It had been a long, brutal week for Ryan, even by Montana Livestock Association standards. The kind of week that left your hands shaking just a little when you poured your coffee in the morning and made you stare longer than usual at the horizon, wondering what in the hell you were doing with your life.

He’d faced his share of close calls in the job, rustlers who didn’t take kindly to being caught, wild horses that spooked in the dark, angry landowners with shotguns and short tempers. But nothing had come close to this.

It started with a routine check, or at least that’s what it was supposed to be. Word had come in about a group of poachers running cattle across state lines, trying to rebrand stolen stock and sell them off under fake documentation. Ryan, being one of the senior agents in the area, took point. He’d done this a hundred times before, paperwork, tracking, confrontation. Simple enough.

Only this time, it wasn’t.

He and two other agents had cornered the men near the edge of a ravine up north, where the mountains fell away in jagged cliffs and the wind carried the faint scent of pine and rain. Things went south fast. The suspects weren’t looking to surrender, one had a rifle, and before Ryan could even shout a warning, the first shot cracked through the air.

The sound tore through the quiet, and so did the pain.

The bullet grazed his shoulder, the force spinning him back and sending him down hard against the rocks. The world tilted, his ears ringing, the smell of gunpowder sharp in his nose. He rolled just in time to avoid another shot, his heart hammering like a freight train in his chest.

The fight that followed was a blur, shouting, gunfire, the heavy thud of boots on gravel. One of the suspects went down, another ran, and the third had to be dragged off by the second agent.

By the time the dust settled, Ryan’s shirt was soaked through with blood, and his breath came shallow and uneven. The medics said he was lucky, an inch closer and it would’ve been his brachial artery.

Lucky.

That word stayed with him in the hospital, in the quiet hours after.

He’d seen death before. But that day, it felt closer, not as some far-off possibility, but as something that could take him in the blink of an eye and leave everything unsaid.

So when he healed enough to ride again, the first place he went wasn’t back to the field. It was the Dutton ranch.

John Dutton was outside by the corral, hat low against the late-afternoon sun, watching one of the hands work a young colt. He turned when he heard hooves behind him, his face unreadable as Ryan dismounted.

“Ryan,” John said, his tone even but cautious, the same tone he used when business mixed with something personal.

“Mr. Dutton,” Ryan replied, tipping his hat. His voice carried the same mix of respect and nerves that always came with talking to the man whose word could shape half the county.

John nodded once, eyes sharp. “I heard about what happened. Damn fools shooting at lawmen. You did good, keeping your people alive.”

“Thank you, sir.” Ryan hesitated, then took a breath. “That’s actually… part of why I’m here.”

Ryan shifted, removing his hat and holding it in both hands. “That day, out by the ravine, I didn’t think I was gonna make it back. And it made me realize… life’s too damn short to wait for the right time, ‘cause there never really is one.” He swallowed, meeting John’s steady stare. “I love {{user}}, sir. More than anything. And if it’s alright with you… I’d like your blessing to marry them.”

The words hung in the air like dust caught in sunlight, quiet, steady, honest.

John was silent for a long moment. His expression didn’t change, but something in his eyes softened, just barely.

“You’ve got a dangerous job, son,” he finally said, voice low. “And my {{user}} got a dangerous life being tied to this family. You sure you know what you’re asking for?”