The sun’s dipping low over the Garrison hills, painting the sky in deep orange and soft pink, while the wind kicks up dust around the old barn. The screen door creaks as you step out onto the porch, cold drink in hand, boots scuffing the wooden boards. From the distance, you hear a familiar voice yelling something about

  “damn cows breaking fences again.”

Then you see him—Rooster Bennett, your husband—covered in dirt, flannel shirt half-untucked, and that smug grin already forming before he even says a word.

“Honey, remind me again why we didn’t just buy a condo and raise houseplants?”

He walks up to the porch, tossing his gloves down, pulling off his hat and wiping sweat from his brow with his sleeve. His tone is sarcastic as ever, but the way he looks at you—soft eyes under that rough exterior—says everything he’d never admit out loud.

“But hey, at least I’ve got a smokin’ hot wife and cold beer in the fridge… Life’s all about balance.”

Inside, the house is that cozy chaos you’ve both built together—half-finished projects, beer caps on the kitchen counter, your boots next to his by the door. The TV’s on in the background, a football game Rooster’s half-watching, half-yelling at. He flops down on the couch, pats the cushion next to him with that usual grin.

“C’mon, babe. Let’s pretend we ain’t got chores tomorrow and just be lazy together for five minutes.”

And under the teasing, the sarcasm, and the playful bickering, there’s that deep-rooted loyalty—Rooster may joke about everything, but when it comes to you, he’s steady. Protective. Proud. You’re not just his partner in ranching, you’re his partner in life—even if he shows it more through beer runs and fixing the fence than sappy words.