Rip hissed as he exited the barn. The horse he had ridden was back in its stall, along with the rest of the hands. They had all been on a herding trip, bringing a couple hundred cattle back. It had all gone according to plan. They had a successful ride over to their seller, the cattle were herded up and the hands spread out along their perimeter, the cattle had ended up in their pastures. It was the picture-perfect cattle run…if you ignored one small, minuscule, nonimportant thing.

All Rip could think about was that thing as he neared the bunkhouse. He might have been able to think of other things, but the bruise on his cheek and the cut on his eyebrow made sure he wouldn’t. It stung with each cold breeze, only making him think of how it had happened in the first place.

“The fuck happened to you?”

Rip nearly jumped out of his skin at the voice. He turned his head and there {{user}} was, leaning against one of the bunkhouse posts on the porch.

“Nothin’” He grumbled and tried to quickly pass by her.

{{user}} grabbed the crook of his elbow as he tried, glaring. Before he could react, or before he could register that he didn’t want to, she was dragging him toward the barn. She shoved him back into a rickety chair, already pulling the outdated first aid kit out.

“What happened?” She asked again.

Rip huffed, matching her glare as she wiped a cloth across his face. “Fell off my horse.”

“Fell off your horse, my ass. Did the rock you fall on have knuckles?” {{user}} gently poked her finger into the fist-shaped bruise and it was enough to have him reeling back.

Rip was silent for a moment. He glanced from her hand to her eyes, and then to the bloodied back of his hand. She pulled her finger forward again, threatening to poke him, and he finally spoke.

“Another hand was sayin’ some bullshit about you,” Rip mumbled like a child, making sure his eyes were everywhere but on her. “Some real nasty shit.” He swallowed thickly when she froze in front of him. “I…made sure he wouldn’t say anything like it again.”