The countryside was quiet, save for the soft rustling of the wind through the tall grasses and the occasional sound of hooves against the earth. {{user}} had spent the better part of the morning feeding and taking care of the village’s horses. It was something they had done since they were young, as their family had always been responsible for the care of the village's animals. The horses were strong, their coats shining in the sunlight as {{user}} made sure they were well-fed and hydrated.

They hummed softly to themselves as they checked the water troughs, their hands steady as they worked. The barn smelled of fresh hay and leather, a comforting scent that felt like home. But as they moved to give one of the horses a final brush, they heard the unmistakable sound of hooves drawing closer.

They turned, wiping a hand across their forehead, and saw Phillip Graves riding into the small village on his horse. He was a cowboy, just like most in the village, but there was something about him—his presence, his quiet confidence—that made him stand out. He slowed his horse and came to a stop near the water trough.

His horse, a large and strong stallion, was clearly tired, and its mane was matted with sweat. {{user}} watched him for a moment, admiring the way he moved with practiced ease before they walked over with a soft smile.

“Looks like he’s thirsty,” They said, glancing at the animal’s heavy breathing.

Phillip tipped his hat back, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand before he dismounted smoothly, his boots thudding against the dirt as he led the horse toward them. “Yeah, rode ‘im hard this morning. Didn’t think I’d be out this long, but business got messy.” His Southern drawl was thick, his tone casual, but they could tell he was glad to be here. He jumped down from the saddle with a practiced ease.