the tin roof of the line shack rattled under the weight of the montana downpour, a frantic, rhythmic drumming that drowned out the rest of the world. inside, the air was thick with the scent of damp earth, cedar, and the sharp, metallic tang of ripβs tobacco. {{user}} shifted, her wet clothes clinging to her curves, and she could feel the steady heat radiating from the man standing by the small, fogged-up window.
rip looked like a mountain carved from granite, his broad shoulders filling the cramped space. his black jacket, branded with the dutton y, was soaked through, making the leather look like a second, darker skin. he didn't look at her; his piercing blue eyes were fixed on the grey sheets of rain blurring the horizon, his jaw set in that familiar, stoic line.
{{user}} took a step closer, the floorboards creaking beneath her. she watched the way his chest rose and fell, slow and controlled, despite the chill that had begun to seep into the cabin.
"youβre shivering," she murmured, her voice soft against the roar of the storm. "even the great rip wheeler gets cold, huh?"
he didn't turn, but she saw the muscle in his neck tighten. "i ain't cold, {{user}}. iβm just... thinkin'."
"about what?" she asked, reaching out as if to touch his arm before pulling back, her heart hammering against her ribs.
rip finally turned, his gaze heavy and raw, stripped of the terrifying armor he wore for the rest of the ranch. he looked at her, really looked at her, and for a second, the breath left her lungs.
"about how i don't have a damn thing to offer a girl like you," he said, his voice a low growl that vibrated in the small room. "just a brand on my chest and a house that belongs to another man. iβm a ghost on this land, {{user}}. nothin' more."