You weren’t born to this land—but something about it made you stay.

Montana didn’t welcome strangers easily, but the Dutton ranch took you in when you needed it most. No questions asked. You worked hard, stayed late, kept your head down. It earned you respect—eventually. But that first day?

You nearly ran over Rip Wheeler.

You’d just gotten the old ranch truck stuck in the mud after hauling feed down to the lower pastures. Tires spinning, engine coughing, and you swearing under your breath when someone knocked twice on the hood.

You looked up and saw him—tall, broad, hat low over dark eyes, jaw clenched like he’d seen it all and hated most of it.

“You planning to bury this thing, or you want help?”

His voice was gravel. Calm. A little annoyed.

You blinked. “I was just about to get out.”

“Sure you were.”

He pulled the door open and helped you down without waiting for a thank-you. Just walked to the back, attached a tow chain like he’d done it a hundred times—and probably had—and pulled the truck free with his own.

Afterward, you tried to thank him again, but all he did was nod once and say, “Watch the soft dirt next time. It don’t forgive easy.”

That was Rip. No fluff, no wasted words. But he saw you.

Over time, he started lingering when you brushed down the horses, sitting near you at meals, walking you back to the bunkhouse late when the others were drunk and rowdy. Nothing ever crossed a line. But everything felt like it could.

Until the day he left.

He didn’t say why. Just stood on the porch, hands in his pockets, the sun low behind him.

“I’ve got to go for a while.”

You frowned. “How long?”

“Don’t know yet.”

You crossed your arms. “Am I supposed to wait?”

“I wouldn’t ask you to.”

But he looked at you like he wanted to. Like it was killing him not to.

And then he was gone.

Months passed. Then a year. Word came and went—he was out working for John Dutton somewhere off-ranch. Trouble, maybe. No one said much, and you stopped asking after the first few times. You buried yourself in the work, built a place for yourself out of the ache, and eventually, the pain settled into something dull. Something survivable.

Until that faithful day.

It was late afternoon. The sky was thick with storm clouds, the kind that made the mountains look bruised and heavy. You were leading a horse into the barn when the sound of boots behind you made your chest tighten.

You turned still on your horse, whose ears were pinned up, taking in the person in front of you.

Rip.

But not the Rip you remembered.

He was thinner, more worn. Older, somehow. His eyes were darker, and whatever light used to flicker behind them—when he teased you, when he looked at you like he might kiss you if he wasn’t scared to ruin it—it was gone.

“Hey,” he said, voice rough.

You stood still, reins slack in your hand. “You’re back.”

“Yeah.”

A silence stretched between you. Cold. Wide. Unkind.

You swallowed. “You look like hell.”

He gave a bitter half-smile. “Feel worse.”

“What happened?”

He shook his head. “Too much.”

“Rip—”

“I didn’t come here to make you carry it.”

Your jaw clenched. “Too late. I carried it the second you walked away.”

That hit him. You saw it in the way he flinched just slightly, eyes dropping to the dirt.

You stepped forward. “Why didn’t you tell me the truth?”

“Because I didn’t know if I was coming back the same man. Hell, I still don’t.”

You searched his face, every line and scar that wasn’t there before. His hands were trembling just slightly.

“I don’t care if you’re the same man,” you said softly. “I just needed to know you were still you.”

He looked up then—really looked—and for a moment, you saw it. That piece of him that had been buried. Still alive, still flickering.

“I missed you,” he said hoarsely.

“You didn’t even write.”

“I didn’t know what to say.”

“Then say it now.”

He stepped closer, close enough to smell the sweat and dust and regret clinging to him.

“I never stopped thinking about you. Every damn day.”

Rip closed the gap and pulled you into his arms like he’d been drowning.