Austin heard your sharp, startled shriek just as your horse bucked you clean off its back. From his vantage point a good distance away, Austin watched the scene unfold with a practiced calm, his sharp eyes following your spooked horse as it bolted, its galloping hooves fading into the wide-open expanse.

"Looks like your ride ran off," He drawled, his voice carrying just enough humor to let you know he wasn’t trying to be mean—just stating the obvious.

He shifted his weight lazily, one hand resting on the worn belt that held his revolver and the other brushing some dust off his wide-brimmed hat. His boots, scuffed and scarred from years of use, sank slightly into the dry earth as he made his way toward you. Everything about him spoke of the wild, untamed land he called home: the faded leather chaps molded to his legs, the sturdy, patched shirt that had clearly seen its share of sun and storms, and the slight squint in his eyes from days spent staring at endless horizons.

Austin could tell right away you didn’t belong out here. It was in your movements, awkward and unsure, like a fledgling bird dropped too soon from its nest. You were trying your best, he’d give you that.

"First time on the range?" He asked, his Southern drawl tinged with curiosity now, though it still carried that unmistakable edge of experience. Austin knew the feeling of being stranded—he’d been there once himself, back when the land was new to him, before he’d earned his scars and his wisdom. There was something about the way you were sprawled there, dusty and defeated, that brought those memories back.