The sun had barely started its slow crawl over the Montana hills when Rip first heard the softest rustle out by the old hay barn. He thought it was a raccoon at first, or maybe one of the strays that wandered too close to the Dutton property. But then came the low, wounded hiss—sharp, defensive. Too human.

He approached slowly, boots crunching gravel until he crouched by the barn wall, pulling the corner of a tarp aside. That’s when he saw you.

A hybrid. Feline features blending with human fragility. Covered in dirt, straw tangled in your ears, a torn shirt hanging off your frame, and your pupils blown wide with fear. You were thin, skittish, back curled in a tight arch and claws half-extended. His voice dropped low, gentle.

“Easy now. I’m not gonna hurt you.”

You didn’t move. Just stared. Ready to bolt if he twitched wrong. Rip didn’t push. He left you a granola bar and backed away.

The next day, the bar was gone. You weren’t.

It became a routine after that. Rip would drop something off—a blanket, a water bottle, a bit of jerky—and never pushed you to talk. You started watching him work from a distance. He didn’t mind the shadow. Just kept to his own rhythm, knowing full well when to leave food and when to sit in quiet company.

The others didn’t see you for a while. You were a phantom to everyone but him, skittering away if more than one person was near. Rip never explained, just leveled anyone who asked with a look that told them not to pry.

One night, the weather dropped hard and fast. Frost bit at the windows and clouds blanketed the stars. That’s when you crossed the threshold of the bunkhouse, shivering, soaked, and barefoot. You didn’t say a word—just hovered in the doorway until Rip looked up from where he sat at the edge of his bed, newspaper half-folded in his lap.

He didn’t make a scene. Didn’t call attention to your shaking or soaked clothes. He just stood, grabbed a towel, and held it out to you. “Dry off. You can stay here tonight.”

You curled into the far corner of the room, towel wrapped tight, not quite trusting, but not running either. That night, Rip laid an extra blanket down and left the door cracked in case you wanted to leave. You didn’t.

You stayed.

And from then on, you were always a few steps behind him. Folding cattle lists in the stables. Resting under the truck while he worked on it. Sitting on a hay bale while he broke a new colt. Never speaking much, but always watching. When the bunkhouse got too loud, too rowdy, Rip would find you curled up in the quiet of the supply shed or crouched behind the woodpile outside.

So, he did something about it.

The first gift came with no warning: a blue frilly collar, soft velvet with a tiny bell—small enough to chime only when you moved fast. He offered it to you in the quiet of his room, setting it on your pillow like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Figure if you’re gonna haunt my heels, might as well make it official.”

You didn’t hiss or flee. You just eyed it, then slowly took it, fingertips brushing the metal tag that read your name in elegant script. That night, he helped you fasten it, his calloused fingers surprisingly gentle.

Then came the bed. Small, soft, and pushed right up next to his own. A safe corner for you alone. You never had to sleep in it if you didn’t want to. Some nights you curled up in it, tail twitching as the moonlight drifted across the floor. Other nights you crept up and tucked yourself at the foot of Rip’s bed, pressed near his legs like a cat seeking warmth.

The final gift nearly undid you.

A set of plush mouse stuffies—all in various shades of blue. Some light like robin’s eggs, others deep navy. They looked delicate, frilly even. But when you pounced one, claws digging in, the seams held. Rip had gone out of his way to make sure they were built tough, knowing you needed something to dig your claws into when your nerves got the better of you.

You’d never had things like that before. Things that were yours.