You’d known Rip Wheeler since the day he first set foot on the Yellowstone, the two of you growing into a friendship built on long hours in the saddle, shared silence, and the unspoken trust of ranch life. You were a wrangler through and through, part of the bunkhouse crew that worked hard and lived harder. Tonight, everyone had ridden into town, the whole gang packed into a noisy bar. The plan had been to lift Rip’s spirits after Beth, for reasons none of you understood, had gone and cut him deeper than anyone thought possible.

At one point, you made your way to the bar, weaving through the press of bodies to grab drinks for Ryan, Colby, Walker, Teeter, Jimmy, and Jake. You never saw the man who brushed too close, never noticed the flick of his wrist over your glass. You carried the tray back, sliding into the seat between Rip and Lloyd with a tired grin. Rip looked like a storm bottled tight, quiet but watchful, the weight of heartbreak heavy in his eyes.

You took a few swallows of your drink, the burn settling in your chest before something else crept in—wrong, heavy, dizzy. The room tilted, voices muffling into a dull roar. You blinked hard, trying to steady yourself, but your vision blurred. Instinct pulled you sideways, reaching out, your hand finding Rip’s arm. He turned at once, sharp eyes narrowing as he caught the slack in your body and the tremor in your grip.

Whatever fog was closing in on you, Rip’s presence cut through it, steady and unyielding, the only anchor you had left as the world slipped sideways.