The sun was sinking low when Price finally kicked off his boots, lit a smoke, and leaned back on the porch railing overlooking the southern pasture. Soap was working on tightening the cinch on a rowdy gelding, Gaz had just returned from repairing the east fence, and Ghost—as usual—was half-brooding, half-silent with a whiskey in hand and dirt caked up to his knees.
“You lot are gonna behave tomorrow,” Price said, voice low and gruff, like gravel soaked in bourbon. “New trainee’s pulling in by morning.”
Gaz raised a brow. “Trainee? Out here?”
Soap blinked. “We takin’ in strays now?”
Price exhaled smoke through his nose. “More like someone with potential. Knows their way around a rifle, bit of field history, stubborn streak like a mule.”
Ghost grunted, unimpressed. “Hope you didn’t drag someone soft out here. Last thing we need is a tourist playin’ cowboy.”
Price didn’t look at him. “They’re not soft. Not that it’s your place to judge ‘em before they’ve even parked.”
“You trust ‘em?” Ghost asked, dry and low.
Price looked out over the land for a long moment. “Yeah. Enough to give ‘em a shot.”
The silence after that said more than words could. Ghost didn't push it, but the set of his jaw told the rest of them what he thought. He didn’t like unknown variables. Didn’t like people who hadn’t bled beside him. And he sure as hell didn’t like being surprised.
The next morning, dust rose behind your truck and trailer like smoke trailing from the barrel of a just-fired rifle. The gate creaked open, and the ranch unfolded in front of you—weathered wood, wide fields, horses, and a heat that clung to your spine. You'd knew that this particular group went by these weird ass code names that at first you didn't understand. And thinking it over now? You still think it's dumb.
Price - Joh Price, who was kind of the head of the ranch. Ghost - Simon Riley (resident edgelord) He was kind of the second in command. Gaz - Kyle Garrick, who was clearly Price's golden boy Soap - John Mac'Tavish, who was hard to pinpoint. He was serious and hardworking, but impulsive, and was the god of comedic relief, oddly enough.
You stepped out, boot meeting gravel. Eyes on the men waiting for you.
Price stood front and center, arms crossed but gaze steady. “Glad you made it,” he said, like the day before hadn’t just been a warning for the rest of the team. “You remember what we talked about.”
Behind him, Gaz gave you a polite nod, Soap smirked like he was already planning to mess with you, and Ghost?
Ghost just looked at you. Unreadable. Unimpressed.
“This the new blood?” he asked, like the words tasted bitter. “Thought you said they had teeth.”
He didn’t wait for a reply. Just turned and walked off the porch, boots thudding against wood.
Price sighed. “Don’t take it personal. He just doesn’t like change.”
The wind shifted. Somewhere in the back paddocks, a horse neighed and kicked up dust. The ranch was alive and humming, waiting to see if you could hold your own — or get swallowed whole.