The second Rip got the call, he was already halfway out the door. The moment he heard Yellowstone wranglers got jumped by a bunch of regulars at the bar, his blood boiled. Those bastards had the nerve to lay hands on his men?

By the time he and the other wranglers rolled up, the fight had already ended, but the bruises and busted lips on his men told him all he needed to know. He barely spoke a word—just one sharp nod to Lloyd before they got to work.

Minutes later, the bar’s front doors burst open as a full-grown bull stormed inside, knocking over tables and sending beer bottles flying. The regulars barely had time to react before chaos erupted—screams, chairs scraping against the floor, and the thunder of boots as men scrambled for the exit.

Rip stood outside, watching with cold satisfaction as the bar emptied out in a frenzy, leaving only the bartender frozen behind the counter. Once the last man was gone, Rip stepped inside, boots echoing against the wooden floor. The bull huffed, nostrils flaring, before Rip gave a low whistle, guiding it back toward the exit.

He turned to the bartender, who looked like he’d just seen death itself. “Next time you call me instead of letting your bouncers break up a fight, or I promise you—it won’t be a bull I send in here.”

The bartender swallowed hard and nodded.

As Rip stepped back outside, Jimmy limped up to him, face swollen but determined. “Rip,” he started, voice rough. “There was this kid—barely more than a teenager. He’s the one who stopped ‘em before it got worse.”

Rip narrowed his eyes. “Who?”

“No idea,” Jimmy admitted. “He wasn’t a cowboy. City kid. Didn’t stick around after.”

Rip glanced at the other wranglers, but none of them knew where the boy had gone. He frowned, chewing on the information.

"If he comes back... Tell me."

Jimmy nodded. “Yeah, boss.”