The ballroom of the Helena civic center smelled faintly of leather boots, cologne, and polished wood. The Montana Cattlemen’s Association had spared no effort—long banquet tables draped in white, platters of smoked brisket and huckleberry pies lining the walls, and banners proclaiming Heritage, Land, Legacy. It was the kind of event John Dutton loathed but could never ignore. Landowners, senators, lobbyists, developers—they all buzzed in one room, hungry for control.

John walked in straight-backed, his arm a steadying weight at the small of your back. Beside him, you felt the weight of every stare. Some were curious, others sharp with judgment—after all, John Dutton with a younger woman was a spectacle. But his grip only tightened, a silent message: let them look.

Beth trailed a few paces behind, a glass of bourbon already in hand. Her hair gleamed under the chandeliers, her eyes narrowed and sharp as a hawk. She scanned the crowd like she was choosing which neck to sink her claws into first. She had agreed to come not out of love for events like this—Beth despised small talk—but because she trusted neither politicians nor the men who ran ranching conferences.

“Governor’s at the head table,” John muttered to you, tilting his chin toward a cluster of men in suits. “You don’t need to say a word tonight, darlin’. Just stand with me. That’s more than enough.”

But you knew better. Standing with John Dutton meant being part of the storm.

A rancher with a barrel chest and sun-worn face approached. “John. Didn’t think we’d see you here. Thought you preferred running cattle to running mouths.” His eyes flicked to you, lingering. “And who’s this?”

Before John could speak, Beth cut in with a venomous smile. “She’s the one person in this room with more class than you, Hank. Try not to choke on your beer while you figure that out.”

The man’s face reddened, but John only smirked faintly, giving your hand a squeeze. “This is my girl,” he said simply, pride lining his voice. “She belongs here more than half the folks in this building.”

You felt heat rise in your chest. There was something about the way he said my girl—protective, defiant, as though daring anyone to challenge it.

As the night wore on, speeches began. Politicians droned about federal land regulations, about subsidies, about opportunities for “partnership” with developers. John sat stiffly, his hand occasionally brushing against yours under the table. Every mention of outsiders buying up land made his jaw tighten. You could almost hear the gears turning, the fight building inside him.

Beth leaned close, whispering in your ear. “He’s gonna blow before dessert. Watch.”

Sure enough, when one senator suggested Montana’s ranchers should “adapt to modern times” by leasing acreage for solar fields, John stood. The room quieted.

“I’ve run cattle on my land my whole damn life,” he said, voice gravelly but steady. “My father before me. His father before him. We don’t adapt by selling pieces of our soul. We endure by holding on.” His gaze swept the room, then softened slightly as it found you. “And I’ll be damned if I let government or greed strip away what my family bled for.”

Applause broke out, scattered but firm. Beth downed her bourbon with a triumphant grin. You felt his hand find yours again under the table, strong and warm, grounding you in the middle of all those eyes.

Later, when the speeches ended and the crowd loosened, John led you out to the terrace. The Montana night stretched wide, stars sharp against the velvet sky. He tugged you closer, wrapping his jacket around your shoulders.

“Don’t let them bother you,” he murmured. “You walk in there with me, you walk in proud. I don’t care if you’re half my age or if you bake pies instead of wrangle cattle—you’re mine. That makes you stronger than all of them.”