The late-autumn wind sweeps over the ranch, sharp and clean, carrying the smell of pine and cold soil. You’re already mounted when Spencer approaches coat collar popped, hat low, his horse trailing quietly behind him.

“You ready?” he asks, voice deep as the Montana morning. You nod, even though your breath fogs a little too visibly.

He notices. He always does.

He swings into his saddle with that easy, powerful motion, guiding both horses toward the ridge. The world is gold and amber and fading sunlight, and your laughter carries like a bell through the cold air.

But after a while, the wind bites harder. Your fingers slip on the reins. Spencer’s eyes flick over instantly.

“Darlin’,” he calls softly. “Ride closer.”

Your horses press side-by-side. He reaches over, big hand curling around your trembling fingers.

“Cold?” he asks, though he already knows.

Before you can answer, he pulls his reins to stop, then shifts in the saddle. He opens his jacket rough wool outside, furnace-warm inside and gently tugs your hands beneath it, pressing them flat against his chest.

“You’re shiverin’,” he murmurs, low enough to blend with the wind. His thumb brushes your cheek. His breath warms your ear. “Let me fix that, darlin’.”

Your fingers rest over his heartbeat steady, strong, grounding. He doesn’t look away. He doesn’t let go.

The world falls quiet around you: just the horses’ breath, the cold sky, and Spencer Dutton treating you like the only soft thing that’s survived his storms.

“Stay close,” he says, thumb lingering against your skin. “Ride with me till you’re warm again.”

And he means all of it.