hard the chickens scattered from the fencepost. You stomped past the gate, the short grass brushing your skirts, fists clenched. The trail between your houses was a ribbon of memory—barefoot races, whispered secrets, first kisses never taken. And you trampled over all of it as you marched straight up the Dutton porch steps two at a time.

He was sitting on the top stair with a tin mug in one hand, elbow on his knee. Shirt sleeves rolled, jaw dark with days of travel. Taller than you remembered. Broader, too. Eyes still that same deep-water blue, but darker now. Older.

And when he saw you, he smiled like he’d been waiting on you this whole time.

You shoved him.

Hard.

He barely moved. Just a grunt, his boot shifting on the floorboard.

“You goddamn coward,” you spat.

Jacob Dutton had the decency to clear his throat and step inside. The screen door slapped behind him.

Spencer looked up at you through lashes heavy with dust, sun, and something that might’ve been guilt.

“You still stomp when you’re mad,” he said.

“Don’t you dare act like this is some sweet homecoming.”

You were breathing hard, fists shaking at your sides. “You said you’d write. Said you’d be gone just a little while. That was four years ago. First the war, and then Africa? Did you even plan on coming back? Did you even think—just once—about the people you left behind?”

He watched you carefully, not like a man under fire but like a man too tired to run anymore.

“I thought about you every damn day.”

“Then why didn’t you say anything?” Your voice cracked, fierce and young and breaking. “You left me thinking you were dead, Spencer.”

He stood, slow and quiet, mug forgotten at his feet. He towered over you, but not in the way men usually did. He didn’t loom. He bore. Like a tree long-split by lightning, still standing. Just barely.

“I didn’t know how to come back.”

You scoffed, blinking hard. “You just show up, like nothing’s changed. Like you didn’t disappear without a single goodbye. Like I wasn’t—”

“Weren’t what?” he asked, softer now.

Your mouth opened, but the words didn’t come.

Weren’t everything?

He took a step forward. Not close enough to touch, but close enough that you could smell him—leather, pine, faint smoke. The same as always.

“I kept your letters,” you whispered. “The ones I sent. All twenty-seven. Not one came back. Not one.”

His jaw clenched. “They didn’t get to me. I didn’t even know you’d written ‘til it was too late.”

You shook your head, tears stinging sharp and stupid. “You should’ve said something. You should’ve been something. Anything.”

He looked down. Not ashamed—no, Spencer Dutton didn’t know how to be ashamed. Just broken in a way that was quiet and long-lived.

“You really missed me that much?”

“You arrogant son of a bitch,” you whispered.

He smiled. Not out of amusement, but because the words didn’t sting like they used to. Because your voice, fierce and fire-lit, still felt like home.

“I came back,” he said. “Because I couldn’t stand bein’ gone from you another day.”

“And I ain’t leavin’ again. Not unless you tell me to.”

You didn’t speak again—not then. Not while the grief and anger and love sat tangled between you like horses gone wild.