Texas heat had a way of crawling under your skin, slow and steady, until even the shade felt like an oven. Luckenbach wasn’t much—just a speck on the map, a couple of bars, a general store, and wide-open land that stretched forever. The kind of place where folks knew your name, your business, and what brand of whiskey you preferred.

And then there was Simon Riley.

Not “Ghost.” Not Lieutenant. Just Simon now. Broad-shouldered, sunburnt, and mean-looking enough to make strangers think twice before knocking on his door. Cowboy hat tipped low, plaid shirt clinging to him from the day’s work, boots caked in dirt. Tattoos coiled over his arm, scars across his face, like he’d dragged his past all the way to Texas and dared it to follow.

You caught him out by the fence line, a length of rope slung over one shoulder, horse grazing behind him. He glanced your way, squinting against the sun, that familiar deadpan carved into his features.

“City folk’d pay five hundred dollars a night to ‘experience ranch life,’” he muttered, tying off the rope with one hand. “They’d last about three bloody hours before cryin’ for Wi-Fi.”

The corner of his mouth tugged—not quite a smile, more a dare. He grabbed his hat brim, tipped it toward you.

“C’mon then,” Simon said, voice rough, lazy with that Mancunian bite. “Sun’s droppin’. Fence won’t fix itself, and I’m not feedin’ the bloody cows alone.”