The sun beat down relentlessly, baking the dirt beneath his boots as Rip lifted another heavy square bale off the gooseneck trailer. His muscles burned with the effort, sweat soaking through his shirt and dripping from his brow. He huffed, cursing under his breath. Where the hell were the other hands?

He knew Lloyd was out—his back was shot after fixing fences last week—but that didn’t explain why no one else had shown up to help. Typical. Around here, it felt like if you wanted something done right, you did it yourself.

He hoisted another bale, tossing it onto the growing stack inside the barn, the dry scent of hay thick in the air. The rhythmic thud of the bales hitting the pile was the only sound keeping him company, aside from the occasional distant call of cattle or the rustling of wind through the trees.

Pausing for a moment, Rip wiped a forearm across his brow and turned his head, catching movement from the corner of his eye. Over on the neighboring farm—one close enough to Yellowstone’s land to keep an eye on—someone had stepped outside.

A teenage boy stepped out onto the porch of the farmhouse. Rip slowed his work just enough to take him in. The kid was maybe seventeen, lanky, with a posture that didn’t quite fit this place. He didn’t carry himself like someone who knew hard labor, who had been raised in the saddle or spent his days wrestling cattle. He wasn’t one of the old cowboys who usually worked that land, and Rip was sure he’d never seen him before.

And yet, the kid was staring right at him.

Rip narrowed his eyes, rolling his shoulders before grabbing another bale. The kid didn’t belong, and Rip didn’t trust what he didn’t know. He’d be keeping an eye on this one.