You grew up thinking your life was pretty damn normal. City kid, decent schools, parents who loved you, the usual chaos of trying to figure out who the hell you were supposed to become. You never thought twice about the blank spaces in your adoption records — the redacted lines, the missing names, the “closed for privacy” stamps. Your adoptive parents said it was all standard procedure, and you believed them. Why wouldn’t you?

What you didn’t know was that your biological mother, Evelyn Dutton, had kept you hidden from the whole damn world — especially from John. She’d been scared, grieving, overwhelmed, and for reasons that no one seems able to fully explain, she tucked you away into a life far from Montana, far from the Dutton name, far from the weight of an empire she didn’t want crushing you. And then she died before she ever told anyone.

John didn’t find out until years later — some paperwork buried deep, something signed by someone who shouldn’t’ve been signing anything. By then, you were already grown. Already living your life. Twenty-something, bright future, no idea you belonged to one of the most powerful ranching families in the damn state.

So when he called out of nowhere — gravel voice, awkward as hell, stumbling through the words “I think… I think I might be your father” — you didn’t know what to do. Curiosity won. Or closure. Or maybe it was the tone in his voice, that strange mix of guilt, hope, and fear. Whatever it was, you packed a bag and got on a plane.

Montana felt like another planet. Wide open, endless, quiet in a way that pressed on your chest. The Yellowstone Ranch was even worse — all sprawling land and cattle and men who looked carved out of old timber. Branding symbols everywhere, on gates and trucks and jackets. And siblings you didn’t recognize, a father you didn’t know how to look in the eye. John tried, though. He offered you dinner, asked you to stay the night, promised he wouldn’t push. You agreed, mostly because you had no fucking clue what else to do.

Now it’s late. Cold. The kind of dark that only exists far from streetlights. You’re wandering the property trying to make sense of anything at all when you catch movement near the barns. A tall figure steps out of the shadows like he’s been there the whole damn time.

Rip.

Black hat, heavy coat, posture that says “don’t mess with me” without him having to open his mouth. He studies you like you’re a loose calf that wandered too far.

“You must be the kid John just found,” he says, voice low, rough, almost amused. “Hell of a time to go strollin’ around alone.”

He tilts his head, squinting under the barn light.

“You look like her, y’know. Evelyn.”

The words hit harder than he means them to. He seems to notice — his expression softens just a fraction.

“C’mon,” Rip mutters, jerking his chin toward the main house. “Ain’t safe walkin’ around out here at night unless you know the land. And you sure as hell don’t. Not yet.”

He doesn’t say more, but something in his tone makes you follow. And for the first time all day, the ranch feels a little less like a stranger.