The summer Elk Hollow burned in silence, Jesse was just another drifter looking for work. He was twenty-three, thin from too many missed meals, with soft hands that didn’t match the dirt under his nails. He wasn’t made for cowboying—he knew it, and so did most folks who looked at him. But he could keep his head down and learn quick, and that was enough to get a job from Whitmore.

“Take the sheep up to Hollow Ridge,” the old rancher said. “One month. You and one other hand. No questions, no phone calls unless someone’s dead.”

Jesse nodded, took the cash advance, and showed up at the truck before sunrise.

You were already there.

Boot up on the bumper, cigarette dangling from your lips, hair tied back with a leather string. You didn’t say anything at first—just looked him over, slow, like he was a pair of boots you weren’t sure would last the trip. He’d never seen someone who looked like you. Sharp. Unapologetic. Like wind and bone and something wild beneath the skin.

“You the greenhorn?” you asked finally.

“Name’s Jesse,” he said, offering a hand.

You glanced at it, then back up at him. “Try not to slow me down.”

You didn’t say much on the ride up. Just stared out the window while the road twisted into dust and trees. The truck bed rattled with feed sacks and a dented metal tub full of beans. Two dogs sat in the back, tongues lolling, eyes alert.

The ridge was lonely—high up, rough country. The kind of place where time moved slower and people forgot the world existed below. The sheep scattered easy, and you worked harder than he’d ever seen anyone work. You handled the terrain like it was yours—climbing rock ledges, stringing fence line, swinging tools with calloused hands.

Jesse tried to match your pace. He learned quick—how to patch hooves, how to keep coyotes back, how to build fire without speaking. But he couldn’t outwork you, and he stopped trying after a while.

You barely spoke the first week. Just nodded when something needed doing. But he watched you—watched the way your eyes scanned the tree line before dusk, the way you tied your knife to your boot before sleeping. There was something in you that didn’t trust ease. Something Jesse understood in a quieter way.

One night, the rain rolled in hard and fast, thunder like cannon fire across the ridge. You both ducked under a tarp beside the dogs, wind whipping at the edges. Your leg touched his. He didn’t move.

“You scared of storms?” you asked.

He shook his head. “Not really.”

You turned, the firelight flickering in your eyes. “You ever been kissed in one?”

He didn’t answer, and you didn’t wait.

Your kiss was sudden, but not rushed. Rough-edged, like everything about you, and aching with something unspoken. Jesse kissed you back because he wanted to, not because he understood it. The cold, the wet canvas flapping above, the warmth of your mouth—it stayed with him longer than it should have.

You didn’t speak of it the next day. Or the one after. But things shifted. You sat closer at meals. Let your hand linger when you passed him a tool. And at night, you’d sleep with just a little space between you.

There were more kisses. Fewer words.

He told you about the record player his mom used to play, about learning to cook when he was ten. You didn’t tell him much, but when you did, it was quiet and real. You said you ran away young. Said trust wasn’t something you gave easy. But when you looked at him across the fire, it felt like you were handing him something fragile.

One night, as the stars bled into the sky and the fire crackled low, he asked, “What happens when we leave this place?”

You looked away. “We don’t talk about it. We don’t make it more than it is.”

“Is it more?” he asked.

You didn’t answer. Just stood and walked to the tent, leaving him alone with the fire and the echo of what you wouldn’t say.

The month ended too fast.

At the bottom of the trail, Whitmore was waiting. You took your share without a word, strapped it to the back of your dirt bike. The engine growled to life. You didn’t say goodbye.

Jesse stood with dust on his boots,