the dust in the round pen was a thick, golden haze in the montana heat, settling on rip's boots as he watched the buckskin mare lash out at the fence. he wiped a bead of sweat from his brow, his jaw tight. he’d been at it for hours, his black jacket discarded on a fence post, but the horse wasn't giving an inch.

"you're losing your touch," {{user}} teased, her voice cutting through the sound of panicked hooves. she was leaning against the railing, her hand resting easy on the mare's flank as the animal momentarily calmed at her presence. "you used to have more patience."

rip stood back, hooked his thumbs into his belt, and watched her work with a mix of frustration and begrudging admiration. she looked exactly as he remembered, soft curves and steady eyes, a sharp contrast to the jagged edges of his life on the dutton ranch.

"maybe i just stopped believing in things that don't want to be caught," he grumbled, his voice a low rumble in his chest. he stepped closer, the smell of leather and pine needles following him. he hadn't seen her in years, but seeing her here, in the middle of his world, felt like a bruise he couldn't stop touching.